Painting as a Muse
I enter the room; it kisses my sight.
The hues and the swirls of Van Gogh's "Starry Night"!
There greeting me, enriching my wall,
Though merely a double, it deeply installs
Steep heart-rending images that daily haunt me
In ways that exceed the eyes’ instinct to see.
My mind swiftly travels to church and to steeple
And navy night sky and a land without people . . .
And I am alone in a faraway thought ---
Why is this the scene that I have long sought?
Perhaps I sense that in midst of his strife
Vincent knew a secret of Life ---
That the pain is quite sharp of a time that's unsung
And no loneliness passes when one is among
Masses of busy, untalented people
Who see in this painting no more than a steeple,
Who cannot see the ambitious young mind
That painted the stars and the sky so unkind
That evening is filled with so many swirls
And the viewer is thrilled by the mood that unfurls,
The feeling that Life is so meant to be
Lived in a way that makes each of us free
To see the same scene in so different a way
That some want to go, while others, to stay.
Thank you, Vincent, for blessing my eyes
So that, when alone, I want to despise
The fate that has left me bereft of a breath;
You are the pained friend who is so deft
To soothe my sore soul and mend my maimed mind:
For one such as I, there's no greater find!
The hues and the swirls of Van Gogh's "Starry Night"!
There greeting me, enriching my wall,
Though merely a double, it deeply installs
Steep heart-rending images that daily haunt me
In ways that exceed the eyes’ instinct to see.
My mind swiftly travels to church and to steeple
And navy night sky and a land without people . . .
And I am alone in a faraway thought ---
Why is this the scene that I have long sought?
Perhaps I sense that in midst of his strife
Vincent knew a secret of Life ---
That the pain is quite sharp of a time that's unsung
And no loneliness passes when one is among
Masses of busy, untalented people
Who see in this painting no more than a steeple,
Who cannot see the ambitious young mind
That painted the stars and the sky so unkind
That evening is filled with so many swirls
And the viewer is thrilled by the mood that unfurls,
The feeling that Life is so meant to be
Lived in a way that makes each of us free
To see the same scene in so different a way
That some want to go, while others, to stay.
Thank you, Vincent, for blessing my eyes
So that, when alone, I want to despise
The fate that has left me bereft of a breath;
You are the pained friend who is so deft
To soothe my sore soul and mend my maimed mind:
For one such as I, there's no greater find!
All by Myself (as the song goes)
Wine and a dinner are so ineffectual
When one’s with a being who is simply asexual.
You may want very much to wine and dine
But its company, alone, is really quite fine
So what can you do to be a romantic?
No matter what you try, there is no antic
To make you seen and felt and known,
For single cells prefer to be alone
And by themselves, and keep such company
That no intruders willingly they see.
Asexual beings are so calm and cool ---
They never argue -- that’s their Golden Rule,
For who would win and who would ever lose?
They eschew arguing and seek not to abuse
Themselves -- not ever -- for they understand
That they are special, and for that we hand
Them congratulations. They have found the way
To remain true lovers each and every day:
Each single organism just abides
And when too lonely, easily divides.
How can a lover possibly compete
With an entity that is itself complete?
Wine and a dinner are so ineffectual
When one’s with a being who is simply asexual.
You may want very much to wine and dine
But its company, alone, is really quite fine
So what can you do to be a romantic?
No matter what you try, there is no antic
To make you seen and felt and known,
For single cells prefer to be alone
And by themselves, and keep such company
That no intruders willingly they see.
Asexual beings are so calm and cool ---
They never argue -- that’s their Golden Rule,
For who would win and who would ever lose?
They eschew arguing and seek not to abuse
Themselves -- not ever -- for they understand
That they are special, and for that we hand
Them congratulations. They have found the way
To remain true lovers each and every day:
Each single organism just abides
And when too lonely, easily divides.
How can a lover possibly compete
With an entity that is itself complete?
A Poem, Not Much More
I write this poem on a sheet of paper
And rush to finish ‘fore ideas taper,
‘Cause then I would be left with naught to say
So I begin to write words that will play
With one another, conveying ideas
That may deal with smiles or styles or fears,
And as I write my very first bright line
I think and search for but a telling sign
That I develop a true precious theme
And I become successful -- so it seems to seem
For I have put down words so much sublime
That they would be called out by any mime
And listeners would feel such pithy tears
And no one reading would express such jeers
That would cause me to ache and write no more
‘Cause readers decried that my poems bored
Them to infinity and made them yawn,
Looking for some book to read till dawn --
So on this page I rush to jot right down
Ideas so clear, so dear no one will frown
And all my words will quickly cheer a clown
And then at last I will know great renown.
I write this poem on a sheet of paper
And rush to finish ‘fore ideas taper,
‘Cause then I would be left with naught to say
So I begin to write words that will play
With one another, conveying ideas
That may deal with smiles or styles or fears,
And as I write my very first bright line
I think and search for but a telling sign
That I develop a true precious theme
And I become successful -- so it seems to seem
For I have put down words so much sublime
That they would be called out by any mime
And listeners would feel such pithy tears
And no one reading would express such jeers
That would cause me to ache and write no more
‘Cause readers decried that my poems bored
Them to infinity and made them yawn,
Looking for some book to read till dawn --
So on this page I rush to jot right down
Ideas so clear, so dear no one will frown
And all my words will quickly cheer a clown
And then at last I will know great renown.
FREE! (a villanelle in iambic pentameter)
I love when I must write some poetry.
The words and images just seem to come.
I find creative writing sets me free.
I hate when I just sit so drearily,
Without a thing to say; I feel so dumb!
I love when I must write some poetry.
My writing seems to fill my heart with glee.
I hear the song my heart so wants to hum;
I find creative writing sets me free.
The rhythm and the rhyme . . . apostrophe
Combine in form and lead me to the sum;
I love when I must write some poetry.
Perhaps a memoir recalls ancestry --
A glowing hero or a forlorn bum:
I find creative writing sets me free.
A mind map filled with flowers and a tree --
A terror image which still makes me numb:
I love when I must write some poetry;
I find creative writing sets me free!
I love when I must write some poetry.
The words and images just seem to come.
I find creative writing sets me free.
I hate when I just sit so drearily,
Without a thing to say; I feel so dumb!
I love when I must write some poetry.
My writing seems to fill my heart with glee.
I hear the song my heart so wants to hum;
I find creative writing sets me free.
The rhythm and the rhyme . . . apostrophe
Combine in form and lead me to the sum;
I love when I must write some poetry.
Perhaps a memoir recalls ancestry --
A glowing hero or a forlorn bum:
I find creative writing sets me free.
A mind map filled with flowers and a tree --
A terror image which still makes me numb:
I love when I must write some poetry;
I find creative writing sets me free!
Lobster and Blueberries (post-pandemic)
My dream may seem a bit insane
And you can think the less of me.
I want to et my way through Maine;
New York must soon just set me free ---
Enable me to let Maine gain
My appetite for its cuisine.
A lobster and a chowder will
Instill in me a sumptuous scene
Not so unlike a summer thrill
Endowed with flavor so obscene!
My memories bring forth the taste
And full aroma of each meal
I would ingest --- but not with haste,
Never waste but with appeal:
Each bite insuring no known waste!
When will my eyes see such a feast?
Northeast cuisine fulfills my heart;
Lobster is the very least
Likely reason to stay apart,
And blueberries swell in my mouth
If they're from Maine, not from the South:
So when in Maine my urge will cease.
The end will come; my Life will start!
My dream may seem a bit insane
And you can think the less of me.
I want to et my way through Maine;
New York must soon just set me free ---
Enable me to let Maine gain
My appetite for its cuisine.
A lobster and a chowder will
Instill in me a sumptuous scene
Not so unlike a summer thrill
Endowed with flavor so obscene!
My memories bring forth the taste
And full aroma of each meal
I would ingest --- but not with haste,
Never waste but with appeal:
Each bite insuring no known waste!
When will my eyes see such a feast?
Northeast cuisine fulfills my heart;
Lobster is the very least
Likely reason to stay apart,
And blueberries swell in my mouth
If they're from Maine, not from the South:
So when in Maine my urge will cease.
The end will come; my Life will start!
Do Not Fetch the Wrist-Wretch
I have a gadget on my wrist
I make it work with every twist
It tells the weather and the time
And helps me conjure up a rhyme
It's Android and it carries games
(But luckily it never flames
For fire would be dangerous
And burn our papers . . . maybe us)
I play with technologic wrist
And change its color with my fist
I place it on a camel's back
And hide it on a brown coat rack
My Mr. gadget beeps and rings
It entertains with song it sings
But then I get so very sad
I can't help getting very mad
I can't stop doing very bad
Actions 'cause my wrist feels pain
Which seems to make me quite insane
So I start eating my new Time
Machine which made me write this rhyme
And soon there's metal, glass and slime
Which leaves my mouth; my watch is dead
But I feel joy within my head
So now I wear Timex instead
My wrist is happy, no more red
And now again I know the time
And I can't help but feel sublime
I have a gadget on my wrist
I make it work with every twist
It tells the weather and the time
And helps me conjure up a rhyme
It's Android and it carries games
(But luckily it never flames
For fire would be dangerous
And burn our papers . . . maybe us)
I play with technologic wrist
And change its color with my fist
I place it on a camel's back
And hide it on a brown coat rack
My Mr. gadget beeps and rings
It entertains with song it sings
But then I get so very sad
I can't help getting very mad
I can't stop doing very bad
Actions 'cause my wrist feels pain
Which seems to make me quite insane
So I start eating my new Time
Machine which made me write this rhyme
And soon there's metal, glass and slime
Which leaves my mouth; my watch is dead
But I feel joy within my head
So now I wear Timex instead
My wrist is happy, no more red
And now again I know the time
And I can't help but feel sublime
|
|
Roman Charges
A place that no one can call home Is now a thought called ancient Rome. So full of battles and of Caesars, It was so great -- but 'nough of teasers. Let's remember Rome of old As home to some who were quite bold As home to servants and to slaves And as a place for Christian graves. Gladiators fought and died And Caesar shone but Caesar lied: A Julius, Caligula and Nero --- Not a single one a hero, Just a group so power-crazy That their deeds are now too hazy For Us to grasp and to remember, Rather we gasp each dying ember, Leaving only fancy ruins: That's all that's left of Roman doin's! |
JURY DUTY
Whenever I'm on jury duty
I heed the call of the beauty
Lady Justice and then fuss
With other people whom I don't trust.
We chat about the "criminal"
Whose trial we watched after the call
That came to us to come downtown
And stand up when the judge in gown
Walked in --- and then the prosecutor
(For a sentence of Death he was a big rooter)
Proceeded to present his case
To show a murder by a vase
(Excuse my Bronx pronunciation
But trust me, this was no vacation)
With which Defendant smashed the head
Of Former Lover till she was dead.
(At least that's what he did allege,
And from his tone he did not hedge.)
Well, twelve l-o-n-g minutes we deliberated.
(It's clear that justice was over-rated.)
The poor young man to the chair was fated,
After which I went with the Judge . . . yes, we dated.
The moral is this: to avoid derision,
You'd better come up with a fair decision;
On jury duty you may find
That Lady Justice is indeed blind.
Whenever I'm on jury duty
I heed the call of the beauty
Lady Justice and then fuss
With other people whom I don't trust.
We chat about the "criminal"
Whose trial we watched after the call
That came to us to come downtown
And stand up when the judge in gown
Walked in --- and then the prosecutor
(For a sentence of Death he was a big rooter)
Proceeded to present his case
To show a murder by a vase
(Excuse my Bronx pronunciation
But trust me, this was no vacation)
With which Defendant smashed the head
Of Former Lover till she was dead.
(At least that's what he did allege,
And from his tone he did not hedge.)
Well, twelve l-o-n-g minutes we deliberated.
(It's clear that justice was over-rated.)
The poor young man to the chair was fated,
After which I went with the Judge . . . yes, we dated.
The moral is this: to avoid derision,
You'd better come up with a fair decision;
On jury duty you may find
That Lady Justice is indeed blind.
a - la - ee
? where doe(s)
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go
the Lig(h)t (n] in
gbolt
that
cuts a
c
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o
s
s
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ear
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fRoM ((sight))
? where doe(s)
it
go
the Lig(h)t (n] in
gbolt
that
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s
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|
It's a Rap
I'm gonna write a rap In a snap Your feet will tap Your hands will clap I'll make you sing My words will be like bling Shining Not whining Make you feel like you are dining With romantic candlelight Because it's right It's outta sight Your mind takes flight To some great height And in a snap You'll hear my rap You'll feel all right Red, blue and white And oh so tight So listen to my words And sing just like the birds That fly away from cages Controlling all their rages Acting like the sages Thinking like the mages And smile A while In style As you just feel the beat It's such a treat And it's so sweet You'll feel complete Because my rapping sound Has found The ground And sky On high Okay - Let's FLY!! boom - bada - boom - bada - boom - bada - BOOM! |
|
The Sell - a - bration
Did you ever notice that Thanksgiving
Is really only for the joyous living?
The holiday mood is much more murky
If you happen to be a juicy turkey
And the joy of the spread isn't very
Cheerful if you are a tart cranberry ---
And forget all the huffing and the puffing
If you exist as the makings of a stuffing.
While humans enjoy each separate flavor
And each aroma which they eagerly savor,
The sweet potato is not very sweet
Drowned in marshmallow gravy as treat;
Veggies are supposed to be good for your heart
But those green things are kept quite apart,
So simply ignore host's sly entreaties
Or you will welcome Type 2 diabetes.
Thanksgiving should not be a holiday:
If you are invited, please stay away!
You'll end up in such a healthier state;
You won't have the guilt and you won't gain the weight.
Now let's begin to have some fun ---
Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!
Did you ever notice that Thanksgiving
Is really only for the joyous living?
The holiday mood is much more murky
If you happen to be a juicy turkey
And the joy of the spread isn't very
Cheerful if you are a tart cranberry ---
And forget all the huffing and the puffing
If you exist as the makings of a stuffing.
While humans enjoy each separate flavor
And each aroma which they eagerly savor,
The sweet potato is not very sweet
Drowned in marshmallow gravy as treat;
Veggies are supposed to be good for your heart
But those green things are kept quite apart,
So simply ignore host's sly entreaties
Or you will welcome Type 2 diabetes.
Thanksgiving should not be a holiday:
If you are invited, please stay away!
You'll end up in such a healthier state;
You won't have the guilt and you won't gain the weight.
Now let's begin to have some fun ---
Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!
my nose is running
My n(ose)
is
!RUNNING!!
? what do / i
doooooo
?
I could RuN!!!
A
F
T
E
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BUT***********************
Th(en
W
Hat)
?
is
!RUNNING!!
? what do / i
doooooo
?
I could RuN!!!
A
F
T
E
R (it)
BUT***********************
Th(en
W
Hat)
?
Writing with Words on a Blowy Evening
Whose words these are I think I know.
His house is in the Village, though;
He will not see me writing here,
Watching my words as they do flow.
My gel ink pen must think it queer
To write without a schoolhouse near ---
Within my car, for Goodness' sake,
The blowiest evening of the year.
My mind does tremble; finger shake;
Tonight I think my time I'll take
While slowly into my mind creep
The real news rather than the fake.
The words are lonely, dark and deep
And speak of promises to keep;
Till 2020 I will weep ---
Till 2020 I won't sleep.
(Of course, you must right now remember
The date I mention's in November
When we elect a President
For the White House, a new Resident.)
Whose words these are I think I know.
His house is in the Village, though;
He will not see me writing here,
Watching my words as they do flow.
My gel ink pen must think it queer
To write without a schoolhouse near ---
Within my car, for Goodness' sake,
The blowiest evening of the year.
My mind does tremble; finger shake;
Tonight I think my time I'll take
While slowly into my mind creep
The real news rather than the fake.
The words are lonely, dark and deep
And speak of promises to keep;
Till 2020 I will weep ---
Till 2020 I won't sleep.
(Of course, you must right now remember
The date I mention's in November
When we elect a President
For the White House, a new Resident.)
The Ballad of the SEA MONSTER
I heard a story once when I was young
About a monster living in the sea
And now its song can finally be sung:
The monster was just lonely as could be.
The people on their boats would sail on by
And shout their curses at this simple thing
And hateful words would really make him cry;
A sound so sullen would this monster sing.
This gruesome creature wanted to feel love
But people laughed and scorned his ugliness.
He wasn't what a princess would dream of;
To tell the truth, he was an awful mess.
And then one day a princess really came
To see the monster and to laugh at him
But when she viewed him she felt guilt and shame
And then she called to him upon a whim:
He swam to her and showed a tender grace;
The princess bent to him and placed a kiss.
At once, he had a smile upon his face
And both of them shared flowing, growing bliss.
She looked again and saw the monster change
And in his place there was a handsome prince.
You may think this story rather strange
But these two have been happy ever since.
Be not deceived by what you first do view;
Instead, be friendly and just take a chance.
This act of kindness you will never rue
And maybe you will find your true romance!
About a monster living in the sea
And now its song can finally be sung:
The monster was just lonely as could be.
The people on their boats would sail on by
And shout their curses at this simple thing
And hateful words would really make him cry;
A sound so sullen would this monster sing.
This gruesome creature wanted to feel love
But people laughed and scorned his ugliness.
He wasn't what a princess would dream of;
To tell the truth, he was an awful mess.
And then one day a princess really came
To see the monster and to laugh at him
But when she viewed him she felt guilt and shame
And then she called to him upon a whim:
He swam to her and showed a tender grace;
The princess bent to him and placed a kiss.
At once, he had a smile upon his face
And both of them shared flowing, growing bliss.
She looked again and saw the monster change
And in his place there was a handsome prince.
You may think this story rather strange
But these two have been happy ever since.
Be not deceived by what you first do view;
Instead, be friendly and just take a chance.
This act of kindness you will never rue
And maybe you will find your true romance!
Lark Rise to Candleford Redux
1880's England
Centuries old
Economic divide
Entrenched
A wall of sorts separating lovers
Altering lives
And dreams
Trapping the poor inside the unnamed borders
Of their village, homes
And destined work
Trapping the Squire
By restraints of duty and service
But a wisp of vision
Dwells within the strong
Hoping to find their place
To become the sun-strength of their universe
Transitional characters transforming
Their co-villages to interdependent
Spheres: no beginning and no end
Just lives worth living
Obstacles worth defeating
See the Lark Rise
Ford the rising Candleford
Let their life-song be of peace
And hope and some romance
In their televerse
1880's England
Centuries old
Economic divide
Entrenched
A wall of sorts separating lovers
Altering lives
And dreams
Trapping the poor inside the unnamed borders
Of their village, homes
And destined work
Trapping the Squire
By restraints of duty and service
But a wisp of vision
Dwells within the strong
Hoping to find their place
To become the sun-strength of their universe
Transitional characters transforming
Their co-villages to interdependent
Spheres: no beginning and no end
Just lives worth living
Obstacles worth defeating
See the Lark Rise
Ford the rising Candleford
Let their life-song be of peace
And hope and some romance
In their televerse
The Way We Think
Today is Thursday, which was named after the Scandinavian god Thor. Thor is the nickname of the NY Mets’ pitcher called Syndergaard. I used to be a guard on my basketball team but we weren’t much of a team. A team works together but we worked as individuals. I was an individual once but now I think just like everyone else, and that makes me not lonely because I have friends who used to watch “Friends” on TV. Looking at so many screens today – TV, iPad, cellphones – I hate the cellphone. I get calls from people who don’t know me, just want to sell me things. Life should be about more than things. It should be about feelings and spirit, and how do you feel about the way we use bells all the time, like so many Pavlovian dogs reacting the way they want us to – just a bunch of followers but I want to be more than that. I want to be a god, like Thor!
-inspired by “I Thought a Tree Dying” by Sandra Doller
-inspired by “I Thought a Tree Dying” by Sandra Doller
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The Mueller Non-Report (wishful thinking in retrospective extreme)
Mueller testified today
But FOX decided to stay away
For fear they’d hear the awful truth
And their audience would cry, “Forsooth!
We do believe we’ve been such fools
And that dear Trump broke all the rules
Followed by those civilized.
No wonder we are so despised!
No wonder Clinton called us Deplorable;
We now admit we are so horrible.”
Mueller gave his testimony
Showing Republicans to be so phony
That they have morals tiny, runty ---
So they’ll be out in 2020
And then will end the misguided attack
And we will gain our country back;
The U. S. will again have pride
And Trump will live as he has lied:
Isolated and forever doomed
In prison he will then be roomed
And all because a man spoke true
So Trump at last will get his due!
Mueller testified today
But FOX decided to stay away
For fear they’d hear the awful truth
And their audience would cry, “Forsooth!
We do believe we’ve been such fools
And that dear Trump broke all the rules
Followed by those civilized.
No wonder we are so despised!
No wonder Clinton called us Deplorable;
We now admit we are so horrible.”
Mueller gave his testimony
Showing Republicans to be so phony
That they have morals tiny, runty ---
So they’ll be out in 2020
And then will end the misguided attack
And we will gain our country back;
The U. S. will again have pride
And Trump will live as he has lied:
Isolated and forever doomed
In prison he will then be roomed
And all because a man spoke true
So Trump at last will get his due!
Simple pleasures
wait for me
so patiently and draw me close:
The warm embrace of the life-sun
blanketing me, tucking me in
as a loving, doting mother
does her child;
The crystal crisp air of autumn
patiently breathing into my soul;
Birds caroling in early morn
about the coming day's challenges ---
Nature throbbing while I stay away
cloistered in my rooms
knowing that I will return one day
--- But there's more in store:
The stir of engines as the cars parade
past my windows day and night;
People strolling hand in hand,
broadcasting love so silently
and yet so strikingly with
eyes magnetized to each other;
The sound of a train on its way
To or from Pennsylvania Station,
bearing its children to destinations
that I cannot know but dream of.
I watch these signs of life
through my panoramic scope
and here acknowledge
that I miss the heartbeat
rhythm of the street
But day will follow evening and then
I will once again engage
in the breathing of the world,
Robert Frost's and mine.
wait for me
so patiently and draw me close:
The warm embrace of the life-sun
blanketing me, tucking me in
as a loving, doting mother
does her child;
The crystal crisp air of autumn
patiently breathing into my soul;
Birds caroling in early morn
about the coming day's challenges ---
Nature throbbing while I stay away
cloistered in my rooms
knowing that I will return one day
--- But there's more in store:
The stir of engines as the cars parade
past my windows day and night;
People strolling hand in hand,
broadcasting love so silently
and yet so strikingly with
eyes magnetized to each other;
The sound of a train on its way
To or from Pennsylvania Station,
bearing its children to destinations
that I cannot know but dream of.
I watch these signs of life
through my panoramic scope
and here acknowledge
that I miss the heartbeat
rhythm of the street
But day will follow evening and then
I will once again engage
in the breathing of the world,
Robert Frost's and mine.
Amaranth Seeds
They were a gift of future grace
A symbol of the dreams so rare
That we all cherish, for their place
Brings comfort few can e'er compare
With, of the amaranth the seeds,
Each with potent sense of hope,
Each with promise it succeeds
To flourish with lush purple growth.
Look upon the plant that shows
Its love in every fibrous part
And bask in what the gardener knows:
That treasure grows within the heart,
For seedlings that we plant today
Will grow and love us in their way!
A symbol of the dreams so rare
That we all cherish, for their place
Brings comfort few can e'er compare
With, of the amaranth the seeds,
Each with potent sense of hope,
Each with promise it succeeds
To flourish with lush purple growth.
Look upon the plant that shows
Its love in every fibrous part
And bask in what the gardener knows:
That treasure grows within the heart,
For seedlings that we plant today
Will grow and love us in their way!
Seven Channels
The good old days
The Golden Age
Pre-streaming and pre-cable
No Netflix, Hulu, Prime video
Those were the days
When we were blessed with
Seven Channels
Seasons of thirty-nine
Original episodes
To hold us and to entertain
With no CGI or ear and eye
Destroying effects that sent us
To internal pleas for mercy
Seven networks, local and
Across the nation and it's
Forty-eight states
And we were entertained
Without remote controls
Walking to the set to change
The channel, never bored,
Never restless, always so
Engaged with our new world
Of super-heroes, soaps,
Dramas, comedies, music
That took us from our
American Bandstand to Your
Hits of the Week
And we were never bored.
Bring back those days
Even if in black and white
And let me watch my shows,
MY games, my Gorgeous George
And Antonino Rocca
Because we loved the stories
In the Twilight Zone, the families
That showed us Father Knows Best
(Though it was really Mother) and
I must admit that I Love Lucy in
The chocolate factory or dancing
On the grapes. Those were the
Hours that were truly ours,
The days that did amaze
Us in their novelty and at the same
Time in their home fed presence
Right there in our living room.
All we ever needed was
Seven Channels.
The good old days
The Golden Age
Pre-streaming and pre-cable
No Netflix, Hulu, Prime video
Those were the days
When we were blessed with
Seven Channels
Seasons of thirty-nine
Original episodes
To hold us and to entertain
With no CGI or ear and eye
Destroying effects that sent us
To internal pleas for mercy
Seven networks, local and
Across the nation and it's
Forty-eight states
And we were entertained
Without remote controls
Walking to the set to change
The channel, never bored,
Never restless, always so
Engaged with our new world
Of super-heroes, soaps,
Dramas, comedies, music
That took us from our
American Bandstand to Your
Hits of the Week
And we were never bored.
Bring back those days
Even if in black and white
And let me watch my shows,
MY games, my Gorgeous George
And Antonino Rocca
Because we loved the stories
In the Twilight Zone, the families
That showed us Father Knows Best
(Though it was really Mother) and
I must admit that I Love Lucy in
The chocolate factory or dancing
On the grapes. Those were the
Hours that were truly ours,
The days that did amaze
Us in their novelty and at the same
Time in their home fed presence
Right there in our living room.
All we ever needed was
Seven Channels.
Life as it should be
I once played a game
There were no opponents
Just friends
There was enjoyment
It didn't prepare us for life
For defeats and disappointments
It was a game!
We ran and dodged
We sang and danced
We reached for the heavens
And communed with the Earth
And we had fun!
There were no trophies
Or prizes or surprises
Just a sense of freedom
And a hope of fulfillment
In this game
Without a name
And we instinctively
Knew the aim
And we glided under the sky
And the glossy, warmth-kissing sun
And there was no single winner
We felt no need for that
Because we were not losers
There was no want for victory
There were no losers . . . .
There was just the game
I once played a game
There were no opponents
Just friends
There was enjoyment
It didn't prepare us for life
For defeats and disappointments
It was a game!
We ran and dodged
We sang and danced
We reached for the heavens
And communed with the Earth
And we had fun!
There were no trophies
Or prizes or surprises
Just a sense of freedom
And a hope of fulfillment
In this game
Without a name
And we instinctively
Knew the aim
And we glided under the sky
And the glossy, warmth-kissing sun
And there was no single winner
We felt no need for that
Because we were not losers
There was no want for victory
There were no losers . . . .
There was just the game
The Coin
On June 9, 1952
at 11:05 pm
in northern Alberta, Canada
(80 kilometers north of Edmonton)
“in the long twilight”
“a fireball brighter than the full moon”
“accompanied by sonic booms”
“loud rumbling noise”
“lit up the sky”
(as witnesses described it)
Made a drive-in movie unseeable
A rare Chondrite meteorite crashed to Earth
It had completed its 4.49-billion-year journey
And had come to rest in a newly seeded field
(Segments now reside in the Smithsonian
And in the UK Natural History Museum)
Oh, I could bore you with its composition ---
bulk elemental and oxygen isotope
a poor pyroxene, Nickel-iron, Trailite,
Ambréelite, Oldhamite, Osbornite,
minerals rarely if ever found on Earth
including for the first time:
Keilite and Niningerite ---
But I subscribe to the Walt Whitman
School of Astronomy
And his voice echoes in my ear
And I’d rather be a romantic than a scientist
I would rather dream of its travels
And conjure up the neighborhoods it passed through ---
The planets, moons, stars, asteroid fields
And unknown entities way out there somewhere
Beyond imagination or conception
Until it reached my home
Embedded in the coin I own
The pure silver five-dollar coin
With Queen Elizabeth resting on one side
(a remnant of the British Empire)
But on the other, a maple leaf,
Its veins announcing symmetry . . .
And there it is,
My piece of the universe
Older than the Earth itself
Resting center left
A precious (to me) chip of Abee
A jagged segment
Now residing at the end
Of a bolt of fire brought to life
By a lonely meteorite charging
To the Earth through our atmosphere
And into my thoughts and soul.
The coin can set me off on great
Imaginings that bring me respite
From the humdrum and the tensions
of the times.
The coin is one of many ---
From old Rome to present day
From nations no longer extant
To those whose reign came to an end
To those which struggle to exist
From round to square to octagon
From various metals to plastic ---
But it is one that lives with me
And comes to me in times
When brief escape is necessary
(much as was the case with the swinger of birches)
so that I retain my sanity. It speaks to me
Of places and of times I barely fathom
And I know it is the coin
When I speak of My Coin Collection.
It is the entranceway to a universe
That waits for me one day.
On June 9, 1952
at 11:05 pm
in northern Alberta, Canada
(80 kilometers north of Edmonton)
“in the long twilight”
“a fireball brighter than the full moon”
“accompanied by sonic booms”
“loud rumbling noise”
“lit up the sky”
(as witnesses described it)
Made a drive-in movie unseeable
A rare Chondrite meteorite crashed to Earth
It had completed its 4.49-billion-year journey
And had come to rest in a newly seeded field
(Segments now reside in the Smithsonian
And in the UK Natural History Museum)
Oh, I could bore you with its composition ---
bulk elemental and oxygen isotope
a poor pyroxene, Nickel-iron, Trailite,
Ambréelite, Oldhamite, Osbornite,
minerals rarely if ever found on Earth
including for the first time:
Keilite and Niningerite ---
But I subscribe to the Walt Whitman
School of Astronomy
And his voice echoes in my ear
And I’d rather be a romantic than a scientist
I would rather dream of its travels
And conjure up the neighborhoods it passed through ---
The planets, moons, stars, asteroid fields
And unknown entities way out there somewhere
Beyond imagination or conception
Until it reached my home
Embedded in the coin I own
The pure silver five-dollar coin
With Queen Elizabeth resting on one side
(a remnant of the British Empire)
But on the other, a maple leaf,
Its veins announcing symmetry . . .
And there it is,
My piece of the universe
Older than the Earth itself
Resting center left
A precious (to me) chip of Abee
A jagged segment
Now residing at the end
Of a bolt of fire brought to life
By a lonely meteorite charging
To the Earth through our atmosphere
And into my thoughts and soul.
The coin can set me off on great
Imaginings that bring me respite
From the humdrum and the tensions
of the times.
The coin is one of many ---
From old Rome to present day
From nations no longer extant
To those whose reign came to an end
To those which struggle to exist
From round to square to octagon
From various metals to plastic ---
But it is one that lives with me
And comes to me in times
When brief escape is necessary
(much as was the case with the swinger of birches)
so that I retain my sanity. It speaks to me
Of places and of times I barely fathom
And I know it is the coin
When I speak of My Coin Collection.
It is the entranceway to a universe
That waits for me one day.
Estate Sale
As I walk the manse's rooms
That echo dreams and hopes long gone
And a taste that is not mine
I feel the past reach across the bridge
And speak to me
In ways that urge me on
To visions that are strange and yet
Familiar:
She has a magnetic hold on me,
This melancholy painted woman gazing
Into the void of the imagination
Seeking solace that alludes her eyes
Looking perhaps for a lover
And less than cheered by truth.
Her long jet hair flows my eyes
To a scarlet dress and a less than pure
Pearl necklace hugs her neck.
Her left hand quite unconsciously
Rests upon the side of a pastel vase
Barren of all flowers
And this seems so appropriate.
Beyond the woman's gaze
There lies a lifeless sky
So gray and empty of all life:
Why would I find attraction
In such an agonizing scene?
But then I shake myself of this
Mesmerizing moment
And my consciousness moves on
To a delicate painted desk
Of hopeful white wood but blessed
By lattice designs, two tiers of drawers and an ink well
That speaks of days beyond.
I note a few pale wrinkled papers
Covered with ink-stained notes
(or possibly victims of tears)
And held up by four sensuous legs.
A tribond of inviting yet abandoned
Mirrors stared ahead, waiting
For attention but unfulfilled.
The desk called for companionship
But lacked a joyous wear.
The painting bore no signature
But rather a jagged heart in its place.
I peered more closely at the woman
Looking more forlorn than at first glance,
Only to note her hand
Rigidly upon her heart
And a gleaming ring fallen to the floor.
As I walk the manse's rooms
That echo dreams and hopes long gone
And a taste that is not mine
I feel the past reach across the bridge
And speak to me
In ways that urge me on
To visions that are strange and yet
Familiar:
She has a magnetic hold on me,
This melancholy painted woman gazing
Into the void of the imagination
Seeking solace that alludes her eyes
Looking perhaps for a lover
And less than cheered by truth.
Her long jet hair flows my eyes
To a scarlet dress and a less than pure
Pearl necklace hugs her neck.
Her left hand quite unconsciously
Rests upon the side of a pastel vase
Barren of all flowers
And this seems so appropriate.
Beyond the woman's gaze
There lies a lifeless sky
So gray and empty of all life:
Why would I find attraction
In such an agonizing scene?
But then I shake myself of this
Mesmerizing moment
And my consciousness moves on
To a delicate painted desk
Of hopeful white wood but blessed
By lattice designs, two tiers of drawers and an ink well
That speaks of days beyond.
I note a few pale wrinkled papers
Covered with ink-stained notes
(or possibly victims of tears)
And held up by four sensuous legs.
A tribond of inviting yet abandoned
Mirrors stared ahead, waiting
For attention but unfulfilled.
The desk called for companionship
But lacked a joyous wear.
The painting bore no signature
But rather a jagged heart in its place.
I peered more closely at the woman
Looking more forlorn than at first glance,
Only to note her hand
Rigidly upon her heart
And a gleaming ring fallen to the floor.
High School Graduation is So Sad
High school graduation is so sad:
It is the milestone waiting for the young,
The ceremony with a myriad
Of hopes and dreams loudly to be sung
With pomp and circumstance played out so loud
Where caps and gowns abound around galore
And parents gleaming showing they are proud
And crowds more cheerful than they'd been before.
It is commencement of the future years
So, so immense that we commemorate
Its happening with each pledge that adheres
To recognition of that special date ---
From year to year, a time that we recall
With cheer for each who was a friend
But that is where the sorrow, starting small,
Begins to grow with every friendship's end.
Sometimes a time's deception hides beneath
The glowing gala that holds on to us
But as we age we note that we bequeath
The memories of friendship 'midst the fuss
And though we graduate and then move on,
The friendships that we fostered are then gone.
Know this then: do hold on to those so close
And never, ever graduate to leave
These friends behind and destined to be ghosts
For if you do, such loss you will bereave
For all your days remaining, heaven knows;
Hold on to them for then you surely weave
A blanket full of love and not of woes,
A comfort in which you can e'er believe!
It is the milestone waiting for the young,
The ceremony with a myriad
Of hopes and dreams loudly to be sung
With pomp and circumstance played out so loud
Where caps and gowns abound around galore
And parents gleaming showing they are proud
And crowds more cheerful than they'd been before.
It is commencement of the future years
So, so immense that we commemorate
Its happening with each pledge that adheres
To recognition of that special date ---
From year to year, a time that we recall
With cheer for each who was a friend
But that is where the sorrow, starting small,
Begins to grow with every friendship's end.
Sometimes a time's deception hides beneath
The glowing gala that holds on to us
But as we age we note that we bequeath
The memories of friendship 'midst the fuss
And though we graduate and then move on,
The friendships that we fostered are then gone.
Know this then: do hold on to those so close
And never, ever graduate to leave
These friends behind and destined to be ghosts
For if you do, such loss you will bereave
For all your days remaining, heaven knows;
Hold on to them for then you surely weave
A blanket full of love and not of woes,
A comfort in which you can e'er believe!
|
My Journey is Not Done
My journey is by no means done. I have walked the Marginal Way, The Via Veneto And the artistic streets of Florence; I have drifted on canals of Venice And peered at narrow home fronts lining Amsterdam canals. The history of Jerusalem and Rome have hosted my attention, And I have strolled the Champs-Élysées Up to the Arc de Triomph and beyond; I have seen great Broadway theaters and the narrow streets of Conakry, The hilly streets of Old Quebec As well as the loud, bustling street of Freetown With the High Life of the '60's playing, The paintings of the Louvre and of the Rijksmuseum, Millenia-old Egyptian artifacts in the Metropolitan and London's British Museum --- And I'm here to say that I'm not done. My legs can not carry me along To make me once again Global Citizen Unofficial Ambassador Universal Member of Society But in my mind I have so many miles Snowy Evening Miles Ahead of me before I'm done And I still long each day to tour The worldly streets and avenues So full of liveliness That validate my raison d'être --- So take my hand and come with me And listen to the multilingual songs That feature hopes of nationalities, Melodies that wait to celebrate the fact that streets And waterways are made for us and emptiness has no place in my plan In my future dream. My journey is not done As long as there are sites to see And music to be heard. Now let us sing together and be heard. |
|
In Old Quebec
I loved my time in Old Quebec
Though there were challenges and mountains of a sort to climb
The journey and the destination both proved worthy of
My deep exertions, for in those narrow streets and quaint cafes
And crowded lively restaurants and sidewalks up and down
I found the warmth of people ready to be loved;
It was a real discovery not just of history predating
Anything that I was well acquainted with
But of the present in the past just dwelling right
Before my eyes
As I wandered, sometimes struggling but never without aim,
Through simple stores run by denizens who welcomed people smiling at their fortune
Recognizing that they had a place in the sun
And in the crisp blue air so many centuries of age;
It was home to those who understood the meaning
Of the word, connotation or denotation,
And a welcome home it was for strangers too
Who sought a refuge from the wilderness of modern times
And crushing crowds and fast-paced breathing
Absent the goal of living all our seconds
As they were meant to be enjoyed and treasured;
In Old Quebec I found solace and embraces and
A new old way of living, welcome arms and
Gentle words and joie de vivre
Passed from one to the next in understood appreciation
of the way things were, and I was more than sad
To leave when my time was too predictably used up,
But I knew that even in the midst of what may come
I would always have the option to part from the now
And seek return to the then and its comfort
In Old Quebec.
I loved my time in Old Quebec
Though there were challenges and mountains of a sort to climb
The journey and the destination both proved worthy of
My deep exertions, for in those narrow streets and quaint cafes
And crowded lively restaurants and sidewalks up and down
I found the warmth of people ready to be loved;
It was a real discovery not just of history predating
Anything that I was well acquainted with
But of the present in the past just dwelling right
Before my eyes
As I wandered, sometimes struggling but never without aim,
Through simple stores run by denizens who welcomed people smiling at their fortune
Recognizing that they had a place in the sun
And in the crisp blue air so many centuries of age;
It was home to those who understood the meaning
Of the word, connotation or denotation,
And a welcome home it was for strangers too
Who sought a refuge from the wilderness of modern times
And crushing crowds and fast-paced breathing
Absent the goal of living all our seconds
As they were meant to be enjoyed and treasured;
In Old Quebec I found solace and embraces and
A new old way of living, welcome arms and
Gentle words and joie de vivre
Passed from one to the next in understood appreciation
of the way things were, and I was more than sad
To leave when my time was too predictably used up,
But I knew that even in the midst of what may come
I would always have the option to part from the now
And seek return to the then and its comfort
In Old Quebec.
I Looked Up and Beyond
The moon stared down at me
And sought to know my thoughts,
Mind wanderings that scanned
The universe in verse reversing
What the moon so bright
And clean should know inherently
But found that I'd not share.
The moon stared down at me
Wondering why I gazed right back
But with a smile and with a love
And not with questions of above
My pay grade --- We were as two
Who lived in differed realms,
The one too mathematical and plane,
The other too much the dreamer
Swimming in a sea of fantasy
Of journeys into space and time
And interchange with unnamed
Unknown entities, but ask yourself
Which is better for the psyche,
The dryness and harsh nature
Of reality or the fluid
Ecstasy and joy of the romance
Of possibilities?
The moon stared down at me
And sought to know my thoughts,
Mind wanderings that scanned
The universe in verse reversing
What the moon so bright
And clean should know inherently
But found that I'd not share.
The moon stared down at me
Wondering why I gazed right back
But with a smile and with a love
And not with questions of above
My pay grade --- We were as two
Who lived in differed realms,
The one too mathematical and plane,
The other too much the dreamer
Swimming in a sea of fantasy
Of journeys into space and time
And interchange with unnamed
Unknown entities, but ask yourself
Which is better for the psyche,
The dryness and harsh nature
Of reality or the fluid
Ecstasy and joy of the romance
Of possibilities?
I Tried to Entertain a Clown
I tried to entertain a clown one day.
He was so sad, with painted tear drops drooping
From his eyes, the color of an amethyst emotion ocean,
With a broad frown descending sharply from his lips,
And pale pasty makeup splashed upon his cheeks,
Tainted by the tears and inner gloom,
All overseen by a wild, unruly explosion of wayward hair
Of a rather nondescript color.
He was so sad that my instinct was to cry
Along with him but I overcame that initial feeling
And became aware of my responsibility
As one human to another
To cheer this creature maligned by movies and by Stephen King,
To bring him into that fellowship to which I subscribe,
The human tribe, and so I tried
To make him smile by telling jokes
And singing “Chewing Gum” songs and even whistling
But I failed . . . and the clown grew more and more
Intense in his defiance and his grief.
I tried again, telling stories of the heart and smiling
Gently, reaching out to touch this tortured soul
With fellowship and with humanity . . .
To no avail because I touched no more than surface
But I was denied the entry that I sought
To his substantial being, so I began to feel
Defeat, depression --- those things I had so long been struggling
To avoid, ignore, deny --- and then I peered at length
At Mr. Clown (the type of gaze that excavates the soul)
and I began to cry
For it was at that point that finally I realized
Right through my subterfuge,
That all the while I had been acting so intensely,
All the while that I had sought to reach my fellow man
So much in need of my assumed assistance,
I had been standing so aloft and condescendingly
Before the mirror in my lonely bedroom.
I tried to entertain a clown one day.
He was so sad, with painted tear drops drooping
From his eyes, the color of an amethyst emotion ocean,
With a broad frown descending sharply from his lips,
And pale pasty makeup splashed upon his cheeks,
Tainted by the tears and inner gloom,
All overseen by a wild, unruly explosion of wayward hair
Of a rather nondescript color.
He was so sad that my instinct was to cry
Along with him but I overcame that initial feeling
And became aware of my responsibility
As one human to another
To cheer this creature maligned by movies and by Stephen King,
To bring him into that fellowship to which I subscribe,
The human tribe, and so I tried
To make him smile by telling jokes
And singing “Chewing Gum” songs and even whistling
But I failed . . . and the clown grew more and more
Intense in his defiance and his grief.
I tried again, telling stories of the heart and smiling
Gently, reaching out to touch this tortured soul
With fellowship and with humanity . . .
To no avail because I touched no more than surface
But I was denied the entry that I sought
To his substantial being, so I began to feel
Defeat, depression --- those things I had so long been struggling
To avoid, ignore, deny --- and then I peered at length
At Mr. Clown (the type of gaze that excavates the soul)
and I began to cry
For it was at that point that finally I realized
Right through my subterfuge,
That all the while I had been acting so intensely,
All the while that I had sought to reach my fellow man
So much in need of my assumed assistance,
I had been standing so aloft and condescendingly
Before the mirror in my lonely bedroom.
Grounded
Caterpillar slowly swept across the ground;
Through the grass, she barely made a sound.
She slid across the sloshy morning dew
And cursed the life which left her feeling blue.
"Why did my God make me to suffer so,
To move across the dirt and even snow?
To fear each grounded creature all the time?
To never know a moment too sublime?
And on she slogged and when she had a chance
She munched a fallen leaf and did a dance
In which her body did an ugly twist
Unless she felt the wetness of the mist.
She spent each day too low and stumbled so
Across the rocks and ridges, and she mumbled woe
About her life so sadly bound to earth
And cursed her fate from moment of her birth.
But then she found herself in a cocoon
At which time she just felt like a buffoon,
Yet when she finally from this broke free
She found she'd changed for everyone to see!
She saw so many others flutter by
And looked and saw she was a butterfly,
No longer bound to ground but now she found
She flew on high and soon peered all around.
She saw the freedom which she'd never known
As from each site to next she'd gladly flown.
No longer was she always sad and blue;
Now stronger, she was dressed in every hue
She'd formerly admired in the rest.
Her beauty now was ranked among the best!
She loved her life and floated with a view
That let her see the Earth seen by a few
So blessed that they could smile as they did sing,
These creatures granted freedom of the wing.
Remember this quite well, if you are wise:
The truth is oft beyond what meets your eyes.
The first glance all too soon can you deceive;
Consider deeply what you will believe!
Caterpillar slowly swept across the ground;
Through the grass, she barely made a sound.
She slid across the sloshy morning dew
And cursed the life which left her feeling blue.
"Why did my God make me to suffer so,
To move across the dirt and even snow?
To fear each grounded creature all the time?
To never know a moment too sublime?
And on she slogged and when she had a chance
She munched a fallen leaf and did a dance
In which her body did an ugly twist
Unless she felt the wetness of the mist.
She spent each day too low and stumbled so
Across the rocks and ridges, and she mumbled woe
About her life so sadly bound to earth
And cursed her fate from moment of her birth.
But then she found herself in a cocoon
At which time she just felt like a buffoon,
Yet when she finally from this broke free
She found she'd changed for everyone to see!
She saw so many others flutter by
And looked and saw she was a butterfly,
No longer bound to ground but now she found
She flew on high and soon peered all around.
She saw the freedom which she'd never known
As from each site to next she'd gladly flown.
No longer was she always sad and blue;
Now stronger, she was dressed in every hue
She'd formerly admired in the rest.
Her beauty now was ranked among the best!
She loved her life and floated with a view
That let her see the Earth seen by a few
So blessed that they could smile as they did sing,
These creatures granted freedom of the wing.
Remember this quite well, if you are wise:
The truth is oft beyond what meets your eyes.
The first glance all too soon can you deceive;
Consider deeply what you will believe!
The Earth Stood Still
The Earth stood still that day,
That ultra snowy morn waiting for me
As I trudged through eight blocks of glistening white powder
Up to my knees,
Untouched as yet by human intrusion other than my own
In the early morn
On my way to our sparkling junior high
No more than three years old itself.
I walked and kicked the six straight blocks
Of covered sidewalk and then
I made a sharp left toward the long rectangular brick
Kingdom waiting for the tired populace
With comfort and recognition.
But something was amiss
And something was so clearly missing
From the shallow halls:
Both students and especially the teachers
Had chosen en masse to stay home rather than face
The blizzard outside,
And so we who had arrived were herded
Into the auditorium to watch a movie and waste the day
(“The Day the Earth Stood Still” in its original incarnation).
However, it was not a waste at all;
It was the start of a fond memory of classmates,
A grand touch of relaxation,
A positive association and a fellowship
Of thrivers and survivors of the storm;
There were no T-shirts proclaiming us heroes
But there was something better:
Warmth to melt the snow of our hearts
And leave ingrained in us a day that would never fade.
We knew the shared experience and joy of our achievement.
And can education leave a more wondrous impression than that?
The Earth stood still that day,
That ultra snowy morn waiting for me
As I trudged through eight blocks of glistening white powder
Up to my knees,
Untouched as yet by human intrusion other than my own
In the early morn
On my way to our sparkling junior high
No more than three years old itself.
I walked and kicked the six straight blocks
Of covered sidewalk and then
I made a sharp left toward the long rectangular brick
Kingdom waiting for the tired populace
With comfort and recognition.
But something was amiss
And something was so clearly missing
From the shallow halls:
Both students and especially the teachers
Had chosen en masse to stay home rather than face
The blizzard outside,
And so we who had arrived were herded
Into the auditorium to watch a movie and waste the day
(“The Day the Earth Stood Still” in its original incarnation).
However, it was not a waste at all;
It was the start of a fond memory of classmates,
A grand touch of relaxation,
A positive association and a fellowship
Of thrivers and survivors of the storm;
There were no T-shirts proclaiming us heroes
But there was something better:
Warmth to melt the snow of our hearts
And leave ingrained in us a day that would never fade.
We knew the shared experience and joy of our achievement.
And can education leave a more wondrous impression than that?
The Feeling
Vincent knew the feeling
Of abandonment and disbelief
At his genius so completely overlooked.
He cried at the despair that others
Could not recognize
His vision or his skills,
This pioneer of new insights
And impressions lost
Amidst an old and stagnant world.
His play of colors, shapes
And raw, untamed emotions
Bursting forth upon the canvases,
Reflecting his deeply felt sensations
But in an echo chamber of his isolation,
The master went undetected, undiscovered
By those much too blind and dull
To see the genius in their midst ---
Until it just became too much
For any sensitive and feeling human being
To live with... and so he exploded from the world.
The gifts he left us live now in the eyes
And hearts of visitors but
The man Himself is gone,
Never near appreciated
By those he sought with all his soul
To reach with wild and unpredictable
Strokes of his brush --- of steeples, flowers and
The rest of his uncontrolled but lively atmosphere.
He gained and gave so much
But felt so little satisfaction of the recognition
Of his work. And for that
I weep in lonely brotherhood;
One need not be a genius to be scorned
By silent falling of one's work
Into a nether world of space or vacuum.
An artist whose well-crafted words
Which go unheard, unheeded,
Shares the grief of undiscovered genius.
Art needs an audience;
It cannot survive in emptiness,
Nor can the creator, broken so.
I understand the loneliness that Vincent felt among the fields that day.
I know the feeling much too well.
I feel it much too well.
Vincent knew the feeling
Of abandonment and disbelief
At his genius so completely overlooked.
He cried at the despair that others
Could not recognize
His vision or his skills,
This pioneer of new insights
And impressions lost
Amidst an old and stagnant world.
His play of colors, shapes
And raw, untamed emotions
Bursting forth upon the canvases,
Reflecting his deeply felt sensations
But in an echo chamber of his isolation,
The master went undetected, undiscovered
By those much too blind and dull
To see the genius in their midst ---
Until it just became too much
For any sensitive and feeling human being
To live with... and so he exploded from the world.
The gifts he left us live now in the eyes
And hearts of visitors but
The man Himself is gone,
Never near appreciated
By those he sought with all his soul
To reach with wild and unpredictable
Strokes of his brush --- of steeples, flowers and
The rest of his uncontrolled but lively atmosphere.
He gained and gave so much
But felt so little satisfaction of the recognition
Of his work. And for that
I weep in lonely brotherhood;
One need not be a genius to be scorned
By silent falling of one's work
Into a nether world of space or vacuum.
An artist whose well-crafted words
Which go unheard, unheeded,
Shares the grief of undiscovered genius.
Art needs an audience;
It cannot survive in emptiness,
Nor can the creator, broken so.
I understand the loneliness that Vincent felt among the fields that day.
I know the feeling much too well.
I feel it much too well.
OPTIMISM
I am an optimistic guy
And I never wonder why
Black clouds darken our sky . . .
When everything goes wrong ---
I sing my song.
I always have a friendly smile
And I keep it all the while
Stupid people try to rile
Me; ‘Cause I just get along ---
I have my song.
I’ve seen that I cannot be burned
And that insults I have not earned
Can never get me down; I’ve learned
I’m always way too strong ---
I have my song.
There always will be those who hate
But I’ll be damned if I’ll take bait;
Instead, I will initiate
My joy, since I’m headstrong ---
I have my song.
My song will get me through;
My song will make me new ---
The hate is getting old.
My song just makes me bold.
I’ll sing my song with you!
I am an optimistic guy
And I never wonder why
Black clouds darken our sky . . .
When everything goes wrong ---
I sing my song.
I always have a friendly smile
And I keep it all the while
Stupid people try to rile
Me; ‘Cause I just get along ---
I have my song.
I’ve seen that I cannot be burned
And that insults I have not earned
Can never get me down; I’ve learned
I’m always way too strong ---
I have my song.
There always will be those who hate
But I’ll be damned if I’ll take bait;
Instead, I will initiate
My joy, since I’m headstrong ---
I have my song.
My song will get me through;
My song will make me new ---
The hate is getting old.
My song just makes me bold.
I’ll sing my song with you!
|
Steppingstone
A place that waits with open arms --- It offers comfort, solace, hope, Whatever you need... A walk on a grassy knoll Or prairie-plane across the length; A picnic freshly made And relished at a wooden table As you balance on a bench; A seascape showing off the Sound: Buildings, bridge and homes in Panoramic view; A live Academy to the left; A mix of sailboats and motorboats, Some moving, mostly moored To or near a long wooden pier, Enticing folks with benches to be used As they relax and dwell within the view, And leading to this pier a fountain and Rainbowed tufts of flowers soaking in The summer sun While children shriek and giggle From within their tranquil clean blue pool Or from the swings and slide and Plastic ship built more for climbing Than for sailing, A ship that never will see the sea But that will carry children to journeys Created by their own mind-views. This is heaven on a summer day, Tempting with its cool sea breeze, Asking to be loved beneath the sun And welcomed, a haven for so many Looking for escape and finding treasure Within its welcoming arms. Feel the embrace and know That you are loved. |
|
Am I Quiet Today?
Am I quiet today?
Yes, but not indelibly so
Or with great passion
But with a reverence reserved
For holy days --- and which day
Should be thought of as more worth
My true religion than the day the first
Real vaccination was accepted and did
Mark the start of our rescue from the plague
Which was not sent by any God?
Yes, I am without speech but with worship
To the great god Science (despite the heathens
Making golden asses of themselves
Upon the altar of the Church of Power).
Let us now not bow our heads but hold them high
For we have made it to the promised land of faith
But just as Moses could not enter,
The faithless will be left bereft of a place in the brand new normal
And so my wordlessness is but my awe
At the approach of this dark journey's end
And my grateful recognition that, in the years to come,
I will be judged as never having strayed
From the shore of the right side of history.
Am I quiet today?
Yes, but not indelibly so
Or with great passion
But with a reverence reserved
For holy days --- and which day
Should be thought of as more worth
My true religion than the day the first
Real vaccination was accepted and did
Mark the start of our rescue from the plague
Which was not sent by any God?
Yes, I am without speech but with worship
To the great god Science (despite the heathens
Making golden asses of themselves
Upon the altar of the Church of Power).
Let us now not bow our heads but hold them high
For we have made it to the promised land of faith
But just as Moses could not enter,
The faithless will be left bereft of a place in the brand new normal
And so my wordlessness is but my awe
At the approach of this dark journey's end
And my grateful recognition that, in the years to come,
I will be judged as never having strayed
From the shore of the right side of history.
In Heaven
If I were to meet my mom in heaven
I'd have to be properly introduced
And she would ask me pointedly,
"Who are you, grizzled ancient man?"
I'd fumble for my words and look straight down
Rather than display the confidence I had
As the child I was before she passed,
After which I'd grieve for years so quickly passed.
How could I explain that she’d just ceased
While I moved on? I'd lack the words.
Perhaps the heaven that exists
(I have my doubt but find more comfort
In the possibility as my years glide)
Does not accept our laws of physics
Or our sense of time and place
But rather is an endless home
Where all feel free to share their love,
Where time has no true meaning,
Where people recognize their loved ones
Through a mystic sense that maybe tingles
In a welcomed frequency to help us
Recognize and deeply understand
When family has entered the true
Kingdom of loved eternal memories.
If that or something similar presides
Then I will enter recognized
And once again will feel the warm embrace
That has eluded me these many years
Of my Earth-bound existence.
And when at last we'd speak,
What would I say? "I am your son
Who loved you and depended on
Your care when you were there,
Who went to bed one night and woke in the morn
To find that I was motherless
But didn't understand the word.
Was I to blame in any way?"
And here, I gather, she would comfort me
As any mother would who sensed the pain
Long residing within her ancient child.
And there I would find solace, even at my age,
In this place where age has no meaning
And our wavelength of humanity
Would work as two-way comprehension,
Touching each of us and tying us together,
At which point my mother would no longer
See me as some stranger needing introduction
But would rather build connections
For me to my father and my sisters,
Waiting patiently for me for all those years,
But only for a moment where they dwell.
And I would finally be home.
If I were to meet my mom in heaven
I'd have to be properly introduced
And she would ask me pointedly,
"Who are you, grizzled ancient man?"
I'd fumble for my words and look straight down
Rather than display the confidence I had
As the child I was before she passed,
After which I'd grieve for years so quickly passed.
How could I explain that she’d just ceased
While I moved on? I'd lack the words.
Perhaps the heaven that exists
(I have my doubt but find more comfort
In the possibility as my years glide)
Does not accept our laws of physics
Or our sense of time and place
But rather is an endless home
Where all feel free to share their love,
Where time has no true meaning,
Where people recognize their loved ones
Through a mystic sense that maybe tingles
In a welcomed frequency to help us
Recognize and deeply understand
When family has entered the true
Kingdom of loved eternal memories.
If that or something similar presides
Then I will enter recognized
And once again will feel the warm embrace
That has eluded me these many years
Of my Earth-bound existence.
And when at last we'd speak,
What would I say? "I am your son
Who loved you and depended on
Your care when you were there,
Who went to bed one night and woke in the morn
To find that I was motherless
But didn't understand the word.
Was I to blame in any way?"
And here, I gather, she would comfort me
As any mother would who sensed the pain
Long residing within her ancient child.
And there I would find solace, even at my age,
In this place where age has no meaning
And our wavelength of humanity
Would work as two-way comprehension,
Touching each of us and tying us together,
At which point my mother would no longer
See me as some stranger needing introduction
But would rather build connections
For me to my father and my sisters,
Waiting patiently for me for all those years,
But only for a moment where they dwell.
And I would finally be home.
|
Mysteries
The universe is replete with mystery and paradox: We gaze upon the ebony of night and view the past, The stars so stubborn in their “lives” That they call out to us for recognition to the degree That centuries of light arrive at our perception And what we see is what has taken so much time To travel to our eyes, and yet the beauty and the essence Of that unique time travel may be shared by all, No matter where or when we live. Then there’s the universe in entity: When did it begin? When did it start Or was it always there? Those are the options we are faced with, yet Neither is conceivable or justifiable to us. And then there is the question: Where does it end? Where are the final limits of the mass that we call space? Or does it just expand without a boundary to restrain itself? How am I, a mortal, a non-scientist, an amateur philosopher, To fathom the alternatives and to decide That which geniuses claim defies explanation? Next to consider is that which I can observe each day . . . And that is life itself? How did it begin on Earth (And how can we be singular of all the planets To support so many living creatures, Animal and plant, Or can there be a gaseous life as yet uncovered)? Was it accidental that the first random gathering of molecules Began to form and to develop into cells that started Life? Was there a radiation storm or earthquake or explosion Stimulating cells to come to being all at once? And when the creatures of the Earth went through Their periodic phases of extinction, why did some of Life --- often so much weaker than those lost --- survive And thrive and set the stage for species better able to go on And carry on the heartbeat of our world? Then there is God . . . He or She (or They) must be accepted By our strictest faith for there’s no proof To satisfy the skeptics or deniers, And in such times as frequently occur (Wars, deaths, plagues, natural destruction) There is no comfort in the explanation: “He has a plan” So does this God exist? And if there is Eternal Entity, Do we then face eternity in Heaven or in Hell? Perhaps we will do better by reducing our search to simple thoughts: Escalators bring us up or down, yet To escalate is to increase or rise; Elevators carry us in either vertical direction, yet To elevate is to bring us to a higher plane . . . . Which causes me to ascertain that our universe Is not perverse at all, but rather Optimistic in potential and in hope for Understanding that the nature of us humans Is to reach beyond our grasp, beyond the stars, To that grand place where we must find ourselves: The future realm which waits for us and for the glory Which we call our Fate. |
|
I Miss Them
I miss those days of light and purity,
The time when I still loved and understood
The superheroes of my youth ---
In comics, movies, TV shows ---
Those men and women with their special powers
Used to save the nation and the world repeatedly.
I have no problem when I summon images
Of all those youthful heroes:
Superboy and Superman, Captain Marvel, Wonder Woman,
Aquaman, Batman and Batwoman, Elasticman,
Bright and hopeful and focused on protecting all of us...
Before the darkness and the anger came,
Before some warped creator's vision
Colored their cruel world with dull hues
Bringing on an angry rainbow and
Ending the escape that was the realm
Of heroes I first knew and loved.
And now as I approach my final years
Living in a world of death and doom
From wars and viruses and hatred
I need my heroes more than ever
But they do not seek me out as they once did
And I do miss them and their world so much.
The time when I still loved and understood
The superheroes of my youth ---
In comics, movies, TV shows ---
Those men and women with their special powers
Used to save the nation and the world repeatedly.
I have no problem when I summon images
Of all those youthful heroes:
Superboy and Superman, Captain Marvel, Wonder Woman,
Aquaman, Batman and Batwoman, Elasticman,
Bright and hopeful and focused on protecting all of us...
Before the darkness and the anger came,
Before some warped creator's vision
Colored their cruel world with dull hues
Bringing on an angry rainbow and
Ending the escape that was the realm
Of heroes I first knew and loved.
And now as I approach my final years
Living in a world of death and doom
From wars and viruses and hatred
I need my heroes more than ever
But they do not seek me out as they once did
And I do miss them and their world so much.
A Single Kiss
We had an evening filled with charm and dreams,
A night that matched my eager mood for a connection
To the world of loving feelings and of warmth.
We sat there in the darkened theater, touching hands,
And later shared a dinner in a routine restaurant
But I knew well this was no ordinary time.
I knew as I gazed deeply through your eyes into your spirit
That we were destined for a mutual eternity.
I came; I saw; you conquered ---
And when we kissed --- a quiet, gentle kiss ---
I felt our lives begin to intertwine and bond.
A single kiss, that’s all that was required for us to turn to one,
A single lingering kiss that touchingly announced to all the world
That we would share a love that all our predecessors would feel envy of.
A single kiss that heralded for all who cared for us a lasting love!
We stood together and consumed the tenderness that others seek,
Engulfed in endless love that we could then lay claim to
Even in the face of times of trial and despair.
We were united that November evening in a way that would give way
To nothing, in the end, but happiness and blessed joy
Lasting half a century in human time but to infinity in love’s sweet measurement.
A single kiss was how we sealed a bargain and a covenant
To cherish and to comfort in the eyes of God and in the thoughts of humankind.
For fifty years that kiss has been the true foundation of my life and yours,
And for as many more as wait, we shall share our fate in bliss,
All because of one sweet tender kiss.
We had an evening filled with charm and dreams,
A night that matched my eager mood for a connection
To the world of loving feelings and of warmth.
We sat there in the darkened theater, touching hands,
And later shared a dinner in a routine restaurant
But I knew well this was no ordinary time.
I knew as I gazed deeply through your eyes into your spirit
That we were destined for a mutual eternity.
I came; I saw; you conquered ---
And when we kissed --- a quiet, gentle kiss ---
I felt our lives begin to intertwine and bond.
A single kiss, that’s all that was required for us to turn to one,
A single lingering kiss that touchingly announced to all the world
That we would share a love that all our predecessors would feel envy of.
A single kiss that heralded for all who cared for us a lasting love!
We stood together and consumed the tenderness that others seek,
Engulfed in endless love that we could then lay claim to
Even in the face of times of trial and despair.
We were united that November evening in a way that would give way
To nothing, in the end, but happiness and blessed joy
Lasting half a century in human time but to infinity in love’s sweet measurement.
A single kiss was how we sealed a bargain and a covenant
To cherish and to comfort in the eyes of God and in the thoughts of humankind.
For fifty years that kiss has been the true foundation of my life and yours,
And for as many more as wait, we shall share our fate in bliss,
All because of one sweet tender kiss.
Fly to the Sky
How odd and totally absurd
That I should mourn a missing bird
But that’s the way I feel today
For Tiny Tm has flown away.
He was a complete parakeet,
So lively and so gently sweet;
He’d fly to me and play a game,
But now he’s gone and I’m to blame.
I failed to latch the screen door shut:
A gust of wind, the door did jut
Quite open and my Tiny flew
Right through the space where the wind blew,
And now he’s gone, up in a tree,
Forever free, ignoring me.
I thought we were a happy team;
I believed we lived a dream
Where man and bird built a strong bond
Based on mutual feelings fond,
But Tiny Tim, green as he was,
Did what a real bird always does:
He sought his fate among the leaves
And now his human friend just grieves.
You cannot keep from freedom long
A bird that feels the hurtful wrong
Of friendly stark imprisonment.
And now my bird my heart has rent
And yet I feel a swelling joy:
He was much more than living toy.
I look for him with a keen eye:
Now let him fly across the sky,
And while he soars he’ll spread his wings,
For of his freedom he now sings!
How odd and totally absurd
That I should mourn a missing bird
But that’s the way I feel today
For Tiny Tm has flown away.
He was a complete parakeet,
So lively and so gently sweet;
He’d fly to me and play a game,
But now he’s gone and I’m to blame.
I failed to latch the screen door shut:
A gust of wind, the door did jut
Quite open and my Tiny flew
Right through the space where the wind blew,
And now he’s gone, up in a tree,
Forever free, ignoring me.
I thought we were a happy team;
I believed we lived a dream
Where man and bird built a strong bond
Based on mutual feelings fond,
But Tiny Tim, green as he was,
Did what a real bird always does:
He sought his fate among the leaves
And now his human friend just grieves.
You cannot keep from freedom long
A bird that feels the hurtful wrong
Of friendly stark imprisonment.
And now my bird my heart has rent
And yet I feel a swelling joy:
He was much more than living toy.
I look for him with a keen eye:
Now let him fly across the sky,
And while he soars he’ll spread his wings,
For of his freedom he now sings!
EVERY SUNDAY
Every Sunday, as predictably
As a sunset, he would force
His weary every workaday body
From the store he closed to the
Deli waiting for his predictable visit,
Walking the opposite way from where we lived,
So that he could procure for me, his teenage son,
Meats for seven lunches all to feed my growing soul.
This comfort food (before the term existed)
Helped me to enjoy each Sunday double-header
(Ask your grandpa what that was)
And aided me each weekday to survive
Throughout my high school days...
A juicy lump of meat surrounded by a roll so fresh
It might as well have been sitting on a shelf
Of some early morning bakery.
He had to be my father and my alma mater cum laude
In the absence of my dead mom ---
And he was, but did I ever thank him
Or did I, like too many teens,
Take him and this act of love for granted?
I honestly don't know,
But as I now approach the time in which
We will renew our bond in person,
I do hereby state my deep appreciation
And recognition of the fact that every Sunday side trip made
Before he trekked two plus miles to our home, block after block,
His motive and his fuel were love.
Each time I took a mundane chomp
(I now acknowledge in my elderly epiphany),
He fed my heart and touched my spirit
And this gift nourished me in ways I cannot count
But ways that helped me shape the man I am today.
Simple routine acts of love
Often go unnoticed at the time
But with time their value shines.
Every Sunday, as predictably
As a sunset, he would force
His weary every workaday body
From the store he closed to the
Deli waiting for his predictable visit,
Walking the opposite way from where we lived,
So that he could procure for me, his teenage son,
Meats for seven lunches all to feed my growing soul.
This comfort food (before the term existed)
Helped me to enjoy each Sunday double-header
(Ask your grandpa what that was)
And aided me each weekday to survive
Throughout my high school days...
A juicy lump of meat surrounded by a roll so fresh
It might as well have been sitting on a shelf
Of some early morning bakery.
He had to be my father and my alma mater cum laude
In the absence of my dead mom ---
And he was, but did I ever thank him
Or did I, like too many teens,
Take him and this act of love for granted?
I honestly don't know,
But as I now approach the time in which
We will renew our bond in person,
I do hereby state my deep appreciation
And recognition of the fact that every Sunday side trip made
Before he trekked two plus miles to our home, block after block,
His motive and his fuel were love.
Each time I took a mundane chomp
(I now acknowledge in my elderly epiphany),
He fed my heart and touched my spirit
And this gift nourished me in ways I cannot count
But ways that helped me shape the man I am today.
Simple routine acts of love
Often go unnoticed at the time
But with time their value shines.
Willow
What causes the willow tree to cry?
Is it because it cannot fly?
It cannot touch the open skies
Or feel the clouds beneath its eyes.
It will not ever feel the glow
Of midnight sun which birds do know.
No, it is rooted to the ground
And where it grows is where it's found.
Its branches bend with droopy leaves
That hint at one who sadly grieves,
And cannot reach and comfort those
Whose downcast eyes are in the throes
Of mourning and of painful sighs,
Nor can its being ever rise
To move along with those in pain.
Instead, it bares the chill and rain.
But every fate can go two ways
And when the wind its branches sways
The weeping willow shows its grace
And offers solace in its place.
It stands and reaches down to Earth
And that is when it knows its worth,
For in its stable fabled length
We people understand its strength,
For while the hurricane will bend
This tree majestic will defend
Itself with dignity and pride
And will deflect the wind aside.
The weeping willow winds may shake,
And it will bend but never break!
So, no, this tree will never fly
But for its will we deify
This underestimated tower;
Within its soul resides such power
That teaches us to seek inside
To find the sources of our pride.
It's up to us to realize
That our appearance can surprise,
And often we are so much more
For those who bother to explore.
What causes the willow tree to cry?
Is it because it cannot fly?
It cannot touch the open skies
Or feel the clouds beneath its eyes.
It will not ever feel the glow
Of midnight sun which birds do know.
No, it is rooted to the ground
And where it grows is where it's found.
Its branches bend with droopy leaves
That hint at one who sadly grieves,
And cannot reach and comfort those
Whose downcast eyes are in the throes
Of mourning and of painful sighs,
Nor can its being ever rise
To move along with those in pain.
Instead, it bares the chill and rain.
But every fate can go two ways
And when the wind its branches sways
The weeping willow shows its grace
And offers solace in its place.
It stands and reaches down to Earth
And that is when it knows its worth,
For in its stable fabled length
We people understand its strength,
For while the hurricane will bend
This tree majestic will defend
Itself with dignity and pride
And will deflect the wind aside.
The weeping willow winds may shake,
And it will bend but never break!
So, no, this tree will never fly
But for its will we deify
This underestimated tower;
Within its soul resides such power
That teaches us to seek inside
To find the sources of our pride.
It's up to us to realize
That our appearance can surprise,
And often we are so much more
For those who bother to explore.
English is Weird
English is a strange language!
The same letters can spell different words:
opts, pots, stops, spots;
team, tame, meat, mate;
vile, veil, live evil;
time, mite, emit, item ---
Even if there are six letters: subtle, bustle, sublet.
Some words can be read either way:
dad, radar, racecar, kayak, civic, madam, sexes, refer.
Some sentences and phrases have the same feature:
A man, a plan, a canal – Panama!
Can you use a canoe in an ocean sice they share the same letters?
Can one woo, boo, moo, and coo, too?
English has many words for similar letter groups:
though, through, thought, ought, throughout, thorough.
The same word has different meanings:
A mouse can be a rodent or a computer device.
A star can be a heavenly body or a famous person . . .
And even a heavenly body can refer to two disparate things!
Let's not get into the strange paradoxes:
You park in a driveway and drive on a parkway
(And prepositions are totally out of hand: on Long Island but in New York);
Now, please explain where chicken fingers are located and why,
If buffalo have wings that we can eat, can't they fly?
(And can you flee and fly at the same time?)
Then there's slang: Who's my bro (or is it Whose?); "ain't" ain't a word, is it?
Can one be cuckoo and sloshed at the same time?
Is that a rhetorical question or an actual one?
Isn't it fascinating that the letters in "dormitory" spell "dirty room" and
the letters in "the eyes" spell "they see" and "a decimal point" gives "I'm a dot in place"?
And how do you explain that "teacher" and "cheater" (mortal enemies) share the same letters?
Why do many plurals end in the letter s while we have children
and we have foxes as well as oxen and radii and alumni?
Let us not forget the feature of English that lets you use just the beginning of a word
to represent a whole word: limo, phenom, bra, demo, info, repo.
The language is replete with synonyms galore. Want to call someone nice to look at:
Pretty, attractive, beautiful, gorgeous, handsome, pulchritudinous, etc.
Then there are the onomatopoetic words, such as Boom! Whew! Gee! Gosh! Wow!
We have more than our share of homonyms:
bear and bare, fair and fare, hair and hare; flue and flew --- just to name a few.
We have words named after people or places:
chauvinist, bedlam, saxophone, bloomers, nicotine, dunce cap, diesel, braille,
badminton, champagne, jersey, marathon, frankfurter and hamburger.
Let us consider silent letters in write, knife, comb, listen, school and mortgage.
Did you know that the same word with the same meaning can be pronounced
Different ways depending on which nation you are in:
"Schedule" sounds like "skedule" in America and "shedule" in England.
(It's true of some words even in the U.S., words such as "ambulance.)
Double letters can be necessary or not, even in one word: bookkeeper!
Idioms are the bane of a foreign student's study: Why should I go fly a kite
when I'd rather bother you? He stabbed me in the back but I'm not hurt.
Metaphors are a challenge: I am not a Benedict Arnold; my name is Herb . . .
and I'm no angel, but neither am I a devil. It is true, however, that I
have salt and pepper hair and consider myself a ray of sunshine.
Then there are the mistakes: If you talk behind my back, you are speaking
Directly to my face (Think about it), which is not the intent.
Let us consider plurals --- kind of unpredictable:
A preacher preached but a teacher taught. How nice.
The language is replete with oft-repeated errors:
could of, use to, irregardless, et al
and confused uses of homophones.
Adages and proverbs fill the language with strange concoctions:
How does a stitch in time save nine ... and nine what?
If actions speak louder than words, why can't I hear actions?
(And shouldn't it be "speak more loudly" anyway?)
Then there are the puzzles: Is it everyday or every day?
Difficult words can be short (adz) or they can be long
(pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis).
The same word can be pronounced two different ways and
Have two different meanings:
Contract is a noun, a legal agreement, or a verb, to get a disease;
You can either have an address or make an address to people;
If you appropriate something, you take control of it: Is that appropriate?
You can go fast on an express or express your feelings.
Then there are words with the same meaning but different pronunciations:
aunt, coupon, data, either – neither, and pecan can drive you nuts!
We use words and phrases from other languages - some of them dead:
caveat, ad nauseum, magna cum laude, bon voyage, fait accompli.
In this modern time, we have engaged words and abbreviations from technology:
Byte, CPU, www, monitor, hard drive --- and have lost a few, such as floppy disk.
And texting has given us odd letter combos: OMG, BRB, BFF, OMG, WTF!
The Urban Dictionary will tell you about being big mad and vaccine informed
and having diamond hands and what a dreamcreep is.
Then there are the spelling rules:
“i before e except after c, or when sounding like ᾱ as in neighbor or weigh” –
That’s our best and most accurate rule . . .
But what about these exceptions:
“Neither a weird financier nor a foreign heir seizes leisure at its height”?
And there are so many words quite (not quiet) difficult to spell:
unnecessary, recommendation, liaison, maneuver, daiquiri, accidentally ---
As well as words that Shakespeare uses in his plays and sonnets:
Forsooth, alack, arras, bethink, prithee, trow, vouchsafe, swain, perchance.
English is weird - - - and let’s not even get into the proper order for adjectives!
(And, by apropos of nothing, "extant" is the opposite of "extinct" strangely,
And it's incorrect to start a sentence with a coordinating conjunction,
But who cares any more?)
English is a truly international language, in two ways:
It is spoken in many nations as a first language (Thank you British Empire!)
and in others as a preferred second language; it contains words from many
Other languages, living and dead, including Latin, Greek, Italian, German, French,
Hindi, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Hebrew, Arabic, Spanish and so many others.
I congratulate those of us who learn this language from birth,
And I am in awe of those who learn it as a new language
For they are masters of illogic (yes, that word does exist)
And I bow (a sign of respect, not a weapon) to them.
English is a strange language!
The same letters can spell different words:
opts, pots, stops, spots;
team, tame, meat, mate;
vile, veil, live evil;
time, mite, emit, item ---
Even if there are six letters: subtle, bustle, sublet.
Some words can be read either way:
dad, radar, racecar, kayak, civic, madam, sexes, refer.
Some sentences and phrases have the same feature:
A man, a plan, a canal – Panama!
Can you use a canoe in an ocean sice they share the same letters?
Can one woo, boo, moo, and coo, too?
English has many words for similar letter groups:
though, through, thought, ought, throughout, thorough.
The same word has different meanings:
A mouse can be a rodent or a computer device.
A star can be a heavenly body or a famous person . . .
And even a heavenly body can refer to two disparate things!
Let's not get into the strange paradoxes:
You park in a driveway and drive on a parkway
(And prepositions are totally out of hand: on Long Island but in New York);
Now, please explain where chicken fingers are located and why,
If buffalo have wings that we can eat, can't they fly?
(And can you flee and fly at the same time?)
Then there's slang: Who's my bro (or is it Whose?); "ain't" ain't a word, is it?
Can one be cuckoo and sloshed at the same time?
Is that a rhetorical question or an actual one?
Isn't it fascinating that the letters in "dormitory" spell "dirty room" and
the letters in "the eyes" spell "they see" and "a decimal point" gives "I'm a dot in place"?
And how do you explain that "teacher" and "cheater" (mortal enemies) share the same letters?
Why do many plurals end in the letter s while we have children
and we have foxes as well as oxen and radii and alumni?
Let us not forget the feature of English that lets you use just the beginning of a word
to represent a whole word: limo, phenom, bra, demo, info, repo.
The language is replete with synonyms galore. Want to call someone nice to look at:
Pretty, attractive, beautiful, gorgeous, handsome, pulchritudinous, etc.
Then there are the onomatopoetic words, such as Boom! Whew! Gee! Gosh! Wow!
We have more than our share of homonyms:
bear and bare, fair and fare, hair and hare; flue and flew --- just to name a few.
We have words named after people or places:
chauvinist, bedlam, saxophone, bloomers, nicotine, dunce cap, diesel, braille,
badminton, champagne, jersey, marathon, frankfurter and hamburger.
Let us consider silent letters in write, knife, comb, listen, school and mortgage.
Did you know that the same word with the same meaning can be pronounced
Different ways depending on which nation you are in:
"Schedule" sounds like "skedule" in America and "shedule" in England.
(It's true of some words even in the U.S., words such as "ambulance.)
Double letters can be necessary or not, even in one word: bookkeeper!
Idioms are the bane of a foreign student's study: Why should I go fly a kite
when I'd rather bother you? He stabbed me in the back but I'm not hurt.
Metaphors are a challenge: I am not a Benedict Arnold; my name is Herb . . .
and I'm no angel, but neither am I a devil. It is true, however, that I
have salt and pepper hair and consider myself a ray of sunshine.
Then there are the mistakes: If you talk behind my back, you are speaking
Directly to my face (Think about it), which is not the intent.
Let us consider plurals --- kind of unpredictable:
A preacher preached but a teacher taught. How nice.
The language is replete with oft-repeated errors:
could of, use to, irregardless, et al
and confused uses of homophones.
Adages and proverbs fill the language with strange concoctions:
How does a stitch in time save nine ... and nine what?
If actions speak louder than words, why can't I hear actions?
(And shouldn't it be "speak more loudly" anyway?)
Then there are the puzzles: Is it everyday or every day?
Difficult words can be short (adz) or they can be long
(pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis).
The same word can be pronounced two different ways and
Have two different meanings:
Contract is a noun, a legal agreement, or a verb, to get a disease;
You can either have an address or make an address to people;
If you appropriate something, you take control of it: Is that appropriate?
You can go fast on an express or express your feelings.
Then there are words with the same meaning but different pronunciations:
aunt, coupon, data, either – neither, and pecan can drive you nuts!
We use words and phrases from other languages - some of them dead:
caveat, ad nauseum, magna cum laude, bon voyage, fait accompli.
In this modern time, we have engaged words and abbreviations from technology:
Byte, CPU, www, monitor, hard drive --- and have lost a few, such as floppy disk.
And texting has given us odd letter combos: OMG, BRB, BFF, OMG, WTF!
The Urban Dictionary will tell you about being big mad and vaccine informed
and having diamond hands and what a dreamcreep is.
Then there are the spelling rules:
“i before e except after c, or when sounding like ᾱ as in neighbor or weigh” –
That’s our best and most accurate rule . . .
But what about these exceptions:
“Neither a weird financier nor a foreign heir seizes leisure at its height”?
And there are so many words quite (not quiet) difficult to spell:
unnecessary, recommendation, liaison, maneuver, daiquiri, accidentally ---
As well as words that Shakespeare uses in his plays and sonnets:
Forsooth, alack, arras, bethink, prithee, trow, vouchsafe, swain, perchance.
English is weird - - - and let’s not even get into the proper order for adjectives!
(And, by apropos of nothing, "extant" is the opposite of "extinct" strangely,
And it's incorrect to start a sentence with a coordinating conjunction,
But who cares any more?)
English is a truly international language, in two ways:
It is spoken in many nations as a first language (Thank you British Empire!)
and in others as a preferred second language; it contains words from many
Other languages, living and dead, including Latin, Greek, Italian, German, French,
Hindi, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Hebrew, Arabic, Spanish and so many others.
I congratulate those of us who learn this language from birth,
And I am in awe of those who learn it as a new language
For they are masters of illogic (yes, that word does exist)
And I bow (a sign of respect, not a weapon) to them.
I Learned
I learned to read I learned to write
But never learned how to be bright
I learned to get the best of grades
But could not discern between the shades
Of meaning or see motivations
I was too busy with notations
About the conflict and the plot
I really did not learn a lot
About my life and how to live
Or empathize or to forgive
I read the books and memorized
But never learned to look past eyes
To get the meaning of a look
That lesson wasn't in the book
I went to school and got degrees
And felt so proud for I could please
The people giving me a job
Making me part of the big mob
Who think they know and graduate
But to find out much too late
That they and I have much to learn
About what makes a human burn
About what causes one to cry
To vilify and to defy
Those aspects of a human life
That bashes people with such strife
That only living educates
Us to the shaping of our fates.
I learned to write I learned to read
But all the while life planted seeds
That made me grow right through the reeds
Of superficial lessons learned
Of specious reasons I then spurned
I came to one day realize
The greatest lessons that I'd prize
Were present right before my eyes
I learned to read I learned to write
But never learned how to be bright
I learned to get the best of grades
But could not discern between the shades
Of meaning or see motivations
I was too busy with notations
About the conflict and the plot
I really did not learn a lot
About my life and how to live
Or empathize or to forgive
I read the books and memorized
But never learned to look past eyes
To get the meaning of a look
That lesson wasn't in the book
I went to school and got degrees
And felt so proud for I could please
The people giving me a job
Making me part of the big mob
Who think they know and graduate
But to find out much too late
That they and I have much to learn
About what makes a human burn
About what causes one to cry
To vilify and to defy
Those aspects of a human life
That bashes people with such strife
That only living educates
Us to the shaping of our fates.
I learned to write I learned to read
But all the while life planted seeds
That made me grow right through the reeds
Of superficial lessons learned
Of specious reasons I then spurned
I came to one day realize
The greatest lessons that I'd prize
Were present right before my eyes
The Journey to Hell
He carries a suitcase filled with holes
And unpaid bills and broken lives
To the land of dreaded souls,
A realm that shrinks when he arrives.
He built his road to Hell from birth
And paved it with his greed and hate
And as he cursed his life on Earth
He caused much grief and sealed his fate.
He thought himself to be divine,
Too distant from the ones he led
But in the end he had no spine
And now he's gone as is the dread
He did unleash among the throngs
Who worshiped at his altar red
A building made of human wrongs
That couldn't cease till he was dead.
Now he comes home to air ablaze
And bends to Satan's awe-filled reign.
He shies from Fallen Angel's gaze
But knows that he will go insane.
At last, he's found his worthy place
And will forever burn in Hell,
A fitting home for his disgrace,
A property he'll know quite well.
He carries a suitcase filled with holes
And unpaid bills and broken lives
To the land of dreaded souls,
A realm that shrinks when he arrives.
He built his road to Hell from birth
And paved it with his greed and hate
And as he cursed his life on Earth
He caused much grief and sealed his fate.
He thought himself to be divine,
Too distant from the ones he led
But in the end he had no spine
And now he's gone as is the dread
He did unleash among the throngs
Who worshiped at his altar red
A building made of human wrongs
That couldn't cease till he was dead.
Now he comes home to air ablaze
And bends to Satan's awe-filled reign.
He shies from Fallen Angel's gaze
But knows that he will go insane.
At last, he's found his worthy place
And will forever burn in Hell,
A fitting home for his disgrace,
A property he'll know quite well.
M A D N E S S
Sensory misperceptions whirling in the mind,
Fighting for the valuable real estate that rules actions and words
And thoughts, all swimming and visualizing masterpieces of
Colors and of shapes and dimensions,
Cascading showers and shades of red and green,
Sparkling crystals and sharp triangles intertwined with
Intimidating vibrating cones and spheres
All colliding and hiding in a dance-frenzy trying
To explode from the skull into the light,
Seeking freedom from gray matter dominion,
Seeking some release from pressures built from within
Day after day after month of solitary confinement . . .
Looking for an audience of one who does not care,
Slowly dying in the midst of life, striving to achieve
A semblance of existence that makes sense in a world
Of nonsense, phoniness and hatred,
In a world consumed by greed and power and pure lust
Which obfuscates the purposes of Life Itself ---
Amidst the quietly suppressed shriek of anger and annoyance
And desperation that knows no end but seeks escape,
Cycloning widely and wildly in all directions, surrounded
By walls that make concrete seem like so much cotton,
Not candy cotton but the kind that can be woven into straight-jacket
Sweaters stringently embracing lack of will, tightening until
There is no breath but gasps there is no sight but haze
There is no means of escape but the meanness of escape
From life to welcome Death and quiet and tranquility:
Welcome to my world.
Sensory misperceptions whirling in the mind,
Fighting for the valuable real estate that rules actions and words
And thoughts, all swimming and visualizing masterpieces of
Colors and of shapes and dimensions,
Cascading showers and shades of red and green,
Sparkling crystals and sharp triangles intertwined with
Intimidating vibrating cones and spheres
All colliding and hiding in a dance-frenzy trying
To explode from the skull into the light,
Seeking freedom from gray matter dominion,
Seeking some release from pressures built from within
Day after day after month of solitary confinement . . .
Looking for an audience of one who does not care,
Slowly dying in the midst of life, striving to achieve
A semblance of existence that makes sense in a world
Of nonsense, phoniness and hatred,
In a world consumed by greed and power and pure lust
Which obfuscates the purposes of Life Itself ---
Amidst the quietly suppressed shriek of anger and annoyance
And desperation that knows no end but seeks escape,
Cycloning widely and wildly in all directions, surrounded
By walls that make concrete seem like so much cotton,
Not candy cotton but the kind that can be woven into straight-jacket
Sweaters stringently embracing lack of will, tightening until
There is no breath but gasps there is no sight but haze
There is no means of escape but the meanness of escape
From life to welcome Death and quiet and tranquility:
Welcome to my world.
I Have No Boundaries but My Own
I have no boundaries but my own
Despite the laws and rules of state;
I must obey my guides alone
And absolutely trust my fate
To some great Power leading me
Through social strictures and constraints
To my true perfect destiny,
Which I accept without complaints.
I am a man of faith and trust
And reside in security
Where deep romance replaces lust
And brings me perfect harmony.
I do not wear some secret shroud
To cover my too mixed emotion;
I rather wear an Earth-bound cloud
Consisting of all my devotion.
I have no boundaries but the one
I’ve built around my life’s sojourn
And when I reach the setting sun
I’ll know all that there is to learn.
I have no boundaries but my own
Despite the laws and rules of state;
I must obey my guides alone
And absolutely trust my fate
To some great Power leading me
Through social strictures and constraints
To my true perfect destiny,
Which I accept without complaints.
I am a man of faith and trust
And reside in security
Where deep romance replaces lust
And brings me perfect harmony.
I do not wear some secret shroud
To cover my too mixed emotion;
I rather wear an Earth-bound cloud
Consisting of all my devotion.
I have no boundaries but the one
I’ve built around my life’s sojourn
And when I reach the setting sun
I’ll know all that there is to learn.
Emily and I
Emily and I have much in common.
We both built our voices with words to be read and thoughts to be
Shared and discussed and even disagreed with
And we both did this under the cloak of anonymity
Made necessary by the tenor of our times and the value of our ideals.
Emily knew solitude of her own making and I have known the love
Of a more than good woman and caring children and grandkids
But in the end we each were all alone and sent our voices to the masses
Waiting to be heard and understood --- and maybe just a little bit
Appreciated for what we had to say and how we framed those messages.
We spoke of life and death, adventures taken and abandoned, waiting
And languishing in forlorn words . . . and we made love
With images and phrases, with settings and understated hints of different realms
Of the imagination, longing, yearning, with enough reality to bring them home
To audiences eagerly awaiting us --- somewhere, anywhere --- friends
Never to be met who shared a kindred melancholy for what might have been.
She had her room sequestering years of precious voicings waiting to be read
And thus be given life, and I have hidden seemingly a trove of verse in this
Strange entity known as the internet, patiently (more so than I myself)
But not so quietly shouting for its audience:
“Attention must be paid,” noted Charley.
“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,” uttered
Blanche.
And Emily and I have spent two lifetimes seeking the attention and kindness
Waiting somewhere, looking for our presence, listening for our voices,
Ready to welcome us into their searching minds in such a way
That we may rest and know that we’ve been heard as was meant to be.
Emily never knew such kindness or attention while she lived.
I grieve for her; she was my friend and is now still companion
And I more than most comprehend what it means to speak
And not be heard.
Emily and I have much in common.
We both built our voices with words to be read and thoughts to be
Shared and discussed and even disagreed with
And we both did this under the cloak of anonymity
Made necessary by the tenor of our times and the value of our ideals.
Emily knew solitude of her own making and I have known the love
Of a more than good woman and caring children and grandkids
But in the end we each were all alone and sent our voices to the masses
Waiting to be heard and understood --- and maybe just a little bit
Appreciated for what we had to say and how we framed those messages.
We spoke of life and death, adventures taken and abandoned, waiting
And languishing in forlorn words . . . and we made love
With images and phrases, with settings and understated hints of different realms
Of the imagination, longing, yearning, with enough reality to bring them home
To audiences eagerly awaiting us --- somewhere, anywhere --- friends
Never to be met who shared a kindred melancholy for what might have been.
She had her room sequestering years of precious voicings waiting to be read
And thus be given life, and I have hidden seemingly a trove of verse in this
Strange entity known as the internet, patiently (more so than I myself)
But not so quietly shouting for its audience:
“Attention must be paid,” noted Charley.
“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,” uttered
Blanche.
And Emily and I have spent two lifetimes seeking the attention and kindness
Waiting somewhere, looking for our presence, listening for our voices,
Ready to welcome us into their searching minds in such a way
That we may rest and know that we’ve been heard as was meant to be.
Emily never knew such kindness or attention while she lived.
I grieve for her; she was my friend and is now still companion
And I more than most comprehend what it means to speak
And not be heard.
PINPOINTS OF HOPE
They exist in the present and the past,
These century-streaming stars
Watching over us as so many ancestors
Caring for our passage through the ebb and flow of history,
Guiding us at sea and in the denseness
Of the night and of the mind,
Through towns and cities full of crooked streets and
Forests, deserts and villages teeming with the lost and wanderers.
Meaningfully they stand, these fireballs of light, as pillars in the cosmos ---
Steady, stable, sanctified and worshiped
By cultures in their varied styles and creative philosophies.
The stars kiss us with their gift of light
And will not fade from memory or history
But rather form a sphere of points connected magically and comfort us
When we face periods of conflict with the realm of nature
Or our stranger selves.
Look to the heavens in their time and
Rest in soothing reassurance founded on
A million centuries of strength sent to us
At the speed of Life.
Bless us as you will, O lustrousAncestors,
For we are in deep need of guidance and of wisdom
As we ignore the omens of the past
And wander without vision through the murky layers
Of the ill-conceived determinations
Of the vision of the Earth
Which we have foolishly selected.
We are in deep demand of those who glow beam love
In our direction even while we build our golden calf
To the darkness of the soul.
They exist in the present and the past,
These century-streaming stars
Watching over us as so many ancestors
Caring for our passage through the ebb and flow of history,
Guiding us at sea and in the denseness
Of the night and of the mind,
Through towns and cities full of crooked streets and
Forests, deserts and villages teeming with the lost and wanderers.
Meaningfully they stand, these fireballs of light, as pillars in the cosmos ---
Steady, stable, sanctified and worshiped
By cultures in their varied styles and creative philosophies.
The stars kiss us with their gift of light
And will not fade from memory or history
But rather form a sphere of points connected magically and comfort us
When we face periods of conflict with the realm of nature
Or our stranger selves.
Look to the heavens in their time and
Rest in soothing reassurance founded on
A million centuries of strength sent to us
At the speed of Life.
Bless us as you will, O lustrousAncestors,
For we are in deep need of guidance and of wisdom
As we ignore the omens of the past
And wander without vision through the murky layers
Of the ill-conceived determinations
Of the vision of the Earth
Which we have foolishly selected.
We are in deep demand of those who glow beam love
In our direction even while we build our golden calf
To the darkness of the soul.
"The Old Arrow Maker" by Edmonia Lewis (1866-1872)
- CARVED MARBLE
The Present of the Future
Gaze, Father, to the future, to your daughter’s destiny
And dream of strong bonds between your own Dakota
And your other half, Ojibwa, now in the name of Hiawatha
As he offers sustenance in your honor and in his hope
That you will grant him leave to marry Minnehaha,
Daughter at your side and in your love. Gaze and comprehend
That in unifying both your houses will find strength in peace
That far surpasses specious glories that are fleeting in the
Trying times of war. Let the arrow-heads you craft of jasper
Find their home only in the hunt and not in perceived enemies,
For peace brings to this realm the happiness that stories of your youth
Reserved for the after-life; This is reality; confront it as a man ---
Eschew encouragement of battle in wars of blame and shame
And turn that gaze so readily to Hiawatha and help your eyes
Peer to a realistic fantasy where people live and love and know
Acceptance based on substance and of character, not hatred born of
Disillusion and unfounded images delighting in an evil separation.
The love of your young daughter and her man can be the making
Of a future filled with hope come to fruition, a place where children
Play and learn and fear not those who share the blessings of the
World so treasured by forefathers --- crystal streams, verdant vegetation,
Prey uncountable, air so crisp that breathing it sings songs to heaven.
As close as Minnehaha is to you in body is she so in cherished dreams
And so it falls on you, a man of skill and of great wisdom,
To help her build a world that ancestors can peruse and smile
And know that this God-planted country will be in faithful hands,
Hands that craft the arrows that will hunt the food that feeds
Their people, hands that plait their resources into clothing and
Carriers of food and water. Peer, Old Arrow Maker, with placid
And comforting anticipation at a peaceful competition,
One which sublimates the human inclination tending to conflict
And brings to us a higher plane containing multitudes of treasures
That our all too oft unrealized hold out to us, if only we can put aside
Our feeble and unjustified but baser instincts to do battle.
Here is the lesson to be learned: Use your tools, our Arrow Maker,
To build a strong foundation for your child who kneels with love
Beside you, do your best work always, construct not weapons but tools
To create the foundation upon which those who come may thrive;
Student – daughter – son to be – heroic guide, lead them to tomorrow;
Make more than arrows when you piece together the days ahead,
And in your doing so, take comfort in your understanding that
You have protected all you love and value --- your people, your land,
Your dreams, the prayers that emanated from your forebears:
You are no noble savage; you are not savage at all; you are
What we must call --- if we are perspicacious --- the true American Dream!
Gaze, Father, to the future, to your daughter’s destiny
And dream of strong bonds between your own Dakota
And your other half, Ojibwa, now in the name of Hiawatha
As he offers sustenance in your honor and in his hope
That you will grant him leave to marry Minnehaha,
Daughter at your side and in your love. Gaze and comprehend
That in unifying both your houses will find strength in peace
That far surpasses specious glories that are fleeting in the
Trying times of war. Let the arrow-heads you craft of jasper
Find their home only in the hunt and not in perceived enemies,
For peace brings to this realm the happiness that stories of your youth
Reserved for the after-life; This is reality; confront it as a man ---
Eschew encouragement of battle in wars of blame and shame
And turn that gaze so readily to Hiawatha and help your eyes
Peer to a realistic fantasy where people live and love and know
Acceptance based on substance and of character, not hatred born of
Disillusion and unfounded images delighting in an evil separation.
The love of your young daughter and her man can be the making
Of a future filled with hope come to fruition, a place where children
Play and learn and fear not those who share the blessings of the
World so treasured by forefathers --- crystal streams, verdant vegetation,
Prey uncountable, air so crisp that breathing it sings songs to heaven.
As close as Minnehaha is to you in body is she so in cherished dreams
And so it falls on you, a man of skill and of great wisdom,
To help her build a world that ancestors can peruse and smile
And know that this God-planted country will be in faithful hands,
Hands that craft the arrows that will hunt the food that feeds
Their people, hands that plait their resources into clothing and
Carriers of food and water. Peer, Old Arrow Maker, with placid
And comforting anticipation at a peaceful competition,
One which sublimates the human inclination tending to conflict
And brings to us a higher plane containing multitudes of treasures
That our all too oft unrealized hold out to us, if only we can put aside
Our feeble and unjustified but baser instincts to do battle.
Here is the lesson to be learned: Use your tools, our Arrow Maker,
To build a strong foundation for your child who kneels with love
Beside you, do your best work always, construct not weapons but tools
To create the foundation upon which those who come may thrive;
Student – daughter – son to be – heroic guide, lead them to tomorrow;
Make more than arrows when you piece together the days ahead,
And in your doing so, take comfort in your understanding that
You have protected all you love and value --- your people, your land,
Your dreams, the prayers that emanated from your forebears:
You are no noble savage; you are not savage at all; you are
What we must call --- if we are perspicacious --- the true American Dream!
Vision Question (a flight of the imagination with a strange destination)
As the sun arose, smiling its rays upon my still sleepy eyes,
I slowly brought my binoculars to viewing level
And began my daily bird-watching ritual.
A deep red cardinal was chasing a dirty orange-breasted robin,
Selfishly pulling away its juicy prey,
A chubby earthworm minding its own business
But not closely enough.
I spanned the tree branches, hoping to find a double gold-crested squirrel-eating sparrow or
Perhaps a vulture ready to take flight,
Contradicting its awkward appearance
With its gliding, floating life among the clouds,
When, of a sudden, my right eye caught sight
Through an open early spring window
Across the way from the co-op's common swimming pool
Of an oblong cage and its solitary tenant,
A bright green and yellow parakeet, hopping, staring into a hanging mirror,
Dipping its beak into the water holder and, I instinctively concluded,
Chirping a song to entertain its possessor,
A woman in her late twenties occupied with some computer work.
I focused on the bird and started taking notes and wondering
About the likelihood that this fine aviary specimen would
Find its way out of the cage and through the open window
To the freedom it was meant to have.
I thought of lines from Maya Angelou's fine verse
"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings"
--- More the literal than the figurative ---
And tried to will the cage door open.
Just then, the neighbor waved to me
And I felt tentative, standing there,
Binoculars in hand and eyes, and timidly waved back.
Each day for the next half-decade did I stare through lenses
Into that young woman's room, watching
As a Kodachrome parade of parakeets
Came and went, as I filled notebook after book,
Until one day I peered at the now-rusted abandoned cage
Only to see no bird but a bright yellow Post-it
Upon which were the words:
"For heaven's sake, are you EVER going to come over?"
You'll never guess what I did then!
As the sun arose, smiling its rays upon my still sleepy eyes,
I slowly brought my binoculars to viewing level
And began my daily bird-watching ritual.
A deep red cardinal was chasing a dirty orange-breasted robin,
Selfishly pulling away its juicy prey,
A chubby earthworm minding its own business
But not closely enough.
I spanned the tree branches, hoping to find a double gold-crested squirrel-eating sparrow or
Perhaps a vulture ready to take flight,
Contradicting its awkward appearance
With its gliding, floating life among the clouds,
When, of a sudden, my right eye caught sight
Through an open early spring window
Across the way from the co-op's common swimming pool
Of an oblong cage and its solitary tenant,
A bright green and yellow parakeet, hopping, staring into a hanging mirror,
Dipping its beak into the water holder and, I instinctively concluded,
Chirping a song to entertain its possessor,
A woman in her late twenties occupied with some computer work.
I focused on the bird and started taking notes and wondering
About the likelihood that this fine aviary specimen would
Find its way out of the cage and through the open window
To the freedom it was meant to have.
I thought of lines from Maya Angelou's fine verse
"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings"
--- More the literal than the figurative ---
And tried to will the cage door open.
Just then, the neighbor waved to me
And I felt tentative, standing there,
Binoculars in hand and eyes, and timidly waved back.
Each day for the next half-decade did I stare through lenses
Into that young woman's room, watching
As a Kodachrome parade of parakeets
Came and went, as I filled notebook after book,
Until one day I peered at the now-rusted abandoned cage
Only to see no bird but a bright yellow Post-it
Upon which were the words:
"For heaven's sake, are you EVER going to come over?"
You'll never guess what I did then!
Rocks Have Feelings, Too
Rocks seem to us rather staid,
Unknowing, unknowable, mystical if delved into –-
They lie there not showing weakness or strength
By exhibiting emotions.
They may be weathered by wind and water
But they still exist and mark the passage of time
With wisdom that is shared only
By newborn babies.
They live quiet lives,
Too easily and readily underestimated and
Lumped together as if they were one gigantic mass
But they are not at all;
Each one is present unto itself,
Master of its terrain,
Surveyor of a realm that bows to its existence.
They have names: Gibraltar, Plymouth, Ayer’s, the Blarney Stone,
Al-Hajar al-Aswad, aka the Black Stone of Mecca . . .
There is history and there is mystery (See the time-travel
Rocks of “The Outlanders”) but there are also
Dependability and steadfastness and so much more
That we minor mortals envy and respect.
A rock, though silent, can be master of language:
If you doubt this, ask the Rosetta Stone
And relax as you are told of mysteries no longer hidden.
They elicit respect when one is noted to be solid as a rock
Or when a building has a rock foundation,
Yet they are humbly thought of, mineral below animal and vegetable,
Rock below diamond and gold and silver:
Common is seldom appreciated unless it is associated with sense,
Yet common rock abounds and offers strength and is
The substance of those mending walls that make good neighbors.
Even so, we walk past rocks and fail to greet them, smile upon them
Or show respect although they deserve the honor of the elders,
Having been here since the Big Bang was first whispered
To creatures yet unknown and unimagined.
Next time you pass a rock, you ought to pause long enough
To commune with this more than senseless thing,
A fellow traveler orbiting the sun we used to worship;
Yes, rocks have feelings, too, though they are wise enough
Not to express or act upon them, but to offer us transient beings
Solid comfort and resilience that are so sadly lacking
In our lives. Achieve the zenith of existence,
Measured by acknowledgement of the vitality of rocks
In our otherwise mundane animated existence.
The Northern Star holds Truth and Comfort
No less than does the smallest stone
Which will go on long after we have reached our Destination.
Rocks seem to us rather staid,
Unknowing, unknowable, mystical if delved into –-
They lie there not showing weakness or strength
By exhibiting emotions.
They may be weathered by wind and water
But they still exist and mark the passage of time
With wisdom that is shared only
By newborn babies.
They live quiet lives,
Too easily and readily underestimated and
Lumped together as if they were one gigantic mass
But they are not at all;
Each one is present unto itself,
Master of its terrain,
Surveyor of a realm that bows to its existence.
They have names: Gibraltar, Plymouth, Ayer’s, the Blarney Stone,
Al-Hajar al-Aswad, aka the Black Stone of Mecca . . .
There is history and there is mystery (See the time-travel
Rocks of “The Outlanders”) but there are also
Dependability and steadfastness and so much more
That we minor mortals envy and respect.
A rock, though silent, can be master of language:
If you doubt this, ask the Rosetta Stone
And relax as you are told of mysteries no longer hidden.
They elicit respect when one is noted to be solid as a rock
Or when a building has a rock foundation,
Yet they are humbly thought of, mineral below animal and vegetable,
Rock below diamond and gold and silver:
Common is seldom appreciated unless it is associated with sense,
Yet common rock abounds and offers strength and is
The substance of those mending walls that make good neighbors.
Even so, we walk past rocks and fail to greet them, smile upon them
Or show respect although they deserve the honor of the elders,
Having been here since the Big Bang was first whispered
To creatures yet unknown and unimagined.
Next time you pass a rock, you ought to pause long enough
To commune with this more than senseless thing,
A fellow traveler orbiting the sun we used to worship;
Yes, rocks have feelings, too, though they are wise enough
Not to express or act upon them, but to offer us transient beings
Solid comfort and resilience that are so sadly lacking
In our lives. Achieve the zenith of existence,
Measured by acknowledgement of the vitality of rocks
In our otherwise mundane animated existence.
The Northern Star holds Truth and Comfort
No less than does the smallest stone
Which will go on long after we have reached our Destination.
HENRY and CHARLIE (a nonsense poem written for Abby, Jackson and Dylan)
Henry and Charlie like mushrooms and barley
And their daddy’s brisket and biscuits and Triscuits.
They'll eat anything from a chicken wing
To American cheese and honey from bees.
They love any meat as a wonderful treat
And really like to munch on a bowl of Captain Crunch.
Charlie and Hank enjoy mustard on a frank.
They gulp down a patty even of it's fatty
And relish drinking wine as they sit down to dine.
Their tails wag when they bake a meatball birthday cake.
They chomp on a salami in the midst of a tsunami.
Henry and his pal run around in fun renowned.
Charlie and his bud drool while looking at the pool.
And by the time it's night, what a sight!
Their food is here and there and everywhere,
And they're well fed and well in bed!
With the sleeping Munshines till the beeping sun shines
And then they play another day
And proceed to eat and feed on meat
And drink more water than they oughtta.
What a life they have each day
And that's all I have to say.
Henry and Charlie like mushrooms and barley
And their daddy’s brisket and biscuits and Triscuits.
They'll eat anything from a chicken wing
To American cheese and honey from bees.
They love any meat as a wonderful treat
And really like to munch on a bowl of Captain Crunch.
Charlie and Hank enjoy mustard on a frank.
They gulp down a patty even of it's fatty
And relish drinking wine as they sit down to dine.
Their tails wag when they bake a meatball birthday cake.
They chomp on a salami in the midst of a tsunami.
Henry and his pal run around in fun renowned.
Charlie and his bud drool while looking at the pool.
And by the time it's night, what a sight!
Their food is here and there and everywhere,
And they're well fed and well in bed!
With the sleeping Munshines till the beeping sun shines
And then they play another day
And proceed to eat and feed on meat
And drink more water than they oughtta.
What a life they have each day
And that's all I have to say.
FantasticLand
One night I heard the thunder
And I began to wonder
About a fantasy place
Where no one had a face.
It was a future land
Where I could understand
That all were left a piece
Of wool taken from some fleece
And shining stars were left alone
Just talking on the telephone
And then, at once, they were all gone!
One night I heard the thunder
And I began to wonder
About a fantasy place
Where no one had a face.
It was a future land
Where I could understand
That all were left a piece
Of wool taken from some fleece
And shining stars were left alone
Just talking on the telephone
And then, at once, they were all gone!
The Coconut and the Fly
A coconut began to cry
Because he was sad and alone
But then he saw a friendly fly
Who spoke to him in a soft tone:
"Dear Coconut, don't be so sad.
Please tell me why you feel that way."
"You see, my situation's bad,"
Began Chris Coconut that day.
"I am the last of my round kind,
Sitting alone in this palm tree;
I try to cheer up but I find
I cannot leave; I can't be free
To find new friends around this isle.
You see, I cannot leave my palm
So I just hang here all the while
And try to gently remain calm."
The fly just wanted rest and sleep
But felt so sorry for the 'nut
That she told him her need was deep
And he was stuck in such a rut
That he must see and understand
That what he needed for a friend
Was she, someone to lend a hand
And cheer him up. "You'll. in the end,
Find happiness within my love
And you'll no longer feel alone
For when I fly to skies above
Your tree will always be my home!"
And then Chris Coconut did smile;
He and the fly would own the isle ---
But then there was a dreadful sound . . .
The 'nut had fallen to the ground!!
A coconut began to cry
Because he was sad and alone
But then he saw a friendly fly
Who spoke to him in a soft tone:
"Dear Coconut, don't be so sad.
Please tell me why you feel that way."
"You see, my situation's bad,"
Began Chris Coconut that day.
"I am the last of my round kind,
Sitting alone in this palm tree;
I try to cheer up but I find
I cannot leave; I can't be free
To find new friends around this isle.
You see, I cannot leave my palm
So I just hang here all the while
And try to gently remain calm."
The fly just wanted rest and sleep
But felt so sorry for the 'nut
That she told him her need was deep
And he was stuck in such a rut
That he must see and understand
That what he needed for a friend
Was she, someone to lend a hand
And cheer him up. "You'll. in the end,
Find happiness within my love
And you'll no longer feel alone
For when I fly to skies above
Your tree will always be my home!"
And then Chris Coconut did smile;
He and the fly would own the isle ---
But then there was a dreadful sound . . .
The 'nut had fallen to the ground!!
A MONSTROUS MISTAKE
The monster came out of a tomb
And trudged across the Paris street.
He walked the stairs to the dreary room
And then his journey was complete.
He said hello to his creator
And gulped red water from a dirty glass
And called the scientist a traitor.
(His language was so rude and crass.)
"Why did you build me," asked the creature,
"So ugly and so cold?" he cried.
And then he raised his arms to his "teacher"
And smashed his head; the scientist died.
"I am so lonely," sighed the thing.
"No one loves me," he lamented,
But then his iPhone 'gan to ring;
He heard her voice and at once repented
That he had killed the science teacher;
A female monster was on the phone
And she said she would love the creature;
He'd never, ever be alone!
The monster electrified the recent cadaver
And brought him painfully back to life,
And said, "I'm sure that you would really rather
Be my best man when I take a wife."
"I'm grateful," the scientist replied,
And I will be your best man,
For since I recently have died,
And since my new life just began
I'm curious to meet the woman
Who'd marry such a horrid creature;
She must be an outstanding human.
That must be her primary feature."
And so it came to pass one day
Two monsters were made into one,
And together both decided to slay
The scientist for honeymoon fun.
And trudged across the Paris street.
He walked the stairs to the dreary room
And then his journey was complete.
He said hello to his creator
And gulped red water from a dirty glass
And called the scientist a traitor.
(His language was so rude and crass.)
"Why did you build me," asked the creature,
"So ugly and so cold?" he cried.
And then he raised his arms to his "teacher"
And smashed his head; the scientist died.
"I am so lonely," sighed the thing.
"No one loves me," he lamented,
But then his iPhone 'gan to ring;
He heard her voice and at once repented
That he had killed the science teacher;
A female monster was on the phone
And she said she would love the creature;
He'd never, ever be alone!
The monster electrified the recent cadaver
And brought him painfully back to life,
And said, "I'm sure that you would really rather
Be my best man when I take a wife."
"I'm grateful," the scientist replied,
And I will be your best man,
For since I recently have died,
And since my new life just began
I'm curious to meet the woman
Who'd marry such a horrid creature;
She must be an outstanding human.
That must be her primary feature."
And so it came to pass one day
Two monsters were made into one,
And together both decided to slay
The scientist for honeymoon fun.
Fleeting
It was a fleeting scene
A moment speeding by
Too quickly to be seen
By the sleepy eye;
I lay back in my seat
And felt the rhythmic noise
Of tracks sounding the beat
That placidness destroys.
I wanted much to rest;
I’d not slept through the night.
Then I thought it best
To leave our empty fight
And thus, I traveled west
And fed my restless sight
One moment on the train
By gazing through the light
And staring through the pane:
We passed a lonely street
So early in the morning
The scene was incomplete
There wasn’t any warning
She seemed to be forlorn,
Tears falling from her eyes,
The object of his scorn.
The one who did despise
Her and as he spoke I noted
She could not answer him;
His vitriol he emoted
While her gaze was dim
And in that moment I
Picked up the grief she felt ---
As if she’d like to die
Or from this Earth just melt . . .
And then the scene was gone
And they were in the past
But I could focus on
Nothing else to last
Much longer than a moment
For I had so been affected
By that woman’s torment;
But now the scene infected
Me with echoes of last night
And all at once I knew
I had lived through, with second sight,
A moment I did rue
For through some magic unexplained
I’d witnessed a strange echo
Of guilty feelings which remained
From what I had been through!
It was a fleeting scene
A moment speeding by
Too quickly to be seen
By the sleepy eye;
I lay back in my seat
And felt the rhythmic noise
Of tracks sounding the beat
That placidness destroys.
I wanted much to rest;
I’d not slept through the night.
Then I thought it best
To leave our empty fight
And thus, I traveled west
And fed my restless sight
One moment on the train
By gazing through the light
And staring through the pane:
We passed a lonely street
So early in the morning
The scene was incomplete
There wasn’t any warning
She seemed to be forlorn,
Tears falling from her eyes,
The object of his scorn.
The one who did despise
Her and as he spoke I noted
She could not answer him;
His vitriol he emoted
While her gaze was dim
And in that moment I
Picked up the grief she felt ---
As if she’d like to die
Or from this Earth just melt . . .
And then the scene was gone
And they were in the past
But I could focus on
Nothing else to last
Much longer than a moment
For I had so been affected
By that woman’s torment;
But now the scene infected
Me with echoes of last night
And all at once I knew
I had lived through, with second sight,
A moment I did rue
For through some magic unexplained
I’d witnessed a strange echo
Of guilty feelings which remained
From what I had been through!
Lionel Trains
How can a simple set of trains
Five attached cars led by a smoking locomotive
Traveling a fixed oblong track repeatedly
Predictably reliably cyclically
Take a child on a journey of a lifetime
Through fields and prairies and mountain tunnels of the mind
Past the same old plastic station
With the same old molded men and women
Stuck in time
Neither getting on to journey to parts unknown
Full of potential and excitement
Or getting off to explore new opportunities
Or renew friendships too long separated by the land?
How can watching this train desperately seek new horizons
And perhaps past glories of its predecessors
Light the imagination and carry you to destinations
Offering adventure and the time of your life?
{Too bad they haven’t figured out how to make a train
To take you to the past or to the future or
To a far-off planet of the vision)
The answer lies in the fantasies of a child
Born with wisdom and not clogged yet with the institutions
Of a more (or less) advanced society.
The child, his birthday still more than a vapor of the memory,
Knows no restrictions or limitations of reality,
Raised in the shadow of the imaginings of so many radio broadcasts
(Pre-TV, which robs one of the exercises of great imagination)
Can journey with the train to destinations offering vague yet precise
Adventures and new settings that expand his world
Beyond that single-bedroom flat in his section of the Bronx,
And day after day he finds himself setting up the tracks,
Gingery interconnecting the sections, curved and straight,
And fondly placing each electric car upon the tracks,
The cars depending on each other and on him to give the life
That easily runs circles around the ordinary, the mundane.
I once took a trip by train and headed for the Berkshires,
Full of anticipation for the destination and a job that would pay cash,
But I remember looking out the windows and being filled
With curiosity at the scenes, at the people and the cars and the trees
And stores we passed, wondering what their lives were like, these people
Of the moment --- and I now realize that this curiosity had its birth
On those days of youth when I would travel in my thoughts
Within and without the Lionel train set that my father gifted me
With love and with more than a touch of comprehending what a boy could do
With so-called lifeless trains and plastic people.
The electricity that ran through those cars
Was nothing when compared to the charge that ran through
That young boy each day when he set up the world that he controlled.
I miss those days;
I miss them very much
(not for the control or even the adventures but for the father
Who made it all so possible)
Five attached cars led by a smoking locomotive
Traveling a fixed oblong track repeatedly
Predictably reliably cyclically
Take a child on a journey of a lifetime
Through fields and prairies and mountain tunnels of the mind
Past the same old plastic station
With the same old molded men and women
Stuck in time
Neither getting on to journey to parts unknown
Full of potential and excitement
Or getting off to explore new opportunities
Or renew friendships too long separated by the land?
How can watching this train desperately seek new horizons
And perhaps past glories of its predecessors
Light the imagination and carry you to destinations
Offering adventure and the time of your life?
{Too bad they haven’t figured out how to make a train
To take you to the past or to the future or
To a far-off planet of the vision)
The answer lies in the fantasies of a child
Born with wisdom and not clogged yet with the institutions
Of a more (or less) advanced society.
The child, his birthday still more than a vapor of the memory,
Knows no restrictions or limitations of reality,
Raised in the shadow of the imaginings of so many radio broadcasts
(Pre-TV, which robs one of the exercises of great imagination)
Can journey with the train to destinations offering vague yet precise
Adventures and new settings that expand his world
Beyond that single-bedroom flat in his section of the Bronx,
And day after day he finds himself setting up the tracks,
Gingery interconnecting the sections, curved and straight,
And fondly placing each electric car upon the tracks,
The cars depending on each other and on him to give the life
That easily runs circles around the ordinary, the mundane.
I once took a trip by train and headed for the Berkshires,
Full of anticipation for the destination and a job that would pay cash,
But I remember looking out the windows and being filled
With curiosity at the scenes, at the people and the cars and the trees
And stores we passed, wondering what their lives were like, these people
Of the moment --- and I now realize that this curiosity had its birth
On those days of youth when I would travel in my thoughts
Within and without the Lionel train set that my father gifted me
With love and with more than a touch of comprehending what a boy could do
With so-called lifeless trains and plastic people.
The electricity that ran through those cars
Was nothing when compared to the charge that ran through
That young boy each day when he set up the world that he controlled.
I miss those days;
I miss them very much
(not for the control or even the adventures but for the father
Who made it all so possible)
Ambidextrous
There I stood in the shadow of Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle,
Ruffing, Raschi, Reynolds, Ford, Lopat
In the real Yankee Stadium
Not the one bought by a corporation
But the House that Ruth built
Way back when it was full of magic and excitement . . .
There I stood under the watch of coaches
Looking for the next great thing,
Throwing righty fastballs and lefty curves
And not considering the rubber that sought my attention
(Not thinking about it until there was mention)
That was a day I cannot forget
I stood where giants sauntered and did their thing
And many won World Series rings
And I first gathered the level of skill
Needed to be a Major Leaguer
But I was not beleaguered by probabilities,
Being wrapped up in possibilities.
That was my time under the sun,
A time I still cherish ‘though it took me nowhere
In the reality of my time.
Momentary dreams have their moments
In the lives of those who reach for the stars
But settle for the atmosphere.
There I stood in the shadow of Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle,
Ruffing, Raschi, Reynolds, Ford, Lopat
In the real Yankee Stadium
Not the one bought by a corporation
But the House that Ruth built
Way back when it was full of magic and excitement . . .
There I stood under the watch of coaches
Looking for the next great thing,
Throwing righty fastballs and lefty curves
And not considering the rubber that sought my attention
(Not thinking about it until there was mention)
That was a day I cannot forget
I stood where giants sauntered and did their thing
And many won World Series rings
And I first gathered the level of skill
Needed to be a Major Leaguer
But I was not beleaguered by probabilities,
Being wrapped up in possibilities.
That was my time under the sun,
A time I still cherish ‘though it took me nowhere
In the reality of my time.
Momentary dreams have their moments
In the lives of those who reach for the stars
But settle for the atmosphere.
The Orange and Blue (a baseball fantasy by a fan)
It is always a troubling, murky mystery
Why the Mets don’t have a better history.
In sixty years they’ve won the Series twice,
And for six decades that does not suffice.
Perhaps this year they will win it all,
But we won’t know until the Fall
Classic is played, and until that time
We can only fantasize inside of this rhyme:
The Mets and the Yankees are tied with three each
And here comes Game Seven, the crown within reach!
DeGrom is pitching each shutout inning
And the Mets by a score of 3-2 are now winning.
Alonso and Lindor have hit homerun blasts
And the fans in the stands are hoping that lasts
Long enough to ensure a World Series Title.
To get to that crown, a great closer is vital,
As the Yankee hitters step up to the plate:
It’s Judge and LeMahieu and Rizzo . . . and Fate!
Then all of a sudden the trumpets are heard,
And Met fans in the stands pass on the great word:
In from the bullpen The Diaz is prancing
And Yankees are shuddering but Met fans are dancing.
First up is the big man; here comes the Judge!
But after he strikes out, the score does not budge.
Next up is Le Mahieu, a really great hitter,
But after “Strike Three!” he’s left there so bitter.
The Yanks’ final hope is Anthony Rizzo
And from the stands people can clearly hear Lizzo
Singing and rapping words praying the closer
Will do what he does --- for he is no loser:
Rizzo ignores what Lizzo implores
But Tony’s a phony and misses ball four
And the Yankees have lost New York to the great Mets;
The Blue and the Orange, both rookies and vets,
Have become the new champs of the entire world.
Met fans’ eyes are moist as the flag is unfurled.
Wisdom tells us we reap what we sow;
Based on that and this poem, we surely do know
That come 2023, we’ll get two in a row!
It is always a troubling, murky mystery
Why the Mets don’t have a better history.
In sixty years they’ve won the Series twice,
And for six decades that does not suffice.
Perhaps this year they will win it all,
But we won’t know until the Fall
Classic is played, and until that time
We can only fantasize inside of this rhyme:
The Mets and the Yankees are tied with three each
And here comes Game Seven, the crown within reach!
DeGrom is pitching each shutout inning
And the Mets by a score of 3-2 are now winning.
Alonso and Lindor have hit homerun blasts
And the fans in the stands are hoping that lasts
Long enough to ensure a World Series Title.
To get to that crown, a great closer is vital,
As the Yankee hitters step up to the plate:
It’s Judge and LeMahieu and Rizzo . . . and Fate!
Then all of a sudden the trumpets are heard,
And Met fans in the stands pass on the great word:
In from the bullpen The Diaz is prancing
And Yankees are shuddering but Met fans are dancing.
First up is the big man; here comes the Judge!
But after he strikes out, the score does not budge.
Next up is Le Mahieu, a really great hitter,
But after “Strike Three!” he’s left there so bitter.
The Yanks’ final hope is Anthony Rizzo
And from the stands people can clearly hear Lizzo
Singing and rapping words praying the closer
Will do what he does --- for he is no loser:
Rizzo ignores what Lizzo implores
But Tony’s a phony and misses ball four
And the Yankees have lost New York to the great Mets;
The Blue and the Orange, both rookies and vets,
Have become the new champs of the entire world.
Met fans’ eyes are moist as the flag is unfurled.
Wisdom tells us we reap what we sow;
Based on that and this poem, we surely do know
That come 2023, we’ll get two in a row!
The Orange and Blue - updated
(a baseball fantasy by a fan)
It is always a troubling, murky mystery
Why the Mets don’t have a better history.
In sixty years they’ve won the Series twice,
And for six decades that does not suffice.
Perhaps this year they will win it all,
But we won’t know until the Fall
Classic is played, and until that time
We can only fantasize inside of this rhyme:
The Mets and the Yankees are tied with three each
And here comes Game Seven, the crown within reach!
Senga is pitching each shutout inning
And the Mets by a score of 3-2 are winning.
Alonso and Lindor have hit homerun blasts
And the fans in the stands are hoping that lasts
Long enough to ensure a World Series Title.
To get to that crown, a great closer is vital,
As the Yankee hitters step up to the plate:
It’s Judge and Soto and Stanton . . . and Fate!
Then all of a sudden the trumpets are heard,
And Met fans in the stands pass on the great word:
In from the bullpen The Diaz is prancing:
Yank fans are shuddering but Met fans are dancing.
First up is the big man; here comes the Judge!
But after he strikes out, the score does not budge.
Next up is Soto, a really great hitter,
But after “Strike Three!” he’s left there so bitter.
The Yanks’ final hope is Giancarlo Stanton
And from the stands people can clearly chantin’
Singing and rapping words praying the closer
Will do what he does --- for he is no loser:
Stanton ignores what the chantin’ implores
But Giancarlo’s wild swing misses ball four
And the Yankees have lost New York to the great Mets;
The Blue and the Orange, both rookies and vets,
Have become the new champs of the entire world.
Met fans’ eyes are moist as the flag is unfurled.
Wisdom tells us that we reap what we sow;
Based on that and this poem, we surely do know
That come ‘25, we’ll get two in a row!
(a baseball fantasy by a fan)
It is always a troubling, murky mystery
Why the Mets don’t have a better history.
In sixty years they’ve won the Series twice,
And for six decades that does not suffice.
Perhaps this year they will win it all,
But we won’t know until the Fall
Classic is played, and until that time
We can only fantasize inside of this rhyme:
The Mets and the Yankees are tied with three each
And here comes Game Seven, the crown within reach!
Senga is pitching each shutout inning
And the Mets by a score of 3-2 are winning.
Alonso and Lindor have hit homerun blasts
And the fans in the stands are hoping that lasts
Long enough to ensure a World Series Title.
To get to that crown, a great closer is vital,
As the Yankee hitters step up to the plate:
It’s Judge and Soto and Stanton . . . and Fate!
Then all of a sudden the trumpets are heard,
And Met fans in the stands pass on the great word:
In from the bullpen The Diaz is prancing:
Yank fans are shuddering but Met fans are dancing.
First up is the big man; here comes the Judge!
But after he strikes out, the score does not budge.
Next up is Soto, a really great hitter,
But after “Strike Three!” he’s left there so bitter.
The Yanks’ final hope is Giancarlo Stanton
And from the stands people can clearly chantin’
Singing and rapping words praying the closer
Will do what he does --- for he is no loser:
Stanton ignores what the chantin’ implores
But Giancarlo’s wild swing misses ball four
And the Yankees have lost New York to the great Mets;
The Blue and the Orange, both rookies and vets,
Have become the new champs of the entire world.
Met fans’ eyes are moist as the flag is unfurled.
Wisdom tells us that we reap what we sow;
Based on that and this poem, we surely do know
That come ‘25, we’ll get two in a row!
Designated Hero
What my team needs more than anything else
As we find ourselves in this stretch run
After a season that has seen its roller-coaster combat
Is a designated hero ---
One steady player who is always there,
Always eager to face the pressure, laugh, and perform.
We need a baseball hero who will not fade away
During a game because a really good pitcher is facing him,
But rather someone who will shine and grow and meet the challenge
Time after time, a hitter who will use his sharpened sight
To meet the pitch as it swerves away from what was once
A direct course to the catcher’s mitt, use his tiger-reflexes
To swing and meet the ball as it tries to escape the contact
That we so need to see and hear.
We need such a designated hero every game day
So we can smile and enjoy anticipation
Rather than fret and look away; that would be a blessing,
A reward for our season-long faithfulness,
A tasty meal at the end of weeks of near-starvation.
We are here; we haven’t gone away; we’re not like that.
We deserve this blessing from the Gods of Baseball;
Recognize us and assure us that our star starter will perform.
We ask no more: a daily designated hero
Who will lead us to nirvana, to the fields where games are played
That stir us and excite us and renew our love of the Chase.
We need a hero who will steady the sometimes shaky ride
And guide us to the treasured title that has too long eluded us.
That is all we seek.
What my team needs more than anything else
As we find ourselves in this stretch run
After a season that has seen its roller-coaster combat
Is a designated hero ---
One steady player who is always there,
Always eager to face the pressure, laugh, and perform.
We need a baseball hero who will not fade away
During a game because a really good pitcher is facing him,
But rather someone who will shine and grow and meet the challenge
Time after time, a hitter who will use his sharpened sight
To meet the pitch as it swerves away from what was once
A direct course to the catcher’s mitt, use his tiger-reflexes
To swing and meet the ball as it tries to escape the contact
That we so need to see and hear.
We need such a designated hero every game day
So we can smile and enjoy anticipation
Rather than fret and look away; that would be a blessing,
A reward for our season-long faithfulness,
A tasty meal at the end of weeks of near-starvation.
We are here; we haven’t gone away; we’re not like that.
We deserve this blessing from the Gods of Baseball;
Recognize us and assure us that our star starter will perform.
We ask no more: a daily designated hero
Who will lead us to nirvana, to the fields where games are played
That stir us and excite us and renew our love of the Chase.
We need a hero who will steady the sometimes shaky ride
And guide us to the treasured title that has too long eluded us.
That is all we seek.
The Game [This was an actual game played but I placed it in FANCY because I fancy it happening again.]
The Mets beat the Dodgers late last night.
I was a witness; it was quite a site.
The scary Dodgers scored only one run
Against the Mets led by deGrom.
Clutch hitter Marté hit a home run,
Though they didn't know it, the Dodgers were done!
For Jake dominated for seven innings;
Those betting the Mets were counting their winnings.
The game did get a little bit tense
When Turner hit one over the fence
But all of a sudden Nimmo leaped
And the Dodgers were broken as they all weeped
For when the dust of the warning track moved
The almost home run was in Nimmo's glove.
The final inning party had trumpets
As Diaz fed the Dodgers crumpets
That lacked the sweetness of victory;
The Met fans were as happy as they could be!
The Mets and the Dodgers in October will meet
And then the Met victory will be complete
Because with the Mets the Dodgers can never compete ⚾️!
The Mets beat the Dodgers late last night.
I was a witness; it was quite a site.
The scary Dodgers scored only one run
Against the Mets led by deGrom.
Clutch hitter Marté hit a home run,
Though they didn't know it, the Dodgers were done!
For Jake dominated for seven innings;
Those betting the Mets were counting their winnings.
The game did get a little bit tense
When Turner hit one over the fence
But all of a sudden Nimmo leaped
And the Dodgers were broken as they all weeped
For when the dust of the warning track moved
The almost home run was in Nimmo's glove.
The final inning party had trumpets
As Diaz fed the Dodgers crumpets
That lacked the sweetness of victory;
The Met fans were as happy as they could be!
The Mets and the Dodgers in October will meet
And then the Met victory will be complete
Because with the Mets the Dodgers can never compete ⚾️!
More Respect
New York can be rough; it can hurt you and challenge your dignity;
It can chew you up and spit you out and wait for you to say, “Thank you”
And it can give you nightmares worthy of Elm Street as well as Broadway.
New Yorkers can be tough; they can take your best shot and smile;
They can cheer for your defeat, knock you down, pick you up ---
And clobber you (with fists, with looks, with words, with deeds).
Welcome to New York!
So it should not surprise you when two of its heroes,
Homes to Series winners, Beach Boys and the Beatles,
Get knocked down and spit upon and left for the garbage man
To take their pieces out and throw their proud remains in the city dump.
This is what happened to two citadels of greatness:
Yankee Stadium (the real one) and Shea Stadium (once a dream).
When it was their time, they were bashed and smashed and
Chunks of them were carted away and much too soon forgotten . . .
But not by me. Nothing new and fancy could replace these fortresses
That witnessed combat by the greats; nothing could make me discard
My memories time and again of baseball players who just knew
When they played there that they were housed in greatness of its own,
Those fields of love where millions had come to live and breathe and
Cry and in the end feel victory so many times. The House that Ruth Built,
Home of the Franchise --- just this one time, no hatred for the one or for
The other: they met a common fate and should be resurrected in thought
And celebrated as champions that they were. Hold for them
A sort of Old Timer’s Day, a day when once great players and the rest
Return and recount stories of their love for both these homes
Now just a memory; Unveil the plaques that show the earned affection
That once filled Yankee and Shea Stadiums; sing songs and read poetry
And raise the flag one final time; say prayers to the gods of baseball
And honor them with chants of “Let’s Go, Mets” and
“New --- York --- Yankees” and in their honor broadcast films and photos
Reminding all of us that can recall and showing all of us too young
That there once were Homes of Glory --- not fields of dreams but
Of reality --- where the sport was played and celebrated. Do not
Just forget and relegate those seasons to the recesses of our minds
And stories in our books and scholarly treatises
But give them consciousness for they were Kings in their own time
And well deserve our honor and our love. Baseball is the players
But where are players without home fields? and
There were no homes better than these two palaces that for so long
Honored and rewarded hometown heroes with their warmth.
Do not let dissipate the cheers of all those crowds.
Do not let them go; bring them back for one warm summer day
And love them as they once provided comfort and security
To two New York teams in days of greatness and of pride.
You can go home again!
New York can be rough; it can hurt you and challenge your dignity;
It can chew you up and spit you out and wait for you to say, “Thank you”
And it can give you nightmares worthy of Elm Street as well as Broadway.
New Yorkers can be tough; they can take your best shot and smile;
They can cheer for your defeat, knock you down, pick you up ---
And clobber you (with fists, with looks, with words, with deeds).
Welcome to New York!
So it should not surprise you when two of its heroes,
Homes to Series winners, Beach Boys and the Beatles,
Get knocked down and spit upon and left for the garbage man
To take their pieces out and throw their proud remains in the city dump.
This is what happened to two citadels of greatness:
Yankee Stadium (the real one) and Shea Stadium (once a dream).
When it was their time, they were bashed and smashed and
Chunks of them were carted away and much too soon forgotten . . .
But not by me. Nothing new and fancy could replace these fortresses
That witnessed combat by the greats; nothing could make me discard
My memories time and again of baseball players who just knew
When they played there that they were housed in greatness of its own,
Those fields of love where millions had come to live and breathe and
Cry and in the end feel victory so many times. The House that Ruth Built,
Home of the Franchise --- just this one time, no hatred for the one or for
The other: they met a common fate and should be resurrected in thought
And celebrated as champions that they were. Hold for them
A sort of Old Timer’s Day, a day when once great players and the rest
Return and recount stories of their love for both these homes
Now just a memory; Unveil the plaques that show the earned affection
That once filled Yankee and Shea Stadiums; sing songs and read poetry
And raise the flag one final time; say prayers to the gods of baseball
And honor them with chants of “Let’s Go, Mets” and
“New --- York --- Yankees” and in their honor broadcast films and photos
Reminding all of us that can recall and showing all of us too young
That there once were Homes of Glory --- not fields of dreams but
Of reality --- where the sport was played and celebrated. Do not
Just forget and relegate those seasons to the recesses of our minds
And stories in our books and scholarly treatises
But give them consciousness for they were Kings in their own time
And well deserve our honor and our love. Baseball is the players
But where are players without home fields? and
There were no homes better than these two palaces that for so long
Honored and rewarded hometown heroes with their warmth.
Do not let dissipate the cheers of all those crowds.
Do not let them go; bring them back for one warm summer day
And love them as they once provided comfort and security
To two New York teams in days of greatness and of pride.
You can go home again!
Game by Game
Every game is a new story for my heart.
Every time my team takes the field
There's the possibility of a victory
Or better than that a shut out or
Better than that, a no-hitter.
Every time my team comes up,
We have a chance to score a run.
With each new batter, there's the feel
That he will drive the ball beyond the wall.
With each pitch we can win or keep from losing.
So many possibilities await me. Each one
Growing from faint wish to desire to dream
And that's why I return to view each game,
To pursue a fantasy that only a real fan
Can comprehend day after day for up to
Eight whole months (if I am lucky).
Each new game represents a hope,
A wish upon a star that I can strongly sense:
Every moment joy just journeys to my soul
And that is why I must continue to return and wish
And wait for one great moment of explosive ecstasy.
Every season is a new story for my heart . . .
Every game is a new story for my heart.
Every time my team takes the field
There's the possibility of a victory
Or better than that a shut out or
Better than that, a no-hitter.
Every time my team comes up,
We have a chance to score a run.
With each new batter, there's the feel
That he will drive the ball beyond the wall.
With each pitch we can win or keep from losing.
So many possibilities await me. Each one
Growing from faint wish to desire to dream
And that's why I return to view each game,
To pursue a fantasy that only a real fan
Can comprehend day after day for up to
Eight whole months (if I am lucky).
Each new game represents a hope,
A wish upon a star that I can strongly sense:
Every moment joy just journeys to my soul
And that is why I must continue to return and wish
And wait for one great moment of explosive ecstasy.
Every season is a new story for my heart . . .
Impressions of the Game
This time it was 1951 and I was attending wholeheartedly
My first Yankee game; the Yanks were in the midst
Of winning five Championships in a row. I was in my
Third year as a fan of my Bronx home team and loving it.
I was at the game, in person, live, amazed that the Stadium
Had so many colors; I’d seen only home games on my TV
And in those days, everything was in black and white,
Which was all I needed (not knowing any better)
Since the hometown uniforms were a pristine white
With black lettering and those clean, crisp, classy pinstripes.
And here I was, sitting in the bleachers, sixty cents a ticket,
Having trouble seeing the batters a distance away, but
Having no difficulty seeing the rookie right fielder, Mickey Mantle,
And the old center fielder, Joltin’ Joe Di Maggio.
I don’t remember much of the details of the game;
I recall the Yankees beat the Tigers, who featured
George Kell and Vic Wertz, both strong hitters;
I can imagine filling myself with hot dogs and hearing
Loud noises coming from the vendors and the fans there
To show their love for the Yankee Clipper in his final year.
It’s okay that I can’t bring back to my consciousness
The details of the game; the point is, I was there;
For the first time, I bonded with my fellow Yankee fans
In ways that I cannot explain but I can feel.
And I saw real baseball, so much better than the images
Fed to me by my RCA TV: those colors (rich green grass,
Golden infield, pristine white foul lines and bases ---
At least for a few minutes until the game began),
Watching batting practice a full hour prior to the game, the
Uniforms --- and the sounds: the anthem, the
Home plate ump, still the fans and vendors increasing volume by the inning.
And the deep, trained voice of the public address announcer
(“Now batting for the New York Yankees, Number 5, Joe Di Maggio,
Number 5’). the smells of food and cigars; it was not just a game that I would
Always remember. It was an event, a milestone in my young life ---
And when it ended and we walked out of the House that Ruth Built,
Baseball had cemented itself into my heart indelibly.
The center fielder retired at the end of the season, after the Yanks
Won their third straight World Series, beating the Giants,
With rookie Willie Mays and playoff hero Bobby Thompson,
Four games to two; that Series was impressive
But the best game of the season was the only one that I attended.
This time it was 1951 and I was attending wholeheartedly
My first Yankee game; the Yanks were in the midst
Of winning five Championships in a row. I was in my
Third year as a fan of my Bronx home team and loving it.
I was at the game, in person, live, amazed that the Stadium
Had so many colors; I’d seen only home games on my TV
And in those days, everything was in black and white,
Which was all I needed (not knowing any better)
Since the hometown uniforms were a pristine white
With black lettering and those clean, crisp, classy pinstripes.
And here I was, sitting in the bleachers, sixty cents a ticket,
Having trouble seeing the batters a distance away, but
Having no difficulty seeing the rookie right fielder, Mickey Mantle,
And the old center fielder, Joltin’ Joe Di Maggio.
I don’t remember much of the details of the game;
I recall the Yankees beat the Tigers, who featured
George Kell and Vic Wertz, both strong hitters;
I can imagine filling myself with hot dogs and hearing
Loud noises coming from the vendors and the fans there
To show their love for the Yankee Clipper in his final year.
It’s okay that I can’t bring back to my consciousness
The details of the game; the point is, I was there;
For the first time, I bonded with my fellow Yankee fans
In ways that I cannot explain but I can feel.
And I saw real baseball, so much better than the images
Fed to me by my RCA TV: those colors (rich green grass,
Golden infield, pristine white foul lines and bases ---
At least for a few minutes until the game began),
Watching batting practice a full hour prior to the game, the
Uniforms --- and the sounds: the anthem, the
Home plate ump, still the fans and vendors increasing volume by the inning.
And the deep, trained voice of the public address announcer
(“Now batting for the New York Yankees, Number 5, Joe Di Maggio,
Number 5’). the smells of food and cigars; it was not just a game that I would
Always remember. It was an event, a milestone in my young life ---
And when it ended and we walked out of the House that Ruth Built,
Baseball had cemented itself into my heart indelibly.
The center fielder retired at the end of the season, after the Yanks
Won their third straight World Series, beating the Giants,
With rookie Willie Mays and playoff hero Bobby Thompson,
Four games to two; that Series was impressive
But the best game of the season was the only one that I attended.
Unexpected Heroes
Baseball has its all-time greats residing in our minds and in the
Hall of Fame; plaques that speak of high consistency and of longevity,
And the excellence that we aspire to, if not in sport, then in our work and lives.
These are players that we worship, masters of the meaningfully expected,
Worthy of the pilgrimage taken every year to Cooperstown --- legends, even gods . . .
But they are just a part of the never-ending story,
A magnificent but limited chapter of the Majors and its legacy.
Just as vital to the game are the unexpected heroes of post-season
And they are worthy of our time; there are more than you might think:
In 1969, the New York Mets, after finishing next to last the year before,
Led by Seaver, took on the powerful Orioles --- and won the Series,
Partly thanks to two unexpected success stories: Donn Clendenon,
Who didn’t play in the NLCS, hit homers that broke ties in Games 2 and 4
And another in the final game, then was honored as the Series MVP ---
But even more unexpected was the contribution from Al Weiss,
Who hit .215 during the season but answered the call and in the Series
Made solid connections and raised his game to bat .455! (and an OPS of 1.290).
There are images that can’t escape our minds --- Kirk Gibson’s limping
Around the bases, badly injured but hitting the winning homer for L. A.
Against Eckersley, a future Hall-of-Famer, in the ’88 Series’ first game; it was
His injury, severe and limiting, that made his pressure-filled heroics unexpected.
A pair of Yankees, Bucky Dent and Aaron Boone, hit home runs dramatically.
Boone’s won the final game of the 2003 ALCS, a walk-off in extra innings;
Dent, a very light hitter, hit his in ’78 to decide the AL East Champ
In a single playoff game, sending home so many disappointed fans, shocking them With his Fenway shot, haunting them with the sale of the Bambino many years before.
So many surprise heroics by the Astros’ Backe, the Athletics’ Ehmke,
The Giants’ Renteria, the Rays’ Brosseau, the Red’ Bates, The White Sox’ Blum,
The A’s’ Tenace, the Angels’ Kennedy, the Padres’ Hitchcock, the Pirates’
Holdzkom --- the list goes on and it will never be completed: Baseball is a winner
Because it surprises us --- and its heroes come from unexpected places all the time.
Baseball has its all-time greats residing in our minds and in the
Hall of Fame; plaques that speak of high consistency and of longevity,
And the excellence that we aspire to, if not in sport, then in our work and lives.
These are players that we worship, masters of the meaningfully expected,
Worthy of the pilgrimage taken every year to Cooperstown --- legends, even gods . . .
But they are just a part of the never-ending story,
A magnificent but limited chapter of the Majors and its legacy.
Just as vital to the game are the unexpected heroes of post-season
And they are worthy of our time; there are more than you might think:
In 1969, the New York Mets, after finishing next to last the year before,
Led by Seaver, took on the powerful Orioles --- and won the Series,
Partly thanks to two unexpected success stories: Donn Clendenon,
Who didn’t play in the NLCS, hit homers that broke ties in Games 2 and 4
And another in the final game, then was honored as the Series MVP ---
But even more unexpected was the contribution from Al Weiss,
Who hit .215 during the season but answered the call and in the Series
Made solid connections and raised his game to bat .455! (and an OPS of 1.290).
There are images that can’t escape our minds --- Kirk Gibson’s limping
Around the bases, badly injured but hitting the winning homer for L. A.
Against Eckersley, a future Hall-of-Famer, in the ’88 Series’ first game; it was
His injury, severe and limiting, that made his pressure-filled heroics unexpected.
A pair of Yankees, Bucky Dent and Aaron Boone, hit home runs dramatically.
Boone’s won the final game of the 2003 ALCS, a walk-off in extra innings;
Dent, a very light hitter, hit his in ’78 to decide the AL East Champ
In a single playoff game, sending home so many disappointed fans, shocking them With his Fenway shot, haunting them with the sale of the Bambino many years before.
So many surprise heroics by the Astros’ Backe, the Athletics’ Ehmke,
The Giants’ Renteria, the Rays’ Brosseau, the Red’ Bates, The White Sox’ Blum,
The A’s’ Tenace, the Angels’ Kennedy, the Padres’ Hitchcock, the Pirates’
Holdzkom --- the list goes on and it will never be completed: Baseball is a winner
Because it surprises us --- and its heroes come from unexpected places all the time.
In First Place
Our team resides in first place . . .
Every new season brings sunshine and roses blooming on the vine
And bluebirds chirping a song of joy and hope.
There are no last place teams when the season starts;
Each player has a flawless batting average and knows the stats
Are an empty canvas awaiting Rembrandt’s masterpiece.
Each day the season starts is a door quietly and slowly opening
With an invitation to attend a joyous gathering --- fans in the stands filled
With excitement and the anticipation of a meal well served ---
And with a view of uniforms still spotless, yet waiting to lose
Their shine by that first slide or diving catch, the brown mark
Of honor on display as a sign of hustle and of caring.
Every start of season does present us with this picture-perfect
View from any angle of the field and seats . . . and then we see
The first pitch finally, hitter making contact, fielders doing their
Oft-rehearsed defensive dance --- the season is now under way
And we recoil and we recall
Why we are present and in love
In the first place.
Our team resides in first place . . .
Every new season brings sunshine and roses blooming on the vine
And bluebirds chirping a song of joy and hope.
There are no last place teams when the season starts;
Each player has a flawless batting average and knows the stats
Are an empty canvas awaiting Rembrandt’s masterpiece.
Each day the season starts is a door quietly and slowly opening
With an invitation to attend a joyous gathering --- fans in the stands filled
With excitement and the anticipation of a meal well served ---
And with a view of uniforms still spotless, yet waiting to lose
Their shine by that first slide or diving catch, the brown mark
Of honor on display as a sign of hustle and of caring.
Every start of season does present us with this picture-perfect
View from any angle of the field and seats . . . and then we see
The first pitch finally, hitter making contact, fielders doing their
Oft-rehearsed defensive dance --- the season is now under way
And we recoil and we recall
Why we are present and in love
In the first place.
Hall of Fame Villanelle
You'll not go smoothly into that great Hall:
Play your heart out for your whole career.
Each year show greatness when you meet the ball.
Make each play one that people will recall:
Field your position with no sign of fear.
You'll not go smoothly into that great Hall.
Hit for high average from the spring to fall.
Into outfield stands launch many a sphere.
Each year show greatness when you meet the ball.
Dive for those liners ‘fore they hit the wall;
Show such effort brown and green stains often appear.
You'll not go smoothly into that great Hall.
Bring fans great joy when they see you maul
All those pitches thrown; earn each hometown cheer.
Each year show greatness when you meet the ball.
And when your career’s done, this above all
Will be what is uttered, what we all will hear:
“He’ll now go smoothly into that great Hall;
Each year his greatness had him bless the ball!
You'll not go smoothly into that great Hall:
Play your heart out for your whole career.
Each year show greatness when you meet the ball.
Make each play one that people will recall:
Field your position with no sign of fear.
You'll not go smoothly into that great Hall.
Hit for high average from the spring to fall.
Into outfield stands launch many a sphere.
Each year show greatness when you meet the ball.
Dive for those liners ‘fore they hit the wall;
Show such effort brown and green stains often appear.
You'll not go smoothly into that great Hall.
Bring fans great joy when they see you maul
All those pitches thrown; earn each hometown cheer.
Each year show greatness when you meet the ball.
And when your career’s done, this above all
Will be what is uttered, what we all will hear:
“He’ll now go smoothly into that great Hall;
Each year his greatness had him bless the ball!
Living Masterpiece
You do not have to love baseball
To love the game of baseball.
Go to a game, any game, and look around.
There is the field, a basic work of art, a canvas
In which realism is combined with the abstract,
With its focal point, the pitcher’s mound,
Three-dimensional and curved to catch the eye,
With its brown symmetry. There are lengthy
Straight white lines that emanate from a matching ivory
Irregular but pleasing pentagon simply called home plate.
No lines drawn by Jackson Pollock are so meaningful as these foul
Yet pleasing lines that can decide the outcome
Of a game. Then there’s the verdant grass, so full
Of life and nature; this mix of green, brown, and white
Represent the non-existent but official flag that stands for the
Life, love, and energy that are baseball. And on
This canvas, to complete the work of art with
Hues in motion, are the players and their uniforms
As well as the monochromatic arbiters that serve as contrast .
No visit to a small museum can demonstrate connection
To the viewer as this living masterpiece speaks to the
Crowd that visits it and takes it in, noting every detail.
And then there is the frame --- the crowd, filled with motion
And emotion, singing with their love of the home team,
Smiling, cheering, even showing their displeasure.
Look around and you will see families, generations,
Sharing the experience --- and you know that they
Will one day reminisce and smile at this mutual recollection
That has a special place in the annals of their family memory.
This is not a painting merely for the eye; it has appeal for hearing,
Talking and boosting, as has been noted,
But beyond that there is the olfactory ---
The taste of baseball fare: hot dogs with their mustard and their buns,
Beer or soda, sandwiches that reflect the flavor of the city represented.
(Go to a Phillie game and you inhale the aroma of the cheesesteak.)
Listen to the music and the automated prompts and the home announcer.
This is a total immersion. And to appreciate this artwork, you need just
Appear and take it in in its intensity and share the rising pleasure
And excitement through osmosis, and you will, at game’s end,
Know that you have been through an experience that will stay with you
Long after the masterpiece has left the world of art much as
A sand mandala, having served its purpose, returns to its true nature,
Prepared to one more time --- and then another --- become a masterpiece.
You do not have to love baseball
To love the game of baseball.
Go to a game, any game, and look around.
There is the field, a basic work of art, a canvas
In which realism is combined with the abstract,
With its focal point, the pitcher’s mound,
Three-dimensional and curved to catch the eye,
With its brown symmetry. There are lengthy
Straight white lines that emanate from a matching ivory
Irregular but pleasing pentagon simply called home plate.
No lines drawn by Jackson Pollock are so meaningful as these foul
Yet pleasing lines that can decide the outcome
Of a game. Then there’s the verdant grass, so full
Of life and nature; this mix of green, brown, and white
Represent the non-existent but official flag that stands for the
Life, love, and energy that are baseball. And on
This canvas, to complete the work of art with
Hues in motion, are the players and their uniforms
As well as the monochromatic arbiters that serve as contrast .
No visit to a small museum can demonstrate connection
To the viewer as this living masterpiece speaks to the
Crowd that visits it and takes it in, noting every detail.
And then there is the frame --- the crowd, filled with motion
And emotion, singing with their love of the home team,
Smiling, cheering, even showing their displeasure.
Look around and you will see families, generations,
Sharing the experience --- and you know that they
Will one day reminisce and smile at this mutual recollection
That has a special place in the annals of their family memory.
This is not a painting merely for the eye; it has appeal for hearing,
Talking and boosting, as has been noted,
But beyond that there is the olfactory ---
The taste of baseball fare: hot dogs with their mustard and their buns,
Beer or soda, sandwiches that reflect the flavor of the city represented.
(Go to a Phillie game and you inhale the aroma of the cheesesteak.)
Listen to the music and the automated prompts and the home announcer.
This is a total immersion. And to appreciate this artwork, you need just
Appear and take it in in its intensity and share the rising pleasure
And excitement through osmosis, and you will, at game’s end,
Know that you have been through an experience that will stay with you
Long after the masterpiece has left the world of art much as
A sand mandala, having served its purpose, returns to its true nature,
Prepared to one more time --- and then another --- become a masterpiece.
Steppingstone in the Fall
Rolling hills of wild grass seeking to play a game of
Roly-poly with new generations; swings and pool inviting
Children to leave this world and seek the place of their imagination;
A tall mountain of pumpkins and gourds announcing the approaching
Holiday --- a collage of shapes and colors and of textures;
Red and white and pink flowers placed sporadically along
The gentle pathways of the park, enriched by even more
Pumpkins placed as the motif in this season of Halloween;
Tender sculptures of children who once enjoyed the place
But will never again feel the pleasant coolness of the air;
A wide view of the waters of the western Long Island Sound,
Alive with sailing boats and a back-in-time marina; seagulls
And even osprey, river hawks, seeking food among the fish;
A sighting of the Nutmeg State off in the distance . . .
All this present for the townsfolk picnicking or leaning back
In chairs that invite them to make this park their temporary home:
Steppingstone.
Rolling hills of wild grass seeking to play a game of
Roly-poly with new generations; swings and pool inviting
Children to leave this world and seek the place of their imagination;
A tall mountain of pumpkins and gourds announcing the approaching
Holiday --- a collage of shapes and colors and of textures;
Red and white and pink flowers placed sporadically along
The gentle pathways of the park, enriched by even more
Pumpkins placed as the motif in this season of Halloween;
Tender sculptures of children who once enjoyed the place
But will never again feel the pleasant coolness of the air;
A wide view of the waters of the western Long Island Sound,
Alive with sailing boats and a back-in-time marina; seagulls
And even osprey, river hawks, seeking food among the fish;
A sighting of the Nutmeg State off in the distance . . .
All this present for the townsfolk picnicking or leaning back
In chairs that invite them to make this park their temporary home:
Steppingstone.
Interdependence Birthday
We were on vacation for July fourth, 1983.
We were a family on a journey to the wilds
Of the Bronx, venturing forth from Rockland,
A picture book family: mother, father, daughter, son.
We were there to celebrate being together, being
Part of a large, boisterous, enthusiastic crowd
On our national day of birth --- and by coincidence,
The birthday of the Yankee owner, George Steinbrenner.
And all we wanted was to celebrate this sunny day.
We didn’t know how the Yankees’ starting pitcher,
Dave Righetti (before he became a closer), was wearing
Not just his pinstripes but also anger, growling perhaps
About his omission from the All-Star game set to be held
Two days later . . . on his mother’s birthday. He had a 9 – 3 record
But that wasn’t good enough --- except for motivation on that day!
We took our seats in the right field stands and started
To enjoy the day, the rush of the journey through the crowd
Over as we sat in the hard less-than-comfortable chairs
And gazed and breathed in the electric atmosphere.
Even those who didn’t really follow baseball felt a camaraderie
With those nearby. As inning followed inning, the buzz intensity increased
And when Kemp made a great catch in the right field corner
(One we couldn’t see from where we sat --- but which we knew had been
Successful, as related by the cheering crowd-relief),
The tension began to build with every pitch Dave made.
There were restrained whispers of the developing gem of a no-hitter.
When it was over, when Boggs swung and missed and all the Yanks
Charged the pitcher’s mound where an exhausted Righetti stood waiting,
We all knew that we had shared a moment that we could use years later
To measure our family closeness, our desire to remember
What was great about that day,
What was great about our family
Cheering and sharing special moments
And the love we had among us.
We were on vacation for July fourth, 1983.
We were a family on a journey to the wilds
Of the Bronx, venturing forth from Rockland,
A picture book family: mother, father, daughter, son.
We were there to celebrate being together, being
Part of a large, boisterous, enthusiastic crowd
On our national day of birth --- and by coincidence,
The birthday of the Yankee owner, George Steinbrenner.
And all we wanted was to celebrate this sunny day.
We didn’t know how the Yankees’ starting pitcher,
Dave Righetti (before he became a closer), was wearing
Not just his pinstripes but also anger, growling perhaps
About his omission from the All-Star game set to be held
Two days later . . . on his mother’s birthday. He had a 9 – 3 record
But that wasn’t good enough --- except for motivation on that day!
We took our seats in the right field stands and started
To enjoy the day, the rush of the journey through the crowd
Over as we sat in the hard less-than-comfortable chairs
And gazed and breathed in the electric atmosphere.
Even those who didn’t really follow baseball felt a camaraderie
With those nearby. As inning followed inning, the buzz intensity increased
And when Kemp made a great catch in the right field corner
(One we couldn’t see from where we sat --- but which we knew had been
Successful, as related by the cheering crowd-relief),
The tension began to build with every pitch Dave made.
There were restrained whispers of the developing gem of a no-hitter.
When it was over, when Boggs swung and missed and all the Yanks
Charged the pitcher’s mound where an exhausted Righetti stood waiting,
We all knew that we had shared a moment that we could use years later
To measure our family closeness, our desire to remember
What was great about that day,
What was great about our family
Cheering and sharing special moments
And the love we had among us.
Birds of Play
Orioles, blue jays, cardinals
Soaring in their hearts to their rightful place
In the skies over their dream-homes
Hoping perhaps against hope that they will achieve
What others seek to gain
Floating in enchantment and landing on the fenced-in pasture
Seeking safety but aware that this may not last
Their natural enemies ready to attack with sticks and stone
But for today these birds of play gaze and graze upon the fields
Of their fantasy and muse on heaven where no scarecrow enemy
Will interfere or try to ground their wings of victory.
These are of the flock that seeks tomorrow’s promises
And there is no cage or foe that can challenge their rite
Of victory at least until the full migration of their dreams
Has reached its autumn culmination.
Orioles, blue jays, cardinals
Soaring in their hearts to their rightful place
In the skies over their dream-homes
Hoping perhaps against hope that they will achieve
What others seek to gain
Floating in enchantment and landing on the fenced-in pasture
Seeking safety but aware that this may not last
Their natural enemies ready to attack with sticks and stone
But for today these birds of play gaze and graze upon the fields
Of their fantasy and muse on heaven where no scarecrow enemy
Will interfere or try to ground their wings of victory.
These are of the flock that seeks tomorrow’s promises
And there is no cage or foe that can challenge their rite
Of victory at least until the full migration of their dreams
Has reached its autumn culmination.
Zenith
I used to play a game I’d call baseball’s
Distant second cousin, slow-pitch softball.
The similarities are there --- same positions
(If you don’t weaken and play the fourth outfielder).
There was a ball, some gloves, maybe hue-and-pattern-filled
Uniforms, the chatter and the crowd (small as it was,
Oxymoronically) and scoring (lots of scoring). I
Played left field in my junior year at the City College of New York
As the intramural tournament took place.
Consider it the poor man’s (or lesser player’s)
Championship Series. It was a stereotypical sunny day,
That thrilling afternoon in 1963; my team was deeply
Populated by young faux-athletes who would one day
Go on to become hopefully successful chemical engineers ---
And me, the English major . . . but we were more than academics
On this fateful day: We were the champions (I can hear
Freddy Mercury and Queen in the background now, but
They were born too late to serenade us at the apex of our personal performance
Playing careers) who vanquished each opponent with our attempts at
Poise and slick strong skills. I can remember that great game any way I wish,
Especially as I replay plays in my mind, and who is there to
Contradict me? We won it all. To me, all those years of watching
Yankee Crowns were merely background to my own reality:
We won the intramurals, and just for that one day,
All New York was celebrating, throwing Times Square confetti
From tall buildings and music played and women hugged us.
It’s wonderful how memories are plastic, to be formed
The way we wish, the way we sometimes need.
I never reached again the glory of that game
But what a miracle!
That I can hit the replay button any time I want
And transmogrify incidents at will
And bask in the magic of that game.
I used to play a game I’d call baseball’s
Distant second cousin, slow-pitch softball.
The similarities are there --- same positions
(If you don’t weaken and play the fourth outfielder).
There was a ball, some gloves, maybe hue-and-pattern-filled
Uniforms, the chatter and the crowd (small as it was,
Oxymoronically) and scoring (lots of scoring). I
Played left field in my junior year at the City College of New York
As the intramural tournament took place.
Consider it the poor man’s (or lesser player’s)
Championship Series. It was a stereotypical sunny day,
That thrilling afternoon in 1963; my team was deeply
Populated by young faux-athletes who would one day
Go on to become hopefully successful chemical engineers ---
And me, the English major . . . but we were more than academics
On this fateful day: We were the champions (I can hear
Freddy Mercury and Queen in the background now, but
They were born too late to serenade us at the apex of our personal performance
Playing careers) who vanquished each opponent with our attempts at
Poise and slick strong skills. I can remember that great game any way I wish,
Especially as I replay plays in my mind, and who is there to
Contradict me? We won it all. To me, all those years of watching
Yankee Crowns were merely background to my own reality:
We won the intramurals, and just for that one day,
All New York was celebrating, throwing Times Square confetti
From tall buildings and music played and women hugged us.
It’s wonderful how memories are plastic, to be formed
The way we wish, the way we sometimes need.
I never reached again the glory of that game
But what a miracle!
That I can hit the replay button any time I want
And transmogrify incidents at will
And bask in the magic of that game.
American Parade - part 1, by a New York fan
If I were floating in a trance
Standing on a mellow-darkened stage,
Having volunteered to entertain
All those Americans who paid good cash,
And if the well-dressed hypnotist,
Tired of making his subjects cluck like chickens
Or bark like dogs, commanded me
To respond without restrictions
Other than between the foul lines of my mind
To the word "baseball," I would drown him
With passing images,
Memories that have marinated in my mind
For more than seven decades,
Visions that have lived with me and helped
Form the person that I am this day:
Joltin' Joe in center, next to the rookie Commerce Comet,
Happy Felton watching over kids at play,
The Old Perfesser ambling to the mound
In Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds or Shea,
Hands in back pockets and genius thoughts
Like bolts of lightning in his storied face,
Larson being perfect on a black and white TV,
Making Yogi jump into his arms
On the low-def screen as Mitchell (the only time
That batter struck out in 29 Series appearances),
Hearing the Yanks lose to the Cards on Armed Forces Radio
At an unearthly hour and then going to teach my African students
Half asleep in my first year of Peace Corps service,
Richardson getting hit after Series hit,
Watching the Giants for free, thanks to Chesterfield,
Jackie stealing home and Yogi jumping up and down complaining,
Maz's homer to the heart, Kubek's throat shot, Billy's running grab,
Willie's backward catch, Jay Hook
Getting that first win,
Several Series wins and heavy losses,
The slow years of the late '60's
For the Yanks and the late '70's
For the Mets, Wayne Garrett calling
A late night talk show on the radio
And guaranteeing a first Met series win,
Piazza's homer after 9/11, those Banner marches
Around the dirt path at Shea, the guy
Who always held up black and white
Signs that got to the point at early Met games,
Joan Payson, Del Webb, Steinbrenner,
The announcers: Mel, Jim, Red, Phil, Lindsey, Bob, Ralph,
The pennants won and lost,
The songs and ads (Ballantine, White Owl),
Kiner's Korner, the Knot Hole Gang,
Knight's fight --- and Buddy's,
Clemens throwing part of a bat,
Wilmer crying, Yogi in left and Mickey at first,
And so much more resting in the Netherlands
Of my memory, waiting for their non-linear return ---
And then unexpectedly a snap of a metaphorical finger
Or a simple slap of cold-now reality
And I am back where I belong,
Eagerly anticipating spring training.
I willingly acknowledge the recognition
That my baseball memories are an adhesive
Holding me together from my past,
Only paralleled by the loves I have for
The people in my life, in my extended family.
It is a sport so deep inside
That it is now the coheson of my DNA.
Standing on a mellow-darkened stage,
Having volunteered to entertain
All those Americans who paid good cash,
And if the well-dressed hypnotist,
Tired of making his subjects cluck like chickens
Or bark like dogs, commanded me
To respond without restrictions
Other than between the foul lines of my mind
To the word "baseball," I would drown him
With passing images,
Memories that have marinated in my mind
For more than seven decades,
Visions that have lived with me and helped
Form the person that I am this day:
Joltin' Joe in center, next to the rookie Commerce Comet,
Happy Felton watching over kids at play,
The Old Perfesser ambling to the mound
In Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds or Shea,
Hands in back pockets and genius thoughts
Like bolts of lightning in his storied face,
Larson being perfect on a black and white TV,
Making Yogi jump into his arms
On the low-def screen as Mitchell (the only time
That batter struck out in 29 Series appearances),
Hearing the Yanks lose to the Cards on Armed Forces Radio
At an unearthly hour and then going to teach my African students
Half asleep in my first year of Peace Corps service,
Richardson getting hit after Series hit,
Watching the Giants for free, thanks to Chesterfield,
Jackie stealing home and Yogi jumping up and down complaining,
Maz's homer to the heart, Kubek's throat shot, Billy's running grab,
Willie's backward catch, Jay Hook
Getting that first win,
Several Series wins and heavy losses,
The slow years of the late '60's
For the Yanks and the late '70's
For the Mets, Wayne Garrett calling
A late night talk show on the radio
And guaranteeing a first Met series win,
Piazza's homer after 9/11, those Banner marches
Around the dirt path at Shea, the guy
Who always held up black and white
Signs that got to the point at early Met games,
Joan Payson, Del Webb, Steinbrenner,
The announcers: Mel, Jim, Red, Phil, Lindsey, Bob, Ralph,
The pennants won and lost,
The songs and ads (Ballantine, White Owl),
Kiner's Korner, the Knot Hole Gang,
Knight's fight --- and Buddy's,
Clemens throwing part of a bat,
Wilmer crying, Yogi in left and Mickey at first,
And so much more resting in the Netherlands
Of my memory, waiting for their non-linear return ---
And then unexpectedly a snap of a metaphorical finger
Or a simple slap of cold-now reality
And I am back where I belong,
Eagerly anticipating spring training.
I willingly acknowledge the recognition
That my baseball memories are an adhesive
Holding me together from my past,
Only paralleled by the loves I have for
The people in my life, in my extended family.
It is a sport so deep inside
That it is now the coheson of my DNA.
Stepping Up to the Plate
It's not easy to hide at the end if the bench
On the margin of the dugout, a chameleon
Blending into the background, hardly noticed,
Stuck below the Mendoza Line
Far too long, his confidence evaporating
Game after dreadful game.
He feels the crunching pressure,
Hears the condemnation of the fans,
When he does have one of the few opportunities
To remind his mates of the promise he once showed.
He's out of options and feels the sharpness
Of the cutting blade almost eagerly approaching.
And then his second baseman and right fielder clash and crash
Going for a dying fish of a pop up
And he is called to take the field
As the second baseman is carried off,
Groaning and suffering from double vision.
And then, at bat, he gets what they call a seeing eye single,
Followed eight outs later by a swinging bunt...
And just like that he's a hero. The blade is gone,
The scent of waivers dissipates and
He goes on a tear, a ten-game hitting streak.
He's safe --- for now --- and this game of inches
Measures up to its well-earned reputation,
As another player feels the magic touch
Of a game that needs and earns our love,
With a magic wand we call a bat and a stage
We call a field and an audience we call the fans.
It's not easy to hide at the end if the bench
On the margin of the dugout, a chameleon
Blending into the background, hardly noticed,
Stuck below the Mendoza Line
Far too long, his confidence evaporating
Game after dreadful game.
He feels the crunching pressure,
Hears the condemnation of the fans,
When he does have one of the few opportunities
To remind his mates of the promise he once showed.
He's out of options and feels the sharpness
Of the cutting blade almost eagerly approaching.
And then his second baseman and right fielder clash and crash
Going for a dying fish of a pop up
And he is called to take the field
As the second baseman is carried off,
Groaning and suffering from double vision.
And then, at bat, he gets what they call a seeing eye single,
Followed eight outs later by a swinging bunt...
And just like that he's a hero. The blade is gone,
The scent of waivers dissipates and
He goes on a tear, a ten-game hitting streak.
He's safe --- for now --- and this game of inches
Measures up to its well-earned reputation,
As another player feels the magic touch
Of a game that needs and earns our love,
With a magic wand we call a bat and a stage
We call a field and an audience we call the fans.
Tripods
[Definition of a Tripod: Two lines painting a visual or auditory
image, followed by a single word with a world of meaning]
I. A furrow formed between my eyes,
a pathway to my mind, calling to you:
Welcome.
II. Your smile warmed the room
and made the darkness glow:
Enchantment.
III. The melody drifted into my soul
played by an orchestra of one:
Evermore.
IV. The snow crisp and immaculate
blankets the town as a painting:
Dream-like.
V. The kitten cuddles and purrs
and its softness brings warmth:
Connection.
[Definition of a Tripod: Two lines painting a visual or auditory
image, followed by a single word with a world of meaning]
I. A furrow formed between my eyes,
a pathway to my mind, calling to you:
Welcome.
II. Your smile warmed the room
and made the darkness glow:
Enchantment.
III. The melody drifted into my soul
played by an orchestra of one:
Evermore.
IV. The snow crisp and immaculate
blankets the town as a painting:
Dream-like.
V. The kitten cuddles and purrs
and its softness brings warmth:
Connection.
Joe for Ted?
The best trade that was never made, they say
(And I agree wholeheartedly), was Ted for Joe ---
Williams, the Splendid Splinter for Di Maggio,
The Yankee Clipper --- Joltin’ Joe! Can you imagine
Williams, who hit 521 dingers despite his years in the Armed Forces,
Swinging for that so-so close low porch in right field
In Yankee Stadium --- or Di Mag powering ball after ball
Over the Green Monster at Fenway?
Can you imagine how many more hits Ted would have gotten
Faced with the spacious outfield grass at the Stadium
Or Joe gracefully fielding the smaller center field at Fenway
(Sadly, prior to the existence of the Golden Glove Award)?
It was a trade fit for the greatest of fantasy baseball discussions
But it would have broken hearts of fans who fell in love ---
In Boston and New York --- with two Hall of Famers
Who would go on to play their whole careers in a single town.
Maybe it was the bad taste left in Boston mouths by a trade
Made decades earlier by owner Harry Frazee
That sent the Babe to the Yanks for money he lost on Broadway
That ran the trade of the century into a dead end.
Whatever the reason, the trade was never made, which is okay
For Yankee fans, for Joe appeared in ten World Series, winning nine,
While Ted reached the Series only once --- and lost.
Ask a New Yorker from the olden days and he or she will say,
“Sometimes the best trades are the ones you didn’t make.”
Still, it’s fun to fantasize, to ask, “What if?” ---
To live a while inside the playing field of your imagination.
(And I agree wholeheartedly), was Ted for Joe ---
Williams, the Splendid Splinter for Di Maggio,
The Yankee Clipper --- Joltin’ Joe! Can you imagine
Williams, who hit 521 dingers despite his years in the Armed Forces,
Swinging for that so-so close low porch in right field
In Yankee Stadium --- or Di Mag powering ball after ball
Over the Green Monster at Fenway?
Can you imagine how many more hits Ted would have gotten
Faced with the spacious outfield grass at the Stadium
Or Joe gracefully fielding the smaller center field at Fenway
(Sadly, prior to the existence of the Golden Glove Award)?
It was a trade fit for the greatest of fantasy baseball discussions
But it would have broken hearts of fans who fell in love ---
In Boston and New York --- with two Hall of Famers
Who would go on to play their whole careers in a single town.
Maybe it was the bad taste left in Boston mouths by a trade
Made decades earlier by owner Harry Frazee
That sent the Babe to the Yanks for money he lost on Broadway
That ran the trade of the century into a dead end.
Whatever the reason, the trade was never made, which is okay
For Yankee fans, for Joe appeared in ten World Series, winning nine,
While Ted reached the Series only once --- and lost.
Ask a New Yorker from the olden days and he or she will say,
“Sometimes the best trades are the ones you didn’t make.”
Still, it’s fun to fantasize, to ask, “What if?” ---
To live a while inside the playing field of your imagination.
Old-Timer's Day
Yes, I know about those very special days when
Retired players are marched onto the field in glory, to call forth
Memories of wondrous games and performances of the perfect past.
In fact, my Mets last year had one of those glory days
For the first time in more than two decades and don’t ask me why
It took so long, but thank goodness I was able to see
Some of my original Mets, bless them --- even Frank Thomas,
Who was a genuine power hitter the first three years of their existence
(Someone they can use right now),
A gentle man who recently passed away.
When I was a Yankee fan, I remember my early special celebrations,
When Joe Di Maggio, retired after the 1951 season, appeared again in uniform,
And walked gracefully to the foul line where other Yanks, great and
Not so great, were waiting proudly and applauding. Joe never played in those
Abbreviated games the old-timers enjoyed (as did the fans), because
His pride would not allow him to engage in any game
Now that his prime had bowed down to Father Time.
But it’s not those wonderful memory games that I am pushing for;
They do not need my efforts. They stand alone and will go on
As a tribute to the players of the past, a kind of living history.
I am suggesting a different kind of Old-Timer’s Day,
One that honors fans that have followed teams and the sport
For years and years, who have given of their hearts and
Helped pay the salaries of all those players with their non-athletic
Labor and their efforts and who have nourished the sport
By passing on to their descendants the love of The Show.
Surely, those who love the game and cheer the players
(And sometimes boo, but out of love and real respect)
Deserve their own Old-Timer’s Day, when those whom
They support stand up in their brilliant uniforms and
Bring their hands together and even cheer for all those oldsters
Who have loved them for so many years, most of which
Came to an end too soon. There’s justice
In this turn-around respect, too long ignored, and
For those of us rounding third and heading home
In this game of Life, the time has come for baseball
To show appreciation to the chorus that backs up
The performance of the stars who play their music
With their bats or gloves or feet or arms.
If a ball is hit and lands in empty stands and there is no applause,
Did it really happen?
Retired players are marched onto the field in glory, to call forth
Memories of wondrous games and performances of the perfect past.
In fact, my Mets last year had one of those glory days
For the first time in more than two decades and don’t ask me why
It took so long, but thank goodness I was able to see
Some of my original Mets, bless them --- even Frank Thomas,
Who was a genuine power hitter the first three years of their existence
(Someone they can use right now),
A gentle man who recently passed away.
When I was a Yankee fan, I remember my early special celebrations,
When Joe Di Maggio, retired after the 1951 season, appeared again in uniform,
And walked gracefully to the foul line where other Yanks, great and
Not so great, were waiting proudly and applauding. Joe never played in those
Abbreviated games the old-timers enjoyed (as did the fans), because
His pride would not allow him to engage in any game
Now that his prime had bowed down to Father Time.
But it’s not those wonderful memory games that I am pushing for;
They do not need my efforts. They stand alone and will go on
As a tribute to the players of the past, a kind of living history.
I am suggesting a different kind of Old-Timer’s Day,
One that honors fans that have followed teams and the sport
For years and years, who have given of their hearts and
Helped pay the salaries of all those players with their non-athletic
Labor and their efforts and who have nourished the sport
By passing on to their descendants the love of The Show.
Surely, those who love the game and cheer the players
(And sometimes boo, but out of love and real respect)
Deserve their own Old-Timer’s Day, when those whom
They support stand up in their brilliant uniforms and
Bring their hands together and even cheer for all those oldsters
Who have loved them for so many years, most of which
Came to an end too soon. There’s justice
In this turn-around respect, too long ignored, and
For those of us rounding third and heading home
In this game of Life, the time has come for baseball
To show appreciation to the chorus that backs up
The performance of the stars who play their music
With their bats or gloves or feet or arms.
If a ball is hit and lands in empty stands and there is no applause,
Did it really happen?
X Marks the Spot
The House that Ruth Built historical indifference did tear down.
The Diamond that New York treasured when it was seen initially
In 1923 is just a place of fantasy and memory today, replaced
By the load of quartz that sits across the street and falsely
Claims the name that died with the passing of the real Yankee Stadium,
The home to Berra, Winfield, Mantle, Maris, Mize, Di Maggio,
Ruth (of course), Gehrig, the big four of the five World Championships In a row ---
Lopat, Reynolds, Raschi, Ford ---, Gomez, Gordon, Gossage, Mussina,
Ruffing, Hunter, Jackson, Jeeter, Lazzeri, Rivera, Rizzuto, Stengel – and you can name
So many more residing in your memory, Yankee fan or not. This was the spot
Of history, the birthplace of tradition, the crucible of excellence,
The home of gods who played with our emotions and showed us
How to play a simple game in a majestic way --- a holy place only to be ripped apart
In the specious name of progress and done away with without ceremony
That it so deserved. Yes, it’s true that this field ever will remain in the
Memories of those who witnessed the performances worthy of its name,
But there is a sense that there should be a structure left behind,
Perhaps constructed as a temple to the sport, where fans and those
Who have a sense of history can make a pilgrimage and pay respects
To the magnificence that was the Yankee Stadium, beams and all,
Which gave a home to greats and to their fans in such a poignant way
That dwarfs the field that now does bear its name,
For to any true Yankee fan who knows what came before,
Although it’s gone, there remains an atmosphere that represents the Truth,
A place now left to recollection and to research, where once upon a time
X marked the sport!
The House that Ruth Built historical indifference did tear down.
The Diamond that New York treasured when it was seen initially
In 1923 is just a place of fantasy and memory today, replaced
By the load of quartz that sits across the street and falsely
Claims the name that died with the passing of the real Yankee Stadium,
The home to Berra, Winfield, Mantle, Maris, Mize, Di Maggio,
Ruth (of course), Gehrig, the big four of the five World Championships In a row ---
Lopat, Reynolds, Raschi, Ford ---, Gomez, Gordon, Gossage, Mussina,
Ruffing, Hunter, Jackson, Jeeter, Lazzeri, Rivera, Rizzuto, Stengel – and you can name
So many more residing in your memory, Yankee fan or not. This was the spot
Of history, the birthplace of tradition, the crucible of excellence,
The home of gods who played with our emotions and showed us
How to play a simple game in a majestic way --- a holy place only to be ripped apart
In the specious name of progress and done away with without ceremony
That it so deserved. Yes, it’s true that this field ever will remain in the
Memories of those who witnessed the performances worthy of its name,
But there is a sense that there should be a structure left behind,
Perhaps constructed as a temple to the sport, where fans and those
Who have a sense of history can make a pilgrimage and pay respects
To the magnificence that was the Yankee Stadium, beams and all,
Which gave a home to greats and to their fans in such a poignant way
That dwarfs the field that now does bear its name,
For to any true Yankee fan who knows what came before,
Although it’s gone, there remains an atmosphere that represents the Truth,
A place now left to recollection and to research, where once upon a time
X marked the sport!
Built to Win Now
“We’re built to win it all this year,”
King Midas with much zest declared.
“That is a fact; just have no fear.
We’ve got two Cy Young Winners paired,
A home run champ who’s playing first,
A batting king on second base,
An all-star short stop and a burst
Of energy at third to win the race.
Against all hot shots down the line,
Our outfielders will field them all ---
Players nine who will combine
To be successful in the fall!
There is no chance the other teams
Who stand against us in our league
Will conquer us, and so it seems
Those rivals will fall to fatigue
While we will win and by November
When the Series will be won,
The only team all will remember
Will be our team, the only one
Left standing when the banner’s raised.”
Thus rich King Midas so predicted,
Heaping on his team such praise . . .
But injuries on those depicted
(Not to mention pitching woes
Caused by aging superstars)
Brought many losses. So it goes ---
Spring optimism never bars
Visions of a championship
But then reality shows us its face
And then the expectations flip
And with our failures goes first place.
Then our great season’s put to bed
And Midas’ gold has turned to lead
“We’re built to win it all this year,”
King Midas with much zest declared.
“That is a fact; just have no fear.
We’ve got two Cy Young Winners paired,
A home run champ who’s playing first,
A batting king on second base,
An all-star short stop and a burst
Of energy at third to win the race.
Against all hot shots down the line,
Our outfielders will field them all ---
Players nine who will combine
To be successful in the fall!
There is no chance the other teams
Who stand against us in our league
Will conquer us, and so it seems
Those rivals will fall to fatigue
While we will win and by November
When the Series will be won,
The only team all will remember
Will be our team, the only one
Left standing when the banner’s raised.”
Thus rich King Midas so predicted,
Heaping on his team such praise . . .
But injuries on those depicted
(Not to mention pitching woes
Caused by aging superstars)
Brought many losses. So it goes ---
Spring optimism never bars
Visions of a championship
But then reality shows us its face
And then the expectations flip
And with our failures goes first place.
Then our great season’s put to bed
And Midas’ gold has turned to lead
The Gift
I don’t need my college degrees anymore.
Would you like them? Perhaps they will serve you
As well as they served me. With those representations
Of knowledge administered and later gained
In a most intimate way, person-to-person,
I navigated the oceans of sincerity and of
Refinement, learned as I taught, reached out
And found my way to lead the nation’s future to lands
Of plenty, where tales were told, words and ideas
Were exchanged, common humanity was comprehended
And universal themes were understood. These modestly
Earned degrees became passports enabling me
To journey through the minds and hearts of
Inchoate and burgeoning minds, a personal
Experience that left its mark upon each stranger
Who became a friend. But now, as the sun of my
Career has set, I find myself no longer needing
Those degrees that I spent years earning and
Many more years giving shape and substance to,
And so I offer them to you, for in your eyes I see
The calling and desire that eagerly define
A true caring leader of the coming generations.
Please accept this precious baton and continue
Running the race that seems to go in circles,
Knowing that it is more a cycle than a circle that you
Will devote your time to, and in the end, one day
Your journey will be done and you will find
That you’ll be swathed in a fulfillment and an understanding
That no finish line can match.
I don’t need my college degrees anymore.
Would you like them? Perhaps they will serve you
As well as they served me. With those representations
Of knowledge administered and later gained
In a most intimate way, person-to-person,
I navigated the oceans of sincerity and of
Refinement, learned as I taught, reached out
And found my way to lead the nation’s future to lands
Of plenty, where tales were told, words and ideas
Were exchanged, common humanity was comprehended
And universal themes were understood. These modestly
Earned degrees became passports enabling me
To journey through the minds and hearts of
Inchoate and burgeoning minds, a personal
Experience that left its mark upon each stranger
Who became a friend. But now, as the sun of my
Career has set, I find myself no longer needing
Those degrees that I spent years earning and
Many more years giving shape and substance to,
And so I offer them to you, for in your eyes I see
The calling and desire that eagerly define
A true caring leader of the coming generations.
Please accept this precious baton and continue
Running the race that seems to go in circles,
Knowing that it is more a cycle than a circle that you
Will devote your time to, and in the end, one day
Your journey will be done and you will find
That you’ll be swathed in a fulfillment and an understanding
That no finish line can match.
Victory
Baseball is replete with many victories,
Some Minor and others greater but only one
That could and would be labeled Major.
It is a Minor victory to pass by all the others
Who love the game and put in their greatest effort
And make it to the Minor Leagues, coming face to face
With all the competition eager to move on to greater things,
To larger crowds and better built stadiums and pride in themselves,
Reflected in the eyes of their moms and dads.
It is a minor yet a major victory married of sorts
When a player faces and overcomes a fault
Which hinders his desired progress toward his dreamed of goal
Of being called up to the Show; for one, it’s lack of confidence;
For another one, it’s eradicating stubbornness and melding
With the team, even if that means less playing time
Or a change in positions at the sacrifice of natural ability
For the greater good, for the need of the club, either
Minor or Major. Be aware that a massive victory results from many smaller ones.
Eventually, the Majors may call and with that new and pressured scene,
A host of other victories await the individuals who know their blessing
And answer the invitation. For some, the fear of failure cripples progress
But for most, already ready and prepared, the march continues toward success.
Victory is heard in the cheers of the crowds, music blaring forth from speakers,
Announcers singing praises and most of all, encouragement of teammates
And reassurance from coaches. Let the game begin! And the next …!
Injuries offer unique challenges for a player to show his mettle. From
Pulled and strained ligaments and muscles to broken bones to Tommy John,
These athletes achieve victory by not relenting to the pain but rather meeting
Requirements of discipline and finally returning to the field. At that point,
They repay all the faith and nurturing they have received and show themselves
To be professionals worthy of the uniform and whatever salary they have
Been blessed to earn, after which they rejoin the unrelenting march
To the Final Victory, the World Series crown and a place forever
In the hearts of fans who will relive repeatedly the glory of those games!
Baseball is replete with many victories,
Some Minor and others greater but only one
That could and would be labeled Major.
It is a Minor victory to pass by all the others
Who love the game and put in their greatest effort
And make it to the Minor Leagues, coming face to face
With all the competition eager to move on to greater things,
To larger crowds and better built stadiums and pride in themselves,
Reflected in the eyes of their moms and dads.
It is a minor yet a major victory married of sorts
When a player faces and overcomes a fault
Which hinders his desired progress toward his dreamed of goal
Of being called up to the Show; for one, it’s lack of confidence;
For another one, it’s eradicating stubbornness and melding
With the team, even if that means less playing time
Or a change in positions at the sacrifice of natural ability
For the greater good, for the need of the club, either
Minor or Major. Be aware that a massive victory results from many smaller ones.
Eventually, the Majors may call and with that new and pressured scene,
A host of other victories await the individuals who know their blessing
And answer the invitation. For some, the fear of failure cripples progress
But for most, already ready and prepared, the march continues toward success.
Victory is heard in the cheers of the crowds, music blaring forth from speakers,
Announcers singing praises and most of all, encouragement of teammates
And reassurance from coaches. Let the game begin! And the next …!
Injuries offer unique challenges for a player to show his mettle. From
Pulled and strained ligaments and muscles to broken bones to Tommy John,
These athletes achieve victory by not relenting to the pain but rather meeting
Requirements of discipline and finally returning to the field. At that point,
They repay all the faith and nurturing they have received and show themselves
To be professionals worthy of the uniform and whatever salary they have
Been blessed to earn, after which they rejoin the unrelenting march
To the Final Victory, the World Series crown and a place forever
In the hearts of fans who will relive repeatedly the glory of those games!
Snow
The charming geometric flakes glide onto the windowpanes
And decorate my day with their intrinsic beauty.
Life can be ugly if you focus on what happens because of
Greed or anger but there will be snow to charm away
The hostilities that human beings force themselves to live with and dwell in.
I recall, when I have need to temporarily escape the overwhelming world,
The days of snow that warmly, tenderly defined my childhood ---
Not in the woods of Walden or the fields of Iowa
Or the vast plains or deserts of the West
But on the sidewalks and in the vacant lots of the Bronx,
A constant wonderland unlike the evil neighborhoods
Filled with hoods and connected stereotypes
That made their way onto the movie screen.
There was a day once when I walked to school through a three-foot fall
That blanketed every one of the six long blocks I traversed that day.
The crisp, clean, crystal collection of winter’s pleasantry
Accompanied me on my journey in a time before I grew too old
And joined my grouchy voice to others’, mumbling about inconvenience
And failing to appreciate the beauty and the joy that had
Too rarely fallen to the earth. I trudged on and made my path as if
I were a member of some expedition set out to lovingly explore
The most attractive phenomenon that in those days perhaps
Was taken as a given when it was meant to be enjoyed and frolicked in
And thanked as a true friend who welcomed me and celebrated
The special days of my early teens. I loved the newer snow
As an art major loves a masterpiece, and I felt just a bit of guilt
As I interfered with the snow’s immaculate virgin nature, taking heavy steps
And leaving such a trail that as I gazed back seemed to be following me
From my front stoop right up to the entrance of the school.
Some things are meant to remain untouched, maintaining purity,
But that is difficult in the world we humans traipse as we mechanically
Go about our business. Today the snow is viewed as a sad threat,
Blaring warnings of potential crashes and slides and falls, but then,
Before my image of the world took on a jaded shade, it was an invitation
To understand the realm of Nature and to simply play ---
With snowballs thrown, snowmen created, and with wood and metal sleds
That glided swiftly down the hills of nearby vacant lots
Right into imaginary worlds where fun was the nature of things
And smiles broke out like so many flowers suddenly in bloom.
I miss the innocence of the snow and regret that I now see it as a threat.
It has not changed; I have . . . and, sadly, not for the better.
At least I can revisit the purity and innocence of the snow
In my memory and imagination whene’er I feel the need,
Which seems to be more and more frequently
As day follows day and time marches on unresisted
And brings me further and further away from the snow-blessed days
Of my cherished youth.
The charming geometric flakes glide onto the windowpanes
And decorate my day with their intrinsic beauty.
Life can be ugly if you focus on what happens because of
Greed or anger but there will be snow to charm away
The hostilities that human beings force themselves to live with and dwell in.
I recall, when I have need to temporarily escape the overwhelming world,
The days of snow that warmly, tenderly defined my childhood ---
Not in the woods of Walden or the fields of Iowa
Or the vast plains or deserts of the West
But on the sidewalks and in the vacant lots of the Bronx,
A constant wonderland unlike the evil neighborhoods
Filled with hoods and connected stereotypes
That made their way onto the movie screen.
There was a day once when I walked to school through a three-foot fall
That blanketed every one of the six long blocks I traversed that day.
The crisp, clean, crystal collection of winter’s pleasantry
Accompanied me on my journey in a time before I grew too old
And joined my grouchy voice to others’, mumbling about inconvenience
And failing to appreciate the beauty and the joy that had
Too rarely fallen to the earth. I trudged on and made my path as if
I were a member of some expedition set out to lovingly explore
The most attractive phenomenon that in those days perhaps
Was taken as a given when it was meant to be enjoyed and frolicked in
And thanked as a true friend who welcomed me and celebrated
The special days of my early teens. I loved the newer snow
As an art major loves a masterpiece, and I felt just a bit of guilt
As I interfered with the snow’s immaculate virgin nature, taking heavy steps
And leaving such a trail that as I gazed back seemed to be following me
From my front stoop right up to the entrance of the school.
Some things are meant to remain untouched, maintaining purity,
But that is difficult in the world we humans traipse as we mechanically
Go about our business. Today the snow is viewed as a sad threat,
Blaring warnings of potential crashes and slides and falls, but then,
Before my image of the world took on a jaded shade, it was an invitation
To understand the realm of Nature and to simply play ---
With snowballs thrown, snowmen created, and with wood and metal sleds
That glided swiftly down the hills of nearby vacant lots
Right into imaginary worlds where fun was the nature of things
And smiles broke out like so many flowers suddenly in bloom.
I miss the innocence of the snow and regret that I now see it as a threat.
It has not changed; I have . . . and, sadly, not for the better.
At least I can revisit the purity and innocence of the snow
In my memory and imagination whene’er I feel the need,
Which seems to be more and more frequently
As day follows day and time marches on unresisted
And brings me further and further away from the snow-blessed days
Of my cherished youth.
Protector
It stands majestically tall, erect, proud of its purpose,
Its glowing eye seeking out those potentially coming face to face with harm,
Warning them to care enough to practice vigilance
And to avoid the human trap of overconfidence.
This lighthouse houses one who lives a life
Lonely, secluded, yet valued by his fellows;
This man, singular in nature and in purpose,
Gives life to the light that circulates and quietly announces
The perils of the rocks, sharpened by centuries of wear,
Hidden by the waves and tide, a threat to those who
Turn away for one eternal moment. This weather-beaten
Pair --- lighthouse and keeper --- in their isolation
Live to save humankind from carelessness and oblivion,
Ramparts against the ordinary inattentiveness of much too human beings.
What occurred some time long ago that brought the watchman to this place?
Was it anger and despair and distrust of people that helped him
Choose a life of isolation, or was it what the light could not discover
For all illumination, a love of humankind and a kind of devotion
To their safety? That remains a mystery of life, one of many, but
Whate’er the reason, he now finds himself working in the cylinder
Of safety, living sparsely in the stark and concrete companion home,
Passing days and nights concerned with the security of strangers.
Did she leave him suddenly alone on Earth, the one who loved him
But could not remain? Did she drown their memories and their love?
He could not protect her against the rushing, rising waves of Life; and so,
He now protects those who still have a chance for fulfillment,
Guiding them from Neptune’s anger and desire,
Until they can find refuge and seek the happiness that once was his,
The joie de vivre he can never know again.
It stands majestically tall, erect, proud of its purpose,
Its glowing eye seeking out those potentially coming face to face with harm,
Warning them to care enough to practice vigilance
And to avoid the human trap of overconfidence.
This lighthouse houses one who lives a life
Lonely, secluded, yet valued by his fellows;
This man, singular in nature and in purpose,
Gives life to the light that circulates and quietly announces
The perils of the rocks, sharpened by centuries of wear,
Hidden by the waves and tide, a threat to those who
Turn away for one eternal moment. This weather-beaten
Pair --- lighthouse and keeper --- in their isolation
Live to save humankind from carelessness and oblivion,
Ramparts against the ordinary inattentiveness of much too human beings.
What occurred some time long ago that brought the watchman to this place?
Was it anger and despair and distrust of people that helped him
Choose a life of isolation, or was it what the light could not discover
For all illumination, a love of humankind and a kind of devotion
To their safety? That remains a mystery of life, one of many, but
Whate’er the reason, he now finds himself working in the cylinder
Of safety, living sparsely in the stark and concrete companion home,
Passing days and nights concerned with the security of strangers.
Did she leave him suddenly alone on Earth, the one who loved him
But could not remain? Did she drown their memories and their love?
He could not protect her against the rushing, rising waves of Life; and so,
He now protects those who still have a chance for fulfillment,
Guiding them from Neptune’s anger and desire,
Until they can find refuge and seek the happiness that once was his,
The joie de vivre he can never know again.
Waiting Once Again
I am waiting . . . I have spent a lifetime waiting:
For my friends, for my family, for the right time
Or weather or place or love of my life.
As a child, I waited for the next birthday, the next
Presents, the next meaningful phone call
(Unlike today, when almost all the calls are fake
Or cruel salespeople or charlatans).
I remember waiting for my first tricycle,
Delivered by a magic truck and a wizard; for my Lionel electric
Trains, going in circles that delivered me to
Worlds of fantasy and mystical atmospheres; for
My mom to come home from the hospital (a journey
She was never to make); for a baseball glove
That I took hours to make my own, shaping it with a ball,
Some leather-softening oil and a few rubber bands; for
A Mickey Mantle baseball card (which was supposed to come
With sweet, powdery pink gum, in a neat rectangular pack ---
But which never appeared, no matter how desperately I tried); for
One sister to visit in her navy uniform and the other
To let me lick clean the chocolate pudding bowl (perhaps
An echo of the times my mom gave me the old wooden bowl
With remnants of chopped meat and fish to clean out
“Because children are starving in Europe”); for letters to arrive
Which I had sent to myself for reasons I will leave the therapists
And English teachers to analyze; for New Year’s Eve to finally
Arrive and give me a reason to wave a sparkler at my kitchen
Window, my version of Times Square celebrations; for a
Presentation at my college by the head of the Peace Corps,
Sargent Shriver, one week after his brother-in-law, JFK was
Assassinated (after which I signed on to make the world a better place,
Wich happened when I met my future wife two years later).
I have spent a lifetime waiting --- and now it is the World’s time
To wait for me. I will wear the clothing that I wish to, shave when
I feel it is time, greet those who deserve my greeting, listen to
Country and Western music even though I am from the Bronx, get up
When the time has come --- not when the alarm sends shudders through
My soul, read when and where I desire, proclaim my love anywhere
At any time, collect my coins and stare at them and fantasize
All the people in the past who touched each coin and lived
In ways and places set within my imagination, know what I am
Truly worth to those who matter. This is the journey that I have
Found myself upon --- moments sad and happy, moments that
Have added up to who I am, moments that I endlessly relive
As I again find myself waiting ---
This time for the ending, for the common final destination,
For the Place when I will once again ride my trike and play with my trains
And empty the bowl for Mom and make my sisters proud
And be with my Dad, who left too soon after my return from Africa ---
And I will smile as only one who has come home can smile.
For my friends, for my family, for the right time
Or weather or place or love of my life.
As a child, I waited for the next birthday, the next
Presents, the next meaningful phone call
(Unlike today, when almost all the calls are fake
Or cruel salespeople or charlatans).
I remember waiting for my first tricycle,
Delivered by a magic truck and a wizard; for my Lionel electric
Trains, going in circles that delivered me to
Worlds of fantasy and mystical atmospheres; for
My mom to come home from the hospital (a journey
She was never to make); for a baseball glove
That I took hours to make my own, shaping it with a ball,
Some leather-softening oil and a few rubber bands; for
A Mickey Mantle baseball card (which was supposed to come
With sweet, powdery pink gum, in a neat rectangular pack ---
But which never appeared, no matter how desperately I tried); for
One sister to visit in her navy uniform and the other
To let me lick clean the chocolate pudding bowl (perhaps
An echo of the times my mom gave me the old wooden bowl
With remnants of chopped meat and fish to clean out
“Because children are starving in Europe”); for letters to arrive
Which I had sent to myself for reasons I will leave the therapists
And English teachers to analyze; for New Year’s Eve to finally
Arrive and give me a reason to wave a sparkler at my kitchen
Window, my version of Times Square celebrations; for a
Presentation at my college by the head of the Peace Corps,
Sargent Shriver, one week after his brother-in-law, JFK was
Assassinated (after which I signed on to make the world a better place,
Wich happened when I met my future wife two years later).
I have spent a lifetime waiting --- and now it is the World’s time
To wait for me. I will wear the clothing that I wish to, shave when
I feel it is time, greet those who deserve my greeting, listen to
Country and Western music even though I am from the Bronx, get up
When the time has come --- not when the alarm sends shudders through
My soul, read when and where I desire, proclaim my love anywhere
At any time, collect my coins and stare at them and fantasize
All the people in the past who touched each coin and lived
In ways and places set within my imagination, know what I am
Truly worth to those who matter. This is the journey that I have
Found myself upon --- moments sad and happy, moments that
Have added up to who I am, moments that I endlessly relive
As I again find myself waiting ---
This time for the ending, for the common final destination,
For the Place when I will once again ride my trike and play with my trains
And empty the bowl for Mom and make my sisters proud
And be with my Dad, who left too soon after my return from Africa ---
And I will smile as only one who has come home can smile.
I once Was a Poet
I once was a poet, but it hurt too much ---
Showing, not telling, the pain and grief of Life,
Warning humans too arrogant to see the potholes
In the roads they traveled by, shouting
From my heart to beware and look around
Because the evils and disappointments living much too closely
To the surface of our lives were eager to reach out
With long, crooked fingers, surrounded with withered skin,
And grasp what was left of our naiveté and choke the breath
From the breadth of our optimism.
How could I, with my rhymes and my phrases and my images
Reach other people in such a way that they would comprehend
Before it was too late that their fates rested on the wisdom
I was trying to impart, get their attention when my soul-mate
Ancient Mariner, who tried and failed, was doomed to
Eternal existence proclaiming wisdom only to be shunned repeatedly?
Even the fair Cassandra knew how much it hurt to warn, to tell,
To scream out in the night to no avail --- and here was I,
Writing poetry that dispersed a lifetime of acutely learned
Lessons; what chance did ordinary I have to be noticed?
I then put down my books, erased my memories and
Observations from my mind, took a lonely walk
Along the river bank and looked up at the stars and shed a tear
For I was doomed to keep within the secrets of the cosmos;
No one was open to my words. No one understood
What the stars and the sky and the grass and the soil
Were trying to convey, . . . much less the silly words
That I spent precious moments writing. It was then I knew
That it made no difference --- words and phrases or
A simple clean, blank page: We were doomed to make
The same mistakes time and again and eventually no one
Would care because no one would be there
Except the stars and the sky and the broken, dying trees and
The radiant, glowing soil where nothing could be grown
Any more.
I once was a poet, but it hurt too much ---
Showing, not telling, the pain and grief of Life,
Warning humans too arrogant to see the potholes
In the roads they traveled by, shouting
From my heart to beware and look around
Because the evils and disappointments living much too closely
To the surface of our lives were eager to reach out
With long, crooked fingers, surrounded with withered skin,
And grasp what was left of our naiveté and choke the breath
From the breadth of our optimism.
How could I, with my rhymes and my phrases and my images
Reach other people in such a way that they would comprehend
Before it was too late that their fates rested on the wisdom
I was trying to impart, get their attention when my soul-mate
Ancient Mariner, who tried and failed, was doomed to
Eternal existence proclaiming wisdom only to be shunned repeatedly?
Even the fair Cassandra knew how much it hurt to warn, to tell,
To scream out in the night to no avail --- and here was I,
Writing poetry that dispersed a lifetime of acutely learned
Lessons; what chance did ordinary I have to be noticed?
I then put down my books, erased my memories and
Observations from my mind, took a lonely walk
Along the river bank and looked up at the stars and shed a tear
For I was doomed to keep within the secrets of the cosmos;
No one was open to my words. No one understood
What the stars and the sky and the grass and the soil
Were trying to convey, . . . much less the silly words
That I spent precious moments writing. It was then I knew
That it made no difference --- words and phrases or
A simple clean, blank page: We were doomed to make
The same mistakes time and again and eventually no one
Would care because no one would be there
Except the stars and the sky and the broken, dying trees and
The radiant, glowing soil where nothing could be grown
Any more.
The Bases: Home Plate
The start and end of a batter’s moment,
Janus of the diamond.
The place where hitters say their prayers to
The Gods of Baseball, those who knew in the past
What it meant to start their loving journey ---
A rectangle and triangle pointing to the field,
Dissecting it in half, preparing it for an invasion
That may or may not see defensive success.
Home plate is home to starters and to finishers,
And should be worshiped for what it represents:
First step, first breath, first sight, first flight,
Initial phase, start of a maze, hello and goodbye . . .
It is what it is, the start or the end of a rally,
A welcome sign, a farewell sign
And for those fortunate enough to make contact
It is the beginning of the inning’s score,
And ironically it is also journey’s end, a place
To score, to hit the floor and pick up dirt,
To kick the catcher’s mitt and upon occasion
To start and to conclude a circle of the bases
On the basis of a clout going out into
The hands in the stands in fair territory,
A moment of glory for a base that is the basis
Of the home run trot, the absurd but worthy
Hand and heart dance routines waiting
For the batter to engage in with his coaches and his mates,
As emphatically across home plate,
Journey done, he glides (or slides
If his score results from a base hit).
Welcome home! Your journey's done.
Home plate is a home to approach as
Batter first, then runner, but either way
It has a way of welcoming success.
The start and end of a batter’s moment,
Janus of the diamond.
The place where hitters say their prayers to
The Gods of Baseball, those who knew in the past
What it meant to start their loving journey ---
A rectangle and triangle pointing to the field,
Dissecting it in half, preparing it for an invasion
That may or may not see defensive success.
Home plate is home to starters and to finishers,
And should be worshiped for what it represents:
First step, first breath, first sight, first flight,
Initial phase, start of a maze, hello and goodbye . . .
It is what it is, the start or the end of a rally,
A welcome sign, a farewell sign
And for those fortunate enough to make contact
It is the beginning of the inning’s score,
And ironically it is also journey’s end, a place
To score, to hit the floor and pick up dirt,
To kick the catcher’s mitt and upon occasion
To start and to conclude a circle of the bases
On the basis of a clout going out into
The hands in the stands in fair territory,
A moment of glory for a base that is the basis
Of the home run trot, the absurd but worthy
Hand and heart dance routines waiting
For the batter to engage in with his coaches and his mates,
As emphatically across home plate,
Journey done, he glides (or slides
If his score results from a base hit).
Welcome home! Your journey's done.
Home plate is a home to approach as
Batter first, then runner, but either way
It has a way of welcoming success.
The Bases: First Base
It is the most common goal, lying there
Waiting for someone, anyone, to visit,
Stay a while, get things done, then move on.
It values cleanliness, acknowledging that
Of all the bases it is least receptor of a slide.
Sometimes runners glide past it, barely
Touching it with toes, on to bigger things ---
But it doesn’t mind. It treasures its high place
In the hierarchy, realizing that no runs will be scored
Without its cloud to earth presence, so it endures
The nervousness of the base-stealer, the disappointment
Of the hitter held there when he thought he’d hit a double,
The company of enemy combatants stepping on it,
Even jostling for position, for it feel secure in realizing
That it is a worthy friend to its companion,
The right-side foul line (which constantly complains that
It should be called a fair line, and who else would listen
To such foul language day after day?) --- and so first base
Treasures being the hub of much activity and lies there
Proudly and doesn’t mind the footprints because
It recognizes that only it has earned, among all bases,
The cherished place of being recognized as “First”.
It is the most common goal, lying there
Waiting for someone, anyone, to visit,
Stay a while, get things done, then move on.
It values cleanliness, acknowledging that
Of all the bases it is least receptor of a slide.
Sometimes runners glide past it, barely
Touching it with toes, on to bigger things ---
But it doesn’t mind. It treasures its high place
In the hierarchy, realizing that no runs will be scored
Without its cloud to earth presence, so it endures
The nervousness of the base-stealer, the disappointment
Of the hitter held there when he thought he’d hit a double,
The company of enemy combatants stepping on it,
Even jostling for position, for it feel secure in realizing
That it is a worthy friend to its companion,
The right-side foul line (which constantly complains that
It should be called a fair line, and who else would listen
To such foul language day after day?) --- and so first base
Treasures being the hub of much activity and lies there
Proudly and doesn’t mind the footprints because
It recognizes that only it has earned, among all bases,
The cherished place of being recognized as “First”.
The Bases: Second Base
Second base is no second place. It is a winner,
A magic destination for a special kind of hit called
"Extra bases" that separates singles hitters
From their bigger and wealthier brothers,
Power hitters. It places runners in
"Scoring position" and supplies its temporary visitors
With the comforting knowledge that they are
Half-way home. Yes, it has a reputation as
A momentary destination in double plays but that
Is not duplicity; it is versatility.
No doubt, many bright young cushions on the Minor Leagues
Look forward to the day they are promoted
And debut in The Show and
Can proudly declare, "I am special.
I am second base, home of ghosts and heroes."
Second base is no second place. It is a winner,
A magic destination for a special kind of hit called
"Extra bases" that separates singles hitters
From their bigger and wealthier brothers,
Power hitters. It places runners in
"Scoring position" and supplies its temporary visitors
With the comforting knowledge that they are
Half-way home. Yes, it has a reputation as
A momentary destination in double plays but that
Is not duplicity; it is versatility.
No doubt, many bright young cushions on the Minor Leagues
Look forward to the day they are promoted
And debut in The Show and
Can proudly declare, "I am special.
I am second base, home of ghosts and heroes."
The Bases: Third Base
Almost there: thisclose to where it all began;
So close to a run on the road to victory
(Or, maybe, catching up) ---
Third base comes before the score
(In more ways than one but this is about baseball).
It is the loneliest of bases, seeing much less action
Than its companions . . . sometimes even nothing
At all . . . when there are well pitched games,
Shut outs, the rare no-hitter, and the like.
On days such as those it’s like third base doesn’t
Do its job or have a job to do, just lying there,
Staring up at the glaring gaudy sun
Or the moon in one of its moody phases.
It takes much patience to be stationary, waiting
For action to come its way, but it is comforted
In its recognition that it lies ready when its turn arrives ---
Its turn to be the faithful soldier supporting the march of
Uniformed men on their way home to where it
Matters most. Third base has the least to do but the
Least turns into the most (almost) when it is
Called upon to do its share for victory.
Almost there: thisclose to where it all began;
So close to a run on the road to victory
(Or, maybe, catching up) ---
Third base comes before the score
(In more ways than one but this is about baseball).
It is the loneliest of bases, seeing much less action
Than its companions . . . sometimes even nothing
At all . . . when there are well pitched games,
Shut outs, the rare no-hitter, and the like.
On days such as those it’s like third base doesn’t
Do its job or have a job to do, just lying there,
Staring up at the glaring gaudy sun
Or the moon in one of its moody phases.
It takes much patience to be stationary, waiting
For action to come its way, but it is comforted
In its recognition that it lies ready when its turn arrives ---
Its turn to be the faithful soldier supporting the march of
Uniformed men on their way home to where it
Matters most. Third base has the least to do but the
Least turns into the most (almost) when it is
Called upon to do its share for victory.
Double-headers
Change can be a double-edged sword, even in baseball.
My memories are my friends; they make the impossible
Possible. They allow the youth in me to recall the 1950’s,
When I could look forward to a fan-friendly era in the National Pastime,
Probably more favoring us students than the working adults
Who did their 9 to 5’s or night shifts. I loved daytime baseball,
As a player and most certainly as a fan --- a Yankee fan
(And I ask forgiveness of those masses who despised the Yanks
And al their money in the years before free agency) --- I relished
The 2-for-1, in the expected and fulfilling (from a fan’s
Point of view, if not a player’s) double-headers: every Sunday
(So it seemed) and many holidays. I loved looking forward to
The sweep, and even if I had to settle for the split it was okay
(Like kissing your sibling --- not romantic but a heart-felt compromise).
I lived through those twin bills --- watching, snacking, even
Getting up and imitating Mickey Mantle’s swing or an indignant
Argument with the home plate ump about a clearly unjust call.
Double-headers filled my special days, and with the Yanks of
That decade more often than not I was rewarded with a healthy
Portion of vicarious victory, as delicious as the snacks I gorged myself with.
And then the meteors hit the Earth and suddenly most of the
Dinosaurs died and what was left was barely a trace of what
Had been, with double-headers mostly used to make up games,
Often as infuriating day – night twin-admission contests,
At least to those of us who open our shared youthful memory,
And I cried --- figuratively, naturally --- and mourned the passing
Of a fragment of the American Dream that was taken from me.
No doubt the owners have made more money from the added single games
(TV, attendance, whatever) but to me what they gained in revenue
They lost in older fan appreciation. Good times flew away with those
Comforting ‘50’s double-headers, but I am grateful that
I can replay moments of those daytime delights in my memory.
I choose to memorialize them in my way rather than mourn
What was in those good days treasured times when
There was extra reason to celebrate Sundays, Memorial Day,
The Fourth of July and Labor Day in the purest of American ways.
Change can be a double-edged sword, even in baseball.
My memories are my friends; they make the impossible
Possible. They allow the youth in me to recall the 1950’s,
When I could look forward to a fan-friendly era in the National Pastime,
Probably more favoring us students than the working adults
Who did their 9 to 5’s or night shifts. I loved daytime baseball,
As a player and most certainly as a fan --- a Yankee fan
(And I ask forgiveness of those masses who despised the Yanks
And al their money in the years before free agency) --- I relished
The 2-for-1, in the expected and fulfilling (from a fan’s
Point of view, if not a player’s) double-headers: every Sunday
(So it seemed) and many holidays. I loved looking forward to
The sweep, and even if I had to settle for the split it was okay
(Like kissing your sibling --- not romantic but a heart-felt compromise).
I lived through those twin bills --- watching, snacking, even
Getting up and imitating Mickey Mantle’s swing or an indignant
Argument with the home plate ump about a clearly unjust call.
Double-headers filled my special days, and with the Yanks of
That decade more often than not I was rewarded with a healthy
Portion of vicarious victory, as delicious as the snacks I gorged myself with.
And then the meteors hit the Earth and suddenly most of the
Dinosaurs died and what was left was barely a trace of what
Had been, with double-headers mostly used to make up games,
Often as infuriating day – night twin-admission contests,
At least to those of us who open our shared youthful memory,
And I cried --- figuratively, naturally --- and mourned the passing
Of a fragment of the American Dream that was taken from me.
No doubt the owners have made more money from the added single games
(TV, attendance, whatever) but to me what they gained in revenue
They lost in older fan appreciation. Good times flew away with those
Comforting ‘50’s double-headers, but I am grateful that
I can replay moments of those daytime delights in my memory.
I choose to memorialize them in my way rather than mourn
What was in those good days treasured times when
There was extra reason to celebrate Sundays, Memorial Day,
The Fourth of July and Labor Day in the purest of American ways.
Jules Munshin
“Take Me Out to the Ballgame” --- those are not just lyrics; the phrase
Is also the title of a film that has played constantly in my heart.
For more than half a century. Baseball is in my blood ---
No, really. That is not a metaphor or some
Emotional image. The sport is, you see, a vehicle
By which my first cousin Jules, son of my Uncle Joe,
Rode further on to fame in 1949 --- coincidentally,
The start of my love affair began (though it too often was not
Returned by my hometown team). Jules Munshin
Played first base on the Wolves, a celluloid team
That traveled that year from cinema to cinema. He
Had teammates played by two actors you may have heard of,
Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra (“O’Brien to Ryan to Goldberg”)
And the team was owned by K. C. Higgins, portrayed by
Esther Williams. If you are too young to recall these names,
Rent the film and watch. It brings humanity to a sport too often
Viewed from the stands or the TV set. So, as I said, the sport
Is in my blood, and every time I get involved in a game, I bleed
Hometown blue and orange, and that is much too often. When I hear
The songs of baseball, it is the soundtrack of that movie that echoes
In my mind. I want to know the players as deeply as I got to know
The characters who played for the Wolves or coached or owned them.
There are so many baseball films --- biographies, fantasies, musicals
From “The Sandlot” to “Major League” but only one touches me
And draws me in both magnetized and mesmerized, and you know
That film’s title. Stay with it, Cousin, keep at it . . . the pennant is
Right there, yours and your teammates’ for the taking. And when you
Win at last, share it with me, a loyal fan since 1949!
“Take Me Out to the Ballgame” --- those are not just lyrics; the phrase
Is also the title of a film that has played constantly in my heart.
For more than half a century. Baseball is in my blood ---
No, really. That is not a metaphor or some
Emotional image. The sport is, you see, a vehicle
By which my first cousin Jules, son of my Uncle Joe,
Rode further on to fame in 1949 --- coincidentally,
The start of my love affair began (though it too often was not
Returned by my hometown team). Jules Munshin
Played first base on the Wolves, a celluloid team
That traveled that year from cinema to cinema. He
Had teammates played by two actors you may have heard of,
Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra (“O’Brien to Ryan to Goldberg”)
And the team was owned by K. C. Higgins, portrayed by
Esther Williams. If you are too young to recall these names,
Rent the film and watch. It brings humanity to a sport too often
Viewed from the stands or the TV set. So, as I said, the sport
Is in my blood, and every time I get involved in a game, I bleed
Hometown blue and orange, and that is much too often. When I hear
The songs of baseball, it is the soundtrack of that movie that echoes
In my mind. I want to know the players as deeply as I got to know
The characters who played for the Wolves or coached or owned them.
There are so many baseball films --- biographies, fantasies, musicals
From “The Sandlot” to “Major League” but only one touches me
And draws me in both magnetized and mesmerized, and you know
That film’s title. Stay with it, Cousin, keep at it . . . the pennant is
Right there, yours and your teammates’ for the taking. And when you
Win at last, share it with me, a loyal fan since 1949!
Then and Now
I used to collect coins, stamps, and baseball cards.
Now, in my ninth decade of Life, I collect doctors . . .
Specialists who search for causes and fixes
Which will extend my expiration date.
I used to hold closely shiny coins and imagine
What it would be like to visit and stroll around
The countries of their birth,
Or I’d hold close to me and peruse old, worn
Copper, bronze, tin coins that time and history had
Worn away although they still had life and value ---
And fantasize about the many human beings who
Touched these coins, what their lives and families
Were like, how they cherished Life, which dreams they had
And clinged to, and whether they came true.
I even visited such places and recall those times in dreams.
Now I stumble to the closest chair in the waiting room
And less than eagerly anticipate
This latest “visit” and a stranger’s examination
Of my imperfections.
I used to touch the stamps and encourage my imagination
To drift borderlessly to foreign lands holding great adventures
That verified a life that held great and blessed meaning,
But now I stamp out doubts that plague me and without thought
Place cold stamps on envelopes containing bills to servants of
Hippocrates and Asclepius.
I was once a youthful concept of potential,
A sandlot athlete with glove and brand-new pocket . . .
Holding, gazing at, studying baseball cards
With players staring back at me, welcoming me
In their bright and colorful home uniforms
(Not the bland gray ones they all wore in away games),
Inviting me to join their small fraternity,
Smelling sweetly of pink bubble gum,
With wonderful statistics on the other side
(Evidence of growth and of accomplishment) . . .
And now the numbers shared with me inform me
Of what’s off about my heart rate and my chemistry
And blood pressure, cholesterol --- too may numbers
That will never take the place of those statistics that once fed my soul.
I have become a veteran of this game we all take part in;
There is a too disturbing and a warped parade of parallels
In Life but that is how it is.
That is how it is.
I used to collect coins, stamps, and baseball cards.
Now, in my ninth decade of Life, I collect doctors . . .
Specialists who search for causes and fixes
Which will extend my expiration date.
I used to hold closely shiny coins and imagine
What it would be like to visit and stroll around
The countries of their birth,
Or I’d hold close to me and peruse old, worn
Copper, bronze, tin coins that time and history had
Worn away although they still had life and value ---
And fantasize about the many human beings who
Touched these coins, what their lives and families
Were like, how they cherished Life, which dreams they had
And clinged to, and whether they came true.
I even visited such places and recall those times in dreams.
Now I stumble to the closest chair in the waiting room
And less than eagerly anticipate
This latest “visit” and a stranger’s examination
Of my imperfections.
I used to touch the stamps and encourage my imagination
To drift borderlessly to foreign lands holding great adventures
That verified a life that held great and blessed meaning,
But now I stamp out doubts that plague me and without thought
Place cold stamps on envelopes containing bills to servants of
Hippocrates and Asclepius.
I was once a youthful concept of potential,
A sandlot athlete with glove and brand-new pocket . . .
Holding, gazing at, studying baseball cards
With players staring back at me, welcoming me
In their bright and colorful home uniforms
(Not the bland gray ones they all wore in away games),
Inviting me to join their small fraternity,
Smelling sweetly of pink bubble gum,
With wonderful statistics on the other side
(Evidence of growth and of accomplishment) . . .
And now the numbers shared with me inform me
Of what’s off about my heart rate and my chemistry
And blood pressure, cholesterol --- too may numbers
That will never take the place of those statistics that once fed my soul.
I have become a veteran of this game we all take part in;
There is a too disturbing and a warped parade of parallels
In Life but that is how it is.
That is how it is.
Mandala
Navajo sandpaintings, “places where the gods come and go”
In their language, are made not to be art hanging on a museum wall,
Tapestries that tell great and vivid tales of heroes,
Portraits of long-gone families and imperfect beings,
But for healing the body and the soul, spiritual places
That come from the heavens, with their geometry and
Mix of hues and interconnections. They soothe the maker
And, once inevitably destroyed, take their place in the imagination,
Filling once-weakened humans with hope and with belief.
Watching a baseball game from its inception
Is tantamount to viewing the creation and construction
Of a sand mandala dedicated to the religion of our
Nation’s pastime, the sweep of the tawny sand painted
And shape-shifted with slides and spikes and hard-hit balls.
This growing infield pattern, never twice the same, symbolizes
A mystical spell, each game, of athletic artistry that all at once
Calms the human spirit and sends it soaring to celestial fields.
The shifting, dancing colors of the uniforms, often mixed with
Living sand and verdant planes, presents the transient spirit
Of an invigorating work of art
Determined to bring both excitement and tranquility
Not only to participants of this game of life and glory
But also for the souls perusing every play, seeking some small sense
Of wellness in their universe. The finished field indeed
Is the place of gods --- those who aspire to a place in the afterlife ---
Holy names like Trout and Judge and Ohtani and Betts, and
The Eternals --- Ruth and Aaron and Clementé and Koufax
And the rest who rest above and through each mandala
That is created in each field of glory and of love.
Navajo sandpaintings, “places where the gods come and go”
In their language, are made not to be art hanging on a museum wall,
Tapestries that tell great and vivid tales of heroes,
Portraits of long-gone families and imperfect beings,
But for healing the body and the soul, spiritual places
That come from the heavens, with their geometry and
Mix of hues and interconnections. They soothe the maker
And, once inevitably destroyed, take their place in the imagination,
Filling once-weakened humans with hope and with belief.
Watching a baseball game from its inception
Is tantamount to viewing the creation and construction
Of a sand mandala dedicated to the religion of our
Nation’s pastime, the sweep of the tawny sand painted
And shape-shifted with slides and spikes and hard-hit balls.
This growing infield pattern, never twice the same, symbolizes
A mystical spell, each game, of athletic artistry that all at once
Calms the human spirit and sends it soaring to celestial fields.
The shifting, dancing colors of the uniforms, often mixed with
Living sand and verdant planes, presents the transient spirit
Of an invigorating work of art
Determined to bring both excitement and tranquility
Not only to participants of this game of life and glory
But also for the souls perusing every play, seeking some small sense
Of wellness in their universe. The finished field indeed
Is the place of gods --- those who aspire to a place in the afterlife ---
Holy names like Trout and Judge and Ohtani and Betts, and
The Eternals --- Ruth and Aaron and Clementé and Koufax
And the rest who rest above and through each mandala
That is created in each field of glory and of love.
They Passed Too Fast, Those Warm and Lovely Days
Spring Valley sounds romantic and for me, it was . . .and is;
It is the home of my son’s Little League career, now decades past,
And was a home to me, his fan and coach, and so I sit here,
Reminiscing about moments I cannot regain but days of glory,
Times when families sang a chorus of melodies that echoed
Dreams and fantasies shared by three generations.
There is no symmetry to those enchanted voices, only love
And always sharing of excitement and potential sometimes realized.
Friendly players challenging each other one year,
Encouraging each other the next as new-found teammates,
They marched in peaceful yet rambunctious columns at the start
Of every season, past the stores and buildings of the town,
Cheered on by sideline viewers who perhaps recalled
When they or when their sons wore those uniforms.
Then the games, each a living entity unto itself, a way of
Channeling our combative nature --- a work of living art
Created by a marching mélange of pitches
Often accompanying grunts and uniforms dancing in the air,
Slides kicking up the light brown dust as if a nomad, struggling in the desert,
Had desperately bent down and dug for water with bare hands,
players running across the greenery, at times like the last
Of the wild horses waiting to be brought back home,
Sounds of teammates cheering each other on and opponents
Taunting, teasing, daring a batter to hit or a pitcher to throw.
Other images come to me: a jock strap worn outside the uniform,
Left-handed catchers and second basemen, injuries and screams
Of agony, tears at the end of a hard-played game, arguments
With umpires that were lost before begun, rowdy adult father-fans
Abusing their privileges and embarrassing their boys,
Superb diving catches and flubbed cans of corn ---
All a poignant reminder that we sometimes are too serious
When we should remember to have fun.
I recall one time when another assistant coach and I went to Shea
For a talk by Jeff Torborg, suggestions for bettering our coaching
And our handling of the boys, remembering that they were young,
Sensitive, impressionable, and still malleable. I listened with my heart
But when Jeff wasn’t talking, I was just a kid myself, gazing at the
Blank scoreboard and empty stands (for the game would not begin
For hours). I stared at the infield so well manicured and recalled
How when a child I had run along the warning track in days at
Yankee Stadium when at game’s end the fans were still allowed
To leave their seats and walk upon the field of history that mattered.
I missed those times as Jeff went on.
For me, the greatest part
Of that whole day had occurred when we were waiting outside the
Entrance door and Yogi Berra walked amidst our group to the entrance door
And he smiled as we grownups like so many kids greeted him with yells
Of “Yogi” (as though he were ignorant of his name). It was our
Doing homage to a man who was baseball royalty, who’d earned
Three MVP Awards, 13 World Series rings (10 as a player, 3 as a coach)
and who’d entered the Hall of Fame in 1972: This was a baseball god ---
And then I realized that all those boys in the Little League I spoke of earlier
Were not just my young son and his friends and teammates;
They were me and all those other coaches shouting at Lawrence Peter Berra!
Baseball has such magic that it keeps us young
And passionate and hopeful and enchanted. Rooting for my son
Was rooting for myself way past vicariously. I was on the field with him,
At bat, running bases, talking to my teammates, smelling the newly cut
Pungent verdant grass and gazing at the azure firmament.
Yogi brought it home to me and made me love the game that much more.
For a father there is nothing little about the Little League.
Spring Valley sounds romantic and for me, it was . . .and is;
It is the home of my son’s Little League career, now decades past,
And was a home to me, his fan and coach, and so I sit here,
Reminiscing about moments I cannot regain but days of glory,
Times when families sang a chorus of melodies that echoed
Dreams and fantasies shared by three generations.
There is no symmetry to those enchanted voices, only love
And always sharing of excitement and potential sometimes realized.
Friendly players challenging each other one year,
Encouraging each other the next as new-found teammates,
They marched in peaceful yet rambunctious columns at the start
Of every season, past the stores and buildings of the town,
Cheered on by sideline viewers who perhaps recalled
When they or when their sons wore those uniforms.
Then the games, each a living entity unto itself, a way of
Channeling our combative nature --- a work of living art
Created by a marching mélange of pitches
Often accompanying grunts and uniforms dancing in the air,
Slides kicking up the light brown dust as if a nomad, struggling in the desert,
Had desperately bent down and dug for water with bare hands,
players running across the greenery, at times like the last
Of the wild horses waiting to be brought back home,
Sounds of teammates cheering each other on and opponents
Taunting, teasing, daring a batter to hit or a pitcher to throw.
Other images come to me: a jock strap worn outside the uniform,
Left-handed catchers and second basemen, injuries and screams
Of agony, tears at the end of a hard-played game, arguments
With umpires that were lost before begun, rowdy adult father-fans
Abusing their privileges and embarrassing their boys,
Superb diving catches and flubbed cans of corn ---
All a poignant reminder that we sometimes are too serious
When we should remember to have fun.
I recall one time when another assistant coach and I went to Shea
For a talk by Jeff Torborg, suggestions for bettering our coaching
And our handling of the boys, remembering that they were young,
Sensitive, impressionable, and still malleable. I listened with my heart
But when Jeff wasn’t talking, I was just a kid myself, gazing at the
Blank scoreboard and empty stands (for the game would not begin
For hours). I stared at the infield so well manicured and recalled
How when a child I had run along the warning track in days at
Yankee Stadium when at game’s end the fans were still allowed
To leave their seats and walk upon the field of history that mattered.
I missed those times as Jeff went on.
For me, the greatest part
Of that whole day had occurred when we were waiting outside the
Entrance door and Yogi Berra walked amidst our group to the entrance door
And he smiled as we grownups like so many kids greeted him with yells
Of “Yogi” (as though he were ignorant of his name). It was our
Doing homage to a man who was baseball royalty, who’d earned
Three MVP Awards, 13 World Series rings (10 as a player, 3 as a coach)
and who’d entered the Hall of Fame in 1972: This was a baseball god ---
And then I realized that all those boys in the Little League I spoke of earlier
Were not just my young son and his friends and teammates;
They were me and all those other coaches shouting at Lawrence Peter Berra!
Baseball has such magic that it keeps us young
And passionate and hopeful and enchanted. Rooting for my son
Was rooting for myself way past vicariously. I was on the field with him,
At bat, running bases, talking to my teammates, smelling the newly cut
Pungent verdant grass and gazing at the azure firmament.
Yogi brought it home to me and made me love the game that much more.
For a father there is nothing little about the Little League.
On November 16, 2023, I was chosen to be the fifth member of the Hall of Fame of the baseball poetry web site www.baseballbard.com by site CEO Mark Sickman (a professional writer) and his editors. Here are the contents of the email I received informing me of this decision:
Dear Herb - The editors at Baseball Bard have reviewed your poems and find them to be poetically inspired and technically perfect. As a result of your outstanding work, you have been elected to the Baseball Bard Hall of Fame. Your name and a brief biographical note will be published in the Hall of Fame section of the site.
Congratulations, Herb. Well deserved.
Mark Sickman
Founder and Publisher
Baseball Bard
Dear Herb - The editors at Baseball Bard have reviewed your poems and find them to be poetically inspired and technically perfect. As a result of your outstanding work, you have been elected to the Baseball Bard Hall of Fame. Your name and a brief biographical note will be published in the Hall of Fame section of the site.
Congratulations, Herb. Well deserved.
Mark Sickman
Founder and Publisher
Baseball Bard
92
Did you ever notice the connection between 92
And baseball, like the story of the usher for the Cubs
Still working at age 92? Or the 92 year old Major League
Scout from New Jersey? Or the 92 year old Rangers
Fan who finally celebrated his team’s World Series win?
Or Willie Mays, who recently turned 92 and starred for
My Mets (and played a few years for the Giants, I guess)?
Of course, it’s more fun when one enters the realm of the fantastic
And envisions the effect that being 92 might have had on
Other well-known baseball players (and for this I credit
Writer Chris Jaffe and a magic article he once produced).
Consider if you will the motivating factor, the too-soon
Passing of Bob Feller, 92, Hall of Famer and decorated hero
Of World War Two, who volunteered the day after the
Sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. Here are Jaffe’s time-travel
Fantasies: If Ty Cobb had lived to 92, he would have seen
Lou Brock break his record for stolen bases in a career;
If Babe Ruth had lived to 92, he would have witnessed
Henry Aaron hit number 715; Lou Gehrig, had he been spared of
ALS and lived to 92, would have observed Cal Ripken
Play in his 2,131st consecutive game; And Old Hoss
Radbourne (Look him up), who completed all 73 starts
He had one season and won 59 of them . . . what would
He have thought in 1946, when he’d have been 92, watching
Pitchers struggle to win 20? My God, what would Old Hoss
Say today when a pitcher with two complete in a season
Is looked upon as a maker of miracles? Mirabile visu!
Yes, 92 and baseball - - - a match for the ages.
References for this poem:
https://wgnradio.com/news/92-year-old-cubs-usher-a-link-to-baseballs-historic-past/
92 year old usher
https://www.northjersey.com/story/sports/mlb/yankees/2018/07/07/tom-giordano-92-years-old-mlb-scout-stays-sharp/762305002/
92 year old MLB scout
https://www.cbsnews.com/texas/video/92-year-old-rangers-fan-celebrates-world-series-win/
92 year old Rangers fan
https://tht.fangraphs.com/the-one-and-only-bob-feller/
article by Chris Jaffe
Did you ever notice the connection between 92
And baseball, like the story of the usher for the Cubs
Still working at age 92? Or the 92 year old Major League
Scout from New Jersey? Or the 92 year old Rangers
Fan who finally celebrated his team’s World Series win?
Or Willie Mays, who recently turned 92 and starred for
My Mets (and played a few years for the Giants, I guess)?
Of course, it’s more fun when one enters the realm of the fantastic
And envisions the effect that being 92 might have had on
Other well-known baseball players (and for this I credit
Writer Chris Jaffe and a magic article he once produced).
Consider if you will the motivating factor, the too-soon
Passing of Bob Feller, 92, Hall of Famer and decorated hero
Of World War Two, who volunteered the day after the
Sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. Here are Jaffe’s time-travel
Fantasies: If Ty Cobb had lived to 92, he would have seen
Lou Brock break his record for stolen bases in a career;
If Babe Ruth had lived to 92, he would have witnessed
Henry Aaron hit number 715; Lou Gehrig, had he been spared of
ALS and lived to 92, would have observed Cal Ripken
Play in his 2,131st consecutive game; And Old Hoss
Radbourne (Look him up), who completed all 73 starts
He had one season and won 59 of them . . . what would
He have thought in 1946, when he’d have been 92, watching
Pitchers struggle to win 20? My God, what would Old Hoss
Say today when a pitcher with two complete in a season
Is looked upon as a maker of miracles? Mirabile visu!
Yes, 92 and baseball - - - a match for the ages.
References for this poem:
https://wgnradio.com/news/92-year-old-cubs-usher-a-link-to-baseballs-historic-past/
92 year old usher
https://www.northjersey.com/story/sports/mlb/yankees/2018/07/07/tom-giordano-92-years-old-mlb-scout-stays-sharp/762305002/
92 year old MLB scout
https://www.cbsnews.com/texas/video/92-year-old-rangers-fan-celebrates-world-series-win/
92 year old Rangers fan
https://tht.fangraphs.com/the-one-and-only-bob-feller/
article by Chris Jaffe
Solitary
Sitting alone in my local diner, waiting for the one who keeps me company
And gives companionship, I gaze about me --- first, at the décor, the pastel colors
So pleasing and so soothing to the eye, then the mural of a local park
Named in honor of a fireman, brave soul, who lost his life saving others
On that eleventh day of September more than 20 years ago, when we
Should have been involved in voting and in school and at work. The mural
Demonstrates artistic license, showing purposefully a mistaken geography
As the park resides directly opposite the diner when, in reality, across there is a
Public parking lot --- meters, numbered spots and all --- that sits across
From my comforting diner --- the park not making its appearance for another eastern block.
I sit alone and wait --- and hear the echoes of conversations past, as I am eager for
The future. I listen in my memory to children and their parents sharing
The experience with laughter and explanations and a bit of shouting but
Nothing less than love conveyed in multiple directions, accompanied by smiles
And maybe candles and a cake and singing servers.
I recall tables being pushed together to accommodate the sudden groups …
Of politicians on Election Day, of manual laborers repaving nearby roads and
Construction workers taking breaks from building new apartments, even
Former teaching colleagues sharing golden memories of days past working
In the local high school. The voices are of Life and take my mind from the
Lonely silence of my now existence as I glance at someone entering the
Restaurant, but it is not the one I long for.
I could take out my phone and play Wordscapes or text a child or grandchild
Or read “pages” from a book, but my desire is to see and be with that one
Person who has shared my life for more than half a century, and so I chat
With a parade of servers --- the short man with a bloom of sable hair, the
Taller man with what we used to call a buzz cut, the tall-thin man who moves
Faster than the speed of sound, the two women (one warm and friendly always
And one more reserved but unerringly polite).
I dream of New York Championships (baseball, basketball, football, hockey)
That bolstered my spirit in the past --- but have not appeared of late.
Still, that gives fodder to the imagination and promise to the seasons coming.
I look about me and I smile. I still wait, but I am not alone. I have the mural
And the memories and the servers with me in my home away from home.
And then she walks to me and my thoughts and I just smile.
Sitting alone in my local diner, waiting for the one who keeps me company
And gives companionship, I gaze about me --- first, at the décor, the pastel colors
So pleasing and so soothing to the eye, then the mural of a local park
Named in honor of a fireman, brave soul, who lost his life saving others
On that eleventh day of September more than 20 years ago, when we
Should have been involved in voting and in school and at work. The mural
Demonstrates artistic license, showing purposefully a mistaken geography
As the park resides directly opposite the diner when, in reality, across there is a
Public parking lot --- meters, numbered spots and all --- that sits across
From my comforting diner --- the park not making its appearance for another eastern block.
I sit alone and wait --- and hear the echoes of conversations past, as I am eager for
The future. I listen in my memory to children and their parents sharing
The experience with laughter and explanations and a bit of shouting but
Nothing less than love conveyed in multiple directions, accompanied by smiles
And maybe candles and a cake and singing servers.
I recall tables being pushed together to accommodate the sudden groups …
Of politicians on Election Day, of manual laborers repaving nearby roads and
Construction workers taking breaks from building new apartments, even
Former teaching colleagues sharing golden memories of days past working
In the local high school. The voices are of Life and take my mind from the
Lonely silence of my now existence as I glance at someone entering the
Restaurant, but it is not the one I long for.
I could take out my phone and play Wordscapes or text a child or grandchild
Or read “pages” from a book, but my desire is to see and be with that one
Person who has shared my life for more than half a century, and so I chat
With a parade of servers --- the short man with a bloom of sable hair, the
Taller man with what we used to call a buzz cut, the tall-thin man who moves
Faster than the speed of sound, the two women (one warm and friendly always
And one more reserved but unerringly polite).
I dream of New York Championships (baseball, basketball, football, hockey)
That bolstered my spirit in the past --- but have not appeared of late.
Still, that gives fodder to the imagination and promise to the seasons coming.
I look about me and I smile. I still wait, but I am not alone. I have the mural
And the memories and the servers with me in my home away from home.
And then she walks to me and my thoughts and I just smile.
Going Nowhere Fast
Speed up the game, they say. Make it move, not stutter-step.
Use a pitch clock, a ghost runner at second in extra innings,
Limit pick off moves and trips to the mound --- all in the name of
Alacrity. After all, viewers have some place to go, something to do,
Someone to see . . . go back to seven-inning doubleheaders ---
For goodness sake, get the game done! . . . To which I say,
S l o w I t d o w n. Let me think, understand the strategies,
See the entire picture, get myself drawn into every inning
In a way that speed will just prohibit. If you want to save
Some time, cut the commercials (like that will ever happen).
Each baseball game is a work of art, and who would ever rush
The artist? If you want to waste less time, go back to baseball’s
Not so distant past, when Seaver had 21 complete games in 1971,
When Marichal had 27 in 1969, Gibson had 28 in ’68 and ’69.
Stop the parade of specialist relievers; stop taking out pitchers who
Are throwing great games, have opposing batters stymied, are closing
In on no-hitters! The game needs breathing room, minutes to develop
Drama, a structure where the good guys have the time
To build their case for victory, for good seasons, for possibly entrance to
The Hall of Fame one day. Let the players play, step by step,
And let the fans fall back in love with the days of yesteryear,
When the best way to compete was to complete the game
In all its glorious charm in front of patient fans relaxing in the stands.
If people think the game’s too slow, perhaps they are the problem.
Hey, you --- put down the phone, stop rushing to the next big thing,
And give yourself a chance to understand why not so long ago, life
Would stop for a few hours and living would engage you people
At the game eating hot dogs, drinking beer or other in front of
The TV . . . and your blood pressure would calm down while
Your pulse rate would thrillingly speed up!
Speed up the game, they say. Make it move, not stutter-step.
Use a pitch clock, a ghost runner at second in extra innings,
Limit pick off moves and trips to the mound --- all in the name of
Alacrity. After all, viewers have some place to go, something to do,
Someone to see . . . go back to seven-inning doubleheaders ---
For goodness sake, get the game done! . . . To which I say,
S l o w I t d o w n. Let me think, understand the strategies,
See the entire picture, get myself drawn into every inning
In a way that speed will just prohibit. If you want to save
Some time, cut the commercials (like that will ever happen).
Each baseball game is a work of art, and who would ever rush
The artist? If you want to waste less time, go back to baseball’s
Not so distant past, when Seaver had 21 complete games in 1971,
When Marichal had 27 in 1969, Gibson had 28 in ’68 and ’69.
Stop the parade of specialist relievers; stop taking out pitchers who
Are throwing great games, have opposing batters stymied, are closing
In on no-hitters! The game needs breathing room, minutes to develop
Drama, a structure where the good guys have the time
To build their case for victory, for good seasons, for possibly entrance to
The Hall of Fame one day. Let the players play, step by step,
And let the fans fall back in love with the days of yesteryear,
When the best way to compete was to complete the game
In all its glorious charm in front of patient fans relaxing in the stands.
If people think the game’s too slow, perhaps they are the problem.
Hey, you --- put down the phone, stop rushing to the next big thing,
And give yourself a chance to understand why not so long ago, life
Would stop for a few hours and living would engage you people
At the game eating hot dogs, drinking beer or other in front of
The TV . . . and your blood pressure would calm down while
Your pulse rate would thrillingly speed up!
Waiting for an Invitation
Baseballbard.com belongs in the Hall of Fame,
The one in Cooperstown, New York,
Near the crystal-clear Otsego Lake.
That holy shrine that welcomes heroes and the best
Should make room for the rest of those in love with the game.
There'd be no meaningful Major Leagues
Without the fans to cheer the great ones on.
A ballgame played before abandoned, vacant seats
Is an empty exercise, a game between neighborhood kids,
That all too soon would hit the players with depression
From the realization that they play unrecognized And unvalued.
Does a bat dropped in a fan-less forest field make a sound?
Does a Broadway show performed for a missing audience
Elicit pleasure from performers taking bows to emptiness?
And so those lonely plaques suspended from plain tan walls
Seem to symbolize the isolation of missing reciprocation
That must be finally addressed ---
And who best to enter the Hall
And find co-habitation with the star performers
Of America's home-grown game
Than fans in love enough with baseball to such a degree
That they have written love songs, elegies and anthems
To the game . . . which find a nourishing home at baseballbard.com
But which equally belong in Cooperstown’s famed museum
Near the heroes who provided vital breath and accomplishment.
To those hitters and those pitchers and the others
Without whom there would be no baseball poetry.
Like the song of the Siren, these poems cannot
Be ignored by ordinary mortals or by the gods of Cooperstown
Who gave them Life, Purpose, and Direction.
Open widely and wisely the arched doorway to the Hall and let
The rest of the family come in to stay and grow.
Baseballbard.com belongs in the Hall of Fame,
The one in Cooperstown, New York,
Near the crystal-clear Otsego Lake.
That holy shrine that welcomes heroes and the best
Should make room for the rest of those in love with the game.
There'd be no meaningful Major Leagues
Without the fans to cheer the great ones on.
A ballgame played before abandoned, vacant seats
Is an empty exercise, a game between neighborhood kids,
That all too soon would hit the players with depression
From the realization that they play unrecognized And unvalued.
Does a bat dropped in a fan-less forest field make a sound?
Does a Broadway show performed for a missing audience
Elicit pleasure from performers taking bows to emptiness?
And so those lonely plaques suspended from plain tan walls
Seem to symbolize the isolation of missing reciprocation
That must be finally addressed ---
And who best to enter the Hall
And find co-habitation with the star performers
Of America's home-grown game
Than fans in love enough with baseball to such a degree
That they have written love songs, elegies and anthems
To the game . . . which find a nourishing home at baseballbard.com
But which equally belong in Cooperstown’s famed museum
Near the heroes who provided vital breath and accomplishment.
To those hitters and those pitchers and the others
Without whom there would be no baseball poetry.
Like the song of the Siren, these poems cannot
Be ignored by ordinary mortals or by the gods of Cooperstown
Who gave them Life, Purpose, and Direction.
Open widely and wisely the arched doorway to the Hall and let
The rest of the family come in to stay and grow.
A Breath of Art
I feel the urge to take the time to write a baseball poem when, at my age,
Every moment is a jewel to possess and caress as a fleeting treasure.
Just as I inhale the precious air and feel the breath of life inside me,
I must share with the like-minded and the uninformed alike my love.
The sport demands nothing less than lyrical, musical words and phrases:
To see an outfielder make a diving catch is to watch America’s own
Majestic eagle swoop down, talons exposed, and take control of prey.
To hear the hysterical and rowdy cheers of the hometown crowd
Is to listen to, with thrills, a symphonic orchestra team up to give honor
And glory to its rendition of the William Tell Overture. A speedster
Setting out to steal another base is Jesse Owens in the 1936 Olympics.
A batter making contact with a hundred mile per hour pitch and sending it
Into the outfield stands is Superman catching bullets with his bare hands
And laughing at the impotence of the opposition. Wherever you may stare
And study the poetry of baseball, watching offensive show of power or precision
In the way a life-preserving surgeon performs his or her work and echoes athletes
Who show their skills on a living canvas, you can’t escape the rhythm of
The moves; it is a dance that sways to the song and fills the fan with love
And with respect. It is an art in which its many moving parts perform as one.
Why do I write baseball poetry? The dancer, painter, singer, sculptor --- any
Artist who understands what it means to be creative, to hear the Muse ---
Knows he or she cannot stop, cannot prevent the urge to vent the feelings
That must come out and see the sun. I cannot put my life and living to the side.
I must write baseball poetry because I want others to perceive, as I do,
That baseball and poetry are twin children that equally deserve to breathe the air
And know the joy of existence and of validation. Ars longa, vita brevis!
I feel the urge to take the time to write a baseball poem when, at my age,
Every moment is a jewel to possess and caress as a fleeting treasure.
Just as I inhale the precious air and feel the breath of life inside me,
I must share with the like-minded and the uninformed alike my love.
The sport demands nothing less than lyrical, musical words and phrases:
To see an outfielder make a diving catch is to watch America’s own
Majestic eagle swoop down, talons exposed, and take control of prey.
To hear the hysterical and rowdy cheers of the hometown crowd
Is to listen to, with thrills, a symphonic orchestra team up to give honor
And glory to its rendition of the William Tell Overture. A speedster
Setting out to steal another base is Jesse Owens in the 1936 Olympics.
A batter making contact with a hundred mile per hour pitch and sending it
Into the outfield stands is Superman catching bullets with his bare hands
And laughing at the impotence of the opposition. Wherever you may stare
And study the poetry of baseball, watching offensive show of power or precision
In the way a life-preserving surgeon performs his or her work and echoes athletes
Who show their skills on a living canvas, you can’t escape the rhythm of
The moves; it is a dance that sways to the song and fills the fan with love
And with respect. It is an art in which its many moving parts perform as one.
Why do I write baseball poetry? The dancer, painter, singer, sculptor --- any
Artist who understands what it means to be creative, to hear the Muse ---
Knows he or she cannot stop, cannot prevent the urge to vent the feelings
That must come out and see the sun. I cannot put my life and living to the side.
I must write baseball poetry because I want others to perceive, as I do,
That baseball and poetry are twin children that equally deserve to breathe the air
And know the joy of existence and of validation. Ars longa, vita brevis!
Turquoise Tortoises
Turquoise tortoises saunter through my dream realm,
Chewing leaves and smiling at my desire to scatter
Vegetation in the hope that I will locate my own version
And my vision of the long lost El Dorado. It has vanished
From their view because they were too needy and too
Greedy to be worthy of its treasures and its pleasures
Bu I in my innocence and ignorance have not been
Barred from this illusion, perhaps delusion, and so
With the companionship of turquoise tortoises and
Amber aardvarks, I trudge through the sludge of
The Amazing Amazon Jungle and continue my
Search for what others no longer can acknowledge.
And while it is true that I may never locate the
Lost gold I am bold enough to refuse to dream,
Therein lies the treasure that is only mine, for
Most others have relinquished their childhood
Dreams and foregone schemes to catch the
Nearest way but I remain a child of hope and
I one day will find my El Dorado. If I am sure
Of anything, I am sure of that!
Turquoise tortoises saunter through my dream realm,
Chewing leaves and smiling at my desire to scatter
Vegetation in the hope that I will locate my own version
And my vision of the long lost El Dorado. It has vanished
From their view because they were too needy and too
Greedy to be worthy of its treasures and its pleasures
Bu I in my innocence and ignorance have not been
Barred from this illusion, perhaps delusion, and so
With the companionship of turquoise tortoises and
Amber aardvarks, I trudge through the sludge of
The Amazing Amazon Jungle and continue my
Search for what others no longer can acknowledge.
And while it is true that I may never locate the
Lost gold I am bold enough to refuse to dream,
Therein lies the treasure that is only mine, for
Most others have relinquished their childhood
Dreams and foregone schemes to catch the
Nearest way but I remain a child of hope and
I one day will find my El Dorado. If I am sure
Of anything, I am sure of that!
Over - Reaction
The knee-jerk reaction to standing on a mountain top
And gazing laser beam – like at the darkness of a clear
Black sky dotted with lights emanating from mostly stars
But also planets here and there, to being a receptor for
Light beams, some of which began their almost endless journey
Prior to life first oozing in the Earth’s primordial slime,
Is introspection and self-realization of the insignificance
Of one human life in the extensive artwork that is
The universe --- but such a modest conclusion is as
Off in its picture of one’s place in God’s scheme as is the
Path of a meteor approaching our planet, then closely
Passing by, only to return decades or even centuries
Later, with the same result. Insignificant? A speck of
Dust is nothing. A life form than creates is royalty
In the domain of the universe. In a cosmos filled with
Laws of physics, chain reactions, storms of many kinds,
Phases and autonomic movement, the creative genius
Of our species outshines Sirius, provides more fuel
For Life than the sun, produces treasures that will
Outlast eruptions and floods. There is harmony in
Our solar system but it is not as pleasing as the music
That has emanated from the minds of Mozart, Bach,
Brahms, Sondheim, Webber, Rogers; there is
Color in the planets and rainbows but the presence
Of those hues pales when placed near the glory of
Van Gogh and Michelangelo. Everest rises to the sky
But Apollo 11’s Lunar Module “Eagle” landed on the moon.
The Earth has caves but its inhabitants have Frank Lloyd
Wright. We are as a kind far from insignificant. The planets
And the stars, the oceans and the glaciers tell a story, but
It is not enthralling and stimulating as the works of Dickens,
Shakespeare, Hawthorne, Dostoevsky, or libraries overflowing
With adventures, charm, human contact, resolution, themes,
Characters readers can relate to, see themselves in, cherish.
So, stand and stare at the heavens and consider humankind,
And use your mind to realize that if you truly wish to find
The heavens - - - acknowledge, look upon what humankind has wrought.
The knee-jerk reaction to standing on a mountain top
And gazing laser beam – like at the darkness of a clear
Black sky dotted with lights emanating from mostly stars
But also planets here and there, to being a receptor for
Light beams, some of which began their almost endless journey
Prior to life first oozing in the Earth’s primordial slime,
Is introspection and self-realization of the insignificance
Of one human life in the extensive artwork that is
The universe --- but such a modest conclusion is as
Off in its picture of one’s place in God’s scheme as is the
Path of a meteor approaching our planet, then closely
Passing by, only to return decades or even centuries
Later, with the same result. Insignificant? A speck of
Dust is nothing. A life form than creates is royalty
In the domain of the universe. In a cosmos filled with
Laws of physics, chain reactions, storms of many kinds,
Phases and autonomic movement, the creative genius
Of our species outshines Sirius, provides more fuel
For Life than the sun, produces treasures that will
Outlast eruptions and floods. There is harmony in
Our solar system but it is not as pleasing as the music
That has emanated from the minds of Mozart, Bach,
Brahms, Sondheim, Webber, Rogers; there is
Color in the planets and rainbows but the presence
Of those hues pales when placed near the glory of
Van Gogh and Michelangelo. Everest rises to the sky
But Apollo 11’s Lunar Module “Eagle” landed on the moon.
The Earth has caves but its inhabitants have Frank Lloyd
Wright. We are as a kind far from insignificant. The planets
And the stars, the oceans and the glaciers tell a story, but
It is not enthralling and stimulating as the works of Dickens,
Shakespeare, Hawthorne, Dostoevsky, or libraries overflowing
With adventures, charm, human contact, resolution, themes,
Characters readers can relate to, see themselves in, cherish.
So, stand and stare at the heavens and consider humankind,
And use your mind to realize that if you truly wish to find
The heavens - - - acknowledge, look upon what humankind has wrought.
A Numbers Game
Yankee Billy Martin, hero of a Series wind-blown catch in 1952,
Series hitting star and MVP the year that followed, was a slight man
Who wore Number 1; The pinstripe Yankee uniform of Aaron Judge,
A towering power hitter still waiting to perform World Series heroics,
Displays Number 99. Between the two are the numbers which, alone,
Carry Yankee history. Think of 3, 4, 5, 7, 8 for example and you cannot escape
Careers of historic proportions. If you are a Bronx Bomber aficionado,
That will also be true of 16 and 37 and a host of others. Numbers are
Omnipresent in the sport: batting average, hitting and fielding
Percentages, digits written on outfield fences to notify how far a
Batted ball must travel to reach them; every field in the Majors has
A scoreboard. Measured distances between the bases and from the
Pitcher’s mound to home plate are regulated (90 feet; 60 feet, six inches).
Even the TV and radio stations that broadcast the games have numerical
Designations, but of all the numbers that play their roles in the Major Leagues,
None can be more personal than the one assigned to a player’s uniform. Some
Are lucky numbers; others are related to special dates or significant events in
The lives of players, coaches, managers. A favorite, one that brings a
Much needed smile to the face, is 96, worn by Bill Voiselle of the Giants,
Braves and Cubs, a pitcher who was raised in a small South Carolina
Town . . . named Ninety Six! Look it up; that town’s other claim to fame
Was that the first land battle south of New England was fought there in
1775, a vital setting for our Revolutionary War.
Numbers are like people: There’s more to them than simply what you see.
Yankee Billy Martin, hero of a Series wind-blown catch in 1952,
Series hitting star and MVP the year that followed, was a slight man
Who wore Number 1; The pinstripe Yankee uniform of Aaron Judge,
A towering power hitter still waiting to perform World Series heroics,
Displays Number 99. Between the two are the numbers which, alone,
Carry Yankee history. Think of 3, 4, 5, 7, 8 for example and you cannot escape
Careers of historic proportions. If you are a Bronx Bomber aficionado,
That will also be true of 16 and 37 and a host of others. Numbers are
Omnipresent in the sport: batting average, hitting and fielding
Percentages, digits written on outfield fences to notify how far a
Batted ball must travel to reach them; every field in the Majors has
A scoreboard. Measured distances between the bases and from the
Pitcher’s mound to home plate are regulated (90 feet; 60 feet, six inches).
Even the TV and radio stations that broadcast the games have numerical
Designations, but of all the numbers that play their roles in the Major Leagues,
None can be more personal than the one assigned to a player’s uniform. Some
Are lucky numbers; others are related to special dates or significant events in
The lives of players, coaches, managers. A favorite, one that brings a
Much needed smile to the face, is 96, worn by Bill Voiselle of the Giants,
Braves and Cubs, a pitcher who was raised in a small South Carolina
Town . . . named Ninety Six! Look it up; that town’s other claim to fame
Was that the first land battle south of New England was fought there in
1775, a vital setting for our Revolutionary War.
Numbers are like people: There’s more to them than simply what you see.
The Unlived Years
Seat belts save lives – but yours caused the loss of yours.
Submerged and helpless, you pleaded to no avail
Because you were trapped, with no escape, no ability
To unfasten that which turned traitor and countered
Its one and only purpose. And with your passing went
The years that had been set aside for you in the predetermined
Plan, the Great Scheme of Things! People loved you; people
Needed and depended on you --- and they are left behind
To Fill the emptiness of the unlived years that should have been
Able to define you --- mother, sister, loved one, all left with
An inexplicable emptiness that was left in the wake of the
Abrupt ending of your life’s journey. Left drifting in their own
Forsaken Limbo are the times of joy and sharing. Gone are the
Meaningful embraces, the gentle tender words . . . the
Marriage, children never to be born, songs never to be
Sung. There are no words of comfort for a death so many
Years before its time. There is no sermon to be spoken that
Will fill the ears with understanding, the soul with acceptance,
Or the heart with solace. There will not ever be the journeys
Waiting to be undertaken, the promises to be kept, the treasures
To be found. A passing premature can never be accepted by those
Left behind to forever wonder what was missed by your empty unlived years.
Seat belts save lives – but yours caused the loss of yours.
Submerged and helpless, you pleaded to no avail
Because you were trapped, with no escape, no ability
To unfasten that which turned traitor and countered
Its one and only purpose. And with your passing went
The years that had been set aside for you in the predetermined
Plan, the Great Scheme of Things! People loved you; people
Needed and depended on you --- and they are left behind
To Fill the emptiness of the unlived years that should have been
Able to define you --- mother, sister, loved one, all left with
An inexplicable emptiness that was left in the wake of the
Abrupt ending of your life’s journey. Left drifting in their own
Forsaken Limbo are the times of joy and sharing. Gone are the
Meaningful embraces, the gentle tender words . . . the
Marriage, children never to be born, songs never to be
Sung. There are no words of comfort for a death so many
Years before its time. There is no sermon to be spoken that
Will fill the ears with understanding, the soul with acceptance,
Or the heart with solace. There will not ever be the journeys
Waiting to be undertaken, the promises to be kept, the treasures
To be found. A passing premature can never be accepted by those
Left behind to forever wonder what was missed by your empty unlived years.
The Talking Tree
A tree spoke to me today.
As I walked down the street , considering my choice of destinations,
I heard a voice. It was coarse, a sound suggesting scarcity of use,
But it was distinct. I gazed around me, trying to locate a friend, a stranger, or
Acquaintance calling to me but the sidewalk was vacant except for me,
And then it came again, this low, gruff voice that seemed out of control
From lack of use . . . and then I realized that that old oak which I had passed
A thousand times was calling out my name, seeking to be heard, and I stood
Still and stared and listened intimately to its words. It was a lamentation so
Magnetic that I could not move. “Mr. M.,” it seemed to growl in pain, and
I gathered that its knowledge of my name came from its over-hearing others
Refer to me that way once or twice as we passed by before. This tree that I
Had seen so many times before but never noticed now held my attention
Magnetically and I was mesmerized. ”Mr. M, I am in pain. I stand here faithfully
Day after night, season after decade, and am left to my very own devices. No one
Cares for me. Birds land on my branches, squirrels hide their acorns where they can,
Humans briefly accept the shade I provide as they pass by, yet I am but a
Small part of the scenery to all of you. I survive bitter winters and thrive in
Spring and summer times, but you and your unfeeling race take me for granted.
It is the nature of my kind to stand and to accept my fate, but for me there
Has come a time when I feel an urgency that must be filled. I have lived an accumulation
Of demanding years and have even as I stood tall and stationary gained wisdom from my
Observations. My grief comes not from my fate and nature, which I resolutely and
Realistically accept. You will never be a friend to me or care for me or even speak
Words of comfort or acknowledgement to me. That is the nature of things, and
I am comforted by my place in the scheme of Existence . . . but I am so alive that I
Must be accepted as a vital part of the cycle of life on Earth, and as such I am
Honor-bound to call to you and, as a living ancestor of Life, I tell you this: Pay
Attention to those with a place in your time on Earth. Honor them with love and with
Respect. Do not take them for granted but appreciate their roles in your presence.
Do not sleep-walk through your days, not giving warm attention to those whose
Breath is intertwined with yours. Pass by me if you must; I have the strength
To deal with that and a wise lack of expectation, but love the others in the time
You have. Time moves too rapidly. Walk past me but talk to, touch and hug the ones
Who matter to you. Do not dismiss them.” Then a woman approached pushing a stroller
And when she and the child passed, I looked at the old oak and there was silence.
It never spoke to me again, but the word-shade that it covered me with that day gave
Comfort, and I have been a better person for that brief encounter with the talking tree.
A tree spoke to me today.
As I walked down the street , considering my choice of destinations,
I heard a voice. It was coarse, a sound suggesting scarcity of use,
But it was distinct. I gazed around me, trying to locate a friend, a stranger, or
Acquaintance calling to me but the sidewalk was vacant except for me,
And then it came again, this low, gruff voice that seemed out of control
From lack of use . . . and then I realized that that old oak which I had passed
A thousand times was calling out my name, seeking to be heard, and I stood
Still and stared and listened intimately to its words. It was a lamentation so
Magnetic that I could not move. “Mr. M.,” it seemed to growl in pain, and
I gathered that its knowledge of my name came from its over-hearing others
Refer to me that way once or twice as we passed by before. This tree that I
Had seen so many times before but never noticed now held my attention
Magnetically and I was mesmerized. ”Mr. M, I am in pain. I stand here faithfully
Day after night, season after decade, and am left to my very own devices. No one
Cares for me. Birds land on my branches, squirrels hide their acorns where they can,
Humans briefly accept the shade I provide as they pass by, yet I am but a
Small part of the scenery to all of you. I survive bitter winters and thrive in
Spring and summer times, but you and your unfeeling race take me for granted.
It is the nature of my kind to stand and to accept my fate, but for me there
Has come a time when I feel an urgency that must be filled. I have lived an accumulation
Of demanding years and have even as I stood tall and stationary gained wisdom from my
Observations. My grief comes not from my fate and nature, which I resolutely and
Realistically accept. You will never be a friend to me or care for me or even speak
Words of comfort or acknowledgement to me. That is the nature of things, and
I am comforted by my place in the scheme of Existence . . . but I am so alive that I
Must be accepted as a vital part of the cycle of life on Earth, and as such I am
Honor-bound to call to you and, as a living ancestor of Life, I tell you this: Pay
Attention to those with a place in your time on Earth. Honor them with love and with
Respect. Do not take them for granted but appreciate their roles in your presence.
Do not sleep-walk through your days, not giving warm attention to those whose
Breath is intertwined with yours. Pass by me if you must; I have the strength
To deal with that and a wise lack of expectation, but love the others in the time
You have. Time moves too rapidly. Walk past me but talk to, touch and hug the ones
Who matter to you. Do not dismiss them.” Then a woman approached pushing a stroller
And when she and the child passed, I looked at the old oak and there was silence.
It never spoke to me again, but the word-shade that it covered me with that day gave
Comfort, and I have been a better person for that brief encounter with the talking tree.
Transportations
When I was a child (How many poems begin that way?
And why? Is it because such potent memories hide
In the recesses of our consciousness, waiting to be
Recalled because they mean so much to us, in the
Context of our lives and our identities?), I enjoyed the baths
That my widowed father took the time to prepare for me.
It was so soothing to be engulfed in lukewarm water;
I had no fear of falling and cracking my head, ending
My life. I could just relax . . . and daydream, playing
With the paper boat my father in his quiet loving way
Created for me - - - and that white boat with its oval hull
Carried me from my slight concerns at that age to a
Land of vision where I could visit friends I had not
Yet met. The world was big, but not as large as my
Imagination. I had so many days ahead of me, and
Those paper boats crafted with the skill of a one-time
Carpenter and the love of a father would get me to
Wherever I desired, I had no doubt. I pictured
My days and manipulated the boats, guiding them to
Safe harbors waiting for me, welcoming me. I didn’t
Know it then, but I would later come to understand
That Emily Dickinson was right. But still, some
Child-like wisdom let me know securely that
Wherever I would travel, I would never be alone.
That wise man who shaped those boats would be
With me, inside my time-defying mind, somehow
Deriving joy from my adult explorations, travels
And adventures measured both in distance and in time.
When I was a child (How many poems begin that way?
And why? Is it because such potent memories hide
In the recesses of our consciousness, waiting to be
Recalled because they mean so much to us, in the
Context of our lives and our identities?), I enjoyed the baths
That my widowed father took the time to prepare for me.
It was so soothing to be engulfed in lukewarm water;
I had no fear of falling and cracking my head, ending
My life. I could just relax . . . and daydream, playing
With the paper boat my father in his quiet loving way
Created for me - - - and that white boat with its oval hull
Carried me from my slight concerns at that age to a
Land of vision where I could visit friends I had not
Yet met. The world was big, but not as large as my
Imagination. I had so many days ahead of me, and
Those paper boats crafted with the skill of a one-time
Carpenter and the love of a father would get me to
Wherever I desired, I had no doubt. I pictured
My days and manipulated the boats, guiding them to
Safe harbors waiting for me, welcoming me. I didn’t
Know it then, but I would later come to understand
That Emily Dickinson was right. But still, some
Child-like wisdom let me know securely that
Wherever I would travel, I would never be alone.
That wise man who shaped those boats would be
With me, inside my time-defying mind, somehow
Deriving joy from my adult explorations, travels
And adventures measured both in distance and in time.
Spring Ahead
Spring arrives on fluttering wings, breaking through in blossoms
And dressed in leafy green and we all smile
Reflex-like, understanding that our world
Has awakened from a deadly hibernation filled with
Emptiness and stark scenery.
We come to life and take in reborn beauty
With eyes and ears and breath, but these harbingers
Fulfill our expectations in their heralding the annual arrival
Of the game that dreams and fantasies are made of.
Optimism and desire come together as spring training starts
And Cardinals spread their rested wings,
Commanders seek out challenges,
Cubs look to feed on competition and
Giants walk the earth and grass.
A new season has begun and all is well.
God's in his universe, Ford's in his Flivver
And the fans are in the stands.
Let the games begin!
Spring arrives on fluttering wings, breaking through in blossoms
And dressed in leafy green and we all smile
Reflex-like, understanding that our world
Has awakened from a deadly hibernation filled with
Emptiness and stark scenery.
We come to life and take in reborn beauty
With eyes and ears and breath, but these harbingers
Fulfill our expectations in their heralding the annual arrival
Of the game that dreams and fantasies are made of.
Optimism and desire come together as spring training starts
And Cardinals spread their rested wings,
Commanders seek out challenges,
Cubs look to feed on competition and
Giants walk the earth and grass.
A new season has begun and all is well.
God's in his universe, Ford's in his Flivver
And the fans are in the stands.
Let the games begin!
One Special Day
I was lover of the pinstripes when I attended
My first public school. Watching them on TV, I
Was mesmerized by the class they stood for
Though, being but a rookie fanatic, I could not
Put into words the vicarious pride I felt when
Those Yankees took the field or stepped up
To the plate. I worshiped them in the way that
Baseball is a pro’s religion. They were the
Prophets who, by their championship play,
Foretold that every season, from 1949 to
1953, would see them crowned winner of
The treasured and revered Series crown.
I looked for ways to become one with them,
Practicing my Mickey Mantle stance and
Swing, or my Whitey Ford delivery, even
Fantasizing dragging a bunt and beating
It out or stealing second or making that
Great game-winning final catch. I wore
My white muscle shirt, the one with the
Black crayon stripes drawn in the front
And the Number 7 in the back. I too
Wore a uniform of sorts at my sixth
Grade school, a neat daily outfit plus a
White plastic stripe around my waist
And across my front diagonally, a
Metallic silver shield attached and
Centered so that other kids could see
That I was proudly a member of the
Safety Squad which protected them
From cars as they crossed the street
And gingerly marched into the school.
Then, one day that year, my two worlds
Intersected as my squad was taken to
The not so old Yankee Stadium, 14 years
Removed form Gehrig’s final play, to watch
My heroes in real time. The night before,
I’d panicked in my fear that the game
Would be rained out, but the sun arose
And there we were, hoping our sight
Would not be encumbered by a support
Beam --- and they weren’t. Instead, I
Was reminded of the limitations of my
Black and white TV as I stared, then
Glared, at the canvas I was facing:
Reddish turf warning track that framed
The field, light brown pitcher’s mound
And that grass, so well manicured, so
Deeply verdant that I could almost
Taste the aroma of the blades, the
Bright white foul lines and bases,
The polychrome of the fans’ clothing
And the sharp black / white contrast of those
Yankee uniforms! Most of all, I could clearly see
The expressions on the faces of my heroes! And
Those visages were holding conversations with
Their fans, sharing hopes and aspirations,
Transmitting to their boosters a partnership
Unbreakable. And the stands vibrated in response.
This was truly one Special Day!
I was lover of the pinstripes when I attended
My first public school. Watching them on TV, I
Was mesmerized by the class they stood for
Though, being but a rookie fanatic, I could not
Put into words the vicarious pride I felt when
Those Yankees took the field or stepped up
To the plate. I worshiped them in the way that
Baseball is a pro’s religion. They were the
Prophets who, by their championship play,
Foretold that every season, from 1949 to
1953, would see them crowned winner of
The treasured and revered Series crown.
I looked for ways to become one with them,
Practicing my Mickey Mantle stance and
Swing, or my Whitey Ford delivery, even
Fantasizing dragging a bunt and beating
It out or stealing second or making that
Great game-winning final catch. I wore
My white muscle shirt, the one with the
Black crayon stripes drawn in the front
And the Number 7 in the back. I too
Wore a uniform of sorts at my sixth
Grade school, a neat daily outfit plus a
White plastic stripe around my waist
And across my front diagonally, a
Metallic silver shield attached and
Centered so that other kids could see
That I was proudly a member of the
Safety Squad which protected them
From cars as they crossed the street
And gingerly marched into the school.
Then, one day that year, my two worlds
Intersected as my squad was taken to
The not so old Yankee Stadium, 14 years
Removed form Gehrig’s final play, to watch
My heroes in real time. The night before,
I’d panicked in my fear that the game
Would be rained out, but the sun arose
And there we were, hoping our sight
Would not be encumbered by a support
Beam --- and they weren’t. Instead, I
Was reminded of the limitations of my
Black and white TV as I stared, then
Glared, at the canvas I was facing:
Reddish turf warning track that framed
The field, light brown pitcher’s mound
And that grass, so well manicured, so
Deeply verdant that I could almost
Taste the aroma of the blades, the
Bright white foul lines and bases,
The polychrome of the fans’ clothing
And the sharp black / white contrast of those
Yankee uniforms! Most of all, I could clearly see
The expressions on the faces of my heroes! And
Those visages were holding conversations with
Their fans, sharing hopes and aspirations,
Transmitting to their boosters a partnership
Unbreakable. And the stands vibrated in response.
This was truly one Special Day!
The Magic Place
Alice had her Wonderland, Dorothy had her Oz
And I have Worcester, Massachusetts. I am the winner!
There is nothing magical about illusions and trickery;
But engaging with fellow poets from so many places
Is a communion infused with wonder and acclaim,
For I have made acquaintance with the wizardry of
Baseball poetry and I will never be the same. My
Good friend Dorothy found herself in a faux homeland
While I have joyously resided in the land of giants
Who share willingly their images and thoughts and
Carefully communicate their visions of that grand and
Lovely game of baseball. I do not need a magic potion
Or a fierce tornado to appreciate the words of fellow lovers
Of the verse and theme songs of the only game in town.
My fellow poets come from many lands and share their
Themes and creativity so willingly that that which is
Termed a Festival is so much more a Feast, a meal
Of lyrics and epics fit for a god. I have seen the light
And have dwelled in rainbow kisses from my kin, and
I know everyone will win when we hear songs of fields
And action and companionship and resolution. We are
A family connected by the flow of words and images
That feed imaginations and we hug each other with
Phrases that portray games and players past, people
Worshiped in our youth and residing in our ever-
Present collective consciousness. Welcome to the
Magic Land called Worcester, home of Casey and his
Eternal struggle to win the game and the hearts of
Fans prepared to worship him. Welcome to the
Destination of an epic journey that wordsmiths dream
About and a camaraderie that knows no bound, be it
Gender, age, religion, politics, . . . for baseball is a true
American pastime that invites everyone to play or
Watch or listen to . . . or write about! The Festival which
Every year celebrates the wonder of this union of sport
And thought is a miracle itself, and thus each year
That I set off on pilgrimage to the electric Land of
Worcester, I conjure up the spirits of the game and
Muster all the essence that resides in all of us to once
Again sing together in a fantasy land soundly set
In our American reality.
Alice had her Wonderland, Dorothy had her Oz
And I have Worcester, Massachusetts. I am the winner!
There is nothing magical about illusions and trickery;
But engaging with fellow poets from so many places
Is a communion infused with wonder and acclaim,
For I have made acquaintance with the wizardry of
Baseball poetry and I will never be the same. My
Good friend Dorothy found herself in a faux homeland
While I have joyously resided in the land of giants
Who share willingly their images and thoughts and
Carefully communicate their visions of that grand and
Lovely game of baseball. I do not need a magic potion
Or a fierce tornado to appreciate the words of fellow lovers
Of the verse and theme songs of the only game in town.
My fellow poets come from many lands and share their
Themes and creativity so willingly that that which is
Termed a Festival is so much more a Feast, a meal
Of lyrics and epics fit for a god. I have seen the light
And have dwelled in rainbow kisses from my kin, and
I know everyone will win when we hear songs of fields
And action and companionship and resolution. We are
A family connected by the flow of words and images
That feed imaginations and we hug each other with
Phrases that portray games and players past, people
Worshiped in our youth and residing in our ever-
Present collective consciousness. Welcome to the
Magic Land called Worcester, home of Casey and his
Eternal struggle to win the game and the hearts of
Fans prepared to worship him. Welcome to the
Destination of an epic journey that wordsmiths dream
About and a camaraderie that knows no bound, be it
Gender, age, religion, politics, . . . for baseball is a true
American pastime that invites everyone to play or
Watch or listen to . . . or write about! The Festival which
Every year celebrates the wonder of this union of sport
And thought is a miracle itself, and thus each year
That I set off on pilgrimage to the electric Land of
Worcester, I conjure up the spirits of the game and
Muster all the essence that resides in all of us to once
Again sing together in a fantasy land soundly set
In our American reality.
Seasoning for the Long Climb
Playing a full season in the Majors
is the sporting world’s equivalent of
climbing Mount Everest with a four
leaf clover instead of a Sherpa guide.
The goal cannot be seen at journey’s
start, but it is there, among the clouds.
The climbers fashion their equipment
to meet the coming challenge, give
definition to the team that will try so
hard to make its way up to the summit
before opposing teams can scratch
and claw their way. Each step will be
a hardship as heavy legs work their
way into condition, but with every
minor victory along the way, the
spirit of the team will shine, casting
light throughout the darkness of the
clouds that attempt to block the way.
Mood and spirit are co-joined in this
climb over jagged rock and bitter
frost, and the advantage goes to
the team that wants it most, the
group that has learned most from
past experience and has addressed
its weaknesses and needs. And when
the victors reach the summit and
plant their city’s flag into the history
of Time, they celebrate but for a
moment in the annals of the sport,
for come the morning and the end
of the descent into the common air,
they know it will be soon mirroring
an all too briefly successful Sisyphus - - -
time to climb the mountain once
again!
Playing a full season in the Majors
is the sporting world’s equivalent of
climbing Mount Everest with a four
leaf clover instead of a Sherpa guide.
The goal cannot be seen at journey’s
start, but it is there, among the clouds.
The climbers fashion their equipment
to meet the coming challenge, give
definition to the team that will try so
hard to make its way up to the summit
before opposing teams can scratch
and claw their way. Each step will be
a hardship as heavy legs work their
way into condition, but with every
minor victory along the way, the
spirit of the team will shine, casting
light throughout the darkness of the
clouds that attempt to block the way.
Mood and spirit are co-joined in this
climb over jagged rock and bitter
frost, and the advantage goes to
the team that wants it most, the
group that has learned most from
past experience and has addressed
its weaknesses and needs. And when
the victors reach the summit and
plant their city’s flag into the history
of Time, they celebrate but for a
moment in the annals of the sport,
for come the morning and the end
of the descent into the common air,
they know it will be soon mirroring
an all too briefly successful Sisyphus - - -
time to climb the mountain once
again!
Memory Serves
Is it a faulty memory, a curse of the aging fan,
or am I right? The answer lies in the history
books or a Google search (or Duck Duck Go,
if you want to avoid the ads, I guess). As I
recall, from the years I was initiated into the
society of baseball fans and lovers, my deep
pocket Yankees of ’49 to ’54 used their potent
money magnet to draw older but still relevant
players from the Senior Circuit almost every year
to ironically turn on their own and help those
Bombers from the Bronx bring home the Crown
(except for 1954, when they went 103 and 51
but finished freakin’ second!). Johnny Mize brought
his potent clutch hitting from the New York Giants.
Enos Slaughter brought his energy and spark from
the Cardinals. Ewell Blackwell brought his whip-
like sidearm slinger from the Reds. Johnny Hopp
brought steadiness from the Pirates and Johnnny
Sain (sans Spahn and rain) brought his right arm
from the Boston --- not Milwaukee or Atlanta ---
Braves. They used to joke that the A’s were the
Yanks’ minor league team because they traded so
much talent to the pinstripes (and there’s some truth
to that) but don’t discount the NL connection. All those
refugees from the other league, as colorful as they were,
looked sharp in black and white, uniform of Champions
in those golden years . . . if you, like me, were a Yankee fan.
Is it a faulty memory, a curse of the aging fan,
or am I right? The answer lies in the history
books or a Google search (or Duck Duck Go,
if you want to avoid the ads, I guess). As I
recall, from the years I was initiated into the
society of baseball fans and lovers, my deep
pocket Yankees of ’49 to ’54 used their potent
money magnet to draw older but still relevant
players from the Senior Circuit almost every year
to ironically turn on their own and help those
Bombers from the Bronx bring home the Crown
(except for 1954, when they went 103 and 51
but finished freakin’ second!). Johnny Mize brought
his potent clutch hitting from the New York Giants.
Enos Slaughter brought his energy and spark from
the Cardinals. Ewell Blackwell brought his whip-
like sidearm slinger from the Reds. Johnny Hopp
brought steadiness from the Pirates and Johnnny
Sain (sans Spahn and rain) brought his right arm
from the Boston --- not Milwaukee or Atlanta ---
Braves. They used to joke that the A’s were the
Yanks’ minor league team because they traded so
much talent to the pinstripes (and there’s some truth
to that) but don’t discount the NL connection. All those
refugees from the other league, as colorful as they were,
looked sharp in black and white, uniform of Champions
in those golden years . . . if you, like me, were a Yankee fan.
Path to Nowhere
The chatter reminds me of the chirping that I can’t
escape (from birds outside my window, eagerly
saluting the rising sun), but this annoying sound
that digs and grinds, settling inside my brain,
does not act as harbinger to a lovely day; it rather
plays the trumpet signifying that the battle has
begun. “Replace the umps!” the voices chant in
discord. “They blow too many calls and in their
stead, crank up the robots with their laser eyes
and we will move that much closer to perfection.”
It’s just another step on the path to self-
destruction, in tune with managers who have
defaulted their wise judgment to the numbers and
the charts. What’s next? I fear that it will come
to “their” attention that the athletes play too
imperfectly, with their errors and their strikeouts
and their descending batting averages. “How can
we permit the players to interfere with what can
be a perfect game? Automatons will bring us just
the sport that we deserve . . . and since those
techno-players can be faultless and the games
might never end, the programmers must
orchestrate each contest to entertain the fans
who paid good cryptocurrency to see a Show!”
And this is how the game, with all its subtleties
and energy will fade away and be replaced with
just another network show waiting for
its cancellation notice.
The chatter reminds me of the chirping that I can’t
escape (from birds outside my window, eagerly
saluting the rising sun), but this annoying sound
that digs and grinds, settling inside my brain,
does not act as harbinger to a lovely day; it rather
plays the trumpet signifying that the battle has
begun. “Replace the umps!” the voices chant in
discord. “They blow too many calls and in their
stead, crank up the robots with their laser eyes
and we will move that much closer to perfection.”
It’s just another step on the path to self-
destruction, in tune with managers who have
defaulted their wise judgment to the numbers and
the charts. What’s next? I fear that it will come
to “their” attention that the athletes play too
imperfectly, with their errors and their strikeouts
and their descending batting averages. “How can
we permit the players to interfere with what can
be a perfect game? Automatons will bring us just
the sport that we deserve . . . and since those
techno-players can be faultless and the games
might never end, the programmers must
orchestrate each contest to entertain the fans
who paid good cryptocurrency to see a Show!”
And this is how the game, with all its subtleties
and energy will fade away and be replaced with
just another network show waiting for
its cancellation notice.
Potential is Essential
This is true, whether you are referring to a team
Or a single player - - - or even a manager. Most
Teams year after year are mediocre or worse.
They may finish less than .500 or possibly
A few games over, but the story that they wrote
Game by series as the season progressed
Did little to assure fans that all will be all right.
Such a season leaves a bitter taste.
But in every ruined stew that such teams
Make from ingredients combined as the season
Moves from game to series, the fans are left
Excited (if that’s possible) by the secret ingredient
Which, if stirred in properly and seasoned tenderly,
Will give the fans a taste of Hope, a reason to
Look forward to next season’s repast. It is called
Potential. And it is a potent addition that carries
The ordinary to the extraordinary. Within this
Masterpiece of a home-grown cuisine is the future
Star, a hitter who will one day rise above .300, a
Pitcher who will nourish the fan-base with his
Untouchability, a runner who will steal each tensely
Needed base, a fielder who will combine speed
And grace and a mighty arm. Such players may
Not yet have been savory to the epicurean fan
But within them there is the possibility of greatness
--- The five-tool player, the pitcher for the Ages ---
And that meal, when well-prepared and ready to
Be served on a proverbial silver platter,
Will make the greatest gourmand smack
His lips and beg for more.
This is true, whether you are referring to a team
Or a single player - - - or even a manager. Most
Teams year after year are mediocre or worse.
They may finish less than .500 or possibly
A few games over, but the story that they wrote
Game by series as the season progressed
Did little to assure fans that all will be all right.
Such a season leaves a bitter taste.
But in every ruined stew that such teams
Make from ingredients combined as the season
Moves from game to series, the fans are left
Excited (if that’s possible) by the secret ingredient
Which, if stirred in properly and seasoned tenderly,
Will give the fans a taste of Hope, a reason to
Look forward to next season’s repast. It is called
Potential. And it is a potent addition that carries
The ordinary to the extraordinary. Within this
Masterpiece of a home-grown cuisine is the future
Star, a hitter who will one day rise above .300, a
Pitcher who will nourish the fan-base with his
Untouchability, a runner who will steal each tensely
Needed base, a fielder who will combine speed
And grace and a mighty arm. Such players may
Not yet have been savory to the epicurean fan
But within them there is the possibility of greatness
--- The five-tool player, the pitcher for the Ages ---
And that meal, when well-prepared and ready to
Be served on a proverbial silver platter,
Will make the greatest gourmand smack
His lips and beg for more.
The Smell of Pink
My childhood is a collage of so many
Images: assorted ball games and always
Roller hockey when the city’s bitter cold
Stung the fingers and hit the face with
Ice-slaps too much for our fallback sports;
A motley but loved coin collection and a
More magnificent gathering of 3-D comic
Books; the fiery sounds of Elvis, Jerry Lee
And more mellow tones of Frank and Dean.
But the adhesive whirling through all these
Fabrics of the clothing I wore in the 1950’s
Is the aroma of pink, the powdery flavor of
That gum! . . . those rectangular slabs of
Bubble gum that accompanied the packs
Of baseball cards that I had a love-hate
Relationship with. I treasured every card,
But most worshiped the ones with photos
Of my New York Yankees. I knew the number
Of each player (in those days, before
Expansion watered down the statistics and
The quality of play). I loved to feel the cards,
To arrange and rearrange them, to flip and
Glide them in contests with friends, and I
Could never stop that smell, that pink-cloud
Whiff, from entering my nose and mind.
The hate --- too strong a word, perhaps ---
Came from my never getting Mickey Mantle,
No matter how many packs I bought. I used
My mental powers to conjure up an image of
The Mick taking a mighty lefty-righty swing,
The resulting likeness captured forever on the
Front of the card I never found. That collection,
Foolishly, is long gone --- along with those 3-D
Comics and the coins --- but the smell of pink
Is there when I recall those treasured days,
And I’ve never overcome my longing for
Possessing that haunting and much too elusive
Mickey Mantle card.
My childhood is a collage of so many
Images: assorted ball games and always
Roller hockey when the city’s bitter cold
Stung the fingers and hit the face with
Ice-slaps too much for our fallback sports;
A motley but loved coin collection and a
More magnificent gathering of 3-D comic
Books; the fiery sounds of Elvis, Jerry Lee
And more mellow tones of Frank and Dean.
But the adhesive whirling through all these
Fabrics of the clothing I wore in the 1950’s
Is the aroma of pink, the powdery flavor of
That gum! . . . those rectangular slabs of
Bubble gum that accompanied the packs
Of baseball cards that I had a love-hate
Relationship with. I treasured every card,
But most worshiped the ones with photos
Of my New York Yankees. I knew the number
Of each player (in those days, before
Expansion watered down the statistics and
The quality of play). I loved to feel the cards,
To arrange and rearrange them, to flip and
Glide them in contests with friends, and I
Could never stop that smell, that pink-cloud
Whiff, from entering my nose and mind.
The hate --- too strong a word, perhaps ---
Came from my never getting Mickey Mantle,
No matter how many packs I bought. I used
My mental powers to conjure up an image of
The Mick taking a mighty lefty-righty swing,
The resulting likeness captured forever on the
Front of the card I never found. That collection,
Foolishly, is long gone --- along with those 3-D
Comics and the coins --- but the smell of pink
Is there when I recall those treasured days,
And I’ve never overcome my longing for
Possessing that haunting and much too elusive
Mickey Mantle card.
The Stranger
My life is now a stranger to my self.
So much of what I was has gone away,
Now dwelling in the comfort of the past,
Leaving me abandoned with despair.
Gone is the youth who played for hours
In the schoolyards of New York City,
Replaced by some body unable to make
Three-hour commitments. Gone is the
Organizer who called friends together to
Play ball or board games, replaced by one
Too bored with games, one whose friends
Have moved away and moved on with their
Lives. Gone is the young adventurer eager
To attend in person Yank or Met games,
Rover or Ranger matches, Knick games
In the old Garden or 69th Regiment Armory
(when the circus was in town), replaced by
A shell who avoids those trips, scared of
Climbing stairs and needing rest rooms too
Frequently. I used to live my life; now, almost
Overwhelmed by vestiges of foolish choices
Made in better times, I vegetate at home,
And ponder pains that limit my mobility. I
Become more nostalgic by the day, and
Fear what the future holds (where once I
Eagerly anticipated coming days and years).
There are no Golden Years; that is a figment
Of some advertiser’s cruel imagination.
But my mind lives on: Is that a blessing or
A curse? One more thing to ponder now that
My days are much more mental than physical.
The saddest thing is that upon occasion I
Gaze not too deeply at my mirror . . . and less
And less each day recognize the head-bowed
Bewildered soul who returns my stare and asks
Me where the past has gone.
My life is now a stranger to my self.
So much of what I was has gone away,
Now dwelling in the comfort of the past,
Leaving me abandoned with despair.
Gone is the youth who played for hours
In the schoolyards of New York City,
Replaced by some body unable to make
Three-hour commitments. Gone is the
Organizer who called friends together to
Play ball or board games, replaced by one
Too bored with games, one whose friends
Have moved away and moved on with their
Lives. Gone is the young adventurer eager
To attend in person Yank or Met games,
Rover or Ranger matches, Knick games
In the old Garden or 69th Regiment Armory
(when the circus was in town), replaced by
A shell who avoids those trips, scared of
Climbing stairs and needing rest rooms too
Frequently. I used to live my life; now, almost
Overwhelmed by vestiges of foolish choices
Made in better times, I vegetate at home,
And ponder pains that limit my mobility. I
Become more nostalgic by the day, and
Fear what the future holds (where once I
Eagerly anticipated coming days and years).
There are no Golden Years; that is a figment
Of some advertiser’s cruel imagination.
But my mind lives on: Is that a blessing or
A curse? One more thing to ponder now that
My days are much more mental than physical.
The saddest thing is that upon occasion I
Gaze not too deeply at my mirror . . . and less
And less each day recognize the head-bowed
Bewildered soul who returns my stare and asks
Me where the past has gone.
Willie (June 18, 2024)
Willie Mays passed away today.
The Say, Hey Kid was 93 but really was
A life-long youth, always in my mind the buoyant
Spirit trying eagerly to please and to succeed. He was
Thoroughly New York in attitude. His Giants dragged his
Body to that windy Bay but he never really left the boroughs,
Starting off in Manhattan and finishing in Queens, beginning
In the Polo Grounds (as did the Mets) and later bringing his
Hall of Fame career and all five tools to Shea Stadium
(As did the Mets). Let some other poet sing his great statistics.
Let some believer in metaphysics note that his famous 24 is
Psychically connected to Jackie's 42. I hurt too much to waste
Your time. Now he is gone but he will always be around, much
As a treasured friend or precious relative. If baseball were to
Come to life and whisper to us fans sweet words of love,
The voice we’d hear would clearly be the eager joy of Willie Mays.
He will be missed but will live on in each true fan’s best memories.
Willie Mays passed away today.
The Say, Hey Kid was 93 but really was
A life-long youth, always in my mind the buoyant
Spirit trying eagerly to please and to succeed. He was
Thoroughly New York in attitude. His Giants dragged his
Body to that windy Bay but he never really left the boroughs,
Starting off in Manhattan and finishing in Queens, beginning
In the Polo Grounds (as did the Mets) and later bringing his
Hall of Fame career and all five tools to Shea Stadium
(As did the Mets). Let some other poet sing his great statistics.
Let some believer in metaphysics note that his famous 24 is
Psychically connected to Jackie's 42. I hurt too much to waste
Your time. Now he is gone but he will always be around, much
As a treasured friend or precious relative. If baseball were to
Come to life and whisper to us fans sweet words of love,
The voice we’d hear would clearly be the eager joy of Willie Mays.
He will be missed but will live on in each true fan’s best memories.
Blaze
He was so fast! He once stole second and third
on one pitch, they say. He had long, thin legs
that were never injured, and muscular batters
envied his speed. He went from team to team,
showing off Olympic zap; he had even won a
gold medal in the 100-meter dash! They say that
he could open a refrigerator, snatch his meal
and close the fridge before the light went on.
That, if true, would put Cool Papa Bell to
shame, and they say that only Time ever
caught up to Cool Papa - - - but back to
Mr. Speed. He was known for running down
a line drive in right, a ball with an exit velocity
over 110 mph, catching up to it - - - and coming
this close to snatching it before it hit the warning
track! They gave him nicknames like
Lightning Bolt and Blaze, and he wore them
proudly. He waited patiently at the end of the
bench for his name to be called and he was
always ready. But team by team found the
time . . . to release him, to say farewell to the
Blaze. He then walked away slowly, because
He never figured out a way to steal
first base.
He was so fast! He once stole second and third
on one pitch, they say. He had long, thin legs
that were never injured, and muscular batters
envied his speed. He went from team to team,
showing off Olympic zap; he had even won a
gold medal in the 100-meter dash! They say that
he could open a refrigerator, snatch his meal
and close the fridge before the light went on.
That, if true, would put Cool Papa Bell to
shame, and they say that only Time ever
caught up to Cool Papa - - - but back to
Mr. Speed. He was known for running down
a line drive in right, a ball with an exit velocity
over 110 mph, catching up to it - - - and coming
this close to snatching it before it hit the warning
track! They gave him nicknames like
Lightning Bolt and Blaze, and he wore them
proudly. He waited patiently at the end of the
bench for his name to be called and he was
always ready. But team by team found the
time . . . to release him, to say farewell to the
Blaze. He then walked away slowly, because
He never figured out a way to steal
first base.
Apples and Oranges
Day games and night games;
Segregated and desegregated play;
Bigger gloves and sunglasses;
Better bats and conditioning;
Raw talent and improved coaching;
Memory versus video review;
Challenges and instant playback;
Instinct versus sabermetrics;
Better cared-for fields;
Averages and home runs on the record
Despite performance enhancers;
162 games versus 154;
Watered down talent because of
Expansion and more frequent
Injuries; bigger and better
Minor leagues; Tommy John
Prolonging careers; starting pitchers
Throwing 100 for five or six; the near-
Extinction of 20-game winners and
Completed games and closers
Going three innings; dead ball
Versus modern ball . . . with a touch
Of an ultra-lively; larger bases and
More sticky stuff, but no more
Spitters or hesitation pitches.
Ghost runners and designated
Batters; better dugouts and bullpens;
Players resting and not getting winter
Jobs because of higher salaries
Because of TV network contracts,
Media licensing, players in commercials;
Free agency and stocked teams.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s
Day?” Comparison is fruitless, or the
Fruit of a poisoned tree. That’s your
Choice. The bottom line (ironic in a
Time when players still can’t gamble
But gambling is all around them and
Odds are televised during games and
Betting is touted in commercials
Between innings) is that you can’t
Compare. It’s good fodder for heated
Discussions and for arguments - - -
But you just cannot compare!
Day games and night games;
Segregated and desegregated play;
Bigger gloves and sunglasses;
Better bats and conditioning;
Raw talent and improved coaching;
Memory versus video review;
Challenges and instant playback;
Instinct versus sabermetrics;
Better cared-for fields;
Averages and home runs on the record
Despite performance enhancers;
162 games versus 154;
Watered down talent because of
Expansion and more frequent
Injuries; bigger and better
Minor leagues; Tommy John
Prolonging careers; starting pitchers
Throwing 100 for five or six; the near-
Extinction of 20-game winners and
Completed games and closers
Going three innings; dead ball
Versus modern ball . . . with a touch
Of an ultra-lively; larger bases and
More sticky stuff, but no more
Spitters or hesitation pitches.
Ghost runners and designated
Batters; better dugouts and bullpens;
Players resting and not getting winter
Jobs because of higher salaries
Because of TV network contracts,
Media licensing, players in commercials;
Free agency and stocked teams.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s
Day?” Comparison is fruitless, or the
Fruit of a poisoned tree. That’s your
Choice. The bottom line (ironic in a
Time when players still can’t gamble
But gambling is all around them and
Odds are televised during games and
Betting is touted in commercials
Between innings) is that you can’t
Compare. It’s good fodder for heated
Discussions and for arguments - - -
But you just cannot compare!
The Last Supermarket
In my growing-up years in the eastern Bronx,
I relied on the corner grocery for snacks and
Tide-me-overs. The owner, Mr. Zuckerman,
Knew our family. That’s the way it was in those
Simple days, those pre-tech days when we all
Trusted each other, leaving our front doors open
To attempt cross-ventilation through our top-floor
Sweltering apartment, leaving half-way open the
Window leading to our fire escape so close to the roof.
We survived so simply; every need was within walking
Distance, great for car-less families like ours.
We would stroll to the Hugh Grant Circle, a local
Customer’s paradise, where we could find a
Pizza store, a Chinese restaurant, a bank, a
Liquor store (not for us soft drink aficionados),
A movie theater(!) and the Diamond K, the only
Supermarket we needed for the 16 years I lived
In that same six-story building that was my loving home.
And that curved block was just on our side of a
Traffic circle, the other being located on the opposing
Side of the local elevated train station, the side that
Housed a complex of apartment houses, the first such
Project in Bronx history, called Parkchester.
The Diamond K has disappeared, as have the A & P,
Grand Union, Kash n’ Karry, Pathmark, Food Fair, Jitney
Jungle, Waldbaum’s, Pantry Pride, Delchamps ---
While others, such as Stop and Shop face financial
Disaster and decide to down-size. Never mind
“Where have all the flowers gone?”; where have all
The aisles gone, the seafood and the deli counters, the
Frozen stuff and fresh fruits and vegetables? The
Answer cannot be that they’ve been supplanted by
Gardens tended by families for their daily needs or cows
Providing milk for city families that worship self-
Reliance. We are now technological, not agricultural.
I fear the gradual disappearance of supermarkets is
A harbinger of hunger for humanity, as Global Warming
Attacks the farmland - - - and that scares me.
Do you remember “Soylent Green”?
In my growing-up years in the eastern Bronx,
I relied on the corner grocery for snacks and
Tide-me-overs. The owner, Mr. Zuckerman,
Knew our family. That’s the way it was in those
Simple days, those pre-tech days when we all
Trusted each other, leaving our front doors open
To attempt cross-ventilation through our top-floor
Sweltering apartment, leaving half-way open the
Window leading to our fire escape so close to the roof.
We survived so simply; every need was within walking
Distance, great for car-less families like ours.
We would stroll to the Hugh Grant Circle, a local
Customer’s paradise, where we could find a
Pizza store, a Chinese restaurant, a bank, a
Liquor store (not for us soft drink aficionados),
A movie theater(!) and the Diamond K, the only
Supermarket we needed for the 16 years I lived
In that same six-story building that was my loving home.
And that curved block was just on our side of a
Traffic circle, the other being located on the opposing
Side of the local elevated train station, the side that
Housed a complex of apartment houses, the first such
Project in Bronx history, called Parkchester.
The Diamond K has disappeared, as have the A & P,
Grand Union, Kash n’ Karry, Pathmark, Food Fair, Jitney
Jungle, Waldbaum’s, Pantry Pride, Delchamps ---
While others, such as Stop and Shop face financial
Disaster and decide to down-size. Never mind
“Where have all the flowers gone?”; where have all
The aisles gone, the seafood and the deli counters, the
Frozen stuff and fresh fruits and vegetables? The
Answer cannot be that they’ve been supplanted by
Gardens tended by families for their daily needs or cows
Providing milk for city families that worship self-
Reliance. We are now technological, not agricultural.
I fear the gradual disappearance of supermarkets is
A harbinger of hunger for humanity, as Global Warming
Attacks the farmland - - - and that scares me.
Do you remember “Soylent Green”?
Baseball Movies
Movies about baseball are the blood that flows through
America’s circulatory system. They keep us healthy and
Alert, in tune with our national soul. Each one helps us
Transpose ourselves to a needed time and place, a sort of
Wonderland where dreams and fantasies come alive.
The Russians have their Cossacks; the British have their
Knights; the rough-and-tumble Yanks (those not from the
Bronx) have their cowboys; other nationalities have pirates
(Sorry, Pittsburgh), Vikings, even super-heroes, but the
True-blue Americans, the ones who cherish fair play and
Honest conflict, have the baseball movies that offer them
Escape wrapped in honesty. If you are just getting started
(in college, in a career, with a family), you’ll find wisdom in
The way the old pro minor leaguer Crash Davis plays Yoda
To the very green rookie pitcher Ebby Calvin Laloosh in
Bull Durham”. If, on the other hand, you are close to your
retirement, cherish the one final bit of pitching glory by the
Old pro in “Angels in the Outfield” – assisted by some angels.
If you like to swing (and not just at pitches), follow the
Exploits of the double-play combo in “Take Me Out to the
Ballgame”, and if you need some vicarious competition,
Follow Mick and Roger in “61*” but if your struggle is with
Yourself, watch Jimmy Piersall in “Fear Strikes Out”. Are
You a dreamer and dream-chaser? “Field of Dreams” will
Show you how to create a fantasy. Tempted to cheat? Learn
A lesson from “Eight Men Out”. Like facts and figures - - -
“Moneyball” is for you. Believe that it’s never too late?
“The Rookie” agrees with you. Need to overcome a major
Physical disability? See “The Stratton Story”. Need to
Deal with racism? Learn from Jackie in “42” --- or watch
Jackie play himself in “The Jackie Robinson Story”. Need
To see what dignity is? View “The Pride of the Yankees”
And learn again to value Lou Gehrig’s character. If you’re
Just plain curious and want to see a future President play
Pitcher Grover Cleveland Alexander, who was a big winner,
Especially in the 1926 World Series for the Cards against
The Yankees despite his battles with epilepsy, watch
Ronald Reagan in “The Winning Team”. There are
So many more, but the point’s been made. There’s no
Need for extra innings. Watch a baseball film: education
On offense and entertainment on defense. Did you ever
Wonder why there are so many baseball movies? It’s in
The designation. Each one moves you; each one fills a
Need. Some hit singles and some smack home runs,
But they all involve you in the game of life.
Movies about baseball are the blood that flows through
America’s circulatory system. They keep us healthy and
Alert, in tune with our national soul. Each one helps us
Transpose ourselves to a needed time and place, a sort of
Wonderland where dreams and fantasies come alive.
The Russians have their Cossacks; the British have their
Knights; the rough-and-tumble Yanks (those not from the
Bronx) have their cowboys; other nationalities have pirates
(Sorry, Pittsburgh), Vikings, even super-heroes, but the
True-blue Americans, the ones who cherish fair play and
Honest conflict, have the baseball movies that offer them
Escape wrapped in honesty. If you are just getting started
(in college, in a career, with a family), you’ll find wisdom in
The way the old pro minor leaguer Crash Davis plays Yoda
To the very green rookie pitcher Ebby Calvin Laloosh in
Bull Durham”. If, on the other hand, you are close to your
retirement, cherish the one final bit of pitching glory by the
Old pro in “Angels in the Outfield” – assisted by some angels.
If you like to swing (and not just at pitches), follow the
Exploits of the double-play combo in “Take Me Out to the
Ballgame”, and if you need some vicarious competition,
Follow Mick and Roger in “61*” but if your struggle is with
Yourself, watch Jimmy Piersall in “Fear Strikes Out”. Are
You a dreamer and dream-chaser? “Field of Dreams” will
Show you how to create a fantasy. Tempted to cheat? Learn
A lesson from “Eight Men Out”. Like facts and figures - - -
“Moneyball” is for you. Believe that it’s never too late?
“The Rookie” agrees with you. Need to overcome a major
Physical disability? See “The Stratton Story”. Need to
Deal with racism? Learn from Jackie in “42” --- or watch
Jackie play himself in “The Jackie Robinson Story”. Need
To see what dignity is? View “The Pride of the Yankees”
And learn again to value Lou Gehrig’s character. If you’re
Just plain curious and want to see a future President play
Pitcher Grover Cleveland Alexander, who was a big winner,
Especially in the 1926 World Series for the Cards against
The Yankees despite his battles with epilepsy, watch
Ronald Reagan in “The Winning Team”. There are
So many more, but the point’s been made. There’s no
Need for extra innings. Watch a baseball film: education
On offense and entertainment on defense. Did you ever
Wonder why there are so many baseball movies? It’s in
The designation. Each one moves you; each one fills a
Need. Some hit singles and some smack home runs,
But they all involve you in the game of life.
Top to Bottom
Batting against a variety of speeds, movements and motions
Anticipating high fastballs like cannon shots, sweeping curves
as graceful as vultures gliding down, and
knucklers dancing like butterflies
Stealing bases with the majesty and swiftness of a bald eagle diving for
its prey
Eager to do what it takes to get an edge (and hoping not to get caught)
Breaking at the sound of bat to ball to run down a long fly or sharp line drive
Apprehensive as a rookie or older veteran that your performance
may be lacking what management is looking for
Looking at the future in a way that only fellow athletes can comprehend,
questioning whether the calendar is friend or foe
Longing to fit, at last, into the plans of the ball club, a club many want
to join but few are invited to remain with
Counting on your body to hold up, to not betray you, to beat the odds
Always endeavoring to become better, to study films and learn from
failure, to hear the coaches, to practice and fool all those critics
Realizing that even the best have an expiration date, and that fame is
elusive and that mediocrity is the true norm
Enjoying days and years which form the foundation for that special time
which, in old and even middle age, become the realm of smiling
remembrances
Ever grateful for the opportunity to do what peers to seldom do, get
paid for playing a child’s game and being adored by myriads of fans
Rising to heights unavailable to ordinary men, if even for a moment,
if even to fall back to Earth again, but knowing that you once
were worshiped because you had the gift to live a pro baseball career!
Batting against a variety of speeds, movements and motions
Anticipating high fastballs like cannon shots, sweeping curves
as graceful as vultures gliding down, and
knucklers dancing like butterflies
Stealing bases with the majesty and swiftness of a bald eagle diving for
its prey
Eager to do what it takes to get an edge (and hoping not to get caught)
Breaking at the sound of bat to ball to run down a long fly or sharp line drive
Apprehensive as a rookie or older veteran that your performance
may be lacking what management is looking for
Looking at the future in a way that only fellow athletes can comprehend,
questioning whether the calendar is friend or foe
Longing to fit, at last, into the plans of the ball club, a club many want
to join but few are invited to remain with
Counting on your body to hold up, to not betray you, to beat the odds
Always endeavoring to become better, to study films and learn from
failure, to hear the coaches, to practice and fool all those critics
Realizing that even the best have an expiration date, and that fame is
elusive and that mediocrity is the true norm
Enjoying days and years which form the foundation for that special time
which, in old and even middle age, become the realm of smiling
remembrances
Ever grateful for the opportunity to do what peers to seldom do, get
paid for playing a child’s game and being adored by myriads of fans
Rising to heights unavailable to ordinary men, if even for a moment,
if even to fall back to Earth again, but knowing that you once
were worshiped because you had the gift to live a pro baseball career!
Wordscapes Mentality
amino, amnio, ocher, ochre,
snoop, spoon, rues, ruse
stop. Spot, tops, pots, opts,
post, teacher, cheater,
airway, fairway, player,
replay, layer, relay, tach, chat,
tech, etch, playoff, payoff,
layoff, pat, tap, apt, mite,
time, item, emit, lei, lie, lier,
liar, lair, atom, moat motto,
tomato, moot, below, lobe,
bole, elbow, blow, bowl,
blew, bellow, maximal, max
mix, maxi, axial, lax, maxim,
carver, craver, caver, aver,
carer, racer, acre, raver,
rave, cave, creep, crepe,
peep, peer, peter, pert,
prep, erect, elect,
elector, lector, repel,
leper, moral, amoral,
molar, loam, roam, alarm,
aroma, loam, roam, oral,
lumber, umber, berm,
lemur, blue, bluer,
blur, lure, rule, rumble,
rely, lyre, peep, steep,
step, steppe, pets, pest,
female, fame, flame,
flea, leaf, flee, unite,
untie, unit, nut, tun,
writhe, write, writ, wire,
with, whit, writer, rite,
cruel, ulcer, hoop, chop,
poncho, pooch, coop,
concord, condor, coop,
condo, cordon, cord,
corn, door, donor, odor,
croon, don, nod, den, end!
amino, amnio, ocher, ochre,
snoop, spoon, rues, ruse
stop. Spot, tops, pots, opts,
post, teacher, cheater,
airway, fairway, player,
replay, layer, relay, tach, chat,
tech, etch, playoff, payoff,
layoff, pat, tap, apt, mite,
time, item, emit, lei, lie, lier,
liar, lair, atom, moat motto,
tomato, moot, below, lobe,
bole, elbow, blow, bowl,
blew, bellow, maximal, max
mix, maxi, axial, lax, maxim,
carver, craver, caver, aver,
carer, racer, acre, raver,
rave, cave, creep, crepe,
peep, peer, peter, pert,
prep, erect, elect,
elector, lector, repel,
leper, moral, amoral,
molar, loam, roam, alarm,
aroma, loam, roam, oral,
lumber, umber, berm,
lemur, blue, bluer,
blur, lure, rule, rumble,
rely, lyre, peep, steep,
step, steppe, pets, pest,
female, fame, flame,
flea, leaf, flee, unite,
untie, unit, nut, tun,
writhe, write, writ, wire,
with, whit, writer, rite,
cruel, ulcer, hoop, chop,
poncho, pooch, coop,
concord, condor, coop,
condo, cordon, cord,
corn, door, donor, odor,
croon, don, nod, den, end!
The Mourning After
It didn’t have to be; it wasn’t fated that the Trolley Dodgers
Would leave behind their faithful, loving fans --- the ones who,
When Gil Hodges went into a deep, deep slump, didn’t boo or
Curse him out but rather prayed to God for him to regain his
Hitting touch, who just knew the Chief baseball Deity
Was a Brooklyn Dodger fan --- and seek their Walk (or rather
Homer) of Fame on the Wrong Coast after the 1957 season
(Just two years after Podres led them finally to their first
World Series victory). Sure, there’s bitter irony in the timing
And a bitter taste in the mouth of every fan of “them Bums”
But eschew burning owner Walter O’Malley effigies and (for
Those dwindling numbers of die-hard Brooklyn fans) focus your
Regrets and broken hearts at one Robert Moses, King of
New York Projects, for when O’Malley asked for a new
Stadium to be built in Brooklyn in a perfect location for
Varied modes of transportation, Moses spoke as if his
Words were holy and pointed to a spot in Flushing,
Queens and proclaimed, “Build your baseball cathedral
On this promised land or gather up your people and
Seek greener pastures!” “But we are of Brooklyn, not of
Queens,” was the response . . . and it came to be that
The Dodger Tribe gathered all belongings and sojourned
Three thousand miles to Chavez Ravine and left behind
Thousands of broken fans. And abandoned fans showed
Up for souvenirs when a wrecking ball painted like a
Baseball started smashing the old faithful field, and a few
Carried away parts of seats and turf and many memories
And tears for all the years. So now, where once there lived
A Field called Ebbets, a place where played Furillo and
Campanella, Robinson, Reese, the Duke, there are housing
Projects and very few who could recall that baseball once
Found a treasured home where the fans were closer to
Their beloved athletes than any other. One day the last of
These dedicated fans will be gone to that trolley depot in
The sky, and you can bet, if offered a free transfer to watch
Those L. A. Dodgers, they will refuse. The original is always
Better than the imitation.
It didn’t have to be; it wasn’t fated that the Trolley Dodgers
Would leave behind their faithful, loving fans --- the ones who,
When Gil Hodges went into a deep, deep slump, didn’t boo or
Curse him out but rather prayed to God for him to regain his
Hitting touch, who just knew the Chief baseball Deity
Was a Brooklyn Dodger fan --- and seek their Walk (or rather
Homer) of Fame on the Wrong Coast after the 1957 season
(Just two years after Podres led them finally to their first
World Series victory). Sure, there’s bitter irony in the timing
And a bitter taste in the mouth of every fan of “them Bums”
But eschew burning owner Walter O’Malley effigies and (for
Those dwindling numbers of die-hard Brooklyn fans) focus your
Regrets and broken hearts at one Robert Moses, King of
New York Projects, for when O’Malley asked for a new
Stadium to be built in Brooklyn in a perfect location for
Varied modes of transportation, Moses spoke as if his
Words were holy and pointed to a spot in Flushing,
Queens and proclaimed, “Build your baseball cathedral
On this promised land or gather up your people and
Seek greener pastures!” “But we are of Brooklyn, not of
Queens,” was the response . . . and it came to be that
The Dodger Tribe gathered all belongings and sojourned
Three thousand miles to Chavez Ravine and left behind
Thousands of broken fans. And abandoned fans showed
Up for souvenirs when a wrecking ball painted like a
Baseball started smashing the old faithful field, and a few
Carried away parts of seats and turf and many memories
And tears for all the years. So now, where once there lived
A Field called Ebbets, a place where played Furillo and
Campanella, Robinson, Reese, the Duke, there are housing
Projects and very few who could recall that baseball once
Found a treasured home where the fans were closer to
Their beloved athletes than any other. One day the last of
These dedicated fans will be gone to that trolley depot in
The sky, and you can bet, if offered a free transfer to watch
Those L. A. Dodgers, they will refuse. The original is always
Better than the imitation.
Labor of Love of Money
When I was a high school junior in 1958,
Still filled with the fantasy of making a fortune
(which in those days was twenty grand a year),
I had a parallel fantasy of playing in the Majors.
It was a double-dream really: making lots of
Dough while playing a pleasant game on several
Fields that looked so grand and smelled so fresh.
Twenty thousand a year was the outward flash
Of cash that would set me up for life in a time
When a house cost twelve thousand. I never
Noticed how many Major Leaguers had to work
In the off-season to make ends meet because
Most of them weren’t stars . . . and even stars
Such as Ralph Kiner couldn’t get a raise after a
Terrific year because - - - as the Pirates’ GM
Pointed out, Pittsburg was a last place team - - -
Even with Kiner’s league-leading homer total.
The other day, the Mets signed a journeyman hurler
With a mediocre record to two years, at 17 million a
Year. My highest annual salary after teaching 58 years
Was like $84,000 . . . and I could teach better than
Most of today’s millionaire players can hit or throw
A baseball. But no one ever paid for a ticket to watch
Me perform and there were no TV rights to cover my
Classes and no company ever paid me to do an ad for
Its product. Certainly, there is no free agency in the
Education field (Where were you when I needed you,
Curt Flood?), and no scouts ever sat unobtrusively
In the back row in one of those cute wooden or later
Plastic chairs in what Bob Uecker would call “the
Great seats!”
It got me thinking about the journey that annual MLB
Contracts have taken - - - from Levi Meyerle’s $1,500
To the poly-multiple contract amounts received by the
Upper echelon of today’s young stars, from Ohtani to
Soto. Remember when Koufax and Drysdale sat out
Together for 132 days in 1966 until Dodger management
Agreed to the outrageously inflated salaries of $125,000
And $110,000 respectively, before free agency times?
Mickey Mantle peaked at one hundred thousand a year, and
Willie Mays, at $165,000. Hell, Babe Ruth jumped for joy
At reaching $80,000 nine years after Ty Cobb became the
Highest paid pro at $25,000. You can talk about inflation
But I’d rather compare the top baseball yearly salary to that
Of a great pedagogue to demonstrate how valued is our
National pastime (and why most boys dream of hitting the
Winning homer, not of changing lives by instructing the
curious).
Okay. My venting is over. When the dust around home plate
Has settled, I still prefer to drive a lesson home rather than a
Run. Still, I’d have looked very sharp wearing a uniform - - -
At any price.
When I was a high school junior in 1958,
Still filled with the fantasy of making a fortune
(which in those days was twenty grand a year),
I had a parallel fantasy of playing in the Majors.
It was a double-dream really: making lots of
Dough while playing a pleasant game on several
Fields that looked so grand and smelled so fresh.
Twenty thousand a year was the outward flash
Of cash that would set me up for life in a time
When a house cost twelve thousand. I never
Noticed how many Major Leaguers had to work
In the off-season to make ends meet because
Most of them weren’t stars . . . and even stars
Such as Ralph Kiner couldn’t get a raise after a
Terrific year because - - - as the Pirates’ GM
Pointed out, Pittsburg was a last place team - - -
Even with Kiner’s league-leading homer total.
The other day, the Mets signed a journeyman hurler
With a mediocre record to two years, at 17 million a
Year. My highest annual salary after teaching 58 years
Was like $84,000 . . . and I could teach better than
Most of today’s millionaire players can hit or throw
A baseball. But no one ever paid for a ticket to watch
Me perform and there were no TV rights to cover my
Classes and no company ever paid me to do an ad for
Its product. Certainly, there is no free agency in the
Education field (Where were you when I needed you,
Curt Flood?), and no scouts ever sat unobtrusively
In the back row in one of those cute wooden or later
Plastic chairs in what Bob Uecker would call “the
Great seats!”
It got me thinking about the journey that annual MLB
Contracts have taken - - - from Levi Meyerle’s $1,500
To the poly-multiple contract amounts received by the
Upper echelon of today’s young stars, from Ohtani to
Soto. Remember when Koufax and Drysdale sat out
Together for 132 days in 1966 until Dodger management
Agreed to the outrageously inflated salaries of $125,000
And $110,000 respectively, before free agency times?
Mickey Mantle peaked at one hundred thousand a year, and
Willie Mays, at $165,000. Hell, Babe Ruth jumped for joy
At reaching $80,000 nine years after Ty Cobb became the
Highest paid pro at $25,000. You can talk about inflation
But I’d rather compare the top baseball yearly salary to that
Of a great pedagogue to demonstrate how valued is our
National pastime (and why most boys dream of hitting the
Winning homer, not of changing lives by instructing the
curious).
Okay. My venting is over. When the dust around home plate
Has settled, I still prefer to drive a lesson home rather than a
Run. Still, I’d have looked very sharp wearing a uniform - - -
At any price.
Questions I Never Asked
It’s too late now, far too late. Both my parents and
Both my sisters are gone. My wellspring of family
Knowledge has faded into the mysteries of history.
I was smart with books and sports, but I am ignorant
Of my own history, full of regrets and a desire to know
But missing the precious resources that would have
Filled the holes, the chasms in my consciousness.
When did they arrive in the U. S.? Why did they leave
Poland and Latvia? What was life there like for Jews?
How did they meet? Was the meeting accidental,
Spontaneous, arranged? How long did they date before
He proposed? Where did they get married? How long
Were they married before she had my older sister?
What did he help build as a carpenter (besides the
Museum of the City of New York?). What was her
Favorite color? Flower? Song? Pre-TV radio show?
Which members of my family were lost during the
Holocaust? During the pogroms? Did any of them
Make the Aliyah to Israel? Who were my living relatives?
Where did they live? What did they do? Why were we
And they so distant?
Why did she have me 10 years after my younger sister?
Was she happy when I was born? Did she feel too old
To care for a baby again? Is it true that she almost
Aborted me but changed her mind literally at the final
Moment?
Then there are the closer queries to my toddler self:
What did her voice sound like? What did her touch
Feel like? Her scent? Her presence? Afterthoughts:
What was his favorite opera? Why did he switch from
Being a builder to owning a store? The ethereal gems:
What would they feel about the man I have become,
The woman I married, the children and grandchildren
I had - - - and how little my progeny know about them?
One final question: Why did I wait too late to ask?
It’s too late now, far too late. Both my parents and
Both my sisters are gone. My wellspring of family
Knowledge has faded into the mysteries of history.
I was smart with books and sports, but I am ignorant
Of my own history, full of regrets and a desire to know
But missing the precious resources that would have
Filled the holes, the chasms in my consciousness.
When did they arrive in the U. S.? Why did they leave
Poland and Latvia? What was life there like for Jews?
How did they meet? Was the meeting accidental,
Spontaneous, arranged? How long did they date before
He proposed? Where did they get married? How long
Were they married before she had my older sister?
What did he help build as a carpenter (besides the
Museum of the City of New York?). What was her
Favorite color? Flower? Song? Pre-TV radio show?
Which members of my family were lost during the
Holocaust? During the pogroms? Did any of them
Make the Aliyah to Israel? Who were my living relatives?
Where did they live? What did they do? Why were we
And they so distant?
Why did she have me 10 years after my younger sister?
Was she happy when I was born? Did she feel too old
To care for a baby again? Is it true that she almost
Aborted me but changed her mind literally at the final
Moment?
Then there are the closer queries to my toddler self:
What did her voice sound like? What did her touch
Feel like? Her scent? Her presence? Afterthoughts:
What was his favorite opera? Why did he switch from
Being a builder to owning a store? The ethereal gems:
What would they feel about the man I have become,
The woman I married, the children and grandchildren
I had - - - and how little my progeny know about them?
One final question: Why did I wait too late to ask?
75
I was 75 once, the victim of a big surprise
And a lovely gathering of friends who hold
A valued place in my heart and memory.
Three quarters of a century of images
Floated through my mind and I held on,
For that parade of visions formed the movie
Of my life.
Outside, I laughed and joked and hugged and
Cherished every happening while at the mirror
Image of that day inside, I wept at moments
From the past that hurt, times that were too
Filled with regret and an overwhelming wish
To find a way not to erase but to re-do words
I had said, actions I had taken when I was
Younger and newer to such situations . . .
But there I was, at 75, holding up my end,
Acting the mature and wise man who’d lived!
In retrospect, no longer able to touch many of
Those I once knew, equally unable to relive
The precious memories that gave me hope,
I sit and contemplate how nice it was
To be a youngster of 75.
I was 75 once, the victim of a big surprise
And a lovely gathering of friends who hold
A valued place in my heart and memory.
Three quarters of a century of images
Floated through my mind and I held on,
For that parade of visions formed the movie
Of my life.
Outside, I laughed and joked and hugged and
Cherished every happening while at the mirror
Image of that day inside, I wept at moments
From the past that hurt, times that were too
Filled with regret and an overwhelming wish
To find a way not to erase but to re-do words
I had said, actions I had taken when I was
Younger and newer to such situations . . .
But there I was, at 75, holding up my end,
Acting the mature and wise man who’d lived!
In retrospect, no longer able to touch many of
Those I once knew, equally unable to relive
The precious memories that gave me hope,
I sit and contemplate how nice it was
To be a youngster of 75.
Multiple Losses
The year 2024 was a harsh one for lovers of
Baseball history. Passing on to the fields of
Heaven were Willie Mays, Rickey Henderson,
Fernando Valenzuela and Pete Rose, a master
Combination of speed and power, of hitting,
Running, scoring, throwing, and hurling; a
Highly regarded amalgam of singles, homers,
Stolen bases, great pitching, and strong throwing.
They had great arms and legs, eyes and hearts for
Decades of amazing performances. They won world
Titles and individual awards. Their presence in
The realm of the heavenly greats increases the
Talent pool of the imagination and the strength
Of the spirit world. Not just their physical and
Mental skills but their love of and dedication to
The living world’s international pastime add
Immensely to the lore and mythology of what
Was America’s game and is now a game played
By many eager and emphatic nations. These four
Are gone now - - - and have transitioned into our
Assembled recognition of the legends of The
Sport. They play on in memory and story, but
The Living Game flourishes brightly with a
Future Hall of Fame of brilliant stars that light
Up the breathing Earthly baseball universe, and
We thank those who have passed on with the
Greatest honor of building upon the foundation
They have added to . . . with these holy baseball words:
The Show must go on!
The year 2024 was a harsh one for lovers of
Baseball history. Passing on to the fields of
Heaven were Willie Mays, Rickey Henderson,
Fernando Valenzuela and Pete Rose, a master
Combination of speed and power, of hitting,
Running, scoring, throwing, and hurling; a
Highly regarded amalgam of singles, homers,
Stolen bases, great pitching, and strong throwing.
They had great arms and legs, eyes and hearts for
Decades of amazing performances. They won world
Titles and individual awards. Their presence in
The realm of the heavenly greats increases the
Talent pool of the imagination and the strength
Of the spirit world. Not just their physical and
Mental skills but their love of and dedication to
The living world’s international pastime add
Immensely to the lore and mythology of what
Was America’s game and is now a game played
By many eager and emphatic nations. These four
Are gone now - - - and have transitioned into our
Assembled recognition of the legends of The
Sport. They play on in memory and story, but
The Living Game flourishes brightly with a
Future Hall of Fame of brilliant stars that light
Up the breathing Earthly baseball universe, and
We thank those who have passed on with the
Greatest honor of building upon the foundation
They have added to . . . with these holy baseball words:
The Show must go on!
Gone Too Soon . . .
Strawberry and Gooden gone. Ray Knight gone.
José Reyes and David Cone gone. Seaver gone!
Mike Scott and Nolan Ryan gone.
Kevin Mitchell and Jeff Kent gone.
Daniel Murphy gone. Justin Turner gone.
Amos Otis gone. Zack Wheeler gone.
Dykstra and McDowell gone. Aguilera gone.
So many painful memories and hauntings
About what might have been, it’s like
Winning a lottery that you forgot to enter.
So sad. Lost opportunities. Every team
Has them, I know, but these are my Mets,
My beloved Mets . . . who’ve won it all
Twice in their first 64 years. The team, if
A human, could collect early social security.
And they’ve won the Series twice! So many
Missed opportunities. So sad. But then I
See what is and think, “Number Three will
Be this season!” Still - - - so many gone
Before they should have been.
Strawberry and Gooden gone. Ray Knight gone.
José Reyes and David Cone gone. Seaver gone!
Mike Scott and Nolan Ryan gone.
Kevin Mitchell and Jeff Kent gone.
Daniel Murphy gone. Justin Turner gone.
Amos Otis gone. Zack Wheeler gone.
Dykstra and McDowell gone. Aguilera gone.
So many painful memories and hauntings
About what might have been, it’s like
Winning a lottery that you forgot to enter.
So sad. Lost opportunities. Every team
Has them, I know, but these are my Mets,
My beloved Mets . . . who’ve won it all
Twice in their first 64 years. The team, if
A human, could collect early social security.
And they’ve won the Series twice! So many
Missed opportunities. So sad. But then I
See what is and think, “Number Three will
Be this season!” Still - - - so many gone
Before they should have been.
Youtube is my Time Machine
02-11-25
Youtube is my time machine, existing in a frantic period of
Political turmoil as a faithful refuge --- when I feel swept away
By historical and hysterical currents drowning the democracy
Of my better days. Youtube is a comfort zone, and I access it
When I have the need to transpose myself to calmer times
When comedians such as Steven Wright, Sam Kinison, Rodney
Dangerfield and George Carlin involved us in their unique world
Views and perspectives and teams such as Abbott and Costello
As well as Jackie Gleason and Art Carney transported us to
Happier, more innocent realms. It feels good to laugh at jokes
And silly situations that the Three Stooges and Marx Brothers
Involved us in rather than the nasty-bitter situations that the
Villains who now lead our government, elected by 89 million
Non-voters or not elected but potent after large donations,
Involve us in. Better to get lost in black and white Candid
Camera stunts than be faced with evil machinations that
Fill me with dread and sorrow for the nation of my posterity.
Just as soothing are the Youtube clips from the harmless
World of athletic combat. Memory swirls with the need for
Escape as I root for George Mikan, Bill Russell, Mickey
Mantle, Yogi Berra, the ’69 and ’73 Knicks and several
Yankee (and two Met) Championships. I fight alongside
Cassius Clay, then Muhammad Ali, perhaps even
Dempsey and Louis, and my need for competition in a
Slowly fading nation is temporally fulfilled - - - until I
Must return to my present day, the result of a hunger
For a meal and a hunger for the freedom I feel escaping
Me and constricting my sphere of liberty.
In my darkest politic moments, I flee to JFK giving his
Inaugural speech or MLK preaching about his dream ---
And mine. I hold tightly onto the reality that my nation
Has existed in for all these years. Youtube presents the
Possibilities of the past and that gives me hope for the future.
02-11-25
Youtube is my time machine, existing in a frantic period of
Political turmoil as a faithful refuge --- when I feel swept away
By historical and hysterical currents drowning the democracy
Of my better days. Youtube is a comfort zone, and I access it
When I have the need to transpose myself to calmer times
When comedians such as Steven Wright, Sam Kinison, Rodney
Dangerfield and George Carlin involved us in their unique world
Views and perspectives and teams such as Abbott and Costello
As well as Jackie Gleason and Art Carney transported us to
Happier, more innocent realms. It feels good to laugh at jokes
And silly situations that the Three Stooges and Marx Brothers
Involved us in rather than the nasty-bitter situations that the
Villains who now lead our government, elected by 89 million
Non-voters or not elected but potent after large donations,
Involve us in. Better to get lost in black and white Candid
Camera stunts than be faced with evil machinations that
Fill me with dread and sorrow for the nation of my posterity.
Just as soothing are the Youtube clips from the harmless
World of athletic combat. Memory swirls with the need for
Escape as I root for George Mikan, Bill Russell, Mickey
Mantle, Yogi Berra, the ’69 and ’73 Knicks and several
Yankee (and two Met) Championships. I fight alongside
Cassius Clay, then Muhammad Ali, perhaps even
Dempsey and Louis, and my need for competition in a
Slowly fading nation is temporally fulfilled - - - until I
Must return to my present day, the result of a hunger
For a meal and a hunger for the freedom I feel escaping
Me and constricting my sphere of liberty.
In my darkest politic moments, I flee to JFK giving his
Inaugural speech or MLK preaching about his dream ---
And mine. I hold tightly onto the reality that my nation
Has existed in for all these years. Youtube presents the
Possibilities of the past and that gives me hope for the future.
1949 to 1953
1949 to1953
No fanatic has been more fortunate than I. I spent my childhood
Living in the Bronx, and that covered the magic half -decade when
My Yankees won the pennant and World Series title every year, from
1949 to 1953. Now, I don’t have an eidetic memory; I can’t recite
Every detail of every game during that stretch. What I can do, even
After all the decades, is share a montage, a patchwork quilt, of
Moments and achievements that symbolize what it was like to be
A golden Yankee fan for five years that have never been duplicated,
And with free agency, probably never will, even with the Dodgers
Shooting for it as a way to get revenge for the frustrations of those
Brooklyn also-rans of years gone forever.
Where do I begin? There is no start or end; the mental movie that
Even now entertains and comforts me but has no fixed structure. Start
Anywhere you wish and just sit back and enjoy the show. May I suggest
The most animated Yankee Hall of Famer, Yogi? I say the name and
I recall two leaping motions: one full of thrills as he jumps into the
Arms of Don Larsen to punctuate the conclusion of the only perfect
Game in World Series annals, the other emphasizing his protest
Against Jackie Robinson’s being called safe at home on a steal. Then,
Randomly, I am bombarded with images of Bobby Richardson
Racking up hit after hit, Billy Martin charging toward the mound to
Make a marvelous pop-up grab, Tony Kubek being hit in the throat
As the batted ball takes a vicious bounce, homer after homer by Mantle,
Who then takes his signature trot around the bases, frustrated hitters
Flailing and failing against the superb stuff of Allie Reynolds, Whitey
Ford, Raschi,and Lopat. I treasure the bunting and base-running of
The Scooter, Phil Rizzuto, but I cringe at a vision of Mantle hurt by an
Outfield drainpipe but take pleasure in the grace of Di Maggio in his
Final year. I acknowledge Casey Stengel’s brilliance and consistency
And his mastery of platooning, illustrated by such combinations as
Skowron-Collins, Woodling-Bauer, Johnson-Brown, et al.
It was cool that my first three years as a baseball fan (which coincided
With my father buying our first television set, by the way) were the last
Three years for Joltin’ Joe - - - and he was a Series champ each of
That trio of seasons! It was marvelous that in that spread of seasons,
I got to follow rookies such as Mantle, Martin, Ford . . . and veterans
Such as Bobby Brown, that old Marine, Hank Bauer and the Chief,
Allie Reynolds - - - and even coaches from Yankee years gone by,
Dickey and Crosetti.
When this Series run began, it had only been four years since the
End of World War II - - - and Stengel, believed to be a clown and
Far from a baseball genius, displayed his wisdom and helped return
Nation to peacetime normalcy. But this kid, speaking to you now,
In his naïveté, was ready to accept that his hometown team would
Win the Championship every single year. Oh, don’t worry . . . in
1954, the Cleveland Indians (before they were the Guardians)
Introduced me to reality - - - and that made World Series wins
More precious in their rarity. What I was left with was the joy
Of my patchwork memories of the Bombers from my Bronx
From 1949 to 1953! In the doldrums of the late ‘60’s and the
Early ‘70’s, it was those recollections which were my savior,
A side note: 1949 was the foundation of two significant love affairs
For me. Obviously, it was the start of my life-long love of baseball.
Even more important, personally, the final game of the 1949 Series
Occurred on October 9. Eighty-one days later, toward the end of 1949,
The eventual love of my life was born. Ask me to name my favorite year.
Go ahead; ask me.
1949 to1953
No fanatic has been more fortunate than I. I spent my childhood
Living in the Bronx, and that covered the magic half -decade when
My Yankees won the pennant and World Series title every year, from
1949 to 1953. Now, I don’t have an eidetic memory; I can’t recite
Every detail of every game during that stretch. What I can do, even
After all the decades, is share a montage, a patchwork quilt, of
Moments and achievements that symbolize what it was like to be
A golden Yankee fan for five years that have never been duplicated,
And with free agency, probably never will, even with the Dodgers
Shooting for it as a way to get revenge for the frustrations of those
Brooklyn also-rans of years gone forever.
Where do I begin? There is no start or end; the mental movie that
Even now entertains and comforts me but has no fixed structure. Start
Anywhere you wish and just sit back and enjoy the show. May I suggest
The most animated Yankee Hall of Famer, Yogi? I say the name and
I recall two leaping motions: one full of thrills as he jumps into the
Arms of Don Larsen to punctuate the conclusion of the only perfect
Game in World Series annals, the other emphasizing his protest
Against Jackie Robinson’s being called safe at home on a steal. Then,
Randomly, I am bombarded with images of Bobby Richardson
Racking up hit after hit, Billy Martin charging toward the mound to
Make a marvelous pop-up grab, Tony Kubek being hit in the throat
As the batted ball takes a vicious bounce, homer after homer by Mantle,
Who then takes his signature trot around the bases, frustrated hitters
Flailing and failing against the superb stuff of Allie Reynolds, Whitey
Ford, Raschi,and Lopat. I treasure the bunting and base-running of
The Scooter, Phil Rizzuto, but I cringe at a vision of Mantle hurt by an
Outfield drainpipe but take pleasure in the grace of Di Maggio in his
Final year. I acknowledge Casey Stengel’s brilliance and consistency
And his mastery of platooning, illustrated by such combinations as
Skowron-Collins, Woodling-Bauer, Johnson-Brown, et al.
It was cool that my first three years as a baseball fan (which coincided
With my father buying our first television set, by the way) were the last
Three years for Joltin’ Joe - - - and he was a Series champ each of
That trio of seasons! It was marvelous that in that spread of seasons,
I got to follow rookies such as Mantle, Martin, Ford . . . and veterans
Such as Bobby Brown, that old Marine, Hank Bauer and the Chief,
Allie Reynolds - - - and even coaches from Yankee years gone by,
Dickey and Crosetti.
When this Series run began, it had only been four years since the
End of World War II - - - and Stengel, believed to be a clown and
Far from a baseball genius, displayed his wisdom and helped return
Nation to peacetime normalcy. But this kid, speaking to you now,
In his naïveté, was ready to accept that his hometown team would
Win the Championship every single year. Oh, don’t worry . . . in
1954, the Cleveland Indians (before they were the Guardians)
Introduced me to reality - - - and that made World Series wins
More precious in their rarity. What I was left with was the joy
Of my patchwork memories of the Bombers from my Bronx
From 1949 to 1953! In the doldrums of the late ‘60’s and the
Early ‘70’s, it was those recollections which were my savior,
A side note: 1949 was the foundation of two significant love affairs
For me. Obviously, it was the start of my life-long love of baseball.
Even more important, personally, the final game of the 1949 Series
Occurred on October 9. Eighty-one days later, toward the end of 1949,
The eventual love of my life was born. Ask me to name my favorite year.
Go ahead; ask me.
“This Beautiful Sport”
We are all human; so, we share emotions and experiences.
We find ways to support our families (physically, emotionally,
Even spiritually). We cover ourselves with attractive and
Comforting garments which announce our disparate cultures.
We all know love and appreciation (and their destructive
Counterparts), and be it civilly or otherwise, we know combat
And competition. We are blessed to live in an age when the
World has grown closer and baseball, once America’s game,
Is now played and loved globally . . . by men and by women!
Women’s Baseball World Cup, 2022 --- the biggest stage
For women’s baseball every four years: teams from Canada,
Mexico, the U. S., Australia, South Korea, Hong Kong,
Japan, Taiwan, Cuba, France, Puerto Rico and Venezuela
Took the field to play the sports highlight of their lives. Gazing
Into their eyes, one could see determination, toughness, a
Desire to compete, grace and passion - - - a love of the game,
Not so much America’s sport as the world’s, not so much a
Men’s sport alone but now a women’s sport as well.
Leading up to the World Cup, Ayami Oshima of Japan pitched
The phrase, “The joy of baseball.” Alison Shroder of Canada
Remembered her days as a Little Leaguer and understood.
South Korea’s Soyeon Park loved baseball so much that she
Would play the sport in the snow, swinging at snowballs while
In uniform . . . and watching videos of great defensive plays.
She acknowledged that, “I am happiest when I’m playing
Baseball.” A girl named Gabby, from Puerto Rico, like others,
Had played baseball since she was “a kid.” Libia, a Cuban,
Had practiced so often and had overcome her father’s
Doubts about girls playing baseball seriously to the point
That he finally relented and gladly bought her the requisite
Equipment so that she could do her best. In Uganda, girls
Formed groups and cheered their women’s team rhythmically.
In the U. S., Kelsie Whitmore became the first female in
The starting lineup of a men’s minor league team, in the
Atlantic League, from her experience in the women’s World
Cup four years before, and like so many other incredible
Athletes, she focuses on team play and gets strength from
Team spirit. She has broken a glass ceiling by smashing a
Baseball right through it!
All these young women spoke about their love for the game
And their love for their teammates, realizing how much they
Depended on each other and desired victory. One noted that
Baseball is “simple yet complex” --- as we can illustrate by
“See the ball; hit the ball” to the thickness of an MLB rulebook.
The great Ichiro talks about idolizing a female teammate in
Elementary school for four years and notes that she, as so
Many of her sisters, loves baseball and indeed became the
Manager of a men’s team. There is so much more to learn.
Watch the documentary “See Her Be Her” and you will
Understand why these women are in a league of their own!
We are all human; so, we share emotions and experiences.
We find ways to support our families (physically, emotionally,
Even spiritually). We cover ourselves with attractive and
Comforting garments which announce our disparate cultures.
We all know love and appreciation (and their destructive
Counterparts), and be it civilly or otherwise, we know combat
And competition. We are blessed to live in an age when the
World has grown closer and baseball, once America’s game,
Is now played and loved globally . . . by men and by women!
Women’s Baseball World Cup, 2022 --- the biggest stage
For women’s baseball every four years: teams from Canada,
Mexico, the U. S., Australia, South Korea, Hong Kong,
Japan, Taiwan, Cuba, France, Puerto Rico and Venezuela
Took the field to play the sports highlight of their lives. Gazing
Into their eyes, one could see determination, toughness, a
Desire to compete, grace and passion - - - a love of the game,
Not so much America’s sport as the world’s, not so much a
Men’s sport alone but now a women’s sport as well.
Leading up to the World Cup, Ayami Oshima of Japan pitched
The phrase, “The joy of baseball.” Alison Shroder of Canada
Remembered her days as a Little Leaguer and understood.
South Korea’s Soyeon Park loved baseball so much that she
Would play the sport in the snow, swinging at snowballs while
In uniform . . . and watching videos of great defensive plays.
She acknowledged that, “I am happiest when I’m playing
Baseball.” A girl named Gabby, from Puerto Rico, like others,
Had played baseball since she was “a kid.” Libia, a Cuban,
Had practiced so often and had overcome her father’s
Doubts about girls playing baseball seriously to the point
That he finally relented and gladly bought her the requisite
Equipment so that she could do her best. In Uganda, girls
Formed groups and cheered their women’s team rhythmically.
In the U. S., Kelsie Whitmore became the first female in
The starting lineup of a men’s minor league team, in the
Atlantic League, from her experience in the women’s World
Cup four years before, and like so many other incredible
Athletes, she focuses on team play and gets strength from
Team spirit. She has broken a glass ceiling by smashing a
Baseball right through it!
All these young women spoke about their love for the game
And their love for their teammates, realizing how much they
Depended on each other and desired victory. One noted that
Baseball is “simple yet complex” --- as we can illustrate by
“See the ball; hit the ball” to the thickness of an MLB rulebook.
The great Ichiro talks about idolizing a female teammate in
Elementary school for four years and notes that she, as so
Many of her sisters, loves baseball and indeed became the
Manager of a men’s team. There is so much more to learn.
Watch the documentary “See Her Be Her” and you will
Understand why these women are in a league of their own!
Days of Joy
They were times of joy and youth, the summers
of the 1950’s, the days when we were resting
from the months of education, the days that
lasted many hours in our section of the world,
the eastern Bronx, along Virginia Avenue, not
far from White Plains Road and Parkchester
and the Hugh J. Grand Circle, and we grew close
and played till 9 p.m. and defied 90 plus degrees
with our youth and joy. We often passed each
other in the hallways and on the streets and in
the stores of our neighborhood from September
to the end f June, but for two summer months
we saw each other and engaged in sports which
inspired us and taught us to be friends and close
companions. There was cheery competition in our
various forms of stickball and punchball, as
we played amongst the concrete sidewalks, black
tarmac streets and the inviting schoolyards of our
past. The fire escapes were our friends, being our
version of ground-rule doubles when we hit them
with our powder-pink “Spaldeens” --- and clunky
cars in assorted shapes and colors, honking horns,
provided momentary respite as they slowly drove
slowly past us and saluted our sportsmanship. Post-
dinner evening after evening we came together
and “chose up” sides for friendly combat, having out-
lasted the depths of sweltering heat and then having
faced a lessened state of heat and no longer deep
humidity, and because each night the make-up
of each team was different, we deepened our
dependence on each other and our joyful
companionship. And while adults and infants
sequestered themselves in their apartments and
their homes intertwined with 13 weeks of summer
re-runs amidst the stifling thick atmosphere, for
none of us those days were blessed with home air
conditioners, we blossoming adolescents swung
and ran and jumped and caught and screamed
with delight as we learned in the midst of our
athletic endeavors how to win, how to lose, and
ultimately, how to play and love the game of Life!
They were times of joy and youth, the summers
of the 1950’s, the days when we were resting
from the months of education, the days that
lasted many hours in our section of the world,
the eastern Bronx, along Virginia Avenue, not
far from White Plains Road and Parkchester
and the Hugh J. Grand Circle, and we grew close
and played till 9 p.m. and defied 90 plus degrees
with our youth and joy. We often passed each
other in the hallways and on the streets and in
the stores of our neighborhood from September
to the end f June, but for two summer months
we saw each other and engaged in sports which
inspired us and taught us to be friends and close
companions. There was cheery competition in our
various forms of stickball and punchball, as
we played amongst the concrete sidewalks, black
tarmac streets and the inviting schoolyards of our
past. The fire escapes were our friends, being our
version of ground-rule doubles when we hit them
with our powder-pink “Spaldeens” --- and clunky
cars in assorted shapes and colors, honking horns,
provided momentary respite as they slowly drove
slowly past us and saluted our sportsmanship. Post-
dinner evening after evening we came together
and “chose up” sides for friendly combat, having out-
lasted the depths of sweltering heat and then having
faced a lessened state of heat and no longer deep
humidity, and because each night the make-up
of each team was different, we deepened our
dependence on each other and our joyful
companionship. And while adults and infants
sequestered themselves in their apartments and
their homes intertwined with 13 weeks of summer
re-runs amidst the stifling thick atmosphere, for
none of us those days were blessed with home air
conditioners, we blossoming adolescents swung
and ran and jumped and caught and screamed
with delight as we learned in the midst of our
athletic endeavors how to win, how to lose, and
ultimately, how to play and love the game of Life!
Oscillating Fan, Too
Part of the vital soundtrack of my Bronx youth,
my bedroom’s cranky but dependable oscillating fan
each night helped me overcome the heavy oppression
of the top floor apartment which tried to imprison my spirit
in an unrelenting cell constructed of a hot bed of humidity.
Each night, my struggle to escape to awaiting dreams of Yankee victories
and visits to the zoo and playing a myriad of ball games
and other types of competition
was surrounded by and engulfed in the constant conflicts
between the jelly-like air and the whirring whining heroic old machine
that hit me every few seconds with a wave of forced semi-cool
waffling current. It was as though that periodic thud of air was
a kind of CPR resuscitating my life spirit nightly. In those days
before window air conditioners were extant, the Siren song
of this fan was heavy metal of a different scale of music,
ugly in it's monotonous tone but
pleasing and dependable in its every-night presence.
This fan's moans and groans were Number One
on my nightly Hit Parade! Even now, decades later,
its call to arms fills my consciousness with hope
and gratitude for a job well done.
Part of the vital soundtrack of my Bronx youth,
my bedroom’s cranky but dependable oscillating fan
each night helped me overcome the heavy oppression
of the top floor apartment which tried to imprison my spirit
in an unrelenting cell constructed of a hot bed of humidity.
Each night, my struggle to escape to awaiting dreams of Yankee victories
and visits to the zoo and playing a myriad of ball games
and other types of competition
was surrounded by and engulfed in the constant conflicts
between the jelly-like air and the whirring whining heroic old machine
that hit me every few seconds with a wave of forced semi-cool
waffling current. It was as though that periodic thud of air was
a kind of CPR resuscitating my life spirit nightly. In those days
before window air conditioners were extant, the Siren song
of this fan was heavy metal of a different scale of music,
ugly in it's monotonous tone but
pleasing and dependable in its every-night presence.
This fan's moans and groans were Number One
on my nightly Hit Parade! Even now, decades later,
its call to arms fills my consciousness with hope
and gratitude for a job well done.
Vicissitudes
We mortals take a sense of strength in fooling ourselves into believing
That we have a touch of the witches in Macbeth, that we have a degree
Of control over the Fates . . . but that is, of course, a figment. Still, we
Move on with our lives secure in the “knowledge” that we are masters
Of the universe. We even watch the weather reports believing we can
Make secure plans based on all those CGI’s and high-tech forecasts
When the truth is that we might as well be using a crystal ball or
Tarot cards or that baseball-shaped black ball that we shake for
Answers to our most intimate questions. It’s really just a game.
I took my son to a Mets game several years ago. Rain was predicted
To delay the start of the game but that was supposed to lighten in time
For the game to be played in full. I don’t recall the opposition; it didn’t
Matter. We were at another game together. We were bonding once more
As loyal Met fans and we were anticipating victory . . . but here’s the thing:
There are times forecasters get it wrong. We enjoyed ourselves,
Walking all around Shea Stadium, talking about players and checking out
The views from different angles, different heights. No one was about to
Chase us from the areas behind the dugouts or home plate - - - not in
That soaking weather. We were there to be entertained, to find our own
Amusement, passing minutes which turned into hours … because we had
Faith that the weather people knew what they were doing. It just never
Occurred to us that, computer use or not, they were human, and that
Meant they could only do their best interpreting of what they saw.
Baseball is like weather forecasting: The manager, the coaches, the
Players are presented with a set of facts and figures and then they
Make determinations about when to swing, where to play a position,
When to try to steal a base, which pitch to throw, when to bunt. It all
Comes down to pros using very human brains to do very human
Things. Those who combine the best skills with the most accurate
Anticipations win games and please their fans, who play along with
Them both mentally and vocally. In reality, we players, managers,
Fans and owners don’t control the future but it’s only human to
Believe we do, so on we play, Each game is but a puzzle whose
Solution relies on skill . . . and fortune. Don’t consider this too much;
It will cause pain.
My son and I waited for the rain to cease, as all those experts on
TV and in the papers had predicted. We stared at the tarp and the
Ever harder rain pounding down - - - until at last the game was
Called. Such are the vicissitudes of life as a baseball fan.
Or as a baseball player, coach or owner.
We mortals take a sense of strength in fooling ourselves into believing
That we have a touch of the witches in Macbeth, that we have a degree
Of control over the Fates . . . but that is, of course, a figment. Still, we
Move on with our lives secure in the “knowledge” that we are masters
Of the universe. We even watch the weather reports believing we can
Make secure plans based on all those CGI’s and high-tech forecasts
When the truth is that we might as well be using a crystal ball or
Tarot cards or that baseball-shaped black ball that we shake for
Answers to our most intimate questions. It’s really just a game.
I took my son to a Mets game several years ago. Rain was predicted
To delay the start of the game but that was supposed to lighten in time
For the game to be played in full. I don’t recall the opposition; it didn’t
Matter. We were at another game together. We were bonding once more
As loyal Met fans and we were anticipating victory . . . but here’s the thing:
There are times forecasters get it wrong. We enjoyed ourselves,
Walking all around Shea Stadium, talking about players and checking out
The views from different angles, different heights. No one was about to
Chase us from the areas behind the dugouts or home plate - - - not in
That soaking weather. We were there to be entertained, to find our own
Amusement, passing minutes which turned into hours … because we had
Faith that the weather people knew what they were doing. It just never
Occurred to us that, computer use or not, they were human, and that
Meant they could only do their best interpreting of what they saw.
Baseball is like weather forecasting: The manager, the coaches, the
Players are presented with a set of facts and figures and then they
Make determinations about when to swing, where to play a position,
When to try to steal a base, which pitch to throw, when to bunt. It all
Comes down to pros using very human brains to do very human
Things. Those who combine the best skills with the most accurate
Anticipations win games and please their fans, who play along with
Them both mentally and vocally. In reality, we players, managers,
Fans and owners don’t control the future but it’s only human to
Believe we do, so on we play, Each game is but a puzzle whose
Solution relies on skill . . . and fortune. Don’t consider this too much;
It will cause pain.
My son and I waited for the rain to cease, as all those experts on
TV and in the papers had predicted. We stared at the tarp and the
Ever harder rain pounding down - - - until at last the game was
Called. Such are the vicissitudes of life as a baseball fan.
Or as a baseball player, coach or owner.
And Then the Apartment Died . . .
In the beginning, the condo apartment was full of Life.
There were dogs, a cat, a bunny, lots of fish (both salt water
And fresh). There were two adults in love. And there were
Two young children very much alive - - - in their schoolwork,
Their acting, their baseball, their swimming and their friends.
The apartment was warm, memorializing such scenes as
Children are apt to paint with their life-force to pass the time
And grow into their dreams. There were cherished moments
And the comfort of routine and yet striking moments of
Singular determination, such as leaving the stress and stigma
Of a world infested with human frailties, genetic curses, for
Escape into dramatic performance guided by acting teachers,
A piano pedant, baseball coaches. Though the family sojourned
To calls and classes in Manhattan, in the end, there always was
The refuge of the welcoming apartment and soft, strong security.
The mind, even decades after, pictures a brown dog wagging its
Tail at familiar voices coming to the warm apartment, a collie
Rushing with excitement at the smell of food, a charming
Once-stray cat teaching himself to blanket his body with light by
Turning on the bathroom switch, a bouncy bunny skirting past
Its mammal companions to their amazement and amusement.
There were times when struggles and conflict disrupted the
Sought-after family, bonds but as with the hurricane which we
Could see through our sliding terrace door, the danger dwelled
Outside while inside and inwardly safety in the guise of love
Found a Home in our home. There was laughter, embracing
Encouragement - - - and the adhesive that was felt by all the
Creatures who found a home in our garden unit - - - - -.
Until the most destructive year 1989 attacked us and bludgeoned
Our bodies, our minds, our spirits . . . attacked us with home
Replaced by hospitals, with life replaced by double death,
With understanding too often replaced by a language that was
Unfamiliar to all the life forms which lived and loved within the
Walls that once gave us comfort and boundaries, a place of
Refuge whenever the storms of our existence sought to steal
Away our treasured wholeness. As long as we’d remained a
Unit, we’d been able to outlast the too present hurt and acute
Surprises but then came 1989, the year our beloved apartment
Seemed to take one final exasperated breath . . .
and passed away.
In the beginning, the condo apartment was full of Life.
There were dogs, a cat, a bunny, lots of fish (both salt water
And fresh). There were two adults in love. And there were
Two young children very much alive - - - in their schoolwork,
Their acting, their baseball, their swimming and their friends.
The apartment was warm, memorializing such scenes as
Children are apt to paint with their life-force to pass the time
And grow into their dreams. There were cherished moments
And the comfort of routine and yet striking moments of
Singular determination, such as leaving the stress and stigma
Of a world infested with human frailties, genetic curses, for
Escape into dramatic performance guided by acting teachers,
A piano pedant, baseball coaches. Though the family sojourned
To calls and classes in Manhattan, in the end, there always was
The refuge of the welcoming apartment and soft, strong security.
The mind, even decades after, pictures a brown dog wagging its
Tail at familiar voices coming to the warm apartment, a collie
Rushing with excitement at the smell of food, a charming
Once-stray cat teaching himself to blanket his body with light by
Turning on the bathroom switch, a bouncy bunny skirting past
Its mammal companions to their amazement and amusement.
There were times when struggles and conflict disrupted the
Sought-after family, bonds but as with the hurricane which we
Could see through our sliding terrace door, the danger dwelled
Outside while inside and inwardly safety in the guise of love
Found a Home in our home. There was laughter, embracing
Encouragement - - - and the adhesive that was felt by all the
Creatures who found a home in our garden unit - - - - -.
Until the most destructive year 1989 attacked us and bludgeoned
Our bodies, our minds, our spirits . . . attacked us with home
Replaced by hospitals, with life replaced by double death,
With understanding too often replaced by a language that was
Unfamiliar to all the life forms which lived and loved within the
Walls that once gave us comfort and boundaries, a place of
Refuge whenever the storms of our existence sought to steal
Away our treasured wholeness. As long as we’d remained a
Unit, we’d been able to outlast the too present hurt and acute
Surprises but then came 1989, the year our beloved apartment
Seemed to take one final exasperated breath . . .
and passed away.
Milestones
I graduated from high school with 922 close and distant friends
after eschewing the senior prom. More importantly, my dad and sis,
the two most instrumental in this achievement, took me and my
new suit to a photo studio to capture the day forever (in my heart).
Five years later, an even larger crowd attended my college graduation
but, at the time, I was training at Indiana University for my Peace Corps
teaching service and my humanity, becoming a citizen of the
world and a contributor to Sierra Leone’s then recent independence.
Almost two years later, my teaching was completed and my students
and their friends held a dance, mostly in my honor as a way of
thanking me for my service (though I felt I had been privileged to
share their lives and be a part of their future), but I missed the
gathering, having gone to Freetown to plan with three other PCV’s
our journey through Europe as a prelude to our returning home.
Two years after that, I missed my Master’s graduation, needing to work
for a living after my father’s passing had interrupted my imagined plan
as a full-time graduate student engulfed in wonderful stimulating
learning, which I had daydreamed about in Africa.
“The best laid schemes. . . .”
I am grateful that I was therein 1959 with my father and my sister.
They are long gone now but they have never really left me.
The changes in direction that one’s life goes through make
the straight lines that much more treasured and beloved.
I graduated from high school with 922 close and distant friends
after eschewing the senior prom. More importantly, my dad and sis,
the two most instrumental in this achievement, took me and my
new suit to a photo studio to capture the day forever (in my heart).
Five years later, an even larger crowd attended my college graduation
but, at the time, I was training at Indiana University for my Peace Corps
teaching service and my humanity, becoming a citizen of the
world and a contributor to Sierra Leone’s then recent independence.
Almost two years later, my teaching was completed and my students
and their friends held a dance, mostly in my honor as a way of
thanking me for my service (though I felt I had been privileged to
share their lives and be a part of their future), but I missed the
gathering, having gone to Freetown to plan with three other PCV’s
our journey through Europe as a prelude to our returning home.
Two years after that, I missed my Master’s graduation, needing to work
for a living after my father’s passing had interrupted my imagined plan
as a full-time graduate student engulfed in wonderful stimulating
learning, which I had daydreamed about in Africa.
“The best laid schemes. . . .”
I am grateful that I was therein 1959 with my father and my sister.
They are long gone now but they have never really left me.
The changes in direction that one’s life goes through make
the straight lines that much more treasured and beloved.
Dreamy Days of Summer
One summer in the mid-1950’s I lived with my
Sister and her two kids in a small apartment
In the Catskills (while most of my new-made
Friends lived in cabins on the compound). It’s
A vivid memory because there weren’t many
Like it; all my other teen summers found me
With my other sister in Norfolk naval housing
With her Marine husband and toddler and best
Of all, a green parakeet named Tiny Tim, who
Loved to fly around and land on my finger and
Use his beak to play-box with one of my fingers,
Or staying home in sweltering heat, playing
Lots of breezy evening punchball on a field that
Was really a sidewalk that paralleled the six-story
Building I lived in or watching 13 weeks of dull TV
re-runs in the steamy Jello atmosphere of my
top-floor apartment.
Ah, but the coolness of the Catskills that pleasant
Pair of months separated that summer from the
Others in its joy, companionship, and newness.
It was the summer Bobby Fischer first came to our
attention. It was a summer of evening quiz shows
before the scandals obliterated their existence and
Damaged my faith in human amateur mental
Accomplishment. My Columbia University professor-
Hero had been fed answers before shows (and he
Was not alone)!
It was a summer when weekends meant softball games
(Starring me at first base, as I recall, making back-handed
Catches occasionally and hitting sharply pulled singles)
And outdoor showers and picking blueberries so that
We could replicate the pioneers and enjoy those
Luscious blue-white globules swimming in smooth
White sour cream. (The memory of that taste is so
Embedded in my soul that my mouth waters even now.)
It was the summer of my first girlfriend, Ronie --- more
A highlight of my last two weeks than anything that
Would last, but it was sweet in its hesitant innocence.
Of course, it was painted with words rather than actions.
Most of all, it was a summer that would provide me with
A reference point to all my other teenage respites between
The bookmark months of school semesters, September and
June. And much as a hit record of those days was impressed
Onto a vinyl disc, the annals of that summer in the Catskills
When I was 16 are inscribed upon my memory in their platinum
Form, ready to be played in my recollection pleasantly repeatedly,
On occasion, as called for in my need for reverie.
One summer in the mid-1950’s I lived with my
Sister and her two kids in a small apartment
In the Catskills (while most of my new-made
Friends lived in cabins on the compound). It’s
A vivid memory because there weren’t many
Like it; all my other teen summers found me
With my other sister in Norfolk naval housing
With her Marine husband and toddler and best
Of all, a green parakeet named Tiny Tim, who
Loved to fly around and land on my finger and
Use his beak to play-box with one of my fingers,
Or staying home in sweltering heat, playing
Lots of breezy evening punchball on a field that
Was really a sidewalk that paralleled the six-story
Building I lived in or watching 13 weeks of dull TV
re-runs in the steamy Jello atmosphere of my
top-floor apartment.
Ah, but the coolness of the Catskills that pleasant
Pair of months separated that summer from the
Others in its joy, companionship, and newness.
It was the summer Bobby Fischer first came to our
attention. It was a summer of evening quiz shows
before the scandals obliterated their existence and
Damaged my faith in human amateur mental
Accomplishment. My Columbia University professor-
Hero had been fed answers before shows (and he
Was not alone)!
It was a summer when weekends meant softball games
(Starring me at first base, as I recall, making back-handed
Catches occasionally and hitting sharply pulled singles)
And outdoor showers and picking blueberries so that
We could replicate the pioneers and enjoy those
Luscious blue-white globules swimming in smooth
White sour cream. (The memory of that taste is so
Embedded in my soul that my mouth waters even now.)
It was the summer of my first girlfriend, Ronie --- more
A highlight of my last two weeks than anything that
Would last, but it was sweet in its hesitant innocence.
Of course, it was painted with words rather than actions.
Most of all, it was a summer that would provide me with
A reference point to all my other teenage respites between
The bookmark months of school semesters, September and
June. And much as a hit record of those days was impressed
Onto a vinyl disc, the annals of that summer in the Catskills
When I was 16 are inscribed upon my memory in their platinum
Form, ready to be played in my recollection pleasantly repeatedly,
On occasion, as called for in my need for reverie.
Engaged
Willie, Mickey and the Duke were interviewed together
by Warner Wolf in 1981. All four Hall of Famers were in
their mental prime that day, so watching and mostly listening
to the three great men and center fielders who represented
the “Gints” of Coogan's Bluff, Bronx Bombers off 161st. Street
and da Bums of Flatbush was pure fun for one who was
eye-witness to the Metro trifecta of the 1950's. They contrasted
career years and individual accomplishments as well as struggles
to get wage increases in the times preceding current free agency.
There were good-natured ribbing, smiles and “kibbitzing,” --- and
through the TV studio wafted the aroma of mutual respect.
When Mantle related that, after winning the AL Triple Crown in '56,
he was given a $30,000 raise but when he had a fine 1957 ---.365 BA
(second in the AL), 1.177 OPS, 34 homers, and second in the league
in runs scored and walks plus the MVP award --- but with no Triple Crown
sequel --- he was offered a cut in salary (to which Willie and the Duke
showed sincere empathy; they got it, from similar experiences).
I loved the undiluted camaraderie among the pros.
I loved the way I felt as my memories from seven plus decades ago
surrounded me with the joyous atmosphere of my baseball youth.
I was a Yankee fan but, even more poignantly, I was a New York fan
and these three guests sharing seasons past added tasty seasonings
to the appetizer of remembrances that I was viewing.
If there really is a field of dreams in baseball heaven
(or, at least, in Iowa), I just know this Metro threesome
are teammates there (based on merit and loyalty) and
an outfield fly won't have a prayer of landing on the grass,
not in an outfield patrolled by prime-time talent known
in the song and in person as Willie, Mickey and the Duke.
We are, after all, as they were during the engaging interview
With Wolf, talkin’ baseball (which we all know is
America’s favorite subject).
Willie, Mickey and the Duke were interviewed together
by Warner Wolf in 1981. All four Hall of Famers were in
their mental prime that day, so watching and mostly listening
to the three great men and center fielders who represented
the “Gints” of Coogan's Bluff, Bronx Bombers off 161st. Street
and da Bums of Flatbush was pure fun for one who was
eye-witness to the Metro trifecta of the 1950's. They contrasted
career years and individual accomplishments as well as struggles
to get wage increases in the times preceding current free agency.
There were good-natured ribbing, smiles and “kibbitzing,” --- and
through the TV studio wafted the aroma of mutual respect.
When Mantle related that, after winning the AL Triple Crown in '56,
he was given a $30,000 raise but when he had a fine 1957 ---.365 BA
(second in the AL), 1.177 OPS, 34 homers, and second in the league
in runs scored and walks plus the MVP award --- but with no Triple Crown
sequel --- he was offered a cut in salary (to which Willie and the Duke
showed sincere empathy; they got it, from similar experiences).
I loved the undiluted camaraderie among the pros.
I loved the way I felt as my memories from seven plus decades ago
surrounded me with the joyous atmosphere of my baseball youth.
I was a Yankee fan but, even more poignantly, I was a New York fan
and these three guests sharing seasons past added tasty seasonings
to the appetizer of remembrances that I was viewing.
If there really is a field of dreams in baseball heaven
(or, at least, in Iowa), I just know this Metro threesome
are teammates there (based on merit and loyalty) and
an outfield fly won't have a prayer of landing on the grass,
not in an outfield patrolled by prime-time talent known
in the song and in person as Willie, Mickey and the Duke.
We are, after all, as they were during the engaging interview
With Wolf, talkin’ baseball (which we all know is
America’s favorite subject).
Tropes Don’t Always Hold Up
Roses are red; violets are blue.
With a face like yours, you belong in a z---- . . .
Now, wait a minute. Roses can be red ---
Or pink or yellow or white or orange
(I’m not going to try to rhyme that one)
Or even green or lavender, so why do
We assume that a rose will be red?
And why do we eschew truly red flowers
Such as the buttercup (aka Ranunculus)?
That’s the trouble with reciting a poem
That is too familiar. It loses its essence.
It becomes a symbol without substance.
It withers away much as a dehydrated rose
Or violet. What does the color matter when
The meaning is lost? Of course, when a tree
Falls in a forest, it does make a sound. A tape
Recorder will provide all the proof you need.
And while we are wildly philosophizing,
Why is it that three’s a crowd? Three can
Contribute much more to discussions and
Solutions and resolution than two, especially
When the two have neatly embroidered and
Annoyingly echoing ideas. Don’t you agree?
After all, two heads are better than one ---
Unless those two heads argue fiercely, in
Which case, having taken opposing sides,
They cancel each other out, which makes
Me declare that there is no “i” in “team” but
If you look closely, you’ll notice the presence
Of “me” and “mate” so what’s the point? I
Could go on but a wise person knows when
To stop and I have often been called a wise guy.
Why not paint onto a tabula rasa all the cliches
And ideas and perceptions and concepts that
Share or contrast beliefs and step back and
Admire a work of art that symbolizes the trite
Words and visions that are the diametric opposite
To the true wisdom of the Ages? Surely all those
Fortune cookie statements and Ouija Board
Directions and Poor Richard’s hopes and
Little Richard’s lyrics add up to sentiments
To live by. They make almost as much sense
As “Starry Night” and “Double Red Bathroom”
Divided by all the works of Jackson Pollock.
As Eric Hoffer might have concluded between
Longshoreman shifts on his beloved waterfront:
Tropes are often dopes!
Overcome the nonsense;
Recognize the substance!
Roses are red; violets are blue.
With a face like yours, you belong in a z---- . . .
Now, wait a minute. Roses can be red ---
Or pink or yellow or white or orange
(I’m not going to try to rhyme that one)
Or even green or lavender, so why do
We assume that a rose will be red?
And why do we eschew truly red flowers
Such as the buttercup (aka Ranunculus)?
That’s the trouble with reciting a poem
That is too familiar. It loses its essence.
It becomes a symbol without substance.
It withers away much as a dehydrated rose
Or violet. What does the color matter when
The meaning is lost? Of course, when a tree
Falls in a forest, it does make a sound. A tape
Recorder will provide all the proof you need.
And while we are wildly philosophizing,
Why is it that three’s a crowd? Three can
Contribute much more to discussions and
Solutions and resolution than two, especially
When the two have neatly embroidered and
Annoyingly echoing ideas. Don’t you agree?
After all, two heads are better than one ---
Unless those two heads argue fiercely, in
Which case, having taken opposing sides,
They cancel each other out, which makes
Me declare that there is no “i” in “team” but
If you look closely, you’ll notice the presence
Of “me” and “mate” so what’s the point? I
Could go on but a wise person knows when
To stop and I have often been called a wise guy.
Why not paint onto a tabula rasa all the cliches
And ideas and perceptions and concepts that
Share or contrast beliefs and step back and
Admire a work of art that symbolizes the trite
Words and visions that are the diametric opposite
To the true wisdom of the Ages? Surely all those
Fortune cookie statements and Ouija Board
Directions and Poor Richard’s hopes and
Little Richard’s lyrics add up to sentiments
To live by. They make almost as much sense
As “Starry Night” and “Double Red Bathroom”
Divided by all the works of Jackson Pollock.
As Eric Hoffer might have concluded between
Longshoreman shifts on his beloved waterfront:
Tropes are often dopes!
Overcome the nonsense;
Recognize the substance!
After The Cheers Have Gone . . .
He carried his Little League team with his bat and feet.
His parents and those of his ‘mates vocalized their
admiration (from most, and a bit of mortal jealousy that
he was not their son - - - an admission that filled them
with guilt and shame, but what could they do?). He
later helped fill the stands as star of his high school
team. He, like Yogi and Ichiro, knew when to stop the
schoolbook part of life and devote himself to his
destiny in the sport that he loved, and so he was
selected among the first in the draft and was sent
directly to Triple A, a fantasy ticket aimed at the Majors
at an obscene young age awaiting him and gathering
very little dust in his dirt-prone uniform pocket.
“Five tools,” they whispered . . . and he heard. He just
absorbed the Triple A cheers from loads of fans who
might never attend a Major League game but could
recognize the future when confronted by it. He sprinted
like Mercury, could throw thunderbolts like Zeus, had
the might of Hercules . . . he was Mantle and Mays
combined. And the cheers seemed to get louder
with every at-bat, every fielding gem, every high-
light play. The field-grass hardly grew another inch before
he was called up to take his place in The Show. And
so began an All-Star career that blanketed him with
his home crowd’s constant adoration. He tipped his
cap after every home run and rbi. He smiled and
nodded appreciation game after game in the
stadium he called his home away from home . . .
and all the while, in the midst of the years of glory
and joy, he failed to notice that Geras was coming
for him, as He does for all, in every station of life.
Our star knew of Denny Moyer and Satchel Page but
his make-up never knew of his becoming lesser than
he’d been. But they are all quite human, these temporary
gods that the fans help create - - - and there is a time for
each when the cheers are more acts of kindness
and gratitude for years past than for the dwindling present.
He no longer heard the cheers. He could not earn them
with his aging, imperfect body and diminished skills. He
recognized the kindness but, in the end, he quietly
announced the day of his retirement, and the start of the
five-year countdown to his certain Hall of Fame induction.
Flick Webb had recollected past-time cheers emanating
from the stands of candy bars whom he transitioned
into figments of adoring fans at the gas station where
his life had brought him after his great high school
basketball career. Our hero had gone so much further in
his baseball days, but it was the same. When the sounds
of adoration, the enthusiastic cheering runs its course,
there is not much left but memory and memories. Still,
those love-sounds from all those fans - - - from the start
to the inescapable conclusion of his days and evenings in
the spotlight - - - would never be forgotten. He missed them
now but carried all those memories of joyous heaps of true
support and adulation together with the wisdom that
blissfully accompanies his current stage of Life. He smiles;
in their current incarnation, the cheers that he recalls will
never dissipate. He’s earned that much.
He carried his Little League team with his bat and feet.
His parents and those of his ‘mates vocalized their
admiration (from most, and a bit of mortal jealousy that
he was not their son - - - an admission that filled them
with guilt and shame, but what could they do?). He
later helped fill the stands as star of his high school
team. He, like Yogi and Ichiro, knew when to stop the
schoolbook part of life and devote himself to his
destiny in the sport that he loved, and so he was
selected among the first in the draft and was sent
directly to Triple A, a fantasy ticket aimed at the Majors
at an obscene young age awaiting him and gathering
very little dust in his dirt-prone uniform pocket.
“Five tools,” they whispered . . . and he heard. He just
absorbed the Triple A cheers from loads of fans who
might never attend a Major League game but could
recognize the future when confronted by it. He sprinted
like Mercury, could throw thunderbolts like Zeus, had
the might of Hercules . . . he was Mantle and Mays
combined. And the cheers seemed to get louder
with every at-bat, every fielding gem, every high-
light play. The field-grass hardly grew another inch before
he was called up to take his place in The Show. And
so began an All-Star career that blanketed him with
his home crowd’s constant adoration. He tipped his
cap after every home run and rbi. He smiled and
nodded appreciation game after game in the
stadium he called his home away from home . . .
and all the while, in the midst of the years of glory
and joy, he failed to notice that Geras was coming
for him, as He does for all, in every station of life.
Our star knew of Denny Moyer and Satchel Page but
his make-up never knew of his becoming lesser than
he’d been. But they are all quite human, these temporary
gods that the fans help create - - - and there is a time for
each when the cheers are more acts of kindness
and gratitude for years past than for the dwindling present.
He no longer heard the cheers. He could not earn them
with his aging, imperfect body and diminished skills. He
recognized the kindness but, in the end, he quietly
announced the day of his retirement, and the start of the
five-year countdown to his certain Hall of Fame induction.
Flick Webb had recollected past-time cheers emanating
from the stands of candy bars whom he transitioned
into figments of adoring fans at the gas station where
his life had brought him after his great high school
basketball career. Our hero had gone so much further in
his baseball days, but it was the same. When the sounds
of adoration, the enthusiastic cheering runs its course,
there is not much left but memory and memories. Still,
those love-sounds from all those fans - - - from the start
to the inescapable conclusion of his days and evenings in
the spotlight - - - would never be forgotten. He missed them
now but carried all those memories of joyous heaps of true
support and adulation together with the wisdom that
blissfully accompanies his current stage of Life. He smiles;
in their current incarnation, the cheers that he recalls will
never dissipate. He’s earned that much.
Belonging to Life!
My father never called me by what I call
my American name.
I was never Herbert, Herbie, Herb or even,
as a Scottish fellow teacher used to call me
during my time in West Africa for the Peace Corps,
Bertie. To my dad, I was always a very guttural "Chaim".
I never questioned his choice.
(A Herb by any other name....)
To my teachers, my friends, my sisters,
I was Herb or Herbie but to my dad, I was consistently
Chaim. It was good and even comforting to be addressed
that way by him. In mature retrospection, I realize that
his use of the Hebrew name gave me my Jewish identity.
It's as if he used the name to remind me of who I am:
A Jewish male, a descendant of a proud people,
a member of a not so massive group who love peace,
education, community, ambition;
a never-ending congregation whose members
represent the sacred holiness of life ---
even in the face of constant enmity.
All this emanated from a name that has always
carried with it a truly deep meaning in the simple
yet complex translation: "Life!" In my final maturity,
as I reflect even against my will,
I occasionally stumble onto wisdom
and realize the gentle options which
he offered up to me: Temple Emanuel visits
for major holidays, after-school Hebrew culture classes,
public school Hebrew language classes
(I won the Golden Ayin and was President
of the Hebrew Culture Club), two agonizing visits to
Jewish cemeteries. Even in the presence of death, I ---
Chaim (my soul hears echoes of my father's voice
together with a whisper of assurance from my mother) ---
even in the midst of humbly resting Jewish souls
gone from one kind of community to
a much more peaceful one ---
I am my father's Chaim.
I am my lifetime definition
of a Jewish Life!
My father never called me by what I call
my American name.
I was never Herbert, Herbie, Herb or even,
as a Scottish fellow teacher used to call me
during my time in West Africa for the Peace Corps,
Bertie. To my dad, I was always a very guttural "Chaim".
I never questioned his choice.
(A Herb by any other name....)
To my teachers, my friends, my sisters,
I was Herb or Herbie but to my dad, I was consistently
Chaim. It was good and even comforting to be addressed
that way by him. In mature retrospection, I realize that
his use of the Hebrew name gave me my Jewish identity.
It's as if he used the name to remind me of who I am:
A Jewish male, a descendant of a proud people,
a member of a not so massive group who love peace,
education, community, ambition;
a never-ending congregation whose members
represent the sacred holiness of life ---
even in the face of constant enmity.
All this emanated from a name that has always
carried with it a truly deep meaning in the simple
yet complex translation: "Life!" In my final maturity,
as I reflect even against my will,
I occasionally stumble onto wisdom
and realize the gentle options which
he offered up to me: Temple Emanuel visits
for major holidays, after-school Hebrew culture classes,
public school Hebrew language classes
(I won the Golden Ayin and was President
of the Hebrew Culture Club), two agonizing visits to
Jewish cemeteries. Even in the presence of death, I ---
Chaim (my soul hears echoes of my father's voice
together with a whisper of assurance from my mother) ---
even in the midst of humbly resting Jewish souls
gone from one kind of community to
a much more peaceful one ---
I am my father's Chaim.
I am my lifetime definition
of a Jewish Life!
Phantom Children at Play
It doesn’t seem that long ago that the quartet of kids
ran joyously in the back yard of the home I bought
to blanket them with safety in the midst of a broken
marriage. The grass was deeply green and mixed
upon occasion with dirt patches, a weather-wooded deck
and a small playground offering a sliding pond, some
climbing opportunities and a pair of swings. I often
smiled when I was present on one of my eager visits
and sat on the deck and was enthralled by the loving,
sweet, light-hearted sounds of the voices of my grandkids
almost exploding with energy as they traversed the grassy
plain and found their way to the fun area as metal filings
might be drawn to a giant magnet. I was on these visits at
home because the four of them and their so attentive mother
and grandmother sang a song to my subconscious that told
of eagerness, pleasure and contentment - - - and I, a secret
audience, absorbed and sometimes hummed unconsciously
this melody, knowing that this world was the way it was
supposed to be for precious children seeking to slide or
swing away from any sadness that threatened them.
That play-time has passed, submerged into subconscious
worlds, ready to be called in moments of longing and nostalgia.
It dwells more readily recalled by me than them for I have
greater need to escape into more innocent occasions.
The children have all grown beyond the Siren’s call and
now find more sophisticated - - - I almost proclaimed “better” - - -
ways to enjoy and understand their lives, these adults who
hopefully remember days when they took turns swinging into
the azure sky and sliding toward the welcoming soft ground,
ways of escape to rival Frost’s young boy and his bending birch
branch propelling him to temporary worlds (not unlike our swing).
These formed eager explorers of the universe of light now
attend concerts and ball games and escape to Montauk.
The swing is gone. The slide has vaporized. They were
understanding, loving play companions to my grandchildren
at a time when they were badly needed; they opened, to
the undefeated and protected, a realm which gave them
an outlet which they sought, and for that - - - though I
never did partake of their spirited periodic sojourns into
the Land of Child-Joy . . . I offer to the memory of the once
glorious adventures of the mind and soul that only children
can possibly understand, my wish that though the sliding,
swinging playmate has been absorbed into the past,
the hope that its reincarnation maintains the same spirit
that so greatly served a precious youthful generation
which will forever remain a delightful companion to
the grandsons and granddaughters who showed and
received love and helped shape the adults that they
have pleasingly become.
It doesn’t seem that long ago that the quartet of kids
ran joyously in the back yard of the home I bought
to blanket them with safety in the midst of a broken
marriage. The grass was deeply green and mixed
upon occasion with dirt patches, a weather-wooded deck
and a small playground offering a sliding pond, some
climbing opportunities and a pair of swings. I often
smiled when I was present on one of my eager visits
and sat on the deck and was enthralled by the loving,
sweet, light-hearted sounds of the voices of my grandkids
almost exploding with energy as they traversed the grassy
plain and found their way to the fun area as metal filings
might be drawn to a giant magnet. I was on these visits at
home because the four of them and their so attentive mother
and grandmother sang a song to my subconscious that told
of eagerness, pleasure and contentment - - - and I, a secret
audience, absorbed and sometimes hummed unconsciously
this melody, knowing that this world was the way it was
supposed to be for precious children seeking to slide or
swing away from any sadness that threatened them.
That play-time has passed, submerged into subconscious
worlds, ready to be called in moments of longing and nostalgia.
It dwells more readily recalled by me than them for I have
greater need to escape into more innocent occasions.
The children have all grown beyond the Siren’s call and
now find more sophisticated - - - I almost proclaimed “better” - - -
ways to enjoy and understand their lives, these adults who
hopefully remember days when they took turns swinging into
the azure sky and sliding toward the welcoming soft ground,
ways of escape to rival Frost’s young boy and his bending birch
branch propelling him to temporary worlds (not unlike our swing).
These formed eager explorers of the universe of light now
attend concerts and ball games and escape to Montauk.
The swing is gone. The slide has vaporized. They were
understanding, loving play companions to my grandchildren
at a time when they were badly needed; they opened, to
the undefeated and protected, a realm which gave them
an outlet which they sought, and for that - - - though I
never did partake of their spirited periodic sojourns into
the Land of Child-Joy . . . I offer to the memory of the once
glorious adventures of the mind and soul that only children
can possibly understand, my wish that though the sliding,
swinging playmate has been absorbed into the past,
the hope that its reincarnation maintains the same spirit
that so greatly served a precious youthful generation
which will forever remain a delightful companion to
the grandsons and granddaughters who showed and
received love and helped shape the adults that they
have pleasingly become.
COMPLEX SIMPLICITY
It started with a simple date --- a movie and a meal,
with an unexpected kiss as sweet dessert,
making me a winner.
Nine days later we danced into our engagement,
making me a winner.
We strolled, held wedded hands, danced again ---
to a one-man band and the music kissed us
as we drove from snow to blissful heat,
making me a winner.
We had a girl as the winter snow fell,
then a spring-time boy,
making me a winner two more times.
But Life isn't always kind to winners.
Twenty years of illness and confusion,
of psychology and physiology,
can bring down even repeat winners . . .
but after 74 months apart from each other,
we had a simple date, dinner and a solution
to a performed mystery
and I was once again a winner.
We’re together forever now,
this time for almost 30 years, so far ---
and every single day I smile and think myself
the words I thought when we first kissed ---
I really am a winner!
It started with a simple date --- a movie and a meal,
with an unexpected kiss as sweet dessert,
making me a winner.
Nine days later we danced into our engagement,
making me a winner.
We strolled, held wedded hands, danced again ---
to a one-man band and the music kissed us
as we drove from snow to blissful heat,
making me a winner.
We had a girl as the winter snow fell,
then a spring-time boy,
making me a winner two more times.
But Life isn't always kind to winners.
Twenty years of illness and confusion,
of psychology and physiology,
can bring down even repeat winners . . .
but after 74 months apart from each other,
we had a simple date, dinner and a solution
to a performed mystery
and I was once again a winner.
We’re together forever now,
this time for almost 30 years, so far ---
and every single day I smile and think myself
the words I thought when we first kissed ---
I really am a winner!
Yogi and the Babe
The photo is as rare as integrity in a power-obsessed
Politician. It was taken in 1947 in glorious brown and
White, a photo filled with contrasts to sharp observers.
It was Yogi’s rookie year with the Yanks, just three years
Removed from his heroically taking part in D-Day and
The storming of the beaches of Normandy - - - and his
Nervousness at meeting the legend was present in his
Taught facial expression. He was not yet the
Ol’ Perfessor’s favorite and most similar student.
It was the Bambino’s penultimate year as a living idol. His
Body had been chiseled in his early playing years (though
Most of you recall only his paunchiness from videos of his
Later years). There stood Babe, taller than Yogi but bent over
By the ravages of cancer. Still, if you looked with optimistic
Eyes, you’d see the past much more readily than the ‘47
Present - - - and the relentless future, waiting harshly for
Number 3 to succumb. . . waiting for the prince to show
He’s human after all.
You are gazing at a pair of legends, but it’s so much more:
On the left stands the New York Yankee past, the glory of
Murderer’s Row, the teammate of Lou Gehrig and Tony
Lazzeri. On his left side, in a baggy uniform proudly bearing
The boldly printed words “NEW YORK”, is the Yankees’
Future, a potential Hall of Famer, teammate of Di Maggio
And soon to be companion of Mantle, Ford and a team
Which would go on to win five World Series in a row.
If ever there was a photo which symbolized a baseball
Dynasty, the opera in brown and white was --- and is ---
This portrait of heroes past and future. It portrays a
Love story that only a New York baseball fan can comprehend.
The photo is as rare as integrity in a power-obsessed
Politician. It was taken in 1947 in glorious brown and
White, a photo filled with contrasts to sharp observers.
It was Yogi’s rookie year with the Yanks, just three years
Removed from his heroically taking part in D-Day and
The storming of the beaches of Normandy - - - and his
Nervousness at meeting the legend was present in his
Taught facial expression. He was not yet the
Ol’ Perfessor’s favorite and most similar student.
It was the Bambino’s penultimate year as a living idol. His
Body had been chiseled in his early playing years (though
Most of you recall only his paunchiness from videos of his
Later years). There stood Babe, taller than Yogi but bent over
By the ravages of cancer. Still, if you looked with optimistic
Eyes, you’d see the past much more readily than the ‘47
Present - - - and the relentless future, waiting harshly for
Number 3 to succumb. . . waiting for the prince to show
He’s human after all.
You are gazing at a pair of legends, but it’s so much more:
On the left stands the New York Yankee past, the glory of
Murderer’s Row, the teammate of Lou Gehrig and Tony
Lazzeri. On his left side, in a baggy uniform proudly bearing
The boldly printed words “NEW YORK”, is the Yankees’
Future, a potential Hall of Famer, teammate of Di Maggio
And soon to be companion of Mantle, Ford and a team
Which would go on to win five World Series in a row.
If ever there was a photo which symbolized a baseball
Dynasty, the opera in brown and white was --- and is ---
This portrait of heroes past and future. It portrays a
Love story that only a New York baseball fan can comprehend.
85
A person blessed may be judged in many ways: by the friends and loved ones gone
But having left their indelible signatures upon the man he has become; by enemies
Who, few in number, have kind, respectful words to place upon his head; by strangers
Who go through their daily lives seeking unconsciously the qualities that he possesses;
By God, Who takes the time to gaze upon him and pronounces “Job well done!”
By you who care enough to wish me well. These are comforting realizations for someone
Half-way through his ninth decade of Life.
My Lifetime resumé: ninth Grade Poetry Contest class winner; lieutenant of my junior high school’s
Safety Squad; President of the Hebrew Culture Club; winner of the Golden Ayin; did service in my h. s. Library; in the top 3% of my high school class of 923; received scholarships for my Bachelor’s and
Master’s degrees; awarded three scholarships in law school; teacher for more than 58 years (high schools, Yeshivas, SAT prep, tutoring, 26 summer schools); lectured and presented to fellow teachers on subjects
Such as educational use of technology and teaching poetry; was English Teacher of the Year in Taft High School three times as well as overall Teacher of the Year; was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Sierra Leone,
West Africa; was a drama coach; basketball coach on two continents; newspaper advisor; photography editor; Yearbook advisor; literary magazine advisor; creator of a course called Modern African Literature and a Creative Writing course; a creator of Youtube videos explaining Shakespeare’s Macbeth; UFT union Representative at Taft High School; librarian; computer coordinator; debate team coach; left fielder on a Championship intramural softball team in my junior year at CCNY; Little League coach, manager,
Player agent, vice president; was a member, secretary and president of my condominium board in Nanuet, New York; currently a member and secretary of my co-op Board of Directors in Great Neck, New York;
Chauffeur to my daughter’s acting classes and to my son’s acting auditions and call-backs;
Writer of more than 700 poems as well as essays and short stories (25% of them published and all of them Available at www.herbmunshinepoems.com); member of the baseballbard.com web site Hall of Fame;
Creator of four educational web sites; husband, father and grandfather to 10 humans and past father to dogs, cats, a bunny, numerous fresh and salt water fish and a crab, and most famously, to Tiny Tim, a very Personable parakeet who was more a friend to the teenage me than a pet; and finally, a human being deeply Moved to be the reason for the gathering of so many terrific friends and relatives today.
I have lived, comprehended, and considered this soothing knowledge since this past
September, when the woman I have loved for 56 years (and counting) conceived of a
Gathering in my honor. In my life, I have been drawn to things that light up, from a
Science project enhanced by well-placed colored light bulbs to a polychromatic lamp
In my first (and last) bachelor pad to a painting that lit up with the flip of a switch; that,
To me, explains Esther's choice of such a bright Greek restaurant for this repast today.
I look at all who present themselves to me on an April Saturday and I must smile.
I see friends and relatives, people I so treasure, people whose eyes display their souls,
And I feel security and comfort and a potent sense that I belong to such a group.
I acknowledge that you have come from places others just envy: Queens, Suffolk,
Setauket, Toms River, Connecticut, Fairlawn, Great Neck, Georgia / Bronxville - - - a
United Nations of ambassadors bringing genuine affection which humbles me.
Met and Yankee fans putting aside an ages-old rivalry to bring me hope for a better world.
Cat and dog lovers joining hands in Munshine solidarity. To you all: Your very presence
Adds flavor to this gathering that a master chef would welcome into his or her kitchen.
This day will end, and you will all return to homes of comfort - - - and I, the
Birthday Boy, will be most fortunate, because each of you will leave behind,
To keep me company, a memory of you at your best, a memory of your happiness,
And the small part I may have played in helping you construct your home of family - - -
There is no better place to be. Just know that I am with you in some special way.
Thank you for sharing this day with me. I feel deeply blessed that you did.
--- on the occasion of my 85th birthday party at Limani Restaurant on Northern Boulevard
in Roslyn, Long Island, New York
But having left their indelible signatures upon the man he has become; by enemies
Who, few in number, have kind, respectful words to place upon his head; by strangers
Who go through their daily lives seeking unconsciously the qualities that he possesses;
By God, Who takes the time to gaze upon him and pronounces “Job well done!”
By you who care enough to wish me well. These are comforting realizations for someone
Half-way through his ninth decade of Life.
My Lifetime resumé: ninth Grade Poetry Contest class winner; lieutenant of my junior high school’s
Safety Squad; President of the Hebrew Culture Club; winner of the Golden Ayin; did service in my h. s. Library; in the top 3% of my high school class of 923; received scholarships for my Bachelor’s and
Master’s degrees; awarded three scholarships in law school; teacher for more than 58 years (high schools, Yeshivas, SAT prep, tutoring, 26 summer schools); lectured and presented to fellow teachers on subjects
Such as educational use of technology and teaching poetry; was English Teacher of the Year in Taft High School three times as well as overall Teacher of the Year; was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Sierra Leone,
West Africa; was a drama coach; basketball coach on two continents; newspaper advisor; photography editor; Yearbook advisor; literary magazine advisor; creator of a course called Modern African Literature and a Creative Writing course; a creator of Youtube videos explaining Shakespeare’s Macbeth; UFT union Representative at Taft High School; librarian; computer coordinator; debate team coach; left fielder on a Championship intramural softball team in my junior year at CCNY; Little League coach, manager,
Player agent, vice president; was a member, secretary and president of my condominium board in Nanuet, New York; currently a member and secretary of my co-op Board of Directors in Great Neck, New York;
Chauffeur to my daughter’s acting classes and to my son’s acting auditions and call-backs;
Writer of more than 700 poems as well as essays and short stories (25% of them published and all of them Available at www.herbmunshinepoems.com); member of the baseballbard.com web site Hall of Fame;
Creator of four educational web sites; husband, father and grandfather to 10 humans and past father to dogs, cats, a bunny, numerous fresh and salt water fish and a crab, and most famously, to Tiny Tim, a very Personable parakeet who was more a friend to the teenage me than a pet; and finally, a human being deeply Moved to be the reason for the gathering of so many terrific friends and relatives today.
I have lived, comprehended, and considered this soothing knowledge since this past
September, when the woman I have loved for 56 years (and counting) conceived of a
Gathering in my honor. In my life, I have been drawn to things that light up, from a
Science project enhanced by well-placed colored light bulbs to a polychromatic lamp
In my first (and last) bachelor pad to a painting that lit up with the flip of a switch; that,
To me, explains Esther's choice of such a bright Greek restaurant for this repast today.
I look at all who present themselves to me on an April Saturday and I must smile.
I see friends and relatives, people I so treasure, people whose eyes display their souls,
And I feel security and comfort and a potent sense that I belong to such a group.
I acknowledge that you have come from places others just envy: Queens, Suffolk,
Setauket, Toms River, Connecticut, Fairlawn, Great Neck, Georgia / Bronxville - - - a
United Nations of ambassadors bringing genuine affection which humbles me.
Met and Yankee fans putting aside an ages-old rivalry to bring me hope for a better world.
Cat and dog lovers joining hands in Munshine solidarity. To you all: Your very presence
Adds flavor to this gathering that a master chef would welcome into his or her kitchen.
This day will end, and you will all return to homes of comfort - - - and I, the
Birthday Boy, will be most fortunate, because each of you will leave behind,
To keep me company, a memory of you at your best, a memory of your happiness,
And the small part I may have played in helping you construct your home of family - - -
There is no better place to be. Just know that I am with you in some special way.
Thank you for sharing this day with me. I feel deeply blessed that you did.
--- on the occasion of my 85th birthday party at Limani Restaurant on Northern Boulevard
in Roslyn, Long Island, New York
YANKEELAND: 1949 to 1953
Little kids navigate to fairy tales. They feel the gentle blanket
Of joy when wrapped in one such tale. They are secure, safe
From mysterious hurt and the grief of loss that they are never
Quite prepared for. My go-to fairy tale, in my pre-teen youth, was
The story composed by the New York Yankees last mid-century.
There were villains and a glorious setting, heroes and challenges
To overcome and, for that half-decade of my innocence, the tale
They wrote with their gloves and bats created for me a magical
Bronx palace that provided the glory that offered me escape
From my daily homey but at times too real Bronx apartment.
It was not an Emerald City, though what defined it was indeed
The emerald grass upon which mystical characters danced
As well as a diamond dust-kissed in sandy tan earth. The heroes
Were well known and have since moved on to existence
In Cooperstown but their supporting cast - - - with names
Like Mize and Woodling, Bauer, Brown, Rizzuto - - -
Held up my icons and gave me a family that was
Complete (unlike my own). Villains came from regions
Not so far away, kingdoms known as Brooklyn and
Boston and Cleveland and St. Louis. But year after
Year, story after story, the fire-breathing invaders
Were set down by my heroes identified by me by
Simple numbers: 5 and 7 and 8 and more. Each day
From April to September these real-life champs
Regaled me with their prowess and their victories
And I could smile away my homely loneliness.
Even in my play, they were omnipresent. I dressed
In Mantle’s shirt self-made; when I was at bat, I
Took his stance. This Prince among mortals was
Featured in every fairy tale I witnessed - - -
Especially the ones I saw in person. I was a true
Believer in these tales of majesty and victory
And year after year I was rewarded with their
Conquest of unworthy challengers.
But, as you know (probably from personal experience),
Little kids grow up and magic dragons cease to exist
And stuffed puppies no longer feel like home security
And fairy tales no longer offer easy ways of understanding
Our complicated and challenging universe. Our heroes
Too soon fade away. Where have you gone, Joe Di Maggio
--- and Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Casey
Stengel? Down we forget as up we grow, as cummings
Noted. The Yankees of the 1950’s are no more. The House
That Ruth Built is no more. Dynasties are doomed the
Day they are born. Ask Ozymandias. The fairy tale that
Fed and sheltered me has dissipated into distant recall.
It’s sad . . . but, in a vital way, it’s full of bliss. For as long
As memory waits to serve, I can return to those safe days
Of magic and live again from the front row behind my team’s
Dugout the great offense and clutch defense that brought
Home all those crowns. I can hear the pinstriped players
Speaking calm encouragement to their ‘mates. Yes, it was
Once upon a time but that time does not fade as long as
I look back and smile. That’s the true magic of fantasies
Which once upon a time really did come true.
Little kids navigate to fairy tales. They feel the gentle blanket
Of joy when wrapped in one such tale. They are secure, safe
From mysterious hurt and the grief of loss that they are never
Quite prepared for. My go-to fairy tale, in my pre-teen youth, was
The story composed by the New York Yankees last mid-century.
There were villains and a glorious setting, heroes and challenges
To overcome and, for that half-decade of my innocence, the tale
They wrote with their gloves and bats created for me a magical
Bronx palace that provided the glory that offered me escape
From my daily homey but at times too real Bronx apartment.
It was not an Emerald City, though what defined it was indeed
The emerald grass upon which mystical characters danced
As well as a diamond dust-kissed in sandy tan earth. The heroes
Were well known and have since moved on to existence
In Cooperstown but their supporting cast - - - with names
Like Mize and Woodling, Bauer, Brown, Rizzuto - - -
Held up my icons and gave me a family that was
Complete (unlike my own). Villains came from regions
Not so far away, kingdoms known as Brooklyn and
Boston and Cleveland and St. Louis. But year after
Year, story after story, the fire-breathing invaders
Were set down by my heroes identified by me by
Simple numbers: 5 and 7 and 8 and more. Each day
From April to September these real-life champs
Regaled me with their prowess and their victories
And I could smile away my homely loneliness.
Even in my play, they were omnipresent. I dressed
In Mantle’s shirt self-made; when I was at bat, I
Took his stance. This Prince among mortals was
Featured in every fairy tale I witnessed - - -
Especially the ones I saw in person. I was a true
Believer in these tales of majesty and victory
And year after year I was rewarded with their
Conquest of unworthy challengers.
But, as you know (probably from personal experience),
Little kids grow up and magic dragons cease to exist
And stuffed puppies no longer feel like home security
And fairy tales no longer offer easy ways of understanding
Our complicated and challenging universe. Our heroes
Too soon fade away. Where have you gone, Joe Di Maggio
--- and Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Casey
Stengel? Down we forget as up we grow, as cummings
Noted. The Yankees of the 1950’s are no more. The House
That Ruth Built is no more. Dynasties are doomed the
Day they are born. Ask Ozymandias. The fairy tale that
Fed and sheltered me has dissipated into distant recall.
It’s sad . . . but, in a vital way, it’s full of bliss. For as long
As memory waits to serve, I can return to those safe days
Of magic and live again from the front row behind my team’s
Dugout the great offense and clutch defense that brought
Home all those crowns. I can hear the pinstriped players
Speaking calm encouragement to their ‘mates. Yes, it was
Once upon a time but that time does not fade as long as
I look back and smile. That’s the true magic of fantasies
Which once upon a time really did come true.
(The Voice)
My poetry is the voice which I Ieave behind to keep you company
when silence thunders and causes you to weep for a better world.
Absorb the joy I write as it reflects moments of substance
I used to build for you a home of love. Rest in the comfort of your
memories and never feel alone. Recall my tumbling down a verdant hill
as a gift of caring for your precious existence. Smile at my protection
in the face of peacock feathers in their colorful display,
a show of love rather than a perceived threat. Be engaged by my
fan-cheers as you romped upon the diamond of the not so Little field.
Cherish our togetherness when we approached Bethesda with dreams
Of less threatening times held near our hearts. Hold my hand again
above the transparent blissful waters of Bermuda, calm more than stormy,
a portent of our enduring love. Read with me and pumpkin-pick in the
soothing days of autumn. Kiss me one more time in honor of a youthful
but nourishing courtship. Offer me and family once more shelter from
the threats of expected expiration. Work your numerous numerical wonders
and your friendly nature. Charm me with reception of my summer notes
which sang of magic tales and a need to connect. Entertain me with
insightful adult conversation and engage me in your sporting life.
So many memories have I - - - and each is another brick in the
sentimental development of a mansion which will potently house
my loved ones when I am gone... and that's all right.
Yes, that's lovingly all right with me. No matter where I will reside.
My poetry is the voice which I Ieave behind to keep you company
when silence thunders and causes you to weep for a better world.
Absorb the joy I write as it reflects moments of substance
I used to build for you a home of love. Rest in the comfort of your
memories and never feel alone. Recall my tumbling down a verdant hill
as a gift of caring for your precious existence. Smile at my protection
in the face of peacock feathers in their colorful display,
a show of love rather than a perceived threat. Be engaged by my
fan-cheers as you romped upon the diamond of the not so Little field.
Cherish our togetherness when we approached Bethesda with dreams
Of less threatening times held near our hearts. Hold my hand again
above the transparent blissful waters of Bermuda, calm more than stormy,
a portent of our enduring love. Read with me and pumpkin-pick in the
soothing days of autumn. Kiss me one more time in honor of a youthful
but nourishing courtship. Offer me and family once more shelter from
the threats of expected expiration. Work your numerous numerical wonders
and your friendly nature. Charm me with reception of my summer notes
which sang of magic tales and a need to connect. Entertain me with
insightful adult conversation and engage me in your sporting life.
So many memories have I - - - and each is another brick in the
sentimental development of a mansion which will potently house
my loved ones when I am gone... and that's all right.
Yes, that's lovingly all right with me. No matter where I will reside.
Crap Happens
I sssssstrike as the
Lizard bat hisses a kiss
And bed bugs celebrate the holiday
Hand in hand with
Dust mites.
Life is alive and I
Will survive another day.
I ask myself --- why not?
Amoebae and ants do,
Don’t they?
What about you?
I sssssstrike as the
Lizard bat hisses a kiss
And bed bugs celebrate the holiday
Hand in hand with
Dust mites.
Life is alive and I
Will survive another day.
I ask myself --- why not?
Amoebae and ants do,
Don’t they?
What about you?
Between the Seasons
Once again, I get to rest and dream.
the winners have been crowned
(and they’re not mine, again)
and now comes the season for
the potential potent winners
(and whiners and complainers).
It is called off-season but that is
not so accurate. It is a season all
its own, with winners and losers,
fantasies and streaks, goals and
aspirations. It is a time for new
marriages and redirected pennant
hopes. Yes, the season that just
ended was disappointing for most,
but now here come the visions of
renewal, of rebuilding, of dreams
that might become reality. Newly
added players, renewed options,
a tweak of change in coaches,
new and hopeful managers . . .
Happy New Year! To all . . . as
anticipation builds toward time
for annual renewals. With apologies
to Ray Kinsella, I now say, “If you
build a better team during the
construction season, the fans
will surely show up, with visions
of hope and pre-confidence. They
will take their seats and smile and
cheer, full of wishful confidence
that their team will turn out to be
The Winners of the season called
Off-season."
Once again, I get to rest and dream.
the winners have been crowned
(and they’re not mine, again)
and now comes the season for
the potential potent winners
(and whiners and complainers).
It is called off-season but that is
not so accurate. It is a season all
its own, with winners and losers,
fantasies and streaks, goals and
aspirations. It is a time for new
marriages and redirected pennant
hopes. Yes, the season that just
ended was disappointing for most,
but now here come the visions of
renewal, of rebuilding, of dreams
that might become reality. Newly
added players, renewed options,
a tweak of change in coaches,
new and hopeful managers . . .
Happy New Year! To all . . . as
anticipation builds toward time
for annual renewals. With apologies
to Ray Kinsella, I now say, “If you
build a better team during the
construction season, the fans
will surely show up, with visions
of hope and pre-confidence. They
will take their seats and smile and
cheer, full of wishful confidence
that their team will turn out to be
The Winners of the season called
Off-season."
Well Seasoned
The oppression of the wafts of steamy jelly air are gone.
Now, my face is sweetly kissed by coolness the way
a mountain top is painted in crystal, undisturbed snow.
I walk stutter-step, but I know I am alive, as every
stride sets off an inner alarm that focuses my attention to
the crisp chilly air. The people near me wear sweaters
beneath their jackets and walk swiftly to sit in a
near-by park or just to stroll and gaze upon the cool
Long Island Sound. Pumpkins and other warmly hued
gourds rest proudly on the stubborn-green grass, harbingers
of approaching moments of joy. I gaze upward and take
in the peacock-fans of leaves - - - orange, yellow, red
- - - a polychromatic symphony playing for approval
of my eyes. It is my annually favored season - - - not
sizzling nor frigid, but, as Goldilocks might say, just right.
It’s good to breathe the air - - - even better to know that I
am comfortably alive and sensual. I love to sit on the park
bench and survey the landscape, taking in the children
exuding what is to me a distant memory of kinetic energy
as they play absent care on the swings or sliding pond or
climb on a glossy model of a fire truck, all brilliant red.
Their movements and their joyous high-pitched voices
bring me contentment and deliver in their liveliness a
warm glow to my heart as I recall my own grandchildren
some two decades earlier, predecessors to the movements
and the sounds that on this day belong to a current generation
but no less to a childhood continuum that will not cease.
Autumn is the song that blankets me with the present as well
the past. Friendly hues and joyous sounds kiss my soul
with a knowing smile. It will be winter much too soon but
for this day I dwell exactly where and how I wish to . . .
in this kingdom so pleasing and relaxing and enchanting
that our days of youth return and reassure me. As with the
monarch butterflies returning from their yearly southern
migration to a place of comfort and security, I can smile,
for I am home once again.
The oppression of the wafts of steamy jelly air are gone.
Now, my face is sweetly kissed by coolness the way
a mountain top is painted in crystal, undisturbed snow.
I walk stutter-step, but I know I am alive, as every
stride sets off an inner alarm that focuses my attention to
the crisp chilly air. The people near me wear sweaters
beneath their jackets and walk swiftly to sit in a
near-by park or just to stroll and gaze upon the cool
Long Island Sound. Pumpkins and other warmly hued
gourds rest proudly on the stubborn-green grass, harbingers
of approaching moments of joy. I gaze upward and take
in the peacock-fans of leaves - - - orange, yellow, red
- - - a polychromatic symphony playing for approval
of my eyes. It is my annually favored season - - - not
sizzling nor frigid, but, as Goldilocks might say, just right.
It’s good to breathe the air - - - even better to know that I
am comfortably alive and sensual. I love to sit on the park
bench and survey the landscape, taking in the children
exuding what is to me a distant memory of kinetic energy
as they play absent care on the swings or sliding pond or
climb on a glossy model of a fire truck, all brilliant red.
Their movements and their joyous high-pitched voices
bring me contentment and deliver in their liveliness a
warm glow to my heart as I recall my own grandchildren
some two decades earlier, predecessors to the movements
and the sounds that on this day belong to a current generation
but no less to a childhood continuum that will not cease.
Autumn is the song that blankets me with the present as well
the past. Friendly hues and joyous sounds kiss my soul
with a knowing smile. It will be winter much too soon but
for this day I dwell exactly where and how I wish to . . .
in this kingdom so pleasing and relaxing and enchanting
that our days of youth return and reassure me. As with the
monarch butterflies returning from their yearly southern
migration to a place of comfort and security, I can smile,
for I am home once again.
Growing Up with 1950’s TV Shows
I was first a child of 1940’s radio, sitting as a segment of a semicircle
Of love, eyes drawn to a giant radio console, mind aware that the
Arching radio could transport us to several foreign nations via the
Magic of short wave, but in our reality, our ears were attuned to real
American shows transforming the words of actors standing around
Microphones, holding scripts and supported by studio musicians and
Sound effects masters. The shows appealed to different age groups:
My sister Ethel connected to Helen Trent and other soap operas, so
Named because frequently, their sponsors were detergents, now
Acknowledged by the stereotype - - - based on reality - - - that the
Audience comprised heavily of housewives and daughters who
Were the clothing sanitation engineers of those days. Children such
As I were drawn to magical worlds of adventure, where word picture
Were drawn with verbal artistry by radio Rembrandts, and converted
Through our ears into our minds and our imaginations into weekly
Battles for justice and positivity - - - shows such as “The Lone Ranger”
And “The Adventures of Superman” and a host of others which kept
Me company when I wasn’t out playing with a host of contemporary friends.
Then, in 1949, my father bought our TV set - - a 16-inch black and white
RCA, a magic box that offered infinite hours of entertainment (except that
Every one of the seven channels went off the air by 11:30 PM.)
The most natural way to begin my TV travels of the ‘50’s is with two shows
I treasured because they transitioned from their radio homes to my video
Living room: “The Adventures of Superman” and “The Lone Ranger”
- - - two half-hour shows featuring, to me, super-heroes saving the day
Every week and wearing distinctive costumes while bearing secret identities,
Which I could finally see in living black and white! Now, Superman’s
superpowers were numerous --- strength, ability to fly, x-ray vision, et al ---
And obvious. As for those of the Lone Ranger, to me, they included making
His silver bullets, communicating with Silver and --- most importantly ---
Never killing anyone! His uncanny aim was not duplicated by any of the
Other cowboys who populated the olden golden West of that decade, from
Marshal Dillon to Paladin to Wyatt Earp (all of whom I was a fan of).
Next come the family shows, from the full parental units in “Father Knows
Best” and “The Donna Reed Show” (mother, father, son, daughter
- - - ironically predicting my own situation - - -) to “The Honeymooners”,
“Leave It to Beaver”, “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet” and
“The Danny Thomas Show”. I also enjoyed the heavily ethnic family
Pleasantries of Molly Berg’s “The Goldbergs”. Perhaps I was so
Attracted to these family sitcoms because I spent so much of my viewing
Time alone and lonely, with my father working, my sisters away on their own
Adventures and my mother having passed a week before my 10th
Birthday. These shows supported me mentally and even spiritually, and
Provided me with warm families I could easily relate to.
Perhaps it was because I had knee surgery in 1955 and spent several days
Recuperating in New York Hospital that I was drawn to medical shows of the
Era. I became a fan of Richard Boone’s “Medic” (the first show to
Challenge the air superiority of Lucy and Desi). It was a neat change of viewing
Pace, and provided a solid foundation for Ben Casey and James Kildare, who
Practiced TV medicine starting a half-decade later, in 1961.
I was a decent student, so I really enjoyed the quiz shows of the ‘50’s (before
The scandal, which broke my heart because those brainiac heroes turned
Out to be pre-prepared fakes - - - but for a significant time before that shock,
I treasured such big-money shows as “The $64,000 Question”, “The $64,000 Challenge”
and “Twenty-One”, with its heavy-breathing contestants acting
Out their mounting inner tensions - - - with an emphasis on “acting” - - - Are you
Listening, Charles Van Doren?
In contrast, “What’s My Line”, “I’ve Got a Secret”, “To Tell the Truth”,
“You Bet Your Life”, “Name That Tune”, “Beat the Clock” and “The Price
is Right” stirred my competitive juices but were without great financial gain for
Contestants. They offered me minor excitement but were fun to watch.
There were the variety shows, led by “The Ed Sullivan Show” --- which
Introduced Elvis Presley to TV audiences in the 1950’s (and The Beatles in
The 1960’s), “The Jackie Gleason Show” (with the June Taylor (synchronized)
Dancers and predecessor to “The Honeymooners”), “Your Show of
Shows” - - - which kept me laughing because of Sid Caesar, Imogene Coca and
Carl Reiner - - - and “The Tonight Show” with Steve Allen, which transitioned into “Tonight”
Starring Jack Paar. There were others . . . but not for me.
(A side note here: Soap operas ruled midday but that was my sister’s territory.)
Early in the 1950’s, I had my children’s shows. There were some I disliked,
Hated or despised (Think “Captain Kangaroo” and “Kukla, Fran & Ollie”),
But others kept me company in my elementary school years: “Captain Video
And His Video Ranger”, “The Magic Cottage” and “Howdy Doody” provided
Me with non-organic cinematic childhood friends and buddies. (Somehow, I
Missed “Lassie” but I did have a canine companion, a German Shepherd named in
“The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin”, together with a child, the unofficial soldier Rusty.)
Let me complete my television childhood odyssey with the sports shows which
Made me a life-long fan. As for fantasy sports, there’s wrestling. In the 1950’s,
Together with my dad, I watched and enjoyed such matches. There were heroes and
Villains aplenty: Mr. America Gene Stanley, Antonino Rocca, Gorgeous George,
Verne Gagna, Ed “Strangler” Lewis. (This, in the 1980’s, would be echoed by my
Watching George “The Animal” Steele, Hulk Hogan, André the Giant, Randy
Savage and “Rowdy” Roddy Piper of the then WWE with my son.)
My lifetime love of baseball began with the arrival of our TV set in 1949, as the
Yankees (the Bronx Bombers - - - Did I mention I was a Bronxite myself?) went on
To win five straight World Series titles. Of course, I had only black and white BUT
The Yankee uniforms were white with black pinstripes; nothing was lost there. My only
Handicap was that away games were not broadcast at that time by WPIX - - - but I
Never missed a home broadcast or All-Star Game (NBC) or Series contest. (The
Expression “glued to the set” seems fitting.) I can still hear Mel Allen’s Southern
Twang and Jim Woods’ soothing voice. I also followed hockey with my Rangers
And even now the players’ names reside in my memory: Andy Bathgate, Harry
Howell, Camille Henry and the marvelous Gump Worsley protecting the net. Finally,
The fledgling NBA with the early Knicks came to me courtesy of former Knick
Bud Palmer announcing together with Bob Wolff via dependable WPIX (Channel 11).
I witnessed the team and the telecasts grow. I saw the second game of double-headers,
Games before the 24-secnd clock or three-pointers or three-second rules
Existed, games in which one- and two-hand set shots far out-numbered jumpers,
And free throws were delivered under-handed and final scores such as 25 to 17 were common
Because players “froze” the ball, dribbling and passing for several minutes
until they had an easy shot. It was watching a new pro sport being born.
There you have it: my elementary / junior high school years of the 1950’s, my
Indoor incubation and introduction to one growing form of American culture ---
And I wouldn’t trade the experience for Alice’s adventures in Wonderland or
Gulliver’s travels or Jules Verne’s travels to the moon or under the sea or H. G.
Wells’ journey to the future. Each of them had journeys limited by a single
Person’s imagination. My voyage through 1950’s television shows had no such constraints.
And my life is so much better for this fact!
I was first a child of 1940’s radio, sitting as a segment of a semicircle
Of love, eyes drawn to a giant radio console, mind aware that the
Arching radio could transport us to several foreign nations via the
Magic of short wave, but in our reality, our ears were attuned to real
American shows transforming the words of actors standing around
Microphones, holding scripts and supported by studio musicians and
Sound effects masters. The shows appealed to different age groups:
My sister Ethel connected to Helen Trent and other soap operas, so
Named because frequently, their sponsors were detergents, now
Acknowledged by the stereotype - - - based on reality - - - that the
Audience comprised heavily of housewives and daughters who
Were the clothing sanitation engineers of those days. Children such
As I were drawn to magical worlds of adventure, where word picture
Were drawn with verbal artistry by radio Rembrandts, and converted
Through our ears into our minds and our imaginations into weekly
Battles for justice and positivity - - - shows such as “The Lone Ranger”
And “The Adventures of Superman” and a host of others which kept
Me company when I wasn’t out playing with a host of contemporary friends.
Then, in 1949, my father bought our TV set - - a 16-inch black and white
RCA, a magic box that offered infinite hours of entertainment (except that
Every one of the seven channels went off the air by 11:30 PM.)
The most natural way to begin my TV travels of the ‘50’s is with two shows
I treasured because they transitioned from their radio homes to my video
Living room: “The Adventures of Superman” and “The Lone Ranger”
- - - two half-hour shows featuring, to me, super-heroes saving the day
Every week and wearing distinctive costumes while bearing secret identities,
Which I could finally see in living black and white! Now, Superman’s
superpowers were numerous --- strength, ability to fly, x-ray vision, et al ---
And obvious. As for those of the Lone Ranger, to me, they included making
His silver bullets, communicating with Silver and --- most importantly ---
Never killing anyone! His uncanny aim was not duplicated by any of the
Other cowboys who populated the olden golden West of that decade, from
Marshal Dillon to Paladin to Wyatt Earp (all of whom I was a fan of).
Next come the family shows, from the full parental units in “Father Knows
Best” and “The Donna Reed Show” (mother, father, son, daughter
- - - ironically predicting my own situation - - -) to “The Honeymooners”,
“Leave It to Beaver”, “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet” and
“The Danny Thomas Show”. I also enjoyed the heavily ethnic family
Pleasantries of Molly Berg’s “The Goldbergs”. Perhaps I was so
Attracted to these family sitcoms because I spent so much of my viewing
Time alone and lonely, with my father working, my sisters away on their own
Adventures and my mother having passed a week before my 10th
Birthday. These shows supported me mentally and even spiritually, and
Provided me with warm families I could easily relate to.
Perhaps it was because I had knee surgery in 1955 and spent several days
Recuperating in New York Hospital that I was drawn to medical shows of the
Era. I became a fan of Richard Boone’s “Medic” (the first show to
Challenge the air superiority of Lucy and Desi). It was a neat change of viewing
Pace, and provided a solid foundation for Ben Casey and James Kildare, who
Practiced TV medicine starting a half-decade later, in 1961.
I was a decent student, so I really enjoyed the quiz shows of the ‘50’s (before
The scandal, which broke my heart because those brainiac heroes turned
Out to be pre-prepared fakes - - - but for a significant time before that shock,
I treasured such big-money shows as “The $64,000 Question”, “The $64,000 Challenge”
and “Twenty-One”, with its heavy-breathing contestants acting
Out their mounting inner tensions - - - with an emphasis on “acting” - - - Are you
Listening, Charles Van Doren?
In contrast, “What’s My Line”, “I’ve Got a Secret”, “To Tell the Truth”,
“You Bet Your Life”, “Name That Tune”, “Beat the Clock” and “The Price
is Right” stirred my competitive juices but were without great financial gain for
Contestants. They offered me minor excitement but were fun to watch.
There were the variety shows, led by “The Ed Sullivan Show” --- which
Introduced Elvis Presley to TV audiences in the 1950’s (and The Beatles in
The 1960’s), “The Jackie Gleason Show” (with the June Taylor (synchronized)
Dancers and predecessor to “The Honeymooners”), “Your Show of
Shows” - - - which kept me laughing because of Sid Caesar, Imogene Coca and
Carl Reiner - - - and “The Tonight Show” with Steve Allen, which transitioned into “Tonight”
Starring Jack Paar. There were others . . . but not for me.
(A side note here: Soap operas ruled midday but that was my sister’s territory.)
Early in the 1950’s, I had my children’s shows. There were some I disliked,
Hated or despised (Think “Captain Kangaroo” and “Kukla, Fran & Ollie”),
But others kept me company in my elementary school years: “Captain Video
And His Video Ranger”, “The Magic Cottage” and “Howdy Doody” provided
Me with non-organic cinematic childhood friends and buddies. (Somehow, I
Missed “Lassie” but I did have a canine companion, a German Shepherd named in
“The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin”, together with a child, the unofficial soldier Rusty.)
Let me complete my television childhood odyssey with the sports shows which
Made me a life-long fan. As for fantasy sports, there’s wrestling. In the 1950’s,
Together with my dad, I watched and enjoyed such matches. There were heroes and
Villains aplenty: Mr. America Gene Stanley, Antonino Rocca, Gorgeous George,
Verne Gagna, Ed “Strangler” Lewis. (This, in the 1980’s, would be echoed by my
Watching George “The Animal” Steele, Hulk Hogan, André the Giant, Randy
Savage and “Rowdy” Roddy Piper of the then WWE with my son.)
My lifetime love of baseball began with the arrival of our TV set in 1949, as the
Yankees (the Bronx Bombers - - - Did I mention I was a Bronxite myself?) went on
To win five straight World Series titles. Of course, I had only black and white BUT
The Yankee uniforms were white with black pinstripes; nothing was lost there. My only
Handicap was that away games were not broadcast at that time by WPIX - - - but I
Never missed a home broadcast or All-Star Game (NBC) or Series contest. (The
Expression “glued to the set” seems fitting.) I can still hear Mel Allen’s Southern
Twang and Jim Woods’ soothing voice. I also followed hockey with my Rangers
And even now the players’ names reside in my memory: Andy Bathgate, Harry
Howell, Camille Henry and the marvelous Gump Worsley protecting the net. Finally,
The fledgling NBA with the early Knicks came to me courtesy of former Knick
Bud Palmer announcing together with Bob Wolff via dependable WPIX (Channel 11).
I witnessed the team and the telecasts grow. I saw the second game of double-headers,
Games before the 24-secnd clock or three-pointers or three-second rules
Existed, games in which one- and two-hand set shots far out-numbered jumpers,
And free throws were delivered under-handed and final scores such as 25 to 17 were common
Because players “froze” the ball, dribbling and passing for several minutes
until they had an easy shot. It was watching a new pro sport being born.
There you have it: my elementary / junior high school years of the 1950’s, my
Indoor incubation and introduction to one growing form of American culture ---
And I wouldn’t trade the experience for Alice’s adventures in Wonderland or
Gulliver’s travels or Jules Verne’s travels to the moon or under the sea or H. G.
Wells’ journey to the future. Each of them had journeys limited by a single
Person’s imagination. My voyage through 1950’s television shows had no such constraints.
And my life is so much better for this fact!
Never Haunted
What’s in the mind of a retired Major Leaguer,
One who will never stand before the entrance
To the Hall of Fame and make an acceptance
Speech as preamble to his plaque latching on
To the wall of honor? What does a man who
Tried his best but fell short of eternal glory
Think about when he is alone with his memories?
Does he find solace in the fact that he was a
Rarity among achievers - - - better than the
Schoolyard athletes or the kids who played
Organized ball but reached their limitations,
Better than life-long minor leaguers who ate
And slept and fantasized of making the Show
(but who were never called up, even for a cup
Of Joe - - - or were brought up to the Big Team
Only to be boomeranged to their Minor League
Home? Is he weighed down by regrets that he
Reached his professional goal but was a cut or
Two below the permanent glory that is offered
By Cooperstown? Does he lose sleep despite
His rare achievement of being a solid Big League
Presence? Is he haunted by what he didn’t do
Or is he justifiably proud of what he did show
Thousands of fans who rooted for him and
His teammates? Does he sleep peacefully at
Night - - - as he should? Leave it to lesser
Athletes to face the contentious turbulence
Of troubled sleep in the extra innings of their
Lives. The former player who did his best and
Made the ballot for enshrinement in the Hall (even
If election escaped him) sleeps peacefully each
Evening. There is honor in recollection of his
Special career moments, perhaps fewer than
Those of the eternal stars but enough to add
A slightly lesser complement to those whose tools
Built a place for them near Otsego Lake. A second
Tier player dwells comfortably within the shadow of
The Best of the Best - - - and sleeps within
A well-earned sense of calm.
What’s in the mind of a retired Major Leaguer,
One who will never stand before the entrance
To the Hall of Fame and make an acceptance
Speech as preamble to his plaque latching on
To the wall of honor? What does a man who
Tried his best but fell short of eternal glory
Think about when he is alone with his memories?
Does he find solace in the fact that he was a
Rarity among achievers - - - better than the
Schoolyard athletes or the kids who played
Organized ball but reached their limitations,
Better than life-long minor leaguers who ate
And slept and fantasized of making the Show
(but who were never called up, even for a cup
Of Joe - - - or were brought up to the Big Team
Only to be boomeranged to their Minor League
Home? Is he weighed down by regrets that he
Reached his professional goal but was a cut or
Two below the permanent glory that is offered
By Cooperstown? Does he lose sleep despite
His rare achievement of being a solid Big League
Presence? Is he haunted by what he didn’t do
Or is he justifiably proud of what he did show
Thousands of fans who rooted for him and
His teammates? Does he sleep peacefully at
Night - - - as he should? Leave it to lesser
Athletes to face the contentious turbulence
Of troubled sleep in the extra innings of their
Lives. The former player who did his best and
Made the ballot for enshrinement in the Hall (even
If election escaped him) sleeps peacefully each
Evening. There is honor in recollection of his
Special career moments, perhaps fewer than
Those of the eternal stars but enough to add
A slightly lesser complement to those whose tools
Built a place for them near Otsego Lake. A second
Tier player dwells comfortably within the shadow of
The Best of the Best - - - and sleeps within
A well-earned sense of calm.
Snapshot
I know I'm old and therefore have fallen prey
(now, when 30 teams make up 6 divisions)
to viewing daily life under a magnifying glass
and what I see are amoebae reflecting Life
in its most basic form. I peer down and view
single-celled movements, each one wearing
an -eye catching uniform with a mystery number
on its back and limited to sixteen distinct geographic
teams competing for a single elusive prize. Those
are reflections of seasons decades past when the
teenage narrator who entertains you now could
glance at the back page of the New York Daily News
each evening and see listed alphabetically the
surnames of the players who had homered that day
(for most contests took place in the light of day, even
and especially the glory each year known as the
World Series though that version of the world which
fielded players was not as it is today). To me, this
visual image symbolizes romanticized well-seasoned
days when I could still recite stats found on the backs
of gum-perfumed baseball cards, days idealized by a
memory that submerges any negative details in favor
of beautiful simplicity. Just as I've traded a baseball bat
in my youth for a cane in my ninth decade, I've had
imposed upon my basic youthful baseball memories
the overload of hordes of lesser players and greater
statistics borne of the thirst for and curse of profits. I miss
the days before expansion, a time I was yet able to have
a loving grasp on my simpler baseball world, one I had
control upon by my devoted memory and the solar
system made up of sixteen teams orbiting my mind.
I know I'm old and therefore have fallen prey
(now, when 30 teams make up 6 divisions)
to viewing daily life under a magnifying glass
and what I see are amoebae reflecting Life
in its most basic form. I peer down and view
single-celled movements, each one wearing
an -eye catching uniform with a mystery number
on its back and limited to sixteen distinct geographic
teams competing for a single elusive prize. Those
are reflections of seasons decades past when the
teenage narrator who entertains you now could
glance at the back page of the New York Daily News
each evening and see listed alphabetically the
surnames of the players who had homered that day
(for most contests took place in the light of day, even
and especially the glory each year known as the
World Series though that version of the world which
fielded players was not as it is today). To me, this
visual image symbolizes romanticized well-seasoned
days when I could still recite stats found on the backs
of gum-perfumed baseball cards, days idealized by a
memory that submerges any negative details in favor
of beautiful simplicity. Just as I've traded a baseball bat
in my youth for a cane in my ninth decade, I've had
imposed upon my basic youthful baseball memories
the overload of hordes of lesser players and greater
statistics borne of the thirst for and curse of profits. I miss
the days before expansion, a time I was yet able to have
a loving grasp on my simpler baseball world, one I had
control upon by my devoted memory and the solar
system made up of sixteen teams orbiting my mind.
