Whose Eyes Are Those?

Herb sent the pictures.
He was Herbie then.
Japan had not surrendered,
And TV was unheard of.

A skinny kid at a costume party.
His eyes bright.
Enjoying himself.
Looks to be about seven.

Can he imagine the journey?
All the anxiety,
People moving, changing.
When was it ever easy?

Fast answers covered his tracks.
In a world of sectarian Jews
A square mile was the universe,
On a planet with movies and trolleys.

Couldn’t figure what mattered.
Sixty five years later
He knows more words that say
Can’t figure what matters.

Could I sit with that seven year old
And agree on the absurdity
Of our costume parties?
Surely we would laugh.

Morris At Closing Time

“Long time, thirty years”, Morris thought,
Looking at his appointment calendar.
“A lot of fingers in a lot of dams.
Progress, yeah but ...

Chapter numbers are very good.
Members, connections, collections.
Lucky, that his job
Was his cause.

Not the easiest job.
Wearing a bullet proof vest,
Even once in awhile,
Was proof enough.

Of course it was very upsetting
When that hate group posted
His home address and family names
On their website,

Just a few more months
And he’ll be doing other stuff.
Many good volunteer programs
Could use some help.

Morris is imperfect. Not everyone loves him.
Being short, round and in-your-face
Is not always a winning combination.
But he takes pride in his enemies.

If we are judged by the company we keep,
Then the hate of bigots, racists,
Anti-Semites, and other lowlifes
Bears testimony from angels.

“If not me, who? If not now, when”
Is surely a cornerstone of Morris’s beliefs.
No man I know personifies that expression
More fully.

Another Start

No escaping the race.
A moment, from 60 years ago
Recaptured by an old neighbor,
Who brought word of success, and death.

Morty has been dead 10 years,
Marty’s been retired to the Hamptons as long.
Herb will send me photos from 1950.
He stopped being Herbie in 1953.

I’ve recently taken to party politics.
Maybe it will be a learning experience,
Being president of a small, local
Democratic club.

What’s to be accomplished?
I’m not a preacher
And the members are not revolutionaries.
Maybe the purpose is fellowship.

Perhaps resolutions are overrated,
And real value lies in dialogue.
Invective promotes victory.
Discussion promotes understanding.

Happy Endings

I don't want to be there
When the bill comes due.
I'm thinking of a small apartment
In a safe place.

If the climate allows
No need for heat or A/C.
Diana would paint, and I'd write.
Days would end at dusk.

Eventually, maybe a week or year,
Time would run out,
But until then
We'd eat fish and avoid people.

Doesn't sound possible,
No doubt someone would take the food,
We'd run out of paint and paper.
OK, we get a only week!

On the bright side
I would not be interred
In the family plot,
Or suffer a lovely death testimonial

Terrorists Win

Since 9/11 terrorists have been winning.
Winning, winning winning.
From the left, from the right
Terrorists are winning.

When “Miranda” rights aren’t allowed, they win
And when such rights are provided they win again.
They win when someone
Disagrees with government policy.

Terrorists win when
We increase oil dependency,
Or when Mexicans cross
Into Arizona.

Terrorists win when
We don’t go to Broadway shows,
Question the need for war,
Or lie about our age.

Season of Change

We are forever tossed in an uncertain ocean,
Redrafting on yesterday's wind,
Unable to discern the sea's
Intention.

Waves break upon each other,
As we speculate on the direction of home,
Knowing the clouds will not part
And allow for a sure westward reading.

Our ship is trimmed,
And able, for now, to ride the waves.
If we can steer a true course,
One that escapes the gathering storm.

But the Salmon swims half a world
Knowing where it will come to rest.
Returning to complete its cycle
Indifferent to thunder and darkness.

Its journey near complete
It struggles not just to the end
But for the end
Where symmetry reaches perfection.

A mere simple fish

Let Me Introduce

My sister-in-law could not walk.
I carried her down the stairs.
My neighbor, anxious to talk,
Was waiting to show she cares.

My problem was immediately clear.
I ‘d forgotten my neighbor’s name.
I greeted her with good cheer.
Alas, my problem with the in-law was the same.

I’d known my neighbor for more than a year,
My wife’s sister for four.
I had no choice but to look sincere,
And hoped for succor.

Perhaps the neighbor’s spouse
Would call out his wife’s name,
From somewhere in their house
Saving me from shame?

Silently I stood, a perfect fool,
Hoping for divine intervention,
Or perhaps the earth would offer a tool,
To ease my verbal suspension.

In time the women introduced each other,
Accepting me as a first class moron.
Unable to invent a convenient cover,
I stood there like a useless pylon.

My advantage, over most
Seriously challenged dimwits,
Is that my memory has always been toast.
Driving me crazy, causing me fits.