Pete's Shiva

Debbe’s 3 sisters are here,

All coming from Chicago,

Showing a love and warmth

That few can communicate.

Reducing the tears, making guests comfortable,

Offering easy conversation,

Explaining Pete’s interest in the Jewish religion,

And how quickly his last days had gone.

People who knew Pete,

People who know Debbe

Come, mumble condolences,

Honor the grieving.

Soon enough the house will quiet,

Life’s tempo will shift.

Soon enough morning’s challenges will

Inflict hurt and offer consolation.

Pain

Time, time without reprieve or consolation

Pushes against my chest 

Reenforcing the pain

That confines my path,

Offering a wealth of rationalizations.

A wall initially appearing impervious,

Proves a pitiful and short lived substitute

For a recognition that both sufferings;

An unhealthy heart and a refusal

To test my talents, serve to insulate.

Nor do I not recognize the value of the dance.

I am not the seminal thinker

Who first voiced, from a safe distance,

Support for those tentative barriers

That give respite, at a price.

Let me fill the day with the kindness of friends,

The love of those I call family,

And the wonders that give wing to hope.

Can I not feel, once more the joy 

Of a child’s brief escape in its dash 

To the oceans edge, 

Or the warmth of the fawn who choses to lie with the lion?

Knowing night will return, 

And eclipse todays sunshine,

Does not void this afternoon's laughter.

Outgoing Tide

In a looking glass darkly, we can catch 

A distorted vision of natives selling shiny objects

Back to the invaders,  in exchange for survival.

They do not swarm and drive you into the sea.

Acapulco is rich in tourists and hope.

Young couples avoid endless procreation,

But wish rather to share in the prosperity.

Ten miles of sand, smooth, and fine,

Pristine in the first eastern light, but not deserted.

High rise hotels and condominiums 

Hover like vultures at the beach edges,

Strain to devour the ocean view,

Vie for more of the preeminent panorama,

We dance and dine,

A week of epicurean delights should

Produce more guilt than I can bear,

But I seem to be managing.

Out Of Touch

It's no use.

Every time I figure one out,

Something bigger blossoms,

Forcing me deeper into my cave.

I sort of understood a club.

A spear was within my grasp. (That’s a joke, son.)

Shooting sticks exceeded my limits.

Now we race toward a cliff edge.

I’m going to leave my cave.

Posting a sign at the entrance

“ This is a non-nuclear neighborhood”,

Won’t deter the hordes or missiles.

I’m thinking of building in the Mariana Trench.

Figure most of the big booms go upward,

At 35,000 feet down most of the noise

Will be over my head.

I know it wont be easy.

All that pressure could really bend a guy. (Another joke, son.)

Light and heating could be problems,

And food shopping might be difficult.

On the other hand, lots of meat and poultry

Will be drifting down my way.

Of course TV’S and computers 

Will need extensive cable connections.

Allowing for a certain amount of ground shift,

My place will resemble an anchored submarine,

Attached to wooden pier.

I’m thinking of nautical colors.

Once Upon A Time In The East

New York has lost too many soldiers.

Their names are legend;

Yankee Stadium, Polo Grounds,  Ebbets Field, Shea Stadium.

New ballparks with sponsors names will need our indulgence.

Baseball is what they did before going to work.

Washington to Cincinnati, Boston to St. Louis,

Those were long train trips.

Duke rented an apartment in Brooklyn.

Such a beautiful swing.

Though he’d just as soon draw a walk.

Mays and Mantle made Duke appear less,

But none are his equal on today’s rosters.

After the traditional fall loss to the Yankees

Brooklyn would mourn,

And a couple of people would be shot.

We took the World Series seriously.

The Dodgers’ move to LA,

Was a catastrophe of epic proportions,

At least in Brooklyn, possibly Staten Island.

O’Malley had done the unthinkable.

No close fence for the Dukster,

400 feet to the right field LA Coliseum  wall.

Ebbets Field became apartments,

Imagine the Packers leaving Green Bay.

Ode To The Decider

A beautiful spectacle,

Spoiled momentarily by the crowds

Disapproval of the man.

How very unfortunate.

What had the man done?

Shred the Constitution?

Unleash the dogs of war?

Rape the Treasury?

Had he ignore the poisoning of the earth?

Hired incompetents or worse?

Close off alternative opinions,

Or cause the deaths of hundreds of thousands?

To be subjected to the assembled disapproval

Before the nations’ cameras. Dreadful!

Pundits voiced their mild impatience.

This crowd should know better.

Had not the man tried to do what was best?

Ah, the rub: Best for who?

Did this enormous crowd believe he’d rewarded the rich?

Not done his best for New Orleans?

Surely the no-bid contracts in Iraq were best for the country.

Was it his fault so many did not understand and appreciate his efforts?

Didn’t the oil companies need his help?

Couldn’t the people look back and see the value of his 8 years?

To suggest that the criminal in charge

Should be treated with surpassing respect,

Ignores his wanton destruction of our dialogue,

Replacing it with fear and hate.

Since lynching requires packed lunch baskets,

Hanging was out.

Perhaps an extra shoe, one to each attendee ,

Would have sufficed.

Object/Subject

Endless arguments over the children:

“They will have less” say the economists.

“They will inherit the wind”, the literary environmentalist offers

Both are wishes, looking for a saviour.

Sadly, we have moved beyond Grace.

We cannot reverse the Sun’s direction,

Or the damage we have done.

As always, the prophets look in their rear view mirrors.

“As it was, so shall it be” is DOA.

We have been called upon by a physician 

Prescribing hallucinogenics,

We fret for the unformed

They will reap what we have sown.

Ah! the doctor knows better.

No lamentations will move the tide.

Do you note the waves upon us?

Too late now to argue directional changes.

It is not our children or grandchildren

Who will first taste the salt.

We have followed need into comfort,

Now we accept the convenient.

Where higher deck chairs  may give a better view,

If you wish to see what is coming.

Now

When I touch the keyboard time begins, again.

Morning fog surrenders its embrace,

Somewhere a voice will bellow “action!”

And we, actors, renew our journey.

Could I but stay my hand

Allow nothing to change;

Void the anticipated next chapter

And so remain untethered, outside of time.

Alert, without thought.

Aware of a stupendous nothingness

That exists, omnipresent,

And abides my suspension.

A Note From A Friend

Something is dying and we can’t agree

On the cause, the cure or the disease.

He has sent me the rant of an old soldier

Who screamed for what never was.

There is something quite pathetic,

About a sword drawn

To parry an imaginary enemy.

It’s already been put to music.

I hear a redrafting of the Animal Farm constitution,

Calling for “up” to mean “down”,

In words that recall white students

In Little Rock in 57.

Are you outraged by the comparison?

Speak to me of March, 2009.

When you claimed the President a disaster.

At a time he was guilty of being black.

Perhaps the old man is beyond reason,

But what does it say of you?

You who claim he voices your thoughts.

Where will you hide the Jews?

Not Much Yin But Yang Works

She looked about 60,

Blond, sunglasses, thin, 

Head facing forward,

Intent on avoiding eye contact.

Uncomfortable without a prompt.

Dogs and small children make potential bridges.

On my morning constitutional,

Rose, on a short leash, allows me to say “Hi”.

I am at least middle aged,

Unless one expects to live past 150.

I got no response when I greeted the blond,

And my second good morning did no better.

Another “middle aged” man

Taking pity on my abject defeat,

Offered a sympathetic

“That’s OK, I’ll say good morning”.

Accepting the spirit of his message

I loudly addressed the entire planet:

“Good morning world !”,

While wondering about the 60 year old blond.

Old men with small dogs

Do not usually suggest a mugging.

I wasn’t wearing a bathrobe,

So I wasn’t likely to flash her.

She may have been planning 

The murder of her fucking husband

And was simply too self-absorbed

To hear the man 5 feet in front of her.

--------------------------------------------

A young man was waiting in the wrong line.

Knowing I was in the right line

Before he was in the wrong line,

I prepared for battle.

I moved forward with MY line,

Planting both feet firmly,

Waiting for my adversary to protest.

He spoke....

OK, he didn’t speak.

He laughed at himself

For being in the wrong line.

And stepped in behind me.

My Day Is Made

I stormed the mountain,

To discover it was only a hill.

No monsters here, not yet.

But should they come ......

I read lines that wavered,

Caught in an unsettle urgency

That challenged, then rescinded its message,

As though unable to trust the reader.

Given the morning hate,

Spewing from my radio

My day has risen to something bright and shiny.

I think I’ll stay.

For the hill seems welcoming.

The writer has settled

And delivered, with pristine clarity, her poem,

I can believe the hills and dig the poem.

Mutterings

Next year will be better.

It’s part of the plan.

Still, today I will eat dessert first,

In case I’m wrong about next year.

I cannot process all the changes.

I read books, that are not printed,

And engage in civil discussion,

That takes place digitally.

Across from my restaurant table

A child is coloring her picture book,

While my companion explains

Why I need an annuity.

It’s hard to get the right perspective.

Most days change looks superficial.

But sometimes it seems we will drop too heavy a burden,

And the earth will grow dark.

If we could just get over ourselves

There might be more time in Paris,

And less time spent measuring time.