The Crows Sad Tale

What word captures a crow’s sound?

Somewhere between angry and melancholy

Tells us of the Crows disposition …supposedly.

What of the research that claims

This clever bird is armed with an alarm system?

“Don’t go near that …,” it snaps at his off-springs.

There is yet another possibility;

This creature that can resolve a 9-step puzzle

In order to reach nourishment,

May know all life is descending

Into a black whirlpool   

From which no sound or sight will emerge.

Like Cassandra, Crows keep warning and complaining

To an audience that would rather they be quiet.

Something Of Value

He goes, he stays or something else.

She is unwell and unwilling.

The daughter and his friend

Have worked to make it fit.

Their attempts, well intended,

Have afforded them positive self-appraisals

But no progress to date.

And there’s the rub.

Two industrious idiots consistently

Reworking their plans, not really knowing

What is best, or how to make it happen.

He has never been particularly impressed

With their plans.

Yesterday he said  “That place has too much winter,

So thanks, but no.”

Our would-be heroe will now recalculate,

And find something of value in their dedication.

Redemption Isn't Possible

I think the next great religious movement

May not have a house of worship.

Believers will hold rallies,

But only in public spaces.

Their followers will refer to themselves

As members of the Coming Doom,

Each adherent shall be labeled a Doomster.

They’ll adorn themselves with sandwich signs,

Emblazoned fore and aft, on every sign,

Will be the Coming Doom motto,

“We Are Gaining!!!”

Below that will be a picture.

While the photo will change weekly,

It shall show the “Disaster of the Week”,

Always in black and white.

And always a scene of mass slaughter.

Surrounding the dead bodies,

Striking a reverential pose,

May appear handicapped children

And disabled octogenarians.

Each sign carrier will be

Dressed in bleach, each carrying a sign

Will be grasping a swinging lantern,

And distributing very disturbing literature.

Since their job is to help prepare the way

They will not be silent.

They’ll bellow “We are Doomed,

Redemption is not Possible?”

Robin-Hood and the Revolution

Through the distorted lens of the front door spy hole

Jim saw a short fellow in what looked like a costume.

Searching his 50 year old memory, he found the name.

Shorty was wearing a Robin Hood suit and carried a small bag.

Jim opened the door, smiling and ready

To inform the young man it was not Halloween.

Shorty announced that he was indeed Robin Hood,

And pulling a pistol from the bag, stepped into the house.

Two other masked men, not in costumes, entered with him.

Mr.Hood explained that he wanted all the cash.

His companions entered the kitchen

And disconnected the phone.

Before Robin, and his now Merry Men left,

He explained to Jim that the greater good Jim was performing,

Albeit without much choice, would surely

Accrue to Jim’s benefit. If not now, soon.

Years later, after Robin Hood

Had formed an LLC and created a loan company,

Jim applied for a mortgage... but was turned down.

Opening his home to a masked man in leotards made him a poor risk.

Aint No Snshine

Surrounded by giants indifferent to sunshine

This metropolis moves to it's own frenetic energy.

Without Central Park, where buildings lean away,

Midtown Manhattan could not breathe.

On a blue-sky day, much like 9/11,

We cross the park under Sol's warming rays.

Just off the poets walk was the old saxophonist,

Putting out sweet sounds of Nat King Cole.

New York has always struggled with its many faces.

It balances between the exclusivity of those who claim ownership

And the 99%, who make for a viable dichotomy,

And create the friction that makes New York a great city.

Make Me A Malted

As an 8 year old my dreams were incredible, unpredictable and prosaic.

There was the Lone Ranger, followed by airplanes, the Brooklyn Dodgers,

years of academic truancy and a life, not quite complete, that has been filled with stupendous acts of stupidity and remarkable moments of joy.

I was ten when, on my way home from a softball game I stopped for a malted. Malts had become part of my Saturday morning ritual. Win or lose a chocolate shake was mandatory. Sitting on the third swivel stool past the cash register I probably considered the homework I would not do, but only after analyzing both my offensive and defensive play. No errors and a very favorable bounce to put the last out within one step of second base. At bat, one single and a walk in five at-bats; a marginally ok 40% on base percent.

Norm, the owner of the candy store, knew my order and had good news to share. This was going to be the final malted made with the last remnants of the gallon of chocolate ice cream. According to Norm the combination of ice particles that had settle in the container, and ice cream created the very best possible malted. He was right!

That incident made a lasting impression, both as a line of Jewish humor, (“make me a malted” ) was often followed ‘by pfff, you’re a malted) and a way of notching an imaginary belt when something beyond my expectations came up, like a 7 on a role of the dice.