Words Not Spoken

Words of love, and support

Swallowed for the very best of reasons,

Or for no reason at all.

A lifetime of actions taken,

Some work out well,

For want of a dialogue.

Silence  or misdirection

Can serve wisely and well,

But always leave unanswered questions.

Ignorance or cowardice have their place.

There is much said 

That confirms the speaker a fool.

Spending time on wished for annihilating comments,

Never leads to a greater truth.

Rejoice or condemn the unspoken, they’re much the same.

Directions

His directions were unequivocal.

We must return to the trail we had abandoned

(After two hours of serious hiking)

If we wished to reach the peak of Mount Olympus.

We had not considered the man’s motives,

Until we had spent another three hours 

On our original path.

At that point we needed ropes and spikes to proceed.

Later, after we had again reversed direction 

And finally ascended beyond Zeus's Throne

To the upper refuge, when we learned 

That our good Samaritan always pointed the wrong way. 

When we first met him at the fork

Between the two trails

He did not seem like a jokester,

Intent on sending us to hell and back.

Was he sent by a higher power 

To test our resolve, or, was he

Merely a local, tired of foreigners

Who thought to lower our chances of surviving?

I picture this guy wearing bright red shorts and a green yodel hat,

Standing, mid-morning, at the roads fork, 

“Helping” other simpletons traverse this home of the gods.

If only I could help him navigate some parts of Boston.

Highline Park

From the right spot,

(12th Street & Gansevoort works)

There's an historical view of the great city's

Evolution from 1860.

Slave ships and slaughter houses

Coexisted for 150 years before the arches,

30 feet off the ground,

Became home to railroad deliveries

Maybe a clever developer 

Saw a fast buck to be made 

By selling the collapsing unused tracks

To a city hungering for park sites?

Now, while wild greens add to recovered space,

Retailers who can posit name recognition,

Offer cool by understating their presence

With small iconic signs on stores beneath the park.

Surely some higher power 

Must have intervened in preventing 

The last slaughter house from leaving the street below,

It is the veal processing plant that gives the space its authenticity.

In The Middle Kingdom

Slightly to the right of center

Stand the armed and angry citizens.

They are confronting the King’s army,

And insisting the wicked witch be burned.

“We have lost our freedom,”

Screams a leader of the people.

For 1,000 years we have burned witches

Who threaten the peace.”

“Now, in league with the despicable ones,

Our new King talks enlightenment.

He tramples on our rights

And protects malefactors.

He gives sustenance to evil;

Encourages us to offer comfort to the unholy.

We must take a stand!

No to women with pointed hats.”

Look how we have lost this year’s crop.

No rain and then pestilence.

If not the witches, who could cause such devastation?

A good fire will change our fortunes.”

The Silence In Poetry

If the words are carefully chosen

A poem can carry us to times and places

That may evoke exquisite responses,

Not of our own choosing.

At his best the poet may

Leave a question unanswered,

Since the needed resonance

Can come only from the reader.

The silence that follows

A scene or a thought

Quietly, or with thunderous accompaniment,

Leads you to a clearing.

Whether the reader enters that silence

And embraces the writer’s offering,

Or leans in a different direction,

Is not for the poet to decide. 

Should the reader not hear the silence

The poet will have failed.

A Place To Wait

Southern Florida, with its warm winters, no State Income Tax,

And innumerable discounts for seniors,

Has been a magnet 

For retirees from the northeast.

They come here to wait,

To write emails to friends

Who are yet to concede all their remaining years

To golf and MahJong.

Some of their friends who had lured

Them south are gone,

While others seem to have constricted

Their lives to health concerns.

If their plan is to wait to die,

It makes sense to find a comfortable chair.

I Am Responsible

Two calls within twenty minutes.

Leo left a message:

His new printer was causing him grief.

Once again the gods had aligned against him.

Andy called to apologize.

We had both forgotten to follow yesterday’s walk with a cup of coffee.

It apparently was his fault because he would be buying.

What to make of the human condition?

On A Park Bench

Twenty minutes before the convention began,

I sat facing the sea and the warming sun.

A stranger named Dave, and his red-tipped walking stick, 

Accompanied by his grandson, joined me.

He came every year:

But now, because his vision had dropped below two percent, 

He could not travel alone.

White-water rafting had been both his vocation and advocation.

Dave spoke about leading rafting groups

On turbulent journeys down

The American River,

While being legally blind.

It was with great relief

That his rafting buddies

Accepted his reluctant admission: 

He had led his last group this past summer.

No inflated ego corrupted his story,

He was just passing time before the delegates registered.

Perhaps not seeing me encouraged him

To steadfastly face me and smile  as we spoke.

You Are What You Eat

Steve was the last rational man.

Having observed others he could comfortably recline,

And smile with certitude in his belief

That he was the most reasonable of men.

As with all mortals,

Steve was not perfect.

On occasion, he would overstate his position,

And could be accused of self-righteousness.

He had aged well, he thought,

And could, in his humble way,

Offer insights that bordered on the Socratic,

A gift he believed that made him rather special.

Like most of us he had lived with and through troubles.

Children and health were always issues 

That came with the rising sun

And would continue until his sunset.

His principles were sound.

Fondly, Steve recalled occasions 

When he had stood up for something,

(Perhaps a poorly prepared meal) and won.

Were the victories pyrrhic?

Was the cost of defending a position too great?

What was the principle that drew his sword?

Finally, had justice or his principle been served?

Changing Tables

Straining, Herb still could not hear me.

Voices from the adjoining table

Overwhelmed his limited faculty.

Why were those people so loud?

And why, in an almost empty, restaurant

Were we put at this table?

Frustrated, he motioned for the waiter,

Asking that we be moved.

When relocated to a quiet, adjoining room,

Herb was able to hear enough of our conversation

To re-engage and so remain part of our foursome.

He showed bravery, overcoming his natural reluctance

To remain quiet and frustrated.

Were we three at ease when Herb was excluded from the conversation?

Were we content allowing him to be left in isolation ?

Were we 15 year olds expressing a preference

That the weakest of us be discouraged 

From having a place at the table?

Or are these the wrong questions?

Ruth and Diana had settled into conversation.

It was my responsibility to engage Herb.

Was I looking out for him, or just a way out?

You’ve Got the Wrong Man

I wasn’t in Aurora that night.

I don’t even know where Columbine is,

And that Griffith lady in Tucson----

I was nowhere near the place.

Why so many people defend

Ownership of a semi-automatic weapon escapes me.

My friend Ned says that it’s killer rabbits,

Really big ones with vampire teeth.

Maybe if we had some more security

In those multiplex theaters 

So many of those poor folks

Would not have died?

I feel very badly for the victims and their families.

If more of us gun owners had been there ----

Although Columbine being a school and all----

The teachers probably should have had weapons.

It’s just a terrible shame

And the government did nothing.

Nice looking young man, good smile.

Hate to wear my pistol to the movies.

Ice Cream Cone

Chocolate chip is a top ten flavor,

So I took a bite.

Then Marvin & I passed the cone

Between us, until it was gone.

We have been walking, sitting, talking

For forty five years.

Maybe its the same conversation,

With different nouns.

Two senior citizens on a sidewalk bench discussing

Elections, wars and assorted concerns.

Conversation ignored the chocolate chip

In favor of world affairs and diminishing expectations.

I'm thinking that, unlike passing an apple

Or Doobie, we don't include cones,

Beyond family or lovers, in the circle

That approves ice cream sharing.

There is something exquisite,

A Norman Rockwell drawing

That sets a scene, both wholesome and beatific,

When two friends take turns eating an ice cream cone.

I don't know what the cone cost.

It looked to be a one scoop affair,

So I suppose it cost about 3 bucks,

Marvin paid.

Trails

Crossing thresholds is for braver souls.

Those who are willing to push past discomfort,

In the belief that there is something

Of greater interest waiting.

At a distance another man seems rational;

Within handshake's reach, caution asserts itself.

Will the road less traveled

Lead to a place he wants to go?

If safety is his first commandment

He has an answer.

But you and I know

He merely has changed the odds.

Hedging a bet cuts the risk

And decreases the payoff,

Deferring the "all in" moment.

Or is that just a second delusion?

Is not our essence always equally at risk?

Does that man who moves with greater caution

Not face another, if different, challenge,

Because all roads are one?

Does it Matter?

Are obligations, not discharged,

Merely not recognized?

If so convinced, why not move on

Without corroborating testimony?

Am I merely a simpleton 

Hoping for a polar shift

That might square the account,

And stamp paid to my righteous claim?

At the age of 7, I could wish myself dead,

Justified in imagining the  devastation

Wreaked on my suspect parents,

Who bought me clothing for my birthday.

Clothing! I could not then, and can not now

Suggest a less caring gift.

Still, I always returned their calls.... always!

Until they were silent, always.

My sins are of commission, not omission,

Fully confessed, after a fashion,

Or is failure just another gift that keeps on giving,

As the victim holds fast to his claim?

But why such entitlement?

Is the scab I irritate a medal,

An award for devotion, in a minor key,

Whose name is crafted deep within?

Better to find a character flaw elsewhere.

A psychologist who practices astrology

Could find the alignment that explains

How the faults lie in the stars.