Life/Death

Alan had passed beyond thin.
His bronchial cough left little doubt
That he would die before the next sunrise.
But he was conscious and articulate.

Gathered members of his family
Urged him to let go.
He told me he was not ready.
I whispered “fuck ‘em”.

Returning home in a depressed mood,
Under heavy clouds
That promised rain
I thought of recurring roof leaks.

Guy

If the letter was awkward
My emotions were not.
There was more curiosity
Than anxiety.

Thirty years have passed,
And I don’t remember how, or if,
I loved him,
This man-child.

His response, which I’d suspected
Would not be forthcoming,
Was the work of a mature mind,
And offered reason.

Will the person I parented
For most of his pre-college years
Care to extend my initial query
Into a long distance dialogue?

Our paths are not likely to cross unless
One of us really wants that to happen.
He writes that I was a hard task master.
Yes, I was responsible, but that should never be enough.

Both his letter and his picture
Speak of eons and metamorphosis.
I did not ask if he, even part-time ,
Continued his art.

Is he happy or resolved?
Has life shown more sun than shadow?
For my sake I hope his journey
Has put him in a place of warmth.

I Guess I Told Them

Yessir, I was righteous.
Asked me to help, make calls, motivate the voters.
Two hours, waiting for the system to call me, but my phone never rang.
What the hell is wrong with these people!?

My scalding emails right on target,
Told countless friends,
(Countless if you can’t count past three),
How slick the system was. Very embarrassing.

Called to tell those countless friends
That I had a mea culpa to offer,
But did not get a dial tone.
Those jerks had tied up my line and wouldn’t let go.

Unless, nah that can’t be the case...
No way man! Way? Shit!
Son-of -bitch! No one home but me.
Two hours with the phone off the hook, ouch!

Tea Party: Coming of Age

They have not always looked carefully.
Taking the cards as dealt
By someone who might not
Deal from the top of the deck.

Now the peasants feel betrayed.
Awakening to a show
Where stardom was presumably their assigned role,
Only to find they had, foolishly, carried water for others.

Had they really expected a yellow brick road?
Would their bellicosity not carry the day?
Easy to dismiss the unwashed as fools,
Expecting love from the devil’s own.

Look around and count your numbers.
Are your black, brown or redskinned brothers in your vanguard?
Do you still see them as the takers,
Trying to usurp what is rightfully yours?

When the raft is sinking,
And your leaders will not sacrifice their lovely boots,
Who will those heavy heals land upon?
Who will be tossed into the unforgiving sea?

When the choice is between the bad and the ugly,
Do you not recognize it still contains differences that matter.
Bad is the man who falsely claimed your cause.
Best choose the ugly, they are more likely to share your plight

Father’s Son

I didn’t inherit his baldness,
Derived mine, belatedly, from my mother’s side.
I drive in the same insane New York style:
Winning the next street remains imperative.

Like me, he would have taken advantage
Of the warmth found in a mild winter sun,
And like him the stiffness in my neck
Suggests a head, however empty, needing support.

His manner, so different from mine,
Fearless in the face of pain or opposition.
He did not hurry to moderate differences,
And always assumed he was in the right.

What did I learn?
Ask directions and when uncertain say your wrong.
Did I leave some of his virtues on the table?
You bet, and they’ll remain buried with his ashes.

Hand Holding Penguins

Looking at the potential downfall of the human species,
I received a shock
Greater than learning of gambling at Ric’s Cafe.
I understood that we are doomed!

On my wall hangs the evidence.
Yes, it could be someone playing with Photoshop,
But I believe the Penguins shown on February’s calendar
Are touching flippers, (unless they are called “wings”).

Two African Penguins, strolling the beach,
Moving at sympathetic paces,
With heads slightly bent,
Are thoughtfully discussing the children.

No, I don’t see
Names carved in the sand,
But perhaps they’ve not yet evolved into
A love-note writing biped.

Indeed, they are unclothed,
(Though this might be a result
Of climate adaptation,
Or lack of local retail outlets).

They step lightly,
As though responding to a dance tune
From a big band sound, circa 1938,
Ready to tap their way to happiness.

On balance, and based solely on that photo,
It is apparent that evolution has favored them.
They look studious enough to tackle
Big questions without resort to warfare.

Consider, too that they do not consume beyond their needs,
Are apparently not motivated to build big houses
Or sail in large cruise ships.
They might be an admirable replacement for humans.

Precocious@74

This very intriguing thought
Came to me late last night.
Not withstanding my vow,
There was nothing. No recall at all.

Many nights, as I consider my day’s events,
A thought flashes across my remaining brain cells.
Neurons fire prodigiously,
Giving rise to an incredible solutions.

Or maybe they don’t?
If I could get just six or eight letters
Aligned to approximate a key word,
I could share that illumination with the world.

Often I believe in the question,
Only to find it sullied overnight.
Yet my synapses can’t be bothered
Dragging the brilliant epiphany into the light.

This process led to my placing a recorder at my bedside.
An instant short of sleep the inspiration came,
And half awake
I recorded my brilliant insight.

The first answer, the seminal response
That had lain hidden in the valley of sleep.
Awakened by my realization that I had found a way.
I don’t recall the question, but the answer was.......

Milk!?!!