Where will you go from here?
The many roads
That offer up themselves to you
Have personalities
That you must recognize
And comprehend
Prior to taking that first step
(You know, the one that starts the longest journey).
One path welcomes you with safety,
With familiarity,
But takes you only to security
And an uneventful life.
One offers you deceit
And seems -- but is not true;
Do not be fooled into complacency.
Avoid those tricky steps at any cost.
Another road sings a Siren song
Promising adventure, presenting an excitement
To fill your heart with trembling . . . but with life!
Take this opportunity and you ignore your counsel.
Then there’s the road of love,
The one which whispers to you
Most easily and pleasingly
And smiles at you,
Waiting for your motion,
Ready to smother you in magnetic melodies.
Next, there is the path of wisdom,
Hypnotizing you with promises
Of self-awareness, self-discovery
But do you truly wish for this
After all these thoughtless years?
There is the religious way
That leads you to your spirit
Submerged much too long
In the cynicism of the world,
But will your course improve enough
To justify the journey?
Think rhetorically.
So . . . in the end
In the midst of this juncture in your life
This vital intersection
What are you to do
To find the righteous path,
The one that knows no bound,
That does not block the progress to your final goal?
Look to simplicity.
Look to the road that takes you home
And find that which you need,
An unction soothing to your spirit
In such a way that this lifetime hero’s journey
Will culminate in the hands of God:
NOT the god of humans
But the God of TRUTH.
The many roads
That offer up themselves to you
Have personalities
That you must recognize
And comprehend
Prior to taking that first step
(You know, the one that starts the longest journey).
One path welcomes you with safety,
With familiarity,
But takes you only to security
And an uneventful life.
One offers you deceit
And seems -- but is not true;
Do not be fooled into complacency.
Avoid those tricky steps at any cost.
Another road sings a Siren song
Promising adventure, presenting an excitement
To fill your heart with trembling . . . but with life!
Take this opportunity and you ignore your counsel.
Then there’s the road of love,
The one which whispers to you
Most easily and pleasingly
And smiles at you,
Waiting for your motion,
Ready to smother you in magnetic melodies.
Next, there is the path of wisdom,
Hypnotizing you with promises
Of self-awareness, self-discovery
But do you truly wish for this
After all these thoughtless years?
There is the religious way
That leads you to your spirit
Submerged much too long
In the cynicism of the world,
But will your course improve enough
To justify the journey?
Think rhetorically.
So . . . in the end
In the midst of this juncture in your life
This vital intersection
What are you to do
To find the righteous path,
The one that knows no bound,
That does not block the progress to your final goal?
Look to simplicity.
Look to the road that takes you home
And find that which you need,
An unction soothing to your spirit
In such a way that this lifetime hero’s journey
Will culminate in the hands of God:
NOT the god of humans
But the God of TRUTH.
1964
My heart began to beat again in 1964
(It had begun to die a deadly forty days before)
When out of gloom and pain a new Age came to me,
Offering great promise --- enough to set me free
From disillusion and confusion and such grief and sorrow
That stemmed from the assassination that seemed to kill Tomorrow.
By mid-June 1964 I started to explore
The hurt I’d felt upon the death of one I did adore;
I realized that to despise this life would be a waste,
That agony and anger just left a bitter taste,
And so I set out on a journey aimed at making better
My days and years so daze and fears would leave no scarlet letter
To mark my soul or brand my goal to live the victim’s life;
I faced the pain and sought to gain victory over strife.
It was September of the year nineteen and sixty-four
That I began to find my call; I taught for the Peace Corps
In Africa, to meet the people who became my friends
And learn from them the lessons that my life today depends
On to function in the classroom as an unction for each kid;
It is true that serving others serves the pain of death to rid.
From 1964 two years I searched through our common corps,
My students hungered for life lessons and for them I’d implore ---
I taught; I learned; I sought; I yearned; I grew and fed my heart
And with each lesson taught there was one I’d depart
The classroom with: a smile, a guess, a brilliant try
And every day I’d walk away with an ever-stronger cry:
He did not die to make me sigh but to confer on me
The Hope and Blessing for each child, to teach them Liberty!
That is the message that I gleaned from 1964:
One I cannot set aside and one I’ll not ignore:
We are all one under the sun and share a common Fate;
Alone we are but lonely; together we are great!
My heart began to beat again in 1964
(It had begun to die a deadly forty days before)
When out of gloom and pain a new Age came to me,
Offering great promise --- enough to set me free
From disillusion and confusion and such grief and sorrow
That stemmed from the assassination that seemed to kill Tomorrow.
By mid-June 1964 I started to explore
The hurt I’d felt upon the death of one I did adore;
I realized that to despise this life would be a waste,
That agony and anger just left a bitter taste,
And so I set out on a journey aimed at making better
My days and years so daze and fears would leave no scarlet letter
To mark my soul or brand my goal to live the victim’s life;
I faced the pain and sought to gain victory over strife.
It was September of the year nineteen and sixty-four
That I began to find my call; I taught for the Peace Corps
In Africa, to meet the people who became my friends
And learn from them the lessons that my life today depends
On to function in the classroom as an unction for each kid;
It is true that serving others serves the pain of death to rid.
From 1964 two years I searched through our common corps,
My students hungered for life lessons and for them I’d implore ---
I taught; I learned; I sought; I yearned; I grew and fed my heart
And with each lesson taught there was one I’d depart
The classroom with: a smile, a guess, a brilliant try
And every day I’d walk away with an ever-stronger cry:
He did not die to make me sigh but to confer on me
The Hope and Blessing for each child, to teach them Liberty!
That is the message that I gleaned from 1964:
One I cannot set aside and one I’ll not ignore:
We are all one under the sun and share a common Fate;
Alone we are but lonely; together we are great!
Life: Ironic yet Iconic
Life is ironic: crimes are way down,
The Earth wears blue sky like some shiny crown --
Pollution gives way to breathable air.
Animals thrive just about everywhere.
Life goes on in the face of disastrous despair;
It’s testing our level of what we can bear
We hold others up and fight every frown:
Life is ironic: thoughts are way down.
People are dying; the virus does thrive,
But in face of the deaths we will stay alive,
For this is our Earth, our home so hard fought
For, though we combat what humans have wrought.
We each go about doing what we each ought
To and keep from attracting what others have caught.
We struggle with fright while the virus does thrive;
We stay home and fight, while the curve starts to dive.
We watch the fools stumble and tumble away
Their own safety as they simply will never stay
Isolated but rather must go outside
And co-mingle for they will no longer abide
By suggestions -- no matter how many have died --
After all, it’s their choice and their noise and their pride,
So instead their own inner Voice they obey
And their kids and their parents that they will then slay
While we others stay home and pray for the day
When we’ll meet and we’ll greet, and no longer hide,
For the war we’ll have won, the virus denied
Any victory, once again we’ve denied
UnNatural threat, for when we collide
With a terrible force that threatens our way
We will win every time despite the delay;
We will win every time for that is our way!
Life is ironic: crimes are way down,
The Earth wears blue sky like some shiny crown --
Pollution gives way to breathable air.
Animals thrive just about everywhere.
Life goes on in the face of disastrous despair;
It’s testing our level of what we can bear
We hold others up and fight every frown:
Life is ironic: thoughts are way down.
People are dying; the virus does thrive,
But in face of the deaths we will stay alive,
For this is our Earth, our home so hard fought
For, though we combat what humans have wrought.
We each go about doing what we each ought
To and keep from attracting what others have caught.
We struggle with fright while the virus does thrive;
We stay home and fight, while the curve starts to dive.
We watch the fools stumble and tumble away
Their own safety as they simply will never stay
Isolated but rather must go outside
And co-mingle for they will no longer abide
By suggestions -- no matter how many have died --
After all, it’s their choice and their noise and their pride,
So instead their own inner Voice they obey
And their kids and their parents that they will then slay
While we others stay home and pray for the day
When we’ll meet and we’ll greet, and no longer hide,
For the war we’ll have won, the virus denied
Any victory, once again we’ve denied
UnNatural threat, for when we collide
With a terrible force that threatens our way
We will win every time despite the delay;
We will win every time for that is our way!
Past versus Future
I have seen the present and the past
And while I have loved every minute,
I have known it cannot last --
At least, not with myself still in it;
I have lived and played the game
Of touching lives and molding minds
And I have done so without shame
For I have shaped the world that blinds
Its children to the dreams that die,
To the days that bring remorse,
To the visions that will cry,
To the rules that will enforce
The guarantees that past times flow
Down to the sea of bitter tears,
Taking with them that kind glow
That softens often sharpened fears.
I’ve passed the past and now I know
That we should try to turn the gears
To make sure anger disappears
So that our hate we will not sow.
Yes, I have dwelt within each thought,
Within the future, fine and true,
With knowledge that our evil wrought --
A destiny too harsh and blue
But it’s our nature to survive,
To overcome our hostile selves
And then to make a world that thrives
And in which each child smoothly delves
Into the fate that should be his --
Into the life that should be hers:
We owe a future debt, which is
A love of life; no one demurs
Who is human, nor dead nor dumb,
That we are here to fill our time
With smiles and kisses and with some
Long love and dance and even rhyme:
And I can see the days to come
Will drown the hate and be sublime
Because it is our holy call
To reach the heavens, and to strive
To overcome the faults of yesterday
And give true meaning to “Alive”
And use our souls to light the way . . . .
The past will always come and go
But we the people will remain;
Time and again we folks will show
The past would often just demean,
But days to come we can bestow
Onto our children so they glean
What Heaven is from what we know!
I have seen the present and the past
And while I have loved every minute,
I have known it cannot last --
At least, not with myself still in it;
I have lived and played the game
Of touching lives and molding minds
And I have done so without shame
For I have shaped the world that blinds
Its children to the dreams that die,
To the days that bring remorse,
To the visions that will cry,
To the rules that will enforce
The guarantees that past times flow
Down to the sea of bitter tears,
Taking with them that kind glow
That softens often sharpened fears.
I’ve passed the past and now I know
That we should try to turn the gears
To make sure anger disappears
So that our hate we will not sow.
Yes, I have dwelt within each thought,
Within the future, fine and true,
With knowledge that our evil wrought --
A destiny too harsh and blue
But it’s our nature to survive,
To overcome our hostile selves
And then to make a world that thrives
And in which each child smoothly delves
Into the fate that should be his --
Into the life that should be hers:
We owe a future debt, which is
A love of life; no one demurs
Who is human, nor dead nor dumb,
That we are here to fill our time
With smiles and kisses and with some
Long love and dance and even rhyme:
And I can see the days to come
Will drown the hate and be sublime
Because it is our holy call
To reach the heavens, and to strive
To overcome the faults of yesterday
And give true meaning to “Alive”
And use our souls to light the way . . . .
The past will always come and go
But we the people will remain;
Time and again we folks will show
The past would often just demean,
But days to come we can bestow
Onto our children so they glean
What Heaven is from what we know!
Tomorrow
Google Meet has met its fate
And now we will be using Zoom;
At 9 a.m. we have a date
Right here in our living room!
It’s really nice to see each face
And listen to each friendly voice;
There isn’t any other place
I’d be, even if I had a choice.
We social distance while online
And we discuss our new ideas;
This virus won’t our thoughts confine
Nor will we dwell upon our fears!
We focus on our students’ hopes
As each top teacher reaches out,
As we can see each student copes
As we give hope where there was doubt.
And so we Meet and Zoom along
And build a learning comfort zone
With lyrics that make up a song
That says that no one is alone.
Google Meet has met its fate
And now we will be using Zoom;
At 9 a.m. we have a date
Right here in our living room!
It’s really nice to see each face
And listen to each friendly voice;
There isn’t any other place
I’d be, even if I had a choice.
We social distance while online
And we discuss our new ideas;
This virus won’t our thoughts confine
Nor will we dwell upon our fears!
We focus on our students’ hopes
As each top teacher reaches out,
As we can see each student copes
As we give hope where there was doubt.
And so we Meet and Zoom along
And build a learning comfort zone
With lyrics that make up a song
That says that no one is alone.
A Temporary Challenge
The diagnosis came four years ago
by a physician, not a necromancer:
I was to face a battle for my life:
Its name was not so fearful: prostate cancer.
I listened and I heard the words before me;
I listened to the calmness in his voice.
He spoke of waiting, watching carefully
And that the day would come when we’d rejoice.
I understood but thought about that word
I knew biopsies, MRI’s would follow
And all the while I thought how so absurd
and easy was that diagnosed to swallow . . .
So on I went through days and nights around
And made sure nothing much was rearranged,
And every time I heard the reassuring sound:
His voice would tell me nothing much had changed
Until the day came that the numbers rose
And a new test showed increased cancer cells.
Then we decided what each doctor knows:
"The time has come and action it compels."
And so I went and got the radiation
Targeted so its effects were known
And there would be no standard deviation ---
Results would please me, that was to be shown.
Four years have passed and I am pleased to say
That all went well and cancer is no more;
Apparently, it all just went away
And still my life has so much more in store.
And yet, I am too wise to close my eyes
For where they grew the cells may reappear,
But I will stride, and should I need, devise
Another plan to make them disappear,
For where there’s hope, there is a greater plan
And we are giants who will find a way.
I am a human and, as I began,
I will myself to live, to learn, to stay!
The diagnosis came four years ago
by a physician, not a necromancer:
I was to face a battle for my life:
Its name was not so fearful: prostate cancer.
I listened and I heard the words before me;
I listened to the calmness in his voice.
He spoke of waiting, watching carefully
And that the day would come when we’d rejoice.
I understood but thought about that word
I knew biopsies, MRI’s would follow
And all the while I thought how so absurd
and easy was that diagnosed to swallow . . .
So on I went through days and nights around
And made sure nothing much was rearranged,
And every time I heard the reassuring sound:
His voice would tell me nothing much had changed
Until the day came that the numbers rose
And a new test showed increased cancer cells.
Then we decided what each doctor knows:
"The time has come and action it compels."
And so I went and got the radiation
Targeted so its effects were known
And there would be no standard deviation ---
Results would please me, that was to be shown.
Four years have passed and I am pleased to say
That all went well and cancer is no more;
Apparently, it all just went away
And still my life has so much more in store.
And yet, I am too wise to close my eyes
For where they grew the cells may reappear,
But I will stride, and should I need, devise
Another plan to make them disappear,
For where there’s hope, there is a greater plan
And we are giants who will find a way.
I am a human and, as I began,
I will myself to live, to learn, to stay!
Nice and Slow
I always like to take things nice and slow.
Rushing is, to me, a kind of crime.
I like to know exactly where to go.
I want to watch the river and its flow,
Mainly when it keeps its beat to time.
I always like to take things nice and slow.
I dress up and go walking in the snow,
And speak with words as silent as a mime;
I like to know exactly where to go.
I often fear the river's undertow;
I'd rather hear the church bell and its chime.
I always like to take things nice and slow.
There are no journeys, be they high or low,
Which I will take as long as I'm in prime:
I like to know exactly where to go.
My soul refuses, simply utters, "No"
When I am asked to jump, to swim, to climb ---
I always like to take things nice and slow;
I like to know exactly where I go.
I always like to take things nice and slow.
Rushing is, to me, a kind of crime.
I like to know exactly where to go.
I want to watch the river and its flow,
Mainly when it keeps its beat to time.
I always like to take things nice and slow.
I dress up and go walking in the snow,
And speak with words as silent as a mime;
I like to know exactly where to go.
I often fear the river's undertow;
I'd rather hear the church bell and its chime.
I always like to take things nice and slow.
There are no journeys, be they high or low,
Which I will take as long as I'm in prime:
I like to know exactly where to go.
My soul refuses, simply utters, "No"
When I am asked to jump, to swim, to climb ---
I always like to take things nice and slow;
I like to know exactly where I go.
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 soul 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 soul 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!
Iambic Non-Prose (not Pterodactyl Rose): an anti-ecology poem
They built a mall in my backyard;
I thought I'd take it very hard
But now I find I do adore
That mall because its every store
Presents to me a bunch of stuff
Of which I cannot get enough!
I miss the flowers and the trees
But their big absence brings a breeze
Which makes me happy --- and the cars,
With headlights shining, are like stars!
I love to shop in my Old Navy:
I eat it up just like the gravy
Atop the turkey I just killed,
And I am often very thrilled
To go a-malling, ride escalator,
Visit Food Court (French fried potater!);
The grass is gone but I'm not sad . . .
I love to look at lass and lad
Walk to their cars with gifts galore.
(Perhaps the Simon can build more.)
We humans didn't put a hex
On one Tyrannosaurus Rex;
It was a giant asteroid
Which all the dinosaurs destroyed
And that was by Nature's decree,
So we could drive around with glee,
Burning all those fossil fuels
Instead of driving struggling mules.
It makes such perfect sense to me:
Nordstrom's is the place to be,
Unless Forever Twenty-One
Has sales which offer greater fun.
I think that I shall often see
A mall in which there grows a tree;
To those who say malls make them blue:
Human wants are natural, too.
"Something there is that doesn't love a wall"
But multitudes do love a mall!
They built a mall in my backyard;
I thought I'd take it very hard
But now I find I do adore
That mall because its every store
Presents to me a bunch of stuff
Of which I cannot get enough!
I miss the flowers and the trees
But their big absence brings a breeze
Which makes me happy --- and the cars,
With headlights shining, are like stars!
I love to shop in my Old Navy:
I eat it up just like the gravy
Atop the turkey I just killed,
And I am often very thrilled
To go a-malling, ride escalator,
Visit Food Court (French fried potater!);
The grass is gone but I'm not sad . . .
I love to look at lass and lad
Walk to their cars with gifts galore.
(Perhaps the Simon can build more.)
We humans didn't put a hex
On one Tyrannosaurus Rex;
It was a giant asteroid
Which all the dinosaurs destroyed
And that was by Nature's decree,
So we could drive around with glee,
Burning all those fossil fuels
Instead of driving struggling mules.
It makes such perfect sense to me:
Nordstrom's is the place to be,
Unless Forever Twenty-One
Has sales which offer greater fun.
I think that I shall often see
A mall in which there grows a tree;
To those who say malls make them blue:
Human wants are natural, too.
"Something there is that doesn't love a wall"
But multitudes do love a mall!
HOME
I miss the wonderful place of my birth.
My memories are of such worth
That they cannot be measured in hours or miles;
Instead, they are measured with sighs and with smiles.
But I am not lonely and I'm not alone;
I have my computer as well as my phone.
The world is much smaller than it used to be.
I am able to contact my whole family!
Life's road is not straight; it has many bends ---
I've met many strangers who've then become friends,
And one thing I've learned: Whenever I roam,
Within my own heart I carry my home.
My memories are of such worth
That they cannot be measured in hours or miles;
Instead, they are measured with sighs and with smiles.
But I am not lonely and I'm not alone;
I have my computer as well as my phone.
The world is much smaller than it used to be.
I am able to contact my whole family!
Life's road is not straight; it has many bends ---
I've met many strangers who've then become friends,
And one thing I've learned: Whenever I roam,
Within my own heart I carry my home.
Therapy
Physical therapy:
A workout for the knee ---
Bending pushing pulling,
Only choice is bulling
Through each exercise;
There cannot be a compromise
Focus on the measures
Intended to bring pleasures
Of the absence of the pain:
repeat that rhyming charm again
(You know the one: “No pain no -------").
Muscle through that bone-on-bone;
Set the tempo, set the tone,
Visualize the day to come
When knee of blame won’t be a bum
And carry on to optimum!
This is the credo I live by:
I cannot do but I can try
And when I’m through, I’ll say goodbye
Until returning next Friday
And then I’ll fifty minutes stay
And not allow my mind to stray
But never will the day arrive
When my sore knee will gently thrive
Yet till that time I’ll stay alive
With hope and vision never sung
To be again he who was young.
Physical therapy:
A workout for the knee ---
Bending pushing pulling,
Only choice is bulling
Through each exercise;
There cannot be a compromise
Focus on the measures
Intended to bring pleasures
Of the absence of the pain:
repeat that rhyming charm again
(You know the one: “No pain no -------").
Muscle through that bone-on-bone;
Set the tempo, set the tone,
Visualize the day to come
When knee of blame won’t be a bum
And carry on to optimum!
This is the credo I live by:
I cannot do but I can try
And when I’m through, I’ll say goodbye
Until returning next Friday
And then I’ll fifty minutes stay
And not allow my mind to stray
But never will the day arrive
When my sore knee will gently thrive
Yet till that time I’ll stay alive
With hope and vision never sung
To be again he who was young.
Surprise! (Welcome Home)
I never thought that, come July,
I'd be attending summer school.
I felt that I would start to cry;
"To be a summer student's cruel!"
I pictured myself out of reach
Of teachers once the summer came;
I thought of myself on a beach
Or in the midst of some great game ---
Imagine my surprise that I
Now find myself just sitting here
'Cause I decided I would try
To love some poems, not to fear
The rhymes, the rhythms or the themes
That poetry is famous for . . .
And just as strangely as it seems ---
Each poem makes me want one more!
So let me thank my judgment good
For leading me to this fine class;
Itis a great, enchanting 'hood,
A pleasant place six weeks to pass.
I'd be attending summer school.
I felt that I would start to cry;
"To be a summer student's cruel!"
I pictured myself out of reach
Of teachers once the summer came;
I thought of myself on a beach
Or in the midst of some great game ---
Imagine my surprise that I
Now find myself just sitting here
'Cause I decided I would try
To love some poems, not to fear
The rhymes, the rhythms or the themes
That poetry is famous for . . .
And just as strangely as it seems ---
Each poem makes me want one more!
So let me thank my judgment good
For leading me to this fine class;
Itis a great, enchanting 'hood,
A pleasant place six weeks to pass.
Read and Feed
|
Reading is a lot of fun for me
I fly through space or sail around the sea I can go any place I choose I can wear a coat of many hues I can challenge pirates on their ships I can say farewell to Mr. Chips Reading lets me greet a brand new world With engines roaring or with sails unfurled! When I have time, I sit and read a book I fill my heart and mind with in every nook On every page, as characters, alive, Do introduce themselves --- and soon do thrive Within my thoughts, these kings and queens and knaves And those who seek to free long-suffering slaves I swallow up each story that I read These tales provide the energy I need! My favorite stories take me far away From troubles which I have to face today I let my mind see Life through others' eyes And in this way I hope I grow to wise One character will teach his children to Be fair to all, and to themselves be true Another challenges the sharks and shows that he Can never be defeated by the sea An old man suffering from A-L-S Brings joy to where most might have seen duress A lovelorn gentleman gives up his life So that another may then love a wife! The glory that abounds in all these tales Is more than obsessed captains hunting whales It is the story of the best of Man It tells the winners do whate'er they can To teach life-lessons to us faithful readers So that we can, in turn, become the leaders Who guide the hands of each new generation Provide our youthful souls with veneration For the contents of those waiting glories And fill their minds with printed poignant stories! Reading books is great for everyone The pages are replete with waiting fun Just start your journey with a single word Then let your mind become a soaring bird! |
|
Love and Strength
October 19, 2020
One LONG night - - -
Drifting from screen to screen
Seeking a purpose
As a baby seeks the light,
A time with no clock;
We cannot see the viral foe
(and too much of the Noise-maker)
The conflicts abound:
Science versus ignorance
Unity versus politics
Survival versus profits
Love versus hate!
We learn a new language:
Social distancing
Flattening the curve
Tracking and tracing
Shifting hot spots
Wearing masks
Dying alone
PPE ---
But the dark will fade away
One day
And when the light arrives
We will once again believe
In what we took for granted:
A loved one's hug
A gentle breeze
A pat on the back
Eye contact
Our humanity.
We will grow strong, we survivors,
And we will love again
When the long night turns to day.
Drifting from screen to screen
Seeking a purpose
As a baby seeks the light,
A time with no clock;
We cannot see the viral foe
(and too much of the Noise-maker)
The conflicts abound:
Science versus ignorance
Unity versus politics
Survival versus profits
Love versus hate!
We learn a new language:
Social distancing
Flattening the curve
Tracking and tracing
Shifting hot spots
Wearing masks
Dying alone
PPE ---
But the dark will fade away
One day
And when the light arrives
We will once again believe
In what we took for granted:
A loved one's hug
A gentle breeze
A pat on the back
Eye contact
Our humanity.
We will grow strong, we survivors,
And we will love again
When the long night turns to day.
The Angels of Our Time
There's not much doubt that angels exist;
They're omnipresent, but with a twist:
They don't protect; instead, they offend.
The order of things they strive to upend.
So save your wisdom and comfort and hope ---
You won't find a heartbeat with your stethoscope,
For angels are heartless and we are all cursed
To war after war, renewing the worst
Inclinations of humans, exceedingly greedy,
Fostering anger; repeatedly needy,
We strive . . . and achieve the depths of despair
While the angels misguide us and then disappear!
Living is wasted when angels are dark,
When the world that we know is missing the spark
That gives us the light to see what should be;
In a world full of darkness, we cannot be free . . . .
There's not much doubt that angels exist;
They're omnipresent, but with a twist:
They don't protect; instead, they offend.
The order of things they strive to upend.
So save your wisdom and comfort and hope ---
You won't find a heartbeat with your stethoscope,
For angels are heartless and we are all cursed
To war after war, renewing the worst
Inclinations of humans, exceedingly greedy,
Fostering anger; repeatedly needy,
We strive . . . and achieve the depths of despair
While the angels misguide us and then disappear!
Living is wasted when angels are dark,
When the world that we know is missing the spark
That gives us the light to see what should be;
In a world full of darkness, we cannot be free . . . .
Disposable Society (10-21-2020)
Good eyes feel agony at the pain
The brain refuses to accept
The stomach can no way digest
The legs seem to want to run:
What happened to the dream
The melting pot, the stew
That opened arms promised
But fists no longer offer
The down-trodden
The generations waiting?
The Lady holds the torch
But darkness reigns
and e pluribus unum
is just a phrase.
It's always been much more,
Not ever quite achieved
but a goal, a finish line
at the end of the race for the cure
But now the sickness seems to be winning
And we are the losers.
It is time
for the final kick.
Do we have what it takes?
The brain refuses to accept
The stomach can no way digest
The legs seem to want to run:
What happened to the dream
The melting pot, the stew
That opened arms promised
But fists no longer offer
The down-trodden
The generations waiting?
The Lady holds the torch
But darkness reigns
and e pluribus unum
is just a phrase.
It's always been much more,
Not ever quite achieved
but a goal, a finish line
at the end of the race for the cure
But now the sickness seems to be winning
And we are the losers.
It is time
for the final kick.
Do we have what it takes?
Compromise
It is not weak to compromise;
It is strong and stable!
It is a willingness to be human ---
Admit your imperfection /
Display the eagerness to learn
From others,
Which was once the jewel of childhood.
When did we regress to tribalism?
When did Love thy Brother become
Obscene?
There is no I in teamwork but there is WE
The people, each entitled to the best effort
From those who stand for us
So wake them up
To the possibility that is our Nation.
Brothers need to reach and touch
Each other;
We are not Cain and Abel.
We need each other; a house divided
Is not a home.
And it is time
This community showed up
(There is no I in that word
But there is indeed unity)
And raised the barn
And fed our hearts
And built for our children
A home full of pride . . . .
It is strong and stable!
It is a willingness to be human ---
Admit your imperfection /
Display the eagerness to learn
From others,
Which was once the jewel of childhood.
When did we regress to tribalism?
When did Love thy Brother become
Obscene?
There is no I in teamwork but there is WE
The people, each entitled to the best effort
From those who stand for us
So wake them up
To the possibility that is our Nation.
Brothers need to reach and touch
Each other;
We are not Cain and Abel.
We need each other; a house divided
Is not a home.
And it is time
This community showed up
(There is no I in that word
But there is indeed unity)
And raised the barn
And fed our hearts
And built for our children
A home full of pride . . . .
|
Nature Comforts
Nature has ways to make us remember where we belong --- A softening breeze to ease our nerves when life attacks us with the unexpected or unwanted or unwarranted; A touch of shade when the glare or fire of the sun seeks to disturb our waiting fates; A soft, pleasing rain to bathe away the cares whose weight threatens to pull us deeply down with unrelenting gravity. Nature is with us when we feel alone in a world too oft hosting the hostile and the furious. We are from nature; We are of nature. Welcome us home --- We need to be home. |
|
The Library
I used to walk
To the local library,
Spend deep hours looking
Through card catalogs,
Periodical index,
Books and magazines,
Microfilm and microfiche
To find my treasures
But now I don't leave home
Or school
Or office
To get my instant answer
Much like instant coffee
Or a TV dinner
And the taste it leaves
Is just as dull
Just as bland.
Give me back the days
When I could feel the paper:
Rough pages of a book;
Smooth pages of a magazine;
Touch that satisfied a human need
For contact
And a strong, personal relationship
With each author,
Reading the old-fashioned way,
Not so efficient,
Not so impersonal
But in a way that filled a need
And stayed with me all the way home.
Boy, do I miss those days
The past
When we still had the human touch
And we're so much more complete
Than we are now.
To the local library,
Spend deep hours looking
Through card catalogs,
Periodical index,
Books and magazines,
Microfilm and microfiche
To find my treasures
But now I don't leave home
Or school
Or office
To get my instant answer
Much like instant coffee
Or a TV dinner
And the taste it leaves
Is just as dull
Just as bland.
Give me back the days
When I could feel the paper:
Rough pages of a book;
Smooth pages of a magazine;
Touch that satisfied a human need
For contact
And a strong, personal relationship
With each author,
Reading the old-fashioned way,
Not so efficient,
Not so impersonal
But in a way that filled a need
And stayed with me all the way home.
Boy, do I miss those days
The past
When we still had the human touch
And we're so much more complete
Than we are now.
|
The Early Vote: 10-27-20
Something's happening of note; More than sixty million times With one week left there's been a vote Against his many words and crimes. The early vote has dual forms: In long-line person and by mail; The number passes all past norms --- This time we know we must not fail! You listen and you clearly hear The rhythmic democratic voice: The need to make him disappear Is clear: There is no other choice! Our Nation's future is at hand; The people strive to sing their song. We'll let all nations understand: This time we choose right over wrong! For four long years we've tried and cried; Our better angels agonized And now our votes shout: We've defied y0ur hatred and your words despised! The early vote so sweet portends The end of this sad mystery, And leaves the tyrant who pretends He will escape his history. |
|
|
Of Blessed Memory
William Shakespeare, Babe Ruth, Roberto Clemente, Abraham Lincoln, JFK, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, George Washington, Ghengis Khan, Shaka Zulu, Marie Curie, Joan of Arc, Buddy Holly, Freddie Mercury, Arthur Ashe, Elvis Presley, Mario Lanza, Tupac Shakur, Elizabeth I, Catherine II, Princess Di, Eva Peron, James Dean, Stephen Hawking, Vasco da Gama, Ferdinand Magellan, Martin Luther King, Jesus --- I have lived more years than each, These people who shook the world Who left their mark and whose names Slip off the tongue so readily; People who left behind such memories --- People, places, things, songs, stories; They are all gone (Some, long gone) While I sit here and contemplate The time to come; each has made a Contribution that will live on and on But I am not a challenge to renown And yet I have not one regret As long as I respectfully remain --- After I have joined the list --- Within the memories and stories Of my children and of theirs And theirs. That will be my legacy And I dare match it with Those of all the great ones Of the past. |
|
Newspapers / comics / paperbacks
Toys and lots of tasty candy
Tobacco in its several forms
And so much more
Customers taking sweets from racks
Greeting cards that were so handy
Were in our family store
There were customers and Max
Time to sell or time to bandy
Subjects to explore
I recall the many times
I took in pennies, nickels, dimes
Sold pens and paper: school supplies
But little did I realize
That I would one day miss it all
One day when it would appall
Me that those special days
Have vanished into some gray haze
Of memories that hold me still,
Recollections that now fill
Me with an age-old need
To grasp things 'fore they do recede
Into the cloud that soon will fade
To dust, these memories I made.
Toys and lots of tasty candy
Tobacco in its several forms
And so much more
Customers taking sweets from racks
Greeting cards that were so handy
Were in our family store
There were customers and Max
Time to sell or time to bandy
Subjects to explore
I recall the many times
I took in pennies, nickels, dimes
Sold pens and paper: school supplies
But little did I realize
That I would one day miss it all
One day when it would appall
Me that those special days
Have vanished into some gray haze
Of memories that hold me still,
Recollections that now fill
Me with an age-old need
To grasp things 'fore they do recede
Into the cloud that soon will fade
To dust, these memories I made.
The Divided States of America
November 4, 2020
We share a common birth
And have a common past
Through deadly wars
Which saved us and the world
And through depressions
And assassinations
Always growing, knowing
We are stronger when we are One
But now we speak through each other
And reach around, embracing emptiness.
We are the house divided we were
Warned about and we are in need
Of lasting reparation
So that we learn again
To hear each other and respect
Our differences and
Allow ideas to be born and live
And mature without aborting them
As they are spoken.
The wind will throw our words
Back down our throats
Unless we speak them with respect
And with a willingness
To hear as well as speak.
Divided we fall and turn to ashes
Created by heat with no substance
And with it burns our future
As a nation once respected,
Honored, viewed by friends
And foes as the epitome of democracy.
Let us grow --- and reach and touch
Our neighbors, brothers, sisters ---
That we may once again
Share love and honor and
Live an oath
To the Constitution and to
Each other.
We are Americans;
We saved the world for freedom
Three quarters of years ago
When we fought as one;
It is time for us to be as one again
And save each other.
We share a common birth
And have a common past
Through deadly wars
Which saved us and the world
And through depressions
And assassinations
Always growing, knowing
We are stronger when we are One
But now we speak through each other
And reach around, embracing emptiness.
We are the house divided we were
Warned about and we are in need
Of lasting reparation
So that we learn again
To hear each other and respect
Our differences and
Allow ideas to be born and live
And mature without aborting them
As they are spoken.
The wind will throw our words
Back down our throats
Unless we speak them with respect
And with a willingness
To hear as well as speak.
Divided we fall and turn to ashes
Created by heat with no substance
And with it burns our future
As a nation once respected,
Honored, viewed by friends
And foes as the epitome of democracy.
Let us grow --- and reach and touch
Our neighbors, brothers, sisters ---
That we may once again
Share love and honor and
Live an oath
To the Constitution and to
Each other.
We are Americans;
We saved the world for freedom
Three quarters of years ago
When we fought as one;
It is time for us to be as one again
And save each other.
Tranquility
Floating on a gossamer breeze
Drifting through a wheat field
Blanketed in gold
Gliding along defying gravity
Singing a gentle melody
While watching monarchs wiggle
Through the atmosphere
Lovebirds sliding their way
From shade tree to branch
Seeing a broad rainbow arching above
Happy -- not giddy, just joyous
In an opera with a magnificent
Happy ending
An involuntary understated smile
Blessing my face
While my fingers embrace the hand
Of the one I love
There will be no storm today
There will be no noise, spoken
Or written
The four-year unnatural disaster
Has come to an end
And the sky is blue again!
Biden and Harris have won.
Floating on a gossamer breeze
Drifting through a wheat field
Blanketed in gold
Gliding along defying gravity
Singing a gentle melody
While watching monarchs wiggle
Through the atmosphere
Lovebirds sliding their way
From shade tree to branch
Seeing a broad rainbow arching above
Happy -- not giddy, just joyous
In an opera with a magnificent
Happy ending
An involuntary understated smile
Blessing my face
While my fingers embrace the hand
Of the one I love
There will be no storm today
There will be no noise, spoken
Or written
The four-year unnatural disaster
Has come to an end
And the sky is blue again!
Biden and Harris have won.
The Stoop
In the Bronx
In the decade of the '50's
Freedom and ease
Of childhood
There in front of the
Six-story home
Of so many stories
Of so many families
And the numbers 1236
A common ground to live
And feel secured
By twin parallel lions
Staring blankly toward the street
There in comfort and security
Was the Stoop
With its gray stairs and
Tri-leveled platforms
Basking in the shine of the sun
Wallowing in the glow of the moon
Steady, dependable, comforting
An introduction to the end
Of our daily travels
From work, from school, from a visit ---
A place to dwell for a while
To speak, converse, joke, gossip
As people do as sociability requires
A place to say hello, goodbye, stay well
While the lions stare ahead,
Eyes Grey blank and rigid
Defying the unknown,
The unseen to break the peace
Of mind, the stoop gave hope
And structure to our stream
Of consciousness lives
In the innocence of the
Eisenhower years . . .
Of the decade before
The Domino Theory, assassinations,
The end of Camelot and the King,
The loss of a future generation,
Replaced by a rising shiny
Black wall of names and
A loss of innocence.
I miss that Stoop so much.
In the Bronx
In the decade of the '50's
Freedom and ease
Of childhood
There in front of the
Six-story home
Of so many stories
Of so many families
And the numbers 1236
A common ground to live
And feel secured
By twin parallel lions
Staring blankly toward the street
There in comfort and security
Was the Stoop
With its gray stairs and
Tri-leveled platforms
Basking in the shine of the sun
Wallowing in the glow of the moon
Steady, dependable, comforting
An introduction to the end
Of our daily travels
From work, from school, from a visit ---
A place to dwell for a while
To speak, converse, joke, gossip
As people do as sociability requires
A place to say hello, goodbye, stay well
While the lions stare ahead,
Eyes Grey blank and rigid
Defying the unknown,
The unseen to break the peace
Of mind, the stoop gave hope
And structure to our stream
Of consciousness lives
In the innocence of the
Eisenhower years . . .
Of the decade before
The Domino Theory, assassinations,
The end of Camelot and the King,
The loss of a future generation,
Replaced by a rising shiny
Black wall of names and
A loss of innocence.
I miss that Stoop so much.
You Learn
You learn when you teach
(and you don't need a classroom).
You learn to share and to create
A smile or a knowing nod
When you give of your life
Even if it is too raw;
A tightening of the heart
When it hurts or shows in deep detail
A devastating failure.
Your lessons, passed to the future,
Help you comprehend your sheer
Existence and it's effect on those
Who witness or who share.
You learn to elicit reactions
With your stories, sometimes
Totally expected but sometimes
A surprise that helps fulfill
Your sense of being.
There is so much to teach
And even more to learn
And never enough time
But you proceed
Because that is the only way,
The way of history, the path
That leads to human understanding.
It is worth the trip.
You try to share what wisdom
you have gleaned
From having lived this long
So that they can avoid the traps
Set up by that great hunter Life
But they don't always listen;
They have to fall themselves and then
Get up and move on
And in the process of this human way
They gain their store of wisdom ---
Hopefully ---
And you breathe deeply,
Knowing you have tried
But such familiarity is not the bridge
That it should be,
again for human reasons and they don't make much sense.
But you teach and do not preach
And whether they like it or not
They will learn a little bit and move on
Till they become the teachers
And that's when they will learn.
You learn when you teach
(and you don't need a classroom).
You learn to share and to create
A smile or a knowing nod
When you give of your life
Even if it is too raw;
A tightening of the heart
When it hurts or shows in deep detail
A devastating failure.
Your lessons, passed to the future,
Help you comprehend your sheer
Existence and it's effect on those
Who witness or who share.
You learn to elicit reactions
With your stories, sometimes
Totally expected but sometimes
A surprise that helps fulfill
Your sense of being.
There is so much to teach
And even more to learn
And never enough time
But you proceed
Because that is the only way,
The way of history, the path
That leads to human understanding.
It is worth the trip.
You try to share what wisdom
you have gleaned
From having lived this long
So that they can avoid the traps
Set up by that great hunter Life
But they don't always listen;
They have to fall themselves and then
Get up and move on
And in the process of this human way
They gain their store of wisdom ---
Hopefully ---
And you breathe deeply,
Knowing you have tried
But such familiarity is not the bridge
That it should be,
again for human reasons and they don't make much sense.
But you teach and do not preach
And whether they like it or not
They will learn a little bit and move on
Till they become the teachers
And that's when they will learn.
2020 Hindsight
Fake news, breaking news,
Pandemic, rigged elections,
Remote learning, hybrid schools,
Lies, deceit, dishonesty,
Anger, hatred, volatility,
White power, Proud Boys,
Unmarked uniforms, photo ops,
Closed stores, shuttered businesses,
Unpayable bills, rampant layoffs,
Oaths that have no meaning,
Statues that need to be destroyed
But are not;
Statues that should not be abused
But are;
Black is white is gray
And the never-ending March of
Hurricanes and tropical storms
Attack --- and love our ignorance and
We can't go to work
Physically or otherwise.
The ball fell at midnight
And it landed on our heads
And where is William Ernest Henley
When you need his words?
Fake news, breaking news,
Pandemic, rigged elections,
Remote learning, hybrid schools,
Lies, deceit, dishonesty,
Anger, hatred, volatility,
White power, Proud Boys,
Unmarked uniforms, photo ops,
Closed stores, shuttered businesses,
Unpayable bills, rampant layoffs,
Oaths that have no meaning,
Statues that need to be destroyed
But are not;
Statues that should not be abused
But are;
Black is white is gray
And the never-ending March of
Hurricanes and tropical storms
Attack --- and love our ignorance and
We can't go to work
Physically or otherwise.
The ball fell at midnight
And it landed on our heads
And where is William Ernest Henley
When you need his words?
When you are broken by the terror that life sometimes bludgeons
Us with and cannot find the words to let others feel the grief
And anguish at your fate, the agonizing setback that
Has left you speechless and gasping for your next breath,
Let me be your voice;
Let me speak for you and bring to you the others’ understanding
So that you may again breathe comfortably, knowing
That you will be heard and felt and understood.
When you have failed in your endeavor, and the bleakness
Camouflages the warm path that leads through threatening woods
And too steep valleys to the promised land of peace and love,
The beckoning utopia at the end of the lengthy night, and instead
You trudge across some barren plane of deep despair which threatens
You with questions and dull doubts that take you from your goal,
Let me be your voice;
Let me reassure you and the ones who listen that you are on your way
And will arrive with dust upon your clothes and mud upon your shoes
The victor in this obstacle that charges the way to success with constant barbs,
But that you will soon reach the end and find what you are seeking,
The way my words foretell, bringing comfort and support.
When you have lost the love that filled you with strength and purpose,
That gave meaning to your days but could not last against the will
Of Chance, when you are too distraught to utter words expressing
How you feel about this loss, this emptiness within which eats away
Your inner being, when you feel alone and isolated in a world of joy,
Let me be your voice;
Let me reach for you and tell your love of promises and future happiness,
Of family and shared true tenderness that wait too rarely for us
In this life, but which await you both if you can gather to your hearts
Honesty, compassion, understanding, an intimate knowledge of each other’s soul . . .
And I will paint a Masterpiece for the Ages
For there is no greater masterpiece than the love two people share.
Let me be your voice
For together we can sing a wondrous song
That will be heard by those who care
And cannot be ignored by those who don't.
Us with and cannot find the words to let others feel the grief
And anguish at your fate, the agonizing setback that
Has left you speechless and gasping for your next breath,
Let me be your voice;
Let me speak for you and bring to you the others’ understanding
So that you may again breathe comfortably, knowing
That you will be heard and felt and understood.
When you have failed in your endeavor, and the bleakness
Camouflages the warm path that leads through threatening woods
And too steep valleys to the promised land of peace and love,
The beckoning utopia at the end of the lengthy night, and instead
You trudge across some barren plane of deep despair which threatens
You with questions and dull doubts that take you from your goal,
Let me be your voice;
Let me reassure you and the ones who listen that you are on your way
And will arrive with dust upon your clothes and mud upon your shoes
The victor in this obstacle that charges the way to success with constant barbs,
But that you will soon reach the end and find what you are seeking,
The way my words foretell, bringing comfort and support.
When you have lost the love that filled you with strength and purpose,
That gave meaning to your days but could not last against the will
Of Chance, when you are too distraught to utter words expressing
How you feel about this loss, this emptiness within which eats away
Your inner being, when you feel alone and isolated in a world of joy,
Let me be your voice;
Let me reach for you and tell your love of promises and future happiness,
Of family and shared true tenderness that wait too rarely for us
In this life, but which await you both if you can gather to your hearts
Honesty, compassion, understanding, an intimate knowledge of each other’s soul . . .
And I will paint a Masterpiece for the Ages
For there is no greater masterpiece than the love two people share.
Let me be your voice
For together we can sing a wondrous song
That will be heard by those who care
And cannot be ignored by those who don't.
I Have No time for Time
I have no time for Time right now...
I have too much to do
And cannot care about the universal schedule
Others must obey
And bow and jump to automatically.
I am one who dances to and sings
Unaccustomed melodies and lyrics
Played on a dog whistle to the masses ---
NOT to say I'm better but
I'm not the same, not the flow
Of ordinary any more,
Not since I created and swore the oath,
The very personal promise, that
My life would be creative and would
Carry me along against the current
Current that others move upon
With no controlled determination.
Do not judge my sense of Life
Or view my motion unapprovingly
If I fall outside your scope of comprehension
Or cognition
Because I am not you nor will I
Ever be that way; I want to be
Unique and so I am;
dubito, ergo sum;
If we were all inhabitants of the world
Of Harrison Bergeron, then none
Would know the glory felt
For one too brief a moment by
Harrison himself. I am who I am
And I will go to destinations not extant
To many others living 'midst their comfort zones,
And I will will myself to see and taste and hear for my own self
What others cannot possibly perceive or yet conceive
And then I will return to my home base when I am done,
Fulfilled with memories and with sensations
To last my Lifetime.
That is all I seek.
I have too much to do
And cannot care about the universal schedule
Others must obey
And bow and jump to automatically.
I am one who dances to and sings
Unaccustomed melodies and lyrics
Played on a dog whistle to the masses ---
NOT to say I'm better but
I'm not the same, not the flow
Of ordinary any more,
Not since I created and swore the oath,
The very personal promise, that
My life would be creative and would
Carry me along against the current
Current that others move upon
With no controlled determination.
Do not judge my sense of Life
Or view my motion unapprovingly
If I fall outside your scope of comprehension
Or cognition
Because I am not you nor will I
Ever be that way; I want to be
Unique and so I am;
dubito, ergo sum;
If we were all inhabitants of the world
Of Harrison Bergeron, then none
Would know the glory felt
For one too brief a moment by
Harrison himself. I am who I am
And I will go to destinations not extant
To many others living 'midst their comfort zones,
And I will will myself to see and taste and hear for my own self
What others cannot possibly perceive or yet conceive
And then I will return to my home base when I am done,
Fulfilled with memories and with sensations
To last my Lifetime.
That is all I seek.
No Longer
I will no longer take for granted
Your sweet look or tender touch
That longs to greet me when
I have returned from my day's journey.
I can not assume your faithfulness
But rather will so cherish that warm smile
That welcomes me when I return each day
Because I have too long believed
That I was owed your love and heart
From habit, so I must confess.
You are the reason that each day
I long to open wide the door that leads
To open arms that clutch me in a way
That whispers in my ear, "Eternity!"
I will no longer take for granted
Sweet warm days or crisp Autumn nights
That welcome me with invitations
Telling me that I belong with them
And promising a thriving time
With their so loving children,
The kissing rays, the multi-colored leaves,
The icy and so spirited crystal air
That makes me feel alive,
The sounds of children playing,
Swinging to the sky, the lovers
Walking oh so closely as though
Each were shadow to the other;
Those are days that I will not again assume
But will with open eyes and soul reach out
And welcome as I never have before.
I will no longer take for granted
The songs that tell our spirits
To understand just how much
We belong to the planet, to
The atmosphere, to the biosphere
Which looks to us for mutual support
And offers such unlimited love
That we too often underestimate
Just how vital is the music which the Earth
And the sky perform for us, for which we
In turn have a responsibility
To be the audience that all performers need.
I will no longer take for granted
The life which generations past
Bestowed on me
For now, beyond my time of challenges,
I have awakened and I do know
That those who take for granted
Anything or anyone
Lose that connection which we all must hold and foster
If our lives can e'er achieve the purpose
They were meant to have
In The great Scheme of things.
I will no longer take for granted
Your sweet look or tender touch
That longs to greet me when
I have returned from my day's journey.
I can not assume your faithfulness
But rather will so cherish that warm smile
That welcomes me when I return each day
Because I have too long believed
That I was owed your love and heart
From habit, so I must confess.
You are the reason that each day
I long to open wide the door that leads
To open arms that clutch me in a way
That whispers in my ear, "Eternity!"
I will no longer take for granted
Sweet warm days or crisp Autumn nights
That welcome me with invitations
Telling me that I belong with them
And promising a thriving time
With their so loving children,
The kissing rays, the multi-colored leaves,
The icy and so spirited crystal air
That makes me feel alive,
The sounds of children playing,
Swinging to the sky, the lovers
Walking oh so closely as though
Each were shadow to the other;
Those are days that I will not again assume
But will with open eyes and soul reach out
And welcome as I never have before.
I will no longer take for granted
The songs that tell our spirits
To understand just how much
We belong to the planet, to
The atmosphere, to the biosphere
Which looks to us for mutual support
And offers such unlimited love
That we too often underestimate
Just how vital is the music which the Earth
And the sky perform for us, for which we
In turn have a responsibility
To be the audience that all performers need.
I will no longer take for granted
The life which generations past
Bestowed on me
For now, beyond my time of challenges,
I have awakened and I do know
That those who take for granted
Anything or anyone
Lose that connection which we all must hold and foster
If our lives can e'er achieve the purpose
They were meant to have
In The great Scheme of things.
Weakdays and the Rest
Oneday
Whoseday
Whensday
Wheresday
Whyday
Suchaday
Goneday
Another week has disappeared
Evaporated into the mystery realm
Of death and sickness
And fear And no sense at all
And I am left bereft of any sense
Of logic or rationale
Because it makes no sense
But that's the way we are
Stuck in a revolving door that leads
To dizziness and stress
Because we have no leader or
Belief system guiding us to safety
Thus we die
Or we survive so badly damaged
That we are left with scars
For all our days
Or we are laden with the view
Of final days of loved ones
Wondering aloud why they're alone
Left to gasp and suffer
At the endless quagmire of politics
That has betrayed our faith
And institutions in this haze
Of instability left crying to our thoughts
Our isolated thoughts
Whether this will ever end
Before we meet our end
Whoseday
Whensday
Wheresday
Whyday
Suchaday
Goneday
Another week has disappeared
Evaporated into the mystery realm
Of death and sickness
And fear And no sense at all
And I am left bereft of any sense
Of logic or rationale
Because it makes no sense
But that's the way we are
Stuck in a revolving door that leads
To dizziness and stress
Because we have no leader or
Belief system guiding us to safety
Thus we die
Or we survive so badly damaged
That we are left with scars
For all our days
Or we are laden with the view
Of final days of loved ones
Wondering aloud why they're alone
Left to gasp and suffer
At the endless quagmire of politics
That has betrayed our faith
And institutions in this haze
Of instability left crying to our thoughts
Our isolated thoughts
Whether this will ever end
Before we meet our end
Personal Knowledge
Do you know me?
Do you know that I trained myself
To be ambidextrous once and
Tried out in The House that Ruth Built
Throwing lefty curves and
Righty fastballs to the coaches' curiosity or that I made it as a candidate
To train to be a navigator in our Air Force
(But was never called to Texas
For reasons not revealed to me)?
Did you know that in ninth grade I won
My class's poetry contest with a poem that began:
"In gallant knighthood a castle's squire
Was rarely ever called a liar"?
Were you aware that I was crossing guard in sixth grade
As well as lieutenant of my junior high safety squad
and that I was rewarded with trips to watch my hero Mickey Mantle
And the rest of the real Bronx Bombers play at the real Yankee Stadium?
Do you know that twice I left to live in the land of my distant ancestors
(Once with my last view from the parting Zim ship
My father wiping tears on the pier while my heart broke)
Only to return to the land of my parents and my sisters each time,
One of many turning points that led to you?
(To be at home is indefinably good.)
Do you know how much I feared
The probability of drowning
Stemming from childhood experiences
On the dreaded beach,
And yet I overcame this osmium of fear
To swim the path in the long pool
Of the City College gym
Right to my relished college degree
And on the way discovered just how deep
My inner strength could be?
(That strength which in years ahead would let me
Conquer cancer, bone arthritis, kidney disease, obesity,
My share of grief and disappointment)
Did you know that I wrote and starred in the performance
At the end of our Peace Corps training at Indiana University,
The culminating feel-good activity showing our unity of purpose?
Did you ever realize how much I miss my parents and my sisters
whose voices I still hear in conversations and words of guidance
When I am in need, and that my favorite year (sans births) is 1957,
A year so typical for me as I started tenth grade in a new building,
Loved the westerns and the quiz shows and the basketball I played
Three nights a week and the presence of the people I relied on for my balance
Since they were so still alive back then?
Have you ever considered the pride I felt in being first in the family
To graduate from college, opening the door to so many others who have followed?
Do you know my heart, my resolute abhorrence of misogyny, racism,
Xenophobia and other covert overt
Displays of basic American inequity
Or that I marched in protest
(Though not enough, from hindsight)
In the 1960's when I attended college
And then served my nation well?
DO you know that I coached basketball
For my side-hustle ultraenergetic teenage team
On Friday evenings, refusing to
Accept a salary when it was offered
Because I was (and am) that way,
Serving future generations and thus
Regenerating my own self,
That over the years I have paid for
Trophies, certificates, books and pens,
All in the name of student success
Because their victories were also mine?
Do you comprehend the depth of my raw
Love for all of you because my definition
Of myself has two entrees: family and education?
Do you know my resumé, how I created courses that I loved and places
That I held and titles that I earned?
There's so much more . . . but this I say:
Unless you make the effort, spend the time
To get to know who or what I've been,
From morn to eve,
You cannot know yourself.
I Am Out of Date
I am out of date:
Whether I rhyme
And have a good time
Or I strive to show how much
We can gather from the world around us,
Natural, political, and social --
It has all been said and scribbled
Smoothly into the consciousness of the herd
So what else can I say?
I cannot fly with eagles
Seeking to swoop down to claw
The mind food we all seek;
No, that's been done before
Throughout the literary centuries.
I must avoid my loves and broken hearts,
Which would be viewed as echoes
Of the master works of prior poets ---
And if I delve into psychology
I enter such a realm as does defy
The medium I practice here.
Perhaps I'll venture to the reaches
Of out-there planets and luminous stars
But then I will be targeted by novelists
And writers of scripts as trespassing
On unpoetic territory.
I am truly at a loss:
There is nothing left for me;
All has been approached and done before
And so it weighs on me to then explore
And prove again that it's not true that
I am out of date.
I am out of date:
Whether I rhyme
And have a good time
Or I strive to show how much
We can gather from the world around us,
Natural, political, and social --
It has all been said and scribbled
Smoothly into the consciousness of the herd
So what else can I say?
I cannot fly with eagles
Seeking to swoop down to claw
The mind food we all seek;
No, that's been done before
Throughout the literary centuries.
I must avoid my loves and broken hearts,
Which would be viewed as echoes
Of the master works of prior poets ---
And if I delve into psychology
I enter such a realm as does defy
The medium I practice here.
Perhaps I'll venture to the reaches
Of out-there planets and luminous stars
But then I will be targeted by novelists
And writers of scripts as trespassing
On unpoetic territory.
I am truly at a loss:
There is nothing left for me;
All has been approached and done before
And so it weighs on me to then explore
And prove again that it's not true that
I am out of date.
Thanksforgiving
The moment has arrived.
We have wasted too much energy in anger
And hostility toward one another
And time is too much limited for us
To let it fleet by us unchecked.
It matters not who was at fault
For something so inconsequential
That when the final bill is tallied
We will notice how much time we wasted
With such nonsense as humans are too often
To be faulted with expending.
I was wrong; you were too misguided:
Does it make a difference in the end?
Does it change anything except
Our relationship, which should be stronger
Than it has shown to be?
So let us both agree to put things in their place
And permit ourselves to reach out for forgiveness
Not for any fault of doing,
Rather for the too too human tendency
Toward anger, which we can see, in the end,
Has no place in our universe.
Let not the ultimate perverse
Take us any further from our course.
Let today be celebrated as Thanksforgiving Day,
The holiest day of the year.
The moment has arrived.
We have wasted too much energy in anger
And hostility toward one another
And time is too much limited for us
To let it fleet by us unchecked.
It matters not who was at fault
For something so inconsequential
That when the final bill is tallied
We will notice how much time we wasted
With such nonsense as humans are too often
To be faulted with expending.
I was wrong; you were too misguided:
Does it make a difference in the end?
Does it change anything except
Our relationship, which should be stronger
Than it has shown to be?
So let us both agree to put things in their place
And permit ourselves to reach out for forgiveness
Not for any fault of doing,
Rather for the too too human tendency
Toward anger, which we can see, in the end,
Has no place in our universe.
Let not the ultimate perverse
Take us any further from our course.
Let today be celebrated as Thanksforgiving Day,
The holiest day of the year.
Something Old was New Again
There was a day withered by the smoke
And smell of ashes mixed with flesh
That we cried out in sad anticipation
The war to end all wars
Had made its gross and gruesome way
Across the continents
And we had learned too well
The pain and cost of scrambling with our guns
In aimless but not blameless circles
That led nowhere, but it was a lie
Told in Korean, in Vietnamese, in English
And the languages of Iraq, Afghanistan and a Babylon of others
And only God if watching knows how many more
Await to utter shrieks and curses in the waiting years.
The war to end all wars?
Something old was new again.
There was a cry that "Never again"
Would Holocausts occur, would masses
Be destroyed in incomprehensible slaughter
After lessons learned and universal guilt
Soaked in from the raw inhumanity
Of Nazis and their cohorts,
But then came the genocides in Biafra
And Rwanda, West Pakistan, East Timor,
Cambodia, Bosnia... Is there a need
To continue? Never again became
Ever again as once again we bemoaned that
Something old was new again.
There have always been species that became extinct:
The dinosaurs, Neanderthals, dodo birds, passenger pigeons,
Thylacines, wooly mammoths and such
Unsuited to the Earthly gift that was presented to them,
Not able to adapt to challenges presented by
Environs, other species and their own,
And with the deadly history of human-not-so-sapiens
There is this overwhelming dreadful thought that will not be denied:
Will something old be new again
again?
There was a day withered by the smoke
And smell of ashes mixed with flesh
That we cried out in sad anticipation
The war to end all wars
Had made its gross and gruesome way
Across the continents
And we had learned too well
The pain and cost of scrambling with our guns
In aimless but not blameless circles
That led nowhere, but it was a lie
Told in Korean, in Vietnamese, in English
And the languages of Iraq, Afghanistan and a Babylon of others
And only God if watching knows how many more
Await to utter shrieks and curses in the waiting years.
The war to end all wars?
Something old was new again.
There was a cry that "Never again"
Would Holocausts occur, would masses
Be destroyed in incomprehensible slaughter
After lessons learned and universal guilt
Soaked in from the raw inhumanity
Of Nazis and their cohorts,
But then came the genocides in Biafra
And Rwanda, West Pakistan, East Timor,
Cambodia, Bosnia... Is there a need
To continue? Never again became
Ever again as once again we bemoaned that
Something old was new again.
There have always been species that became extinct:
The dinosaurs, Neanderthals, dodo birds, passenger pigeons,
Thylacines, wooly mammoths and such
Unsuited to the Earthly gift that was presented to them,
Not able to adapt to challenges presented by
Environs, other species and their own,
And with the deadly history of human-not-so-sapiens
There is this overwhelming dreadful thought that will not be denied:
Will something old be new again
again?
Denial
Denial is no Egyptian river (canned laughter here).
It is a flood of the unreal which sinks
Reality in its wake;
It neither sanctifies nor purifies
The lies and misdemeanors
Committed by the prophets of the false,
And it carries validity away, as well as
Credibility, trust in words that should
Be honored by tradition and fruition.
Denial is a torrent which washes away
Confidence, dependability on
Faith in speakers or scribes
Who have a purpose not to enlighten
But rather to confuse with verbal
Prestidigitation that twists meanings
And connotations into labyrinths
Which both lead and mislead us
To undertows dragging us away
From truth and comprehension,
Leaving after the flood a drench of
Apprehension even in the glow of the sun
Or the habitation of a tranquil atmosphere.
Denial is an open door pried from its hinges
By the rush of the tide of obfuscation
And equivocation flowing forth and
Drowning hope and faith
Abandoning the dreams we have,
Replacing them with deserts of despair
And at its best the fields of futile concepts
Which once were present to lift us
To a higher moral plane
To an aspiration of achievement
But which now present us with a world
Not worth surviving in or
Dwelling in or sharing with
The ones we love.
Denial is no Egyptian river (canned laughter here).
It is a flood of the unreal which sinks
Reality in its wake;
It neither sanctifies nor purifies
The lies and misdemeanors
Committed by the prophets of the false,
And it carries validity away, as well as
Credibility, trust in words that should
Be honored by tradition and fruition.
Denial is a torrent which washes away
Confidence, dependability on
Faith in speakers or scribes
Who have a purpose not to enlighten
But rather to confuse with verbal
Prestidigitation that twists meanings
And connotations into labyrinths
Which both lead and mislead us
To undertows dragging us away
From truth and comprehension,
Leaving after the flood a drench of
Apprehension even in the glow of the sun
Or the habitation of a tranquil atmosphere.
Denial is an open door pried from its hinges
By the rush of the tide of obfuscation
And equivocation flowing forth and
Drowning hope and faith
Abandoning the dreams we have,
Replacing them with deserts of despair
And at its best the fields of futile concepts
Which once were present to lift us
To a higher moral plane
To an aspiration of achievement
But which now present us with a world
Not worth surviving in or
Dwelling in or sharing with
The ones we love.
My Humanity
I declare my humanity.
I am; therefore, I write
But I do truly fear the day will come
When novels and plays and even poetry
Will be produced as Orwell foretold,
By machines with passionless
Vacant artificial imaginations
And no human experiences at all.
They will follow formulaic algorithms
And belch out categories
(Romance, mystery, sci-fi and more)
To fill the eyes of those perceived as the
Hoi polloi, the masses cringing for escape
From ordinary lives that cry in fear
Of emptiness and isolation,
But they will fail to feed the need.
Throw this adverb with that verb and
Modify a touch with adjectives and
Plot the setting to support the climax,
Placing rivals at wit's end
And mix energetically and stir just right.
Or program the rhythm and Rhymezone
Words that match, leading blatantly
To the theme, strengthened by the mood.
What do I have to fear?
A computer cannot create style
Or bring a story or a thought to life.
But really, it all lies within the hands
Of the consumers, if not their minds.
After all, don't many authors follow
Their own commercial formulas
Too much a replicate of machines?
Plugging in the scenes and confrontations
While interchanging names and places?
It's scary out there. Especially for one
Who doesn't hear the automated sound
Of cash and bitcoins. I must write, however.
I know no master but the urge to follow,
The need to create. There's no way
Automation is a substitute
For the product born of my imagination and perceptions.
So bring on Racter running it's RKCP
And I will match the pain and love
And life that dwell throughout my writing
With the algorithm that churns out
What looks like poetry
And let the readers then select
Just how automated they desire to be.
I'll wager on humanity.
I declare my humanity.
I am; therefore, I write
But I do truly fear the day will come
When novels and plays and even poetry
Will be produced as Orwell foretold,
By machines with passionless
Vacant artificial imaginations
And no human experiences at all.
They will follow formulaic algorithms
And belch out categories
(Romance, mystery, sci-fi and more)
To fill the eyes of those perceived as the
Hoi polloi, the masses cringing for escape
From ordinary lives that cry in fear
Of emptiness and isolation,
But they will fail to feed the need.
Throw this adverb with that verb and
Modify a touch with adjectives and
Plot the setting to support the climax,
Placing rivals at wit's end
And mix energetically and stir just right.
Or program the rhythm and Rhymezone
Words that match, leading blatantly
To the theme, strengthened by the mood.
What do I have to fear?
A computer cannot create style
Or bring a story or a thought to life.
But really, it all lies within the hands
Of the consumers, if not their minds.
After all, don't many authors follow
Their own commercial formulas
Too much a replicate of machines?
Plugging in the scenes and confrontations
While interchanging names and places?
It's scary out there. Especially for one
Who doesn't hear the automated sound
Of cash and bitcoins. I must write, however.
I know no master but the urge to follow,
The need to create. There's no way
Automation is a substitute
For the product born of my imagination and perceptions.
So bring on Racter running it's RKCP
And I will match the pain and love
And life that dwell throughout my writing
With the algorithm that churns out
What looks like poetry
And let the readers then select
Just how automated they desire to be.
I'll wager on humanity.
Questions
How do you know if a person is wise?
Can you tell by the voice or possibly eyes?
If you listen a while, can you tell by a smile?
Or maybe it’s when you detect a sharp guile
That challenges you to be honest and true,
And not to do anything that you will rue.
Does a wise one just talk or maybe create
New paths that can change our national fate?
You must ask yourself, “What is there about
A sage that erases all remnants of doubt
When he or she makes a heart-felt pronouncement
And gives it the sound of a holy announcement?”
You may visit the magi and yogis, savants
And perhaps they will help you distinguish your wants
From your needs and thus build a happier life,
One founded on peace and lacking in strife.
There is no restriction on who may be wise
And choosing the wisest simply defies
All the logic there is, for the wisest of all
Is the one who is able to break down a wall
And allow fellow humans to gather and share
Their loves and their dreams with no painful despair.
The sage who can help us live blessed and content
Is the wisest, for that one makes confident
The meekest and weakest, and makes us unite
To ensure that this world guarantees us the right
To survive and to thrive every day, every night
In a world full of love, in a home black and white!
How do you know if a person is wise?
Can you tell by the voice or possibly eyes?
If you listen a while, can you tell by a smile?
Or maybe it’s when you detect a sharp guile
That challenges you to be honest and true,
And not to do anything that you will rue.
Does a wise one just talk or maybe create
New paths that can change our national fate?
You must ask yourself, “What is there about
A sage that erases all remnants of doubt
When he or she makes a heart-felt pronouncement
And gives it the sound of a holy announcement?”
You may visit the magi and yogis, savants
And perhaps they will help you distinguish your wants
From your needs and thus build a happier life,
One founded on peace and lacking in strife.
There is no restriction on who may be wise
And choosing the wisest simply defies
All the logic there is, for the wisest of all
Is the one who is able to break down a wall
And allow fellow humans to gather and share
Their loves and their dreams with no painful despair.
The sage who can help us live blessed and content
Is the wisest, for that one makes confident
The meekest and weakest, and makes us unite
To ensure that this world guarantees us the right
To survive and to thrive every day, every night
In a world full of love, in a home black and white!
You Are Ugly
Yes, it's true.
You heard right.
You are ugly and make me sick.
You spend your days and nights
Attacking innocent people as well as
Those too ignorant to see you coming.
You are the villain of my story
And I despise your relentless recognition
That there is no defense to drive away
Your vicious vehemence,
So go. Learn the human quality
Of guilt and start repenting;
Take the necessary step that starts
The journey of your rehabilitation
For, as you are, your ugliness offends
Us greatly; you don't care just how many
Have been hurt by the oblivion
In which you dwell
But know this much: There is
Somewhere deep within the human spirit
An extraordinary will to overcome
Your ugliness and charged hostility.
So take your morbid nature and your gruesome misdirection,
Enjoy your life which ends in death.
Your time on Earth is brief;
There is no room for ugliness
Among the vibrant and those who love
The future and its gift of life.
You will win the epic enigmatic epidemic battle but
You will surely lose the war.
Yes, it's true.
You heard right.
You are ugly and make me sick.
You spend your days and nights
Attacking innocent people as well as
Those too ignorant to see you coming.
You are the villain of my story
And I despise your relentless recognition
That there is no defense to drive away
Your vicious vehemence,
So go. Learn the human quality
Of guilt and start repenting;
Take the necessary step that starts
The journey of your rehabilitation
For, as you are, your ugliness offends
Us greatly; you don't care just how many
Have been hurt by the oblivion
In which you dwell
But know this much: There is
Somewhere deep within the human spirit
An extraordinary will to overcome
Your ugliness and charged hostility.
So take your morbid nature and your gruesome misdirection,
Enjoy your life which ends in death.
Your time on Earth is brief;
There is no room for ugliness
Among the vibrant and those who love
The future and its gift of life.
You will win the epic enigmatic epidemic battle but
You will surely lose the war.
A Pandemic Thanksgiving
This is the reason beyond reason,
Watching a President commit treason
And his lackeys as well as his backers
Look far away while the deaths of meat packers
And so many others, three-tenths of a million
Have been ignored while those with a billion
or more have just flourished along with their banks;
Is there really a reason for me to give thanks?
It is hard to fathom, but I have a number
Of things to be grateful for when others are somber.
In a time of such bleakness, I look around
And deeply examine the gems I have found:
I do not drive my car much.
Therefore, I am never stuck in traffic,
Listening to those reports on the radio,
Trying to determine the best route or even
The cause of my going one mile in half an hour.
I have such small bills from EZ Pass and for gasoline
And there is no wear and tear on my auto;
Plus, GEICO has allowed me to save more than
The advertised 15% (They are so generous).
Yes, I pay extra for food deliveries
But the point is I can afford to do that
(Even though my employer has forced me to not work
and not get paid --- but I have a wife who loves me and
Won’t let me starve (because who else would throw out the garbage, after all?)
And, as a matter of fact, that’s another reason to be thankful ---
That I have been in close quarters with this woman for eight months,
And so far, we have not killed each other, meaning
That we really do love each other deeply!
I love her beyond description
And am warmed with amazement surpassing reason
When I gaze upon the beauty that she has filled my life with
For half a century (so far).
I am grateful that the ones I love and live for
Have remained well throughout,
As have my students, some of whom
Have contacted me and wished me and mine well
(How glorious is that?);
I am thankful for the ever-cheerful contact I have had
With my fellow teachers, especially the ones
In my department, for keeping up their spirits and my own
Throughout the darkness we have not allowed to swallow us.
I am full of gratitude and love for my extended family,
With whom I have shared one Zoom or text after another
As we have so solidified the bond that connects us.
Most recently, I have been grateful for competence and truth:
The competence that marks the new Presidency approaching,
The leaders as well as those who will assist and help remove
The too political pandemic that has almost overwhelmed us
Since 2016; the competence of state officials keeping to their oaths of office
And the scientists who have developed the vaccines in record time;
The promised competence of members of the coming Cabinet and
Its support systems, from housing to health to agriculture
To homeland security and intelligence to all the other dependable departments;
The truth that has been told and will be told, that will sterilize
The bad taste and damage left behind by those who would be kings.
Thanksgiving this year, 2020, is more important than ever
And I am grateful that I now can see, a year from now,
A Thanksgiving that will more than ever bless us
With what we never more will take for granted.
Watching a President commit treason
And his lackeys as well as his backers
Look far away while the deaths of meat packers
And so many others, three-tenths of a million
Have been ignored while those with a billion
or more have just flourished along with their banks;
Is there really a reason for me to give thanks?
It is hard to fathom, but I have a number
Of things to be grateful for when others are somber.
In a time of such bleakness, I look around
And deeply examine the gems I have found:
I do not drive my car much.
Therefore, I am never stuck in traffic,
Listening to those reports on the radio,
Trying to determine the best route or even
The cause of my going one mile in half an hour.
I have such small bills from EZ Pass and for gasoline
And there is no wear and tear on my auto;
Plus, GEICO has allowed me to save more than
The advertised 15% (They are so generous).
Yes, I pay extra for food deliveries
But the point is I can afford to do that
(Even though my employer has forced me to not work
and not get paid --- but I have a wife who loves me and
Won’t let me starve (because who else would throw out the garbage, after all?)
And, as a matter of fact, that’s another reason to be thankful ---
That I have been in close quarters with this woman for eight months,
And so far, we have not killed each other, meaning
That we really do love each other deeply!
I love her beyond description
And am warmed with amazement surpassing reason
When I gaze upon the beauty that she has filled my life with
For half a century (so far).
I am grateful that the ones I love and live for
Have remained well throughout,
As have my students, some of whom
Have contacted me and wished me and mine well
(How glorious is that?);
I am thankful for the ever-cheerful contact I have had
With my fellow teachers, especially the ones
In my department, for keeping up their spirits and my own
Throughout the darkness we have not allowed to swallow us.
I am full of gratitude and love for my extended family,
With whom I have shared one Zoom or text after another
As we have so solidified the bond that connects us.
Most recently, I have been grateful for competence and truth:
The competence that marks the new Presidency approaching,
The leaders as well as those who will assist and help remove
The too political pandemic that has almost overwhelmed us
Since 2016; the competence of state officials keeping to their oaths of office
And the scientists who have developed the vaccines in record time;
The promised competence of members of the coming Cabinet and
Its support systems, from housing to health to agriculture
To homeland security and intelligence to all the other dependable departments;
The truth that has been told and will be told, that will sterilize
The bad taste and damage left behind by those who would be kings.
Thanksgiving this year, 2020, is more important than ever
And I am grateful that I now can see, a year from now,
A Thanksgiving that will more than ever bless us
With what we never more will take for granted.
Derision
I saw the moon last night;
It gave me quite a fright.
It seemed to say to me,
“Wake from your reverie
And gaze into the eyes
Of those who tell the lies
That even they believe,
For they can well deceive
Even themselves. Do not accept
Ideas with no real depth.”
I wandered through my mind,
Fearing I’d confined
My views to those that tricked
Me into such deep conflict
That I couldn’t tell the truth,
Even faced with proof,
And so I tried to do away
With this mental decay.
Accepting being blind
In thinking leaves one behind.
Do not too soon reproach
The others, but approach
What they say with both ears
And leave behind your fears,
For wisdom will begin
When you don’t feel it sin
To hear opposing views;
The chauvinist soon rues
Restricting contemplation,
Which eats away a nation
That wants to be for all.
Division leads to fall.
I saw the moon last night;
It gave me quite a fright.
It seemed to say to me,
“Wake from your reverie
And gaze into the eyes
Of those who tell the lies
That even they believe,
For they can well deceive
Even themselves. Do not accept
Ideas with no real depth.”
I wandered through my mind,
Fearing I’d confined
My views to those that tricked
Me into such deep conflict
That I couldn’t tell the truth,
Even faced with proof,
And so I tried to do away
With this mental decay.
Accepting being blind
In thinking leaves one behind.
Do not too soon reproach
The others, but approach
What they say with both ears
And leave behind your fears,
For wisdom will begin
When you don’t feel it sin
To hear opposing views;
The chauvinist soon rues
Restricting contemplation,
Which eats away a nation
That wants to be for all.
Division leads to fall.
Lone Ranger Ring
I was six.
It was 1947, the age of innocence
When radio was king
(Two years before our first TV),
When I would listen to the shows
That set afire my imagination,
The days when everything was black and white
And no one wore the hero white more symbolically
Than the Lone Ranger,
He of the silver bullets,
The pre-pandemic mask,
The mighty horse called Silver,
Who --- together with his faithful Indian companion
(And I emphasize companion, for they shared
A mission to achieve a sense of justice
In the wild, wild West back in the day)
Personified the hero in his never-ending quest.
And once a week I was part of that world
Of heroes and villains, cheering on the Masked Man
As he defied all those stereotypes,
Defeating weekly bad guys,
Shooting only if he had no choice,
But never killing anyone.
I lived his life in my vicarious child-days
Where the good always managed to defeat the bad
And the moral of each episode
Resounded in my vision inchoate
Of right defeating wrong.
No need for superheroes or eye-popping special effects,
Just a man (a former Texas Ranger)
Out to set the world back on the path
To justifiable existence
Week after week...
And I was Tonto by his side,
Until, spurred on by such an offer
I could in no way just refuse,
There came a time when any eager deputy
Was able to exchange some box tops
From a cereal that ate enamel
For my own gun of justice:
Yes, this was a weapon holding no such thing
As danger, a pistol minuscule which
Shot out sparks instead of bullets
And rested not within a holster but rather
On my finger placed atop a ring,
That piece of poignant jewelry
Reminding me of the one great jewel
Of my immaculate youthful vision,
Who stood for truth, justice,
The American way which was my heritage
Back then, when things were clear.
Hi, yo Silver! To the stirring sound
Of the "William Tell Overture" ---
I miss the days of black and white.
I was six.
It was 1947, the age of innocence
When radio was king
(Two years before our first TV),
When I would listen to the shows
That set afire my imagination,
The days when everything was black and white
And no one wore the hero white more symbolically
Than the Lone Ranger,
He of the silver bullets,
The pre-pandemic mask,
The mighty horse called Silver,
Who --- together with his faithful Indian companion
(And I emphasize companion, for they shared
A mission to achieve a sense of justice
In the wild, wild West back in the day)
Personified the hero in his never-ending quest.
And once a week I was part of that world
Of heroes and villains, cheering on the Masked Man
As he defied all those stereotypes,
Defeating weekly bad guys,
Shooting only if he had no choice,
But never killing anyone.
I lived his life in my vicarious child-days
Where the good always managed to defeat the bad
And the moral of each episode
Resounded in my vision inchoate
Of right defeating wrong.
No need for superheroes or eye-popping special effects,
Just a man (a former Texas Ranger)
Out to set the world back on the path
To justifiable existence
Week after week...
And I was Tonto by his side,
Until, spurred on by such an offer
I could in no way just refuse,
There came a time when any eager deputy
Was able to exchange some box tops
From a cereal that ate enamel
For my own gun of justice:
Yes, this was a weapon holding no such thing
As danger, a pistol minuscule which
Shot out sparks instead of bullets
And rested not within a holster but rather
On my finger placed atop a ring,
That piece of poignant jewelry
Reminding me of the one great jewel
Of my immaculate youthful vision,
Who stood for truth, justice,
The American way which was my heritage
Back then, when things were clear.
Hi, yo Silver! To the stirring sound
Of the "William Tell Overture" ---
I miss the days of black and white.
The Woods
I ambled through the woods one time when I was young,
Cherishing this unaccustomed treasure land, so unexplored
And yet adored by me as I lay eyes upon the living things
That flourished right before my eyes, animal and plant worlds
Greeting me with seeming welcome sounds and movements
Orchestrated in an intricate symphony of life sprung free.
There before me, cityfolk I was, but for this moment I was son
Of trees and bushes, rabbits and squirrels and some movements
Without name for they were rushing from me in a blur
And I was not of them or of their world,
And yet I knew by instinct that I certainly belonged
And longed to make some form of contact, to be part
Of this yet unexplored environment even for a day.
My sad restrictive upbringing, the place whence I had come,
Had trained me to be cautious, to be temptless in this new site
But I knew I might belong with these new lifeforms if I could but
Overcome my mental obligations and find comfort with the wild,
Untamed, civil yet uncivilized, and so I carried on,
Persisting in my strange attempt to make some free connection
With furry beings as if I were an astronaut exacting first contact
With an alien species.
I reached out to a bunny, stretching to engage in tactile friendliness
But all I did accomplish was to set it off in zig-zag escalation
Until the blurry fur had vanished from my sight,
And then I learned that Nature has a way of building fences
And allowing its dear creatures to protect themselves with distance
And I wondered whether humans were as smart and at the same time
Overly creative in their defensive mechanisms, thus securing
Much too quickly separation --- physical, emotional --- disallowing
Neighbors to become acquainted in a way with meaning and tranquility.
These animals (I thought I saw a brown-red fox) use instinct to survive
And give them distance from potential predators, as do we human
Creatures, never trusting strangers but instead securing separation space
That we may find subsistence in the wilds of our civility.
But here’s the thing: Deep in these woods it’s natural to find a home
Where there is stress in every step and where the wind is messenger
That bears alertness for the wild to live another day; but why
Must it be so in urban settings, where the inhabitants are theoretically
Higher on the plane of life, where humans should be capable of co-existing
Without fear or hate or ugliness or danger of each other or themselves?
They say that we are better, for our thumbs or language or our storied histories
But that’s absurd. We are not better; we are worse. We kill in masses yet
Unknown to creatures of the woods; we do not kill for food alone; we go
To war and organize masses of oblivion that cause such pain
As no true civil masses would adopt and call their own, and so I say:
Give me the woods. Give me the creatures and the trees and plants and
Let me learn to live each single day at peace within myself and dwelling
With the other living entities which share my wooded home ---
And leave the blight that is the so-called civil night to all the rest.
Let me so be blessed.
Cherishing this unaccustomed treasure land, so unexplored
And yet adored by me as I lay eyes upon the living things
That flourished right before my eyes, animal and plant worlds
Greeting me with seeming welcome sounds and movements
Orchestrated in an intricate symphony of life sprung free.
There before me, cityfolk I was, but for this moment I was son
Of trees and bushes, rabbits and squirrels and some movements
Without name for they were rushing from me in a blur
And I was not of them or of their world,
And yet I knew by instinct that I certainly belonged
And longed to make some form of contact, to be part
Of this yet unexplored environment even for a day.
My sad restrictive upbringing, the place whence I had come,
Had trained me to be cautious, to be temptless in this new site
But I knew I might belong with these new lifeforms if I could but
Overcome my mental obligations and find comfort with the wild,
Untamed, civil yet uncivilized, and so I carried on,
Persisting in my strange attempt to make some free connection
With furry beings as if I were an astronaut exacting first contact
With an alien species.
I reached out to a bunny, stretching to engage in tactile friendliness
But all I did accomplish was to set it off in zig-zag escalation
Until the blurry fur had vanished from my sight,
And then I learned that Nature has a way of building fences
And allowing its dear creatures to protect themselves with distance
And I wondered whether humans were as smart and at the same time
Overly creative in their defensive mechanisms, thus securing
Much too quickly separation --- physical, emotional --- disallowing
Neighbors to become acquainted in a way with meaning and tranquility.
These animals (I thought I saw a brown-red fox) use instinct to survive
And give them distance from potential predators, as do we human
Creatures, never trusting strangers but instead securing separation space
That we may find subsistence in the wilds of our civility.
But here’s the thing: Deep in these woods it’s natural to find a home
Where there is stress in every step and where the wind is messenger
That bears alertness for the wild to live another day; but why
Must it be so in urban settings, where the inhabitants are theoretically
Higher on the plane of life, where humans should be capable of co-existing
Without fear or hate or ugliness or danger of each other or themselves?
They say that we are better, for our thumbs or language or our storied histories
But that’s absurd. We are not better; we are worse. We kill in masses yet
Unknown to creatures of the woods; we do not kill for food alone; we go
To war and organize masses of oblivion that cause such pain
As no true civil masses would adopt and call their own, and so I say:
Give me the woods. Give me the creatures and the trees and plants and
Let me learn to live each single day at peace within myself and dwelling
With the other living entities which share my wooded home ---
And leave the blight that is the so-called civil night to all the rest.
Let me so be blessed.
Day and Night Within Us
Daytime blinds us with its glare and merciless display
Of all the faults of nature and humanity.
We cannot hide the ruthless truth from those
Who care about or fear us, with the light
Too brightening the errors that we make
Both of commission and omission
When we strive to the domain of self-deception.
We may fool others and ourselves but not the day,
Whose constant eye seeks out the truth
And brings along its pain for all to bear.
A lover will uncover hurtful points of disillusion
And confusion that defy (not deify) the vows
Once sworn to under God.
It’s odd that we should think that we can hide
The side that will portray our truer selves
From those we claim, proclaim to care for
But the brightness and lucidity of morning
Bring forth the mourning of lost love
And cries for second chances but too late
For fate was in our hands but was released
And now lies there deceased, for all to see
And grieve and to bereave, as they say,
At the end of the day.
Then night relieves the fright of self-guilt
That we had built too willingly, and darkness
Soothes the soul and lets us heal and seek
Infinity in its divinity, hiding our misdeeds
As is our need, providing so much duplicity
That we may treasure pleasure one more time
In innocence and harken to the prime that we once knew.
There are too few such remedies that serve to bless us
Rather than to stress us, by calming and by offering
A balm for suffering by resting us in the belief
That there is true relief in visions of the night
That take away the fright that fills our day,
Fear of discovery, replaced with dark recovery,
For night brings with it sleep . . . and each new day
A chance for some renewal, an enhanced spirited
Awareness that, though full of imperfections,
We may find our redemption in renewed evaluation
Of our faults, but then the day begins to glow
And then at once we know that we are destined to repeat
The same defeat that once again will show that we are
Oh, so much the fools, which seems to be the rule
Of humankind, for we will find that darkness offers
But a temporary seclusion from our deep selves
And that is an illusion that will dwell within us
For our time on Earth, for within our beings
Lies raw dearth of honor able to withstand
The hand of day or to command the land of night.
Daytime blinds us with its glare and merciless display
Of all the faults of nature and humanity.
We cannot hide the ruthless truth from those
Who care about or fear us, with the light
Too brightening the errors that we make
Both of commission and omission
When we strive to the domain of self-deception.
We may fool others and ourselves but not the day,
Whose constant eye seeks out the truth
And brings along its pain for all to bear.
A lover will uncover hurtful points of disillusion
And confusion that defy (not deify) the vows
Once sworn to under God.
It’s odd that we should think that we can hide
The side that will portray our truer selves
From those we claim, proclaim to care for
But the brightness and lucidity of morning
Bring forth the mourning of lost love
And cries for second chances but too late
For fate was in our hands but was released
And now lies there deceased, for all to see
And grieve and to bereave, as they say,
At the end of the day.
Then night relieves the fright of self-guilt
That we had built too willingly, and darkness
Soothes the soul and lets us heal and seek
Infinity in its divinity, hiding our misdeeds
As is our need, providing so much duplicity
That we may treasure pleasure one more time
In innocence and harken to the prime that we once knew.
There are too few such remedies that serve to bless us
Rather than to stress us, by calming and by offering
A balm for suffering by resting us in the belief
That there is true relief in visions of the night
That take away the fright that fills our day,
Fear of discovery, replaced with dark recovery,
For night brings with it sleep . . . and each new day
A chance for some renewal, an enhanced spirited
Awareness that, though full of imperfections,
We may find our redemption in renewed evaluation
Of our faults, but then the day begins to glow
And then at once we know that we are destined to repeat
The same defeat that once again will show that we are
Oh, so much the fools, which seems to be the rule
Of humankind, for we will find that darkness offers
But a temporary seclusion from our deep selves
And that is an illusion that will dwell within us
For our time on Earth, for within our beings
Lies raw dearth of honor able to withstand
The hand of day or to command the land of night.
Early Morn
Early morning
Gray streaks fade and the glow
Of future promise rises with the sun
Drops of dew evaporate and take their place
Among the elements of sunrise
Birds begin their hectic preparations
For the day, musically and vividly
Greeting the future come to pass
Flowers seek the rays that help them thrive
And feral animals spring to automated life
Each day the sun again replaces night
And every morn Life is born anew
Every day our vision starts to see
The possibilities that wait and call to us
That is the pleasure that repeatedly awaits
Early morning smiles and offers sweet embrace
Another opportunity to get it right
Another chance to drive away the night
Another time to clarify our sight
It's early morn and everything's all right.
Early morning
Gray streaks fade and the glow
Of future promise rises with the sun
Drops of dew evaporate and take their place
Among the elements of sunrise
Birds begin their hectic preparations
For the day, musically and vividly
Greeting the future come to pass
Flowers seek the rays that help them thrive
And feral animals spring to automated life
Each day the sun again replaces night
And every morn Life is born anew
Every day our vision starts to see
The possibilities that wait and call to us
That is the pleasure that repeatedly awaits
Early morning smiles and offers sweet embrace
Another opportunity to get it right
Another chance to drive away the night
Another time to clarify our sight
It's early morn and everything's all right.
Snow
Snow has its many sides:
When it first arrives, it comforts with
Its freshness and its crystal white
Immaculate and shining prairie.
In the city and the town, it blankets
Street and park, store and bench,
Letting us know clearly of its mastery
And presence in the temporary Arctic Wonderland that calls
To us to swarm within its simple glory and its art.
In the woods, it is a Kinkade painting,
The gingerbread cottage living in the woods,
Its brightly lit windows exhibiting
The life of an enchanted family
While its triangled roof supports
Several inches of thick cotton snow
While nearby light gray smoke drifts
Upward toward the sky of slate
And fresh imprints of footsteps lead the way
Along the winding front granite path.
But let us not attend the Church of Snow
And praise its glory as a God worthy of Just holiness and saintly adoration,
For snow can entertain in several ways,
Inviting youth to glide painted wood and metal sleds
Down hills or seeking to provide the adults with
A thrill-filled challenge down steep hills, past trees on venture-seeking skis.
Without the snow, cold children would throw mud balls or build dirt men, so
Don't complain to me about your drive
When you could not control the snow road
And you spun and slid off the state highway,
Not stopping till you crashed into a bank of the so-called enemy
(which saved your life and that of your son).
Don't blame the snow for your mistakes
And overlook the joys it carries with it.
Yes, once it's overstayed its initial welcome,
It loses charm and shows its wear ---
But don't we all?
It may not be the gem it was, but what it bears
Though muddied yet unbowed
Are signs of life and action and the business
Of humanity and nature once again engaging
In a partnership as old as when we first
Peered at the sky from dark, dank caves
And wondered at the glories of the heavens.
Snow has its many sides:
When it first arrives, it comforts with
Its freshness and its crystal white
Immaculate and shining prairie.
In the city and the town, it blankets
Street and park, store and bench,
Letting us know clearly of its mastery
And presence in the temporary Arctic Wonderland that calls
To us to swarm within its simple glory and its art.
In the woods, it is a Kinkade painting,
The gingerbread cottage living in the woods,
Its brightly lit windows exhibiting
The life of an enchanted family
While its triangled roof supports
Several inches of thick cotton snow
While nearby light gray smoke drifts
Upward toward the sky of slate
And fresh imprints of footsteps lead the way
Along the winding front granite path.
But let us not attend the Church of Snow
And praise its glory as a God worthy of Just holiness and saintly adoration,
For snow can entertain in several ways,
Inviting youth to glide painted wood and metal sleds
Down hills or seeking to provide the adults with
A thrill-filled challenge down steep hills, past trees on venture-seeking skis.
Without the snow, cold children would throw mud balls or build dirt men, so
Don't complain to me about your drive
When you could not control the snow road
And you spun and slid off the state highway,
Not stopping till you crashed into a bank of the so-called enemy
(which saved your life and that of your son).
Don't blame the snow for your mistakes
And overlook the joys it carries with it.
Yes, once it's overstayed its initial welcome,
It loses charm and shows its wear ---
But don't we all?
It may not be the gem it was, but what it bears
Though muddied yet unbowed
Are signs of life and action and the business
Of humanity and nature once again engaging
In a partnership as old as when we first
Peered at the sky from dark, dank caves
And wondered at the glories of the heavens.
False Prophets?
“The Land of the Free” was founded on a fantasy that has not yet been born.
It was a dream created out of centuries of misery and servitude
But We the People had abandoned all but a small group in the lust for power.
There were phony promises --- called treaties --- with the first Americans,
Followed by abuse, misuse and theft of their lands and integrity
In the name of progress and the curse of Manifest Destiny.
Our nation’s birth-borne sin, the slavery against a race stolen from their homes
In Africa, tortured, mistreated, broken, lynched, weighted under Jim Crow laws,
Violated for four hundred years (but still the chain continues to wear them down
In the name of George Floyd and too many others), breathes heavily on the ideals
Put into words but not to actions by Founding Fathers who were called true visionaries
But whose vision was too blurred by business and mis-science of their time, of all time.
The others came in turn and in their turn knew the full weight of inequality that flew against
The face of U. S. Liberty --- e pluribus unum, they said --- but tell that to the Jews,
The Chinese who built the railroads that built bridges for this Manifest Destiny, the Germans
And Italians and Hispanics from so many foreign homes. The nation faced the burdens
Brought about by lack of universal suffrage and no lack of child labor and the struggle
Always had another victim waiting in the wings for the promised equity – gay, trans, et al.
They built this nation, this so-called idealized Melting Pot,
With their blood and souls and lives and yes, their love, and quoted Our Words
The whole time they fought to be truly free: “Created Equal” was the phrase that held
The promise that they knew to be their birthright, even though it was more oft
Their birth fight, and it still continues in this oh too dark a time when threats
Of white supremacy ring out much as death knells once did to notify the populace
Of soon approaching corpses of the Plague; but we must pledge allegiance that this plague
Will meet its fate and fade from bitter memory. Birth can be painful, and it is hoped
That the real birth of the next True America will be a blessing, born out of agony,
But one in which we all may call each other brother, sister, lover, friend
And, having learned the lessons taught to us by past abhorrent, heinous actions,
We become the nation that was promised by those Words by those Fathers
So that we can walk about with heads held high and smile and know
That all the dreadful sacrifices made by many millions --- a debt that cannot be
Repaid but can be recognized and honored --- will result in One nation of the Many
And no longer will be asked the poignant question: “We love our country; why oh why
Can’t our country love us back?”
“The Land of the Free” was founded on a fantasy that has not yet been born.
It was a dream created out of centuries of misery and servitude
But We the People had abandoned all but a small group in the lust for power.
There were phony promises --- called treaties --- with the first Americans,
Followed by abuse, misuse and theft of their lands and integrity
In the name of progress and the curse of Manifest Destiny.
Our nation’s birth-borne sin, the slavery against a race stolen from their homes
In Africa, tortured, mistreated, broken, lynched, weighted under Jim Crow laws,
Violated for four hundred years (but still the chain continues to wear them down
In the name of George Floyd and too many others), breathes heavily on the ideals
Put into words but not to actions by Founding Fathers who were called true visionaries
But whose vision was too blurred by business and mis-science of their time, of all time.
The others came in turn and in their turn knew the full weight of inequality that flew against
The face of U. S. Liberty --- e pluribus unum, they said --- but tell that to the Jews,
The Chinese who built the railroads that built bridges for this Manifest Destiny, the Germans
And Italians and Hispanics from so many foreign homes. The nation faced the burdens
Brought about by lack of universal suffrage and no lack of child labor and the struggle
Always had another victim waiting in the wings for the promised equity – gay, trans, et al.
They built this nation, this so-called idealized Melting Pot,
With their blood and souls and lives and yes, their love, and quoted Our Words
The whole time they fought to be truly free: “Created Equal” was the phrase that held
The promise that they knew to be their birthright, even though it was more oft
Their birth fight, and it still continues in this oh too dark a time when threats
Of white supremacy ring out much as death knells once did to notify the populace
Of soon approaching corpses of the Plague; but we must pledge allegiance that this plague
Will meet its fate and fade from bitter memory. Birth can be painful, and it is hoped
That the real birth of the next True America will be a blessing, born out of agony,
But one in which we all may call each other brother, sister, lover, friend
And, having learned the lessons taught to us by past abhorrent, heinous actions,
We become the nation that was promised by those Words by those Fathers
So that we can walk about with heads held high and smile and know
That all the dreadful sacrifices made by many millions --- a debt that cannot be
Repaid but can be recognized and honored --- will result in One nation of the Many
And no longer will be asked the poignant question: “We love our country; why oh why
Can’t our country love us back?”
The Elephant
There is a friendly elephant
Waiting for me patiently
To help me even when I can't
Say what's so deeply inside me.
This elephant just smiles at me
And helps me clearly understand
That I can undeniably
Find a helping hand
Waiting at Imagine, where
I share my feelings every day,
My love, my tears, even my fear
About my loved one gone away.
I learn that others care for me
Though heart-felt feelings loom
Over my head, and I can see
The elephant in the room
Who stays and will not ever part
Or leave me all alone;
Instead, I'm free to speak my heart
About the one who's gone.
I'm not alone in my own grief,
And with the help of my new friends
Each day I'll feel some more relief;
That much my sad heart comprehends.
There is a friendly elephant
Waiting for me patiently
To help me even when I can't
Say what's so deeply inside me.
This elephant just smiles at me
And helps me clearly understand
That I can undeniably
Find a helping hand
Waiting at Imagine, where
I share my feelings every day,
My love, my tears, even my fear
About my loved one gone away.
I learn that others care for me
Though heart-felt feelings loom
Over my head, and I can see
The elephant in the room
Who stays and will not ever part
Or leave me all alone;
Instead, I'm free to speak my heart
About the one who's gone.
I'm not alone in my own grief,
And with the help of my new friends
Each day I'll feel some more relief;
That much my sad heart comprehends.
PAST IS PRESENT
Why is it an emotional fact that I
Can so lucidly recall the details
Of my many childhood memories
Despite my eight decades of age?
Why can I envision friends who have escaped
MY past embrace and live within me
Only as phantasmic spirits much more clearly
Than sixty years ago when I just sensed
Their presence and their nearness
But not their essence or their being?
Life is so totally ironic:
Age is accompanied by clarity and acuity
Of decades past despite the sometimes muddled
And confused recent memories too oft elusive,
And Thoreau was right when he decried
The state wherein those of us who've lived
And meddled in society are not as wise
As babies newly born in terms of our relationships with the world.
For me, as I stand far above the masses
And beyond the convolution of involvement in society
And enjoy my view of former times,
I smile and find such satisfaction in my memories
Because they do enlighten what I see
With the illumination of the context
Of my youth and thus I wake each morning
Content to know that I reside in different times and places,
Aware that every day I regain more of the natural wisdom
Of the new-born babe, unspoiled by the world of Man,
And that excites my mind and keeps me young.
Why is it an emotional fact that I
Can so lucidly recall the details
Of my many childhood memories
Despite my eight decades of age?
Why can I envision friends who have escaped
MY past embrace and live within me
Only as phantasmic spirits much more clearly
Than sixty years ago when I just sensed
Their presence and their nearness
But not their essence or their being?
Life is so totally ironic:
Age is accompanied by clarity and acuity
Of decades past despite the sometimes muddled
And confused recent memories too oft elusive,
And Thoreau was right when he decried
The state wherein those of us who've lived
And meddled in society are not as wise
As babies newly born in terms of our relationships with the world.
For me, as I stand far above the masses
And beyond the convolution of involvement in society
And enjoy my view of former times,
I smile and find such satisfaction in my memories
Because they do enlighten what I see
With the illumination of the context
Of my youth and thus I wake each morning
Content to know that I reside in different times and places,
Aware that every day I regain more of the natural wisdom
Of the new-born babe, unspoiled by the world of Man,
And that excites my mind and keeps me young.
ordinary
I'm at an age when
If you die people find out
He was 80 and they say things like
He lived a full life or they shrug
Their shoulders and just mutter Oh ---
As if to ask, What do you expect?
But did you ever pause and wonder
What that man knowing of his death too imminent would say to those
Voyeurs who wish him bon voyage so eagerly?
I can only speak of my response:
Don't count me out or dismiss me
Because I have had life and see the sky
As more than what it seems.
I see it as the comfort and the shelter that we need
And understand my place in this small space of time.
I am a link connecting thoughts and actions
Through millennia past and present and
I've kept it going through family and work and friendships
So don't decide that I don't matter and define my passing with a passing thought;
Find more time and more attention and respect,
And comprehension of my role in the great universe of things,
And recognize that if I hadn't lived then
Lives of others would have changed or not existed.
Accept that quiet people not living explosiveness or tremors
Make up the fabric of the continuity
Of what we credit history to be.
Kings and queens and emperors know momentary glory. Ask Ozymandias.
But we who had full simple lives
(and simple is complex)
Should have songs and chants that reach those comfort heavens and beyond, to Mount Olympus,
And resound throughout time's sweet realm.
IT is not the extraordinary but rather the barely noticed who move the world.
So when you read of older ones who pass
Do not just knee-jerk mutter or acknowledge length of time.
Bewail the loss of one small segment of the great life chain...
For that passing weakens all of us.
I'm at an age when
If you die people find out
He was 80 and they say things like
He lived a full life or they shrug
Their shoulders and just mutter Oh ---
As if to ask, What do you expect?
But did you ever pause and wonder
What that man knowing of his death too imminent would say to those
Voyeurs who wish him bon voyage so eagerly?
I can only speak of my response:
Don't count me out or dismiss me
Because I have had life and see the sky
As more than what it seems.
I see it as the comfort and the shelter that we need
And understand my place in this small space of time.
I am a link connecting thoughts and actions
Through millennia past and present and
I've kept it going through family and work and friendships
So don't decide that I don't matter and define my passing with a passing thought;
Find more time and more attention and respect,
And comprehension of my role in the great universe of things,
And recognize that if I hadn't lived then
Lives of others would have changed or not existed.
Accept that quiet people not living explosiveness or tremors
Make up the fabric of the continuity
Of what we credit history to be.
Kings and queens and emperors know momentary glory. Ask Ozymandias.
But we who had full simple lives
(and simple is complex)
Should have songs and chants that reach those comfort heavens and beyond, to Mount Olympus,
And resound throughout time's sweet realm.
IT is not the extraordinary but rather the barely noticed who move the world.
So when you read of older ones who pass
Do not just knee-jerk mutter or acknowledge length of time.
Bewail the loss of one small segment of the great life chain...
For that passing weakens all of us.
Sunset is Misunderstood
Sunset is misunderstood, and looked upon
As villain or a harbinger of ill,
A grim foreboding of disaster imminent.
It heralds darkness and the night
And calls forth from us some genetic memory
Of fears of prehistoric people in the face of
Wild ferocious animals and the ebony unknown.
And through the ages dark and slow
The absence of the sun gave atmosphere to
Witches, wizards and ghastly mortal murderers,
Legendary vampires and to lycanthropes,
Zombies and the many evil sprites ---
And when the sun faded beneath the horizon
We huddled and lit candles to imitate the sunlight and comfort us,
But that was all deception providing fodder to Romantics,
Save Lord Byron and his ilk.
Seek to understand and then conclude
That darkness brings a soothing balm
That counteracts the friction of the day.
It is a time for families returning from
The day's travails at work and school,
For them to share and grow and smile
In ways unattainable in the raw glare of the sun.
Nighttime welcomes us with soft embrace
And kisses us with tender soothing,
Allowing us to once again renew ourselves
In words we share that stimulate the chemicals
So necessary for us to flourish and survive in our society.
When you next observe the setting of the sun,
Comprehend the substance of this daily miracle
And for your troglodytic insecure reaction,
Substitute a smile within your soul and Welcome with sincerity
The splendor and the brilliance of the night.
Sunset is misunderstood, and looked upon
As villain or a harbinger of ill,
A grim foreboding of disaster imminent.
It heralds darkness and the night
And calls forth from us some genetic memory
Of fears of prehistoric people in the face of
Wild ferocious animals and the ebony unknown.
And through the ages dark and slow
The absence of the sun gave atmosphere to
Witches, wizards and ghastly mortal murderers,
Legendary vampires and to lycanthropes,
Zombies and the many evil sprites ---
And when the sun faded beneath the horizon
We huddled and lit candles to imitate the sunlight and comfort us,
But that was all deception providing fodder to Romantics,
Save Lord Byron and his ilk.
Seek to understand and then conclude
That darkness brings a soothing balm
That counteracts the friction of the day.
It is a time for families returning from
The day's travails at work and school,
For them to share and grow and smile
In ways unattainable in the raw glare of the sun.
Nighttime welcomes us with soft embrace
And kisses us with tender soothing,
Allowing us to once again renew ourselves
In words we share that stimulate the chemicals
So necessary for us to flourish and survive in our society.
When you next observe the setting of the sun,
Comprehend the substance of this daily miracle
And for your troglodytic insecure reaction,
Substitute a smile within your soul and Welcome with sincerity
The splendor and the brilliance of the night.
Wave Upon Wave
Macbeth, in the quicksand he had brought about
And seeing lucidly how low he found himself,
Declared as only one new-born to self-awareness
Could proclaim that he'd begun to grow
So humanly aware and weary of the sun,
And I in this respect share fellowship with his emotion
For life, though spotted with brief moments of elusive joy,
Is overwhelming in the weight it loads upon our shoulders.
Today I heard that people whom I love
Have joined the heartless numbers of pandemic victims
And I grieve. It is not true that living longer
Puts you in position to count the mounting happiness
But rather are you cursed to feel the pull
Of gravity with each new sad event
Until the final pull and final rest.
I do not choose or wish to feel this way
But fact-checks wrench away alternatives
And I am left adrift amidst the rising tide
And close to drowning as I grasp at unsubstantial prayers
For aegis to my loved ones' plight
And so I stumble to the night
And so I tumble through the fright
And so I mumble and indict
The too elusive fates that push the shade
Over my eyes and mind and suck the spirit
From my soul.
Macbeth, in the quicksand he had brought about
And seeing lucidly how low he found himself,
Declared as only one new-born to self-awareness
Could proclaim that he'd begun to grow
So humanly aware and weary of the sun,
And I in this respect share fellowship with his emotion
For life, though spotted with brief moments of elusive joy,
Is overwhelming in the weight it loads upon our shoulders.
Today I heard that people whom I love
Have joined the heartless numbers of pandemic victims
And I grieve. It is not true that living longer
Puts you in position to count the mounting happiness
But rather are you cursed to feel the pull
Of gravity with each new sad event
Until the final pull and final rest.
I do not choose or wish to feel this way
But fact-checks wrench away alternatives
And I am left adrift amidst the rising tide
And close to drowning as I grasp at unsubstantial prayers
For aegis to my loved ones' plight
And so I stumble to the night
And so I tumble through the fright
And so I mumble and indict
The too elusive fates that push the shade
Over my eyes and mind and suck the spirit
From my soul.
Cracks in the Sidewalk
Sara Teasdale got it right.
We build and fix and rebuild and like Ozymandias
Are certain that our masterpieces of construction
And of architecture will remain to sing our glories
And our triumphs . . . but we are so wrong.
We struggle endlessly against the odds of greater forces;
And we will not overcome the faults inherent in us humans
To destroy what we have raised. Need proof? Consider
Ruins from the days of Rome and Greece,
Temples that no longer serve their masses,
The Arizona and Titanic,
The World Trade Towers,
The brutish British burning of the White House,
The Capitol insurrection of January 6;
Then there is nature, in its unavoidable terror and its strength:
From Mount Vesuvius to the San Francisco quake of 1906
To pandemics, floods, tsunamis, hurricanes: Need I go on?
It is a miracle that we exist and somewhat of a testament
To human fortitude that we refuse to quit against the odds
As well as human nature and its painfully destructive capabilities
And co-existing tendencies. I cannot help but nod to Nature every time
I walk and see a living piece of greenery break through
The sidewalk and reach upward to the sun and shout
(In its quite quiet but determined way),
“I live! I will go on! I will not let these humans stall my growth or
Curb my right to be, and so I call to those who matter, ‘I am free!’”
If I were more a creature of the Earth than an inhabitant, I’d bend
And bless the blade that fights to live, and touch it with a kiss
To show my recognition of our comradeship, but I
Am much too much wrapped up in my society to let a fellow
Life-form join and share the reason we exist, the love we all
Were meant to bear for one another.
And when we reach the ultimate betrayal of our species
And have obliterated ourselves and each other to fodder
For the coming generations so unknowing of degenerations
Of us people, Life will continue; it will flourish once again ---
In the trees, the flowers, the undomesticated animals, and
With this change will come the atmosphere reclaimed,
The water unpolluted and the forests lush with verdant vibrant
Growth, and there will be no need for poor obstructed blades
To cut their way through concrete and reclaim their place
In what was once our world but now is theirs,
As it was meant to be.
Sara Teasdale got it right.
We build and fix and rebuild and like Ozymandias
Are certain that our masterpieces of construction
And of architecture will remain to sing our glories
And our triumphs . . . but we are so wrong.
We struggle endlessly against the odds of greater forces;
And we will not overcome the faults inherent in us humans
To destroy what we have raised. Need proof? Consider
Ruins from the days of Rome and Greece,
Temples that no longer serve their masses,
The Arizona and Titanic,
The World Trade Towers,
The brutish British burning of the White House,
The Capitol insurrection of January 6;
Then there is nature, in its unavoidable terror and its strength:
From Mount Vesuvius to the San Francisco quake of 1906
To pandemics, floods, tsunamis, hurricanes: Need I go on?
It is a miracle that we exist and somewhat of a testament
To human fortitude that we refuse to quit against the odds
As well as human nature and its painfully destructive capabilities
And co-existing tendencies. I cannot help but nod to Nature every time
I walk and see a living piece of greenery break through
The sidewalk and reach upward to the sun and shout
(In its quite quiet but determined way),
“I live! I will go on! I will not let these humans stall my growth or
Curb my right to be, and so I call to those who matter, ‘I am free!’”
If I were more a creature of the Earth than an inhabitant, I’d bend
And bless the blade that fights to live, and touch it with a kiss
To show my recognition of our comradeship, but I
Am much too much wrapped up in my society to let a fellow
Life-form join and share the reason we exist, the love we all
Were meant to bear for one another.
And when we reach the ultimate betrayal of our species
And have obliterated ourselves and each other to fodder
For the coming generations so unknowing of degenerations
Of us people, Life will continue; it will flourish once again ---
In the trees, the flowers, the undomesticated animals, and
With this change will come the atmosphere reclaimed,
The water unpolluted and the forests lush with verdant vibrant
Growth, and there will be no need for poor obstructed blades
To cut their way through concrete and reclaim their place
In what was once our world but now is theirs,
As it was meant to be.
Her Own Opinion
Are we entitled to our own opinions
When they deny the facts,
When they close their ears to the other side
Or sides
And go their ignorant way toward oblivion
Unmarred by Truth and ignorant of the limits
Self-imposed by narrowness of thought?
We have our own opinions, but they become the enemy
When all they serve is a master who refuses to admit
The fallibility of humans; for at that point
Opinions make us prisoners of our biases
And construct walls with us defiant inside them,
Standing proud but not so steadily on a foundation
That bares its cracks and cannot long withstand
Examination or analysis, and thus they serve
To crush us by their stubbornness.
Are we entitled to opinions which break us from the very ones
Who love and care for us and worry that we stunt the growth
Of our existence, poising us upon the precipice of doom,
And forcibly restraining us from the maturity that we profess?
And who will be so bold that he or she will stand and face-to-face
Refute the claim that we are bearers of our own opinions?
It is love that answers, “No! Not when those opinions are prescient
To disaster or are baseless and weak and not thought out
And set the holder up for grief and danger.
There is much responsibility that must accompany the claim
Made only by the uninitiated, the novices to Life and quirks
So unpredictable yet predicated on the past and current perils
That we all do share so commonly, but when we cry out
Against concerns of those who care that we are undeniably entitled
To our own opinions; what is there to say
Except that only Life and pain can teach the weak and frail
What is the cost of tenuous opinions?
The Wise have open eyes and never close them tight
And never fight with armor made of unexamined thoughts
Disguised as our opinions, for such armor is no more than weakness
Appearing speciously to offer strong defense against those who would
Challenge such beliefs --- but in reality the knight
Who enters battle in such illusory protective garb has sealed his fate
And when the battle’s done, there in the dust he’ll lie
Waiting to be buried by the Truth,
And with his final breath, he’ll cry for all to hear,
“I lie here bleeding out opinions that would not allow me
To become the warrior of life that I so desired to be.
Beware, my fellow conquerors, take care and seek
The love of others and their views, or you too will breathe
Your final gasp amidst the dusty lowness of spurious dignity.”
In pace requiescat:- her own opinion!
Are we entitled to our own opinions
When they deny the facts,
When they close their ears to the other side
Or sides
And go their ignorant way toward oblivion
Unmarred by Truth and ignorant of the limits
Self-imposed by narrowness of thought?
We have our own opinions, but they become the enemy
When all they serve is a master who refuses to admit
The fallibility of humans; for at that point
Opinions make us prisoners of our biases
And construct walls with us defiant inside them,
Standing proud but not so steadily on a foundation
That bares its cracks and cannot long withstand
Examination or analysis, and thus they serve
To crush us by their stubbornness.
Are we entitled to opinions which break us from the very ones
Who love and care for us and worry that we stunt the growth
Of our existence, poising us upon the precipice of doom,
And forcibly restraining us from the maturity that we profess?
And who will be so bold that he or she will stand and face-to-face
Refute the claim that we are bearers of our own opinions?
It is love that answers, “No! Not when those opinions are prescient
To disaster or are baseless and weak and not thought out
And set the holder up for grief and danger.
There is much responsibility that must accompany the claim
Made only by the uninitiated, the novices to Life and quirks
So unpredictable yet predicated on the past and current perils
That we all do share so commonly, but when we cry out
Against concerns of those who care that we are undeniably entitled
To our own opinions; what is there to say
Except that only Life and pain can teach the weak and frail
What is the cost of tenuous opinions?
The Wise have open eyes and never close them tight
And never fight with armor made of unexamined thoughts
Disguised as our opinions, for such armor is no more than weakness
Appearing speciously to offer strong defense against those who would
Challenge such beliefs --- but in reality the knight
Who enters battle in such illusory protective garb has sealed his fate
And when the battle’s done, there in the dust he’ll lie
Waiting to be buried by the Truth,
And with his final breath, he’ll cry for all to hear,
“I lie here bleeding out opinions that would not allow me
To become the warrior of life that I so desired to be.
Beware, my fellow conquerors, take care and seek
The love of others and their views, or you too will breathe
Your final gasp amidst the dusty lowness of spurious dignity.”
In pace requiescat:- her own opinion!
There is No Love
There is no love without forgiveness;
We are less than perfect beings,
Prone to errors in speech and in performance,
Sometimes jumping to conclusions or
Bowing to illusions that all too often feed
Our very human needs and wants,
And just when we are face to face with
Isolation and its sister, loneliness,
Trudging through the maze that we alone
Conceived and structured to encompass our small selves,
Comes upon us with no trumpets signaling arrival
This thing called love --- a subject we have never studied,
Analyzed, dissected, or delved into in some other way ---
And we are called upon to do things right, to make such moves
As suddenly defy inherent instincts toward self-gratification.
We are now a couple with two minds that must step forward
And create a brand-new entity that knows beyond infatuation
Right through the walls and caverns of society and stands as one,
Ready to do battle with the conflicts thrown at us each minute of the day
Without a stutter-step . . . and we are bound to fail in this,
For each of us is individual; yes, we will study closely the other self
And try to understand and compromise and learn . . . but this will not
Come easily, yet if the wisdom of the Ages has somehow arrived
To us, we will learn from each mistake, each misstep, each big blunder,
And we will gather patience and compassion, making up
The necessary empathy needed for a pairing to survive
Our mortal weaknesses and frailties, and so I thus repeat:
There is no love without forgiveness.
There is no love without forgiveness;
We are less than perfect beings,
Prone to errors in speech and in performance,
Sometimes jumping to conclusions or
Bowing to illusions that all too often feed
Our very human needs and wants,
And just when we are face to face with
Isolation and its sister, loneliness,
Trudging through the maze that we alone
Conceived and structured to encompass our small selves,
Comes upon us with no trumpets signaling arrival
This thing called love --- a subject we have never studied,
Analyzed, dissected, or delved into in some other way ---
And we are called upon to do things right, to make such moves
As suddenly defy inherent instincts toward self-gratification.
We are now a couple with two minds that must step forward
And create a brand-new entity that knows beyond infatuation
Right through the walls and caverns of society and stands as one,
Ready to do battle with the conflicts thrown at us each minute of the day
Without a stutter-step . . . and we are bound to fail in this,
For each of us is individual; yes, we will study closely the other self
And try to understand and compromise and learn . . . but this will not
Come easily, yet if the wisdom of the Ages has somehow arrived
To us, we will learn from each mistake, each misstep, each big blunder,
And we will gather patience and compassion, making up
The necessary empathy needed for a pairing to survive
Our mortal weaknesses and frailties, and so I thus repeat:
There is no love without forgiveness.
I Miss the Nation
I miss the nation we never were.
I miss the fairness and opportunity that were promised and premised,
The Dream that has haunted our people for two and a half centuries
But which has proved to be an illusion.
Ask the African-American, the Asian-American,
The Native-Americans, the Hispanics, the Irish, the Italians,
The Jew, the poor, the miseducated, the misunderstood ---
Ask them about “equality and justice for all”
And feel their tears sear your national soul.
Sense the oppressive shadows of the pained and strained
Smother the atmosphere that we might have been blessed with
If only our better angels’ voices had been heeded.
I miss the nation that never existed,
The one I was taught to love in my early fictitious, cleansed years
From pretty, colorful texts filled with whitewashed heroes
And tainted villains who sneered yet posed no threat ---
Those lessons presented to my eager brain
By well-meaning teachers following state-sanctioned curricula.
We were to be the melting pot, then the stew,
And the beacon that lit the world and showed the others
How to build a nation of love and a home of the brave.
But there were always lies and buried secrets and hurts submerged
Until the pain could no longer be denied.
And so there is the dream, still beckoning the young
Who have escaped somehow the hatred and the insecurities
Of their parents, the misdirecting media and their kind.
There is the chance, diminished but not demolished,
That we can be e pluribus unum in reality, not just on paper,
The vision delayed, postponed, set aside
Until the time that has now arrived.
It is my dream; it is a specter and a glimmer in the imagination
Of the Founding Fathers beyond what they knew as reality;
It is the God-provided inalienable right that these Founders sensed,
Despite their lack of sense, in building Emma Lazarus’ vision.
If we are truly the world, then let the Dream come true.
Make this the nation I was promised in my childhood.
Make this the nation that will ever be the Home of Liberty!
The ghosts of past holocausts peer with anguished eyes
At the Hope that is America, at the Dream that is their children’s;
Let US answer with a gentle Love of steel and allow their souls to rest
As We become the People we were meant to be,
United in our mass achievement that States for all the world to hear
That all are truly equal, that evil has no home within our land.
I miss the nation we never were.
I miss the fairness and opportunity that were promised and premised,
The Dream that has haunted our people for two and a half centuries
But which has proved to be an illusion.
Ask the African-American, the Asian-American,
The Native-Americans, the Hispanics, the Irish, the Italians,
The Jew, the poor, the miseducated, the misunderstood ---
Ask them about “equality and justice for all”
And feel their tears sear your national soul.
Sense the oppressive shadows of the pained and strained
Smother the atmosphere that we might have been blessed with
If only our better angels’ voices had been heeded.
I miss the nation that never existed,
The one I was taught to love in my early fictitious, cleansed years
From pretty, colorful texts filled with whitewashed heroes
And tainted villains who sneered yet posed no threat ---
Those lessons presented to my eager brain
By well-meaning teachers following state-sanctioned curricula.
We were to be the melting pot, then the stew,
And the beacon that lit the world and showed the others
How to build a nation of love and a home of the brave.
But there were always lies and buried secrets and hurts submerged
Until the pain could no longer be denied.
And so there is the dream, still beckoning the young
Who have escaped somehow the hatred and the insecurities
Of their parents, the misdirecting media and their kind.
There is the chance, diminished but not demolished,
That we can be e pluribus unum in reality, not just on paper,
The vision delayed, postponed, set aside
Until the time that has now arrived.
It is my dream; it is a specter and a glimmer in the imagination
Of the Founding Fathers beyond what they knew as reality;
It is the God-provided inalienable right that these Founders sensed,
Despite their lack of sense, in building Emma Lazarus’ vision.
If we are truly the world, then let the Dream come true.
Make this the nation I was promised in my childhood.
Make this the nation that will ever be the Home of Liberty!
The ghosts of past holocausts peer with anguished eyes
At the Hope that is America, at the Dream that is their children’s;
Let US answer with a gentle Love of steel and allow their souls to rest
As We become the People we were meant to be,
United in our mass achievement that States for all the world to hear
That all are truly equal, that evil has no home within our land.
On hearing properly
I thought I heard a cow asking me to kindly moo-ve
But she was just being true to herself so I held my ground
And we became friends and even spiritual lovers.
I listened to a horse who was too negative for me to bear
Until I learned that I had misconstrued his “neigh” for “nay”
And to this day we get along just fine.
I misinterpreted a German shepherd’s “ruff” as “rough”
And falling quick victim to my knee-jerk association
With those bastard Nazis of not so long ago, I hated her
But for a moment and then accepted her lucid explanation.
A mountain lion growled and I began to scold him for his rudeness
But I was interrupted as he explained with grace
That his was not a warning but a mating call,
And I retreated in embarrassment and wished him well.
Over the most recent weeks, I have begun to come to terms
With grief and damage that can be done when one
Does not admit to hearing loss and stubbornly ignores
The insult caused to others when a word is just misheard
And false communications lead to misinterpretations.
I thought I heard a cow asking me to kindly moo-ve
But she was just being true to herself so I held my ground
And we became friends and even spiritual lovers.
I listened to a horse who was too negative for me to bear
Until I learned that I had misconstrued his “neigh” for “nay”
And to this day we get along just fine.
I misinterpreted a German shepherd’s “ruff” as “rough”
And falling quick victim to my knee-jerk association
With those bastard Nazis of not so long ago, I hated her
But for a moment and then accepted her lucid explanation.
A mountain lion growled and I began to scold him for his rudeness
But I was interrupted as he explained with grace
That his was not a warning but a mating call,
And I retreated in embarrassment and wished him well.
Over the most recent weeks, I have begun to come to terms
With grief and damage that can be done when one
Does not admit to hearing loss and stubbornly ignores
The insult caused to others when a word is just misheard
And false communications lead to misinterpretations.
I Went Shopping Today
I went shopping today, just as I used to do
In the “good old days” when everything was taken for granted
When you walked in and got your needs of the moment and left
A little lighter in the wallet and the head
Grumbling about the cost and the service and the choices and the staleness
Of the humdrum experience you engaged in with automation
But today I was pleased by the lights above me in the store
And I was amazed by the choices beneath and behind the counters
And I was enriched by the aromas and the glorious kaleidoscope
Of shapes and colors laid out just for me to engage with
And the service was so courteous and thoughtful
All that attention paid to me
Making me feel like a rock star from the moment of my entry
To my hesitant departure, drawn back a degree by the well wishes sent my way
I almost cried at the atmosphere --- a heaven on terra firma --- Where
Had this place been? Was it a Brigadoon of commerce?
Which other experiences awaited me that I had yet to delve right into
As never before ‘though I had been through them all BEFORE
(and you know what I mean by that time BEFORE, a time that should have been
So honored and so weighted that every journey was a vital destination)
So I went shopping on this day and I will never be the same
What was it Julius said . . . veni, vidi, vici . . . but even though I came and saw
I was the one who was conquered --- by the epiphany that we too often
Fail to relish in the ordinary moments of our lives that are too easily
Stolen from us by time, by health, by specious fate --- and so let us do as we were told
By Omar Khayyam and eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow may not welcome us
With open arms and hearts as it does today.
In the “good old days” when everything was taken for granted
When you walked in and got your needs of the moment and left
A little lighter in the wallet and the head
Grumbling about the cost and the service and the choices and the staleness
Of the humdrum experience you engaged in with automation
But today I was pleased by the lights above me in the store
And I was amazed by the choices beneath and behind the counters
And I was enriched by the aromas and the glorious kaleidoscope
Of shapes and colors laid out just for me to engage with
And the service was so courteous and thoughtful
All that attention paid to me
Making me feel like a rock star from the moment of my entry
To my hesitant departure, drawn back a degree by the well wishes sent my way
I almost cried at the atmosphere --- a heaven on terra firma --- Where
Had this place been? Was it a Brigadoon of commerce?
Which other experiences awaited me that I had yet to delve right into
As never before ‘though I had been through them all BEFORE
(and you know what I mean by that time BEFORE, a time that should have been
So honored and so weighted that every journey was a vital destination)
So I went shopping on this day and I will never be the same
What was it Julius said . . . veni, vidi, vici . . . but even though I came and saw
I was the one who was conquered --- by the epiphany that we too often
Fail to relish in the ordinary moments of our lives that are too easily
Stolen from us by time, by health, by specious fate --- and so let us do as we were told
By Omar Khayyam and eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow may not welcome us
With open arms and hearts as it does today.
THE GREATEST LOVE
When we first met, you were so young, so enthusiastic, so pretty
That I was held in place and drawn to your charms, made to orbit the glow of your eyes
And that is when I found my purpose and my being.
You smiled and from your brown eyes radiated Life that filled my veins with fluid electricity.
It sounds so trite to say these things but my instant love for you was anything but mundane.
After close to thirty years I found my soul and cherished every moment stolen from
The attention that you drew from others.
I told a friend that I would marry you one day,
As corny as that sounds, but it was true
And when we started dating I found comfort and security that I had never known
And when we were engaged nine days after our first date
It was as natural as flowers and air, as beautiful as songbirds serenading,
Inevitable as the passing of time and the blessings of God.
Then came the children, the victories, the pain, the challenges that sometimes
Mounted and pressed down until we could not breathe
But through the process "I Think I Love You" became "I Know I Love You"
And in the end . . . we are here,
Half a decade having passed and more, and I can say out loud as earlier I thought
That I love you as much as it is possible for a man to love a woman,
As deeply as the thought of love can possibly be measured.
And I take an oath --- one which is not needed as the faith we share supersedes necessity
Of any declaration that announces to all --- that I love you this day more than I ever did before
And that tomorrow and the next will see the growth of this deep feeling
That very few have shared for such a length of time.
There never was nor could there be a woman so attractive and so beautiful as you
And each soft moment that I gaze at you I see the youth you were and the woman that you are
And I am overwhelmed by such intense emotion that I quiver as I think
How much our souls have intertwined --- and will be so for all eternity
On planes as yet resistant to discovery by ordinary souls.
My love for you exists in physical, emotional, spiritual and magical planes
And I want nothing more than to hold you and to feel reciprocal affection
And to hear you say to me the words I have so often said or thought to you.:
I love you. It's so simple yet so complex, so plain and yet so deep: I love you
And will always share that love as willingly as we share our thoroughly intimate moments.
I loved you from the start and through the struggles and I love you now and will in future days and nights.
I envy none but am the envy of so many as the blessed lover that I am right now.
When we first met, you were so young, so enthusiastic, so pretty
That I was held in place and drawn to your charms, made to orbit the glow of your eyes
And that is when I found my purpose and my being.
You smiled and from your brown eyes radiated Life that filled my veins with fluid electricity.
It sounds so trite to say these things but my instant love for you was anything but mundane.
After close to thirty years I found my soul and cherished every moment stolen from
The attention that you drew from others.
I told a friend that I would marry you one day,
As corny as that sounds, but it was true
And when we started dating I found comfort and security that I had never known
And when we were engaged nine days after our first date
It was as natural as flowers and air, as beautiful as songbirds serenading,
Inevitable as the passing of time and the blessings of God.
Then came the children, the victories, the pain, the challenges that sometimes
Mounted and pressed down until we could not breathe
But through the process "I Think I Love You" became "I Know I Love You"
And in the end . . . we are here,
Half a decade having passed and more, and I can say out loud as earlier I thought
That I love you as much as it is possible for a man to love a woman,
As deeply as the thought of love can possibly be measured.
And I take an oath --- one which is not needed as the faith we share supersedes necessity
Of any declaration that announces to all --- that I love you this day more than I ever did before
And that tomorrow and the next will see the growth of this deep feeling
That very few have shared for such a length of time.
There never was nor could there be a woman so attractive and so beautiful as you
And each soft moment that I gaze at you I see the youth you were and the woman that you are
And I am overwhelmed by such intense emotion that I quiver as I think
How much our souls have intertwined --- and will be so for all eternity
On planes as yet resistant to discovery by ordinary souls.
My love for you exists in physical, emotional, spiritual and magical planes
And I want nothing more than to hold you and to feel reciprocal affection
And to hear you say to me the words I have so often said or thought to you.:
I love you. It's so simple yet so complex, so plain and yet so deep: I love you
And will always share that love as willingly as we share our thoroughly intimate moments.
I loved you from the start and through the struggles and I love you now and will in future days and nights.
I envy none but am the envy of so many as the blessed lover that I am right now.
REMEMBERED
Before he took his final breath
A moment 'fore he met his death
He thought about that past November
And this is what he could remember:
The world was coming to an end;
There was no way he could defend
Himself and others 'gainst Global Warming;
Around him, rains of fire were swarming
It should have been a winter cold;
It was November, we've been told,
And Earth was dying bit by bit
But he remained, refused to quit.
All animals, flowers, trees:
None were left as entities
Alive; all gone except for one
Who was not ready to be done.
He alone just kept on living,
Crying, sighing --- not forgiving
How the humans killed the Earth,
Destroyed their lives, their dreams, all mirth.
As he drew his final breath,
He wrote of life that defied death,
But then he heaved and gasped and sighed
And with his passing all life died!
We came from elsewhere to observe
This dismal planet, one large grave.
Each human got what he deserved.
They learned --- but too late to be saved.
Before he took his final breath
A moment 'fore he met his death
He thought about that past November
And this is what he could remember:
The world was coming to an end;
There was no way he could defend
Himself and others 'gainst Global Warming;
Around him, rains of fire were swarming
It should have been a winter cold;
It was November, we've been told,
And Earth was dying bit by bit
But he remained, refused to quit.
All animals, flowers, trees:
None were left as entities
Alive; all gone except for one
Who was not ready to be done.
He alone just kept on living,
Crying, sighing --- not forgiving
How the humans killed the Earth,
Destroyed their lives, their dreams, all mirth.
As he drew his final breath,
He wrote of life that defied death,
But then he heaved and gasped and sighed
And with his passing all life died!
We came from elsewhere to observe
This dismal planet, one large grave.
Each human got what he deserved.
They learned --- but too late to be saved.
Mementos
I am a collector
I have coins from all over the world in place and time
I value the history and the stories they tell
I like to imagine the people who might have held these coins
Throughout the years, buying and selling, paying for journeys to unknown regions ---
Perhaps held by Phoenicians or merchants in Pompeii moments before Vesuvius
Or by Crusaders seeking a blacksmith to forge arms and armor as they set off to do battle
I wonder what others purchased in their disparate cultures and societies,
With their varied and oft conflicting views of the world
Maybe this one was used by a nobleman to buy a seat to the first performance of Macbeth,
Seat cushion and all; maybe that one used these cowrie shells together with some livestock
As a brideprice, seeking to begin his family or to augment it
Yes, these coins teach me geography, empower me with knowledge of little known
And sparsely populated areas as well as empires now a memory --- O Songhai ---
And of actions swallowed up by vagaries of history and fickleness of memory
As was that of Ozymandias in a speck of a second once
My coinage knows of plastic, tin, aluminum, silver, copper, gold
And even one five dollar coin from Canada which contains embedded in it
A significant particle of a meteorite countless centuries old
And there are times that I gaze upon it and let my imagination loose
To wander and to wonder at the wonders seen by this small stone which
Now looks back at me and maybe wonders what I have to bring to this silent conversation
Some sing songs and tell tales that set me off on journeys worthy of their being
While others send me to do research on who exactly is that face staring back at me
A national icon or hero or father of his nation or mother offering love and strong security
I live my coin collection
These mementos of history, geography, economics, fantasy, culture, society, renown, eternal knowledge
Make up a great personal treasure that offers and presents ever present pleasure
For they connect past and present
In a way hard to explain but easy to comprehend
I am a collector
I have coins from all over the world in place and time
I value the history and the stories they tell
I like to imagine the people who might have held these coins
Throughout the years, buying and selling, paying for journeys to unknown regions ---
Perhaps held by Phoenicians or merchants in Pompeii moments before Vesuvius
Or by Crusaders seeking a blacksmith to forge arms and armor as they set off to do battle
I wonder what others purchased in their disparate cultures and societies,
With their varied and oft conflicting views of the world
Maybe this one was used by a nobleman to buy a seat to the first performance of Macbeth,
Seat cushion and all; maybe that one used these cowrie shells together with some livestock
As a brideprice, seeking to begin his family or to augment it
Yes, these coins teach me geography, empower me with knowledge of little known
And sparsely populated areas as well as empires now a memory --- O Songhai ---
And of actions swallowed up by vagaries of history and fickleness of memory
As was that of Ozymandias in a speck of a second once
My coinage knows of plastic, tin, aluminum, silver, copper, gold
And even one five dollar coin from Canada which contains embedded in it
A significant particle of a meteorite countless centuries old
And there are times that I gaze upon it and let my imagination loose
To wander and to wonder at the wonders seen by this small stone which
Now looks back at me and maybe wonders what I have to bring to this silent conversation
Some sing songs and tell tales that set me off on journeys worthy of their being
While others send me to do research on who exactly is that face staring back at me
A national icon or hero or father of his nation or mother offering love and strong security
I live my coin collection
These mementos of history, geography, economics, fantasy, culture, society, renown, eternal knowledge
Make up a great personal treasure that offers and presents ever present pleasure
For they connect past and present
In a way hard to explain but easy to comprehend
Watching the Radio
It must have been the middle of the ‘40’s
Certainly, before the RCA arrived in 1949
All $500 of it, all 16 inches (a giant screen at the time)
And as the evening approached we gathered as the family we were
(A few years before the initial death, my mom)
Together in the warmth that love alone ignites and fosters ---
And sat in a semi-circle to watch the large, arched radio console
(It received stations from all over the world though we seldom
Used that short-wave feature)
And anticipated the coming broadcasts:
Jack Benny (“I am 39”) made us laugh;
Red Skelton was amazing in his muted antics;
Burns and Allen were hilarious (“Say good night, Gracie”)
And when the mood hit us, the Shadow knew what we were after.
There we sat, looking at this wonder of modern technology,
But though we were entertained and it felt so good to laugh
We watched, unknowingly, as a bonding activity,
A ceremony of attachment for nothing holds greater than shared laughter
Or a chain of excitement --- and who wouldn’t want to guess the guilty party?
In the earlier hours I alone (10 and 14 years younger than my sisters)
Would stare at the radio, lost in the imagination stirred
By Superman (“Look, up in the sky“)
Or The Lone Ranger (“Hi, yo, Silver”)
And on Saturdays I had my fantasy adventure (I recall going to India frequently).
My sister had her soaps, becoming friends with Helen Trent and
Having only one life to live.
We watched the radio and lived the words and hummed the songs
And reveled in our closeness in those times of innocence
After the War had ended and before the next one would begin.
We stared --- and saw what we would never see on our TV
In coming years (though I must say I clearly remember
Anticipating the coming of The Lone Ranger to Channel 7,
Looking forward to seeing if my imagining of his appearance
Would match his visual presentation --- and it did).
We watched that radio and pictured evil killers
With their crooked sneers and the Man of Steel
Flexing his muscles and a character from one of
The myriad of melodramas (in between the ads for soap / detergents)
Wringing her hands and pleading for honesty and firm commitment.
I miss those days. There’s nothing better than the exercise
Of the imagination and the sharing of adventures and of laughter
With those you care about and how I miss them all:
Of the five of us, I am the only one left
And how I miss them all
Staring at the radio and smiling at each other.
It must have been the middle of the ‘40’s
Certainly, before the RCA arrived in 1949
All $500 of it, all 16 inches (a giant screen at the time)
And as the evening approached we gathered as the family we were
(A few years before the initial death, my mom)
Together in the warmth that love alone ignites and fosters ---
And sat in a semi-circle to watch the large, arched radio console
(It received stations from all over the world though we seldom
Used that short-wave feature)
And anticipated the coming broadcasts:
Jack Benny (“I am 39”) made us laugh;
Red Skelton was amazing in his muted antics;
Burns and Allen were hilarious (“Say good night, Gracie”)
And when the mood hit us, the Shadow knew what we were after.
There we sat, looking at this wonder of modern technology,
But though we were entertained and it felt so good to laugh
We watched, unknowingly, as a bonding activity,
A ceremony of attachment for nothing holds greater than shared laughter
Or a chain of excitement --- and who wouldn’t want to guess the guilty party?
In the earlier hours I alone (10 and 14 years younger than my sisters)
Would stare at the radio, lost in the imagination stirred
By Superman (“Look, up in the sky“)
Or The Lone Ranger (“Hi, yo, Silver”)
And on Saturdays I had my fantasy adventure (I recall going to India frequently).
My sister had her soaps, becoming friends with Helen Trent and
Having only one life to live.
We watched the radio and lived the words and hummed the songs
And reveled in our closeness in those times of innocence
After the War had ended and before the next one would begin.
We stared --- and saw what we would never see on our TV
In coming years (though I must say I clearly remember
Anticipating the coming of The Lone Ranger to Channel 7,
Looking forward to seeing if my imagining of his appearance
Would match his visual presentation --- and it did).
We watched that radio and pictured evil killers
With their crooked sneers and the Man of Steel
Flexing his muscles and a character from one of
The myriad of melodramas (in between the ads for soap / detergents)
Wringing her hands and pleading for honesty and firm commitment.
I miss those days. There’s nothing better than the exercise
Of the imagination and the sharing of adventures and of laughter
With those you care about and how I miss them all:
Of the five of us, I am the only one left
And how I miss them all
Staring at the radio and smiling at each other.
The Real Mountain
I climbed the mountain
At least that was my intent
I struggled over jagged and sharp edges
Over boulders waiting to be driven to the earth
I stepped gingerly along a narrow ridge
A soldier tentatively inching through a mine field
I reached and lunged and lurched and I ascended
Sometimes stumbling and mumbling
Words not suitable for society
Fingers numb but painful
Nose belonging to Frosty if anyone
Determined to "make it" and cursing
"Because it is there"
But in the end upward and secure at last
I gazed at the summit . . . and juxtaposed in my mind
The base
Only to realize that I never should have left
The ground where my life resides
And any mountains worth climbing
Are to be found at ground level
Not where we long but
Where we belong
I climbed the mountain
At least that was my intent
I struggled over jagged and sharp edges
Over boulders waiting to be driven to the earth
I stepped gingerly along a narrow ridge
A soldier tentatively inching through a mine field
I reached and lunged and lurched and I ascended
Sometimes stumbling and mumbling
Words not suitable for society
Fingers numb but painful
Nose belonging to Frosty if anyone
Determined to "make it" and cursing
"Because it is there"
But in the end upward and secure at last
I gazed at the summit . . . and juxtaposed in my mind
The base
Only to realize that I never should have left
The ground where my life resides
And any mountains worth climbing
Are to be found at ground level
Not where we long but
Where we belong
Time Runs Out
I do not have the time that I once had
Time to play and go with my imagination
To places that would welcome me with warmth
And daring challenges when I would have no fears of circumstance
Or enemies or critics or overwhelming obstacles
I could play and explore and investigate in dreamy realms
And never hesitate because that nemesis reality was watching me from corners
That I could not see but could much too urgently feel
And I was free as I have not been since
To feel the colors of the rainbow and hear the angels sing
And touch the soul of God (when there still was a God)
I do not have that time before me any more and I am sad
regretting wasted opportunities and times that should have blessed me
With their possibilities but which I wasted and watched go down the drain of death
Oh, how I'd love to have the strength to reach out and grasp those fleeting moments
Embrace them and kiss them as the treasures that they were
Treasures undervalued and too much taken for granted and only recognized right now
In my old age for what they were
And now it is too late
Oh they exist in my eternal-young fantasies but that is not enough
They once were not so real as possible but they seem gone for good
But not for my own good and I will one day lie on my death bed and smile
Lost in retrospection and grasping at what was and believing that I have found the paradise
That so so long ago eluded me
And I will dwell in and on those dreams and smile and shed a tear
And on my deathbed I will welcome fantasies which wait for me
And have for decades sought me out
With the patience that only unreality can know
And then at last I will be home
Where I belong
The old one becomes the child again
Time to play and go with my imagination
To places that would welcome me with warmth
And daring challenges when I would have no fears of circumstance
Or enemies or critics or overwhelming obstacles
I could play and explore and investigate in dreamy realms
And never hesitate because that nemesis reality was watching me from corners
That I could not see but could much too urgently feel
And I was free as I have not been since
To feel the colors of the rainbow and hear the angels sing
And touch the soul of God (when there still was a God)
I do not have that time before me any more and I am sad
regretting wasted opportunities and times that should have blessed me
With their possibilities but which I wasted and watched go down the drain of death
Oh, how I'd love to have the strength to reach out and grasp those fleeting moments
Embrace them and kiss them as the treasures that they were
Treasures undervalued and too much taken for granted and only recognized right now
In my old age for what they were
And now it is too late
Oh they exist in my eternal-young fantasies but that is not enough
They once were not so real as possible but they seem gone for good
But not for my own good and I will one day lie on my death bed and smile
Lost in retrospection and grasping at what was and believing that I have found the paradise
That so so long ago eluded me
And I will dwell in and on those dreams and smile and shed a tear
And on my deathbed I will welcome fantasies which wait for me
And have for decades sought me out
With the patience that only unreality can know
And then at last I will be home
Where I belong
The old one becomes the child again
It Doesn't Cease to Be
Both Teasdale and Bradbury wrote about a future
Without any human beings to mar the Earth,
A scary thought but one that is within the grasp of minds
Aware of our stupidity and ignorance.
We are the replication of
The calls of famous scientist Jor-El
(The voice of God, unheeded though badly needed).
Professor Heyen also knew and cautioned and accused
Through his Pterodactyl Rose, but we continue
On the path to nowhere good
Not so much misunderstood as arrogant and self-assured
But really self-deluded.
It is poetic justice that we follow those we sent away
Such as the dodo and the others.
But do we care enough about the children that we bring into this world
And their descendants
Enough to reverse the trends we have established in our hunger
For instant reward and potent illusion?
We will be gone and we will not be missed
By birds and bears and branches sprouting greenery one day.
Our once magnificent skyscrapers will keep company with
The glory of Shelley’s Ozymandias
And we will be no memory at all
As libraries and museums crumble and fade away to embers and then cinders
And pathways turn to desolate destruction and the animals and plants
Are left with lightning bolts as the unheeded reminders
That Thomas Edison once lived, that Franklin flew a kite.
Towers and statues and Space Needles
Will turn from vertical to horizontal
To parallel the hordes of corpses
Which millennia have led to
And a butterfly will sail and will meander through the air
Above the world that we destroyed.
Both Teasdale and Bradbury wrote about a future
Without any human beings to mar the Earth,
A scary thought but one that is within the grasp of minds
Aware of our stupidity and ignorance.
We are the replication of
The calls of famous scientist Jor-El
(The voice of God, unheeded though badly needed).
Professor Heyen also knew and cautioned and accused
Through his Pterodactyl Rose, but we continue
On the path to nowhere good
Not so much misunderstood as arrogant and self-assured
But really self-deluded.
It is poetic justice that we follow those we sent away
Such as the dodo and the others.
But do we care enough about the children that we bring into this world
And their descendants
Enough to reverse the trends we have established in our hunger
For instant reward and potent illusion?
We will be gone and we will not be missed
By birds and bears and branches sprouting greenery one day.
Our once magnificent skyscrapers will keep company with
The glory of Shelley’s Ozymandias
And we will be no memory at all
As libraries and museums crumble and fade away to embers and then cinders
And pathways turn to desolate destruction and the animals and plants
Are left with lightning bolts as the unheeded reminders
That Thomas Edison once lived, that Franklin flew a kite.
Towers and statues and Space Needles
Will turn from vertical to horizontal
To parallel the hordes of corpses
Which millennia have led to
And a butterfly will sail and will meander through the air
Above the world that we destroyed.
THE EMPTY PAGE
There are no absences of thought or of imagination
Because the page is empty naked white and pure
It represents the field inviting entry and fulfillment
Expression, exciting creativity
There are concepts to be fulfilled and given birth to
Lines of words ready for their marching orders
Prepared to invade the naked sheet or screen
Or enchanted there await the adjectives of love
Seeking a home whereby lovers may exchange
The kiss the bliss the double wishes needing to be heard in word
The empty page is an invitation to express
Ideas both great and small --- or not at all;
Perhaps it is a diagram or graphic presentation
Waiting to be sculpted into some esoteric intelligence that
Aliens will capably interpret into wisdom waiting to be transferred
To some strange electronic imagery from outer space
But as for me
I prefer the paper page
Lines will be fine
Although I thank the blank
Ones too
For I am real old school
And I reject too readily the cyber tools
As methodology too often used by fools
So let me worship now and again
The empty paper page
Reaching out to me
Yearning to have a reason to exist
More trees are killed to make technology available
Than paper pages don’t you know?
Do the research read the books read the unbiased pages
And then share your learning
Write a poem on a page that can be crinkled folded touched inhaled
Share your being with a host that comes to life at once
When it first opens its whiteness to the writer
I too often miss the empty page
I wish to make verbal love to it
And share my thoughts and even fears
Address confess distress
Upon the page waiting to be filled, fulfilled
I love the empty page and reach not for the stars
But for the past to make it once again my present
I love getting presents and I love
Presenting my ideas profusely and profoundly upon
The once but now no longer
Empty page
There are no absences of thought or of imagination
Because the page is empty naked white and pure
It represents the field inviting entry and fulfillment
Expression, exciting creativity
There are concepts to be fulfilled and given birth to
Lines of words ready for their marching orders
Prepared to invade the naked sheet or screen
Or enchanted there await the adjectives of love
Seeking a home whereby lovers may exchange
The kiss the bliss the double wishes needing to be heard in word
The empty page is an invitation to express
Ideas both great and small --- or not at all;
Perhaps it is a diagram or graphic presentation
Waiting to be sculpted into some esoteric intelligence that
Aliens will capably interpret into wisdom waiting to be transferred
To some strange electronic imagery from outer space
But as for me
I prefer the paper page
Lines will be fine
Although I thank the blank
Ones too
For I am real old school
And I reject too readily the cyber tools
As methodology too often used by fools
So let me worship now and again
The empty paper page
Reaching out to me
Yearning to have a reason to exist
More trees are killed to make technology available
Than paper pages don’t you know?
Do the research read the books read the unbiased pages
And then share your learning
Write a poem on a page that can be crinkled folded touched inhaled
Share your being with a host that comes to life at once
When it first opens its whiteness to the writer
I too often miss the empty page
I wish to make verbal love to it
And share my thoughts and even fears
Address confess distress
Upon the page waiting to be filled, fulfilled
I love the empty page and reach not for the stars
But for the past to make it once again my present
I love getting presents and I love
Presenting my ideas profusely and profoundly upon
The once but now no longer
Empty page
The Gift of Silence
Silence is a gift,
A refuge in this all too noisy nation,
A respite from the talking heads that will not stop
Shouting their agendas and their selfish needs for all to hear.
Silence is always in the wings, waiting to enter the stage
And fill the atmosphere with blessed relief
And comforting escape from chatter and grumbling and dissatisfaction.
Have you noticed how the world would be so much better off
Without the so obnoxious personalities infesting airwaves and print
With words attacking just for the purpose of making a racket
(Because they once discerned that noisy kids get more attention than
Those who have the wisdom to remain at peace)?
Silence s a comfort, a blanket that you can wrap around yourself,
And use to insulate yourself from anxieties and antagonistic verbiage
That too loosely flows and soon engulfs the masses eagerly awaiting
Thoughts that they ascribe to, voices that charge them with electricity
While causing mental grievance to those who love the quietude.
Even those who broadcast words that shout the truth
Disturb the silence that ought to be,
Necessary as it is. A much-improved world would benefit from
Prolonged periods of silence and of meditation and of deep perceptions
Of the way things ought to be.
It is a form of prayer but much more realistic and more effective
In getting us in touch with who we are and why we are
And where we are and where we soon will be.
Silence is a gift that not that many deserve
But one that we all need in this cacophonic world.
It is a prayer that needs no answer, just acknowledgement
In the form of a knowing smile.
Silence is a gift,
A refuge in this all too noisy nation,
A respite from the talking heads that will not stop
Shouting their agendas and their selfish needs for all to hear.
Silence is always in the wings, waiting to enter the stage
And fill the atmosphere with blessed relief
And comforting escape from chatter and grumbling and dissatisfaction.
Have you noticed how the world would be so much better off
Without the so obnoxious personalities infesting airwaves and print
With words attacking just for the purpose of making a racket
(Because they once discerned that noisy kids get more attention than
Those who have the wisdom to remain at peace)?
Silence s a comfort, a blanket that you can wrap around yourself,
And use to insulate yourself from anxieties and antagonistic verbiage
That too loosely flows and soon engulfs the masses eagerly awaiting
Thoughts that they ascribe to, voices that charge them with electricity
While causing mental grievance to those who love the quietude.
Even those who broadcast words that shout the truth
Disturb the silence that ought to be,
Necessary as it is. A much-improved world would benefit from
Prolonged periods of silence and of meditation and of deep perceptions
Of the way things ought to be.
It is a form of prayer but much more realistic and more effective
In getting us in touch with who we are and why we are
And where we are and where we soon will be.
Silence is a gift that not that many deserve
But one that we all need in this cacophonic world.
It is a prayer that needs no answer, just acknowledgement
In the form of a knowing smile.
Appreciation Day
My favorite holiday does not exist but it quite clearly should:
I’d call it True Appreciation Day
(Not another type of Thanksgiving but so much more personal)
It would be the day I set aside the precious time
To tell so many people from my past how much I care for them,
How much they helped to shape me
And created someone who I freely admit has helped so many others.
As a teacher, parent, lover, friend
It may be much too late to tell many face to face
But someone never really dies as long as he or she is in the thoughts
And memories of those who were so blessed to know that person.
My appreciation would have to take the form of thoughts
Because of time and place
I’d say those special words of gratitude to teachers
Who built in me knowledge and understanding, wisdom and caution,
Logic and emotion by examples of their nature and their subject matter
I’d express appreciation to past friends
Lost as Life took us in various directions after school
But whose influences stayed with me and helped me
Ascertain my worth and values
Moving on from teachers seemed so natural but
Leaving behind friends was hard
They are still missed even as I replay memories of scenes
In which our lives intertwined and brought us momentary satisfaction
And hopes of future meetings rarely come to fruition
I would love to somehow express my appreciation for
All the other adults who were there for me in as they say
My formative years: parents, sisters, other relatives
And in-laws, nieces and nephew and customers
Who inter-acted with me and built my perspicacity,
And soldiers who fought in the wars I’ve lived through
And helped me live in a democratic republic
(as Franklin warned, if we can keep it):
World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War,
Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan --- a chain that never seems to end
And I suppose I should appreciate the politicians who followed their oaths
To the Constitution and to the Bible, who tried their best unselfishly
(This eliminates the boorish megalomaniacs and egotists) ---
Presidents, mayors, members of Congress and the New York City Council,
County Executives, governors and the like
And till so very recently I’d have included the apolitical justices
Of the U. S. Supreme Court and judges in the lower courts
And while I celebrate Appreciation Day I must include the athletes
Winners and losers (who tried) over the decades of my life:
The Knicks (especially 1969 and 1973), the Mets (especially 1969 and 1986),
The Yanks (my first love – especially in 1949 through 1953)
They filled my life with excitement and vicarious glory
And even in their off-years they provided sparks of excellence
(Perhaps too few but --- as they say --- better than none)
I proclaim appreciation for the actors who have entertained me
And have made my dreams a possibility
Those on Broadway and TV and movie screens
And musicians who found the notes to add a soundtrack
That is there within my thoughts at times of need
To relax me or to increase my affections and my dreams
I will not forget Appreciation for my colleagues
Teaching side by side, offering assistance in the form of knowledge,
Methods, insights, discussions, encouragement, example
I celebrate Appreciation Day in my heart and even if I am alone aware
Of how this great collection have affected me it is enough for me
To light a candle, sing a song, kiss a memory and bow in gratitude
Acknowledging the intertwining nature of Life
For we are all of Life and form a cycle that connects us
In experience, emotion, wisdom and Appreciation
My favorite holiday does not exist but it quite clearly should:
I’d call it True Appreciation Day
(Not another type of Thanksgiving but so much more personal)
It would be the day I set aside the precious time
To tell so many people from my past how much I care for them,
How much they helped to shape me
And created someone who I freely admit has helped so many others.
As a teacher, parent, lover, friend
It may be much too late to tell many face to face
But someone never really dies as long as he or she is in the thoughts
And memories of those who were so blessed to know that person.
My appreciation would have to take the form of thoughts
Because of time and place
I’d say those special words of gratitude to teachers
Who built in me knowledge and understanding, wisdom and caution,
Logic and emotion by examples of their nature and their subject matter
I’d express appreciation to past friends
Lost as Life took us in various directions after school
But whose influences stayed with me and helped me
Ascertain my worth and values
Moving on from teachers seemed so natural but
Leaving behind friends was hard
They are still missed even as I replay memories of scenes
In which our lives intertwined and brought us momentary satisfaction
And hopes of future meetings rarely come to fruition
I would love to somehow express my appreciation for
All the other adults who were there for me in as they say
My formative years: parents, sisters, other relatives
And in-laws, nieces and nephew and customers
Who inter-acted with me and built my perspicacity,
And soldiers who fought in the wars I’ve lived through
And helped me live in a democratic republic
(as Franklin warned, if we can keep it):
World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War,
Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan --- a chain that never seems to end
And I suppose I should appreciate the politicians who followed their oaths
To the Constitution and to the Bible, who tried their best unselfishly
(This eliminates the boorish megalomaniacs and egotists) ---
Presidents, mayors, members of Congress and the New York City Council,
County Executives, governors and the like
And till so very recently I’d have included the apolitical justices
Of the U. S. Supreme Court and judges in the lower courts
And while I celebrate Appreciation Day I must include the athletes
Winners and losers (who tried) over the decades of my life:
The Knicks (especially 1969 and 1973), the Mets (especially 1969 and 1986),
The Yanks (my first love – especially in 1949 through 1953)
They filled my life with excitement and vicarious glory
And even in their off-years they provided sparks of excellence
(Perhaps too few but --- as they say --- better than none)
I proclaim appreciation for the actors who have entertained me
And have made my dreams a possibility
Those on Broadway and TV and movie screens
And musicians who found the notes to add a soundtrack
That is there within my thoughts at times of need
To relax me or to increase my affections and my dreams
I will not forget Appreciation for my colleagues
Teaching side by side, offering assistance in the form of knowledge,
Methods, insights, discussions, encouragement, example
I celebrate Appreciation Day in my heart and even if I am alone aware
Of how this great collection have affected me it is enough for me
To light a candle, sing a song, kiss a memory and bow in gratitude
Acknowledging the intertwining nature of Life
For we are all of Life and form a cycle that connects us
In experience, emotion, wisdom and Appreciation
The Wall
It never leaves the sacred ground it occupies
But hovers over all who visit it and understand.
It doesn’t move but moves all those who come
And stare at names that grow with age and time.
It starts out modestly as did our presence as observers
But then it keeps on growing, holding on to
Every visitor’s breath, some who seek to pay respect
And past due gratitude and recognition,
Some to find the name, the one of one too soon gone,
The name of one who was a friend, a lover, companion, brother
Of the band, and all shed tears, within or without,
At the lost potential, the missing mission that each had
Waiting, these gentle people thrown to the wolves
And making the best of a bad time
And doing honor to a nation which owed them all so much more.
Here stands the wall overshadowing everything within its view,
Calling out yet whispering each name
For those who choose to hear and to acknowledge their final sacrifices
In a country far away, now flourishing despite the war that was not won.
Here stands the wall, black and powerful, rising to great heights,
Singing songs not finished with words not spoken
Except that they are heard in the hearts of those who cherished youth
And cry for youth too soon gone. They should stand tall,
But in their stead, there is the wall.
It never leaves the sacred ground it occupies
But hovers over all who visit it and understand.
It doesn’t move but moves all those who come
And stare at names that grow with age and time.
It starts out modestly as did our presence as observers
But then it keeps on growing, holding on to
Every visitor’s breath, some who seek to pay respect
And past due gratitude and recognition,
Some to find the name, the one of one too soon gone,
The name of one who was a friend, a lover, companion, brother
Of the band, and all shed tears, within or without,
At the lost potential, the missing mission that each had
Waiting, these gentle people thrown to the wolves
And making the best of a bad time
And doing honor to a nation which owed them all so much more.
Here stands the wall overshadowing everything within its view,
Calling out yet whispering each name
For those who choose to hear and to acknowledge their final sacrifices
In a country far away, now flourishing despite the war that was not won.
Here stands the wall, black and powerful, rising to great heights,
Singing songs not finished with words not spoken
Except that they are heard in the hearts of those who cherished youth
And cry for youth too soon gone. They should stand tall,
But in their stead, there is the wall.
Treasure Hunt
If you’re lucky,
You won’t spend a lifetime seeking
What is now within your grasp.
Some call it fortune;
Others think it unthinkable
To put a price on something so rare
But there you are,
One of a kind in a universe of the perverse:
Since people first detected treasure
And the Pardoner told his righteous Tale
Long after Roman conquerors filled their coffers,
People have not ceased to search for that which doesn’t have to be elusive
But too often seems beyond the grasp of human beings.
Treasure is defined by rarity;
The common is not valued
But is that the way it should be?
The greatest treasure is true love ---
But is that measured by the minuscule
When love surrounds us every day?
If you’re lucky,
You will recognize the value in the ones who care
About you and personify pure gold and diamonds,
But your life is momentarily enriched by gems and jewelry
While real love nourishes a lifetime for the graced.
The fortunate recognize their fortune
Not in the glitter of their gold
Or the shimmer of their diamonds
Or the glow of rubies and the like but
In the eyes
Of those who treasure them.
If you’re lucky,
You won’t spend a lifetime seeking
What is now within your grasp.
Some call it fortune;
Others think it unthinkable
To put a price on something so rare
But there you are,
One of a kind in a universe of the perverse:
Since people first detected treasure
And the Pardoner told his righteous Tale
Long after Roman conquerors filled their coffers,
People have not ceased to search for that which doesn’t have to be elusive
But too often seems beyond the grasp of human beings.
Treasure is defined by rarity;
The common is not valued
But is that the way it should be?
The greatest treasure is true love ---
But is that measured by the minuscule
When love surrounds us every day?
If you’re lucky,
You will recognize the value in the ones who care
About you and personify pure gold and diamonds,
But your life is momentarily enriched by gems and jewelry
While real love nourishes a lifetime for the graced.
The fortunate recognize their fortune
Not in the glitter of their gold
Or the shimmer of their diamonds
Or the glow of rubies and the like but
In the eyes
Of those who treasure them.
I Never Knew
I never knew my father
When he was playing on the streets
Of his Polish village
As a boy
In more carefree times
Than soon would overwhelm and overcome
Extended families of innocents.
I never knew his purity and carefree ways
And his youthful and unspoiled imagination
In those days
Of interaction with his friends,
Those who shared dreams of angels ---
Because the older man I knew was serious
And caring, not carefree . . .
And isn’t is always true
That those we know as older versions of themselves
We can’t conceive were youngsters once
And had the inborn faith that the playground
Of their world
Would stay and would adjust
To their wants and their desires.
An old and serious person
Once was young and smiling,
Looking forward to those endless days
Of never growing old.
I never knew my father
When he was playing on the streets
Of his Polish village
As a boy
In more carefree times
Than soon would overwhelm and overcome
Extended families of innocents.
I never knew his purity and carefree ways
And his youthful and unspoiled imagination
In those days
Of interaction with his friends,
Those who shared dreams of angels ---
Because the older man I knew was serious
And caring, not carefree . . .
And isn’t is always true
That those we know as older versions of themselves
We can’t conceive were youngsters once
And had the inborn faith that the playground
Of their world
Would stay and would adjust
To their wants and their desires.
An old and serious person
Once was young and smiling,
Looking forward to those endless days
Of never growing old.
alone
How do I keep from going crazy,
Alone with many complex thoughts?
I know the feel of a single daisy
And the struggles silent life wrought.
I know the chill of isolation,
The metaphor of being an island
And can only imagine the blessed elation
Of being more than a grain of sand.
I look around and find no solace
In eyes that gaze to other places;
I wonder what my life’s real goal is,
As I am put through its daily paces.
A human was not made to be
Alone and full of alienation;
There is no freedom when one is free:
There is no music without syncopation
To strengthen one’s true roles in life.
To be alone is to know pain,
To dwell among much empty strife,
To know deep loss and little gain.
Communication dissipates
Into meaningless and misplaced space;
And so it comes that one’s true Fate’s
Accompanied by deep disgrace:
To be alone and call out loud
To no response gives birth to grief;
There’s nothing there of which to be proud;
There’s devastation without relief!
Is this the way my road must twist?
Is this what’s left of my sojourn?
If so, I fail to grasp the gist
Of Life, and I prepare to burn!
How do I keep from going crazy,
Alone with many complex thoughts?
I know the feel of a single daisy
And the struggles silent life wrought.
I know the chill of isolation,
The metaphor of being an island
And can only imagine the blessed elation
Of being more than a grain of sand.
I look around and find no solace
In eyes that gaze to other places;
I wonder what my life’s real goal is,
As I am put through its daily paces.
A human was not made to be
Alone and full of alienation;
There is no freedom when one is free:
There is no music without syncopation
To strengthen one’s true roles in life.
To be alone is to know pain,
To dwell among much empty strife,
To know deep loss and little gain.
Communication dissipates
Into meaningless and misplaced space;
And so it comes that one’s true Fate’s
Accompanied by deep disgrace:
To be alone and call out loud
To no response gives birth to grief;
There’s nothing there of which to be proud;
There’s devastation without relief!
Is this the way my road must twist?
Is this what’s left of my sojourn?
If so, I fail to grasp the gist
Of Life, and I prepare to burn!
DUKES and CHAMBERLAIN
Two tall men, athletic, ambitious
Paralleled each other
In their ways, attending college for two years,
Globetrotting for another two
And entering the NBA five years apart,
Bringing great potential and the hopes of fans
But there the parallel departed.
Chamberlain was great, set records
(50 points a game for a season;
100 against the Knicks in Hershey).
Chamberlain won it all with his teammates.
Hall of Fame was his lasting home
While Dukes died in a home that had no heat,
The end result of a life of great potential
Ruined by a car crash and ensuing brain damage.
You can never tell by looks or by a dream
Who will be great and who will suffer too much defeat.
Lord Chamberlain goes down in history
And Dukes is not of royalty of any kind.
He was in real-life much like Flick Webb was in poetry.
Two tall men, athletic, ambitious
Paralleled each other
In their ways, attending college for two years,
Globetrotting for another two
And entering the NBA five years apart,
Bringing great potential and the hopes of fans
But there the parallel departed.
Chamberlain was great, set records
(50 points a game for a season;
100 against the Knicks in Hershey).
Chamberlain won it all with his teammates.
Hall of Fame was his lasting home
While Dukes died in a home that had no heat,
The end result of a life of great potential
Ruined by a car crash and ensuing brain damage.
You can never tell by looks or by a dream
Who will be great and who will suffer too much defeat.
Lord Chamberlain goes down in history
And Dukes is not of royalty of any kind.
He was in real-life much like Flick Webb was in poetry.
A Single Blade of Grass
Somewhere there is a single blade of grass
Breaking the man-made barrier walk,
Demanding no attention,
Seeking no affection,
Ignorant of worship or philosophy,
Not making any statement except
That it lives.
There is no cogito, ego sum
Yet is exists.
Despite the fierce determination
Of the human race to build and to expand,
To proclaim mastery over “our” domain
And arrogant superiority,
It survives in its verdant life.
Unaware of the sum total of what we term
Advanced civilization, with its grand and lofty
Infrastructure and tall buildings bragging to the sky,
It carries on in its holy grassiness;
One day after the last, step by step ---
It stubbornly stretches upward,
Each day discovering and exploring new heights,
Unable to pray to its Mother that
It not be trodden,
But there is no doubt: It lives
As much as you and I do,
Surrounded by the same air shared
Through history by the illustrious and the infamous,
Kissed by the same sweet rain that was felt by Julius,
Khan and Alexander.
Yet, ignored by passing feet and busy minds
Wrapped up in their daily detritus,
Unaware that surviving and even thriving
From the surface trod upon unconsciously
Step by busy step
There still exists and lives
A single blade of grass,
Somewhere there is a single blade of grass
Breaking the man-made barrier walk,
Demanding no attention,
Seeking no affection,
Ignorant of worship or philosophy,
Not making any statement except
That it lives.
There is no cogito, ego sum
Yet is exists.
Despite the fierce determination
Of the human race to build and to expand,
To proclaim mastery over “our” domain
And arrogant superiority,
It survives in its verdant life.
Unaware of the sum total of what we term
Advanced civilization, with its grand and lofty
Infrastructure and tall buildings bragging to the sky,
It carries on in its holy grassiness;
One day after the last, step by step ---
It stubbornly stretches upward,
Each day discovering and exploring new heights,
Unable to pray to its Mother that
It not be trodden,
But there is no doubt: It lives
As much as you and I do,
Surrounded by the same air shared
Through history by the illustrious and the infamous,
Kissed by the same sweet rain that was felt by Julius,
Khan and Alexander.
Yet, ignored by passing feet and busy minds
Wrapped up in their daily detritus,
Unaware that surviving and even thriving
From the surface trod upon unconsciously
Step by busy step
There still exists and lives
A single blade of grass,
I Didn't Cry
I didn’t cry when she was taken from me when I was
Much too young to be without her.
I didn’t cry no matter how much I missed her touch
And her soothing, comforting voice when I was
In a situation that I saw no escape from.
I didn’t cry on that chilled, gray, rainy day
When her cold plain coffin was lowered into the waiting earth
Despite my wanting to feel the tears of sorrow and guilt,
Despite my need to scream the emptiness and loss I felt
Until the sound would dry up the insulting rain.
I didn’t cry when she was brought in from another borough
To care for me as she cared for her own son,
And when that didn’t work out I didn’t cry when she was gone.
I didn’t cry when she was invited to be another new mother
And despite her being related, it just was not meant to be and
She finally left.
I didn’t cry when she left me to join the armed services,
Nor did I cry though I felt the tears when she passed much too young.
I didn’t cry when she made it to her seventies and seemed to have
It all under medical control only to die in her sleep ---
Peacefully, they said, though that is not what I intuitively suspect.
I did not cry when we were separated and later legally cleaved apart
Despite my hopes and my desires for I knew that I had shared the blame
As had the unfair fate that had attacked our kids.
I did not cry because men do not cry (even little men) in our society
Even when there’s too sufficient cause,
But for that misconception now in my old age
And recognizing all the hurt that I became acquainted with,
I can at last declare
That I do cry.
It is in private still but let all kindred souls beware
That I do cry
Until there’s nothing left but the dryness borne by my heart.
I didn’t cry when she was taken from me when I was
Much too young to be without her.
I didn’t cry no matter how much I missed her touch
And her soothing, comforting voice when I was
In a situation that I saw no escape from.
I didn’t cry on that chilled, gray, rainy day
When her cold plain coffin was lowered into the waiting earth
Despite my wanting to feel the tears of sorrow and guilt,
Despite my need to scream the emptiness and loss I felt
Until the sound would dry up the insulting rain.
I didn’t cry when she was brought in from another borough
To care for me as she cared for her own son,
And when that didn’t work out I didn’t cry when she was gone.
I didn’t cry when she was invited to be another new mother
And despite her being related, it just was not meant to be and
She finally left.
I didn’t cry when she left me to join the armed services,
Nor did I cry though I felt the tears when she passed much too young.
I didn’t cry when she made it to her seventies and seemed to have
It all under medical control only to die in her sleep ---
Peacefully, they said, though that is not what I intuitively suspect.
I did not cry when we were separated and later legally cleaved apart
Despite my hopes and my desires for I knew that I had shared the blame
As had the unfair fate that had attacked our kids.
I did not cry because men do not cry (even little men) in our society
Even when there’s too sufficient cause,
But for that misconception now in my old age
And recognizing all the hurt that I became acquainted with,
I can at last declare
That I do cry.
It is in private still but let all kindred souls beware
That I do cry
Until there’s nothing left but the dryness borne by my heart.
The Stench of Death
This place has the smell of death
People who belong are no longer here
People who are here have lost their minds
And have not been able to stop
Their thoughts from wandering
To another time
To another place
To another realm
Far from the matrix that is now
We should be here but we are not
Completely
Instead we force ourselves like sentient mechanisms
To go through the motions
But find no satisfaction
Or fulfillment
Or joy
Or camaraderie and connections
That existed in the past.
McKay wrote that they wore the mask
But in this period of time
We wear the mask
Of death
Of isolation
Of forlorn masses
And the mask hides tears of grief
For this is not the way
It was supposed to be
Not the way
It was
Not the way
This place has the smell of death
People who belong are no longer here
People who are here have lost their minds
And have not been able to stop
Their thoughts from wandering
To another time
To another place
To another realm
Far from the matrix that is now
We should be here but we are not
Completely
Instead we force ourselves like sentient mechanisms
To go through the motions
But find no satisfaction
Or fulfillment
Or joy
Or camaraderie and connections
That existed in the past.
McKay wrote that they wore the mask
But in this period of time
We wear the mask
Of death
Of isolation
Of forlorn masses
And the mask hides tears of grief
For this is not the way
It was supposed to be
Not the way
It was
Not the way
Up is Bad
I do not want to be up;
Up is a bad place to be,
Full of scary viruses and power-crazy
Unpatriotic politicians and whiny complaining
Relatives and repeated tv shows and
Unmasked neighbors and pain
And cold air that never seems to want
To welcome and comfort me.
I’d rather stay in bed,
Where the known is better than the unknown but feared.
I’d rather stay in a place of warmth and cuddling
And dreaming about things that make no sense.
I can handle dreams that way
But up means facing so-called reality
That makes no sense every day and that
Is much too much for me by now.
I know Frost loved living and told me
In his “Birches” that it’s good to escape for a while
But that there is no place like reality and Earth
And I love Robert very much but
He began his final journey in 1963 so
He’s not here to see what’s going on.
Up is bad and I must face the challenge every day,
Be brave and look around and fight for freedom
But right now
I choose to shield myself
And cover up
And close my eyes
And dream.
I do not want to be up;
Up is a bad place to be,
Full of scary viruses and power-crazy
Unpatriotic politicians and whiny complaining
Relatives and repeated tv shows and
Unmasked neighbors and pain
And cold air that never seems to want
To welcome and comfort me.
I’d rather stay in bed,
Where the known is better than the unknown but feared.
I’d rather stay in a place of warmth and cuddling
And dreaming about things that make no sense.
I can handle dreams that way
But up means facing so-called reality
That makes no sense every day and that
Is much too much for me by now.
I know Frost loved living and told me
In his “Birches” that it’s good to escape for a while
But that there is no place like reality and Earth
And I love Robert very much but
He began his final journey in 1963 so
He’s not here to see what’s going on.
Up is bad and I must face the challenge every day,
Be brave and look around and fight for freedom
But right now
I choose to shield myself
And cover up
And close my eyes
And dream.
I Absolve You
Do not for a second feel guilt or shame
If you don’t ever visit my grave when I am gone
Or light a candle in my memory
Or leave a pebble on my tombstone.
It makes no difference to me, and I take no measure of offense.
I am beyond reproaching you or shaming you
For societal-perceived wrongs.
That is not me beneath the earth,
Not me in eternal rest
(Such is the euphemism that I cast aside).
I would rather that you visit me in your heart,
Feel the person that I was or strove to be.
Sense my thoughts and hear my voice in these my writings
And in the memories of me that you now cherish.
Discard those times when you were harsh in your judgments
And remember that perfection is a human misconception,
A fiction, A visage, a phantasm that will be reached as easily
As El Dorado or Ponce de Leon’s Fountain
Or the Holy Grail or some perpetual motion machine
(For we are fond of seeking the impossible; ask Don Quixote).
I was a man who loved you and who held no grudge
Or self-destructive resentment ---
And recognizing my shining imperfections, I tell you
That no visit to my grave could ever match to me
A single moment when you pause and pleasantly recall
An act, a touch, a smile, a word from me that made you feel
The love that I communicated to your soul.
This is how I wish to be remembered,
Not as some lifeless once-inhabitant of the Earth
But as a man whose heart somehow still beats in tune with yours.
I will always hold your hand and guide you to your happiness.
I will always be with you and if I have lived a moment well,
I will be present in every smile that you feel generous enough to share
With those who now enrich your life.
I will walk you to your home and watch with you the scenes
That make up all those memories that you have waiting
For you . . . for you are loved beyond the physical and metaphysical
By what is left of me, a part of the timeless universe
That --- as the very universe, itself --- has no fixed bounds.
And so, I say that I absolve you from the mundane expectations
Of this world and call for you to just remember me
With joy and love
And that will be enough.
Do not for a second feel guilt or shame
If you don’t ever visit my grave when I am gone
Or light a candle in my memory
Or leave a pebble on my tombstone.
It makes no difference to me, and I take no measure of offense.
I am beyond reproaching you or shaming you
For societal-perceived wrongs.
That is not me beneath the earth,
Not me in eternal rest
(Such is the euphemism that I cast aside).
I would rather that you visit me in your heart,
Feel the person that I was or strove to be.
Sense my thoughts and hear my voice in these my writings
And in the memories of me that you now cherish.
Discard those times when you were harsh in your judgments
And remember that perfection is a human misconception,
A fiction, A visage, a phantasm that will be reached as easily
As El Dorado or Ponce de Leon’s Fountain
Or the Holy Grail or some perpetual motion machine
(For we are fond of seeking the impossible; ask Don Quixote).
I was a man who loved you and who held no grudge
Or self-destructive resentment ---
And recognizing my shining imperfections, I tell you
That no visit to my grave could ever match to me
A single moment when you pause and pleasantly recall
An act, a touch, a smile, a word from me that made you feel
The love that I communicated to your soul.
This is how I wish to be remembered,
Not as some lifeless once-inhabitant of the Earth
But as a man whose heart somehow still beats in tune with yours.
I will always hold your hand and guide you to your happiness.
I will always be with you and if I have lived a moment well,
I will be present in every smile that you feel generous enough to share
With those who now enrich your life.
I will walk you to your home and watch with you the scenes
That make up all those memories that you have waiting
For you . . . for you are loved beyond the physical and metaphysical
By what is left of me, a part of the timeless universe
That --- as the very universe, itself --- has no fixed bounds.
And so, I say that I absolve you from the mundane expectations
Of this world and call for you to just remember me
With joy and love
And that will be enough.
Satireday
We take ourselves so much too seriously, it seems to me.
We spend our time crying and complaining,
Threatening and warning,
Hating and despising,
And use such quantities of energy
That there is nothing left for love,
Enjoyment, joy, appreciation.
Perhaps we need a special day one time a week,
A day when we sit back and smile and even laugh,
A day when we poke fun directly at ourselves,
And share this time with neighbors, kin, and strangers,
Making faces, telling anecdotes
Reminding us that we are human, that we are far from perfect,
Forcing us to delve within ourselves and understand.
That maybe if we were to standardize this day,
Insert it into calendars, give it a name,
For names means things exist ---
Call it Satireday (an added weekend day to sit back and relax;
Saturday, Satireday, and Sunday – a day to have our fun and tranquility;
A day to introspect about our foibles and mock ourselves,
Seeking the smiles of kindred and hostile spirits,
Breathing laughter and soothing tensions, hoping
To eradicate them; a spiritual day),
The chances are we would live longer, reduce blood pressure,
Ameliorate the stress, enable us to breathe
And use our sense to taste the love around us,
Smell the eagerness to please,
Hear the rhythms of a living planet,
See all the reasons that we all exist
And feel the heartbeats of so many others who just want to live.
We have a need to not take everything so deeply;
We are imperfect creatures who require this respite, Satireday,
As much as we need sleep and nourishment.
If the world is too much with us, this is our choosing,
And likewise it should be our choice to find the time
To smile and nod and hug and kiss and laugh,
At least one day a week.
We take ourselves so much too seriously, it seems to me.
We spend our time crying and complaining,
Threatening and warning,
Hating and despising,
And use such quantities of energy
That there is nothing left for love,
Enjoyment, joy, appreciation.
Perhaps we need a special day one time a week,
A day when we sit back and smile and even laugh,
A day when we poke fun directly at ourselves,
And share this time with neighbors, kin, and strangers,
Making faces, telling anecdotes
Reminding us that we are human, that we are far from perfect,
Forcing us to delve within ourselves and understand.
That maybe if we were to standardize this day,
Insert it into calendars, give it a name,
For names means things exist ---
Call it Satireday (an added weekend day to sit back and relax;
Saturday, Satireday, and Sunday – a day to have our fun and tranquility;
A day to introspect about our foibles and mock ourselves,
Seeking the smiles of kindred and hostile spirits,
Breathing laughter and soothing tensions, hoping
To eradicate them; a spiritual day),
The chances are we would live longer, reduce blood pressure,
Ameliorate the stress, enable us to breathe
And use our sense to taste the love around us,
Smell the eagerness to please,
Hear the rhythms of a living planet,
See all the reasons that we all exist
And feel the heartbeats of so many others who just want to live.
We have a need to not take everything so deeply;
We are imperfect creatures who require this respite, Satireday,
As much as we need sleep and nourishment.
If the world is too much with us, this is our choosing,
And likewise it should be our choice to find the time
To smile and nod and hug and kiss and laugh,
At least one day a week.
What Do I Do?
What do I do, sitting here, contemplating nothing seemingly of value
To the rest of the world
As time crawls and speeds by at the same time?
I cannot cure cancer or fix the ills of the nation,
At least not right now (perhaps later, though).
I engage myself in retrospection but that is not pleasing
Or relaxing, for the past can never be relived
Except in fantasy --- and I find nothing fantastic in that exercise.
I can try envisioning the future but the time availed to me is short
And I choose not to waste it wondering what will be
When I must shape and craft my days to build a sense
Of satisfaction and relationship.
Burns questioned one’s self-deception
And I understand too deeply how that trap
Can bring defeat, and so I sit here understanding that the journey
Is so much more the value of the destination.
Where would we be if we allowed ourselves to be consumed with
The end of the story when the end is so inevitable, and we should be lively
Right up to the final scene?
I look forward to every single day, every new page in the story of my life ---
And that is how it should remain in nature’s realm.
And thus my sitting here is not a waste of time at all.
To the rest of the world
As time crawls and speeds by at the same time?
I cannot cure cancer or fix the ills of the nation,
At least not right now (perhaps later, though).
I engage myself in retrospection but that is not pleasing
Or relaxing, for the past can never be relived
Except in fantasy --- and I find nothing fantastic in that exercise.
I can try envisioning the future but the time availed to me is short
And I choose not to waste it wondering what will be
When I must shape and craft my days to build a sense
Of satisfaction and relationship.
Burns questioned one’s self-deception
And I understand too deeply how that trap
Can bring defeat, and so I sit here understanding that the journey
Is so much more the value of the destination.
Where would we be if we allowed ourselves to be consumed with
The end of the story when the end is so inevitable, and we should be lively
Right up to the final scene?
I look forward to every single day, every new page in the story of my life ---
And that is how it should remain in nature’s realm.
And thus my sitting here is not a waste of time at all.
Hope
Hope gives us reason we live.
I mean, we are born and follow
All those stages, learning as we go along,
But once we become really sentient,
Once we graduate from the knee-jerk
Stages of our early years,
Merely replicating the efforts of those gone before,
What keeps us going is hope,
Of growing and learning and socializing
And being accepted. A physical attraction
Has hope that so much more will develop.
A broken heart hopes to be mended and
Once more filled, this time with a solid
Mixture of fantasy and reality, perhaps
Steeled against the sometimes agony
Of unrequited affection or loyalty.
Oh, there are other hopes that fuel our lives and keep us going, which include
The anticipation of reward and recognition
For a job well received --- at any age,
For any compensation (a pat, a hug, a kiss
Or a semblance of appreciation).
We constantly hope to be accepted to a group, a family, a school, a place of honor
And in the end, to Heaven as we see it.
The youth nervously about to ask a girl out is pushed on by hope.
The older man tentative about attracting a much younger woman is encouraged by hope; the new college graduate goes hand in hand with hope as she initiates her challenging career.
The athlete practicing hour upon hour,
Confident in his or her skills, is defeated from the start without hope.
The politician seeking office against the odds refuses to be denied an opportunity
Because hope bolsters the vision of acceptance.
There is no worthy life where there is no hope; it keeps the heart beating and the mind alert, the spirit flowing and desire breathing.
Those without hope go through empty, aimless motions and
Accomplish nothing worthy of being alive.
Those with hope have visions of the future; they can joyfully dance in the absence of music.
Hope is the reason in our trembling gingerly approach
After our travels and travails are over,
We raise our heads and sense relief
As we feel the eyes of God light up, assuring us
That Hope can now give way to comfort.
Hope gives us reason we live.
I mean, we are born and follow
All those stages, learning as we go along,
But once we become really sentient,
Once we graduate from the knee-jerk
Stages of our early years,
Merely replicating the efforts of those gone before,
What keeps us going is hope,
Of growing and learning and socializing
And being accepted. A physical attraction
Has hope that so much more will develop.
A broken heart hopes to be mended and
Once more filled, this time with a solid
Mixture of fantasy and reality, perhaps
Steeled against the sometimes agony
Of unrequited affection or loyalty.
Oh, there are other hopes that fuel our lives and keep us going, which include
The anticipation of reward and recognition
For a job well received --- at any age,
For any compensation (a pat, a hug, a kiss
Or a semblance of appreciation).
We constantly hope to be accepted to a group, a family, a school, a place of honor
And in the end, to Heaven as we see it.
The youth nervously about to ask a girl out is pushed on by hope.
The older man tentative about attracting a much younger woman is encouraged by hope; the new college graduate goes hand in hand with hope as she initiates her challenging career.
The athlete practicing hour upon hour,
Confident in his or her skills, is defeated from the start without hope.
The politician seeking office against the odds refuses to be denied an opportunity
Because hope bolsters the vision of acceptance.
There is no worthy life where there is no hope; it keeps the heart beating and the mind alert, the spirit flowing and desire breathing.
Those without hope go through empty, aimless motions and
Accomplish nothing worthy of being alive.
Those with hope have visions of the future; they can joyfully dance in the absence of music.
Hope is the reason in our trembling gingerly approach
After our travels and travails are over,
We raise our heads and sense relief
As we feel the eyes of God light up, assuring us
That Hope can now give way to comfort.
An Outlet for Our hearts
I traveled to the outskirts of the LIE the other day,
Eager to escape my ordinary pattern for the potential
That awaited me in the too seldom explored details of the retail world.
In a way, it was not so different from my billionaire friends’ escape
(Though I fail to see such a necessity for them)
Into the stratosphere for a few moments in a Muskmobile ---
Perhaps that was the modern version of the speaker’s temporary
Sojourn into the imagination instituted by a birch tree and a boy’s desire,
A moment well communicated in Frosty tones and verse.
I decompressed for ninety minutes,
Driving peacefully and glidingly until I came to the landscape
Of the subdivision stores that beckoned me with their seasonal tranquility.
My senses gave in to the attraction calling to them all at once,
The aromas of sweet, flowery perfumes,
The tastes of instantly digested gratification,
The spectral colors and geometric patterns of the clothing asking me to
Offer them the chance to please me with their looks and comfort,
The sounds of eager pleasers swiftly approaching me as I entered
And attended to their establishments, the feel of the materials (both actual
And fabricated, silky, cottonish, lacy, frilly)
As I considered from among the sumptuous selections.
I was now a part of a complicated but fictitious world
Strange to my sometimes-humdrum daily grind in these hard times.
Here, in the midst of a Shoppers’ Realm, I was accepted for who I am ---
Or who the sales staff imagined me to be ---
Not judged critically as by my family and friends, not ignored by passing
Strangers too rapt in their own sad universes, not perused negatively
By neighbors or passersby --- but welcomed with a smile
And glittering eyes, as if I were ambassador to a new-found land
Thirsty for acceptance, and here
I found the ecstasy of new adventures and hungry exploration
As I slowly sailed from store to store and as I said before
Allowed my senses to be assailed by wares and fares waiting
For my deep approval, consideration and finally acceptance.
Indeed, this place --- called Tanger --- was no stranger to my heart.
It spread before me curved, complete, enchanting as a Siren song,
Its lyrics infiltrating my sometimes-drowning soul
With recognition of the value ff its contending contents.
As Odysseus sought his home in the aftermath of the devastation of Troy
and the continued turmoil of his plethora of challenges,
These articles for purchase, these goods well named for good I felt,
In their own way sought to leave the dullness of their temporary place
And to accompany me on my journey to my homeland,
And at once I knew what ancient Wise Ones knew,
That the meaning and joy of Life are found in the everyday,
In the miracles of ordinary things that we at last,
With deep-felt efforts, make our very own.
I traveled to the outskirts of the LIE the other day,
Eager to escape my ordinary pattern for the potential
That awaited me in the too seldom explored details of the retail world.
In a way, it was not so different from my billionaire friends’ escape
(Though I fail to see such a necessity for them)
Into the stratosphere for a few moments in a Muskmobile ---
Perhaps that was the modern version of the speaker’s temporary
Sojourn into the imagination instituted by a birch tree and a boy’s desire,
A moment well communicated in Frosty tones and verse.
I decompressed for ninety minutes,
Driving peacefully and glidingly until I came to the landscape
Of the subdivision stores that beckoned me with their seasonal tranquility.
My senses gave in to the attraction calling to them all at once,
The aromas of sweet, flowery perfumes,
The tastes of instantly digested gratification,
The spectral colors and geometric patterns of the clothing asking me to
Offer them the chance to please me with their looks and comfort,
The sounds of eager pleasers swiftly approaching me as I entered
And attended to their establishments, the feel of the materials (both actual
And fabricated, silky, cottonish, lacy, frilly)
As I considered from among the sumptuous selections.
I was now a part of a complicated but fictitious world
Strange to my sometimes-humdrum daily grind in these hard times.
Here, in the midst of a Shoppers’ Realm, I was accepted for who I am ---
Or who the sales staff imagined me to be ---
Not judged critically as by my family and friends, not ignored by passing
Strangers too rapt in their own sad universes, not perused negatively
By neighbors or passersby --- but welcomed with a smile
And glittering eyes, as if I were ambassador to a new-found land
Thirsty for acceptance, and here
I found the ecstasy of new adventures and hungry exploration
As I slowly sailed from store to store and as I said before
Allowed my senses to be assailed by wares and fares waiting
For my deep approval, consideration and finally acceptance.
Indeed, this place --- called Tanger --- was no stranger to my heart.
It spread before me curved, complete, enchanting as a Siren song,
Its lyrics infiltrating my sometimes-drowning soul
With recognition of the value ff its contending contents.
As Odysseus sought his home in the aftermath of the devastation of Troy
and the continued turmoil of his plethora of challenges,
These articles for purchase, these goods well named for good I felt,
In their own way sought to leave the dullness of their temporary place
And to accompany me on my journey to my homeland,
And at once I knew what ancient Wise Ones knew,
That the meaning and joy of Life are found in the everyday,
In the miracles of ordinary things that we at last,
With deep-felt efforts, make our very own.
Menu
Any complete meal begins with an appetizer that will be recalled
In quiet moments, when you seek to calm your nerves and
Smile graciously in a most personal way.
A complete first course would include clear memories of a mother’s love
As she holds you close and you feel her softness and caring, and
Inhale the gentle scent that announces her presence.
Hopefully, you also sense the quiet strength of a caring father,
One who treasures your presence in his life and his in yours.
There would be several layers to this appetizer, later including
Games of joy and sharing, meals intertwined with strong
Reinforcing emotions ranging from love to joy and a sense of
Security and well-being, hearing your name called frequently,
Letting you know that you are wanted and even needed.
Adding flavor to this portion of the meal would be a sprinkling
Of birthday parties and family trips to amusement parks and
Hugs and kisses combined with kindhearted words --- and at the end
Of the course, you would be left with a brief feeling of satisfaction,
Of fulfillment, of a knowledge that you are ready to go on
To the main course, to that part of Life that you have been prepared for
As the dishes for the appetizer are removed and you are left
With a solid foundation and with strong anticipation of what comes next.
The entrée now would be served in such a way that you nod and wink,
For it is what you have come to expect, and you sense that you will
Reach a point, when it has ended, that you are almost satiated
(Though there will be a little room for the dessert).
This main course would begin with the completion of your training
For what will be the meaning of your life; It is a time when you
Will feel the joining of your character and your life-affirming purpose,
When you will understand that you are strong enough to tame and handle
Life as it attacks you in its various directions, with many challenges,
All requiring your focused attention, whether it be to help you make
A sound decision about romance (emotional yet practical) or
An understanding about the type of profession you will enter and claim
To be your own, to be shaped by your goals and your desires,
As you in your own way combine unwavering commitment to your standards
With acceptance of the norms and expectations of authority.
This is a heavy meal, not easily digested, but if ingested properly,
It leaves you knowing that you have chosen wisely from the menu
And have just enough left of your appetite for Life
That you can have just a bit of sweetness more, to feel completed.
You are asked to choose dessert and you smile and know that here
Is the part of the meal that you have waited for as a fulfillment of desires.
You will use this time to challenge your own being to fill the moments
With a gathering of friends and those who truly care about you;
You will find the ways to comprehend in depth the purpose of your life,
And at the same time move in two directions, to the past in memories
That satisfy your soul and to the present, where you value every day
As meaningful and gentle --- and you will feel no guilt for moments lost
For they are always there, ready to return and keep good company with
Each new day’s adventure of the mind and soul, for as the meal approaches
Its final taste, you know that you have lived, and that you did deserve
Every soft and warm embrace so many years ago that your mother gave you
As she smiled and saw in you the person you were meant to be.
Any complete meal begins with an appetizer that will be recalled
In quiet moments, when you seek to calm your nerves and
Smile graciously in a most personal way.
A complete first course would include clear memories of a mother’s love
As she holds you close and you feel her softness and caring, and
Inhale the gentle scent that announces her presence.
Hopefully, you also sense the quiet strength of a caring father,
One who treasures your presence in his life and his in yours.
There would be several layers to this appetizer, later including
Games of joy and sharing, meals intertwined with strong
Reinforcing emotions ranging from love to joy and a sense of
Security and well-being, hearing your name called frequently,
Letting you know that you are wanted and even needed.
Adding flavor to this portion of the meal would be a sprinkling
Of birthday parties and family trips to amusement parks and
Hugs and kisses combined with kindhearted words --- and at the end
Of the course, you would be left with a brief feeling of satisfaction,
Of fulfillment, of a knowledge that you are ready to go on
To the main course, to that part of Life that you have been prepared for
As the dishes for the appetizer are removed and you are left
With a solid foundation and with strong anticipation of what comes next.
The entrée now would be served in such a way that you nod and wink,
For it is what you have come to expect, and you sense that you will
Reach a point, when it has ended, that you are almost satiated
(Though there will be a little room for the dessert).
This main course would begin with the completion of your training
For what will be the meaning of your life; It is a time when you
Will feel the joining of your character and your life-affirming purpose,
When you will understand that you are strong enough to tame and handle
Life as it attacks you in its various directions, with many challenges,
All requiring your focused attention, whether it be to help you make
A sound decision about romance (emotional yet practical) or
An understanding about the type of profession you will enter and claim
To be your own, to be shaped by your goals and your desires,
As you in your own way combine unwavering commitment to your standards
With acceptance of the norms and expectations of authority.
This is a heavy meal, not easily digested, but if ingested properly,
It leaves you knowing that you have chosen wisely from the menu
And have just enough left of your appetite for Life
That you can have just a bit of sweetness more, to feel completed.
You are asked to choose dessert and you smile and know that here
Is the part of the meal that you have waited for as a fulfillment of desires.
You will use this time to challenge your own being to fill the moments
With a gathering of friends and those who truly care about you;
You will find the ways to comprehend in depth the purpose of your life,
And at the same time move in two directions, to the past in memories
That satisfy your soul and to the present, where you value every day
As meaningful and gentle --- and you will feel no guilt for moments lost
For they are always there, ready to return and keep good company with
Each new day’s adventure of the mind and soul, for as the meal approaches
Its final taste, you know that you have lived, and that you did deserve
Every soft and warm embrace so many years ago that your mother gave you
As she smiled and saw in you the person you were meant to be.
My granddaughter Lexi and I came upon this stag as we were walking in Montauk, NY in September 2022 (on vacation).
Staggered
The stag just stared at us,
Cream-hued antlers reaching to the sky
From amidst a cloud of shrubbery,
Almost lost within the greening leaves,
Taking us in as possible intruders in his world ---
The magnificent young stag gazed with a natural curiosity
Paralleled by our magnetic attention
To this fellow wanderer who caught
Our attention so unexpectedly and held us
As if nothing else existed in the world.
There we stood on opposing sides
Yet not as challengers to each other's sphere
But as complements fulfilling a magical destiny
Meant for understanding and acceptance.
He was no threat to us, peacefully taking in
The nature of our being as we held our ground
Not in some combative hateful way but
Simply as two fellow creatures making contact
With our eyes and hearts
(and maybe even souls)
And we too sensed the nature of his kindness,
Knowing deeply and instinctively that he belonged
Just where he stood, so tranquilly,
A soothing presence, a natural complement
To what we represented on this cool and pleasant Montauk evening.
He ate; we were about to; life was telling us
That we were all precious visitors
Sharing time, communing not our thoughts
But honest gentle instincts, softly eager to declare
That we of human-kind recognized and honored
His stag-nation and soothed ourselves
With enriching recognition that we all belonged
Just where we longed to be.
The stag just stared at us,
Cream-hued antlers reaching to the sky
From amidst a cloud of shrubbery,
Almost lost within the greening leaves,
Taking us in as possible intruders in his world ---
The magnificent young stag gazed with a natural curiosity
Paralleled by our magnetic attention
To this fellow wanderer who caught
Our attention so unexpectedly and held us
As if nothing else existed in the world.
There we stood on opposing sides
Yet not as challengers to each other's sphere
But as complements fulfilling a magical destiny
Meant for understanding and acceptance.
He was no threat to us, peacefully taking in
The nature of our being as we held our ground
Not in some combative hateful way but
Simply as two fellow creatures making contact
With our eyes and hearts
(and maybe even souls)
And we too sensed the nature of his kindness,
Knowing deeply and instinctively that he belonged
Just where he stood, so tranquilly,
A soothing presence, a natural complement
To what we represented on this cool and pleasant Montauk evening.
He ate; we were about to; life was telling us
That we were all precious visitors
Sharing time, communing not our thoughts
But honest gentle instincts, softly eager to declare
That we of human-kind recognized and honored
His stag-nation and soothed ourselves
With enriching recognition that we all belonged
Just where we longed to be.
The Rain
The rain that kissed my face today
Had touched so many long before ---
It fell on David as he faced the giant
And slew him with the help of fortune.
And as David swiped away the moisture,
He acknowledged in some undefined way
His kinship with those who would come
And recognize his place in His plan.
Rain feels soothing if you allow it,
And we all have need for the washing away
That it offers us; David understood
That his greatness was momentary in
The scheme of things and thus he smiled
When the raindrops fell on him that day
The way I too smiled today; there was no way
I'd react any other way; the rain connected me
To every giant who came before and so will that go on
Until the day there are no more giants in the world
To save us all from floods out of control.
The rain that kissed my face today
Had touched so many long before ---
It fell on David as he faced the giant
And slew him with the help of fortune.
And as David swiped away the moisture,
He acknowledged in some undefined way
His kinship with those who would come
And recognize his place in His plan.
Rain feels soothing if you allow it,
And we all have need for the washing away
That it offers us; David understood
That his greatness was momentary in
The scheme of things and thus he smiled
When the raindrops fell on him that day
The way I too smiled today; there was no way
I'd react any other way; the rain connected me
To every giant who came before and so will that go on
Until the day there are no more giants in the world
To save us all from floods out of control.
Baseball is Life!
I’ve always thought of baseball as a sort of reflection of life:
There are winners and losers, stars and run-of-the-mill
Talents waiting to be discovered,
People who can handle the pressure and those who crumble
Under the spotlight of a full stadium, a big contract, to much dependence
Or too good a team. There are heroes and villains and the massive
Crowd of players come and gone, leaving a fading memory.
As with life, there are people willing to sacrifice or sometimes
Take advantage of opponents and steal from them or make them balk.
There are those who toe the line while others broadcast
Individuality --- in the way they wear their hair or advertise
Their tastes in the colors of their cleats or the jewelry they choose to wear.
Life has its disappointments and its sudden fame --- and so does the still
And always National Pastime, and it remains America’s game
Exactly because it is so slowly paced (despite constant attempts
To speed it up) for we so individual and proudly independent will not
Ever abide by outside sources rushing us: quality requires thought and
Planning and energy and an orchestration of the separate roles
To work in such a way that there is true fulfillment in the
Total experience. As they say, a baseball season (and a well-lived life)
Is a marathon and not a sprint, and every player’s goal reflects the dream
Of every one of us: to score, to win, to find our way to the only place
Worth all our efforts – to hit every base until, at last,
We find our way home and can relax in pride.
I’ve always thought of baseball as a sort of reflection of life:
There are winners and losers, stars and run-of-the-mill
Talents waiting to be discovered,
People who can handle the pressure and those who crumble
Under the spotlight of a full stadium, a big contract, to much dependence
Or too good a team. There are heroes and villains and the massive
Crowd of players come and gone, leaving a fading memory.
As with life, there are people willing to sacrifice or sometimes
Take advantage of opponents and steal from them or make them balk.
There are those who toe the line while others broadcast
Individuality --- in the way they wear their hair or advertise
Their tastes in the colors of their cleats or the jewelry they choose to wear.
Life has its disappointments and its sudden fame --- and so does the still
And always National Pastime, and it remains America’s game
Exactly because it is so slowly paced (despite constant attempts
To speed it up) for we so individual and proudly independent will not
Ever abide by outside sources rushing us: quality requires thought and
Planning and energy and an orchestration of the separate roles
To work in such a way that there is true fulfillment in the
Total experience. As they say, a baseball season (and a well-lived life)
Is a marathon and not a sprint, and every player’s goal reflects the dream
Of every one of us: to score, to win, to find our way to the only place
Worth all our efforts – to hit every base until, at last,
We find our way home and can relax in pride.
When I Was Young
When I was young the war was storming far away
But in my place there was the calm that necessarily defied
Reality; Instead, I lived each day with heroes of my own:
Di Maggio and Berra, then Mantle and Ford --- and
Because there was no such thing as what would come to be
Acknowledged as free agency, I could memorize my players’ numbers
And be assured that they would be there every year (as long as they performed).
Because there had yet to be expansion, I could count on following only the best
(No talent watered down as is the current case);
Because there was the absence of big network cash, I could go home
From school or use my weekend time to watch a plethora of games
Played in heaven’s glowing daylight, and feel great delight.
Because there were no multi-million dollar contracts, I would cheer
As the best pitchers threw 300 innings, got 200 strikeouts
And --- wait for it! ----- could complete more than 20 games a year.
(What good is a star pitcher throwing five or six great innings
Only to watch mediocre relief undo what he has done in brief and sad
And vicious moments?)
When I was young, the game was young and my love for the game was
In its infancy; I watched and played and cherished every moment,
And recognized on some small level that this was a very special time;
Luckily, I did not know in my naiveté that change was coming,
And not always for the better ---
Don’t get me wrong; I love the game today ---
But you never do forget your first true love.
When I was young the war was storming far away
But in my place there was the calm that necessarily defied
Reality; Instead, I lived each day with heroes of my own:
Di Maggio and Berra, then Mantle and Ford --- and
Because there was no such thing as what would come to be
Acknowledged as free agency, I could memorize my players’ numbers
And be assured that they would be there every year (as long as they performed).
Because there had yet to be expansion, I could count on following only the best
(No talent watered down as is the current case);
Because there was the absence of big network cash, I could go home
From school or use my weekend time to watch a plethora of games
Played in heaven’s glowing daylight, and feel great delight.
Because there were no multi-million dollar contracts, I would cheer
As the best pitchers threw 300 innings, got 200 strikeouts
And --- wait for it! ----- could complete more than 20 games a year.
(What good is a star pitcher throwing five or six great innings
Only to watch mediocre relief undo what he has done in brief and sad
And vicious moments?)
When I was young, the game was young and my love for the game was
In its infancy; I watched and played and cherished every moment,
And recognized on some small level that this was a very special time;
Luckily, I did not know in my naiveté that change was coming,
And not always for the better ---
Don’t get me wrong; I love the game today ---
But you never do forget your first true love.
I Am the Mets!
I was reborn a Met fan when they came to life in 1962.
I fell in love with stars past their prime, players looking for themselves
And youngsters tasting first flavors of a Major life.
I laughed and cried and cheered for Marvelous Marv and Piersall and the Duke, Al Jackson and Jay Hook and all the others
Of the early years. I was blessed to watch
The Franchise and Gil and the Championship of '69.
I cherished the ride in 1973 and I believed!
The Mets have been a big part of my relaxation life
And on the ride I've found myself joined by a son, a grandson and granddaughter.
In the 1980's I thrived with Gooden, Hernandez and Strawberry and the rest and I suffered through the '90's
And was humbled as the Yanks,
My former team, took the Crown out of their hands in 2000 ---
And now I breathe in synchronization with the Mets
As I write these thoughts and recollections
In the final days of the season of 2022,
Believing in them yet recognizing the mountains
Waiting to be climbed
But no matter how this current journey ends
I will be there with them
Wearing my uniform around my soul
For indeed I am the Mets!
------------------ (created 9-21-22)
I was reborn a Met fan when they came to life in 1962.
I fell in love with stars past their prime, players looking for themselves
And youngsters tasting first flavors of a Major life.
I laughed and cried and cheered for Marvelous Marv and Piersall and the Duke, Al Jackson and Jay Hook and all the others
Of the early years. I was blessed to watch
The Franchise and Gil and the Championship of '69.
I cherished the ride in 1973 and I believed!
The Mets have been a big part of my relaxation life
And on the ride I've found myself joined by a son, a grandson and granddaughter.
In the 1980's I thrived with Gooden, Hernandez and Strawberry and the rest and I suffered through the '90's
And was humbled as the Yanks,
My former team, took the Crown out of their hands in 2000 ---
And now I breathe in synchronization with the Mets
As I write these thoughts and recollections
In the final days of the season of 2022,
Believing in them yet recognizing the mountains
Waiting to be climbed
But no matter how this current journey ends
I will be there with them
Wearing my uniform around my soul
For indeed I am the Mets!
------------------ (created 9-21-22)
I Live
I am not healthy; I am not wealthy
But I am eager for every day to arrive
So that I may live the Life I have chosen
At this stage of my time, at this juncture
Of my journey. I breathe in the spirits
That watch over me, and I wander and seek
The reasons for my being. I am alive! I therefore thrive.
I enter the town park, smell the leveled grass and gaze
At the enchanting towering trees but it is the children,
Always the children, who capture my attention with their
Carefree scampering and inventive games, sometimes singing,
Always dancing, enraptured within their fantasy worlds ----
It is the children who remind me to love the days I have,
To find and to define the joy they feel and share in it.
The child predicts the man watching over him or her.
The strong connection is almost visible, almost tangible;
I am on the downward side but there is still length to my journey
As long as I continue to renew myself with scenes that fill me
With great hope for this our home; the trees --- the elms, the oaks,
The birches --- watch over my children and yours with deep affection
And act as loving protectors, providing shade and a lesson for the children
To subconsciously absorb as they frolic in the midst of nature:
Your Earth will care for you; it always has. And you my children
Must in turn take care of this your world of nature
So that life continues on its way and carries you to adulthood,
Where you will likely find a greater purpose for your being.
The visits to the park fulfill for me Ponce de Leon’s quest,
A journey to the Fountain of Youth, for in watching the children
I become reinvigorated and renewed, if only momentarily,
And that suffices in its cause to carry me through the day – and then
These visits comfortably reside in my mind, and I call them forth
When they are needed: young children engulfed in the happiness of life
And creating their own flawless world in which they see
Only what is positive, hopeful, possible ---
In which their dreams take on existence and their songs contain
The sweet, pure, innocent voices of the angels. For one magic moment
I can hear them also, reminiscences of music that I heard
In the years before my mother passed away, and I am reminded
Poignantly that life is magical; drive away the chaos and the turmoil
Extant in daily adult life, the religious dogma, politics, the whining
And complaining, the struggles and the conflict, and return to innocence and joy
And hopefulness and that is what the children bring, and I engage in that
Brief renewal of the early years and I can go on, healthy in my spirit
With wealth beyond imagination because the only currency that matters
Is a cheerful outlook embellished by knowledge that who we have become
Can momentarily be set aside and who we were when we were young
Can fill our vision with new dreams and --- as we heard before ---
The wondrous songs of angels.
I am not healthy; I am not wealthy
But I am eager for every day to arrive
So that I may live the Life I have chosen
At this stage of my time, at this juncture
Of my journey. I breathe in the spirits
That watch over me, and I wander and seek
The reasons for my being. I am alive! I therefore thrive.
I enter the town park, smell the leveled grass and gaze
At the enchanting towering trees but it is the children,
Always the children, who capture my attention with their
Carefree scampering and inventive games, sometimes singing,
Always dancing, enraptured within their fantasy worlds ----
It is the children who remind me to love the days I have,
To find and to define the joy they feel and share in it.
The child predicts the man watching over him or her.
The strong connection is almost visible, almost tangible;
I am on the downward side but there is still length to my journey
As long as I continue to renew myself with scenes that fill me
With great hope for this our home; the trees --- the elms, the oaks,
The birches --- watch over my children and yours with deep affection
And act as loving protectors, providing shade and a lesson for the children
To subconsciously absorb as they frolic in the midst of nature:
Your Earth will care for you; it always has. And you my children
Must in turn take care of this your world of nature
So that life continues on its way and carries you to adulthood,
Where you will likely find a greater purpose for your being.
The visits to the park fulfill for me Ponce de Leon’s quest,
A journey to the Fountain of Youth, for in watching the children
I become reinvigorated and renewed, if only momentarily,
And that suffices in its cause to carry me through the day – and then
These visits comfortably reside in my mind, and I call them forth
When they are needed: young children engulfed in the happiness of life
And creating their own flawless world in which they see
Only what is positive, hopeful, possible ---
In which their dreams take on existence and their songs contain
The sweet, pure, innocent voices of the angels. For one magic moment
I can hear them also, reminiscences of music that I heard
In the years before my mother passed away, and I am reminded
Poignantly that life is magical; drive away the chaos and the turmoil
Extant in daily adult life, the religious dogma, politics, the whining
And complaining, the struggles and the conflict, and return to innocence and joy
And hopefulness and that is what the children bring, and I engage in that
Brief renewal of the early years and I can go on, healthy in my spirit
With wealth beyond imagination because the only currency that matters
Is a cheerful outlook embellished by knowledge that who we have become
Can momentarily be set aside and who we were when we were young
Can fill our vision with new dreams and --- as we heard before ---
The wondrous songs of angels.
Baseball is in Our Soul
Baseball is in the DNA of We the People of the United States.
It is present --- and has been --- for decades in our minds
And circulates through us and gives us another dimension of Life.
We breathe and cry this sport; our children are raised
To play in Little League and on school playgrounds and vacant lots.
Our local governments spend money to provide fields
Where a child’s imagination may be fed and will grow.
Our consciousness contains references to the sport,
Comedy routines about Who is on first, movies
Celebrating the lives of real-life heroes (Think
The Pride of the Yankees, 42, Fear Strikes Out and
61*), the wonderful world of fantasy (Field of Dreams, Angels
In the Outfield, The Natural, Major League, Damn Yankees),
Dramatizations which help us realize how much we love the game
(A League of their Own, Take Me Out to the Ballgame, The Bad News
Bears) and films that teach us how to live (Bull Durham, Moneyball,
Bang the Drum Slowly, Mr. 3000) and how not to live (Eight Men Out).
Compare that to the number of films about football, basketball and hockey.
They dot our land with major and minor ballparks and familiar sounds
(Hey, get your hotdog here!) and aromas. They fill our library shelves
With stories of the national pastime . . . and there is even
An intersection in Hoboken, NJ where painted bases mark the birthplace
Of this sport; Singers remind us just how much we cherish baseball:
“I Love Mickey,” “Mickey, Willie and the Duke,” and of course “Take Me Out
To the Ball Game,” to name three; another even brings the field of dreams
To personal life: “Put Me in, Coach.” American speech is replete with
Recalled voices of announcers of the game, from Mel Allen to Gary Cohen to
Harry Kalas to Lindsey Nelson, Tim McCarver, Ralph Kiner, Tony Kubek, Phil Rizzuto
(all Former players) to Curt Gowdy, Ernie Harwell and the very funny Bob Uecker;
Yes, many were omitted from this group but that’s the point:
Make your own list of men who made a connection between baseball
And your life. Somewhere, some time you and baseball shared moments
That you will not forget. Baseball phrases have entered English, and
English baseball words and phrases have entered other languages.
Check out Spanish and Japanese, for example. Our sport has been
A great ambassador that has helped other nations understand our psyche.
We have baseball metaphors in life (“Did you get to third base?”) ---
A really cool example is Phil Rizzuto’s commentary in the Meat Loaf song
“Paradise By the Dashboard Light” --- sometimes a song is
Connected to baseball even though it really is not! (Neil Diamond’s
“Sweet Caroline,” sung by the fans at the start of every seventh inning stretch
In Fenway Park, maybe because Caroline’s father came from
The same state the Red Sox are beloved and have thrived in.
There is a monument and a town that draws thousands of fans
On a pseudo-patriotic pilgrimage every year; the name Cooperstown
In upper New York houses a shrine containing shrines to heroes.
Look around; use all your senses and you will note that it is there:
In your attitude, in your dreams, in your family dynamics,
In your daily life! Baseball!! A field of dreams is just a metaphor
For Life on its highest, most electric plane, and for so many Americans
That means baseball. For the hours and minutes that a game is played,
There are no politics or conspiracies; there is no outside turbulence.
There is only baseball; that is all we need to live normal lives here
In the United States, in the land of beer and hot dogs and those
Uniforms which we wear metaphorically, and which
Help give meaning to our lives and comfort to our souls.
It brings out the best in us.
Baseball is in the DNA of We the People of the United States.
It is present --- and has been --- for decades in our minds
And circulates through us and gives us another dimension of Life.
We breathe and cry this sport; our children are raised
To play in Little League and on school playgrounds and vacant lots.
Our local governments spend money to provide fields
Where a child’s imagination may be fed and will grow.
Our consciousness contains references to the sport,
Comedy routines about Who is on first, movies
Celebrating the lives of real-life heroes (Think
The Pride of the Yankees, 42, Fear Strikes Out and
61*), the wonderful world of fantasy (Field of Dreams, Angels
In the Outfield, The Natural, Major League, Damn Yankees),
Dramatizations which help us realize how much we love the game
(A League of their Own, Take Me Out to the Ballgame, The Bad News
Bears) and films that teach us how to live (Bull Durham, Moneyball,
Bang the Drum Slowly, Mr. 3000) and how not to live (Eight Men Out).
Compare that to the number of films about football, basketball and hockey.
They dot our land with major and minor ballparks and familiar sounds
(Hey, get your hotdog here!) and aromas. They fill our library shelves
With stories of the national pastime . . . and there is even
An intersection in Hoboken, NJ where painted bases mark the birthplace
Of this sport; Singers remind us just how much we cherish baseball:
“I Love Mickey,” “Mickey, Willie and the Duke,” and of course “Take Me Out
To the Ball Game,” to name three; another even brings the field of dreams
To personal life: “Put Me in, Coach.” American speech is replete with
Recalled voices of announcers of the game, from Mel Allen to Gary Cohen to
Harry Kalas to Lindsey Nelson, Tim McCarver, Ralph Kiner, Tony Kubek, Phil Rizzuto
(all Former players) to Curt Gowdy, Ernie Harwell and the very funny Bob Uecker;
Yes, many were omitted from this group but that’s the point:
Make your own list of men who made a connection between baseball
And your life. Somewhere, some time you and baseball shared moments
That you will not forget. Baseball phrases have entered English, and
English baseball words and phrases have entered other languages.
Check out Spanish and Japanese, for example. Our sport has been
A great ambassador that has helped other nations understand our psyche.
We have baseball metaphors in life (“Did you get to third base?”) ---
A really cool example is Phil Rizzuto’s commentary in the Meat Loaf song
“Paradise By the Dashboard Light” --- sometimes a song is
Connected to baseball even though it really is not! (Neil Diamond’s
“Sweet Caroline,” sung by the fans at the start of every seventh inning stretch
In Fenway Park, maybe because Caroline’s father came from
The same state the Red Sox are beloved and have thrived in.
There is a monument and a town that draws thousands of fans
On a pseudo-patriotic pilgrimage every year; the name Cooperstown
In upper New York houses a shrine containing shrines to heroes.
Look around; use all your senses and you will note that it is there:
In your attitude, in your dreams, in your family dynamics,
In your daily life! Baseball!! A field of dreams is just a metaphor
For Life on its highest, most electric plane, and for so many Americans
That means baseball. For the hours and minutes that a game is played,
There are no politics or conspiracies; there is no outside turbulence.
There is only baseball; that is all we need to live normal lives here
In the United States, in the land of beer and hot dogs and those
Uniforms which we wear metaphorically, and which
Help give meaning to our lives and comfort to our souls.
It brings out the best in us.
The Journey Home
Have you every been lonely in a crowd?
Alone and drowning in your thoughts
And regret, re-living what you just saw,
Uselessly trying to will the Fates to make
The ball travel farther, the runner go faster,
The fielder move more swiftly to his left?
I have, and it’s frustrating, irritating, . . . sad.
I had just witnessed my team, fighting to hold on to first,
Fall behind in the game and then come back, three times!
And then in the home ninth, down by three,
They rallied, had the tying run on third, the
Winning run on second --- with two outs ---
But with the league’s leading home run and RBI
Hitter at the plate, and with the roll of momentum
Flowing through the almost sell-out crowd,
With every hometown fan clearly crazed
With excitement and expectation, standing and
Shouting a mixture of cheers and encouragement,
Our own Casey stood there at the bat, with a full count
(Ball four, at the least, would force the tie)
And here came the pitch, heading for the heart
Of the plate while our hearts stopped, and then
It swerved down and away, as our frequent hero
Beginning his swing, noted the change of direction,
And did his best to hold that bat from its useless committal;
And we all stopped shouting and barely breathed, praying
That it would be called ball four since it had obviously missed
The plate . . . but instead we groaned and sent forth
A synchronized sigh of disappointment as the first base ump
Signaled with his thumb shooting up that our Casey had struck out.
I didn’t remember leaving my seat, saying good-bye to my son
And grandson, walking robot-like across the wood planked bridge and
To the platform; I had a faint impression of the train
As it eventually pulled into the station, and as I
Entered the train like some automaton;
I chose to stand amidst the crowd rather than having
Grieving throngs hover over me seated stiffly ---
And then as the train started on its journey to deliver me
To home (something my hero had not done), I noted
That my fellow fans were laughing, bemoaning the ending but
Not deflated by the loss because we still were in first place,
And I just wondered why I seemed to be an island of disappointment
Surrounded by an ocean of optimism and acceptance.
Perhaps it was because they hadn’t been through such tough losses
As often as I have; perhaps they had not been fans since the start,
And feeling that as rationale, I smiled slightly and decided that
Another game was coming and another and “you can’t
Win them all” . . . but it sure would have been so nice
To be riding home with a reason to celebrate Casey’s Revenge.
Have you every been lonely in a crowd?
Alone and drowning in your thoughts
And regret, re-living what you just saw,
Uselessly trying to will the Fates to make
The ball travel farther, the runner go faster,
The fielder move more swiftly to his left?
I have, and it’s frustrating, irritating, . . . sad.
I had just witnessed my team, fighting to hold on to first,
Fall behind in the game and then come back, three times!
And then in the home ninth, down by three,
They rallied, had the tying run on third, the
Winning run on second --- with two outs ---
But with the league’s leading home run and RBI
Hitter at the plate, and with the roll of momentum
Flowing through the almost sell-out crowd,
With every hometown fan clearly crazed
With excitement and expectation, standing and
Shouting a mixture of cheers and encouragement,
Our own Casey stood there at the bat, with a full count
(Ball four, at the least, would force the tie)
And here came the pitch, heading for the heart
Of the plate while our hearts stopped, and then
It swerved down and away, as our frequent hero
Beginning his swing, noted the change of direction,
And did his best to hold that bat from its useless committal;
And we all stopped shouting and barely breathed, praying
That it would be called ball four since it had obviously missed
The plate . . . but instead we groaned and sent forth
A synchronized sigh of disappointment as the first base ump
Signaled with his thumb shooting up that our Casey had struck out.
I didn’t remember leaving my seat, saying good-bye to my son
And grandson, walking robot-like across the wood planked bridge and
To the platform; I had a faint impression of the train
As it eventually pulled into the station, and as I
Entered the train like some automaton;
I chose to stand amidst the crowd rather than having
Grieving throngs hover over me seated stiffly ---
And then as the train started on its journey to deliver me
To home (something my hero had not done), I noted
That my fellow fans were laughing, bemoaning the ending but
Not deflated by the loss because we still were in first place,
And I just wondered why I seemed to be an island of disappointment
Surrounded by an ocean of optimism and acceptance.
Perhaps it was because they hadn’t been through such tough losses
As often as I have; perhaps they had not been fans since the start,
And feeling that as rationale, I smiled slightly and decided that
Another game was coming and another and “you can’t
Win them all” . . . but it sure would have been so nice
To be riding home with a reason to celebrate Casey’s Revenge.
The Civil War: New York Against Atlanta
They fought, opposing predators tasting victory, challenging
Each other for the lengthy season, finishing
With the same win-loss record, way ahead
Of the Phillies and their temporary manager.
(Be careful of the underdog.)
They had important series face to face,
Impressive pitching staffs going at it,
History against hysterical,
No way to know the victor, the survivor
Of this constant six- month long mountain of pressure.
(Be careful of the underdog.)
Power hitters versus contact hitters,
Two top closers, wobbly benches,
Two teams close to equal, even if
One held the Crown as reigning Champ
While the other had the reigning batting and RBI leaders.
Fighting for a bye, feeling pride and strength,
They marched to the inevitable.
(Be careful of the underdog.)
But funny things happen in baseball.
Predictable is boring.
Be careful of the underdog.
The predators are gone now,
And the Phillies stand where stood pretenders.
Predictable is dull.
They fought, opposing predators tasting victory, challenging
Each other for the lengthy season, finishing
With the same win-loss record, way ahead
Of the Phillies and their temporary manager.
(Be careful of the underdog.)
They had important series face to face,
Impressive pitching staffs going at it,
History against hysterical,
No way to know the victor, the survivor
Of this constant six- month long mountain of pressure.
(Be careful of the underdog.)
Power hitters versus contact hitters,
Two top closers, wobbly benches,
Two teams close to equal, even if
One held the Crown as reigning Champ
While the other had the reigning batting and RBI leaders.
Fighting for a bye, feeling pride and strength,
They marched to the inevitable.
(Be careful of the underdog.)
But funny things happen in baseball.
Predictable is boring.
Be careful of the underdog.
The predators are gone now,
And the Phillies stand where stood pretenders.
Predictable is dull.
In a Pinch
I am fascinated by the concepts of baseball’s pinch hitter and pinch runner.
They come in handy, show up when needed, and hopefully succeed.
The scheduled hitter isn’t filling you with confidence ---
He can’t hit a curve or his bat is too slow for a 98 mph pitch ---
Replace him with another, one who might deliver in a pinch.
The runner is not exactly speedy, may not score from second
On a single, may not tag up from third and score as the result
Of a sacrifice fly --- substitute a speedster who can zip
From where he is to where he needs to be like a lightning bolt.
That is what I need in my own life sometimes. Oh, I’m okay
Most of the time, but when there’s pressure, when I am too
Sluggish to perform up to my Major League standard, I sure can use
Someone to replace me, to pinch hit or pinch run, to score
Success on a day when I can’t reach that goal. I’d call a name, and
Magic would create a temporary substitute to do my laundry,
Buy my supermarket stuff, clean my home, bring my big box
Packages to me in just two days! But wait!!
I realized just now I have my very own pinch runner and
Have had so for the past three years, pandemic time,
When the pressure was too much for my aging legs and
My weakened arms: Almost every big game day, I will hear
My downstairs buzzer ring and then I know that my pinch runner
Has delivered my package --- snacks or furniture or heavy
Packs of drinks or paper plates; my second pinch runner has rung
My doorbell and has left for me my weekly groceries; my postal
Pinch runner daily leaves me bills (a necessary evil) and ads
And a renewed registration or a driver’s license. I don’t need
A pinch hitter, either. My super hangs my pictures, fixes my plumbing
Problems and re-does my flooring. I am blessed; I have my talents
But I recognize my limitations; I am not speedy as I was or flexible
Or strong, but wisdom has provided me, in my managerial capacity,
With a ready team of players needed in a pinch.
Baseball echoes life in many ways.
I am fascinated by the concepts of baseball’s pinch hitter and pinch runner.
They come in handy, show up when needed, and hopefully succeed.
The scheduled hitter isn’t filling you with confidence ---
He can’t hit a curve or his bat is too slow for a 98 mph pitch ---
Replace him with another, one who might deliver in a pinch.
The runner is not exactly speedy, may not score from second
On a single, may not tag up from third and score as the result
Of a sacrifice fly --- substitute a speedster who can zip
From where he is to where he needs to be like a lightning bolt.
That is what I need in my own life sometimes. Oh, I’m okay
Most of the time, but when there’s pressure, when I am too
Sluggish to perform up to my Major League standard, I sure can use
Someone to replace me, to pinch hit or pinch run, to score
Success on a day when I can’t reach that goal. I’d call a name, and
Magic would create a temporary substitute to do my laundry,
Buy my supermarket stuff, clean my home, bring my big box
Packages to me in just two days! But wait!!
I realized just now I have my very own pinch runner and
Have had so for the past three years, pandemic time,
When the pressure was too much for my aging legs and
My weakened arms: Almost every big game day, I will hear
My downstairs buzzer ring and then I know that my pinch runner
Has delivered my package --- snacks or furniture or heavy
Packs of drinks or paper plates; my second pinch runner has rung
My doorbell and has left for me my weekly groceries; my postal
Pinch runner daily leaves me bills (a necessary evil) and ads
And a renewed registration or a driver’s license. I don’t need
A pinch hitter, either. My super hangs my pictures, fixes my plumbing
Problems and re-does my flooring. I am blessed; I have my talents
But I recognize my limitations; I am not speedy as I was or flexible
Or strong, but wisdom has provided me, in my managerial capacity,
With a ready team of players needed in a pinch.
Baseball echoes life in many ways.
Baseball, Then and Now
My first decade as a baseball fan was absolutely golden.
The game from 1949 to 1958 was pure and full of meaning,
A winner when compared to the game as it has devolved.
Sorry, young folks, but that’s the way it is, so choke up
And try to make contact but in this face-off, you are bound to strike out.
First, each league was limited to eight teams, which meant a mere eight games
Most days --- and I mean days; numbers of night games were limited
That I could count on watching the World Series in daylight,
As any true fan knows is the way it was meant to be.
Did Doubleday or whoever you might name design night games? I think not.
And that was true of double-headers (every Sunday and each holiday) ---
No twilight or split double-headers to drag things out; get results and move on.
Those years were pre-expansion, so I could turn my Daily News to the back page
And read the name of every home run hitter every day, at a time when
Pre-free agency I could count on players staying with my team if they performed
And I could memorize their numbers and their stats (pre-swinging door rosters).
Pitchers pitched complete games, relievers went for two-three innings
And I could watch them all any time I wanted from a ten buck box seat,
Unafraid that some big corporation would hog those seats and shut out average Joes.
Designated hitters were unknown, which led to managers thinking strategy
When pitchers found themselves due to come to the plate to hit --- or miss.
Phantom runners lounging around second base in the tenth did not exist,
Which makes so much sense: phantoms were made to not be seen.
My mind was treated gently as the teams had but two “colors” ---
White for home games and gray for playing on the road.
Long-overdue ML integration was underway, with Robinson and the Doby and
Soon Willie Mays, Elston Howard and so many others, at last where they belonged,
In the Major Leagues, in this most exciting time, in my presentation of the Golden Age
Of baseball. Each generation has its version of the best of times,
And baseball fans love to argue and try to prove their case,
But there is a difference here, and it is very clear: My opinion’s right!
My first decade as a baseball fan was absolutely golden.
The game from 1949 to 1958 was pure and full of meaning,
A winner when compared to the game as it has devolved.
Sorry, young folks, but that’s the way it is, so choke up
And try to make contact but in this face-off, you are bound to strike out.
First, each league was limited to eight teams, which meant a mere eight games
Most days --- and I mean days; numbers of night games were limited
That I could count on watching the World Series in daylight,
As any true fan knows is the way it was meant to be.
Did Doubleday or whoever you might name design night games? I think not.
And that was true of double-headers (every Sunday and each holiday) ---
No twilight or split double-headers to drag things out; get results and move on.
Those years were pre-expansion, so I could turn my Daily News to the back page
And read the name of every home run hitter every day, at a time when
Pre-free agency I could count on players staying with my team if they performed
And I could memorize their numbers and their stats (pre-swinging door rosters).
Pitchers pitched complete games, relievers went for two-three innings
And I could watch them all any time I wanted from a ten buck box seat,
Unafraid that some big corporation would hog those seats and shut out average Joes.
Designated hitters were unknown, which led to managers thinking strategy
When pitchers found themselves due to come to the plate to hit --- or miss.
Phantom runners lounging around second base in the tenth did not exist,
Which makes so much sense: phantoms were made to not be seen.
My mind was treated gently as the teams had but two “colors” ---
White for home games and gray for playing on the road.
Long-overdue ML integration was underway, with Robinson and the Doby and
Soon Willie Mays, Elston Howard and so many others, at last where they belonged,
In the Major Leagues, in this most exciting time, in my presentation of the Golden Age
Of baseball. Each generation has its version of the best of times,
And baseball fans love to argue and try to prove their case,
But there is a difference here, and it is very clear: My opinion’s right!
Technophilia
Cell phones --- a world of resource in your hand,
A futuristic arcade presenting ever more difficult
Challenges and greater graphics and fantastic characters,
A company of doctors and a choir of medical advice,
And the entertainment: streaming, live, listening, watching,
Reading books and moving rooks and learning how to cook;
At school, drowning in tablets, desktops, magic electronic boards,
whatever will come --- but
Where’s the human contact face to face?
Where’s the genuine discussion, eye contact and all?
Where are people learning how to have discussions,
Change their minds, compromise, get perspicacity?
How long will it be before automatons feed data to surrogate students,
Then followed by subject matter chips installed into what was once
The human brain?
Cell phones --- a world of resource in your hand,
A futuristic arcade presenting ever more difficult
Challenges and greater graphics and fantastic characters,
A company of doctors and a choir of medical advice,
And the entertainment: streaming, live, listening, watching,
Reading books and moving rooks and learning how to cook;
At school, drowning in tablets, desktops, magic electronic boards,
whatever will come --- but
Where’s the human contact face to face?
Where’s the genuine discussion, eye contact and all?
Where are people learning how to have discussions,
Change their minds, compromise, get perspicacity?
How long will it be before automatons feed data to surrogate students,
Then followed by subject matter chips installed into what was once
The human brain?
The Room
The room is not the same.
It was a room filled with laughter and happiness,
Of life and of light and movement.
This room played host to many voices readily expressing
Dreams for the future and love for the day.
People sand and even danced and deeply spoke
And even disagreed but always there was Life
From couch to chair, leaning on a windowsill
And gazing at the daisies blooming down below
In the warmth of daylight. The voices intermingled
With a parade of visitors and loved ones day by day
And there were times the room could not escape
The teasing aroma of a meal that would be served
In a neighboring room not far but just a touch removed
From where the congregation gathered and enjoyed
The homeliness and strange enchantment of
The room that once played host to all it needed
To survive and thrive. This room
Saw children run and sing and dance and play
And opened to them the entire world through
Windows and their own imagination.
This room had light and a mirror that reflected
Day by day the lively family that felt so comfortable
Within its light blue borders, and I will always cherish
Every memory that I savor of this room . . .
Except that now this room is but a stranger,
A phantasm of the past, a host to strangers,
For all those voices and their songs have disappeared,
Part of the great cycle of existence, and so few are left
And they have been displaced and have now returned
To their first home. This room I speak of has become
A specter of the mind, and in that state it still will house
Those voices telling of what would come to be . . .
But for me this room will never be . . . again.
The room is not the same.
It was a room filled with laughter and happiness,
Of life and of light and movement.
This room played host to many voices readily expressing
Dreams for the future and love for the day.
People sand and even danced and deeply spoke
And even disagreed but always there was Life
From couch to chair, leaning on a windowsill
And gazing at the daisies blooming down below
In the warmth of daylight. The voices intermingled
With a parade of visitors and loved ones day by day
And there were times the room could not escape
The teasing aroma of a meal that would be served
In a neighboring room not far but just a touch removed
From where the congregation gathered and enjoyed
The homeliness and strange enchantment of
The room that once played host to all it needed
To survive and thrive. This room
Saw children run and sing and dance and play
And opened to them the entire world through
Windows and their own imagination.
This room had light and a mirror that reflected
Day by day the lively family that felt so comfortable
Within its light blue borders, and I will always cherish
Every memory that I savor of this room . . .
Except that now this room is but a stranger,
A phantasm of the past, a host to strangers,
For all those voices and their songs have disappeared,
Part of the great cycle of existence, and so few are left
And they have been displaced and have now returned
To their first home. This room I speak of has become
A specter of the mind, and in that state it still will house
Those voices telling of what would come to be . . .
But for me this room will never be . . . again.
Am I Jewish?
This is a timely and a timeless question, now, in the midst
Of the sad resurgence of antisemitism in the Land of the Free.
I am not observant; I do not avoid the foods our ancestors
Declared unhealthy and unworthy. But I said the Kaddish
Day by day for one full year when my mother died
Much too soon and left me behind with gentle memories
But with no soft embraces. I was beat upon by a cursing
Hood because he saw me as the murderer of his guiding light
(But forgot about turning the other cheek). I wore a yarmulke
When I attended Hebrew School in the same synagogue
That welcomed me to sit with the rabbi and utter prayers
That I did not understand. I took Hebrew in secondary school
And even won the Golden Ayin one proud year for my work
In helping lesser students working in a foreign tongue.
I went to Israel two times, and walked the streets of Ben-Gurion
And Meir and Dayan and even Eban, saw the land that Moses never saw,
Viewed the place where David resided as our king, gazed at
Dead Sea Scrolls in the Hebrew University and saw the thick salt
Waters of the Dead Sea; I lived in Haifa and in Tel Aviv and
In Jerusalem; at home, I wept for Jews destroyed by suicide
Bombers and by invading armies. I am not religious but my people
Taught me to be spiritual and I now honor the memories
Of my father dragging me to synagogue on High Holy Days
When I was young; I am the man made by all these influences
And though I am not strict and a follower of dogma, I will and can
Never deny the truth that comes with introspection --- that I am Jewish!
This is a timely and a timeless question, now, in the midst
Of the sad resurgence of antisemitism in the Land of the Free.
I am not observant; I do not avoid the foods our ancestors
Declared unhealthy and unworthy. But I said the Kaddish
Day by day for one full year when my mother died
Much too soon and left me behind with gentle memories
But with no soft embraces. I was beat upon by a cursing
Hood because he saw me as the murderer of his guiding light
(But forgot about turning the other cheek). I wore a yarmulke
When I attended Hebrew School in the same synagogue
That welcomed me to sit with the rabbi and utter prayers
That I did not understand. I took Hebrew in secondary school
And even won the Golden Ayin one proud year for my work
In helping lesser students working in a foreign tongue.
I went to Israel two times, and walked the streets of Ben-Gurion
And Meir and Dayan and even Eban, saw the land that Moses never saw,
Viewed the place where David resided as our king, gazed at
Dead Sea Scrolls in the Hebrew University and saw the thick salt
Waters of the Dead Sea; I lived in Haifa and in Tel Aviv and
In Jerusalem; at home, I wept for Jews destroyed by suicide
Bombers and by invading armies. I am not religious but my people
Taught me to be spiritual and I now honor the memories
Of my father dragging me to synagogue on High Holy Days
When I was young; I am the man made by all these influences
And though I am not strict and a follower of dogma, I will and can
Never deny the truth that comes with introspection --- that I am Jewish!
FEAR
The Pledge speaks of “Liberty and Justice for all”;
The national anthem sings to our “sweet land of liberty”;
The Declaration of Independence tells us that we are
Entitled to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”
Yet I am left to wonder how so many pseudo-patriots could chant
“Jews will not replace us” and verbally and physically attack
Not only Jews but Blacks, Hispanics, people who are gay ---
Excuse me if I leave you out but I have not much time.
This nation claims to be “United” --- it says so in its very name
But pseudo-patriots want to split us apart, to ramble through
The broken glass and bashed-in wood and weapons lying on the floor
And they wish to declare with cowardice that this land
Which so many fought for in the Revolution and too many other wars
Was meant to be controlled by racists; “Look,” they say, “we took it
From the Indians and the Mexicans and manifested our God-given destiny,
And what do they mean by dreaming of a more perfect union?
That is not a dream; it is a nightmare born of equality and justice for all.
And who were those villains who made all those promises that
Now force us to reveal exactly who and what we are?”
What happens to a dream deferred? You are too weak of mind to ask
What Langston asked so many years ago; the answer will be different but
The same. What kind of people want a nation that will implode?
They are the same ones, pseudo-patriots, who did what foreign enemies
Could never do, breach the very seat of U. S. legislation,
Prove that U. S. never meant all of US but just a chosen few,
And solidify the truth, that we are not united, have never been
Except in a fading federal fantasy. Did you ever notice
That their idea of “patriot” stresses the ideal in the final four letters
Of the word? To be a patriot to them means to be members of a RIOT!
They don’t deserve to be referred to as Americans.
They do not belong in the noble experiment that is our nation.
If they did, they would not abuse the great words found by all
In our pledge, in our anthem, in our Declaration ---
The foundation of our dream which they insist will be a nightmare
From which they fear they will not be able to escape.
Thick-headedness is born of fear. They are out of tune
With the melodies of America’s great songs; they hum but lack
The depth of understanding when challenged by the lyrics.
Beware of those who call themselves “patriot”;
Real lovers of the ideals of this nation
Show who they are by their actions, not by their
Self-appointed labels.
The Pledge speaks of “Liberty and Justice for all”;
The national anthem sings to our “sweet land of liberty”;
The Declaration of Independence tells us that we are
Entitled to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”
Yet I am left to wonder how so many pseudo-patriots could chant
“Jews will not replace us” and verbally and physically attack
Not only Jews but Blacks, Hispanics, people who are gay ---
Excuse me if I leave you out but I have not much time.
This nation claims to be “United” --- it says so in its very name
But pseudo-patriots want to split us apart, to ramble through
The broken glass and bashed-in wood and weapons lying on the floor
And they wish to declare with cowardice that this land
Which so many fought for in the Revolution and too many other wars
Was meant to be controlled by racists; “Look,” they say, “we took it
From the Indians and the Mexicans and manifested our God-given destiny,
And what do they mean by dreaming of a more perfect union?
That is not a dream; it is a nightmare born of equality and justice for all.
And who were those villains who made all those promises that
Now force us to reveal exactly who and what we are?”
What happens to a dream deferred? You are too weak of mind to ask
What Langston asked so many years ago; the answer will be different but
The same. What kind of people want a nation that will implode?
They are the same ones, pseudo-patriots, who did what foreign enemies
Could never do, breach the very seat of U. S. legislation,
Prove that U. S. never meant all of US but just a chosen few,
And solidify the truth, that we are not united, have never been
Except in a fading federal fantasy. Did you ever notice
That their idea of “patriot” stresses the ideal in the final four letters
Of the word? To be a patriot to them means to be members of a RIOT!
They don’t deserve to be referred to as Americans.
They do not belong in the noble experiment that is our nation.
If they did, they would not abuse the great words found by all
In our pledge, in our anthem, in our Declaration ---
The foundation of our dream which they insist will be a nightmare
From which they fear they will not be able to escape.
Thick-headedness is born of fear. They are out of tune
With the melodies of America’s great songs; they hum but lack
The depth of understanding when challenged by the lyrics.
Beware of those who call themselves “patriot”;
Real lovers of the ideals of this nation
Show who they are by their actions, not by their
Self-appointed labels.
Simplicity
The marshmallow skin of a baby
The stuttering walk of a toddler
The sweet smile of a child
The light in the eyes of a student
The soft warm kiss of love
The touch of a hand that can be trusted
The tears of happiness celebrating a milestone
The words of affection when they are alone
The prayer of simple words seeking a miracle
The final thought of good-bye that will not be said
The gentle music that recalls younger times
Simplicity that is filled with meaning and poignancy
And an eternity of life
The marshmallow skin of a baby
The stuttering walk of a toddler
The sweet smile of a child
The light in the eyes of a student
The soft warm kiss of love
The touch of a hand that can be trusted
The tears of happiness celebrating a milestone
The words of affection when they are alone
The prayer of simple words seeking a miracle
The final thought of good-bye that will not be said
The gentle music that recalls younger times
Simplicity that is filled with meaning and poignancy
And an eternity of life
Waiting
I have spent a lifetime waiting . . .
For friends to come to tiny birthday parties
For songs to play on my transistor radio
For ballgames to watch first through hazy lines and a black and white screen,
Then through elevating hues and high definition
For wars to end (a world war, a Korean war, a Vietnam war, Israeli wars,
Iraq, Afghanistan , and now Ukraine by proxy)
For love to come along, then disappear and then return for good and for forever
For friends to come and go
For journeys to begin and end
For loved ones to leave before they said good-bye
For children to be born, and too their children
For pains to come and then to dissipate but leave their mark
For history to cease to be a mystery but to make sense
For my whole life to find a meaning and a purpose that I can understand . . .
Life is not easy; it has its comforts, but its challenges are hard to overcome
And I should know, for
I have spent a lifetime waiting . . .
I have spent a lifetime waiting . . .
For friends to come to tiny birthday parties
For songs to play on my transistor radio
For ballgames to watch first through hazy lines and a black and white screen,
Then through elevating hues and high definition
For wars to end (a world war, a Korean war, a Vietnam war, Israeli wars,
Iraq, Afghanistan , and now Ukraine by proxy)
For love to come along, then disappear and then return for good and for forever
For friends to come and go
For journeys to begin and end
For loved ones to leave before they said good-bye
For children to be born, and too their children
For pains to come and then to dissipate but leave their mark
For history to cease to be a mystery but to make sense
For my whole life to find a meaning and a purpose that I can understand . . .
Life is not easy; it has its comforts, but its challenges are hard to overcome
And I should know, for
I have spent a lifetime waiting . . .
The Future is Now
There was a time once in my youth
When I dreamed of the future, the golden coming years
When cancer would be cured, and we would live on Mars
And the Mets would win the Series many times
And books would come to life as holograms exploded
From the pages. I anticipated the final end of war and
An explosion of world brotherhood and universal love
And sharing and caring and love of differences that
Make us who we are, the foundation of centuries of peace.
I considered the clear blue skies and crystal crisp unpolluted air
And the gas-driven cars replaced by those running on enchanted electricity
Or solar energy; I had the nerve to think that we, the living gods
In whose hands history and spirituality had placed the fate
Of Mother Earth, would have gained wisdom from ages of insurrection
Against Nature and all the living creatures who were our neighbors.
This was the future that I knew would come to be because it
Would by now become The Future, our destined megaverse,
Made of so many worlds that would be cherished and honored,
Constructed and protected by the ones in whose warm hands
The time to come would be embraced and all that was important
Would benefit from our wisdom and experience and the many
Warnings we had been aware of from the soldiers, the authors
(With their Brave New World and 1984 and Montag’s life),
The clergy, the honest leaders . . . this was the fantasy
That made me want to breathe and pray and smile endlessly.
But here we are, the future is now and it is disappointingly the past,
Filled with bombs and missiles and hatred and anger and
A disposition leaning heavily against those idealists
Who try to clutch at a world that will not be; it is a world of
Jealousy and spirits that hover over Innocence,
Waiting to expel their venom. This is the future that this
Population has created, one that will swallow up, perhaps
In a gigantic force of gravity, the hopes and insights of
Its children and their children, until there’s nothing left
To hold on to or up to God (assuming He has not by then
Abandoned us as we have so abandoned Him); the future
That was once is now extinct and all that does remain
Are the remains of dreams that once were meant to be, in a time of
Foresight that was not right, in a place of sad displacement
Of what should have been our Future, our children’s Future,
A place where we were destined to sleep at night and roam
The freedom fields at dawn and smile and greet each other and look
Up to the skies and know that we were finally in Paradise!
There was a time once in my youth
When I dreamed of the future, the golden coming years
When cancer would be cured, and we would live on Mars
And the Mets would win the Series many times
And books would come to life as holograms exploded
From the pages. I anticipated the final end of war and
An explosion of world brotherhood and universal love
And sharing and caring and love of differences that
Make us who we are, the foundation of centuries of peace.
I considered the clear blue skies and crystal crisp unpolluted air
And the gas-driven cars replaced by those running on enchanted electricity
Or solar energy; I had the nerve to think that we, the living gods
In whose hands history and spirituality had placed the fate
Of Mother Earth, would have gained wisdom from ages of insurrection
Against Nature and all the living creatures who were our neighbors.
This was the future that I knew would come to be because it
Would by now become The Future, our destined megaverse,
Made of so many worlds that would be cherished and honored,
Constructed and protected by the ones in whose warm hands
The time to come would be embraced and all that was important
Would benefit from our wisdom and experience and the many
Warnings we had been aware of from the soldiers, the authors
(With their Brave New World and 1984 and Montag’s life),
The clergy, the honest leaders . . . this was the fantasy
That made me want to breathe and pray and smile endlessly.
But here we are, the future is now and it is disappointingly the past,
Filled with bombs and missiles and hatred and anger and
A disposition leaning heavily against those idealists
Who try to clutch at a world that will not be; it is a world of
Jealousy and spirits that hover over Innocence,
Waiting to expel their venom. This is the future that this
Population has created, one that will swallow up, perhaps
In a gigantic force of gravity, the hopes and insights of
Its children and their children, until there’s nothing left
To hold on to or up to God (assuming He has not by then
Abandoned us as we have so abandoned Him); the future
That was once is now extinct and all that does remain
Are the remains of dreams that once were meant to be, in a time of
Foresight that was not right, in a place of sad displacement
Of what should have been our Future, our children’s Future,
A place where we were destined to sleep at night and roam
The freedom fields at dawn and smile and greet each other and look
Up to the skies and know that we were finally in Paradise!
Halloween
It is a holiday, not a holy day,
Hollow in its depth and breadth,
Lacking breath that causes one to thrive.
It is an event based on deception and
Trickery yet enduring on presentation
Rewarded by the sweetnesses of life
Too readily expected and accepted.
Every year we fear what comes
Toward Bethlehem to be born
And yet we smile and cheer
At costumes which are custom.
Will this year’s celebration
Be the final one? They do it better
South of the Border, with their
Day of the Dead, which honors
Ancestors yet celebrates Life!
We in America are too much drowning
In fear to understand true joy.
It is a holiday, not a holy day,
Hollow in its depth and breadth,
Lacking breath that causes one to thrive.
It is an event based on deception and
Trickery yet enduring on presentation
Rewarded by the sweetnesses of life
Too readily expected and accepted.
Every year we fear what comes
Toward Bethlehem to be born
And yet we smile and cheer
At costumes which are custom.
Will this year’s celebration
Be the final one? They do it better
South of the Border, with their
Day of the Dead, which honors
Ancestors yet celebrates Life!
We in America are too much drowning
In fear to understand true joy.
Parking Lot
It takes a lot of personal energy to drive to a game:
The drive itself amidst the others seeking their destinations,
The crowded lot outside the stadium, the fee, the patience
Waiting to get in and find a spot --- but then there are
Rewards that make the journey one that is its own reward.
There, hopefully under clear crisp skies, you meet temporary friends
Who feel the hope and thrills of the coming game.
Victory is in the air as is anticipation of a celebration ---
When you first arrive. Common chatter is shared
In such a way that one wishes such demeanor could be felt
By us Americans in other fields of life --- and we are happy
In the knowledge that what we hope to see will fill us
With the glory that a sporting life can bring. We walk
The parking lot and share our fantasies of the game that is to be,
And stride with pride toward our home field,
Amidst the camaraderie too little known when we are
Elsewhere. Here, at the edge of the parking lot, we prepare
To step over the border to the enchanted atmosphere of
The game, to the field of battle where our heroes will be set
To make their journey to the Promised Land,
At least for this one day . . .
After which we fans, empowered by our hoped-for victory,
Will once again return, hand in hand, a brotherhood and
Sisterhood of cheer-exhausted compatriots,
Back to the parking lot,
Ready to relive the precious moments of the game
And to return home to refresh our focus and our love and our longing
For the day to come when we will happily return
To the parking lot of our dreams.
It takes a lot of personal energy to drive to a game:
The drive itself amidst the others seeking their destinations,
The crowded lot outside the stadium, the fee, the patience
Waiting to get in and find a spot --- but then there are
Rewards that make the journey one that is its own reward.
There, hopefully under clear crisp skies, you meet temporary friends
Who feel the hope and thrills of the coming game.
Victory is in the air as is anticipation of a celebration ---
When you first arrive. Common chatter is shared
In such a way that one wishes such demeanor could be felt
By us Americans in other fields of life --- and we are happy
In the knowledge that what we hope to see will fill us
With the glory that a sporting life can bring. We walk
The parking lot and share our fantasies of the game that is to be,
And stride with pride toward our home field,
Amidst the camaraderie too little known when we are
Elsewhere. Here, at the edge of the parking lot, we prepare
To step over the border to the enchanted atmosphere of
The game, to the field of battle where our heroes will be set
To make their journey to the Promised Land,
At least for this one day . . .
After which we fans, empowered by our hoped-for victory,
Will once again return, hand in hand, a brotherhood and
Sisterhood of cheer-exhausted compatriots,
Back to the parking lot,
Ready to relive the precious moments of the game
And to return home to refresh our focus and our love and our longing
For the day to come when we will happily return
To the parking lot of our dreams.
The New Room
This room, a converted garage, has been insulated by her boyfriend,
But he could not insulate her from the tragedy to be, his accidental death.
It is now a room full of memories and thoughts that will not leave,
That refuse to fade away but instead linger stubbornly,
Knowing their importance and their value to a lonely lover ---
Walls meant to bring forth happiness with loving mementos that call out,
“We are here and will not leave you ever.”
A lighted mirror shines as if the sun rises every day
And sings of warmth and of comfort, its reflection showing
A young woman with a future bright as the lights that frame
The glass reflector, as she stares consciously at the place where
Her loved one, a young man with a future that will not be,
Should be present but will not reappear, can never show himself to her.
A cushioned couch offers comfort and provides
A view of this lively room, striving to be vibrant and offering a host
Of hues and textures with a steady feel of the knowledge of
The past right to the present; a box with memories of a beloved father
Taken from her and her siblings much too soon . . .
And a collection of photos celebrating just how much the loved young man
Had lived; there, along one wall inviting warmth as illusional as the
Future that has passed away as a rose in the midst of its bloom, there are placed
A fireplace of glowing seeming warmth without a flame and a swinging chair
That waits for someone to take charge and swing from present to the past and
Back again where she belongs and longs to find her place in Life,
Here in this room of love and of enchantment and of a future
That is calling to be given such a home as this, here is a room
That fills its owner with love and more than just a bit of sorrow, so expected . . .
But that sadness will by nature soon be transformed into a vision
Of the future as it must be, as it will be most welcomed, so that the
Light and colors and the warmth and the love can come together
As a recognition and a true celebration of all that came before and
All that still awaits the lovely and enchanted mistress of the realm
Of wonder and of knowing smiles and memories, in this wondrous room,
In this vibrant home which she and he rebuilt, in this present and the
Future that awaits so that this room will serve as an always memory
And an invitation to a life to be which will forever be enriched
And blessed by a true love that serves as the foundation
For so many rooms to come, so many memories yet to be made,
So many moments when she can cherish what has been and
Flourish in what still awaits, for her to live the way he’d want her to,
So that the day will come when she knows that this great room
Contains two doors --- one to the past, which must both be recalled
And be let go, and one to future days and nights, all of which
Will offer her happiness and Life and further, longer love.
The Future beckons and refuses to be turned away.
The room today offers a gentle and a needed comfort
And in the days and years to come, its memory will call
And bring a smile to her face, for what it is today
Will never fade away from its place in her living heart,
But what it is will one day be a photo of the mind and she will know
Future rooms that will sing to her and welcome her and present her
With an invitation to live her destined life with loving memories
And angel kisses as he watches over her with eternal understanding
As she must and will find a home in the heart of one who loves her
Not yet met but waiting in the fantasy future that will turn to reality
One day.
This room, a converted garage, has been insulated by her boyfriend,
But he could not insulate her from the tragedy to be, his accidental death.
It is now a room full of memories and thoughts that will not leave,
That refuse to fade away but instead linger stubbornly,
Knowing their importance and their value to a lonely lover ---
Walls meant to bring forth happiness with loving mementos that call out,
“We are here and will not leave you ever.”
A lighted mirror shines as if the sun rises every day
And sings of warmth and of comfort, its reflection showing
A young woman with a future bright as the lights that frame
The glass reflector, as she stares consciously at the place where
Her loved one, a young man with a future that will not be,
Should be present but will not reappear, can never show himself to her.
A cushioned couch offers comfort and provides
A view of this lively room, striving to be vibrant and offering a host
Of hues and textures with a steady feel of the knowledge of
The past right to the present; a box with memories of a beloved father
Taken from her and her siblings much too soon . . .
And a collection of photos celebrating just how much the loved young man
Had lived; there, along one wall inviting warmth as illusional as the
Future that has passed away as a rose in the midst of its bloom, there are placed
A fireplace of glowing seeming warmth without a flame and a swinging chair
That waits for someone to take charge and swing from present to the past and
Back again where she belongs and longs to find her place in Life,
Here in this room of love and of enchantment and of a future
That is calling to be given such a home as this, here is a room
That fills its owner with love and more than just a bit of sorrow, so expected . . .
But that sadness will by nature soon be transformed into a vision
Of the future as it must be, as it will be most welcomed, so that the
Light and colors and the warmth and the love can come together
As a recognition and a true celebration of all that came before and
All that still awaits the lovely and enchanted mistress of the realm
Of wonder and of knowing smiles and memories, in this wondrous room,
In this vibrant home which she and he rebuilt, in this present and the
Future that awaits so that this room will serve as an always memory
And an invitation to a life to be which will forever be enriched
And blessed by a true love that serves as the foundation
For so many rooms to come, so many memories yet to be made,
So many moments when she can cherish what has been and
Flourish in what still awaits, for her to live the way he’d want her to,
So that the day will come when she knows that this great room
Contains two doors --- one to the past, which must both be recalled
And be let go, and one to future days and nights, all of which
Will offer her happiness and Life and further, longer love.
The Future beckons and refuses to be turned away.
The room today offers a gentle and a needed comfort
And in the days and years to come, its memory will call
And bring a smile to her face, for what it is today
Will never fade away from its place in her living heart,
But what it is will one day be a photo of the mind and she will know
Future rooms that will sing to her and welcome her and present her
With an invitation to live her destined life with loving memories
And angel kisses as he watches over her with eternal understanding
As she must and will find a home in the heart of one who loves her
Not yet met but waiting in the fantasy future that will turn to reality
One day.
Questionable Call
The pitch was called a ball but it was a strike.
The game started in the rain and then was canceled.
The closer was called in but he blew the game.
The manager sent in a pinch hitter who struck out...
And later a pinch runner who was caught stealing
And another, who was picked off.
The right fielder called the center fielder off a fly ball
And then lost the ball in the glaring sun.
(So much for a can of corn.)
The umpire called the runner out but the replay showed him safe.
The ball boy fielded the foul grounder which was fair.
The announcer mispronounced the new pitcher's name.
The odds-makers picked the wrong team to win it all.
The specially selected singer mixed up the words to the National Anthem.
Somehow, all the games got played and one team won it all...
But that wasn't the team I love because
When I started following the sport, I made a
Questionable call --- to some,
But not to me!
The game started in the rain and then was canceled.
The closer was called in but he blew the game.
The manager sent in a pinch hitter who struck out...
And later a pinch runner who was caught stealing
And another, who was picked off.
The right fielder called the center fielder off a fly ball
And then lost the ball in the glaring sun.
(So much for a can of corn.)
The umpire called the runner out but the replay showed him safe.
The ball boy fielded the foul grounder which was fair.
The announcer mispronounced the new pitcher's name.
The odds-makers picked the wrong team to win it all.
The specially selected singer mixed up the words to the National Anthem.
Somehow, all the games got played and one team won it all...
But that wasn't the team I love because
When I started following the sport, I made a
Questionable call --- to some,
But not to me!
My place
This was my place
This was my place
This was my place . . .
A cloud of comfort above the chaotic sea
A gentle landing for lost souls
Who seek safe harbor for their minds,
More thought than geography
More reality than fantasy,
A place of smiles and security,
Where I taught and I learned,
Where for so many days, years, decades
I helped shape the future, where I
Dedicated time and effort to help grow
Teenage minds and offered guidance
By example and by actions,
By a friendly word or touch,
A promise that the instability will end
And the journey will deliver on its promises
That two plus two equals four
And the convoluted metaphor
Will show its meaning through epiphany.
This was my place, my home for hours
Every day, five days a week, surrounded
By my close-read books nourished
By my conversations with the varied
Complex authors, playwrights, poets,
Where my love of language languished
With grammarians eager to disclose
The not closed up secrets of their
World of words and thoughts.
This was a place I time-shared happily
With minds that would move on too soon
And carry with them treasures made of thoughts and of ideas,
My contribution to waiting generations.
However, everything is temporary, fleeting,
As Ozymandias never would discover
But as the simplest of us can confirm,
And the time would come that circumstance
Would drive me from my place
In the eyes and minds of charges seeking
Tiny bits of Truth that built their foundation
Of understanding and of deep illumination.
My place was left behind by circumstance,
Perhaps slightly taken over by imposers
And imposters
But never taken as possession in any
Lasting sense,
Simply illusion, confusion and intrusion.
Time will pass, days will turn to years,
But those chairs and desk and table
And those children who came alive there
Will testify to my existence and my purpose - - -
And those teens will gently swear that they
For a once glorious time inhabited
A special place, a lively place, a loving place,
Or, as I'll think of it eternally, my place - - -
Torn from me
By a virus and a missing mask . . .
This was my place
This was my place . . .
A cloud of comfort above the chaotic sea
A gentle landing for lost souls
Who seek safe harbor for their minds,
More thought than geography
More reality than fantasy,
A place of smiles and security,
Where I taught and I learned,
Where for so many days, years, decades
I helped shape the future, where I
Dedicated time and effort to help grow
Teenage minds and offered guidance
By example and by actions,
By a friendly word or touch,
A promise that the instability will end
And the journey will deliver on its promises
That two plus two equals four
And the convoluted metaphor
Will show its meaning through epiphany.
This was my place, my home for hours
Every day, five days a week, surrounded
By my close-read books nourished
By my conversations with the varied
Complex authors, playwrights, poets,
Where my love of language languished
With grammarians eager to disclose
The not closed up secrets of their
World of words and thoughts.
This was a place I time-shared happily
With minds that would move on too soon
And carry with them treasures made of thoughts and of ideas,
My contribution to waiting generations.
However, everything is temporary, fleeting,
As Ozymandias never would discover
But as the simplest of us can confirm,
And the time would come that circumstance
Would drive me from my place
In the eyes and minds of charges seeking
Tiny bits of Truth that built their foundation
Of understanding and of deep illumination.
My place was left behind by circumstance,
Perhaps slightly taken over by imposers
And imposters
But never taken as possession in any
Lasting sense,
Simply illusion, confusion and intrusion.
Time will pass, days will turn to years,
But those chairs and desk and table
And those children who came alive there
Will testify to my existence and my purpose - - -
And those teens will gently swear that they
For a once glorious time inhabited
A special place, a lively place, a loving place,
Or, as I'll think of it eternally, my place - - -
Torn from me
By a virus and a missing mask . . .
I Understand / I Don’t Understand
I understand love and hate
But I don’t understand people who love to hate,
People who won’t live and let live,
Who fill the emptiness in their hearts
With the muck of anger and of fear.
Love kisses Life and gives it warmth and meaning.
People in love create a world --- our only world ---
That dances to the music of the soul and fills
Our minds with angel-whispers and strength
Made of the softness of the waves of warmth
That smiles in wisdom that makes our time
On Earth heavenly worthwhile. Such people sing the Golden Rule
And reach out hands and eyes to celebrate
Our sameness and our differences, for We the
People comprehend that we are one from many.
Why then are there so, so many who live just to hate,
Whose spirits are consumed with the fires of Hades,
Who crawl out from the Primordial Ooze, look around
And detect with crooked eyes those who differ in their
Sex, beliefs, color, religion, politics --- and spew the spit of fear
At these people who just want to live their lives absent
Pain or grief or the need to tell their children to beware
Others of the same biology? We cannot blame the Overwhelming Spirit
Who in His-Her-Its Majesty blessed us with self-determination
And Sentience and verbal acuity and perspicacity
For the direction we ourselves have chosen.
We have a choice: to love or hate, to have the courage
And the wisdom to know and do what is right . . . or
The weakness borne of following our like who hate and curse
And end up living for the mass eradication of others and of self.
There is here too much sickness of the soul.
We want to heal our brothers and our sisters, but that cannot be
For “Therein the patient must minister to himself”
But the common ground finds that ignorance and blindness are beyond
Human kindness and sincerity, and thus I find myself in this conundrum:
Why do so many love to hate and hate to love
When We the People are so close to Paradise on Earth
If we could just select the path of Love and let hate dissipate?
I understand love and hate
But I don’t understand people who love to hate,
People who won’t live and let live,
Who fill the emptiness in their hearts
With the muck of anger and of fear.
Love kisses Life and gives it warmth and meaning.
People in love create a world --- our only world ---
That dances to the music of the soul and fills
Our minds with angel-whispers and strength
Made of the softness of the waves of warmth
That smiles in wisdom that makes our time
On Earth heavenly worthwhile. Such people sing the Golden Rule
And reach out hands and eyes to celebrate
Our sameness and our differences, for We the
People comprehend that we are one from many.
Why then are there so, so many who live just to hate,
Whose spirits are consumed with the fires of Hades,
Who crawl out from the Primordial Ooze, look around
And detect with crooked eyes those who differ in their
Sex, beliefs, color, religion, politics --- and spew the spit of fear
At these people who just want to live their lives absent
Pain or grief or the need to tell their children to beware
Others of the same biology? We cannot blame the Overwhelming Spirit
Who in His-Her-Its Majesty blessed us with self-determination
And Sentience and verbal acuity and perspicacity
For the direction we ourselves have chosen.
We have a choice: to love or hate, to have the courage
And the wisdom to know and do what is right . . . or
The weakness borne of following our like who hate and curse
And end up living for the mass eradication of others and of self.
There is here too much sickness of the soul.
We want to heal our brothers and our sisters, but that cannot be
For “Therein the patient must minister to himself”
But the common ground finds that ignorance and blindness are beyond
Human kindness and sincerity, and thus I find myself in this conundrum:
Why do so many love to hate and hate to love
When We the People are so close to Paradise on Earth
If we could just select the path of Love and let hate dissipate?
Shifty Strategy
I’m glad it’s mostly gone, that legal loophole waiting to be closed.
The shift withdrew excitement from the game,
Deflated batters’ spirits, reduced batting averages and scoring,
Deadened much of the potential of the offense.
It was not a strategy, as often as it was employed.
It was a knee-jerk reaction to a scoring situation.
Sharply smashed balls, once destined to be hits,
Became the easy fodder of someone stationed in the
Grassy edges of left or right field. Rallies ended suddenly,
As did the tension of the charge. There will now be no dirge,
No requiem, no eulogy for the passing of the automatic shift.
Pitchers will be forced to apply strategy to threatening situations,
Hitters will feel the build-up of the sharp anticipation
Of the single waiting to be born,
While infielders will know the burden to be borne
By their defense --- range, positioning and glove work.
Viewers complain there’s not enough excitement in the game
(Ironically contrasting it to football, a sport containing
Eleven minutes of actual action in each match --- see the study),
But critics will have one less point now that the appearance
Of the shift will be occasional, and well-placed hits will find their way
To the honest outfielders --- and the game will once again resemble
The one I loved when I was just a kid.
I’m glad it’s mostly gone, that legal loophole waiting to be closed.
The shift withdrew excitement from the game,
Deflated batters’ spirits, reduced batting averages and scoring,
Deadened much of the potential of the offense.
It was not a strategy, as often as it was employed.
It was a knee-jerk reaction to a scoring situation.
Sharply smashed balls, once destined to be hits,
Became the easy fodder of someone stationed in the
Grassy edges of left or right field. Rallies ended suddenly,
As did the tension of the charge. There will now be no dirge,
No requiem, no eulogy for the passing of the automatic shift.
Pitchers will be forced to apply strategy to threatening situations,
Hitters will feel the build-up of the sharp anticipation
Of the single waiting to be born,
While infielders will know the burden to be borne
By their defense --- range, positioning and glove work.
Viewers complain there’s not enough excitement in the game
(Ironically contrasting it to football, a sport containing
Eleven minutes of actual action in each match --- see the study),
But critics will have one less point now that the appearance
Of the shift will be occasional, and well-placed hits will find their way
To the honest outfielders --- and the game will once again resemble
The one I loved when I was just a kid.
Whose Weather is This?
It’s not mine, not the predictable, reliable daily weather I grew up with.
Where does it come from, which planet, century or time zone
Unknown to humanity until too recently ---
The floods --- fast or overwhelming, the chunk-heavy snow
And skin-Piercing ice, the rampaging, all-devouring fires
Uncontrolled and spreading, the pestilence of precipitation
Falling down like boulders on us and our homes, smacking our faces,
Biting our hands? What have we done to call upon our Fate
The anger of the gods in the form of too frequent tornadoes,
Hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, droughts, avalanches,
Bomb cyclones, Nor’easters, atmospheric rivers,
Suddenly appearing sinkholes, ice storms and such tempests
As defy names but rather combine the curses of their numbers?
We have brought upon our souls conditions that cry out for
Clever yet chilling new names, our contribution to the desolation
And desperation of the direction we have chosen to blast out
Of what used to be comprehensible climate.
Where is the weather I unconsciously depended on in my early years
And welcomed as companion to my tender outings, days when
The sun kissed my brow and the gentle rain washed away
My mortal cares and gave me a sacred sense that we were of the Earth?
What have you done to my world, to make the heavens so displeased
That the Eternals rain down upon who they perceive as impertinent
Offenders such horrors that I fear might be precursors of days too eager to come?
Now, I realize that I may be idealizing the weather of my past
But that’s the point: Those days invited joyful, tranquil memories;
These days invite nightmares and anxiety for our children’s days to come!
Some well-meaning folks blame global warming / climate change,
Quoting scientific studies, charts, graphs, anecdotes, highly regarded
Authorities (doctors and professors) . . . but that’s not it.
I want to believe in science but I am not a follower of Jor-El in this matter,
Much as a kryptonite storm at this point would not shock me
(A bit of irony, since in the world of symbols, green stands for Life).
What I see are the connections, bridges, between our mishandling
Of our custodianship of all things Earth --- the physical, emotional,
Political and spiritual --- wrought by avarice and excessive ambition,
Crisis after crisis happening as the single teardrop falls from
An isolated eighteenth century Native American,
Knowing that his compact with the land his Mother has been
Wrenched away from him. He, our common forebear, understood
What we fail to see day by day as the bitterness and vengeance of storms
Seeks us out and punishes us closer to the narrow edge. We stand on the precipice
Overlooking the Present and the Future, guided by the Past,
And must decide: Do we take warning from the Mighty Powers
That we must change for the sake of The Children?!
We must set aside and overcome our pettiness and begin again
To build an Earth-bound of Paradise for all; If “Security is mortals’ Chiefest Enemy”
--- And the Bard's warning rings too true ---
Then we cannot fall victim to security but rather wake up every day
To honor our Home, to live in peace and absent greed and lust for power, and share
The blessings that have been presented to us. Weather doesn’t
Last forever; the sun begs us to let it shine, meet its purpose and bring us warmth
And growth and deep serenity, if only we can fill our days with calm
And love and potent maturity. We can survive the storms in any form!
We can gift the future generations with reasons to smile and love ---
But the time to do this starts right now!
Where does it come from, which planet, century or time zone
Unknown to humanity until too recently ---
The floods --- fast or overwhelming, the chunk-heavy snow
And skin-Piercing ice, the rampaging, all-devouring fires
Uncontrolled and spreading, the pestilence of precipitation
Falling down like boulders on us and our homes, smacking our faces,
Biting our hands? What have we done to call upon our Fate
The anger of the gods in the form of too frequent tornadoes,
Hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, droughts, avalanches,
Bomb cyclones, Nor’easters, atmospheric rivers,
Suddenly appearing sinkholes, ice storms and such tempests
As defy names but rather combine the curses of their numbers?
We have brought upon our souls conditions that cry out for
Clever yet chilling new names, our contribution to the desolation
And desperation of the direction we have chosen to blast out
Of what used to be comprehensible climate.
Where is the weather I unconsciously depended on in my early years
And welcomed as companion to my tender outings, days when
The sun kissed my brow and the gentle rain washed away
My mortal cares and gave me a sacred sense that we were of the Earth?
What have you done to my world, to make the heavens so displeased
That the Eternals rain down upon who they perceive as impertinent
Offenders such horrors that I fear might be precursors of days too eager to come?
Now, I realize that I may be idealizing the weather of my past
But that’s the point: Those days invited joyful, tranquil memories;
These days invite nightmares and anxiety for our children’s days to come!
Some well-meaning folks blame global warming / climate change,
Quoting scientific studies, charts, graphs, anecdotes, highly regarded
Authorities (doctors and professors) . . . but that’s not it.
I want to believe in science but I am not a follower of Jor-El in this matter,
Much as a kryptonite storm at this point would not shock me
(A bit of irony, since in the world of symbols, green stands for Life).
What I see are the connections, bridges, between our mishandling
Of our custodianship of all things Earth --- the physical, emotional,
Political and spiritual --- wrought by avarice and excessive ambition,
Crisis after crisis happening as the single teardrop falls from
An isolated eighteenth century Native American,
Knowing that his compact with the land his Mother has been
Wrenched away from him. He, our common forebear, understood
What we fail to see day by day as the bitterness and vengeance of storms
Seeks us out and punishes us closer to the narrow edge. We stand on the precipice
Overlooking the Present and the Future, guided by the Past,
And must decide: Do we take warning from the Mighty Powers
That we must change for the sake of The Children?!
We must set aside and overcome our pettiness and begin again
To build an Earth-bound of Paradise for all; If “Security is mortals’ Chiefest Enemy”
--- And the Bard's warning rings too true ---
Then we cannot fall victim to security but rather wake up every day
To honor our Home, to live in peace and absent greed and lust for power, and share
The blessings that have been presented to us. Weather doesn’t
Last forever; the sun begs us to let it shine, meet its purpose and bring us warmth
And growth and deep serenity, if only we can fill our days with calm
And love and potent maturity. We can survive the storms in any form!
We can gift the future generations with reasons to smile and love ---
But the time to do this starts right now!
The Love in Their Eyes
They argue among themselves about things small and large
And in between;
They yell and scream and sometimes curse.
They fight for territory and hold on tight to things.
They know how to hurt, which buttons to press, to get reactions.
They hide things and bring back hurtful memories
And chant words that recoil and injure hearts and souls - - -
But when the sun shines right and the clouds dissipate
And the azure sky absorbs the minor conflicts they have grown
To use to gain position in the hierarchy of their family,
They help each other, pick each other up, uplift each other
And become a potent force that shields them from all outside threats
With steely strength, and it is at such moments, times such as
Going to a Mets game with their aging grandpa, that the true worth
Of this family comes through. The gentle love, so pure, shines
Upon my eyes, my eighty-two year old sometimes blurry eyes,
My strong heart and wobbly feet,
And I am reassured again that this noisy, at times rambunctious,
Crew carries with it the weight of love that challenges
The power of Earth’s gravity. They work together, help each other,
Offer support that strangers could not understand; they eagerly protect
And in so doing do project for all the world to witness what it means
To be a family. Watching over me at a simple ball game, ready
To lend a hand, embracing warmly, speaking softly in defiance of
What close families often do, presenting to me memories
To carry with me and think about when I wish or have the need
To bask in in my solitude and to reflect. They can be silly and annoying
But that is just a family dynamic that sometimes interferes
With who they really are: a charming, warm and loving entity
That takes on a life of its own when it is time, and
In my eyes, their warmth, brought to me on this day in spring,
Now remains with me happily and gratefully and
Reminds me that within the noise that can erupt from their daily interactions,
There resides human music that soothes me and comforts me in my old age
And warms my soul. They love and are loved and so am I,
And that is what Life is all about.
And in between;
They yell and scream and sometimes curse.
They fight for territory and hold on tight to things.
They know how to hurt, which buttons to press, to get reactions.
They hide things and bring back hurtful memories
And chant words that recoil and injure hearts and souls - - -
But when the sun shines right and the clouds dissipate
And the azure sky absorbs the minor conflicts they have grown
To use to gain position in the hierarchy of their family,
They help each other, pick each other up, uplift each other
And become a potent force that shields them from all outside threats
With steely strength, and it is at such moments, times such as
Going to a Mets game with their aging grandpa, that the true worth
Of this family comes through. The gentle love, so pure, shines
Upon my eyes, my eighty-two year old sometimes blurry eyes,
My strong heart and wobbly feet,
And I am reassured again that this noisy, at times rambunctious,
Crew carries with it the weight of love that challenges
The power of Earth’s gravity. They work together, help each other,
Offer support that strangers could not understand; they eagerly protect
And in so doing do project for all the world to witness what it means
To be a family. Watching over me at a simple ball game, ready
To lend a hand, embracing warmly, speaking softly in defiance of
What close families often do, presenting to me memories
To carry with me and think about when I wish or have the need
To bask in in my solitude and to reflect. They can be silly and annoying
But that is just a family dynamic that sometimes interferes
With who they really are: a charming, warm and loving entity
That takes on a life of its own when it is time, and
In my eyes, their warmth, brought to me on this day in spring,
Now remains with me happily and gratefully and
Reminds me that within the noise that can erupt from their daily interactions,
There resides human music that soothes me and comforts me in my old age
And warms my soul. They love and are loved and so am I,
And that is what Life is all about.
I Wish I Could Stay
I wish I could stay as I promised I would,
To walk you down the aisle,
To smile as you dance through your life and sing
The lyrics which tell so many stories of success and happiness.
I wish I could stay and see your children grow
And enjoy the lives they are meant to have.
I so much do desire to be a presence in their accomplishments
And a face to recognize and a voice to turn to
Rather than a photograph and a recording and
The subject of so many stories of the past.
I wish I could be there with you and hold your hand
And whisper how much you have meant to me.
Life is too fragile for my taste,
And in the end too disappointing.
Bluebirds will sing and tufts of orange day lilies will bloom
And seasons will slowly glide into one another,
And loved ones will move on and share their tales
As well as recollections with those who matter most to them ---
And much as I am loath to leave and miss the joy
And chortles and the parties and the celebrations,
And the simple delight of ordinary times,
I must move on and make room for those who follow.
Just know that if I had my choice I would remain
To be with you in twilight as the sun struggles to
Give forth the light of Life, but Time seems to be
In a rush to do its work. I wish that I could stay,
But there are others waiting for me now . . .
And I must say good-bye until the time
When we will meet again and share a long embrace
And venture past the sunlight to the place
Where there will never be another parting.
I wish I could stay as I promised I would,
To walk you down the aisle,
To smile as you dance through your life and sing
The lyrics which tell so many stories of success and happiness.
I wish I could stay and see your children grow
And enjoy the lives they are meant to have.
I so much do desire to be a presence in their accomplishments
And a face to recognize and a voice to turn to
Rather than a photograph and a recording and
The subject of so many stories of the past.
I wish I could be there with you and hold your hand
And whisper how much you have meant to me.
Life is too fragile for my taste,
And in the end too disappointing.
Bluebirds will sing and tufts of orange day lilies will bloom
And seasons will slowly glide into one another,
And loved ones will move on and share their tales
As well as recollections with those who matter most to them ---
And much as I am loath to leave and miss the joy
And chortles and the parties and the celebrations,
And the simple delight of ordinary times,
I must move on and make room for those who follow.
Just know that if I had my choice I would remain
To be with you in twilight as the sun struggles to
Give forth the light of Life, but Time seems to be
In a rush to do its work. I wish that I could stay,
But there are others waiting for me now . . .
And I must say good-bye until the time
When we will meet again and share a long embrace
And venture past the sunlight to the place
Where there will never be another parting.
International Pastime
The best player in American baseball is from Japan,
A two-way threat proudly sauntering toward the Hall of Fame
With a bat on his shoulder and a ball in his right hand.
On Opening Day in 2023, the Majors imitated the United Nations,
With 269 players born outside the States, speaking a polyglot
Of languages, bringing with them joy and thrilling celebrations.
Players came to our shores and fields from the Dominican Republic,
Cuba, China, South Korea, Venezuela, Mexico, Canada, Colombia,
Curaçao, Panama, The Bahamas, Nicaragua, Aruba, Australia,
Brazil, Taiwan, Honduras --- even Germany, and brought with them
Their skills, their languages, their hearts, and a hope for future
Peace and understanding that we hardly ever get in the General
Assembly or the Security Council --- or, for that matter, our own
Senate and House of Representatives. Baseball brings the world
Together, shares and spreads the love, gets people to communicate,
Solve problems, share solutions, believe in values and the glory
Of working together for a common goal. Baseball allows for
Failure and the opportunity to learn from one’s mistakes and not to
Curse and hate opponents. “We are the World” could be the
International anthem not sung before each game but practiced
For nine innings or more on fields of justice. Baseball has now
Grown beyond America’s national pastime to perform on the
World’s ever-smaller stage, and there are lessons to be learned.
Baseball is a game; we grew up playing games, learning to work
Together, to respect opponents, to seek a common goal, to try
Our best, and to accept defeat and respect the other side.
We grew up playing games.
Why did we ever stop?
The best player in American baseball is from Japan,
A two-way threat proudly sauntering toward the Hall of Fame
With a bat on his shoulder and a ball in his right hand.
On Opening Day in 2023, the Majors imitated the United Nations,
With 269 players born outside the States, speaking a polyglot
Of languages, bringing with them joy and thrilling celebrations.
Players came to our shores and fields from the Dominican Republic,
Cuba, China, South Korea, Venezuela, Mexico, Canada, Colombia,
Curaçao, Panama, The Bahamas, Nicaragua, Aruba, Australia,
Brazil, Taiwan, Honduras --- even Germany, and brought with them
Their skills, their languages, their hearts, and a hope for future
Peace and understanding that we hardly ever get in the General
Assembly or the Security Council --- or, for that matter, our own
Senate and House of Representatives. Baseball brings the world
Together, shares and spreads the love, gets people to communicate,
Solve problems, share solutions, believe in values and the glory
Of working together for a common goal. Baseball allows for
Failure and the opportunity to learn from one’s mistakes and not to
Curse and hate opponents. “We are the World” could be the
International anthem not sung before each game but practiced
For nine innings or more on fields of justice. Baseball has now
Grown beyond America’s national pastime to perform on the
World’s ever-smaller stage, and there are lessons to be learned.
Baseball is a game; we grew up playing games, learning to work
Together, to respect opponents, to seek a common goal, to try
Our best, and to accept defeat and respect the other side.
We grew up playing games.
Why did we ever stop?
Baseball is Poetry
Baseball itself is an art form, poetry in motion,
Full of images that impress the minds of those
Who understand how to read the game.
From the great diving catch to the stolen base
To shouts and arguments and making contact
With a dart, a swerve, a ghost pitch, fans
Are mentally involved and seeking meaning
And understanding in the action playing out
Before them. There are symbols waiting
To be ascertained and intellectually ingested ---
A sign of victory, a pointing to the gods of the game
As recognition of a timely play, an orchestrated
Fist-bump dance, an umpire’s hand-sign of fair or foul,
Safe or out, all symbols of the game.
Baseball has its rhythms, from hitters taking
Practice swings in the batter’s box
(Visualizing smashing the next pitch, driving in the run,
Starting the final inning rally)
To runners taking stealthy small-inch steps while they anticipate
A steal to fielders punching the pockets of their gloves,
Ready for the coming grounder or lofty flight, there
Is music being made and fans can feel and see the melodies.
Baseball is indeed the poetry of peaceful confrontation,
A civilized method of combat, and the poem that is each game,
At the time appreciated, will be reviewed and studied
In their recorded form by coaches, hitters, pitchers
In the days to come, in preparation for the next rhythmic
Challenge, its theme ever-present in the narrative being victory.
Baseball itself is an art form, poetry in motion,
Full of images that impress the minds of those
Who understand how to read the game.
From the great diving catch to the stolen base
To shouts and arguments and making contact
With a dart, a swerve, a ghost pitch, fans
Are mentally involved and seeking meaning
And understanding in the action playing out
Before them. There are symbols waiting
To be ascertained and intellectually ingested ---
A sign of victory, a pointing to the gods of the game
As recognition of a timely play, an orchestrated
Fist-bump dance, an umpire’s hand-sign of fair or foul,
Safe or out, all symbols of the game.
Baseball has its rhythms, from hitters taking
Practice swings in the batter’s box
(Visualizing smashing the next pitch, driving in the run,
Starting the final inning rally)
To runners taking stealthy small-inch steps while they anticipate
A steal to fielders punching the pockets of their gloves,
Ready for the coming grounder or lofty flight, there
Is music being made and fans can feel and see the melodies.
Baseball is indeed the poetry of peaceful confrontation,
A civilized method of combat, and the poem that is each game,
At the time appreciated, will be reviewed and studied
In their recorded form by coaches, hitters, pitchers
In the days to come, in preparation for the next rhythmic
Challenge, its theme ever-present in the narrative being victory.
E Pluribus Unum
Democrats, Republicans, Independents, No-Labelers, Green Party,
Libertarians, No-Namers, Lefties, Righties, Ambidexters,
Altos, sopranos, baritones, dog-lovers, cat-lovers, animal
Haters, males, females, LGBTQ+’ers, believers,
Non-believers, Catholics, Protestants, Hindus, Jews ---
Cultural, ultra-Orthodox, Conservative, Modern Orthodox ---
Tall and short people and those in between, people from
Many nations and from this nation before it ever was,
Meatheads and Deadheads, flower and black power children,
Honest and dishonest, booksmart and streetwise,
Those who hide emotions and those who share them readily,
Those quite well and those who carry illness known or unknown,
Smokers, drinkers, eaters, cursers, those of mild natures and
Tempered habits, those viewing from a practiced vantage point
Of the old pro and those present and presenting rookie status,
Speakers of a multitude of languages yet able to communicate
In one common yet passionate voice:
We stand united! We are . . .
Baseball fans!
Play Ball!!
Democrats, Republicans, Independents, No-Labelers, Green Party,
Libertarians, No-Namers, Lefties, Righties, Ambidexters,
Altos, sopranos, baritones, dog-lovers, cat-lovers, animal
Haters, males, females, LGBTQ+’ers, believers,
Non-believers, Catholics, Protestants, Hindus, Jews ---
Cultural, ultra-Orthodox, Conservative, Modern Orthodox ---
Tall and short people and those in between, people from
Many nations and from this nation before it ever was,
Meatheads and Deadheads, flower and black power children,
Honest and dishonest, booksmart and streetwise,
Those who hide emotions and those who share them readily,
Those quite well and those who carry illness known or unknown,
Smokers, drinkers, eaters, cursers, those of mild natures and
Tempered habits, those viewing from a practiced vantage point
Of the old pro and those present and presenting rookie status,
Speakers of a multitude of languages yet able to communicate
In one common yet passionate voice:
We stand united! We are . . .
Baseball fans!
Play Ball!!
I Do Not Want to Be
I do not want to be Emily Dickinson, undiscovered in life,
A poet leaving hundreds of gems and words of meaning
To be discovered in a room isolated from reality too long.
I have words to share and images to convey which cry out
Too long in isolation for their rightful audience waiting in sunlight.
I do not want to be Chidiock Tishborne, doomed to torture
And to death by a vengeful monarchy, waiting till the night
Before the end to craft a poem to his wife which has been shared
So many times unknown to him; I have sentiments that scream
From my Tower to those who wait below, and I wish to know
That my meaning will be a fulfilling meal to those with appetites
To ingest, to digest, appetites that can discern the grain of rice
From the stone. Hear my poetry and shed your inhibitions,
Break into Emily’s room-world and Tichborne’s grief-room
And discover how the words of magic cast a spell upon
Those wiling to surpass the ordinary and the trite
And use your thinking talent to reach out and accept
My ideas, my phrases, my chains of words and lines
And watch them build cities of desire and of dreams!
Let the ordinary folk accept what confronts them blatantly;
Dare to dig and search and challenge Tutankhamen’s tomb
And all its contents and find the true gold that is contained
Within my words too long hidden from the sunlight.
I do not want to be Emily Dickinson, undiscovered in life,
A poet leaving hundreds of gems and words of meaning
To be discovered in a room isolated from reality too long.
I have words to share and images to convey which cry out
Too long in isolation for their rightful audience waiting in sunlight.
I do not want to be Chidiock Tishborne, doomed to torture
And to death by a vengeful monarchy, waiting till the night
Before the end to craft a poem to his wife which has been shared
So many times unknown to him; I have sentiments that scream
From my Tower to those who wait below, and I wish to know
That my meaning will be a fulfilling meal to those with appetites
To ingest, to digest, appetites that can discern the grain of rice
From the stone. Hear my poetry and shed your inhibitions,
Break into Emily’s room-world and Tichborne’s grief-room
And discover how the words of magic cast a spell upon
Those wiling to surpass the ordinary and the trite
And use your thinking talent to reach out and accept
My ideas, my phrases, my chains of words and lines
And watch them build cities of desire and of dreams!
Let the ordinary folk accept what confronts them blatantly;
Dare to dig and search and challenge Tutankhamen’s tomb
And all its contents and find the true gold that is contained
Within my words too long hidden from the sunlight.
Body & Mind
The body bears the scars of eighty years, the cyst removed decades ago
And the gall bladder taken away, useless after 40 years --- collateral damage
Of a separation from a needed family --- a fixed up nose, less than perfect vision,
Arthritis of the hip, knee, spine (to name a few), and so much more.
The body that used to jog for miles now hobbles and stumbles a few feet,
And then the lumber of the legs weighs down the spirit and desire to move,
And I acknowledge that this physical display does have an expiration date.
My body cries to me in a plaintive voice that I can hear invading my own mind
And pleads with me to stop, to take a break, to deny my potent spirit, to relax
After all those years of work and play and treasure-hunting for the Gold
Of Life. My body says to me, “Give me peace. Just this one time, relent.”
The mind, attuned to its close friend the spirit, scoffs at the weakness
And the feebleness of that body in its aches . . . and barks at it derisively,
Refusing to give in, demanding one more step and then another and one more
Until the destination has been reached. The mind recalls lost friends and
Long-gone loved ones and does so as a teacher instructs a student
By set-in-stone precedents that every journey has a goal, that there will be
Mending walls and fences, blockades --- even oceans between the thought
Of where each treasure lies and the ultimate discovery.
My mind will not let go, will not allow my body to succumb to weakness
Or momentary lapses in determination brought on by that which no more exists,
By that which corporeal tries to gain control . . . but which lacks determination.
What did Henley write? “I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul.”
More sagacious words were never written; words more meaningful do not exist
Or reach my soul and my heart more deeply (and now more frequently),
And as I take each gravity-defying step on each belabored journey in my time,
I keep in mind the goal. My mind controls my destiny --- and no signs of age
Or of infirmity will form the ammunition that will destroy the journey of the day.
The body dwells in ignorance as long as the mind knows what it does know.
The body bears the scars of eighty years, the cyst removed decades ago
And the gall bladder taken away, useless after 40 years --- collateral damage
Of a separation from a needed family --- a fixed up nose, less than perfect vision,
Arthritis of the hip, knee, spine (to name a few), and so much more.
The body that used to jog for miles now hobbles and stumbles a few feet,
And then the lumber of the legs weighs down the spirit and desire to move,
And I acknowledge that this physical display does have an expiration date.
My body cries to me in a plaintive voice that I can hear invading my own mind
And pleads with me to stop, to take a break, to deny my potent spirit, to relax
After all those years of work and play and treasure-hunting for the Gold
Of Life. My body says to me, “Give me peace. Just this one time, relent.”
The mind, attuned to its close friend the spirit, scoffs at the weakness
And the feebleness of that body in its aches . . . and barks at it derisively,
Refusing to give in, demanding one more step and then another and one more
Until the destination has been reached. The mind recalls lost friends and
Long-gone loved ones and does so as a teacher instructs a student
By set-in-stone precedents that every journey has a goal, that there will be
Mending walls and fences, blockades --- even oceans between the thought
Of where each treasure lies and the ultimate discovery.
My mind will not let go, will not allow my body to succumb to weakness
Or momentary lapses in determination brought on by that which no more exists,
By that which corporeal tries to gain control . . . but which lacks determination.
What did Henley write? “I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul.”
More sagacious words were never written; words more meaningful do not exist
Or reach my soul and my heart more deeply (and now more frequently),
And as I take each gravity-defying step on each belabored journey in my time,
I keep in mind the goal. My mind controls my destiny --- and no signs of age
Or of infirmity will form the ammunition that will destroy the journey of the day.
The body dwells in ignorance as long as the mind knows what it does know.
1986
For a baseball fan who had seen his team pull off one miracle ---
Coming back and winning it all in 1969 ---
And then almost pulling off another one in ’73 ---
For a fan who then endured a drought of a decade plus
(I apologize for the lack of sensitivity to Cubs and Red Sox fans),
1984 and ’85 were like being in a coal mine and breathing hints
Of pure, fresh air; those two years were foreshadowings of what would follow.
But the momentous acquisitions and Hernandez and of Carter
And the promotion to the Show of home-grown Doc and Darryl
Were not the reason I loved my team in 1986. It was not
Love of any single player, charismatic or not, that drew me
More closely to that team than I had been in 13 years. They
Played with spirit, hustle, abandon and desire . . . all well and good . . .
But it was the way they represented the best of my nation,
Showing that individuals working together, not separated
By pettiness or selfishness or a desire to find someone to blame,
That I sensed in them and I loved them for it. Think about it
As you peruse their roster: they were America; a few were born
In the Southeast --- in Tennessee, Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama,
South Carolina, Florida; some were born in New York and Connecticut;
Several called California birthplace while the rest of the west coast,
Washington and Oregon were also represented . . . as were Texas
And Ohio and Montana. Two vital pitchers, born in Honolulu,
Called Hawaii birthplace while a shortstop stemmed from
The Dominican Republic, the only international player on the Mets . . .
But he fit right in and was loved and respected by teammates,
Not looked upon as “The Other” and held in contempt.
Take a deep breath and watch them play --- with skin
The shade of every color possible, working as one prideful unit
To accomplish the goal --- as a team! This is what I saw and what I think of
First and last when I recall that year. Yes, there were individual goals
And personal pride, but there was more --- much more ---- in unity,
And that is what today’s America can learn (a lesson very badly needed):
If we pull in divergent directions we will rip apart ourselves and our foundation;
If we pull together, we cannot be stopped --- and we build a championship
That our children and all future generations will think of with pride.
Let us raise the greatest banner of them all together and pledge allegiance
To our common goal and bask one day soon in the common victory!
For a baseball fan who had seen his team pull off one miracle ---
Coming back and winning it all in 1969 ---
And then almost pulling off another one in ’73 ---
For a fan who then endured a drought of a decade plus
(I apologize for the lack of sensitivity to Cubs and Red Sox fans),
1984 and ’85 were like being in a coal mine and breathing hints
Of pure, fresh air; those two years were foreshadowings of what would follow.
But the momentous acquisitions and Hernandez and of Carter
And the promotion to the Show of home-grown Doc and Darryl
Were not the reason I loved my team in 1986. It was not
Love of any single player, charismatic or not, that drew me
More closely to that team than I had been in 13 years. They
Played with spirit, hustle, abandon and desire . . . all well and good . . .
But it was the way they represented the best of my nation,
Showing that individuals working together, not separated
By pettiness or selfishness or a desire to find someone to blame,
That I sensed in them and I loved them for it. Think about it
As you peruse their roster: they were America; a few were born
In the Southeast --- in Tennessee, Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama,
South Carolina, Florida; some were born in New York and Connecticut;
Several called California birthplace while the rest of the west coast,
Washington and Oregon were also represented . . . as were Texas
And Ohio and Montana. Two vital pitchers, born in Honolulu,
Called Hawaii birthplace while a shortstop stemmed from
The Dominican Republic, the only international player on the Mets . . .
But he fit right in and was loved and respected by teammates,
Not looked upon as “The Other” and held in contempt.
Take a deep breath and watch them play --- with skin
The shade of every color possible, working as one prideful unit
To accomplish the goal --- as a team! This is what I saw and what I think of
First and last when I recall that year. Yes, there were individual goals
And personal pride, but there was more --- much more ---- in unity,
And that is what today’s America can learn (a lesson very badly needed):
If we pull in divergent directions we will rip apart ourselves and our foundation;
If we pull together, we cannot be stopped --- and we build a championship
That our children and all future generations will think of with pride.
Let us raise the greatest banner of them all together and pledge allegiance
To our common goal and bask one day soon in the common victory!
I Used to be Santa Clause
It’s true, for three whole workdays I was Saint Nick,
Garbed in the loyal red and white non-military uniform,
And for those three weekdays I did my best to serve
The long lines of children eagerly in a dream state, waiting
For their turn to sit on my magic lap and share with me
Their dreams and their desires. In this photo studio
Outside the Leow’s American, another home of dreams
And of momentary fantasies, I eagerly received smiles
And heart-felt wished for the world to come so swiftly.
I had my rules, couldn’t guarantee them anything, but
What I could do was share their dreams and live their
Fantasies and breathe life into the future as a place
Where visions can come true. I could encourage them
To comprehend that someone cared and listened and
Respected them as human beings. I was that Santa,
Not the one that took from them or gave false hope.
For three magical days I sat on a throne of sorts and
Served my constituents and offered them an audience
Who cherished their anticipations and empathized with
Sometimes out-of-the-question presents. It was this
Human sharing, humane exchange, that was the gift
That would stay with them and last all their days and nights.
I wish that there were more of this humanity and wisdom
In our politicians so that today’s children could look forward
To a world in which dreams are shared by vast multitudes and
Hope becomes reality and every day is really Christmas.
It’s true, for three whole workdays I was Saint Nick,
Garbed in the loyal red and white non-military uniform,
And for those three weekdays I did my best to serve
The long lines of children eagerly in a dream state, waiting
For their turn to sit on my magic lap and share with me
Their dreams and their desires. In this photo studio
Outside the Leow’s American, another home of dreams
And of momentary fantasies, I eagerly received smiles
And heart-felt wished for the world to come so swiftly.
I had my rules, couldn’t guarantee them anything, but
What I could do was share their dreams and live their
Fantasies and breathe life into the future as a place
Where visions can come true. I could encourage them
To comprehend that someone cared and listened and
Respected them as human beings. I was that Santa,
Not the one that took from them or gave false hope.
For three magical days I sat on a throne of sorts and
Served my constituents and offered them an audience
Who cherished their anticipations and empathized with
Sometimes out-of-the-question presents. It was this
Human sharing, humane exchange, that was the gift
That would stay with them and last all their days and nights.
I wish that there were more of this humanity and wisdom
In our politicians so that today’s children could look forward
To a world in which dreams are shared by vast multitudes and
Hope becomes reality and every day is really Christmas.
Baseball Records Waiting Nervously
“Records are made to be broken” --- Who said that?
Richard Branson? Red Auerbach? The anti-Disco movement?
Who cares? Most stats are just waiting for the sledgehammer, metaphorical or real . . .
Ruth stood strong for decades, then gave way to Maris and then a parade of PEDers.
The Iron Horse kept showing up game by game and the numbers increased
Until he stopped the show involuntarily and even then, as he faded
Much too young, He was revered for his tenacity . . .
Until the City of Baltimore produced The Iron Man.
Every record takes its place in the sun until the dark clouds give birth to rain,
And the mortality of every unforeseen achievement lets itself be noted . . .
Except . . .except that once in a very long period of time . . . it happens!
No one ever hit a ball completely out of Yankee Stadium (the real one,
Where Ruth and Gehrig and Di Maggio and Ford and Reynolds played,
Where they raised the Series flag five years in a row (Beat that one,
Why don’t you?). Mantle hit the façade towering over right field once:
Close but no beer. So there’s a kind of record never broken if we were
Discussing buildings --- because they tore the House that Ruth Built down,
Ending chances of clearing that façade.
But I digress; What was my point? Oh, yeah: There is one record
That has been held by a Cincinnati pitcher for 85 years, so far,
A record that has never bent to the likes of Roberts, Koufax, Feller,
Paige, Martinez, Maddux, Gibson, Clemens, Seaver, Ryan --- you can complete
The list yourself. None of them did what Johnny Vander Meer,
A lefty in his second year in the Majors, ever did ---
And certainly no one will surpass his unique accomplishment:
On June 11 and 15, 1938 this man (months removed from his rookie year)
Pitched consecutive no-hitters, first against Boston and then Brooklyn!
Don’t you get it? Do the math! To tie his record, one would have to pitch
Two no-hitters in a row! Breaking that record means pitching THREE
Consecutive games without giving up a single hit. Lots of luck with that!!
In a time when no one even pitches two or three complete games,
One after the other.
I rest my case.
“Records are made to be broken” --- Who said that?
Richard Branson? Red Auerbach? The anti-Disco movement?
Who cares? Most stats are just waiting for the sledgehammer, metaphorical or real . . .
Ruth stood strong for decades, then gave way to Maris and then a parade of PEDers.
The Iron Horse kept showing up game by game and the numbers increased
Until he stopped the show involuntarily and even then, as he faded
Much too young, He was revered for his tenacity . . .
Until the City of Baltimore produced The Iron Man.
Every record takes its place in the sun until the dark clouds give birth to rain,
And the mortality of every unforeseen achievement lets itself be noted . . .
Except . . .except that once in a very long period of time . . . it happens!
No one ever hit a ball completely out of Yankee Stadium (the real one,
Where Ruth and Gehrig and Di Maggio and Ford and Reynolds played,
Where they raised the Series flag five years in a row (Beat that one,
Why don’t you?). Mantle hit the façade towering over right field once:
Close but no beer. So there’s a kind of record never broken if we were
Discussing buildings --- because they tore the House that Ruth Built down,
Ending chances of clearing that façade.
But I digress; What was my point? Oh, yeah: There is one record
That has been held by a Cincinnati pitcher for 85 years, so far,
A record that has never bent to the likes of Roberts, Koufax, Feller,
Paige, Martinez, Maddux, Gibson, Clemens, Seaver, Ryan --- you can complete
The list yourself. None of them did what Johnny Vander Meer,
A lefty in his second year in the Majors, ever did ---
And certainly no one will surpass his unique accomplishment:
On June 11 and 15, 1938 this man (months removed from his rookie year)
Pitched consecutive no-hitters, first against Boston and then Brooklyn!
Don’t you get it? Do the math! To tie his record, one would have to pitch
Two no-hitters in a row! Breaking that record means pitching THREE
Consecutive games without giving up a single hit. Lots of luck with that!!
In a time when no one even pitches two or three complete games,
One after the other.
I rest my case.
Up and Down and Up to Stay
He was a solid count-on player in high school and then the door opened
And he walked in and found his place in a uniform that smelled of money.
He had some success in the Minor Leagues, hitting or pitching or even fielding.
Stories were written about his place on the depth chart; fans paid (not so much)
To watch him perform and chattered about his potential and their hope of
Telling friends and strangers that they knew him when - - - .
He showed up early to sign autographs for waiting youngsters, the way a
Rock star throws kisses to adoring throngs. This is the life he’d fantasized about
Since the day he’d saved enough to buy a Rawlings glove and make a dependable pocket
With oil, a beat-up baseball, a bunch of rubber bands, and a giant portion of patience.
He walked nervously as he approached the office of his grizzled manager,
A life-long devotee to the only sport worth anybody’s time,
Daring to dream the words that might come out at him like polychromatic fireworks,
Celebrating what he hoped would be a day he could memorialize in his forever recall . . .
And there they were: firecrackers, then rockets pronouncing his call-up
To the Show, the Bigs . . . The Major Leagues!
“Pack your bags and your dreams. All that work, all that practice, the conditioning
And now the chance to show them Up There that your record is no fluke;
Show ‘em what you got!”
It’s a story oft repeated but which bears no guarantees of permanence.
It is a story every boy has heard and felt, but it lacks authenticity unless
You put a name to the struggles, the challenges, the reveries. Will he make it?
Will he remain when he does? Will he excel and enter Cooperstown?
Think about players who had meaningful careers. It must have been a smooth
Journey for them, a magic carpet ride from their start as true professionals.
The Yanks have won more World Series than any other team, haven’t they?
Who was the greatest player the Yankees ever had? Ruth? Mantle? Each
Had a rocky road to the summit of his career – and it wasn’t sweet.
Ruth, arguably one of the three greatest ever to have played the game, best known
As the Sultan of Swat, began his vaunted career as a pitcher, not a slugger.
In 1914, he was called up to the Big Club, the Red Sox, to pitch . . . but he was not
Good enough on a talented team, so he was sent back to the Minors
For the rest of the season . . . and helped the Providence Grays win their pennant.
The next year, he was in the Majors for good, playing for 22 seasons. You know the rest.
Mantle, heir to Di Maggio’s place in center and at bat, was a 19 year old hitting .260
For the Bronx Bombers when he was sent back to the Minors for work on his stroke
After just 69 Big League games. He wanted to quit but his father, whom he adored, a hard-
Working lead and zinc minor, challenged him to stay and fight his way back to the Bronx.
You know the rest.
Another Yankee, A-Rod, started with the Mariners at age 18 but then became the victim
Of a strike; when it ended, he was sent back to the Minors, playing for Tacoma, always
Ready for that recall --- which came when he replaced an injured player on Seattle.
You know the rest.
He was a solid count-on player in high school and then the door opened
And he walked in and found his place in a uniform that smelled of money.
He had some success in the Minor Leagues, hitting or pitching or even fielding.
Stories were written about his place on the depth chart; fans paid (not so much)
To watch him perform and chattered about his potential and their hope of
Telling friends and strangers that they knew him when - - - .
He showed up early to sign autographs for waiting youngsters, the way a
Rock star throws kisses to adoring throngs. This is the life he’d fantasized about
Since the day he’d saved enough to buy a Rawlings glove and make a dependable pocket
With oil, a beat-up baseball, a bunch of rubber bands, and a giant portion of patience.
He walked nervously as he approached the office of his grizzled manager,
A life-long devotee to the only sport worth anybody’s time,
Daring to dream the words that might come out at him like polychromatic fireworks,
Celebrating what he hoped would be a day he could memorialize in his forever recall . . .
And there they were: firecrackers, then rockets pronouncing his call-up
To the Show, the Bigs . . . The Major Leagues!
“Pack your bags and your dreams. All that work, all that practice, the conditioning
And now the chance to show them Up There that your record is no fluke;
Show ‘em what you got!”
It’s a story oft repeated but which bears no guarantees of permanence.
It is a story every boy has heard and felt, but it lacks authenticity unless
You put a name to the struggles, the challenges, the reveries. Will he make it?
Will he remain when he does? Will he excel and enter Cooperstown?
Think about players who had meaningful careers. It must have been a smooth
Journey for them, a magic carpet ride from their start as true professionals.
The Yanks have won more World Series than any other team, haven’t they?
Who was the greatest player the Yankees ever had? Ruth? Mantle? Each
Had a rocky road to the summit of his career – and it wasn’t sweet.
Ruth, arguably one of the three greatest ever to have played the game, best known
As the Sultan of Swat, began his vaunted career as a pitcher, not a slugger.
In 1914, he was called up to the Big Club, the Red Sox, to pitch . . . but he was not
Good enough on a talented team, so he was sent back to the Minors
For the rest of the season . . . and helped the Providence Grays win their pennant.
The next year, he was in the Majors for good, playing for 22 seasons. You know the rest.
Mantle, heir to Di Maggio’s place in center and at bat, was a 19 year old hitting .260
For the Bronx Bombers when he was sent back to the Minors for work on his stroke
After just 69 Big League games. He wanted to quit but his father, whom he adored, a hard-
Working lead and zinc minor, challenged him to stay and fight his way back to the Bronx.
You know the rest.
Another Yankee, A-Rod, started with the Mariners at age 18 but then became the victim
Of a strike; when it ended, he was sent back to the Minors, playing for Tacoma, always
Ready for that recall --- which came when he replaced an injured player on Seattle.
You know the rest.
Casey at the Computer
Imagine Casey Stengel attempting to engage with
Statistics, analytics --- really quite horrific,
With numbers, formulas dancing in his head,
Crashing into words that never knew such a home before ---
Picture a highway with multi-directional lanes and no clear exits.
They say that the Pentagon has more than 17 miles of hallways
Twisting and turning and that is a diagram of Casey’s mind,
With the newly created words and phrases that made Congress
Laugh one day and won them over. He’d make a percent sign
Grimace at his saying, “Good pitching will always stop good hitting, and
Vice versa” and “There comes a time in every man’s life, and
I’ve had plenty of them.” How do you formulate those
Sentiments? Yes, if he were to lift his hat in the time of
Analytics, an abacus would fly out and he would
Present his lovely crooked fatherly smile that would charm
Opponents out of their arguments. Casey would sit in front
Of a MacBook Pro and overwhelm the Apple geniuses with
Keystrokes that could cause a stroke as words and numbers
Unaccustomed to each other’s company would crash into
Each other in tangential ways like chaotic pinballs, then crash the computer
As he confronted WHIP, BAPIP, WAR, UZR and scratched his head
While reporters would wait outside his office for a quote
That would explain this move or that, playing pitcher
Tommy Byrne in left to keep his bat still in the game
And bringing him back to pitch and be successful. Which
Formula informed him of that move? Which percentage
Product whispered in his ear to bring in Ryne Duren,
Watch him throw a warm-up pitch all the way to the wall
Behind home plate, straining to see through such thick lenses,
And then proceed to easily shut down the enemy and
Get a save? Casey never met a Sabermetrician but was a
True magician making losses disappear and be replaced with wins
And pulling rabbits out of his hat (not birds, not words, not
Mathematical conclusions). Yet somehow he managed
To win seven World Series titles and he never used a
Calculator or a magic wand --- and which formula or set
Of numbers can explain the human being wearing
Number 37? If you were to create an equation
To produce an explanation, it would say:
Guts plus Brains plus Imagination equal why the Game
Used to be revered, the product of real people and
Not the end game of technology.
Imagine Casey Stengel attempting to engage with
Statistics, analytics --- really quite horrific,
With numbers, formulas dancing in his head,
Crashing into words that never knew such a home before ---
Picture a highway with multi-directional lanes and no clear exits.
They say that the Pentagon has more than 17 miles of hallways
Twisting and turning and that is a diagram of Casey’s mind,
With the newly created words and phrases that made Congress
Laugh one day and won them over. He’d make a percent sign
Grimace at his saying, “Good pitching will always stop good hitting, and
Vice versa” and “There comes a time in every man’s life, and
I’ve had plenty of them.” How do you formulate those
Sentiments? Yes, if he were to lift his hat in the time of
Analytics, an abacus would fly out and he would
Present his lovely crooked fatherly smile that would charm
Opponents out of their arguments. Casey would sit in front
Of a MacBook Pro and overwhelm the Apple geniuses with
Keystrokes that could cause a stroke as words and numbers
Unaccustomed to each other’s company would crash into
Each other in tangential ways like chaotic pinballs, then crash the computer
As he confronted WHIP, BAPIP, WAR, UZR and scratched his head
While reporters would wait outside his office for a quote
That would explain this move or that, playing pitcher
Tommy Byrne in left to keep his bat still in the game
And bringing him back to pitch and be successful. Which
Formula informed him of that move? Which percentage
Product whispered in his ear to bring in Ryne Duren,
Watch him throw a warm-up pitch all the way to the wall
Behind home plate, straining to see through such thick lenses,
And then proceed to easily shut down the enemy and
Get a save? Casey never met a Sabermetrician but was a
True magician making losses disappear and be replaced with wins
And pulling rabbits out of his hat (not birds, not words, not
Mathematical conclusions). Yet somehow he managed
To win seven World Series titles and he never used a
Calculator or a magic wand --- and which formula or set
Of numbers can explain the human being wearing
Number 37? If you were to create an equation
To produce an explanation, it would say:
Guts plus Brains plus Imagination equal why the Game
Used to be revered, the product of real people and
Not the end game of technology.
More to Life than a Baseball Game
A baseball game cannot be everything. There are
The weddings that take place on a pure white home plate;
Days when eager parents and attentive summer counselors
Bring excited, enchanted youngsters to watch field magic they
Never will forget; autographs kids leaning over railings are
Rewarded with by players who remember being kids;
Anthems sung by guest vocalists with dreams and tingling hands;
Rhythmic flag presentations by protective folks in uniform;
Snacks eaten with that special baseball flavor swirling in the mouth;
Human contact spoken and unspoken among friends, families, lovers
In the stands; spontaneous fan waves undulating, dancing in the air
And casting spells that unify the faithful; a call out to nostalgia as
Players from the past receive their annual salute and recognition.
The game is far from everything but what it is
Is that special thing that is the soul
Which brings to life societies which treasure
Dreams that that add such wealth to Life
That we are all the wealthier for Loving it
So much.
A baseball game cannot be everything. There are
The weddings that take place on a pure white home plate;
Days when eager parents and attentive summer counselors
Bring excited, enchanted youngsters to watch field magic they
Never will forget; autographs kids leaning over railings are
Rewarded with by players who remember being kids;
Anthems sung by guest vocalists with dreams and tingling hands;
Rhythmic flag presentations by protective folks in uniform;
Snacks eaten with that special baseball flavor swirling in the mouth;
Human contact spoken and unspoken among friends, families, lovers
In the stands; spontaneous fan waves undulating, dancing in the air
And casting spells that unify the faithful; a call out to nostalgia as
Players from the past receive their annual salute and recognition.
The game is far from everything but what it is
Is that special thing that is the soul
Which brings to life societies which treasure
Dreams that that add such wealth to Life
That we are all the wealthier for Loving it
So much.
Technology vs. Teaching
There is a classroom. There are curious students who want to grow.
There is an instructor or there is a teacher, a mechanic or an artist.
The instructor passes out the tablets or the laptops or assigns desktops
Day after day, and orders automated students to read off the screen,
Keyboard responses predetermined, guess what the program seeks ---
And the well-trained instructor shakes his head or nods and from this
Robodance the student’s self-respect is build . . . or is knocked down. If
An unforeseen weakness stalls the wifi network, lessons are shut down;
If equipment needs a charge, there is a time-out; if bills are not paid,
Indoctrination and automation cease to exist and classrooms become
Wastelands populated by dependent brains rewired through chaos,
And Error 404 calls out that modern times cannot be counted on.
There is a room with much more class, a room where students have
Been taught to think, to discuss, to persuade, to analyze . . . a room
Where the teacher has applied the strokes of magic which have
Brought ideas into the environment and students smile and challenge
And debate and exchange thoughts and support their arguments and are
Open to beliefs being expressed and challenged. Here there is no
Network restricting outcomes too predictable; here there is Life,
There are concepts to be understood, words and sentences to be
Accepted or rejected, reasoning to be examined for strengths and
‘Weaknesses --- attitudes shaped by past lessons so that it is lucid
That a statement is a fact or an opinion, that a statement is to be weighed
As to acceptance or rejection . . . with the reasons for this reaction
Vocalized as the lyrics of some sweet song (as opposed to cacophonic
Whining or droning from programed electronic chords).
There are those fed from technology yet
Starving for sustenance of substance;
There are those whose learning will
Last a lifetime for they have been taught
How to think and how to teach themselves.
Which students do you wish to be in charge
One day? Which ones will be the better leaders?
There is a classroom. There are curious students who want to grow.
There is an instructor or there is a teacher, a mechanic or an artist.
The instructor passes out the tablets or the laptops or assigns desktops
Day after day, and orders automated students to read off the screen,
Keyboard responses predetermined, guess what the program seeks ---
And the well-trained instructor shakes his head or nods and from this
Robodance the student’s self-respect is build . . . or is knocked down. If
An unforeseen weakness stalls the wifi network, lessons are shut down;
If equipment needs a charge, there is a time-out; if bills are not paid,
Indoctrination and automation cease to exist and classrooms become
Wastelands populated by dependent brains rewired through chaos,
And Error 404 calls out that modern times cannot be counted on.
There is a room with much more class, a room where students have
Been taught to think, to discuss, to persuade, to analyze . . . a room
Where the teacher has applied the strokes of magic which have
Brought ideas into the environment and students smile and challenge
And debate and exchange thoughts and support their arguments and are
Open to beliefs being expressed and challenged. Here there is no
Network restricting outcomes too predictable; here there is Life,
There are concepts to be understood, words and sentences to be
Accepted or rejected, reasoning to be examined for strengths and
‘Weaknesses --- attitudes shaped by past lessons so that it is lucid
That a statement is a fact or an opinion, that a statement is to be weighed
As to acceptance or rejection . . . with the reasons for this reaction
Vocalized as the lyrics of some sweet song (as opposed to cacophonic
Whining or droning from programed electronic chords).
There are those fed from technology yet
Starving for sustenance of substance;
There are those whose learning will
Last a lifetime for they have been taught
How to think and how to teach themselves.
Which students do you wish to be in charge
One day? Which ones will be the better leaders?
Polyamory
I Never went to Ebbets Field when it housed Dem Bums,
But felt a fondness for Campanella, Reese, Furillo, Robinson ---
An affinity for a team that tried so hard and was so good
But never beat my Yanks until 1955. I watched the Dodgers’
Orchestrated victories for those five years, the first half
Of that decade, and respected the hell out of the way they
Executed and could play together in that band box of a stadium.
I never played for Felton prior to each home game, but
I was there in my imagination, just as I existed on the big team
When my Bronx Bombers were away and non-existent on
My black-and-white RCA. It wasn’t black and white that I
The Yankee fan could have no other team to cheer for.
If sports talk radio had been extant back then there’d be no
Herb from the Bronx calling in berating the New York teams
Of the Senior Circuit as also-rans compared to The seemingly
Perennial Champions of the World. I respected top-notch
Competition --- Black, Newcombe, Hodges, Snider (Willie-
Mickey or the Duke?) --- and was able to admire those who
Held their ground and honored the game. Why is it so hard
To comprehend that pro’s deserve the honor of recognition
Of their skills. I can’t call it Yankee Stadium without confusion
So let me say “The House that Ruth Built” was home to Greats
But so was Ebbets Field, and it’s an irony of Life that in the end,
Both once-glorious homes of idols who were worshiped
Have faded into memory much as the players who called
These castles home. So next time you hear on your FAN radio
Joe from the Bronx bragging about the team with the most
World Series wins, remember that that team was not alone
On Mount Olympus pitching lightning bolts and hitting shots
Of thunder. Back in the day, the first half of the sixth decade
Of last century, there was another team whose fans also showered
Them with love (as they wept when that team’s owner
Finally abandoned the third largest city in America --- larger than
Boston, Atlanta, D. C. and Minneapolis combined). Brooklyn
Earned respect even from this Yankee fan. Too often, our
Concept of the world is too pedestrian; we need to expand our
Vision, share our regard and welcome people of a quality that
Demands our esteem even if they can’t be called our own.
I Never went to Ebbets Field when it housed Dem Bums,
But felt a fondness for Campanella, Reese, Furillo, Robinson ---
An affinity for a team that tried so hard and was so good
But never beat my Yanks until 1955. I watched the Dodgers’
Orchestrated victories for those five years, the first half
Of that decade, and respected the hell out of the way they
Executed and could play together in that band box of a stadium.
I never played for Felton prior to each home game, but
I was there in my imagination, just as I existed on the big team
When my Bronx Bombers were away and non-existent on
My black-and-white RCA. It wasn’t black and white that I
The Yankee fan could have no other team to cheer for.
If sports talk radio had been extant back then there’d be no
Herb from the Bronx calling in berating the New York teams
Of the Senior Circuit as also-rans compared to The seemingly
Perennial Champions of the World. I respected top-notch
Competition --- Black, Newcombe, Hodges, Snider (Willie-
Mickey or the Duke?) --- and was able to admire those who
Held their ground and honored the game. Why is it so hard
To comprehend that pro’s deserve the honor of recognition
Of their skills. I can’t call it Yankee Stadium without confusion
So let me say “The House that Ruth Built” was home to Greats
But so was Ebbets Field, and it’s an irony of Life that in the end,
Both once-glorious homes of idols who were worshiped
Have faded into memory much as the players who called
These castles home. So next time you hear on your FAN radio
Joe from the Bronx bragging about the team with the most
World Series wins, remember that that team was not alone
On Mount Olympus pitching lightning bolts and hitting shots
Of thunder. Back in the day, the first half of the sixth decade
Of last century, there was another team whose fans also showered
Them with love (as they wept when that team’s owner
Finally abandoned the third largest city in America --- larger than
Boston, Atlanta, D. C. and Minneapolis combined). Brooklyn
Earned respect even from this Yankee fan. Too often, our
Concept of the world is too pedestrian; we need to expand our
Vision, share our regard and welcome people of a quality that
Demands our esteem even if they can’t be called our own.
Epic
Baseball is a never-ending book of stories.
Chapter after chapter, season after season,
The work of love adds another fine collection of
Individual tales waiting for the climax and the
Conclusion (and then the after-word). This
One watched his daddy grow and work
The dusty coal mines of Oklahoma, while he built
Strength and waited for an early death; another
Grew up in the city and knew the playgrounds
Near his neighborhood and learned to become
Oblivious to big-time pressure; still another played
In a suburban Little League before his parent’s
Watchful, hopeful eyes, and won a trophy. Then
There’s the one who came of age in Japan or in
Korea and had to leave his culture full of comfort
Far behind and adapt to a new language and a new
Set of rules and customs, as did his teammate
And opponents from Cuba, Venezuela, Mexico.
These and more are details in the tales that develop into
Chapters waiting to be read or reviewed by the fans who
Cannot wait until the temporary ending and the next
Installment. It has become a truly epic story of
Human beings meeting challenges and obstacles,
Seeking to fulfill their hero’s journey and bring
Home the crown. Each chapter ends and the
Audience desires more. The book is epic in
Proportions, full of characters developing and
Varying locations and conflict and but a temporary
Resolution; it can fill a library all by itself, this book,
But where does the collector place a never-ending
Novel book with a cast of thousands and as many
Storylines as there are human beings to play roles
Made just for them?
This is a volume for the ages, and the sages know
That it is worth the wait, and so they cannot help
Themselves, these fans of marvelous adventures.
On they read as read they must.
Baseball is a never-ending book of stories.
Chapter after chapter, season after season,
The work of love adds another fine collection of
Individual tales waiting for the climax and the
Conclusion (and then the after-word). This
One watched his daddy grow and work
The dusty coal mines of Oklahoma, while he built
Strength and waited for an early death; another
Grew up in the city and knew the playgrounds
Near his neighborhood and learned to become
Oblivious to big-time pressure; still another played
In a suburban Little League before his parent’s
Watchful, hopeful eyes, and won a trophy. Then
There’s the one who came of age in Japan or in
Korea and had to leave his culture full of comfort
Far behind and adapt to a new language and a new
Set of rules and customs, as did his teammate
And opponents from Cuba, Venezuela, Mexico.
These and more are details in the tales that develop into
Chapters waiting to be read or reviewed by the fans who
Cannot wait until the temporary ending and the next
Installment. It has become a truly epic story of
Human beings meeting challenges and obstacles,
Seeking to fulfill their hero’s journey and bring
Home the crown. Each chapter ends and the
Audience desires more. The book is epic in
Proportions, full of characters developing and
Varying locations and conflict and but a temporary
Resolution; it can fill a library all by itself, this book,
But where does the collector place a never-ending
Novel book with a cast of thousands and as many
Storylines as there are human beings to play roles
Made just for them?
This is a volume for the ages, and the sages know
That it is worth the wait, and so they cannot help
Themselves, these fans of marvelous adventures.
On they read as read they must.
I Was Mercury
I Used to run; I invented jogging in 1964 when I was told no Peace Corps
For me unless I dropped the weight --- so I ran crisscross in the schoolyard,
Tapping the chain link fences over and over at the end of each lap
To the point where they waited for me, knew my touch, understood that
I gave them a new sense of purpose, and so they stood up even straighter
Each time I approached. I was so in tune with my jogging then that I felt
As one with the breeze I created and my boundaries, and the music I heard,
As I jog my memory, unlike later years, came from within me, not from
Electronic transmissions and headphones. My schoolyard jogs were
The purest of their kind. Soon after, I discovered the quarter mile track
At Indiana University during Peace Corps training; it was pleasant being
Able to measure my distances; no blazing speedster but a living Ever-ready bunny.
Next in my jogging memory was the six-minute mile I ran against a Brit
At my school in Sierra Leone in 1965. Not a fancy track --- just another quarter-
Miler, this one scraped from the grass by a small tractor, and serving as the
Outer limits of the school soccer or football field, depending on one’s ancestry.
At this point, after my return to the States, the tracks all run together, so to speak.
They all had in common an association with a high school ---
Nanuet, Spring Valley, Orangeburg, Great Neck North, Great Neck South ---
A way to track my life, my moves, my relationships, my . . . geography and history.
This oval journey seems to me to be symbolic of my life, going in circles
And going nowhere --- except that
That conclusion is misleading and two dimensional. The true symbolism lies
In what I did, not where I did it. As I look back, I see my determination, my
Consistency, my orientation toward accomplishing goals. I view this history
As three dimensional, layering run upon run, mile after mile, breath after breath,
And I acknowledge that I have slowed down, I have left the track, but I have never
Given up. Now, with arthritic knees, I may stumble and stoop but I never stop.
There is a purpose to my movement, and I no longer need to measure distances
Or to ascertain locations. I move not gracefully but with determination and I will
Never stop to touch the fantasy fences of the schoolyard until I move no more,
Until the final race has ended and I have been recognized as victor
And as one who never could be looked upon as having surrendered
To fate just shy of the finish line.
I Used to run; I invented jogging in 1964 when I was told no Peace Corps
For me unless I dropped the weight --- so I ran crisscross in the schoolyard,
Tapping the chain link fences over and over at the end of each lap
To the point where they waited for me, knew my touch, understood that
I gave them a new sense of purpose, and so they stood up even straighter
Each time I approached. I was so in tune with my jogging then that I felt
As one with the breeze I created and my boundaries, and the music I heard,
As I jog my memory, unlike later years, came from within me, not from
Electronic transmissions and headphones. My schoolyard jogs were
The purest of their kind. Soon after, I discovered the quarter mile track
At Indiana University during Peace Corps training; it was pleasant being
Able to measure my distances; no blazing speedster but a living Ever-ready bunny.
Next in my jogging memory was the six-minute mile I ran against a Brit
At my school in Sierra Leone in 1965. Not a fancy track --- just another quarter-
Miler, this one scraped from the grass by a small tractor, and serving as the
Outer limits of the school soccer or football field, depending on one’s ancestry.
At this point, after my return to the States, the tracks all run together, so to speak.
They all had in common an association with a high school ---
Nanuet, Spring Valley, Orangeburg, Great Neck North, Great Neck South ---
A way to track my life, my moves, my relationships, my . . . geography and history.
This oval journey seems to me to be symbolic of my life, going in circles
And going nowhere --- except that
That conclusion is misleading and two dimensional. The true symbolism lies
In what I did, not where I did it. As I look back, I see my determination, my
Consistency, my orientation toward accomplishing goals. I view this history
As three dimensional, layering run upon run, mile after mile, breath after breath,
And I acknowledge that I have slowed down, I have left the track, but I have never
Given up. Now, with arthritic knees, I may stumble and stoop but I never stop.
There is a purpose to my movement, and I no longer need to measure distances
Or to ascertain locations. I move not gracefully but with determination and I will
Never stop to touch the fantasy fences of the schoolyard until I move no more,
Until the final race has ended and I have been recognized as victor
And as one who never could be looked upon as having surrendered
To fate just shy of the finish line.
Paradise Denied
If we lived in an Earthly paradise, I would command respect from strangers.
They would bow their heads and would acknowledge me as I walked by,
And I would sense their respect and admiration much as if I were a well-
Accomplished athlete or a celebrity with a star on the Walk of Fame.
My years would be to all I have daily contact with a badge of honor,
A reason in itself for recognition that I am a survivor, one who has managed
To thrive against the obstacles, the time-bombs that Life waits to toss
At all of us. This would be a daily heaven while I still breathe and while my
Soul continues to gather fine and large achievements, not the least of which
Are the love and the respect of those so close to me that they provide
The definition of my existence. There are indeed such places in this world
Where I would walk and younger people would follow eagerly my footsteps,
Where I would talk and those apprenticed to success would sit at my side
And ask questions and listen to, admiringly, my words, my guides for living
Daily in a way that they would love to touch upon and absorb lovingly,
Places with such names as Sardinia, Okinawa, Nicoya, Ikaria, Loma Linda,
Where advanced age is respected and honored and revered and looked upon as
Integral to God’s plan, as much a part of true religion unencumbered by human
Prejudice and misinterpretation as are the words spoken on Mount Sinai centuries ago.
My purpose and my reason for existence would be recognized and accepted
And I would wake each day looking forward to a host of loved ones and even
Strangers whom I’d greet in my routine and who would then reciprocate in kind.
That is the Paradise on Earth that I would wish upon us all, and the result would be
The non-existence of grumpiness and sadness and depression all too often
Encountered in seniors as their lives descend to depths of darkness. I am left
To wonder, “Why are younger people so this way? Why do they hate or fear
The state of Life which should be valued to the point that lessons learned
Will help the young avoid the pitfalls and disillusions that life is all too eager
To pock Life with?” Some questions need their answers for a fulfilled time
On Earth, but before they can be answered, they must first be asked.
If we lived in an Earthly paradise, I would command respect from strangers.
They would bow their heads and would acknowledge me as I walked by,
And I would sense their respect and admiration much as if I were a well-
Accomplished athlete or a celebrity with a star on the Walk of Fame.
My years would be to all I have daily contact with a badge of honor,
A reason in itself for recognition that I am a survivor, one who has managed
To thrive against the obstacles, the time-bombs that Life waits to toss
At all of us. This would be a daily heaven while I still breathe and while my
Soul continues to gather fine and large achievements, not the least of which
Are the love and the respect of those so close to me that they provide
The definition of my existence. There are indeed such places in this world
Where I would walk and younger people would follow eagerly my footsteps,
Where I would talk and those apprenticed to success would sit at my side
And ask questions and listen to, admiringly, my words, my guides for living
Daily in a way that they would love to touch upon and absorb lovingly,
Places with such names as Sardinia, Okinawa, Nicoya, Ikaria, Loma Linda,
Where advanced age is respected and honored and revered and looked upon as
Integral to God’s plan, as much a part of true religion unencumbered by human
Prejudice and misinterpretation as are the words spoken on Mount Sinai centuries ago.
My purpose and my reason for existence would be recognized and accepted
And I would wake each day looking forward to a host of loved ones and even
Strangers whom I’d greet in my routine and who would then reciprocate in kind.
That is the Paradise on Earth that I would wish upon us all, and the result would be
The non-existence of grumpiness and sadness and depression all too often
Encountered in seniors as their lives descend to depths of darkness. I am left
To wonder, “Why are younger people so this way? Why do they hate or fear
The state of Life which should be valued to the point that lessons learned
Will help the young avoid the pitfalls and disillusions that life is all too eager
To pock Life with?” Some questions need their answers for a fulfilled time
On Earth, but before they can be answered, they must first be asked.
Double-Sided
As long as Time has been extant, so have opposing sides;
Everything has conflicting sides, from brotherly love and hate
In the guise of Cain and Abel and to the Roman god Janus
And his two faces confronting beginnings and endings to the
Litany of everyday things; because of the dual nature of humans,
Each of its kind has the potential to serve both Good and Evil.
An alert exploration shows this to be true. Alfred Nobel, for instance,
Created dynamite for construction purposes but clever evil soon developed
Explosives used to kill and maim with his invention, and so, guilt-ridden, he
Left a fortune to award a Peace Prize in his name. Guns were initially
Developed for hunting and defense but they soon became
Weapons of murder and offense. Ships were created as a
Means of transportation but soon were fitted with cannons,
Navies, and pirates and wrought destruction from and on the sea.
Airplanes cut the time of travel from eternities to more
Manageable periods and carried freight and people to new opportunities
And adventures but it wasn’t long before clever men were dropping
Bombs from them, and pilots were launching bullets at each other.
Ropes were created as a way to tie and ship and even build, but
Soon were used in lynchings. Name a device that benefits mankind
And surely some can figure out a way to use that thing to kill or injure.
Use a pillow to get some sleep or to smother someone into eternal rest.
Eat and enjoy your meal with a fork or use it to attack and stab.
Drive your vehicle on pleasure trips or as a murder weapon, premeditated or not.
Use strychnine or arsenic to get rid of rats . . . or your noisy neighbor.
Take the right amount of Paracetamol and feel better ---- but too much can kill.
Friar Laurence gave Romeo great advice about using or approaching
Everything in moderation, even Love - - - but look at the result of unprepared love
For Romeo and Juliet, and in trying to protect his daughter Juliet, did not Capulet
Hasten her demise? Duplicity has a negative connotation; being two-faced is not
A compliment. Black and white! Good and evil! Hot and Cold! Life and Death!
Heaven and Hell! Beauty and Ugliness! It is the destiny of people to expose Themselves to dichotomy, and because of that there can never be Heaven on
Our Earth. It was once said that Beauty killed the Beast. When Beauty and
The Beast can finally coexist, when we finally conclude that
Both light and dark
Create the spark . . .
When the two sides of each device we create learn to meld into one ---
And only then --- will Peace swallow War and at that time
Will angels inhabit the Earth.
As long as Time has been extant, so have opposing sides;
Everything has conflicting sides, from brotherly love and hate
In the guise of Cain and Abel and to the Roman god Janus
And his two faces confronting beginnings and endings to the
Litany of everyday things; because of the dual nature of humans,
Each of its kind has the potential to serve both Good and Evil.
An alert exploration shows this to be true. Alfred Nobel, for instance,
Created dynamite for construction purposes but clever evil soon developed
Explosives used to kill and maim with his invention, and so, guilt-ridden, he
Left a fortune to award a Peace Prize in his name. Guns were initially
Developed for hunting and defense but they soon became
Weapons of murder and offense. Ships were created as a
Means of transportation but soon were fitted with cannons,
Navies, and pirates and wrought destruction from and on the sea.
Airplanes cut the time of travel from eternities to more
Manageable periods and carried freight and people to new opportunities
And adventures but it wasn’t long before clever men were dropping
Bombs from them, and pilots were launching bullets at each other.
Ropes were created as a way to tie and ship and even build, but
Soon were used in lynchings. Name a device that benefits mankind
And surely some can figure out a way to use that thing to kill or injure.
Use a pillow to get some sleep or to smother someone into eternal rest.
Eat and enjoy your meal with a fork or use it to attack and stab.
Drive your vehicle on pleasure trips or as a murder weapon, premeditated or not.
Use strychnine or arsenic to get rid of rats . . . or your noisy neighbor.
Take the right amount of Paracetamol and feel better ---- but too much can kill.
Friar Laurence gave Romeo great advice about using or approaching
Everything in moderation, even Love - - - but look at the result of unprepared love
For Romeo and Juliet, and in trying to protect his daughter Juliet, did not Capulet
Hasten her demise? Duplicity has a negative connotation; being two-faced is not
A compliment. Black and white! Good and evil! Hot and Cold! Life and Death!
Heaven and Hell! Beauty and Ugliness! It is the destiny of people to expose Themselves to dichotomy, and because of that there can never be Heaven on
Our Earth. It was once said that Beauty killed the Beast. When Beauty and
The Beast can finally coexist, when we finally conclude that
Both light and dark
Create the spark . . .
When the two sides of each device we create learn to meld into one ---
And only then --- will Peace swallow War and at that time
Will angels inhabit the Earth.
E x t r a I n n i n g s
My life has entered extra innings.
This expected situation has defied the odds;
I can't say no one won. It's more like no one lost, and here I am
Playing still, with a ghost on second even though I thought I'd be the ghost
By now. The first three innings I was a cowboy chasing villains with Bob Steele
And Johnny Mack Brown, and then an astronaut exploring space with Captain
Video. In the great outdoors, in the middle three innings, I discovered a small
Pink rubber ball mispronounced a spaldeen, and became a daily athlete filled with
A mixture of love and enthusiasm as I played punchball, a caveman form of
Baseball, on the concrete school yard field. I was a powerful speedster (in my
mind), unaware that I was building a solid foundation for a lifetime love affair
With baseball. I soon found the Yanks on that same RCA I grew up viewing, and I
Was hooked, modeling my softball swing after Mantle’s. Time crawled and I
Helped win a college softball title in '63. The final three innings of regulation time,
I taught, I learned, I taught and learned, and I was thrilled my students were on my
Side, as we defeated that old opponent Ignorance, series after series. And now in
Extra innings, I play my heart out every chance I come to bat or play the field, not
Knowing what the final score will be - - - but I am sure no one will yell "Bum" at
Me from the stands. The fans who have been watching my game closely all these
Years will applaud me 'cause they'll know that I always lived up to my nickname,
"Herbie Hustle"!
My life has entered extra innings.
This expected situation has defied the odds;
I can't say no one won. It's more like no one lost, and here I am
Playing still, with a ghost on second even though I thought I'd be the ghost
By now. The first three innings I was a cowboy chasing villains with Bob Steele
And Johnny Mack Brown, and then an astronaut exploring space with Captain
Video. In the great outdoors, in the middle three innings, I discovered a small
Pink rubber ball mispronounced a spaldeen, and became a daily athlete filled with
A mixture of love and enthusiasm as I played punchball, a caveman form of
Baseball, on the concrete school yard field. I was a powerful speedster (in my
mind), unaware that I was building a solid foundation for a lifetime love affair
With baseball. I soon found the Yanks on that same RCA I grew up viewing, and I
Was hooked, modeling my softball swing after Mantle’s. Time crawled and I
Helped win a college softball title in '63. The final three innings of regulation time,
I taught, I learned, I taught and learned, and I was thrilled my students were on my
Side, as we defeated that old opponent Ignorance, series after series. And now in
Extra innings, I play my heart out every chance I come to bat or play the field, not
Knowing what the final score will be - - - but I am sure no one will yell "Bum" at
Me from the stands. The fans who have been watching my game closely all these
Years will applaud me 'cause they'll know that I always lived up to my nickname,
"Herbie Hustle"!
Honestly Patriotic
The playing of the “Star-Spangled Banner” before a baseball game
Is routine yet magical, a throw-back to a time when the people
Of America understood that we were one and belonged together.
The notes remind us of our love for the game and for the states
That are and should be so united that we are a marriage of hopes,
Ideas, ideals, laws, and dreams. The love affair between the song
And the game --- the national anthem and the national pastime ---
Began during World War I, after we had lost 100,000 members of
Our Military, when the Red Sox and the Cubs were playing in the
First game of the 1918 Series. When the U. S. Navy band began to
Play the song. Boston player Fred Thomas, on special furlough from
The Navy so that he could play, looked at the flag and saluted, and
His teammates did the same, as did fans standing for the seventh-
Inning stretch. They stood together, honoring the memory of the
Fallen and the lives of those still fighting --- real patriots who
Understood the lyrics and what was described in the time of an
Earlier war --- and the fans in the stadium saw the depth of the
Unified sacrifice being made for them, for their families, so they
Stood proud and sang their harmony with the spirit of those who
Had founded the grand experiment. At song’s end, the crowd that
Had been subdued let out a common roar of faith. The song would
Be played in each game till that Series ended, a practice Boston
Later made official every game, as did other teams, then other sports,
But as is proper for our nation’s first official home-grown sport,
Baseball was the first! And how vital it is that each time the anthem
Is played and sung and heard, we are reminded that we are devotees
Not only of the sport but of the Land, that our common heritage
Includes the history of baseball and the true ideals of a nation, as the
Lyrics say, is “blest with victory and peace.”
The playing of the “Star-Spangled Banner” before a baseball game
Is routine yet magical, a throw-back to a time when the people
Of America understood that we were one and belonged together.
The notes remind us of our love for the game and for the states
That are and should be so united that we are a marriage of hopes,
Ideas, ideals, laws, and dreams. The love affair between the song
And the game --- the national anthem and the national pastime ---
Began during World War I, after we had lost 100,000 members of
Our Military, when the Red Sox and the Cubs were playing in the
First game of the 1918 Series. When the U. S. Navy band began to
Play the song. Boston player Fred Thomas, on special furlough from
The Navy so that he could play, looked at the flag and saluted, and
His teammates did the same, as did fans standing for the seventh-
Inning stretch. They stood together, honoring the memory of the
Fallen and the lives of those still fighting --- real patriots who
Understood the lyrics and what was described in the time of an
Earlier war --- and the fans in the stadium saw the depth of the
Unified sacrifice being made for them, for their families, so they
Stood proud and sang their harmony with the spirit of those who
Had founded the grand experiment. At song’s end, the crowd that
Had been subdued let out a common roar of faith. The song would
Be played in each game till that Series ended, a practice Boston
Later made official every game, as did other teams, then other sports,
But as is proper for our nation’s first official home-grown sport,
Baseball was the first! And how vital it is that each time the anthem
Is played and sung and heard, we are reminded that we are devotees
Not only of the sport but of the Land, that our common heritage
Includes the history of baseball and the true ideals of a nation, as the
Lyrics say, is “blest with victory and peace.”
In Control
Phillie Bonus Baby Tom Qualters faltered in his
Major League career; cold-shouldered by most
Of his teammates for taking an old Pro’s spot
On the ’53 team, but mentored by two pitchers
From the Phillies Wiz Kids of three years before,
Starter Robin Roberts and reliever Jim Konstanty,
He struggled and could not find his comfort
Zone. Sent to the Minors, he continued with
Control problems and mental shakiness on the
Mound - - - and then one day a helicopter landed
Near the mound and out came The Satchel Paige,
Baseball wisdom and cool personified . . . and in
Time, Old Satch in his sagacious way said the words
That entered Qualters’ heart and soul: “Those sons-
Of-a-bitches can beat ya, but they can’t eat ya.” A
Scoreboard light went on inside the former Baby,
And . . . you know how wise folks find a phrase to
Live their lives by? . . . Qualters lost the trembles when
He faced those former Major Leaguers now in Triple-A,
Solidified his confidence and came in and did the job.
Now, I’d love to tell you how he went up to the Show and
Domineered, but truth is he stayed up there with mediocrity,
But that’s not the point: What you learn about yourself in
Baseball doesn’t stay behind on the field. Here was a
Man who made some quality friends and transcended
Temporary achievements to the point where his quality
Inculcated his demeanor on and off the mound. He
Didn’t stay a Baby but the Bonus that he earned was
Found in Paige’s words. Loss is temporary; just don’t
Be at a loss to acknowledge that no one is your master,
Not in baseball, not in Life. They can beat you once
In a while, but they can never own you if you build
A rampart made of pride on the inside!
Phillie Bonus Baby Tom Qualters faltered in his
Major League career; cold-shouldered by most
Of his teammates for taking an old Pro’s spot
On the ’53 team, but mentored by two pitchers
From the Phillies Wiz Kids of three years before,
Starter Robin Roberts and reliever Jim Konstanty,
He struggled and could not find his comfort
Zone. Sent to the Minors, he continued with
Control problems and mental shakiness on the
Mound - - - and then one day a helicopter landed
Near the mound and out came The Satchel Paige,
Baseball wisdom and cool personified . . . and in
Time, Old Satch in his sagacious way said the words
That entered Qualters’ heart and soul: “Those sons-
Of-a-bitches can beat ya, but they can’t eat ya.” A
Scoreboard light went on inside the former Baby,
And . . . you know how wise folks find a phrase to
Live their lives by? . . . Qualters lost the trembles when
He faced those former Major Leaguers now in Triple-A,
Solidified his confidence and came in and did the job.
Now, I’d love to tell you how he went up to the Show and
Domineered, but truth is he stayed up there with mediocrity,
But that’s not the point: What you learn about yourself in
Baseball doesn’t stay behind on the field. Here was a
Man who made some quality friends and transcended
Temporary achievements to the point where his quality
Inculcated his demeanor on and off the mound. He
Didn’t stay a Baby but the Bonus that he earned was
Found in Paige’s words. Loss is temporary; just don’t
Be at a loss to acknowledge that no one is your master,
Not in baseball, not in Life. They can beat you once
In a while, but they can never own you if you build
A rampart made of pride on the inside!
Three Baseball Haiku
Power to power
Speed of pitch to lightning swing
Charged explosive sound
Swift and daring move
Leave a base to take a base
Moment of surprise
Dropping down a bunt
Blazing down the first base line
Put down one more hit
Power to power
Speed of pitch to lightning swing
Charged explosive sound
Swift and daring move
Leave a base to take a base
Moment of surprise
Dropping down a bunt
Blazing down the first base line
Put down one more hit
Writing Haiku
I
Writers Circle time
Back to the anxiety
Of egocentrics
II
I want to hear you
Listen to my words and speak
Be kind and helpful
III
Good stories kiss you
Words are born to get along
Listen to their song
I
Writers Circle time
Back to the anxiety
Of egocentrics
II
I want to hear you
Listen to my words and speak
Be kind and helpful
III
Good stories kiss you
Words are born to get along
Listen to their song
Falling
I was young once --- yes, it’s true, though appearance would defy that image.
I would run and allow myself to get lost in the moment, to become a part of
My surroundings, to jog in ovals non-stop around the track, any track,
Mile after mile, smile after smile, adding up the distances a quarter-mile at a time,
Listening to Sedaka, Diamond, Streisand, Beach Boys, Beatles, Stones, Dion,
Jogging to the rhythm in my ears and making it my heartbeat of the moment.
I’d gaze into the sky, study the clouds and fantasize about beaches and palms
A thousand miles away and sway slightly to Calypso bands with metal drums
Or the lively beat of African High Life songs or the catchy charm of Simon and
Garfunkel, the Mamas and the Papas, Peter, Paul and Mary --- glide in my mind
To the goal that also marked the starting line. I was in control of my movements
In a way that was so natural, well-balanced and in charge; I was as they say
Master of my own domain, in total control of where I was headed and how I
Would get there . . . and when. When I wasn’t jogging, I was playing ball ---
Any type and all. (I’ll forego the list; fill in the blanks yourself.) I was not a pro but
My heart was pumping energy and effort, my soul was filled with spirit, my mind Directed directly at the goal, any goal, until I felt accomplishment. My knees
Responded to my brain and I felt the rain of energy soaking through my entity,
Making me the champion of my universe. I loved those days. I miss those days.
Now when I try to write descriptions of my movements, the words that come to me
Are stumble, hobble, stagger, clomp . . . and fall. The days of jogging ‘round the
Track --- any track --- are cemented in the past. The days of strutting from place to
Place are memories. Instead, I fall. And when I do, it’s not an imitation of a dive
Into some Olympic pool; it is a redwood cut across the base and collapsing to the
Forest ground. My falling deifies the force of gravity. I lose my balance as though
Weightless on the moon and I become a thud heard ‘round the world. If diving to
The ground were an Olympic sport, I’d be - - - excuse the choice of words - - - well
In the running for the gold medal. I am no longer master of my fate when movement
Hits me hard; I am helpless . . . and that’s hard to take. I walk for exercise and as I
Try to pass, the friendliest of dogs leaps onto me, looking for affection that in the
Past I’d eagerly provide . . . and I fall. A parking meter beckons me to come insert
Some quarters . . . and I fall. I am awakened to take some needed action in another
Room . . . and I fall. I just get up to bend and check the time, I stumble back repeatedly
With flailing hands . . .and I fall! The dance of my life has lost its rhythm as I age.
I fight for balance and my dignity. I live in fear of the final fall, yet am determined to
Regain my control and my composure. It is not within my nature to give up. I am a
Soldier determined to complete my mission, and I will NOT fall in battle and lie
Helpless and hopeless. I have many steps ahead of me, and when I hit the finish
Line, it will be under my own terms, winner of the gilded medal of my victory.
I will not flail! I will not fail! I will not fall!
I was young once --- yes, it’s true, though appearance would defy that image.
I would run and allow myself to get lost in the moment, to become a part of
My surroundings, to jog in ovals non-stop around the track, any track,
Mile after mile, smile after smile, adding up the distances a quarter-mile at a time,
Listening to Sedaka, Diamond, Streisand, Beach Boys, Beatles, Stones, Dion,
Jogging to the rhythm in my ears and making it my heartbeat of the moment.
I’d gaze into the sky, study the clouds and fantasize about beaches and palms
A thousand miles away and sway slightly to Calypso bands with metal drums
Or the lively beat of African High Life songs or the catchy charm of Simon and
Garfunkel, the Mamas and the Papas, Peter, Paul and Mary --- glide in my mind
To the goal that also marked the starting line. I was in control of my movements
In a way that was so natural, well-balanced and in charge; I was as they say
Master of my own domain, in total control of where I was headed and how I
Would get there . . . and when. When I wasn’t jogging, I was playing ball ---
Any type and all. (I’ll forego the list; fill in the blanks yourself.) I was not a pro but
My heart was pumping energy and effort, my soul was filled with spirit, my mind Directed directly at the goal, any goal, until I felt accomplishment. My knees
Responded to my brain and I felt the rain of energy soaking through my entity,
Making me the champion of my universe. I loved those days. I miss those days.
Now when I try to write descriptions of my movements, the words that come to me
Are stumble, hobble, stagger, clomp . . . and fall. The days of jogging ‘round the
Track --- any track --- are cemented in the past. The days of strutting from place to
Place are memories. Instead, I fall. And when I do, it’s not an imitation of a dive
Into some Olympic pool; it is a redwood cut across the base and collapsing to the
Forest ground. My falling deifies the force of gravity. I lose my balance as though
Weightless on the moon and I become a thud heard ‘round the world. If diving to
The ground were an Olympic sport, I’d be - - - excuse the choice of words - - - well
In the running for the gold medal. I am no longer master of my fate when movement
Hits me hard; I am helpless . . . and that’s hard to take. I walk for exercise and as I
Try to pass, the friendliest of dogs leaps onto me, looking for affection that in the
Past I’d eagerly provide . . . and I fall. A parking meter beckons me to come insert
Some quarters . . . and I fall. I am awakened to take some needed action in another
Room . . . and I fall. I just get up to bend and check the time, I stumble back repeatedly
With flailing hands . . .and I fall! The dance of my life has lost its rhythm as I age.
I fight for balance and my dignity. I live in fear of the final fall, yet am determined to
Regain my control and my composure. It is not within my nature to give up. I am a
Soldier determined to complete my mission, and I will NOT fall in battle and lie
Helpless and hopeless. I have many steps ahead of me, and when I hit the finish
Line, it will be under my own terms, winner of the gilded medal of my victory.
I will not flail! I will not fail! I will not fall!
Seder: April 22, 2024
Bonded by family, we sit and share respect for a love of our history and
The miracle that saved our ancestors. We seek commemoration and
Recognition that we are more powerful together than alone, and
We feel the comfort being blanketed by our faith’s traditions.
We are the universe well versed in our interchangeable adoration
For He who did protect us centuries ago when our great need meshed
With our great love of a life bound by great respect. Here, tonight, we sit
And hold onto family and recite the past as if it were the present,
Because without our common past, we would dwell in isolation,
Disconsolate. We are Family. We know each other’s hearts and sit
Together eager to renew our faith in each other, as God’s angels
Oversee our sojourn through Life. We here represent many decades
Of love, of energy, of turbulence, of success . . . and most of all,
Togetherness, and though we go our separate ways when it is dark,
We never fail to feel united and take a silent solemn oath to be there
When there is need - - - physically, mentally, spiritually. There is no
Single one of us without there being all. The sacred memory we share
This night is a microcosm, great as it seems, of the universe that is
Held together by Family. The greatest prayer ever uttered is
Surpassed by each of us simply saying, “I love you.” This is our
Commitment; it is a psalm beyond any David in our Bible ever sang.
Hashem is One. We are One. Without family, there is no Jewishness.
There is bleakness and a devastating isolation. That cannot be, so we
Gather, sing, commemorate and celebrate a miracle of the Past and
The miracle of our mutual existence and interdependence on this day.
Shana tovah u’metukah! Amen.
Bonded by family, we sit and share respect for a love of our history and
The miracle that saved our ancestors. We seek commemoration and
Recognition that we are more powerful together than alone, and
We feel the comfort being blanketed by our faith’s traditions.
We are the universe well versed in our interchangeable adoration
For He who did protect us centuries ago when our great need meshed
With our great love of a life bound by great respect. Here, tonight, we sit
And hold onto family and recite the past as if it were the present,
Because without our common past, we would dwell in isolation,
Disconsolate. We are Family. We know each other’s hearts and sit
Together eager to renew our faith in each other, as God’s angels
Oversee our sojourn through Life. We here represent many decades
Of love, of energy, of turbulence, of success . . . and most of all,
Togetherness, and though we go our separate ways when it is dark,
We never fail to feel united and take a silent solemn oath to be there
When there is need - - - physically, mentally, spiritually. There is no
Single one of us without there being all. The sacred memory we share
This night is a microcosm, great as it seems, of the universe that is
Held together by Family. The greatest prayer ever uttered is
Surpassed by each of us simply saying, “I love you.” This is our
Commitment; it is a psalm beyond any David in our Bible ever sang.
Hashem is One. We are One. Without family, there is no Jewishness.
There is bleakness and a devastating isolation. That cannot be, so we
Gather, sing, commemorate and celebrate a miracle of the Past and
The miracle of our mutual existence and interdependence on this day.
Shana tovah u’metukah! Amen.
9 and 9
Rules and regulations matter deeply in the face of chaos.
Nature is armored by expectations in its seasons, years and days,
In its procreation of life forms and Darwin's observed survival
Of some species over others. Americans are a nation of laws,
Our birth certificate The U. S. Constitution, a statement of
Laws to live by and to swear to by its worshipers. This love of
Legislated guidance gives us strength and security
Both off and on the field. It wasn't that way at the start,
But evolution of the game of baseball gave substance to early
Incongruent haphazardry that led to unpredictability. Before 1857,
A game's winner was the first to score 21 runs, no matter how
Many innings it took. Then in 1856, a 12-12 tie was ended after
16 innings and a truckload of frustration because the players
Could no longer see each other or the ball. The conflict soon became
Seven starting players and seven innings versus nine and nine.
Nature's rules are indisputable; Man's are open to adjustment.
A convention solidified the nine-inning game with a symmetrical
Nine players on the field --- and here we are.
Americans love their conventions.
Rules and regulations matter deeply in the face of chaos.
Nature is armored by expectations in its seasons, years and days,
In its procreation of life forms and Darwin's observed survival
Of some species over others. Americans are a nation of laws,
Our birth certificate The U. S. Constitution, a statement of
Laws to live by and to swear to by its worshipers. This love of
Legislated guidance gives us strength and security
Both off and on the field. It wasn't that way at the start,
But evolution of the game of baseball gave substance to early
Incongruent haphazardry that led to unpredictability. Before 1857,
A game's winner was the first to score 21 runs, no matter how
Many innings it took. Then in 1856, a 12-12 tie was ended after
16 innings and a truckload of frustration because the players
Could no longer see each other or the ball. The conflict soon became
Seven starting players and seven innings versus nine and nine.
Nature's rules are indisputable; Man's are open to adjustment.
A convention solidified the nine-inning game with a symmetrical
Nine players on the field --- and here we are.
Americans love their conventions.
Basebrawl
What I like about baseball fights is that they are non-violent.
Sure, there is the exception, the combative combo of Rose
And Harrelson, but even those fights go nowhere; no,
Mostly when the agitation quickly erupts, it simmers but
Never explodes to the boiling point. These team-trained athletes
Charge from the dugouts and the bullpens ready to do battle
To save the honor of the uniform but by the time the hordes
Find themselves within striking distance, they have run the
Course of their insanity and end up standing there in their
Assorted positions, growling, sneering like dogs around a
Meaty bone . . . but no punches even try to land on flesh.
Baseball warriors are sensibly worriers, concerned about
Injuries --- sprains, contusions, tears --- then their better
Sense beats them to the punch and they self-restrain.
Witnessing a baseball brawl is watching a volcano that
Belches smoke but saves the lava for another time. Umps
Wait a while and then suggest gently that it’s time to go on,
To resume the real battle between bat and ball.
It seems to me that heads of state could learn what the
Sport has to teach: grunt and grumble but while you have
The sides in proximity, then follow baseball’s lead; a playing field
Is much less devastating than a field of war. Find a way to
Exchange views and grievances without sending your young
To be maimed or murdered by a nation you’ll be friends
With two decades from the unsatisfying end of war.
The final score in runs is so much better and more civilized
Than the final score in the form of body counts.
What I like about baseball fights is that they are non-violent.
Sure, there is the exception, the combative combo of Rose
And Harrelson, but even those fights go nowhere; no,
Mostly when the agitation quickly erupts, it simmers but
Never explodes to the boiling point. These team-trained athletes
Charge from the dugouts and the bullpens ready to do battle
To save the honor of the uniform but by the time the hordes
Find themselves within striking distance, they have run the
Course of their insanity and end up standing there in their
Assorted positions, growling, sneering like dogs around a
Meaty bone . . . but no punches even try to land on flesh.
Baseball warriors are sensibly worriers, concerned about
Injuries --- sprains, contusions, tears --- then their better
Sense beats them to the punch and they self-restrain.
Witnessing a baseball brawl is watching a volcano that
Belches smoke but saves the lava for another time. Umps
Wait a while and then suggest gently that it’s time to go on,
To resume the real battle between bat and ball.
It seems to me that heads of state could learn what the
Sport has to teach: grunt and grumble but while you have
The sides in proximity, then follow baseball’s lead; a playing field
Is much less devastating than a field of war. Find a way to
Exchange views and grievances without sending your young
To be maimed or murdered by a nation you’ll be friends
With two decades from the unsatisfying end of war.
The final score in runs is so much better and more civilized
Than the final score in the form of body counts.
More Alive Every Day
I used to glide with my legs;
Now I fly with my mind.
I used to look with my eyes;
Now I see with my years.
I used to taste with my mouth;
Now I relish Life with my mind.
I used to hear with my ears;
Now I listen with my inner being.
I once looked forward to growing up;
Instead, I have grown deep and sharp:
I knew a bit of flowers and of birds but
Now I am in love with Nature’s beauty
In a way that my younger self would
Never comprehend. I am as much of
The world as a rainbow - - - but with
Greater substance - - - and the pot of
Gold that is at my base is my love for
The meaning and the essence of
My companions in their many forms.
I have learned, and earned my place
On this sphere we all call home, and
I am wise enough to know that every
Minute is as precious as an infant’s
First breath. “You are never too old
To set another goal or to dream a
New dream,” Lewis said, and I
Have no hesitation in setting goals
That will add to my depth of character,
And dreams? My every day is a
Fantasy that leads me on to higher
Planes of once elusive Reality . . .
And it is sweet to taste adventures
That years ago would have confounded
Me by their very existence.
Vivo ergo sum!
I used to glide with my legs;
Now I fly with my mind.
I used to look with my eyes;
Now I see with my years.
I used to taste with my mouth;
Now I relish Life with my mind.
I used to hear with my ears;
Now I listen with my inner being.
I once looked forward to growing up;
Instead, I have grown deep and sharp:
I knew a bit of flowers and of birds but
Now I am in love with Nature’s beauty
In a way that my younger self would
Never comprehend. I am as much of
The world as a rainbow - - - but with
Greater substance - - - and the pot of
Gold that is at my base is my love for
The meaning and the essence of
My companions in their many forms.
I have learned, and earned my place
On this sphere we all call home, and
I am wise enough to know that every
Minute is as precious as an infant’s
First breath. “You are never too old
To set another goal or to dream a
New dream,” Lewis said, and I
Have no hesitation in setting goals
That will add to my depth of character,
And dreams? My every day is a
Fantasy that leads me on to higher
Planes of once elusive Reality . . .
And it is sweet to taste adventures
That years ago would have confounded
Me by their very existence.
Vivo ergo sum!
Focal Point
It’s a magic word with the quality of multitasking for success.
It’s a potent double-syllable word that represents concentrating,
Planning, engaging, visualizing, foreseeing, and controlling
Your baseball fate: focus!
Getting ready to hit a 100 mile per hour pitch: focus!
Preparing to steal a base or stretch your run: focus!
Anticipating the need to charge and scoop up a bunt: focus!
Trying to move the runner by hitting to the right side: focus!
Understanding that the batter likes to hit the other way: focus!
Having a need as catcher to steal a pitch with your glove: focus!
Realizing the need to keep the runner from stretching a single: focus!
Needing to talk the manager into letting you pitch longer: focus!
Relying on sabermetrics to select a starting lineup: focus!
Expecting to hit the cut-off man to save a run: focus!
Making the right pitch to throw the batter off balance: focus!
Baseball is more than physical; it is a mind game with endless
Situations and infinite possibilities. No two games are alike,
But unlike a snowflake, baseball is warm and sentient.
Each game is a chess match that will be won by laser thinking,
By executing plans and by making moves that open the best
Path to triumph, and as with chess, its essence is reduced to
A single simple yet complex approach: understand the situation
Facing you at the moment and then focus!
It’s a magic word with the quality of multitasking for success.
It’s a potent double-syllable word that represents concentrating,
Planning, engaging, visualizing, foreseeing, and controlling
Your baseball fate: focus!
Getting ready to hit a 100 mile per hour pitch: focus!
Preparing to steal a base or stretch your run: focus!
Anticipating the need to charge and scoop up a bunt: focus!
Trying to move the runner by hitting to the right side: focus!
Understanding that the batter likes to hit the other way: focus!
Having a need as catcher to steal a pitch with your glove: focus!
Realizing the need to keep the runner from stretching a single: focus!
Needing to talk the manager into letting you pitch longer: focus!
Relying on sabermetrics to select a starting lineup: focus!
Expecting to hit the cut-off man to save a run: focus!
Making the right pitch to throw the batter off balance: focus!
Baseball is more than physical; it is a mind game with endless
Situations and infinite possibilities. No two games are alike,
But unlike a snowflake, baseball is warm and sentient.
Each game is a chess match that will be won by laser thinking,
By executing plans and by making moves that open the best
Path to triumph, and as with chess, its essence is reduced to
A single simple yet complex approach: understand the situation
Facing you at the moment and then focus!
Pride
I am proud on many levels to be Jewish. My heart
Beats up-tempo when I consider my ancestors,
And the names create a song of sanctity within me ---
Samuel, David, Samson, Moses . . . each a hero
Who helped create a better world. Ben Gurion,
Dayan, Meir, Begin --- visionaries and warriors who
Built a nation and a home, who embraced the
True religion and people much like me. How
Else could I feel but proud? We are One:
We love wisdom and faith and family.
The golden crown I wear within my soul
Has been well traveled, and it still has a
Great distance to move on to, through my
Children, their progeny, and endless coming
Generations. We are a people forever united
By belonging and by longing for the Truth
That has been shared by generations since
G-d first gave breath to Abraham. When I
Consider my place in the Universe of Love,
I feel an inner glow that gives me warmth.
I kvell in my Jewishness even in the face
Of conflict, knowing that HaShem cares
For me as a father loves his child, cares
For all of us as we are all His children and
His living Temple.
I am proud on many levels to be Jewish. My heart
Beats up-tempo when I consider my ancestors,
And the names create a song of sanctity within me ---
Samuel, David, Samson, Moses . . . each a hero
Who helped create a better world. Ben Gurion,
Dayan, Meir, Begin --- visionaries and warriors who
Built a nation and a home, who embraced the
True religion and people much like me. How
Else could I feel but proud? We are One:
We love wisdom and faith and family.
The golden crown I wear within my soul
Has been well traveled, and it still has a
Great distance to move on to, through my
Children, their progeny, and endless coming
Generations. We are a people forever united
By belonging and by longing for the Truth
That has been shared by generations since
G-d first gave breath to Abraham. When I
Consider my place in the Universe of Love,
I feel an inner glow that gives me warmth.
I kvell in my Jewishness even in the face
Of conflict, knowing that HaShem cares
For me as a father loves his child, cares
For all of us as we are all His children and
His living Temple.
Recollections
I recall hearing about the three civil rights activists,
Michael Schwerner, Andrew Goodman and James
Chaney, being murdered while trying to get blacks
Registered to vote during one blazing hot Southern
Summer in the ‘60’s, thinking how the disenfranchised
Didn’t hate the two white men because they happened
To be Jewish. I remember standing on a corner waiting
For a bus and staring at a copy of Jet magazine displayed
At the front of a corner newsstand, carrying proudly a
Headline proclaiming the miracle of Israeli forces
Carrying the day in the 1967 war, driving back the
Invaders so determined to eradicate them all, the headline
Suggesting that G-d had guided and protected them.
I am aware of Abe Saperstein and his role with the
Harlem Globetrotters, helping players of color make a
Living in the days before the NBA welcomed them at last.
I know that Rabbi Miller recited the opening prayer
At King’s March on Washington and Rabbi Prinze spoke
Stirringly prior to “I Have a Dream” while many other Jews
Were there in support of justice and equality.
I have all this and more in my life-memory engulfed in
A quagmire of questions - - - mainly, when did we become
The enemy? When did we Jews cease to exist as partners
In oppression and in history? We share so much, we two
Constantly attacked segments of American society.
We should be as we were, holding hands and singing
Songs of freedom. Standing strong against pernicious
Ignorance. Why has driven us apart . . . and why?
I recall hearing about the three civil rights activists,
Michael Schwerner, Andrew Goodman and James
Chaney, being murdered while trying to get blacks
Registered to vote during one blazing hot Southern
Summer in the ‘60’s, thinking how the disenfranchised
Didn’t hate the two white men because they happened
To be Jewish. I remember standing on a corner waiting
For a bus and staring at a copy of Jet magazine displayed
At the front of a corner newsstand, carrying proudly a
Headline proclaiming the miracle of Israeli forces
Carrying the day in the 1967 war, driving back the
Invaders so determined to eradicate them all, the headline
Suggesting that G-d had guided and protected them.
I am aware of Abe Saperstein and his role with the
Harlem Globetrotters, helping players of color make a
Living in the days before the NBA welcomed them at last.
I know that Rabbi Miller recited the opening prayer
At King’s March on Washington and Rabbi Prinze spoke
Stirringly prior to “I Have a Dream” while many other Jews
Were there in support of justice and equality.
I have all this and more in my life-memory engulfed in
A quagmire of questions - - - mainly, when did we become
The enemy? When did we Jews cease to exist as partners
In oppression and in history? We share so much, we two
Constantly attacked segments of American society.
We should be as we were, holding hands and singing
Songs of freedom. Standing strong against pernicious
Ignorance. Why has driven us apart . . . and why?
A Matter of Inches!
He dives for the ball, body horizontal to the ground,
Glove outstretched and open like a Venus Flytrap
Seeking its flying victim, but the spherical prey eludes
The leather enemy - - - by an inch!
He swings at the splitter as it dives away from his
Wooden weapon and he strikes out, hitting nothing
But the dead air - - - by an inch!
He streaks across blades of grass, leaving no
Footprints, conscious that the color change
Means warning track approaching, and, with
The timing of a ballet dancer, leaps, but the
Well-tagged ball misses his grasp - - - by an inch!
He shuffles his feat almost undetected, bit by
Bit, timing the pitcher’s release and the catcher’s
Return . . . and then takes off, stealing second
- - - by an inch!
He, being a light hitter, chokes up on the bat, eyes
The way the fielder at the hot corner moves
To his left three steps, and then he swings, driving
The ball down the third base line and the ump
Signals, “Fair ball!” - - - by an inch!
Baseball is a game of chess but not without a bit
Of luck - - - about an inch of chance!
Glove outstretched and open like a Venus Flytrap
Seeking its flying victim, but the spherical prey eludes
The leather enemy - - - by an inch!
He swings at the splitter as it dives away from his
Wooden weapon and he strikes out, hitting nothing
But the dead air - - - by an inch!
He streaks across blades of grass, leaving no
Footprints, conscious that the color change
Means warning track approaching, and, with
The timing of a ballet dancer, leaps, but the
Well-tagged ball misses his grasp - - - by an inch!
He shuffles his feat almost undetected, bit by
Bit, timing the pitcher’s release and the catcher’s
Return . . . and then takes off, stealing second
- - - by an inch!
He, being a light hitter, chokes up on the bat, eyes
The way the fielder at the hot corner moves
To his left three steps, and then he swings, driving
The ball down the third base line and the ump
Signals, “Fair ball!” - - - by an inch!
Baseball is a game of chess but not without a bit
Of luck - - - about an inch of chance!
I Said the Words
(slightly revised for publication)
I said the prayer for a very long year
to remember my mother
(as if I could forget)
to honor her
(as if I needed to)
to show my love for her
(as if that was the so official way,
as if that could replace the feeling
fading just too quickly from my mind).
I journeyed to the synagogue
one vacant block from where my father worked
and sat with bearded ancient men
who shared a musty smell
with the hall which they inhabited,
who sought responsibility to guide the child
that I was and would forever be.
I listened to the words of the Kaddish
spoken quite precisely in a foreign tongue
one phrase at a time,
and then I found myself repeating sounds
that had no meaning and no substance to me,
but it was my job, as I was told
(as if I had a choice)
and so I went, day by day, and I obeyed
and parroted the words
but never had the chance to say
the words that needed to be said,
about the ties we’d had, my mom and I,
about the caring that we knew
and love and strong security
now shattered --- and the joy
of helping her whenever she put on
that apron and began to cook
from European scratch.
I said the words that were my duty,
words so alien to me,
with men so distant from my needs
but with each word I mispronounced and mumbled
was the childhood-crafted
realization of what I no longer had
but needed very much.
I said the prayer
but wondered in my elemental way
why any God could be so cruel
to cleave a mother from a child
and substitute the words that had no meaning
to my soul.
(slightly revised for publication)
I said the prayer for a very long year
to remember my mother
(as if I could forget)
to honor her
(as if I needed to)
to show my love for her
(as if that was the so official way,
as if that could replace the feeling
fading just too quickly from my mind).
I journeyed to the synagogue
one vacant block from where my father worked
and sat with bearded ancient men
who shared a musty smell
with the hall which they inhabited,
who sought responsibility to guide the child
that I was and would forever be.
I listened to the words of the Kaddish
spoken quite precisely in a foreign tongue
one phrase at a time,
and then I found myself repeating sounds
that had no meaning and no substance to me,
but it was my job, as I was told
(as if I had a choice)
and so I went, day by day, and I obeyed
and parroted the words
but never had the chance to say
the words that needed to be said,
about the ties we’d had, my mom and I,
about the caring that we knew
and love and strong security
now shattered --- and the joy
of helping her whenever she put on
that apron and began to cook
from European scratch.
I said the words that were my duty,
words so alien to me,
with men so distant from my needs
but with each word I mispronounced and mumbled
was the childhood-crafted
realization of what I no longer had
but needed very much.
I said the prayer
but wondered in my elemental way
why any God could be so cruel
to cleave a mother from a child
and substitute the words that had no meaning
to my soul.
PUNCTUATED ! ?
To me, a synagogue should be an exclamation point,
standing tall and straight, reflecting strength and confidence
but instead, it is a question mark, swirling
and broadcasting insecurity. This makes me sad, conflicted,
ultimately lost. I feel an urge to walk inside and to connect
with others who have worn the Mogen David draped over
their hearts but I recognize that the ancient language spoken
excludes the likes of me. The ceremonies too confound me
and I find no Rosetta Stone handed down from Mount Sinai
that will lead me to a satisfying translation which will
assure me that I've found a home among those strangers.
And so I eschew entrance, step away from
the well-constructed but foreboding question mark
and stumble away on my solitary path, thinking of
"Maud Muller" and muttering, "It might have been."
To me, a synagogue should be an exclamation point,
standing tall and straight, reflecting strength and confidence
but instead, it is a question mark, swirling
and broadcasting insecurity. This makes me sad, conflicted,
ultimately lost. I feel an urge to walk inside and to connect
with others who have worn the Mogen David draped over
their hearts but I recognize that the ancient language spoken
excludes the likes of me. The ceremonies too confound me
and I find no Rosetta Stone handed down from Mount Sinai
that will lead me to a satisfying translation which will
assure me that I've found a home among those strangers.
And so I eschew entrance, step away from
the well-constructed but foreboding question mark
and stumble away on my solitary path, thinking of
"Maud Muller" and muttering, "It might have been."
PUNCTUATED {alternative version}
To me, a synagogue should be an exclamation point,
standing tall and straight, reflecting strength and confidence
but instead, it is a question mark, swirling
and broadcasting insecurity. The confusion brought to me
by the Hebrew chanting and the davening saddens me
for I feel excluded amidst the longing to belong, to
share the unity and the compelling desire to recognize our
attachment and connection to our Greater Power.
I am conflicted, ultimately lost. I feel an urge to walk inside
and to join the others who have worn the Mogen David draped
over their hearts but I recognize that the ancient language spoken
is a code, a kind of price of relevant admission, excludes the
likes of me. I find no Rosetta Stone handed down from Mount Sinai
that will lead me to a satisfying translation of the wisdom which
will assure me that I've found a home among those strangers.
And so I reluctantly eschew entrance, step away from
the well-constructed but foreboding question mark,
that of Chagall-like technicolor windows and impressive
wooden doors and pews and platform, and I stumble
hesitatingly away on my solitary path, thinking of
the lonely road through Jewishness that I have followed
because He took my mother just one week before my 10th
birthday many years ago. I dwell within an exile self-imposed.
I try to fight it but I am left to wonder
just what might have been . . . .
To me, a synagogue should be an exclamation point,
standing tall and straight, reflecting strength and confidence
but instead, it is a question mark, swirling
and broadcasting insecurity. The confusion brought to me
by the Hebrew chanting and the davening saddens me
for I feel excluded amidst the longing to belong, to
share the unity and the compelling desire to recognize our
attachment and connection to our Greater Power.
I am conflicted, ultimately lost. I feel an urge to walk inside
and to join the others who have worn the Mogen David draped
over their hearts but I recognize that the ancient language spoken
is a code, a kind of price of relevant admission, excludes the
likes of me. I find no Rosetta Stone handed down from Mount Sinai
that will lead me to a satisfying translation of the wisdom which
will assure me that I've found a home among those strangers.
And so I reluctantly eschew entrance, step away from
the well-constructed but foreboding question mark,
that of Chagall-like technicolor windows and impressive
wooden doors and pews and platform, and I stumble
hesitatingly away on my solitary path, thinking of
the lonely road through Jewishness that I have followed
because He took my mother just one week before my 10th
birthday many years ago. I dwell within an exile self-imposed.
I try to fight it but I am left to wonder
just what might have been . . . .
Self - Determination
5-23-24
How do I explain to my own self
--- never mind non-Jews with no
accepted memory of history ---
the Israeli response to October 7?
In the face of a world that chooses
to ignore the need for desperate
retaliation, to ignore the strategy
of the devil monster with the name
Hamas, to deny the monster’s scheme
in holding up the sheepish Palestinians
as martyrs to its cursed cause, I am
left to hear the echoed oath that I,
a Jew, recognize the substance of in
ways others cannot ever feel:
Never again!
5-23-24
How do I explain to my own self
--- never mind non-Jews with no
accepted memory of history ---
the Israeli response to October 7?
In the face of a world that chooses
to ignore the need for desperate
retaliation, to ignore the strategy
of the devil monster with the name
Hamas, to deny the monster’s scheme
in holding up the sheepish Palestinians
as martyrs to its cursed cause, I am
left to hear the echoed oath that I,
a Jew, recognize the substance of in
ways others cannot ever feel:
Never again!
Now - - -
Now, when I see my kids and grandkids, I sense
That they would like to see me win the fight of my
Life --- me against Father Time! I, once and always
A Peace Corps Volunteer, still angry about MacNamara’s
War and a wall that lists more than 50,000 dead
Whom we could use today to fight for our heritage, am
Urged by the looks of my belovéd progeny to not go
Gently into that good night. Thomas had a point.
My children need not fear. This aging soldier for
Peace has no intention of closing eyes and
Heart. Today is but the start of my role in what
They will inherit: love of every day, desire to make
Sounds that will echo overwhelmingly in days and
Years ahead. I am a poet, and poets know the worth
Of their ideas and observations. I live to share that
Wisdom which has found its way into my soul, and I
Have truly just begun. For decades I taught and did
My best to prepare generation after generation to
Deal with the mountains and the quicksand obstructing
Them from a smooth and gentle life; now, my tools have
Changed; instead of chalk and iPads, I use insight and
Foresight and I assert to anyone who has a moment set
Aside to read this love letter to my kids and grandkids that
I will indeed fight that Old Man with his scythe dulled by
Overuse, and land on him blows sharpened by experience
And enthusiasm for existing - - - and a love of life that can
Easily overcome the pre-planned aches and pains
That are the reward of a life lived through it all!
They are the medallions that I have earned for daring
To face my days and nights without hesitation. That ancient
Deliverer of the Shade will meet his match should he come
Into my domain. I am well armed with Love. This, I want
My audience to know and carry in their hearts so that
When I come into their view, when they can look upon
The person that I am and see past the armor that I
Wear day after night, they will see the warrior that I’ve
Grown into and then their transient concerns will be discarded;
They will magnetically embrace me and feel the substance that
I carry. History has had its gory times but in the end there is
The glory: In the end there is tranquility.
Peace conquers combat every time.
Now, when I see my kids and grandkids, I sense
That they would like to see me win the fight of my
Life --- me against Father Time! I, once and always
A Peace Corps Volunteer, still angry about MacNamara’s
War and a wall that lists more than 50,000 dead
Whom we could use today to fight for our heritage, am
Urged by the looks of my belovéd progeny to not go
Gently into that good night. Thomas had a point.
My children need not fear. This aging soldier for
Peace has no intention of closing eyes and
Heart. Today is but the start of my role in what
They will inherit: love of every day, desire to make
Sounds that will echo overwhelmingly in days and
Years ahead. I am a poet, and poets know the worth
Of their ideas and observations. I live to share that
Wisdom which has found its way into my soul, and I
Have truly just begun. For decades I taught and did
My best to prepare generation after generation to
Deal with the mountains and the quicksand obstructing
Them from a smooth and gentle life; now, my tools have
Changed; instead of chalk and iPads, I use insight and
Foresight and I assert to anyone who has a moment set
Aside to read this love letter to my kids and grandkids that
I will indeed fight that Old Man with his scythe dulled by
Overuse, and land on him blows sharpened by experience
And enthusiasm for existing - - - and a love of life that can
Easily overcome the pre-planned aches and pains
That are the reward of a life lived through it all!
They are the medallions that I have earned for daring
To face my days and nights without hesitation. That ancient
Deliverer of the Shade will meet his match should he come
Into my domain. I am well armed with Love. This, I want
My audience to know and carry in their hearts so that
When I come into their view, when they can look upon
The person that I am and see past the armor that I
Wear day after night, they will see the warrior that I’ve
Grown into and then their transient concerns will be discarded;
They will magnetically embrace me and feel the substance that
I carry. History has had its gory times but in the end there is
The glory: In the end there is tranquility.
Peace conquers combat every time.
Mutual Respect
Why do you shout when you don’t know?
Is it distrust of my judgment or your insecurity?
Is it a way of bursting out of a childhood in which
Your judgments were challenged by an overbearing
Adult influence? Is there an inner need to belittle me
When I challenge your decision or authority? Can you
Not trust me the way I trust you in matters that I
Feel less than comfort with? Human psychology is
Often murky, as are human relationships --- but
The salve that will soothe both is a mixture of
Wisdom, kindness, gentleness and above all,
Trust. People are societal and need each other
And there s no company in shouting or in
Disrespecting. Let us make a compact. I will not
Shout at you and you will withhold anger and
Mistrust with me and we will be the start of the
Solid foundation upon which the entire world
Will bit by bit be built.
Why do you shout when you don’t know?
Is it distrust of my judgment or your insecurity?
Is it a way of bursting out of a childhood in which
Your judgments were challenged by an overbearing
Adult influence? Is there an inner need to belittle me
When I challenge your decision or authority? Can you
Not trust me the way I trust you in matters that I
Feel less than comfort with? Human psychology is
Often murky, as are human relationships --- but
The salve that will soothe both is a mixture of
Wisdom, kindness, gentleness and above all,
Trust. People are societal and need each other
And there s no company in shouting or in
Disrespecting. Let us make a compact. I will not
Shout at you and you will withhold anger and
Mistrust with me and we will be the start of the
Solid foundation upon which the entire world
Will bit by bit be built.
Drifting Away . . . Slowly
I am asleep.
I desperately want to awaken from this nightmare
which fills me with chills and tears, but I seem to be frozen
in a place too familiar, imprisoned in a location that has me
too tightly bonded to an absence of rules, a vacuum sans law,
and the harder I try to break free and will myself awake,
the more I attempt to pry open my eyes and warmly gaze
on the security of comfort enveloping me and reflecting my love,
the more the quicksand of a homeland gone terribly wrong inhales me.
I want to wake up from the too hostile state that has captured me,
but I don't feel the power that I always thought was my birthright.
As long as I sleep - - - as long as I don't figure out how to wake up - - -
Evil remains completely unchecked, . . .and when I finally do open my eyes,
it will just be too late. But here is the thing: I am not alone in my lack
of consciousness. We must all find the way . . . before it's too late!
I am asleep.
I desperately want to awaken from this nightmare
which fills me with chills and tears, but I seem to be frozen
in a place too familiar, imprisoned in a location that has me
too tightly bonded to an absence of rules, a vacuum sans law,
and the harder I try to break free and will myself awake,
the more I attempt to pry open my eyes and warmly gaze
on the security of comfort enveloping me and reflecting my love,
the more the quicksand of a homeland gone terribly wrong inhales me.
I want to wake up from the too hostile state that has captured me,
but I don't feel the power that I always thought was my birthright.
As long as I sleep - - - as long as I don't figure out how to wake up - - -
Evil remains completely unchecked, . . .and when I finally do open my eyes,
it will just be too late. But here is the thing: I am not alone in my lack
of consciousness. We must all find the way . . . before it's too late!
Thank You
How do you thank a generation
Who postponed their future and risked,
And sometimes lost, their dreams and lives
For an idea and an ideal? We as a nation have
A chronicle of dates to celebrate, from 1776 to 1812
To 1864 and on and on, And perhaps the single and the
Singular date that we Americans own (together with our Allies)
More than any other in our parade of Honor Is June 6, 1944, a day
Our troops went through hell to face and start to beat the devil. The
Graves at Normandy lie at attention to those who visit and do honor to
The waves of rows of pure white Lasa marble crosses and Stars of David.
There rest the young veterans who may have lost momentarily to Nazi bullets
And shrapnel but who were the foundation of a democratic future. Each visitor
Breathes the atmosphere of honor in the overwhelming presence of these extra-
ordinary ordinary men who once dreamed of love and joy and thriving families.
God bless them. They will never be allowed to fade into dusty history, for we who
love democracy and freedom will not allow that to happen. They will live on in us.
How do you thank a generation
Who postponed their future and risked,
And sometimes lost, their dreams and lives
For an idea and an ideal? We as a nation have
A chronicle of dates to celebrate, from 1776 to 1812
To 1864 and on and on, And perhaps the single and the
Singular date that we Americans own (together with our Allies)
More than any other in our parade of Honor Is June 6, 1944, a day
Our troops went through hell to face and start to beat the devil. The
Graves at Normandy lie at attention to those who visit and do honor to
The waves of rows of pure white Lasa marble crosses and Stars of David.
There rest the young veterans who may have lost momentarily to Nazi bullets
And shrapnel but who were the foundation of a democratic future. Each visitor
Breathes the atmosphere of honor in the overwhelming presence of these extra-
ordinary ordinary men who once dreamed of love and joy and thriving families.
God bless them. They will never be allowed to fade into dusty history, for we who
love democracy and freedom will not allow that to happen. They will live on in us.
If Only
If only throughout history the politicians,
Generals and admirals, kings and queens
And other rulers had used their precious time and energy
To lead the battles to conquer famine and disease instead of
Sacrificing youthful generations to the always ravenous Gods of
War, what would our planet be like? For one, all those rock gardens
Where military tombstones have been planted and monuments
Dedicated to ballistic heroes flourish sporadically
Would instead be home to a color-chrome chorus of flowers and
Bushes swirling in the gentle breeze. The metallic armaments developed
To separate and divide common humanity would instead be used to build
Bridges bringing lovers of peace and the future together, singing
The Hebrew song "Kumbaya" as pacifist beatniks once did.
And young girls will put single blossoms stem-first not in rifle barrels
But in hands that do not threaten. Perhaps Lennon had prescience
When he sang "Imagine"; such a Nirvana is waiting somewhere
And it is up to all of us to make our way through the wilderness
Of anger, jealousy, fear, disillusion and ambition
To the Promised Land.
If only throughout history the politicians,
Generals and admirals, kings and queens
And other rulers had used their precious time and energy
To lead the battles to conquer famine and disease instead of
Sacrificing youthful generations to the always ravenous Gods of
War, what would our planet be like? For one, all those rock gardens
Where military tombstones have been planted and monuments
Dedicated to ballistic heroes flourish sporadically
Would instead be home to a color-chrome chorus of flowers and
Bushes swirling in the gentle breeze. The metallic armaments developed
To separate and divide common humanity would instead be used to build
Bridges bringing lovers of peace and the future together, singing
The Hebrew song "Kumbaya" as pacifist beatniks once did.
And young girls will put single blossoms stem-first not in rifle barrels
But in hands that do not threaten. Perhaps Lennon had prescience
When he sang "Imagine"; such a Nirvana is waiting somewhere
And it is up to all of us to make our way through the wilderness
Of anger, jealousy, fear, disillusion and ambition
To the Promised Land.
Not Included
I have sat in the synagogue watching with
a grandfather’s pride as my son’s three children
performed their bar and bat mitzvahs. I did not
understand or follow what they read and sang,
but that hardly mattered. It was enough that they
had secure control over each segment of the ceremony . . .
but I must confess that I took greater pleasure
in their brief English speeches sharing their
gratitude for what they termed the support of
their loving parents and their hopes for the future,
not just for themselves but for a better world
(and to this day this message reverberates as
we all are more and more engulfed in waves of
antisemitism).
But here’s the thing: I was never in their place.
I recognize the depth of difficulty that my single
father had in raising me and just surviving. There
was no preparation culminating in a bar mitzvah
when I turned 13 and was raised to manhood status.
I was never given the opportunity that we gave
my son, and he gave his children. It does not hurt
or haunt me or diminish my Jewishness. To me,
a man is not a name pronounced in Hebrew or
a title rewarded for passing a ceremonial exam; it
is the way a person treats those he loves and those
who work or relax or learn with him. I retain my
pride in my grandchildren but lose no pride in
my own self. I have adjusted my world view to
include the stark reality that there is no one true
way to be a Jew.
Yes, I felt ill at ease when others were called
on for honors and I was excluded, but
the discomfort I felt was not for myself; it was for
the others, the ones who could not see that on
that occasion, a confirmation of Judaism, our
religion should be all-inclusive.
After all, as I gazed upon the children who would
afterwards be no longer children, I did feel pride:
were these fine people not a true reflection of the
man I am?
I have sat in the synagogue watching with
a grandfather’s pride as my son’s three children
performed their bar and bat mitzvahs. I did not
understand or follow what they read and sang,
but that hardly mattered. It was enough that they
had secure control over each segment of the ceremony . . .
but I must confess that I took greater pleasure
in their brief English speeches sharing their
gratitude for what they termed the support of
their loving parents and their hopes for the future,
not just for themselves but for a better world
(and to this day this message reverberates as
we all are more and more engulfed in waves of
antisemitism).
But here’s the thing: I was never in their place.
I recognize the depth of difficulty that my single
father had in raising me and just surviving. There
was no preparation culminating in a bar mitzvah
when I turned 13 and was raised to manhood status.
I was never given the opportunity that we gave
my son, and he gave his children. It does not hurt
or haunt me or diminish my Jewishness. To me,
a man is not a name pronounced in Hebrew or
a title rewarded for passing a ceremonial exam; it
is the way a person treats those he loves and those
who work or relax or learn with him. I retain my
pride in my grandchildren but lose no pride in
my own self. I have adjusted my world view to
include the stark reality that there is no one true
way to be a Jew.
Yes, I felt ill at ease when others were called
on for honors and I was excluded, but
the discomfort I felt was not for myself; it was for
the others, the ones who could not see that on
that occasion, a confirmation of Judaism, our
religion should be all-inclusive.
After all, as I gazed upon the children who would
afterwards be no longer children, I did feel pride:
were these fine people not a true reflection of the
man I am?
The Uneasy Disease
There's a medicine for that.
Or a pill or a shot or a squirt.
The USA is in intensive care.
Watch any TV channel and empathize
with countrymen... And women... seeking
help with unhealthy eyes, hearts, knees, feet,
kidneys, ENT's and on and on. In 21st Century
America, viewers are bombarded daily with
panaceac names that twist the tongue with their
typist chimpanzee-created names. And if you felt fine
before you turned the set on, keep watching this
pharmacy in a box. You'll find your way to
urgent care before the next commercial.
One question is unanswered; one diagnosis
remains without effective treatment:
Which medicine will purge this nation of
its most dangerous disease?
How can we disinfect our homeland
from the viral Donald Trump?
There's a medicine for that.
Or a pill or a shot or a squirt.
The USA is in intensive care.
Watch any TV channel and empathize
with countrymen... And women... seeking
help with unhealthy eyes, hearts, knees, feet,
kidneys, ENT's and on and on. In 21st Century
America, viewers are bombarded daily with
panaceac names that twist the tongue with their
typist chimpanzee-created names. And if you felt fine
before you turned the set on, keep watching this
pharmacy in a box. You'll find your way to
urgent care before the next commercial.
One question is unanswered; one diagnosis
remains without effective treatment:
Which medicine will purge this nation of
its most dangerous disease?
How can we disinfect our homeland
from the viral Donald Trump?
Lost Opportunity
I attended only one baseball game in the Polo Grounds
When the New York Giants called it home and Willie
Plowed the horseshoe for flies that fell into his waiting
Fruit-bowl glove - - - and, with the advantage of that
Wisdom which walks hand-in-hand with age, I have
Come to realize that the baseball fan that dwells
Inside me, the one who goes beyond rooting for a
Team or a gathering of players, has come to see
How I foolishly messed up that singular experience.
It all stems from some cigarettes my father sold in
The ignorant-innocent days before the Surgeon
General warned us of the dangers of that ill-
Fated nicotine pastime. One brand, Chesterfield,
Sponsored the Gi’nts (an affectionate name), and
My dad got two ducats to one of their games
Because of his selling three packs of that brand to
One of any other - - - and I was gifted the tickets,
So I, a Yankee fan, took a friend and went, not
Much interested in the outcome (but I should have
Cared more about the display of prowess), and,
With the Giants trailing and playing sluggishly, we
Left in the eighth. Then I was taught a lesson in
Seeing the big picture. We waited nearby for the
Elevated train to come to our station, and, as if
The Baseball gods wished to teach us not to be
Parochial, we heard a roar most likely from the
Giant-faithful. We later learned that the home team,
Denizens of Coogan’s Bluff, had rallied in the
Final inning and had won! What we missed that day
Was not a play or rally; it was the chance to witness
Baseball skill and human spirit and teamwork and a
Refusal to give in to what might have been defeat.
We missed a life-lesson that was more valuable than
Three packs of cigarettes or free tickets or tasty
Juicy hot dogs. We beat the crowd and caught the
Train but missed the boat.
I attended only one baseball game in the Polo Grounds
When the New York Giants called it home and Willie
Plowed the horseshoe for flies that fell into his waiting
Fruit-bowl glove - - - and, with the advantage of that
Wisdom which walks hand-in-hand with age, I have
Come to realize that the baseball fan that dwells
Inside me, the one who goes beyond rooting for a
Team or a gathering of players, has come to see
How I foolishly messed up that singular experience.
It all stems from some cigarettes my father sold in
The ignorant-innocent days before the Surgeon
General warned us of the dangers of that ill-
Fated nicotine pastime. One brand, Chesterfield,
Sponsored the Gi’nts (an affectionate name), and
My dad got two ducats to one of their games
Because of his selling three packs of that brand to
One of any other - - - and I was gifted the tickets,
So I, a Yankee fan, took a friend and went, not
Much interested in the outcome (but I should have
Cared more about the display of prowess), and,
With the Giants trailing and playing sluggishly, we
Left in the eighth. Then I was taught a lesson in
Seeing the big picture. We waited nearby for the
Elevated train to come to our station, and, as if
The Baseball gods wished to teach us not to be
Parochial, we heard a roar most likely from the
Giant-faithful. We later learned that the home team,
Denizens of Coogan’s Bluff, had rallied in the
Final inning and had won! What we missed that day
Was not a play or rally; it was the chance to witness
Baseball skill and human spirit and teamwork and a
Refusal to give in to what might have been defeat.
We missed a life-lesson that was more valuable than
Three packs of cigarettes or free tickets or tasty
Juicy hot dogs. We beat the crowd and caught the
Train but missed the boat.
Stark Reality
Openheim, Monszejn Gershon.......
Names written with the ashes of the much too recent past,
gone now, yet living in the human grief and pain
That never dissipate from the inhumane chronicles of
our uncivilization. My bloodline turned to dust to dust
Is supersaturated with names without a home or a foundation
to be built upon. I miss them so, these innocents I never knew.
There is deep emptiness in my mind where knowledge and
appreciation of them should reside, their human story wiped away
by the swastika carried cavalierly by claws without hearts and souls.
But know this: Ozymandias is dead and OMG live on
within my essence, flowing and sustaining me and I will
never let them down. The evil that such men live is buried
with their justifiable demise. My lost and undefined ancestors
walk with me,
whisper to me,
guide me to the Godly life I live by my actions and my words
while the “super” race sweat their deeds in hell.
Openheim, Monszejn Gershon.......
Names written with the ashes of the much too recent past,
gone now, yet living in the human grief and pain
That never dissipate from the inhumane chronicles of
our uncivilization. My bloodline turned to dust to dust
Is supersaturated with names without a home or a foundation
to be built upon. I miss them so, these innocents I never knew.
There is deep emptiness in my mind where knowledge and
appreciation of them should reside, their human story wiped away
by the swastika carried cavalierly by claws without hearts and souls.
But know this: Ozymandias is dead and OMG live on
within my essence, flowing and sustaining me and I will
never let them down. The evil that such men live is buried
with their justifiable demise. My lost and undefined ancestors
walk with me,
whisper to me,
guide me to the Godly life I live by my actions and my words
while the “super” race sweat their deeds in hell.
Envy
I received a notice on this humid, thick-aired day,
that my super, supervisor of the co-op where I live,
would be going to his native Albania with his family
for four gentle, self-renewing weeks, to show his
kids where he was born, where his father still abides,
where the air is clear and absent pollution, where at
night he can gaze at the unpolluted sable sky filled with
countless crystal stars, and where he always knows he
can visit like a home-grown tourist . . . and I am jealous
- - - yet happy that he has this underestimated option in his life.
My father never offered me, in the decades of the ‘50’s or the
‘60’s, the opportunity to return with him to his native Augustowo,
Poland, to visit relatives (if any had managed to survive the
Forced labor camps or mass killings in its ghetto when the
Nazis controlled the fates of thousands of its Jews). He never
painted for me a work of art or words depicting the Netta River
or the canal or spacious marketplace or the smiling, gentle
people of his youth, perhaps because they had ceased to exist
(or never did).
It should be the birthright of any immigrant to return
if only for special moments or the need to re-set the
needle on the Compass of Life, or for his or her offspring
to seek to walk the streets and bathe in the tranquil
moonlight of the place that was the home a parent
knew and felt fondness for even in brief moments
many years before. The difficulty is that when a generation
suffers massive torture, loss and execution, many generations
will be forever scarred or devoured. Innocence is no
defense to war crimes against humanity. I try to make
a vision of my father’s happy youth, of his frolicking
with friends and gentle neighbors, but the fantasy
quite quickly dissipates into sharp reality when I recall
the subject not once approached or broached by him, rather
compelled to dwell in the ash-heap of his memory. I cannot
help but envy my super and his family for the simple
journey that they can freely undertake, while I remain
an accidental prisoner of history as corrupted by the
much less than Master Race.
I received a notice on this humid, thick-aired day,
that my super, supervisor of the co-op where I live,
would be going to his native Albania with his family
for four gentle, self-renewing weeks, to show his
kids where he was born, where his father still abides,
where the air is clear and absent pollution, where at
night he can gaze at the unpolluted sable sky filled with
countless crystal stars, and where he always knows he
can visit like a home-grown tourist . . . and I am jealous
- - - yet happy that he has this underestimated option in his life.
My father never offered me, in the decades of the ‘50’s or the
‘60’s, the opportunity to return with him to his native Augustowo,
Poland, to visit relatives (if any had managed to survive the
Forced labor camps or mass killings in its ghetto when the
Nazis controlled the fates of thousands of its Jews). He never
painted for me a work of art or words depicting the Netta River
or the canal or spacious marketplace or the smiling, gentle
people of his youth, perhaps because they had ceased to exist
(or never did).
It should be the birthright of any immigrant to return
if only for special moments or the need to re-set the
needle on the Compass of Life, or for his or her offspring
to seek to walk the streets and bathe in the tranquil
moonlight of the place that was the home a parent
knew and felt fondness for even in brief moments
many years before. The difficulty is that when a generation
suffers massive torture, loss and execution, many generations
will be forever scarred or devoured. Innocence is no
defense to war crimes against humanity. I try to make
a vision of my father’s happy youth, of his frolicking
with friends and gentle neighbors, but the fantasy
quite quickly dissipates into sharp reality when I recall
the subject not once approached or broached by him, rather
compelled to dwell in the ash-heap of his memory. I cannot
help but envy my super and his family for the simple
journey that they can freely undertake, while I remain
an accidental prisoner of history as corrupted by the
much less than Master Race.
My father never offered me
(an alternative version of the previous poem)
by Herbert Munshine
My father never offered me,
in the decades of the ‘50’s or the ‘60’s,
when our relationship had reached its fullness,
the opportunity to return with him
to his native Augustowo, Poland,
to visit relatives (if any had managed
to survive the forced labor camps or
mass killings in its ghetto when the Nazis
controlled the fates of thousands of its Jews).
He never painted for me a work of art
or shared words depicting the Netta River
or the town’s canal or spacious marketplace
or the smiling, gentle people of his youth,
perhaps because they had ceased to exist,
perhaps because the agony was great.
It should be the birthright of any immigrant
to return, if only for special moments,
or for his or her offspring to walk
the streets and bathe in the tranquil moonlight
of the place that was the home a parent knew
and felt fondness for even in brief moments
many years before.
The difficulty is that when a generation
suffers massive torture, loss and execution,
many generations will be forever scarred
or devoured. Innocence is no defense to
war crimes against humanity.
I try to envision my father’s happy youth,
his frolicking with friends and gentle neighbors,
but the fantasy quickly dissipates into sharp reality
when I recall the subject not once broached by him,
rather compelled to dwell in the ash-heap of his memory.
It is too late to tell him that I understand his choices,
but we were always close, companions who went beyond
family as I matured and he retired, and thus I know that he
always was aware that I was touched by his preferences and
his loyalty to what was our mutual connection. The past,
I understand, cannot be allowed to corrupt the present.
We were one in this philosophy in his final years.
(an alternative version of the previous poem)
by Herbert Munshine
My father never offered me,
in the decades of the ‘50’s or the ‘60’s,
when our relationship had reached its fullness,
the opportunity to return with him
to his native Augustowo, Poland,
to visit relatives (if any had managed
to survive the forced labor camps or
mass killings in its ghetto when the Nazis
controlled the fates of thousands of its Jews).
He never painted for me a work of art
or shared words depicting the Netta River
or the town’s canal or spacious marketplace
or the smiling, gentle people of his youth,
perhaps because they had ceased to exist,
perhaps because the agony was great.
It should be the birthright of any immigrant
to return, if only for special moments,
or for his or her offspring to walk
the streets and bathe in the tranquil moonlight
of the place that was the home a parent knew
and felt fondness for even in brief moments
many years before.
The difficulty is that when a generation
suffers massive torture, loss and execution,
many generations will be forever scarred
or devoured. Innocence is no defense to
war crimes against humanity.
I try to envision my father’s happy youth,
his frolicking with friends and gentle neighbors,
but the fantasy quickly dissipates into sharp reality
when I recall the subject not once broached by him,
rather compelled to dwell in the ash-heap of his memory.
It is too late to tell him that I understand his choices,
but we were always close, companions who went beyond
family as I matured and he retired, and thus I know that he
always was aware that I was touched by his preferences and
his loyalty to what was our mutual connection. The past,
I understand, cannot be allowed to corrupt the present.
We were one in this philosophy in his final years.
Coldness
I wondered loudly as a cloud
Of poisoned gas went sailing by,
But I was not the least allowed
To whimper or to all-out cry.
Real men will fight the inner urge
To run and scream when facing death,
And yet I felt the mounting surge
Of anger mix throughout my breath,
Even as I gasped and bled.
“Accept your fate,” I heard a voice
Command my soul as I lay dead;
Power-hungry men’d rejoice
And seek to rule the empty world,
But I was gone by then.
The flag of Death was then unfurled,
By evil, lonely, deadly men.
Is this the kind of life we choose
To have our children try to live?
It is a place where all souls lose,
A hell on Earth where men forgive
No one with opposing views.
I wondered loudly as a cloud
Of poisoned gas went sailing by,
But I was not the least allowed
To whimper or to all-out cry.
Real men will fight the inner urge
To run and scream when facing death,
And yet I felt the mounting surge
Of anger mix throughout my breath,
Even as I gasped and bled.
“Accept your fate,” I heard a voice
Command my soul as I lay dead;
Power-hungry men’d rejoice
And seek to rule the empty world,
But I was gone by then.
The flag of Death was then unfurled,
By evil, lonely, deadly men.
Is this the kind of life we choose
To have our children try to live?
It is a place where all souls lose,
A hell on Earth where men forgive
No one with opposing views.
Driving at Night
Driving through the velvet cloud of night presents
Its share of challenges, mainly an attack of high-beam
Orbs of fire being shot like heat-seeking missiles in my
Direction. It is no longer a pleasant or necessary drive
But rather a high-stakes video game in which the object
(which may be closer than it appears) is to destroy, if not
My person, my confidence in my decades-old skills.
My weapon of defense is a pair of yellow lenses, but my
Weapon of choice is the strategy of driving in daylight,
Rearranging my approach and lengthening my day while
Shortening my night. It used to be that headlights
Which were ultra-glaring were called brights and the
Victimized driver would flash a signal to the offense,
Which would return to normal luminosity, but the bar
Of normal has been raised and now the brights are
Standard and dangerous.
It seems to me that common sense demands that
Blinding lights be reserved for lighthouse beacons
Which serve the required safety of sea-faring barks.
Such high beams belong at a distance, not rapidly
Approaching and encroaching one’s sphere of
Security. Nostalgia is a mechanism which those
Past a certain age and accumulation of events live
With every day and find comfort in. I miss my evening
Sojourns behind the wheel, torn away from me by
“Great balls of fire.” Goodness gracious, how I miss
My nighttime navigation. “Progress” can be regress,
And God knows we elderly suffer limitations too
Often. It’s time the nation’s legislation gets some
Rehabilitation, and the new improved mini-suns meet
A regulated sunset that eliminates the darkened
Danger that they glaringly present.
Driving through the velvet cloud of night presents
Its share of challenges, mainly an attack of high-beam
Orbs of fire being shot like heat-seeking missiles in my
Direction. It is no longer a pleasant or necessary drive
But rather a high-stakes video game in which the object
(which may be closer than it appears) is to destroy, if not
My person, my confidence in my decades-old skills.
My weapon of defense is a pair of yellow lenses, but my
Weapon of choice is the strategy of driving in daylight,
Rearranging my approach and lengthening my day while
Shortening my night. It used to be that headlights
Which were ultra-glaring were called brights and the
Victimized driver would flash a signal to the offense,
Which would return to normal luminosity, but the bar
Of normal has been raised and now the brights are
Standard and dangerous.
It seems to me that common sense demands that
Blinding lights be reserved for lighthouse beacons
Which serve the required safety of sea-faring barks.
Such high beams belong at a distance, not rapidly
Approaching and encroaching one’s sphere of
Security. Nostalgia is a mechanism which those
Past a certain age and accumulation of events live
With every day and find comfort in. I miss my evening
Sojourns behind the wheel, torn away from me by
“Great balls of fire.” Goodness gracious, how I miss
My nighttime navigation. “Progress” can be regress,
And God knows we elderly suffer limitations too
Often. It’s time the nation’s legislation gets some
Rehabilitation, and the new improved mini-suns meet
A regulated sunset that eliminates the darkened
Danger that they glaringly present.
Dizzy
[dedicated To the 2024 New York Mets]
I am dizzy, nauseous and confused by the
Roller-coaster ride which is my team’s season.
My mind is swirling and drowning in the depths
Of confusion and my desire for security, for
Predictability is lost in the swamp of mediocrity.
I require logic and consistency; I am a sailor
Trusting the compass to point me to true north
But instead of seagulls, I am chained to a weighty
Albatross and there is no landfall within my sight.
The ocean’s waves carry me astray, and I have no
Choice; neither I nor my team can recognize a
Higher pathway to success this season. They win
Several in a row just to balance the act and lose
An equal number. They reach a five-game ceiling
And a playoff spot only to be caught in a rip-tide
Of despair and swirl and crash into waves of
Uninspired performances - - - poor pitching, barren
Batting, egregious errors - - - and I, the poor fan
Who once signed on for the joyous ride, am pulled
From Heaven to the abyss - - - and all at once
Back heavenly but groaning heavily as the
Roller-coaster ocean ride threatens to drown me
In unpredictability. And I am lost and lack control.
It is the fate of the eternal optimist that the true
Character of the season-ride in this seaside season
That I be carried by the waves and tides without
Control. Neptune’s discordant tune plays in my ears
And I cannot sing: I do not know the words or melody.
My mind swims directionless and the coaster-car I am
In cannot be controlled and the roller-coaster leaps
And dives into the ocean and I can only pray that
At ride’s end I will be rewarded for my faithfulness - - -
But such senseless rides rarely reward the faithful
With a prize. That would be too much of a surprise.
[dedicated To the 2024 New York Mets]
I am dizzy, nauseous and confused by the
Roller-coaster ride which is my team’s season.
My mind is swirling and drowning in the depths
Of confusion and my desire for security, for
Predictability is lost in the swamp of mediocrity.
I require logic and consistency; I am a sailor
Trusting the compass to point me to true north
But instead of seagulls, I am chained to a weighty
Albatross and there is no landfall within my sight.
The ocean’s waves carry me astray, and I have no
Choice; neither I nor my team can recognize a
Higher pathway to success this season. They win
Several in a row just to balance the act and lose
An equal number. They reach a five-game ceiling
And a playoff spot only to be caught in a rip-tide
Of despair and swirl and crash into waves of
Uninspired performances - - - poor pitching, barren
Batting, egregious errors - - - and I, the poor fan
Who once signed on for the joyous ride, am pulled
From Heaven to the abyss - - - and all at once
Back heavenly but groaning heavily as the
Roller-coaster ocean ride threatens to drown me
In unpredictability. And I am lost and lack control.
It is the fate of the eternal optimist that the true
Character of the season-ride in this seaside season
That I be carried by the waves and tides without
Control. Neptune’s discordant tune plays in my ears
And I cannot sing: I do not know the words or melody.
My mind swims directionless and the coaster-car I am
In cannot be controlled and the roller-coaster leaps
And dives into the ocean and I can only pray that
At ride’s end I will be rewarded for my faithfulness - - -
But such senseless rides rarely reward the faithful
With a prize. That would be too much of a surprise.
Bar None
I was never bar mitzvahed. I am 83 years old
and have lived a decent life, teaching, helping
people with kindness and Peace, but by some
I am considered less than a man because I
was never encouraged to follow my year
of saying kaddish for my mother with the
requisite lessons to prepare me for a
beautiful performance that to me remains
just another ceremony.
In another culture, a boy becomes a man
when he has slain a lion by himself.
I was given no lion to puncture
with my trusted spear (or my language).
I had no enemy
but a fitting kind of indifference for the time,
and so here I am, approaching He to
whom I must answer for the quality and
content of my life, knowing that I never
said the words of admission to my
religious-cultural manhood
- - - and yet,
my mind feels no trepidation. I have been
honest and have loved the people close
to me and the former strangers whom I taught for
more than half a century, and I have cherished a Life
more precious than rubies, diamonds, gold.
I have put my safety on the line more than once
to help those in distress --- returning to fight
when a friend was stomped upon by a drunken
gang --- breaking up a fight between Black and
Hispanic teens bitter at their lives --- reasoning
with hoodlums who sought to keep us teachers
prisoners to be extorted to make sense though I
found myself alone in a mob of bitterness. I have
deeply loving relationships, and glow in the reflection
of the woman I married, the two children we raised
in the midst of their battling Gaucher’s, one of the
so-called Jewish genetic diseases . . . and seven
grandkids who fill my days with joy. I know that
I have earned their respect and will be missed.
I speak to God with my actions, not with words.
I have a gift called peace of mind,
and I don’t mind the detractors;
they do not have the final say.
I choose the God I worship,
and I find comfort in the knowledge
that He is good.
I was never bar mitzvahed. I am 83 years old
and have lived a decent life, teaching, helping
people with kindness and Peace, but by some
I am considered less than a man because I
was never encouraged to follow my year
of saying kaddish for my mother with the
requisite lessons to prepare me for a
beautiful performance that to me remains
just another ceremony.
In another culture, a boy becomes a man
when he has slain a lion by himself.
I was given no lion to puncture
with my trusted spear (or my language).
I had no enemy
but a fitting kind of indifference for the time,
and so here I am, approaching He to
whom I must answer for the quality and
content of my life, knowing that I never
said the words of admission to my
religious-cultural manhood
- - - and yet,
my mind feels no trepidation. I have been
honest and have loved the people close
to me and the former strangers whom I taught for
more than half a century, and I have cherished a Life
more precious than rubies, diamonds, gold.
I have put my safety on the line more than once
to help those in distress --- returning to fight
when a friend was stomped upon by a drunken
gang --- breaking up a fight between Black and
Hispanic teens bitter at their lives --- reasoning
with hoodlums who sought to keep us teachers
prisoners to be extorted to make sense though I
found myself alone in a mob of bitterness. I have
deeply loving relationships, and glow in the reflection
of the woman I married, the two children we raised
in the midst of their battling Gaucher’s, one of the
so-called Jewish genetic diseases . . . and seven
grandkids who fill my days with joy. I know that
I have earned their respect and will be missed.
I speak to God with my actions, not with words.
I have a gift called peace of mind,
and I don’t mind the detractors;
they do not have the final say.
I choose the God I worship,
and I find comfort in the knowledge
that He is good.
