A Fairy Tale

A Martian landing in Central Park
Is as likely as a Black man becoming President.
So I thought ... until last night.
Now I await little green men.

Obama’s skin tone did not go unnoticed,
Millions preferred a white man.
Millions decided that color was not enough.

Discrimination did not disappear with victory,
Our problems as a culture, nation, people,
Still here this morning, will not evaporate.
But today I’m proud to be an American!

Martin Luther King, who gave voice to possibility,
Might have envisioned this election.
Three years ago I would’ve thought it delusional.

Today, before the Philistines trample on the parade,
Let’s hold the moment with the love of a parent
Telling her child “ You could be ------”

Safe

“Safety first”.
That’s about all I recall of the third grade.
I think it spoke of fire drills,
And procedures in the event of a nuclear attack.

My writing group feels safe.
Portions of original books,
Fiction or non, memoirs,
Poems, letters, all fair game.

Uncomfortable chairs, fragile tables
Occupy only a small portion
Of the multi-purpose, large, square room
Where on Monday mornings, we few believers meet.

Along with our efforts to say something,
We bring dreams, smiles, and conversation.
We are a more sanguine version of
The iceman’s favorite bar.

I listen as each reader,
In need of suggestions, corrections
But foremost, approval,
Presents their puzzle.

Beyond grammar and spelling,
Objectivity has no purchase here.
Each writer offers a piece of themselves,
Knowing they will not be censured.

Listen for the anger, love, humor.
Taste the words, both spoken
And missing. Travel with the piece.
In the safety of this place we risk and learn.

Homecrest Ave

“Herbie threw the ball on the roof”!
He topped our six story building that day.
My computer screen shows me the place
And memory paints the scene.

Except for the dulled-red of the brick,
The apartment house looks about right,
Just a little smaller.
Stupid! stupid! Years spent hiding.

Our 5th floor apartment looked out
On a street, partially shaded, in summer,
By a large Oak.
I am warmed.

Stoop ball on the front steps,
I people the entrance with neighbors,
Guys my 15 years of age,
All of us showing signs of early lobotomies.

Pathetic, the bunch of us.
We considered an illegal trip to the pool hall,
Made possible by the contiguous bowling alley.
Never a good pool player.

Surely the word “contiguous” separates me?
At this time, before “hanging” became an art,
When I wasn’t masturbating or avoiding homework,
I learned words like “contiguous”.

It didn’t matter much.
You can’t spend time looking across the street,
Noting that 2 homes are “contiguous”.
Makes for a helluva conversation piece.

I remember riding on the running-board,
Of a 49 Plymouth.
That damn picture invites me in.
Did I just survive, or maybe it was more.

Bernie

Why should I care about this one thief?
I am outraged by the indictment that
“He has brought shame on the Jewish community”.
I do not share the shame!
But, if that is so, why do I feel pride
When Paul Krugman wins a Nobel prize?

Zion

What a terrible place to covet.
Listen to the fools speak of a 3,000 year old promise.
Talk about a bad neighborhood.
Every cousin’s hand turned in anger.

Irony turned farce to fear.
Be paranoid or be dead.
There is Martin Luther’s curse,
And the world’s choir still in evidence.

With prayers and weapons all,
All, save America, wish my destruction.
I am the nightmare, not gone by morning,
Whose caricature they hate.

A tiny nation of stiff necked people.
Held to a standard never attainable,
Derided for its tortured history,
Its crime being persistence.

This time my people will stand,
And not apologize for our existence.
We will not appease our enemies
We will return their lashes one hundred fold.

My people are not without fault.
They do not limit their anger to the common enemy,
But, united by the condemnation that surrounds them,
Demean views contrary to theirs.

Once I dreamt of alliances 
For each had value worth sharing.
Now there is survival, only survival;
I do not dwell on what might have been.

The Black President

What do you mean racist?
Calling him our Black President was racist.
He is Black!
Which one?
What do you mean which one?
Which President.
We only have one.
You noticed.

I got 24 autographs of Jackie Robinson!
Half of my employees are black!
OK
But he is black!
Yes.
So how can calling him our Black President be racist?
He is also tall and skinny.
So?
Would you call him our tall, skinny, black President?
No.
Why not?
What purpose would be served?
You noticed.

Five six

My physical was devastating.
True, the tests were OK,
Most body parts were functioning well.
Death remained more likely
To come in the form of a speeding car
Than an elevated blood-pressure.

But five-six!
All these years of self delusion
Crashing down on a pathetic little runt.
So cruel a fate.

My father claimed that number.
When he was five six I grew taller.
At least five eight, maybe five nine.
Was he merely five four?

Convinced that I would reach at least six three
I had planned an NBA career.
Distraught, when my plan shriveled.
It took years to accept five nine.

Maybe my unsanfarized body
Diminished over these last few months
And I had been really, nearly, five ten for years?
Now I am short again.

It ‘s a bitter blow:
Shortest guy in the elevator.
Once again I must carry Job’s burden.
There is no god.