Sundays Conversation

This morning’s weekly call was special.

Maddy had Veronica with her.

It’s been years since we’ve spoken.

Veronica had lived with our mother over Mom’s last years.

I suspect that my memory of watching

From an unlit back porch, is transfixed.

Mom and Veronica sat at the corner table

Entirely engage in their Rummy game.

Mom knew the game Veronica not so much.

My mother, at 93, was transitioning

From a believer in racial opportunity

To having a black keeper and dear friend.

Maddy and I were not there when Mom died

Holding tight to Veronica’s hand and encouragement.

We were not part of the Thanksgiving celebration

When Veronica brought Mom to her family party.

In yesterday’s conversation the warmth

That flowed long after we said goodbye

Took me to a place I have rarely visited.

I hope my mother experienced those moments.

A Dogs Life

 A Dogs Life                  1/3/17

Diana, has been my wife for 35 years

And I love her, 

Maybe not every minute of everyday,

But well over 90% of the time.

Rose had been part of the family for years

Between Homer, Rose and Doobie

We’ve had at least one dog,

For the last 25 years…until today.

None of those friends was perfect,

But all of them added to our lives.

Homer was first and surely the most handsome.

A tall 85-pound brown/white Dalmatian,

He understood his nightly trip to the backyard.

Peeing was mandatory. But if the well were dry

He would lift his back left leg and pretend.

That was enough to gain him reentry. 

Rose lived 15 years, and was a 40 pound black runner.

She could accommodate upwards of a 10-dog chase.

She was always the target,

With long legs and excellent eyesight she could hunt squirrels,

Never successfully, from over 200 feet away.

For years she shared our bed, always as family, never as guest.

She had 2 female buddies, both substantially larger.

Her German Sheppard buddy discouraged any interest from males.

Doobie was 9 when we adopted him. 

A quiet fat mutt with legs designed for a 5 pound body.

He weighed upwards of 17 pounds, would bark whenever he was

Hungry, and was always hungry.

He was not designed for, nor interested in,

Playing with Rose, or any other dog.

In his last month Doobie’s walk

Was transformed into a daily stroller ride.

He never asked out of a chauffeured tour.

Do we get another dog?  There are many dogs that need a home, and we are not accustomed to a house with out an occasional bark.

Will see

  

How to deal with guns and curly hair in inclement weather

How to deal with curly hair in inclement weather?  That was the point of a video that featured 5 females, ranging in age from about 10 to 70. The "star beautician" and the show’s host prompted the women to smile, with marginal results, and thought it desirable to rearrange the ladies’ right hands so that the product being sold was getting plenty of viewing. Meanwhile the "star beautician" explained how each lady's curly hair might be truly glamorous.

With typical male intolerance I turned the TV off, cursed God for allowing this balderdash to be broadcast to innocent victims across the nation. But then I thought, maybe it held the answer to "gun control"?  If millions of people saw enough of this banal TV show or one just as silly, surely gun enthusiasts sitting in their customary TV living room rocker, with a loaded buckshot gun across their truly ugly knees, could not contain their rage and find it biblically mandatory to blast the be-Jesus out of the abomination.  That in turn would bring the whole family down on the TV killer, demanding that he or she destroy the weapon before a replacement TV could be purchased. And word would spread. Families hearing about the TV killers would confront other potential TV killers, bringing tens of thousands of homes across our great country to cease buying guns.  

Our New Resident

Rudy is only 80% housebroken.

On the other hand he loves our bed

And we’re allowed to share the big blanket.

Unlike Rudy, we don’t necessarily bounce off the mattress

Or use our teeth to rearrange the pillows.

After evening calisthenics Rudy will settle

All 12 pounds against Diana, mess his share

Of the cover, curl into a tight circle,

With just a bit of head visible.

He is not a loud dreamer, and won’t wake before dawn,

Some time before the sunrise I awake,

Check my arms for dog scratches,

And carry Rudy to the backyard,

Giving him no choice as to where

He should take care of business.

The Other Side

There is a wish? No, a plea.

Yet the hats say otherwise.

They speak of smiles and risk.

Words, stretched and delivered

From a cauldron of hurts

That needs expression and acceptance.

Still the hats are expansive.

What Matters: The Sun

Never lived in Fresno or Stockton,

The food-basket of the United States

Surrounds those towns: North, South, East and West.

Both places get Tully Fog in the winter.

Tully fog stays close to the grown.

Not much sun below 10 feet.

The coast never gets Tully Fog, 

or 100 degree summer days.

Fresno and Stockton do get lots of suicides.

I know this lady with family in Fresno.

She wants to go back there.

Leave San Diego for Fresno.?

Watson, Where Are the Keys?

It’s happened before

Misplacing my key ring is nothing new.

With a yawn I start the hunt.

The office desk, or the hall shelf ?

Of course! The kitchen table, my nightstand,

Or the cars’ ignition switch could be the culprit.

I like to think that where I leave things

Is not of my doing, the fault lies in the location!

Ok, this time it’s getting a little tricky.

I’ve looked under the car, and on the garage floor.

Oh hell, I’ll find it when we get back from dinner.

Diana has a copy of the car key.

Now back from dinner we review and repeat the search.

An hour later I’m thinking of the cost of replacements.

One last check in the car trunk and I slam the lid

And notice the key ring is in the trunk key-lock. 

I had failed to see the #$%* keys in my earlier inspection.

The key ring could have fallen when we drove to dinner.

It might had been taken by someone who saw the keys

And decided he might as well take them,

Along with the car!

There is a moral lesson to be drawn.

People who leave keys in car trunk doors

Should probably be subjected to a critical review.

Like “You cannot enter the house if unable to spell your name”.

Rose In The Wind

Fourteen years ago Rose was special.

She would race any dog

Encountered on the beach.

Her advantage was a built in move machine.

She was capable of using any leg as a pivot.

When the game was “catch” Rose

Whether chased by one or six dogs,

Would invariably double back,

Leap one of her pursuers and create utter chaos.

A five or ten second reorganization

Was followed by another attempt

To put the long-legged black mutt

In the “gotcha” column.

Now that mutt has arthritis,

Moments of lost orientation

And cannot walk more than two blocks

Except when the wind is hollering.

That calls her back to 360 degree leaps,

And a need for speed.

It matters not who holds the leash

That person is part of the game

And can expect to be strongly prompted

To counter a chest leap.

This morning our sleepy,

Somewhat deaf, fifteen year old Rose

Heard, saw and felt the call

Of a forty mile-an-hour gale.

It was her time to dance and fly…

A sight I shall remember.

Forgetting

Half way between our house and the restaurant

Someone was running in our direction.

Not again? I didn’t leave my credit card…again?

Our waitress was breathing heavily

When she reached us.

In her right hand she held the goddamn card.

This was not the first or fiftieth time I forgot the damn #%&%#$%.

But this was the first time I left my card on her table.

Of course this was the first time she had been my waitress.

I am not a collector of much, so the thirty baseball caps and 100 pens

That I never recovered have not caused sleepless nights.

My subconscious is doing its job.

Notwithstanding the many prompts that have

Encouraged closer inspections, I leave things behind.

I cannot attribute this personal flaw to inheritance.

No family member that I know, or know of,

Has been marked by this need.

There is no basis for believing I am

Manifesting a generous nature.

Whether returned or not there is no conscious choice involved.

Perhaps I am a victim of a strange study started at my birth?

Signs of Life

There are times when tomorrow has no anchor.

Nothing I must do, no place I should be.

Of course there will be mail and email.

Yes! there maybe an intriguing email,

Or a last minute open seat at poker.

In any case there are signs of life.

I open our mail and decide on its fate.

To toss or not to toss?

I make breakfast, if cereal and coffee are the order.

Dinner dishes are my responsibility.

I regularly have to mitigate damages.

I often foul a planned engagement,

A day late an hour early, pick, pick.

Yes, on reflection I am very busy.

A regular energy machine.

A Different Thanksgiving

For 30 years we had dinner at Ray and Carolyn’s.

For 25 of those years we had Fred and his date.

On occasion there were other people.

Diana and I helped facilitate their leaving San Diego.

Now they live in Vermont.

It is strange to not have Carolyn and Ray

With us on this day.

I trust they have family and new friends

Joining them for this Thanksgiving.

Though distance and differences have,

I think, written “closed” to new interactions with them

Still there is a lot of history.

I’ll remember Ray’s retirement party,

Complete with a simulated fire emergency.

We came looking for open seats,

Only to find we were assigned the seats next to them.

There was travel to Russia,

A cruise that circled South America,

And time with their wonderful daughters.

We have much to be thankful for.

Breath In Breath Out

A strong exhalation allows for intake.

We expel used and gather fresh.

Should we not inhale adequately, we have a problem.

That new air, much like a new thought,

Brings us the possibility of change.

Where are we going, how will be get there?

Yesterday’s universe was threatening,

Will we accept it, or renounce its limits,

Bring in fresh air and explore alternatives?

Polling

I shook hands twice with John, good man.

No doubt his endorsement of my writing helped.

If he does not love his candidate

His opposition to my choice was emphatic.

Unlike the shrew to whom I wished a nice day,

Having been offered a very worn tabloid indictment

Without substance, but with substantial volume,

John had reason and a lifetime dedication.

Janet, a resident in a 2-storey walkup,

Was a clear minded professional

Who could easily recite her issues.

Unlike John she had not looked at the party affiliations.

Instead she enumerated here concerns

And how the candidates aligned with her thinking.

My job was to remind people to vote.

Not to change opinions.

This was my 10^th, and probably my last sojourn,

Into a world that should deal with truth

But in fact looks only for results.

Saying No

I admire Neal, he can say “NO”.

No equivocation, no excuses.

Cowardice in the face of a bad proposal

Requires I search for an unassailable out:

“I will be in the hospital”

“I receive my global award that evening”

“I’ll be on the space shuttle to the moon”

Of course Neal doesn’t receive many offers.

That probably is a result of his subtle dismissals:

“Your friends make me sick”

“I hate Modern Jazz”

“I’m waiting for a better offer”

To commit such nonsense to typed exploration

Suggests that I am not in a serious state of mind.

The Face in the Mirror

It’s a little wrinkled and traveled.

I don’t know if the unhappy 16 year old

Would appraise this face and the journey

It has taken as one worth the miles?

My guess? Mixed results.

Problem: I am never quite finished with yesterday.

Was I really responsible for that failure?

Didn’t the gods, or Michael push me?

The deal went beautifully, I thought, I think?

Surely that 16 year old would applaud my cleverness.

Even he knew of its existence from earlier times.

Don’t I now stand straighter then before?

He most certainly would offer a sagacious smile

Noting pathetic characteristics so familiar.

OK, I grant I’ve had more than my share of good fortune,

And, on occasion, I could understand and accept.

I hope that the 16 year old can also accept.

Paul and Julie

They are here until Monday.

Good people, very comfortable in our home.

Values not far from our own,

They have done a great job with our grandkids.

Anne has found her parents very supportive,

While Evan, seems to be pushing his limits

Well past my initial estimates.

In short two healthy young adults.

With both children living away from home,

Neither finished with their education,

We no longer expect family visits,

But having the 50 year olds wakes our routine.

Paul, about 6 feet tall, seems to have grown.

The alternative explanation is his 79-year-old father

May have shrunk.

I’ll go with the former.

It is not inevitable that a widening world

Will be the burden of the youngest.

Chances are my 2001 Avalon

Will need replacement very soon.

Andy Would Have Loved It

Every 2 weeks Andy and I would review

My posting of 5 new poems.

Last Wednesday we had 30 poets

Reciting before a rapt audience of 60.

Andy would have heard it all,

Including the unspoken impact.

He might have spoken to one or more poets,

Seeking a further understanding.

Dee and Andy would have stretched

Their days’ end to 8:15,

Unwilling to leave while there was

Yet another poet to bring a gift.

Hold On

Losing in love, the market place, or cards

Carries a price tag that is measured in time.

It would be foolish to assume winning is free.

When the gods reward your prayers

So that hope for 20 people at your party

Turns into 60 happy guests

Something has gone far too right!

When a poetry reading event

That requires no entry qualifications

Produces 10 to 15 well written verses, you may be overjoyed.

How might you respond to 30 superb poetic offerings?

Such were the results of our first Poetry Jam.

From an opening Rap piece through tales of adversity,           

Memories of first love and religious prayers,

We heard truths, laughter and received extraordinary insights.

When the poetry and praise had ended

Came the recognition that a repeat performance

Could not be delayed beyond January,

My thoughts turned to the impossible.

How could we duplicate the quality of this evening?

Passing the Churches

With Doobie in a his stroller

We start the walk up C Street.

From 7^th through 10^th there are Christian Centers

And Churches on both sides of the blocks.

It’s Sunday, about 9:30, but with far fewer tourists

 Remaining from our annual summer crowds,

Church attendance has returned to 90% of capacity.

We are blessed with both a climate and attitude

That accepts neat, if very casual, attire in almost all of the

10 church services that are now in transit from the 8 AM

sermon to the people who prefer the 10 O’clock service.

Weaving the dog occupied stroller around and through

Groups coming or going to hear their minister’s Prayer Service 

Is easily accomplished. Most folks in Coronado are dog-lovers

And smile happily, and return our “good morning” offer.

It's Not Right

It’s not right, or at least not as right as I want.

It’s too warm so the a/c is blowing.

Sure it cools the house

But my electric bill is a killer.

Too many parts of my body are aching and

I don’t understand why so many people

Insist on holding opinions that are way off the mark.

If they would listen carefully, I could help them.

At least Diana often agrees with me.

And my boys, long since fully grown,

Will, on occasion, take my side.

But we all agree on Coronado.

It is imperfect, too many tourists.

Of cause I don’t blame those visitors.

I’d be a little jealous if I lived anywhere else.

I guess moving to this would-be island was very clever.

Neighbors are friendly

I can take our dog to a zillion outdoor eateries,

The dog beach, our Library or a Sunday concert

(provided we set-up curbside).

Yes, Coronado offers material advantages,

But it’s the spiritual nature that embraces.

It’s a great place to dream.

Issues on Nightstands

Should I wish to know your concerns?

Whether for a happy conclusion or something less sanguine,

I need only examine the notes and scribbles

That covers the surface of your nightstand.

I believe those barely legible imprints,

Some showing an emotional emphasis

Others lightly written, suggesting an unresolved internal conflict,

Tell of your dreams and nightmares.

Pills and medications speak to problems

That, apparently, has not lent them

To purely intellectual resolutions.

Still it speaks of a battle fully engaged.

There is a picture and phone on this stand.

The former likely speaks of love,

While the phone offers

An escape from solitary.

Ego

M stopped by, wanting to talk.

I was flattered.

A Priest must have an enviable job,

Filled with humility shattering requests.

Becoming a knight of the round table

Is likely to create a disastrous self-assurance,

Floating on bravado.

Did I help M? Was that really my intention?

If I listened to my sagacious comments

I would perhaps have better understood

Their real value, or lack thereof.

At least M looked better when she left.

If you’re lucky enough to have someone you know

Ask for help, let them explain.

If you pay attention they may find

A perfectly acceptable way forward.

A 5 Year Old President

Alessia was just 4

When she stepped back from her painting,

And from under her $3.99 Green Beret,

she exclaimed “awesome” .

I knew her time would come.

And it has!!

Consider Alessia’s qualifications:

She has a vocabulary beyond Trumps understanding

And is beloved by everyone who meets her.

Putin would smile upon her

Seniors would surely vote her in, and

Congressmen would never call her names.

There are just two problems:

She still naps and needs to finish kindergarten.

I Know Not

All trees are bent

Except for the straight ones

Which are merely twisted.

We need a new species

To lead us,

One that sleeps far from thought.

We will have no water

Consider the moon

Is it unhappy?

From where comes melody

Does the White Whale

Speak of love?

Boy On The Loose

Maybe 18 months old and chubby.

He has pulled free of his mom

And could stumble into the street.

I need only move 2 feet to block his path.

Mission accomplished, I smile at mom

And pull my ancient mutt down the street.

40 years ago, in mid-Manhattan,

I was confronted by a different small boy.

This one pushed the rotating hotel door open.

This guy was maybe 2 and heading for Lexington Avenue.

His mother, racing to stop his progress,

Glared at me for merely watching the race.

Unavailable

There is something wrong with a a phone call

That announces you can’t call me back.

Doesn’t that sound rather arrogant?

I will call you whenever I please.

4 AM Monday or Sunday at 11 PM

But you can never call me.

Further, I may not be immediately available

Even though I am the calling party.

You most understand that I have a lousy job.

My pay is buckish, no fringes

And a remarkable number of people like you

Who slam their receiver down when I say “Hi”.

Perhaps if the “unavailable” message were softened,

To “we can talk latter”?

The Policeman

That Friday afternoon                                            

Two white motorcycle cops,                                

Dressed to intimidate,                                              

Arrived at my front door.

Before discussing my complaint

The short, senior, cop ordered me to remove my dog.

(Rose had been quietly sitting by my side.)

I put her in the garage.

Short cop was not interested in my call  

For police assistance and remained hostile.

Both men refused to remove their dark glasses,

Or enter my house.

They left after advising me

That I could be put in jail

If they thought it appropriate,

And never did listen to my concern.

Dressed in black,

They never smiled,

Completing the stereotype

Assigned to them by some movie legend.

What aspect of civilization

Did they represent?

If guardians, who or what was beginning guarded

Beside their self-image?