5 floors down lived the enemy.
Taller, better looking, faster,
And vastly superior academically.
How could I not hate him?
60 years later I still hear my mother,
“Look how good Morty is doing,
Why can’t you be more like him?”
How could I not hate him?
Did I mention he was more popular?
Oh yes, Morty was a very popular guy.
Do I sound like an escapee
From a Woody Allen monologue?
Yet, I knew I was smarter then Morty,
Sort of.
I prayed to be taller.
(Before adjustable dental seats
It required 2 New York phone books
To reach a height where the dentist could examine me.)
But not Morty.
6 inches taller then my puny Holocaust-like self,
He could look straight over my head.
How could I not hate him?
Ha! Vengeance comes in many forms.
While he may have persisted in being taller
Morty grew up and became a dentist.
I hate him only occasionally now
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Morning
Rose swishing, indifferent to the sleepers on either side,
Starts stretching herself,
Switching positions.
I wake to the small sounds she makes.
The sky still undecided ;
To call for daylight
Or hold the tenuous moments of predawn
When all, and nothing coexist.
Turning onto my back
I hear a rustle from the Magnolia tree
Just beyond the bedroom window.
Softly, its branches sweep the house wall and my sleep.
Not far away car engines announce their presence,
Pursuing a road much traveled.
One, no two humming birds discuss
The wisdom of building a home on my neighbors Ficus.
This is the best of times.
Roof in tact, daylight now cautiously
Works her traces along the wall
Opposite my bed.
With some regret, I rise,
Consider my options:
Exercise, a shave, breakfast,
All seem a mistake.
Id rather just stand, making no choice .
Diana might wake and consider me stuck,
Naked with infantile thoughts
Cementing me to the carpet.
She might decide I’m a very bad Moore sculpture.
What of the morning papers,
Sharing all the “good” news?
When sunshine cuts a line half way
Up the front door,
Shadows have retreated.
Starts stretching herself,
Switching positions.
I wake to the small sounds she makes.
The sky still undecided ;
To call for daylight
Or hold the tenuous moments of predawn
When all, and nothing coexist.
Turning onto my back
I hear a rustle from the Magnolia tree
Just beyond the bedroom window.
Softly, its branches sweep the house wall and my sleep.
Not far away car engines announce their presence,
Pursuing a road much traveled.
One, no two humming birds discuss
The wisdom of building a home on my neighbors Ficus.
This is the best of times.
Roof in tact, daylight now cautiously
Works her traces along the wall
Opposite my bed.
With some regret, I rise,
Consider my options:
Exercise, a shave, breakfast,
All seem a mistake.
Id rather just stand, making no choice .
Diana might wake and consider me stuck,
Naked with infantile thoughts
Cementing me to the carpet.
She might decide I’m a very bad Moore sculpture.
What of the morning papers,
Sharing all the “good” news?
When sunshine cuts a line half way
Up the front door,
Shadows have retreated.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Poets Walk
A gray New York day.
Rain is puddled near the bench
And there is a solitary figure
Appearing in the distance.
Denuded branches speak of a late fall day,
Photographed in black and white.
I wonder at the reflections on the still water
And the stillness reaches me.
Memory takes me to another day
When a saxophonist holds court,
Adding a lightness, that suffuses the pregnant
Plantings that will flower, creating May.
This day, the day of the photo,
Central Park is still,
Guardian statues, on pillars of stone,
Chose contemplation.
Fall colors and their detritus are gone
And winter will enter soon,
Brining smoke, from the mouths
Of runners and bikers.
I can pause and witness,
As the photographer entreats me to enter
This walk, that may not end,
Yet will not wait for tomorrow’s frost..
Rain is puddled near the bench
And there is a solitary figure
Appearing in the distance.
Denuded branches speak of a late fall day,
Photographed in black and white.
I wonder at the reflections on the still water
And the stillness reaches me.
Memory takes me to another day
When a saxophonist holds court,
Adding a lightness, that suffuses the pregnant
Plantings that will flower, creating May.
This day, the day of the photo,
Central Park is still,
Guardian statues, on pillars of stone,
Chose contemplation.
Fall colors and their detritus are gone
And winter will enter soon,
Brining smoke, from the mouths
Of runners and bikers.
I can pause and witness,
As the photographer entreats me to enter
This walk, that may not end,
Yet will not wait for tomorrow’s frost..
Dialogue
Mike met Myer, acquaintances,
walking passed one another stopped for a chat.
“Good day, your looking well” said Myer
“My medical insurance is very expensive” responded Mike.
“I just bought a new boat” boasts Myer.
“That bastard Bush, he’s responsible”
“How about those cheating Grand Prix bike riders?”
“My youngest kid is having trouble in school”
“It’s the drug companies, their responsible”
“I think his teacher is gay”
“Listen Mike, we should do this again”
“Good, maybe tomorrow?”.
.
walking passed one another stopped for a chat.
“Good day, your looking well” said Myer
“My medical insurance is very expensive” responded Mike.
“I just bought a new boat” boasts Myer.
“That bastard Bush, he’s responsible”
“How about those cheating Grand Prix bike riders?”
“My youngest kid is having trouble in school”
“It’s the drug companies, their responsible”
“I think his teacher is gay”
“Listen Mike, we should do this again”
“Good, maybe tomorrow?”.
.
sym-phony
Before, or slightly after, the flood
There was Ebbets Field,
And the Brooklyn Dodgers Sym-phony.
5 guys playing Dixieland, “America the Beautiful “
And “Take me out to the ballgame”.
25 cents for Mom, kids free,
“Dem Bums” were a great baby-sitting service.
According to Mom, those cheap seats
Afforded a terrific view of the band, sometimes,
Less so the ballgame.
At 3 the band was enough.
13 years later, a lifetime Brooklyn Dodger fan,
I heard the Cleveland Symphony,
(You’d think they’d get the spelling right).
In a basketball gym that smelled as though the
Game was still in progress.
Those guys from Cleveland could play.
It was not Ebbets Field music,
But it was big, really big.
I never recovered from that Dvorak concert.
Though the epiphany passed
Music has remained a mystery
A force filled with sound and color,
Completely beyond my understanding.
Does a conductor get picked like a baseball manager,
“Knows something about the business and will be OK with the fans?”
There are no win and loss numbers at a concert,
Unless someone starts throwing flowers or fruit.
I have not the ear to notice a hall that loses a high C.
I hear pace, melody and drama.
That’s all, and its enough.
There was Ebbets Field,
And the Brooklyn Dodgers Sym-phony.
5 guys playing Dixieland, “America the Beautiful “
And “Take me out to the ballgame”.
25 cents for Mom, kids free,
“Dem Bums” were a great baby-sitting service.
According to Mom, those cheap seats
Afforded a terrific view of the band, sometimes,
Less so the ballgame.
At 3 the band was enough.
13 years later, a lifetime Brooklyn Dodger fan,
I heard the Cleveland Symphony,
(You’d think they’d get the spelling right).
In a basketball gym that smelled as though the
Game was still in progress.
Those guys from Cleveland could play.
It was not Ebbets Field music,
But it was big, really big.
I never recovered from that Dvorak concert.
Though the epiphany passed
Music has remained a mystery
A force filled with sound and color,
Completely beyond my understanding.
Does a conductor get picked like a baseball manager,
“Knows something about the business and will be OK with the fans?”
There are no win and loss numbers at a concert,
Unless someone starts throwing flowers or fruit.
I have not the ear to notice a hall that loses a high C.
I hear pace, melody and drama.
That’s all, and its enough.
Donation
Donation
When Lenny cranked up his Harley Road King,
He left the working world behind
And roared onto the Pali Highway,
Bent on speed.
His long black hair whipped behind
Then over his face.
A loner, family back east,
He headed into a down hill curve.
Leaning far right, his bike began to slide
Off the leaves covering the shallow puddle.
Going too fast to recover, he bounced
Off the concrete road,
Head hitting hard on the immovable Highway.
Is there a meaning to his death?
Lenny’s message?
“In grateful appreciation”
National Eye Bank.
.
When Lenny cranked up his Harley Road King,
He left the working world behind
And roared onto the Pali Highway,
Bent on speed.
His long black hair whipped behind
Then over his face.
A loner, family back east,
He headed into a down hill curve.
Leaning far right, his bike began to slide
Off the leaves covering the shallow puddle.
Going too fast to recover, he bounced
Off the concrete road,
Head hitting hard on the immovable Highway.
Is there a meaning to his death?
Lenny’s message?
“In grateful appreciation”
National Eye Bank.
.
Walking the Met
On his way out of the Met
I saw an old man leaning heavily on a cane.
He had walked much of the largest art museum in America
A young man, passing,
Touched him lightly,
Causing the old man to lose balance and fall.
Straightening himself,
Insisting no damage had been done,
He accepted the young man's apology,
And resumed his awkward shuffle to the exit.
I would have chosen a wheelchair
So that people like me would not show
A mix of pity and sympathy.
Of course I might have rationalized
Some ultimate meaning to his museum visit,
Or concluded the trip wasn't important enough
To make the effort,
I saw an old man leaning heavily on a cane.
He had walked much of the largest art museum in America
A young man, passing,
Touched him lightly,
Causing the old man to lose balance and fall.
Straightening himself,
Insisting no damage had been done,
He accepted the young man's apology,
And resumed his awkward shuffle to the exit.
I would have chosen a wheelchair
So that people like me would not show
A mix of pity and sympathy.
Of course I might have rationalized
Some ultimate meaning to his museum visit,
Or concluded the trip wasn't important enough
To make the effort,
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