I Smelled A Rose

Tom, who lives up the street, likes flowers.

In particular he loves his Roses.

For what was probably a few seconds,

I left my space, on the sidewalk,

And engaged one fully opened, and vigorously healthy red Rose.

Each petal within the flower seemed a variation on its neighbor,

As though there was a story or discussion within the family of

Petals that contributed to the overall integration

And wisdom of the message it was displaying.

“Do you notice how comfortably we arrange ourselves,

Each with variety of nuanced shadings that range far beyond any

Single color you might ascribe to our whole?

Have you discerned the shifting mystery of fragrances we bring

To the air and blooms that surround us?”

So Much Hate

It started early and grew.

People initially embarrassed by the claims

Now find comfort in reiterating the hate.

There is no bottom and reason is optional.

My debt to our culture is boundless,

Not so our current dialogue or lack thereof.

Our story, yours and mine, speaks to opportunity

Not granted to most..

We are not “exceptional” unless we can rise above the tumult,

Get our hands dirty and insist on personal fairness.

This country has had a marvelous run

And maybe in middle age we are less lucky.

Goldwater’s “…extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice…”.

When compared to Aristotle’s admonition,

“All things in moderation”

Might represent 50 years of senseless self flagellation.

Senator Lindsey Graham has two AR 15’s.

I suggest calling before you visit.

What Are the Lessons?

Alice has joined her Mahjongg friends

For three days in San Francisco.

Without premeditation, Alice finds herself

Approaching strangers with a smile.

It is as though she has found a religion

That she does not fully understand

And wishes to share her joy,

While having no gospel to offer.

Alice is uncertain if this high

Will stay with her, or pass with the return home.

She recognizes her experience may prove ephemeral,

And is utterly indifferent to any long term extrapolations.

Coronado & Andy

As is customary in late December the lawn that lies between

our coffee/cookie table, and the Pacific, has been converted to an

ice-skating rink. Per our agreement with the God that controls such

matters, the morning is as ordered: warm enough for shirts and

shorts, under a cloudless turquoise sky, with a touch of ocean

breeze.

Sitting on the ocean side patio of the Coronado Del, as we have

done three or four times a week for the past two years,

we continue a conversation that began with our initial

constitutional along Ocean Avenue. That was perhaps 200 walks

ago. I suppose all dialogues have nuances that set them apart.

Andy and I are in the enviable position to pass judgment on the

“foreigners”;  whether from Arizona or Abu Dhabi, now staying at

this magisterial hotel.

This morning, between comments covering small children, well

invested young women, and the ocean’s temperament,

we, as usual, cursed new and outrageous claims on the part of

political conservatives, and I thought “how lucky both Andy and I

are to have found each other”. We have similar political, religious

and social views. Both of us retired runners who enjoy walking. I

think we leave our medals in a distant desk drawer and do not

bring bullshit to the table. Most important, we find the same things

funny.  

On Friday mornings Andy will bring his copy of my latest poems,

duly annotated. Maybe it took knowing me a while to move from

“I don’t know what you’re  trying to say”  to “what the hell are you

trying to say,” but we lost no passengers on the trip. We review his

comments on my poetry, pausing only to remind ourselves  that we

struck a brilliant deal with the aforementioned God.

Those three or four mornings each week are not without an

occasional discovery, that proves we are not finished with this life.

Toward the end of the ice skating season at the Del we tried an

experiment. Instead of each of us getting our own chocolate-chip

cookie we decided to split one.  After almost two years of asking

Pattie, or Mary, or Emma for our “regular” they were  mildly

shocked by the reduction from two to one chocolate chip cookie.

Fortunately, Andy, being a retired physician, was able to manage a

very inferior plastic knife, never intended for use in such exquisite

surgery, and produce more or less evenly divided halves, thus

saving $2.27 (including tax) three or four times a week.

Conversation with Inanimate Objects

Rose's water bowl was sending a message.

Lying half off the step,

Its chrome sheen, caught the late afternoon sun,

Bade me consider its potential as a still life.

It was probably a little abused,

Not cleaned as often as the weather dictates.

Was I looking at some kind of herald

That denounced the absurdity of going forward? 

Where have I mislaid my worldviews?

Surely there should be an ache, a worry,

A message that troubles me,

Or at least pronounces my attitude insufferable?

So much influx feeds my anxiety.

Yet here I stand attempting to puzzle out the

Distorted meaning of an old wooden couch that is

Comfortably disinterested in the possibility of displacement.

It is not especially attractive,

And unlike the impervious chrome bowl,

I suspect that the couch’s accelerating rate of decay

Will soon lead to an announcement that its time has come.

Yet it seems that frazzled creation does not agree.

This second-hand purchase should never had been rescued.

At best it represents ten minutes of poor kindling.

No guest has ever sprawled content in its embrace.

The insolence of the bowl and its grand dream

Started to bother me.

I didn’t care about your dust or distortions bowl,

You are unfit for human conversation... take that!!

Lambs For Peace

Among the assembled political and military leaders

Was the charismatic religious thinker, I. Nu Betta.

It was he who laid out the plan that electrified all

Gathered at this extraordinary conference.

“Lambs for Peace” was birthed that day.

If  lambs’ blood protected the Egyptian Jews

When God unleashed his most devastating of plagues,

Could we not protect ourselves utilizing the same tactic?

 Surreptitiously buying, stealing or renting 98.6%, 

Of all lambs on the earth,

 It would be a simple matter to fill all military aircraft 

With enough lambs’ blood to protect our entire nation. 

At that point our political leaders would summon

The leaders of every foreign country.

Those in support of our suggested creative offensive

Would be included in the “Lambs for Peace” project.

If effective this project would save all the good people

While subjecting the wicked to utter eradication.      

Surely the evil empires would supplicate,

Genuflecting to our image, in the hope of salvation.

Yes, there would be market swings

In the value of lambs feet.

Further, many people would object

To having their doorways permanently stained.

Considering the loss of sales with the Defense Department

The more clever military contractors

Will work with bio-chemical labs to create artificial lambs’ blood,

Thereby maintaining our well oiled capitalistic system. Amen!! 

Lunch with Franz Kafka and Ayn Rand

I was just on time, which really meant I was unforgivably late. Ayn insisted we should never be seen starting after the station whistle trumpeted the noon hour. Franz, of course, was never exempt from Ayn’s wrath on the grounds that he did not believe in time. In other words everything was “in order”.

We dined at the Railroad Restaurant so that we might not miss the Tuesday special. Franz did believe in the Tuesday special, not withstanding it was invariably meat, and he was a vegetarian. Of course the special, while noted on the restaurant wall, was never served. He explained this apparent absurdity by recalling that the world was to cease existence on a Tuesday, and it could best be seen from this restaurant, but not if waiters were running around serving food. When asked how we might note the Earth’s disappearance, or why would it occur on a Tuesday Franz would refer to the great celestial clock that hung just west of the Andromeda Galaxy. Apparently that clock would signal the beginning of the end. Neither Ayn nor I understood how Franz knew this, but Franz had always been a bit strange.

My job is to reserve our corner table, but as there was only one table and three chairs in the corner of this wonderful restaurant, and no one had ever been observed entering or leaving the place except us, I never did call. It really didn’t matter as our three avocado sandwiches were always sitting on the table. In truth, I can’t remember our ever eating those sandwiches.

Today we were to discuss the nature of God. Last Tuesday I had suggested God was merely an abstraction, a piece of theatre, that did not exist, or if it did exist it was not near the restaurant and had no power over anyone in the restaurant. On this Tuesday, Ayn started screaming about the need for John Galt to keep the trains running on time. We had heard this before and Franz and I chose to ignore the outburst, knowing she would calm down before the end of time, assuming time existed.

The Case of the Wet Placemat

We are the most fortunate of creatures.

We get to create and then explore mysteries. 

I am referring to the case of the Wet Placemat.

I take pride in my dishwashing..

Others among us may cure cancer,

Or set a home run record.

After finishing with the dishes,

I picked up the placemat and stopped.

It was damp, almost wet. How odd!

I placed it on the counter to dry.

Diana and I are neurotically aware of life’s changes.

She distinctly recalled leaving the placemat on the counter, dry.

After several minutes of intense mutual interrogation,

We agreed that the other had somehow been responsible.

Sadly, the guilty party was either too embarrassed to confess,

Or too senile to remember wetting the placemat.   

But we agreed not to call Sherlock Holmes.

In The Face Of Ignorance

Isn’t it time I bellowed,

(Screaming sounds effeminate).

Just stand and demand, “how is it you breathe?

Surely with a little effort you could stop wasting oxygen.”

When Vietnam was turning into a disaster

An incredibly bright New York Times columnist

Explained our need to remain in Vietnam:

It would keep South America from declaring us a “paper tiger”.

How many millions needed to die

Before South America would consider us tough?

The intellectual sons of that columnist

Want 20 years to decide if Iraq was a failure.

We have a black president.

That seems reason enough to buy a Bushwacker semi-automatic,

Provided you understand Obama’s fiendish plot.

So much oxygen, so much waste.

Wallet's Gone

Wallet’s Gone              

Distraught.

Racing home to cover, and recover my identity.

Wallet gone, probably stolen,

I need contact only half of the world’s population,

Alerting them to my virtual demise.

How could this happen to me?

I could be philosophical if it happened to you,

Manifest just the right amount of sympathy,

Offer  unspecified assistance,

And bewail modern man’s nightmare

In a post-Thoreau world. All records on a thumb nail indeed!

God, the trickster, has struck again.

I’d walked one block, since last using my wallet.

How could the fucking thing be gone?

Retracing my steps 3 times and finding nada

I head for home.

At my front door stands a large orange traffic cone.

Who the hell put that damn thing here?

Something very strange is happening,

And I am not amused.

Furious, I kick the cone a good 10 feet.

In the space just vacated sits my wallet.

God may play games, but there is at least one good Samaritan.