Beach Chair

How long had the humble beach chair

Sat on the deserted strip of soft white sand

With a forlorn blue towel hanging off its remaining arm?

Was there a story of love and loss

Emanating from the dissolute beach-chair,

Facing the Pacific with no claimant in sight?

Had a despondent lass,

Seeing no sliver of hope,

Chosen to mark her final moments

Before committing herself to the ocean?

What of the old man who

Heeded the need for speed

And risked his chair

To attend to a bladder’s demand?   

Surely last night’s drunkard

Was capable of worse stupidity

Than leaving his poor, weathered, over-used

And under-appreciated chair overnight.

I was left with three choices:

The chair looks serviceable, and I might lay claim;

I can stay for hours to assert my ownership;

Or walk away and leave resolution to another.

God Will Protect Us

Look at the color of the sky

and consider your good fortune.

Look again and ponder the price

We might pay for our seat at the chemical circus.

There are powerful people at work.

They protect that which appeals to their appetite.

They suffer, like all mankind, the limitations

of a subjective world.

You and I have given them our responsibilities.

Our choice, born of lethargy, does not serve us well.

The best of us struggle to gain and hold.

Why suppose we are uppermost in their selections?

Should those who lead err who will fend for us?

Is it not imperative that we know where the guns

and water are secured?

Will our God(s) protect us?

A House For Doobie

A small dog can’t jump very high,

At least our mutt can’t.

His head and legs are very short and skinny,

While his ears confirm Chihuahua in his blood.

Trouble is there is another breed, at least one,

That is long, fat and unable to run.

Doobie, that’s our dog’s name,

Prefers to rest on our living room couch,

but can’t without a little help from his friends.

We got Doobs a small 3-step ladder.

Of course that did not resolve other problems.

It’s a long couch and Doobs has trouble

navigating the length of the soft cushions.

This problem was addressed by the placement of

A series of small doggie beds, one on each cushion.

Now Doobs can walk up the ladder and consider

Which itty bitty bed he would prefer that day.

He may sample all three, before deciding.

Most likely this is both his mental and physical

Exercise for the day.

Maddy Called

In Brooklyn, it would be called the beauty part.

When something goes right; beyond expectations!

Maddy’s call on Wednesday at 7 in the morning qualified.

Our agreement covered Sunday morning, not Wednesday.

My sister was not in trouble, no big problems to share.

She called to say hi

The Self Hating Jew

My poem lamented Israel’s handling of Palestine.

Why must the Arab Muslims recognize

Israel’s right to their own country?

More discouraging was the absurd label attached by two friends:

I was a “Self Hating Jew”.

Who knew?

Would I go less often, or admire Israel’s accomplishments less?

Was Israel looking for peace or platitudes?

I showed my piece to the Chabad Rabbi.

He had no problem, liked the poem.

Those two friends asked for an apology.

I apologized, but not for the poem.

Are we still friends?

Last night, over dinner, one of those two men

recalled the now two year old incident;

stopping just short of noting my “anti-semitic” poem.

Yes, I am an atheist. I don’t like Israel’s current government.

If I am “self hating” what does “Jew” add?

Forgetting To Brush

Forgetting to Brush                 

My rating as a handyman is low, very low.

That does not mean I have avoided all work.

Today I was called upon to brush away “ground-in-grime”.

My hot tub had a ring reminiscent of weekly baths

I suffered through seventy years ago.

Two trips, 30 steps up, thirty steps down,

And I was ready to start the job…

Unless you believed in brushes.

I had forgotten the brush.

It was then that I considered Sisyphus.

He spent eternity going up and down a mountain.

That would seem a likely punishment.

I could keep forgetting something only to forget

Something else, when retrieving the first forgotten.

Just maybe this was a learning experience?

On one of an infinite number of thirty step journeys

I might stumble on a great moral or architectural truth.

Of course that would not assist in my handyman task,

which I would have forgotten by the fifth round trip.

Perhaps as I awakened to that “great truth”

The shock might cause a terminal stroke.

In that final moment, holding two universal truths,

(what a terminal truth feels like, and the meaning of a life devoted

to thirty step journeys) might I not receive sainthood?

May The Bird of Paradise*

My once, and I thought forever, grand pompadour has left.

I never encouraged it to come or stay,

but I certainly wasn’t happy with the vacancy.

In addition to the loss of hair on the top

the Hair Gods, who monitor such things,

rewarded me with two very thoughtful gifts:

First, there was a pathetic effort at ear hair,

(My hearing loss can be attributed

To their vulgar sense of humor.)

Second, and really over the top, nose hair.

Now I am constantly reminded

that shaving is not complete until those suckers,

who, without constant maintenance, may reach my mouth

and destroy any chance of my enjoying dinner.

* From the song of a similar name

It's Not My Problem

Arturo came later today.

He waters our few plants on Mondays.

Fridays he cuts and trims.

He has a warm smile and does what we ask.

Carol does housekeeping every Friday,

and has been with us for 30 years.

I occasionally “worry” about her future.

Sometime in the next few years

she will be too old and hurting.

I doubt that she will have any money saved

and will not be entitled to social security.

I take little comfort in being among the many

who accept the silent agreement;

“She doesn’t pay tax, we don’t pay, no problem”.

Arturo is an American citizen,

But I see him as Mexican.

I have no idea, and scant interest, in his situation.

Where Does It Start

I have a huge collection of old songs.

Asked to name them I'd fail.

But given two notes, or a word from the title

I might, to your distress, sing all of "Alice's Restaurant".

Recollections own my consciousness.

A piece of rye-bread invites

The neighborhood Brooklyn deli

And the taste of strong mustard.

"Don't ask" carries me to "ask not"

And Kennedy's inauguration speech.

From there it jumps to an infinite series of connections

Until all synapses are energized.

Perhaps there is only memory,

Distorted so that we may endure its repetition,

Apply its message to this moment,

And so respond to our universe.

Of course we might devote our life

To a continual quest to prove

Our superiority to Morty Frumberg,

Or to getting mother's approval.

I Have Become A Preacher

My qualification for the role of preacher

Rests on the unsolicited “good mornings” I offer.

How many dog walks have I punctuated with a smile?

Yes, I wish the walker headed my way

would initiate a mutual blessing,

By offering, in words or eyes,

A “Hail fellow, well met”.

Unlike most preachers, I have no religious affiliation.

I offer no long-term benefits.

Far better, I sell immediate satisfaction.

Return a genuine smile and you acknowledge,

receipt of something of value.

And the price? Merely the risk you find me disingenuous.

My cost? Merely the risk you find me disingenuous.

Light Blue Dungarees

“You can’t wear those jeans!

They went out of style 30 years ago.”

“I went out of style 65 years ago” I replied.

When possible I dress “down”.

It’s probably part of a complex neurosis.

I could attribute the “problem” to humility,

lethargy, utter indifference, or my mother.

I could protest and insist I maintain a higher standard,

well above those slaves to fashion.

The immediate problem is a successful negotiation.

A mans’ got to draw a line somewhere!

Connections

Standing in front of my toaster,

I considered how things really work.

How did the mind decide on toast?

Did it store “now start toasting”?

How would a far advanced extraterrestrial ,

Armed with knowledge beyond human understanding,

Respond when confronted by a toaster?

What does it do, how does it work?

This morning I carried my Kindle

Into the kitchen, to read as I made toast.

I pulled a piece of bread

Along with jam and low cal cream cheese.

Opening the toaster,

I set the timer for twenty minutes,

And started to insert the bread,

Before realizing something was amiss.

My black, nine by six, kindle

Was half way into the toaster.

Unacceptable!

Even with very tasty jam.

I thought about the books,

All those words, melting,

Running down the screen.

Would something explode?

My friends, I trust you share

The idea that, like an uninformed alien,

Choosing between the bread and the Kindle

Might reduce itself to the question: How would the jam spread?

I Know You

Some cab drivers are talkative,

they have stories that must be shared.

Jesus was happy telling me how good business has been

for the last three years.

A Dominican transplant, I imagine he came in smiling.

Perhaps he was one of those magical babies

who would hold onto his crib’s railing

and sing his mothers' favorite songs.

You would not mistake Jesus for a stereotypical anything.

It's near impossible to hold anyone as typical

until you foolishly decide there are scant few

who are not assigned a life's placement .

Before this cab ride is over,

were I persuaded to assign character traits to Jesus,

his family, apartment and history would be neatly formed,

based on nothing more than 15 minutes in the back of his cab.

Ain't No Sunshine

Surrounded by giants indifferent to sunshine

This metropolis moves to it's own frenetic energy.

Without Central Park, where buildings lean away,

Midtown Manhattan could not breathe.

On a blue-sky day, much like 9/11,

We cross the park under Sol's warming rays.

Just off the poets walk was the old saxophonist,

Putting out sweet sounds of Nat King Cole.

New York has always struggled with its many faces.

It balances between the exclusivity of those who claim ownership

And the 99%, who make for a viable dichotomy,

And create the friction that makes New York a great city.