A Study Center Mother’s Day: to our mothers and honorary mothers
Welcome to the greatest Study Center:
At Math we have our Karen and our Genta
Crunching numbers, covering those problems
Till students have eradicated goblins
That haunted them, but now they have evolved
Into calculating geniuses, their problems solved!
Next, there is the Social Studies table
Ruled over by a genius very stable –
No, not that one; this one owns that banner:
Meet and greet the wonderful Joanna.
She helps kids solve economic mystery
And for good measure, brings alive our history!
We cannot pass right by the royalty of science;
Why, such a move would be too much defiance.
First, we recognize the majesty of Jayne:
O’er chem and bio does she strongly reign –
And, of course, we bow down to Claudette,
One of the greatest science teachers yet!
Mistress of the realm Biology --
Though she has lost the land Geology.
(Mayhap in June will come a time to thank
The King in waiting, but not this time, Sir Hank.)
We then encounter Esther and Kathleen,
Who next semester will offer us a scene
Enchanting with those adjectives and verbs;
They are the women who each day make Herb’s
Job a pleasure with their company:
He’s entertained but never pays a fee!
Their world is made of images and words,
And when they speak, their mouths give birth to birds
Who fly and land upon their students’ fingers;
Whereby each pupil learns a point that lingers.
There is a special shoutout recognition
To two who do provide special ignition
To our terrific Program E – N – L
(And here you thought I could not even spell),
So let us recognize both Lillian and Lauren
Who make our English language not so foreign
To students from such interesting places;
They’re lucky every day to see your faces!
Our Spanish students are fortunate to dwell
In the land and love of one, Michelle.
And Annie is available to all
Who need her, for she never fails a call!
And last but never least is True Queen Susan;
With you at helm, Study Center’s cruisin’
From sea to sea, and to each special land . . .
You guide us so that we deeply understand
Exactly what we have as our mission:
To teach, to share, to love – ‘tis our ambition,
And with this guidance we have found our place:
To see true hope in every student’s face!
Welcome to the greatest Study Center:
At Math we have our Karen and our Genta
Crunching numbers, covering those problems
Till students have eradicated goblins
That haunted them, but now they have evolved
Into calculating geniuses, their problems solved!
Next, there is the Social Studies table
Ruled over by a genius very stable –
No, not that one; this one owns that banner:
Meet and greet the wonderful Joanna.
She helps kids solve economic mystery
And for good measure, brings alive our history!
We cannot pass right by the royalty of science;
Why, such a move would be too much defiance.
First, we recognize the majesty of Jayne:
O’er chem and bio does she strongly reign –
And, of course, we bow down to Claudette,
One of the greatest science teachers yet!
Mistress of the realm Biology --
Though she has lost the land Geology.
(Mayhap in June will come a time to thank
The King in waiting, but not this time, Sir Hank.)
We then encounter Esther and Kathleen,
Who next semester will offer us a scene
Enchanting with those adjectives and verbs;
They are the women who each day make Herb’s
Job a pleasure with their company:
He’s entertained but never pays a fee!
Their world is made of images and words,
And when they speak, their mouths give birth to birds
Who fly and land upon their students’ fingers;
Whereby each pupil learns a point that lingers.
There is a special shoutout recognition
To two who do provide special ignition
To our terrific Program E – N – L
(And here you thought I could not even spell),
So let us recognize both Lillian and Lauren
Who make our English language not so foreign
To students from such interesting places;
They’re lucky every day to see your faces!
Our Spanish students are fortunate to dwell
In the land and love of one, Michelle.
And Annie is available to all
Who need her, for she never fails a call!
And last but never least is True Queen Susan;
With you at helm, Study Center’s cruisin’
From sea to sea, and to each special land . . .
You guide us so that we deeply understand
Exactly what we have as our mission:
To teach, to share, to love – ‘tis our ambition,
And with this guidance we have found our place:
To see true hope in every student’s face!
Dr. A+

That Sharon will soon Zoom away
Will leave us with not much to say;
She’s been a shining light each morn;
A sunrise for the great forlorn --
So able to our table fill
So that our sprites need not be still.
But time soon comes our setting sun
Will move beyond our time to come.
Ye in our thoughts her being stays
For days too short, and when those days
Seem hard and long it’s she who’ll be
Where she belongs: so capably
Enchanting us with words so true:
“I have now left; it’s up to you
To carry our school to greater heights
So that it lightens up the nights
That try to darken our shared plights;
Remember that each Rebel fights
And carries on to victory --
I may be gone, but you must see
That I have built a fortress high
For all to see, so do not cry
For I have left you not bereft
Of future hope; you all are deft
At building a future for each child,”
And at these words we will have smiled
For Sharon’s moved on but left her mark;
Sharon’s brightened up the dark
And with her goes our gratitude
For a presence which lit up the mood
Of student body, faculty --
So, Sharon, hear this final plea:
Enjoy your days and find true joy
In each new move that may employ
Your energy and brand new thought;
We hope you’ll gain what you have sought.
Remember, though, you are not gone
From our thoughts as you move on.
You’ll always have a special tie
To each of us at Rebel High!

Confess the Stress
My heart, before a concert, fills with fears;
To be on stage is something I abhor.
I know my eyes will see a sea of tears:
Please make me brave, my soul, I do implore!
When I go on and throngs of people face,
I worry that I’ll play a LOUD wrong note
And then I’ll leave the stage in such disgrace
I’ll feel not like a lion but a goat.
Yet must I play, so I slog onto stage
And smile and try to overcome my stress;
It’s time for me to hear my inner sage
And set aside the fright I did confess.
A person must find strength where there is none,
And if she does, the battle she has won!
My heart, before a concert, fills with fears;
To be on stage is something I abhor.
I know my eyes will see a sea of tears:
Please make me brave, my soul, I do implore!
When I go on and throngs of people face,
I worry that I’ll play a LOUD wrong note
And then I’ll leave the stage in such disgrace
I’ll feel not like a lion but a goat.
Yet must I play, so I slog onto stage
And smile and try to overcome my stress;
It’s time for me to hear my inner sage
And set aside the fright I did confess.
A person must find strength where there is none,
And if she does, the battle she has won!
Past Friends Know No Ends
I thought today I'd write a brand new sonnet
So here I sit before a big white screen
And I don't know what I will soon put on it;
Perhaps I'll write of Katniss Everdeen
(You know, the one from Hunger Games).
I have a lot to say about her fate
And how she wore that dress so full of flames.
(Oh, boy, I'd love to take her on a date!)
Or maybe Walter Younger will appear
On the computer screen in front of me.
He's living in Chicago, so I hear.
He'd be someone interesting to see.
These characters I can now keep alive
For in my sonnet they'll forever thrive.
I thought today I'd write a brand new sonnet
So here I sit before a big white screen
And I don't know what I will soon put on it;
Perhaps I'll write of Katniss Everdeen
(You know, the one from Hunger Games).
I have a lot to say about her fate
And how she wore that dress so full of flames.
(Oh, boy, I'd love to take her on a date!)
Or maybe Walter Younger will appear
On the computer screen in front of me.
He's living in Chicago, so I hear.
He'd be someone interesting to see.
These characters I can now keep alive
For in my sonnet they'll forever thrive.
Cry of the Rebel
I do not want to write a villanelle. I find its form too challenging to know. I simply must refuse; I will rebel! I stumble and I bumble in my hell And try to find the rhyming and the flow; I do not want to write a villanelle. I know that I must show and never tell . . . And write my villanelle -- but oh, my woe! I simply must refuse; I will rebel! The heartbeat rhythm clearly will not gel. I start each stanza but my lines won’t go: I do not want to write a villanelle. I’m told I must create -- and caste a spell, To which I answer that I must say NO! I simply must refuse; I will rebel! The rhyme scheme A-B-A is hard to sell. I feel as though I dwell on some Death Row; I do not want to write a villanelle. I simply must refuse; I will rebel! |
Lillian’s Sonnet
I am a big fan of one Nathan Fillion, The star of “Serenity, “Rookies” and “Castle” -- But I am a bigger fan of Lillian (which isn’t so hard; it’s really quite facile). My friend knows a lot and really has talent; She is great with her students and she happily reaches Each one; her fine effort is blatantly gallant. She’s a gift to each person she touches and teaches. So let me just say to this pedagogical star, To this special and brilliant and marvelous Lillian: “Thank you a lot for all that you are; You are truly the glorious one-in-a-billion!” The theme of this sonnet comes clear here and now: “Welcome home and good show --- our own Mrs. Hsiao!” |
A Sad Sonnet
The sun will shine upon my head today
And I will smile because you are so near.
My heart will beat because you will not stay
For soon our future will just disappear.
I will not be too happy in the sun
For your departure will too soon arrive
And with your loss will come the end of fun,
For with you gone, I cannot feel alive.
Why must we lovers suffer such a fate
That our loved ones leave while we are left
With love that all too soon will turn to hate
Because we so oft feel of love bereft?
Do not rely on love; it does not last:
It flourishes today --- but then 'tis past!
The sun will shine upon my head today
And I will smile because you are so near.
My heart will beat because you will not stay
For soon our future will just disappear.
I will not be too happy in the sun
For your departure will too soon arrive
And with your loss will come the end of fun,
For with you gone, I cannot feel alive.
Why must we lovers suffer such a fate
That our loved ones leave while we are left
With love that all too soon will turn to hate
Because we so oft feel of love bereft?
Do not rely on love; it does not last:
It flourishes today --- but then 'tis past!
Ode to the Levy Leaving (inscribed onto a page in her yearbook)
Accept, O ye gods, my eternal gratitude
For allowing me to survive Megan’s Monday attitude.
From high Olympus came your godly blessing
--- And since I am now honestly confessing
My four-year feeling on working with the Levy,
I must say I am sad that she must now leave me,
Saying farewell to the alma mater school --
To continue her academic quest as a Muhlenberg Mule.
It all began when she appeared a really small ninth grader
Who didn’t want to work, but Miss Blache and I did make her.
In she walked, crying, “No! Please don’t make me write!!”
Her voice cut like a knife, filling us with fright,
But with the guidance of ye gods, and with a little beggin’,
We soon began to read and edit little works by Megan:
Little was how much she wrote, and little was her letter size
(And great was the concern that I developed for my eyes).
Her words turned into sentences and then to paragraphs;
Some writings gave me tears, while others produced laughs.
The months turned into terms which somehow became years,
And Megan turned a writer, replacing fears with cheers.
In her junior year, the Levy earned a cool certificate
With words of praise extolling her creations as quite great;
Miss Blache and I then looked upon our studious creation
And both of us agreed that Megan’s work was now: sensation!
Miss Blache moved on, and Megan gained her dreadful senioritis;
Between the Weinstein and the Munshine, she didn’t try to fight us.
Instead, she just wrote poems, memoirs and reflective mind maps;
Creative Writing kept her busy, with no time for tiny naps.
Megan always had ideas and wrote her schoolish heart out;
She never hesitated, just created without doubt,
Getting finals on her works after each teacher-edit
And handing in her heart-felt work, sharing all the credit.
And now, ye gods, as she prepares to leave for the last time,
I sit to type nostalgic words and try to make them rhyme.
In a short while she will be deep in higher college work
(From which, I’m sure that she will ne’er hesitate nor shirk).
And here I’ll sit by my computer, awaiting that email
From her, seeking edit help: that will surely never fail
To come to me, as once it did, when she was last a freshman
For by that time, Life’s cycle turns, and she will start again.
But this time, as she’ll note, ‘tis time to fly from nest!
And soar through future air and write with all the best!
Accept, O ye gods, my eternal gratitude
For allowing me to survive Megan’s Monday attitude.
From high Olympus came your godly blessing
--- And since I am now honestly confessing
My four-year feeling on working with the Levy,
I must say I am sad that she must now leave me,
Saying farewell to the alma mater school --
To continue her academic quest as a Muhlenberg Mule.
It all began when she appeared a really small ninth grader
Who didn’t want to work, but Miss Blache and I did make her.
In she walked, crying, “No! Please don’t make me write!!”
Her voice cut like a knife, filling us with fright,
But with the guidance of ye gods, and with a little beggin’,
We soon began to read and edit little works by Megan:
Little was how much she wrote, and little was her letter size
(And great was the concern that I developed for my eyes).
Her words turned into sentences and then to paragraphs;
Some writings gave me tears, while others produced laughs.
The months turned into terms which somehow became years,
And Megan turned a writer, replacing fears with cheers.
In her junior year, the Levy earned a cool certificate
With words of praise extolling her creations as quite great;
Miss Blache and I then looked upon our studious creation
And both of us agreed that Megan’s work was now: sensation!
Miss Blache moved on, and Megan gained her dreadful senioritis;
Between the Weinstein and the Munshine, she didn’t try to fight us.
Instead, she just wrote poems, memoirs and reflective mind maps;
Creative Writing kept her busy, with no time for tiny naps.
Megan always had ideas and wrote her schoolish heart out;
She never hesitated, just created without doubt,
Getting finals on her works after each teacher-edit
And handing in her heart-felt work, sharing all the credit.
And now, ye gods, as she prepares to leave for the last time,
I sit to type nostalgic words and try to make them rhyme.
In a short while she will be deep in higher college work
(From which, I’m sure that she will ne’er hesitate nor shirk).
And here I’ll sit by my computer, awaiting that email
From her, seeking edit help: that will surely never fail
To come to me, as once it did, when she was last a freshman
For by that time, Life’s cycle turns, and she will start again.
But this time, as she’ll note, ‘tis time to fly from nest!
And soar through future air and write with all the best!
Rhyme Time
I asked Justin, “Hey, what’s up?”
He pointed at his strawberry cup
And promised to work as soon as he swallowed
So I stared at him, and then I followed
Him as he went to the computer
(Which acted as his personal tutor,
Guiding him as he did edit
His Masterpiece, to receive full credit).
Justin decided to do his work
And I decided that I would lurk
Around him so he would not dare shirk
His responsibility as the Captain Kirk
Of this Enterprise, this spaceship school --
For Justin the Captain is no fool;
He knows that his place in this place’s gene pool
Is only assured if one follows this rule:
Do your work and do not waste time
Or you’ll be the subject of some ridiculous rhyme!
I asked Justin, “Hey, what’s up?”
He pointed at his strawberry cup
And promised to work as soon as he swallowed
So I stared at him, and then I followed
Him as he went to the computer
(Which acted as his personal tutor,
Guiding him as he did edit
His Masterpiece, to receive full credit).
Justin decided to do his work
And I decided that I would lurk
Around him so he would not dare shirk
His responsibility as the Captain Kirk
Of this Enterprise, this spaceship school --
For Justin the Captain is no fool;
He knows that his place in this place’s gene pool
Is only assured if one follows this rule:
Do your work and do not waste time
Or you’ll be the subject of some ridiculous rhyme!

The Queen
The seagulls came and gathered by the shore,
And one of them spoke up, and did implore:
“Where is our Queen?
Where is Kathleen?
If she can’t be found, we will thrive nevermore!”
Then one bird hopped up from an ancient pier,
And held attention as he did declare,
“We’ve had enough fish;
It’s our profound wish
To feast on attention, for Kathleen is near!”
The birds turned their attention to the parking lot;
They turned their heads to a certain spot
And Kathleen then parked
As many eyes sparked;
They’d wished she’d return and that’s what they got!
She had come to save them from their plight;
She’d come to lead them in their fight --
The gulls understood
And one stood on her hood
And chirped, “Kathleen, our Queen, please save us tonight.
“You see,” this seagull calmly gazed into her eyes
As he continued and as she battled her surprise,
“A monster wants us dead
And we are filled with dread,
You must act before each of us dies!”
Kathleen, relying on her instincts, understood
And spoke directly to the Seagull standing on her hood:
“Tell me of this monster scary . . .
Is it ugly? Is it hairy?”
And then the gull knew that she’d do whate’er she could.
The seagull spoke with his poor trembling beak;
His words did shake as he began to speak:
“This monster, to the ocean,
Throws plastic with a motion
That kills our fish and makes the water reek.
“I tried to stop him; once, I tried to beg
But all he did was hit me in my leg . . . . “
Kathleen could see
What had to be --
She’d hit the monster with many a rotten egg!
She asked the spokesbird where to find this man
And when she found out, she then made a plan:
She’d take a seagull’s feather
And fly through that day’s weather
And bombard the fiend till finally he ran.
Some moments later Queen Kathleen could see
The beach bum sipping water so ironically:
He tossed the plastic bottle,
Making Kathy throttle
Him with eggs till he at last did flee!
The seagulls gathered round her with much praise;
She’d saved the ocean! There’d be much better days!!
She was the heroine;
The gulls made such a din.
The sun blessed such a scene with its love-rays!
Now every time Queen Kathy reappears,
She hears the seagulls fill the air with cheers.
They have a close connection;
If there were an election,
She’d be their leader for so many years
For she did drive away their nightmare fears
And for her they have great affection.
She is the Queen of birds . . .
And so we end our words.
There’s nothing more to say
Save Kathleen saved the day!
The seagulls came and gathered by the shore,
And one of them spoke up, and did implore:
“Where is our Queen?
Where is Kathleen?
If she can’t be found, we will thrive nevermore!”
Then one bird hopped up from an ancient pier,
And held attention as he did declare,
“We’ve had enough fish;
It’s our profound wish
To feast on attention, for Kathleen is near!”
The birds turned their attention to the parking lot;
They turned their heads to a certain spot
And Kathleen then parked
As many eyes sparked;
They’d wished she’d return and that’s what they got!
She had come to save them from their plight;
She’d come to lead them in their fight --
The gulls understood
And one stood on her hood
And chirped, “Kathleen, our Queen, please save us tonight.
“You see,” this seagull calmly gazed into her eyes
As he continued and as she battled her surprise,
“A monster wants us dead
And we are filled with dread,
You must act before each of us dies!”
Kathleen, relying on her instincts, understood
And spoke directly to the Seagull standing on her hood:
“Tell me of this monster scary . . .
Is it ugly? Is it hairy?”
And then the gull knew that she’d do whate’er she could.
The seagull spoke with his poor trembling beak;
His words did shake as he began to speak:
“This monster, to the ocean,
Throws plastic with a motion
That kills our fish and makes the water reek.
“I tried to stop him; once, I tried to beg
But all he did was hit me in my leg . . . . “
Kathleen could see
What had to be --
She’d hit the monster with many a rotten egg!
She asked the spokesbird where to find this man
And when she found out, she then made a plan:
She’d take a seagull’s feather
And fly through that day’s weather
And bombard the fiend till finally he ran.
Some moments later Queen Kathleen could see
The beach bum sipping water so ironically:
He tossed the plastic bottle,
Making Kathy throttle
Him with eggs till he at last did flee!
The seagulls gathered round her with much praise;
She’d saved the ocean! There’d be much better days!!
She was the heroine;
The gulls made such a din.
The sun blessed such a scene with its love-rays!
Now every time Queen Kathy reappears,
She hears the seagulls fill the air with cheers.
They have a close connection;
If there were an election,
She’d be their leader for so many years
For she did drive away their nightmare fears
And for her they have great affection.
She is the Queen of birds . . .
And so we end our words.
There’s nothing more to say
Save Kathleen saved the day!
![]() Thomas
It is a deep, unspoken promise That I have made to my friend Thomas: "You will always be remembered; You have so gracefully ascended To that place that waits us all But yours was not a tragic fall From grace, but rather a transition To seek at once a better mission And kiss us with your sharpened vision." I know that it's the right decision For me to honor Thomas well, To live until the final knell, To teach to match his dedication; There is no better medication Than a dose of Tom Mattia; So oft I look and smile a "See ya" To his plaque high on the wall. He taught this lesson overall: Enjoy each moment of your time And share a spirit so sublime; People will love and honor you, Reflecting you in all they do. There is no better way to be Than dwell so in each memory! |
Tom
five foot five and yet a giant
nine decades plus and self-reliant
a man whose actions presented a preacher
a spirit who lived a master teacher
he lived in a way that drew many others
tome commune with his soul . . . sisters and brothers
who learned from him, each generation,
all of whom felt a deep veneration . . .
a man who knew the life of a vet
a sailor in war, a fighter and yet
he was so humble, keeping secret the prize
which he earned through his valor . . . so lionize
this American for his loving ways
he was a teacher most of his days
he blessed his colleagues with his warm smile
enriching his students . . . each one to beguile
with knowledge of history he had known
for he reaped the future that he had sown
We miss him and his welcomed wit
We miss his desire to never quit
as he gladly imparted whatever he knew
of His story to students old and new . . .
wso ring the bells that fill us with calm
For all to acknowledge that this was Tom!
nine decades plus and self-reliant
a man whose actions presented a preacher
a spirit who lived a master teacher
he lived in a way that drew many others
tome commune with his soul . . . sisters and brothers
who learned from him, each generation,
all of whom felt a deep veneration . . .
a man who knew the life of a vet
a sailor in war, a fighter and yet
he was so humble, keeping secret the prize
which he earned through his valor . . . so lionize
this American for his loving ways
he was a teacher most of his days
he blessed his colleagues with his warm smile
enriching his students . . . each one to beguile
with knowledge of history he had known
for he reaped the future that he had sown
We miss him and his welcomed wit
We miss his desire to never quit
as he gladly imparted whatever he knew
of His story to students old and new . . .
wso ring the bells that fill us with calm
For all to acknowledge that this was Tom!
SAY SOMETHING!
Speak up.
I cannot hear your mind
Or read the motivation of your smile
Or comprehend the focus of your eyes.
Tell me how you see your place
In our bounded universe:
Are you a shooting star,
A blazing comet,
An icy asteroid
Or just a wisp of cloud
Soon to wander off
And be forgotten?
Who are you
And what do you want?
Time is not
An endless commodity;
Is that not an oddity
Congruent with
A universe of contradictions?
You come and seem to be
But how can I be certain
That you are no fantasy,
No illusion
Toying with my world?
Speak to me
And ease my soul;
Don't leave me cold, alone,
Seeking existential purpose;
You demand my attention
Yet you seem by now
Unsubstantial ---
Different from the mirror image
That I face,
The faceless mirror that I face.
Speak up.
I cannot hear your mind
Or read the motivation of your smile
Or comprehend the focus of your eyes.
Tell me how you see your place
In our bounded universe:
Are you a shooting star,
A blazing comet,
An icy asteroid
Or just a wisp of cloud
Soon to wander off
And be forgotten?
Who are you
And what do you want?
Time is not
An endless commodity;
Is that not an oddity
Congruent with
A universe of contradictions?
You come and seem to be
But how can I be certain
That you are no fantasy,
No illusion
Toying with my world?
Speak to me
And ease my soul;
Don't leave me cold, alone,
Seeking existential purpose;
You demand my attention
Yet you seem by now
Unsubstantial ---
Different from the mirror image
That I face,
The faceless mirror that I face.

OVERREACTING? I THINK NOT
Drops of Rain, each spoiling for a fight
When on my nose and ears each does alight ---
Is it any wonder that my mood
Is full of gray when these attacks so rude
Bombard my person with no thought that I
Might wish to walk and breathe and remain dry?
Gray clouds shroud my feelings utterly;
I look up at the dark and see
A forecast that will last one day too long,
One day and in that time the wrong
That Mother Nature visits on my brow
Will cause me to cry, “No more! Enow!!”
Rain is a drain that makes a man insane;
It’s Heaven’s tears which tear an angel’s brain.
It soaks and drenches all of mortal man;
Surely, rain is not part of God’s plan
To bring us paradise right here on Earth;
A Camelot that isn’t dry’s no worth!
“Rain, rain, go away,” they say;
“Rain, find another home,” I pray.
I want to soak in sunshine all the time.
Is wanting to be arid such a crime?
. . . Perhaps the time will come when I will go
To climates dry, where there’s no rain --- or snow!
Drops of Rain, each spoiling for a fight
When on my nose and ears each does alight ---
Is it any wonder that my mood
Is full of gray when these attacks so rude
Bombard my person with no thought that I
Might wish to walk and breathe and remain dry?
Gray clouds shroud my feelings utterly;
I look up at the dark and see
A forecast that will last one day too long,
One day and in that time the wrong
That Mother Nature visits on my brow
Will cause me to cry, “No more! Enow!!”
Rain is a drain that makes a man insane;
It’s Heaven’s tears which tear an angel’s brain.
It soaks and drenches all of mortal man;
Surely, rain is not part of God’s plan
To bring us paradise right here on Earth;
A Camelot that isn’t dry’s no worth!
“Rain, rain, go away,” they say;
“Rain, find another home,” I pray.
I want to soak in sunshine all the time.
Is wanting to be arid such a crime?
. . . Perhaps the time will come when I will go
To climates dry, where there’s no rain --- or snow!

To Nancy J., Who’s Going Away
but Whose Spirit and Influence Always Will Stay
We didn’t plan to offer words too fancy
But then we realized that our subject, Nancy,
Has been the living soul of Study Center
So it would not do if we just calmly sent her
To her retirement without stopping to say
That we will miss her every single day.
Nancy, you have been a steady rock,
Reliable as an atomic clock.
You’ve mentored students in social studies
While managing your near-by English buddies
Who shared your desk space with a cautious eye,
Who loved when you did teach Catcher in the Rye;
You danced from outline to composition
And never found yourself out of position;
You engaged ESL and Special Ed.,
And listened to each word your charges said.
You helped them all with reading and with writing
As well as research and all forms of citing
And through it all, your star did shine,
Whether with one student or three or nine.
Nancy, you will be sorely missed
And by now --- you certainly get the gist:
Wherever you go, you will stay with us,
--- But now, we do not want to make a fuss . . .
Just know we’ll go on, but we won’t be the same;
The Fire of the Center will be short one big Flame.
May you have a great time, our dear Nancy J.
The day has come when you have concluded your stay.
Enjoy your retirement; travel a lot
And just as you have taught here, give it all that you’ve got!
but Whose Spirit and Influence Always Will Stay
We didn’t plan to offer words too fancy
But then we realized that our subject, Nancy,
Has been the living soul of Study Center
So it would not do if we just calmly sent her
To her retirement without stopping to say
That we will miss her every single day.
Nancy, you have been a steady rock,
Reliable as an atomic clock.
You’ve mentored students in social studies
While managing your near-by English buddies
Who shared your desk space with a cautious eye,
Who loved when you did teach Catcher in the Rye;
You danced from outline to composition
And never found yourself out of position;
You engaged ESL and Special Ed.,
And listened to each word your charges said.
You helped them all with reading and with writing
As well as research and all forms of citing
And through it all, your star did shine,
Whether with one student or three or nine.
Nancy, you will be sorely missed
And by now --- you certainly get the gist:
Wherever you go, you will stay with us,
--- But now, we do not want to make a fuss . . .
Just know we’ll go on, but we won’t be the same;
The Fire of the Center will be short one big Flame.
May you have a great time, our dear Nancy J.
The day has come when you have concluded your stay.
Enjoy your retirement; travel a lot
And just as you have taught here, give it all that you’ve got!

Simply a Lifetime
One fine day as I sat and conversed with my Muse,
On my face a big smile like the sun made things suddenly bright,
Yet at once, Muse and I thought it so very sad that we’d lose
One who has brought much joy and learning to light!
This woman whose career has brought all TESL* kids
English words so that they could succeed through the years;
We agreed, Muse and I, that she had built the ids
Of each of her charges overcoming their fears.
She’s been Queen of TESL skills and the use of visuals;
Scaffolding was to her natural --- and she knew
How to reach the largest group as well as all individuals;
Each new year, each school year, she would strive to start anew.
And she found the promised land, leading her kids to new heights
As each one gained the skills: listening, reading and
Writing and fine speaking! NYSESLAT* brought no fright;
Her students knew how to meet each quest, craft in hand.
She’ll be missed by her students and colleagues in the school;
She’s the Monarch, Muse confessed, of our souls and our hearts.
Left her mark and her prints, memories that will rule
So that now we can go on as her retirement starts.
We will miss you and your style each day.
You have meant more than we can put into words.
If we could, we would ask you: consider and stay . . .
But we know that you are now as free as the birds
To journey and converse with your Muse as you choose
In such tongues as you wish in such lands as you see
But recall --- as you go --- each of us, friends and Muse,
Think of you, how you’ve brought each of us so much glee.
• TESL (Teaching English as a Second Language) in some places is now referred to as TENL (Teaching English as a New Language) since many students who learn English already know two or more languages.
• NYSESLAT is a test given to ESL / ENL students as a way of assessing their progress in learning English in four skill areas: reading, writing, speaking and listening. It is an acronym for New York State English as a Second Language Achievement Test.
One fine day as I sat and conversed with my Muse,
On my face a big smile like the sun made things suddenly bright,
Yet at once, Muse and I thought it so very sad that we’d lose
One who has brought much joy and learning to light!
This woman whose career has brought all TESL* kids
English words so that they could succeed through the years;
We agreed, Muse and I, that she had built the ids
Of each of her charges overcoming their fears.
She’s been Queen of TESL skills and the use of visuals;
Scaffolding was to her natural --- and she knew
How to reach the largest group as well as all individuals;
Each new year, each school year, she would strive to start anew.
And she found the promised land, leading her kids to new heights
As each one gained the skills: listening, reading and
Writing and fine speaking! NYSESLAT* brought no fright;
Her students knew how to meet each quest, craft in hand.
She’ll be missed by her students and colleagues in the school;
She’s the Monarch, Muse confessed, of our souls and our hearts.
Left her mark and her prints, memories that will rule
So that now we can go on as her retirement starts.
We will miss you and your style each day.
You have meant more than we can put into words.
If we could, we would ask you: consider and stay . . .
But we know that you are now as free as the birds
To journey and converse with your Muse as you choose
In such tongues as you wish in such lands as you see
But recall --- as you go --- each of us, friends and Muse,
Think of you, how you’ve brought each of us so much glee.
• TESL (Teaching English as a Second Language) in some places is now referred to as TENL (Teaching English as a New Language) since many students who learn English already know two or more languages.
• NYSESLAT is a test given to ESL / ENL students as a way of assessing their progress in learning English in four skill areas: reading, writing, speaking and listening. It is an acronym for New York State English as a Second Language Achievement Test.

To Karen Our Keren*
Room 2-1-0 will have one less
Proponent of Pythagoras.
No longer will the songs of Darin
Kiss our ears through voice of Karen.
Our Math is now a minus one
As she leaves with the setting sun,
And takes into retirement now
Her congruence with one last bow.
For years we have on Karen counted;
Her time and value slowly mounted
Till on this day we multiply
The reasons we must say good-bye:
The double table where you worked,
A place where number problems lurked,
A place where you were counted on
Will now seem empty with you gone.
We keep on hoping it's a spoof
And that when asked to show your proof
That you are leaving, you'll just smile
And answer with your subtle smile:
"You have my number; it was fun
And though I thought I ought to run,
NOW I've determined I will stay,
And with more calculus I will play,"
But this is just a desperate dream,
A picture placed upon a meme
That represents a fantasy,
For Karen means us now to flee,
And so we wish her years of fun;
She'll ALWAYS be our Number One!
(* keren means "ray of light" in Hebrew.)
Room 2-1-0 will have one less
Proponent of Pythagoras.
No longer will the songs of Darin
Kiss our ears through voice of Karen.
Our Math is now a minus one
As she leaves with the setting sun,
And takes into retirement now
Her congruence with one last bow.
For years we have on Karen counted;
Her time and value slowly mounted
Till on this day we multiply
The reasons we must say good-bye:
The double table where you worked,
A place where number problems lurked,
A place where you were counted on
Will now seem empty with you gone.
We keep on hoping it's a spoof
And that when asked to show your proof
That you are leaving, you'll just smile
And answer with your subtle smile:
"You have my number; it was fun
And though I thought I ought to run,
NOW I've determined I will stay,
And with more calculus I will play,"
But this is just a desperate dream,
A picture placed upon a meme
That represents a fantasy,
For Karen means us now to flee,
And so we wish her years of fun;
She'll ALWAYS be our Number One!
(* keren means "ray of light" in Hebrew.)
Love Song for Two
Him:
I never knew how much I'd miss you
Until I tried and failed to kiss you.
I looked into your eyes and smiled
But the look you gave me back was wild
And when I tried to hold your hand,
Instead of silk it felt like sand.
When did we start to break apart?
When did I really break your heart?
All I know is that I'm crying
Because each moment I am dying
Since I no longer have your heart;
Since now we seem to be apart
Forever . . . for the rest of days,
And I am left with no more rays
Of sunshine glowing on my life
'Cause you no longer are my wife.
It all occurred not long ago;
The ground was blanketed with snow
But I could not quite find the thrill
That once we knew, for then the chill
Which came from you was biting cold,
And our fresh love became so old.
I didn't quickly understand
That you had found another man
To share your time and your bright eyes ---
Another man to look at skies
And plan the future of your years
While I was left with soulful tears.
Why did you go to leave me pain?
I lost it all while you did gain
Every second of love's pleasure:
Why did you take from me the treasure
Which I can never hope to hold
No matter how brave, no matter how bold,
Within my arms as I once did?
And now to you all love I bid
And happiness that you deserve;
I'll hold my longing in reserve
And hope that one day you will see
That you'd be best if back with me.
Her:
You never realized my love
Was something you knew nothing of.
You thought you had me, couldn't see
That I just wanted to be free.
I'm not just something to be owned,
So when your brother Freddy phoned,
I had to answer and to leave;
I really did not you deceive.
You were just blind to my deep need;
The warning signs you failed to heed
Cost you a wife and me some prime.
Our love's been over quite some time.
Him:
I never knew how much I'd miss you
Until I tried and failed to kiss you.
I looked into your eyes and smiled
But the look you gave me back was wild
And when I tried to hold your hand,
Instead of silk it felt like sand.
When did we start to break apart?
When did I really break your heart?
All I know is that I'm crying
Because each moment I am dying
Since I no longer have your heart;
Since now we seem to be apart
Forever . . . for the rest of days,
And I am left with no more rays
Of sunshine glowing on my life
'Cause you no longer are my wife.
It all occurred not long ago;
The ground was blanketed with snow
But I could not quite find the thrill
That once we knew, for then the chill
Which came from you was biting cold,
And our fresh love became so old.
I didn't quickly understand
That you had found another man
To share your time and your bright eyes ---
Another man to look at skies
And plan the future of your years
While I was left with soulful tears.
Why did you go to leave me pain?
I lost it all while you did gain
Every second of love's pleasure:
Why did you take from me the treasure
Which I can never hope to hold
No matter how brave, no matter how bold,
Within my arms as I once did?
And now to you all love I bid
And happiness that you deserve;
I'll hold my longing in reserve
And hope that one day you will see
That you'd be best if back with me.
Her:
You never realized my love
Was something you knew nothing of.
You thought you had me, couldn't see
That I just wanted to be free.
I'm not just something to be owned,
So when your brother Freddy phoned,
I had to answer and to leave;
I really did not you deceive.
You were just blind to my deep need;
The warning signs you failed to heed
Cost you a wife and me some prime.
Our love's been over quite some time.
Darkness
I never will forget you broke my heart
When you told me that you love had gone.
I never will forgive you tore apart
The future that I had depended on.
Now I'm alone and cannot stop the tears
Which will not wash away the pain you gave.
Now all I have as friends are many fears
Which no doubt I will carry to my grave.
Why you did go I'll never understand
And I am sure I never will forgive
A love which was as solid as the sand
Which taught me that I have no life to live.
It's dangerous to need another one
So much her absence cancels out the sun!
When you told me that you love had gone.
I never will forgive you tore apart
The future that I had depended on.
Now I'm alone and cannot stop the tears
Which will not wash away the pain you gave.
Now all I have as friends are many fears
Which no doubt I will carry to my grave.
Why you did go I'll never understand
And I am sure I never will forgive
A love which was as solid as the sand
Which taught me that I have no life to live.
It's dangerous to need another one
So much her absence cancels out the sun!

Once a Teacher . . .
He spent a lifetime educating minds,
And only now in his spared time he finds
That he learned from his students much,
Much more than he taught; he had the magic touch
That challenged teen ideas held very tight
So that they let them go with little fight
And opened themselves up to thoughts anew;
Thus, day by day their great potential grew.
Now each day serves to foster memories
And hindsight leads to insight; so, he frees
His lifetime honed desire to serve the young,
And now before the time his song is sung
He strives again to sharpen thirsty minds:
His grandkids are the newest link that binds
Him to the never-ending quest for truth;
He is the key that unlocks hopes of youth.
He spent a lifetime educating minds,
And only now in his spared time he finds
That he learned from his students much,
Much more than he taught; he had the magic touch
That challenged teen ideas held very tight
So that they let them go with little fight
And opened themselves up to thoughts anew;
Thus, day by day their great potential grew.
Now each day serves to foster memories
And hindsight leads to insight; so, he frees
His lifetime honed desire to serve the young,
And now before the time his song is sung
He strives again to sharpen thirsty minds:
His grandkids are the newest link that binds
Him to the never-ending quest for truth;
He is the key that unlocks hopes of youth.
That Good Night
I am dying;
Speck by speck
Breath by breath
My spirit drifts from my being,
Leaving a shell
Which thrives not well
In its hollowness.
I do not fear
This slow disintegration.
Rather it is a welcome comfort
Pledging relief from this worldly terror
--- Efficient, devouring terror ---
Haunting me to silent tears
And isolation.
I am dying with a gentle smile,
Welcoming a friend
At the end of an arduous journey.
I am ready
I am eager
To come home
To return to the amniotic fluid
Promising me secure surroundings
From a hostile, pitiless world.
In Pace Requiescat . . .
Let me dwell eternally
Away from my foes:
Love, Charity, Family, Holiness.
Let me rest at last
With no more fearful dreams
Haunting me
In unrelenting and unbearable charges
Not to be avoided
Or eluded.
My hopes are yesterday's;
Today brings only wretched pain;
Tomorrow promises motherly relief,
And so I welcome dying
Cherish its promise
And find solace
In its warm embrace approaching
In its soothing sure embrace . . .
I am dying;
Speck by speck
Breath by breath
My spirit drifts from my being,
Leaving a shell
Which thrives not well
In its hollowness.
I do not fear
This slow disintegration.
Rather it is a welcome comfort
Pledging relief from this worldly terror
--- Efficient, devouring terror ---
Haunting me to silent tears
And isolation.
I am dying with a gentle smile,
Welcoming a friend
At the end of an arduous journey.
I am ready
I am eager
To come home
To return to the amniotic fluid
Promising me secure surroundings
From a hostile, pitiless world.
In Pace Requiescat . . .
Let me dwell eternally
Away from my foes:
Love, Charity, Family, Holiness.
Let me rest at last
With no more fearful dreams
Haunting me
In unrelenting and unbearable charges
Not to be avoided
Or eluded.
My hopes are yesterday's;
Today brings only wretched pain;
Tomorrow promises motherly relief,
And so I welcome dying
Cherish its promise
And find solace
In its warm embrace approaching
In its soothing sure embrace . . .
The Dummy
Trumpy Dummy wanted a wall;
Trumpy Dummy had a great fall!
And all the Republicans couldn't help him
To get funds for the wall that was made of a whim.
He claimed the Mexicans surely would pay
But we won't live long enough to see such a day.
Trumpy Dummy had a bad break;
His dream of a wall turned out to be fake,
A fantasy meant to placate his base
But now it's a promise he cannot erase.
People there are who don't love a wall,
and they make more sense than the orange-haired tall
Trumpy Dummy, who thought life was rosy
(until he crashed into Madam Pelosi).
Now, poor little Dummy is losing his mind
But American pride is easy to find:
It is found in the hope that America is,
Your nation and mine but not ever his!
Trumpy Dummy had a great fall!
And all the Republicans couldn't help him
To get funds for the wall that was made of a whim.
He claimed the Mexicans surely would pay
But we won't live long enough to see such a day.
Trumpy Dummy had a bad break;
His dream of a wall turned out to be fake,
A fantasy meant to placate his base
But now it's a promise he cannot erase.
People there are who don't love a wall,
and they make more sense than the orange-haired tall
Trumpy Dummy, who thought life was rosy
(until he crashed into Madam Pelosi).
Now, poor little Dummy is losing his mind
But American pride is easy to find:
It is found in the hope that America is,
Your nation and mine but not ever his!
She Doesn’t understand
She feels the pain of isolation Caused by fears of death She suffers so much desolation I hear it in her breath I want to hug her, show I care And that I understand But for the time she can’t come near Or Death will be at hand The time is not the way I’d like I miss her every day I’ve loved her since she was a tike My love won’t go away But she insists that I step out And reach across the zone And go against my mortal doubt But if I do, I’m gone Please understand that I must say It’s safer to obey Advice to isolate this way So we can hug one day |
Future Cat
I loved Cats, and I love Abby.
She really was a super Tabby.
She sang and danced and pranced around,
Moving smoothly to each sound
And imitating a jellicle cat:
Singing and dancing: I loved all that!
Abby knew just what to do;
She knew to move; she knew to mew.
She was the cutest feline there ---
Her future’s clear beyond compare!
She knew her lines and sang them well;
I watched her dance; she never fell
But she was good and was in place
And kept her dance when ‘twas fast-paced.
I think the time will surely be
When Abby stars for all to see,
And when that happens, just be sure
That Gramps and Granny will adore
Her every dance move, full of grace . . .
When she’s on stage, she's in her place!
I loved Cats, and I love Abby.
She really was a super Tabby.
She sang and danced and pranced around,
Moving smoothly to each sound
And imitating a jellicle cat:
Singing and dancing: I loved all that!
Abby knew just what to do;
She knew to move; she knew to mew.
She was the cutest feline there ---
Her future’s clear beyond compare!
She knew her lines and sang them well;
I watched her dance; she never fell
But she was good and was in place
And kept her dance when ‘twas fast-paced.
I think the time will surely be
When Abby stars for all to see,
And when that happens, just be sure
That Gramps and Granny will adore
Her every dance move, full of grace . . .
When she’s on stage, she's in her place!
Pandemic Drive
For seven months I’ve been locked down But rather than a constant frown I’ve spiced my life to stay alive by taking my Pandemic Drive. For twenty minutes I can bask As slowly through the neighborhood I go And watch the people walking, some with masks, Holding hands or talking as they flow Past buildings, stores and always Great Neck’s Park; By seeing them, I feel the sense of life Continues through the light and to the dark; The human spirit with resolve is strife And I then feel fulfilled and park the car Now that my twenty-minute drive is done; I did not have to go so very far To fill my day with life-affirming fun! (You say that “fun” is not the word And that I should find one which would express My joy at journey’s end, but that’s absurd: I contrast fun with too much daily stress And that is all I choose to now confess!) |
COVID - 45

He flies from hot spot to the next
Through the air
Spreading virus flakes from his red hair
And people die.
He tells us he has won,
That he has single-handedly defeated
The pandemic with his strength
While millions grieve because of him . . .
Because his viral wave has caught them
And their loved ones in his wake
And he pronounces it all right
And people die.
He stops to curse the science
And the doctors and the nurses
Sacrificing dreams and lives,
And lies about their great intentions,
Claiming that only he has fixed it
But he never can admit mistakes
Or take his place as Leader and as
President of ALL the PEOPLE,
Choosing to lead ignorance more
And more into the ebony abyss
And people die.
He has the Midas-touch but this
Would-be king is ruler over Death
And he tells lies and passes Kool-Aid
To his chauvinistic worshipers
Who cheer and idolize the idle prophet
Who has falsely reassured them
Much as a small, small quack would
Sell his ignorant victims snake-oil panacea
And people die!
Through the air
Spreading virus flakes from his red hair
And people die.
He tells us he has won,
That he has single-handedly defeated
The pandemic with his strength
While millions grieve because of him . . .
Because his viral wave has caught them
And their loved ones in his wake
And he pronounces it all right
And people die.
He stops to curse the science
And the doctors and the nurses
Sacrificing dreams and lives,
And lies about their great intentions,
Claiming that only he has fixed it
But he never can admit mistakes
Or take his place as Leader and as
President of ALL the PEOPLE,
Choosing to lead ignorance more
And more into the ebony abyss
And people die.
He has the Midas-touch but this
Would-be king is ruler over Death
And he tells lies and passes Kool-Aid
To his chauvinistic worshipers
Who cheer and idolize the idle prophet
Who has falsely reassured them
Much as a small, small quack would
Sell his ignorant victims snake-oil panacea
And people die!
Memories That Sing to Me
I love the memories of my youth:
The horse-drawn wagon that
took us on brief rides to our Wild West
allowed me to expand my east Bronx
neighborhood for a brief but charming time
and nourished my imagination.
Excursions to the hill-bound vacant lot,
housing the elephant rock,
the pigeon coop and
a thousand fantasies welcoming
a young boy's need for safe adventure
was home to me until my sister,
head and voice sending volleys my way,
called me to our family dinner
made of spiraled pasta, meat and LOVE
(a time I miss in pain since she's been gone
almost fifty years now
yet in my consciousness her voice still resonates).
Ball games: punch ball, infield, stick ball, two-hand touch
cemented youthful ties with friends
before they went their separate ways,
leaving me to go along my road alone.
The days when I visited my other sister
and her children and her husband
and their Studebaker not so sure
whether it was coming or going:
The security I felt on Saturdays with them,
huddled in an arc, staring at
the light-encompassed Sylvania
with its halo light presenting the
comedy of Jackie Gleason or Sid Caesar
and how we laughed and knew it was
a special time.
The Yankees, dominating, ruling from the first year
that I knew of them,
the same year we bought our first TV,
A 16-inch RCA, as big as they came.
And the Bronx Bombers (I was from the Bronx, you know!)
won it all: ’49 to ‘53! (Other cities hated them
but they were from the Bronx!)
With Mickey, Whitey, Yogi, The Fire Chief
and all the rest playing in The House
That Ruth Built and I saw them
In 2-D black and white and
rarely but in treasured times
in living color on the grass of summer
and I too was Champion of the World!
The day we had Open School
and my sister stood proud
in the back of my classroom
next to all those nondescript parents
wearing her sharp naval uniform
and I couldn't figure out
why the other boys were whispering
questions about who that beautiful
woman was when she was just my sister
and I didn't see what they all saw
(but now I do).
New Year's Eve, doing my modest part
holding and waving my sparkler
outside the kitchen window
with our parakeet screeching
from his cage, while my father smiled
in his heldback way and with the love
I always took for granted
till it was too late.
I recall licking the wooden bowl
that my mother used when she made
chopped meat and gefilte fish,
showing me her Latvian love
until she left me
a week before my ninth,
leaving me
to cry on the front stoop that other kids had moms
but I did not cry at her grave in the rain.
Why didn’t I cry? I had a need to.
Yes, there was some pain because
we are too human
but there is mostly joy
transformed to nostalgia
for trolley cars, giant cubes of ice,
Mello rolls, lime rickeys (no alcohol in those days),
sledding down a vacant lot hill in the snow
and then trudging back up, sled at my side
only to go sliding down again and again
(before they built those homes
and took my lot away),
a traveling carnival (displaced by the Expressway),
the local diner with its 25 cent burgers and friendly population
(before it became a frost-filled bank),
the Diamond K, the six-block walk to school,
watching my junior high being built
from my PS 119 playground and windows,
our party line, my birthday parties,
my circular Lionel train set and
So much more.
Those were the days
Colorized by selective memory
But oh so precious to my heart ---
To my being!
A yardstick to put today into line
and a lifeline to grasp, defining
My existence and giving context
To my ultimate identity.
I love the memories of my youth:
The horse-drawn wagon that
took us on brief rides to our Wild West
allowed me to expand my east Bronx
neighborhood for a brief but charming time
and nourished my imagination.
Excursions to the hill-bound vacant lot,
housing the elephant rock,
the pigeon coop and
a thousand fantasies welcoming
a young boy's need for safe adventure
was home to me until my sister,
head and voice sending volleys my way,
called me to our family dinner
made of spiraled pasta, meat and LOVE
(a time I miss in pain since she's been gone
almost fifty years now
yet in my consciousness her voice still resonates).
Ball games: punch ball, infield, stick ball, two-hand touch
cemented youthful ties with friends
before they went their separate ways,
leaving me to go along my road alone.
The days when I visited my other sister
and her children and her husband
and their Studebaker not so sure
whether it was coming or going:
The security I felt on Saturdays with them,
huddled in an arc, staring at
the light-encompassed Sylvania
with its halo light presenting the
comedy of Jackie Gleason or Sid Caesar
and how we laughed and knew it was
a special time.
The Yankees, dominating, ruling from the first year
that I knew of them,
the same year we bought our first TV,
A 16-inch RCA, as big as they came.
And the Bronx Bombers (I was from the Bronx, you know!)
won it all: ’49 to ‘53! (Other cities hated them
but they were from the Bronx!)
With Mickey, Whitey, Yogi, The Fire Chief
and all the rest playing in The House
That Ruth Built and I saw them
In 2-D black and white and
rarely but in treasured times
in living color on the grass of summer
and I too was Champion of the World!
The day we had Open School
and my sister stood proud
in the back of my classroom
next to all those nondescript parents
wearing her sharp naval uniform
and I couldn't figure out
why the other boys were whispering
questions about who that beautiful
woman was when she was just my sister
and I didn't see what they all saw
(but now I do).
New Year's Eve, doing my modest part
holding and waving my sparkler
outside the kitchen window
with our parakeet screeching
from his cage, while my father smiled
in his heldback way and with the love
I always took for granted
till it was too late.
I recall licking the wooden bowl
that my mother used when she made
chopped meat and gefilte fish,
showing me her Latvian love
until she left me
a week before my ninth,
leaving me
to cry on the front stoop that other kids had moms
but I did not cry at her grave in the rain.
Why didn’t I cry? I had a need to.
Yes, there was some pain because
we are too human
but there is mostly joy
transformed to nostalgia
for trolley cars, giant cubes of ice,
Mello rolls, lime rickeys (no alcohol in those days),
sledding down a vacant lot hill in the snow
and then trudging back up, sled at my side
only to go sliding down again and again
(before they built those homes
and took my lot away),
a traveling carnival (displaced by the Expressway),
the local diner with its 25 cent burgers and friendly population
(before it became a frost-filled bank),
the Diamond K, the six-block walk to school,
watching my junior high being built
from my PS 119 playground and windows,
our party line, my birthday parties,
my circular Lionel train set and
So much more.
Those were the days
Colorized by selective memory
But oh so precious to my heart ---
To my being!
A yardstick to put today into line
and a lifeline to grasp, defining
My existence and giving context
To my ultimate identity.
Song of Longing Fulfilled
The sun again is shining in the sky
And once more seagulls spread their wings and fly
The blades of grass are straight as they are green
And smiling children can be heard and seen
Young lovers holding hands are on the beach
And dreamers’ grasps do now exceed their reach
Both predators and prey sit down at truce
And Hera once again feels love for Zeus
The nations of the world are now at peace
Enthralling music sings and will not cease
For we know Paradise for which we yearned
Has come, for Kathleen has at last returned!
The sun again is shining in the sky
And once more seagulls spread their wings and fly
The blades of grass are straight as they are green
And smiling children can be heard and seen
Young lovers holding hands are on the beach
And dreamers’ grasps do now exceed their reach
Both predators and prey sit down at truce
And Hera once again feels love for Zeus
The nations of the world are now at peace
Enthralling music sings and will not cease
For we know Paradise for which we yearned
Has come, for Kathleen has at last returned!
Low Propensity Voter
Who are you? You are not American You are not the reason So many died in uniform So who are you? Why are you? Lazy? Ignorant? Passionless? Immature? Heartless? Is it too much of an effort To make decisions Which affect us all, Your brothers and sisters, Your mothers and fathers, Your sons and daughters, Your husbands and wives, Yourself? You sleep and walk parallel In zig-zag lines And get us all lost In a maze closed off So that there is no destination Except the dead-end you gave us When you and minions in the millions Gave us Donald Trump. |
The Doctor Stopped Me
Cancer did not stop me,
Nor did kidney disease
Or diabetes
Or osteoarthritis
("The worst case I ever saw").
Age did not stop me ---
As omnipresent as they have been,
They did not stop me for a second,
In collusion or individually,
In close to six decades.
Nor did acute cholecystitis,
Chicken pox, malaria,
Or phlebitis, in their time.
They failed to stop me
From teaching and sharing
From enlightening and caring.
They conspired . . . and simply failed . . .
But the Doctor achieved what
These unconscious evils failed
In their insidious attempts
Their pitiful attempts ---
The Doctor did the harm
And his accommodation
Has done the damage
That a pandemic could not do.
He has put an end to my teaching ---
For now!
Nor did kidney disease
Or diabetes
Or osteoarthritis
("The worst case I ever saw").
Age did not stop me ---
As omnipresent as they have been,
They did not stop me for a second,
In collusion or individually,
In close to six decades.
Nor did acute cholecystitis,
Chicken pox, malaria,
Or phlebitis, in their time.
They failed to stop me
From teaching and sharing
From enlightening and caring.
They conspired . . . and simply failed . . .
But the Doctor achieved what
These unconscious evils failed
In their insidious attempts
Their pitiful attempts ---
The Doctor did the harm
And his accommodation
Has done the damage
That a pandemic could not do.
He has put an end to my teaching ---
For now!
Main Character
I am my own main character
Emoting sadness, grief, turmoil
Joy, resilience, enthusiasm
A touch of pathos
And a deal of optimism
Through hurtles unexpected
And challenges foreboding
In and out of consciousness
I am my own main character
Reaching for the just beyond
Kissing my fate
Hugging those in need of comfort
Mine as well as theirs
Remembering, forgetting
Failing to recall with age
But satisfied that things work out
Not always as foreseen
But they work out
And I am grateful for that much
I am my own main character
In a story being told
To an audience as yet unconscious
But they will know the story
As they have known my being
And my essence, for
I am my own main character
I am my own main character
Emoting sadness, grief, turmoil
Joy, resilience, enthusiasm
A touch of pathos
And a deal of optimism
Through hurtles unexpected
And challenges foreboding
In and out of consciousness
I am my own main character
Reaching for the just beyond
Kissing my fate
Hugging those in need of comfort
Mine as well as theirs
Remembering, forgetting
Failing to recall with age
But satisfied that things work out
Not always as foreseen
But they work out
And I am grateful for that much
I am my own main character
In a story being told
To an audience as yet unconscious
But they will know the story
As they have known my being
And my essence, for
I am my own main character
interlude
📝😍👩🦰🍁🌪🏨🙏😱🌄🛏😢
📝😍👩🦰🍁🌪🏨🙏😱🌄🛏😢
J O E

It was on you we had much ridin’ ---
You were the one to save our States
And you came through, Mr. Biden
So I no longer fear our fates;
Instead I see us joining Paris
And its Accord to save our air
As well as climate, you and Ms. Harris ---
I see the U. S. and I dare
To conjure up our future years,
To replace hate and tears with hope;
What I foresee involves no fears ---
Instead I see kaleidoscope
Rainbow hues of many races
Coming to our friendly shores;
What I envision are the faces
Coming through our open doors
And sitting at the supper table
Sharing true Thanksgiving fare
As we’ve revived our storied fabled
Welcome for folks everywhere.
This is the future we should have;
This is the promise we must keep!
Love and not hate is the true salve
That will allow us ‘gain to sleep
And live the dream of Liberty.
As sisters, brothers holding hands,
We are, you know, Land of the Free,
The home of love, not reprimands.
Thank you, Kamala, and you too, Joe,
For overcoming our haunting wraith,
For thanking us to let us know
That you’ve restored our waning faith.
Now let us move ahead and share
Our nation’s lovely destiny
To treat each other in ways fair
And love from sea to shining sea!
You were the one to save our States
And you came through, Mr. Biden
So I no longer fear our fates;
Instead I see us joining Paris
And its Accord to save our air
As well as climate, you and Ms. Harris ---
I see the U. S. and I dare
To conjure up our future years,
To replace hate and tears with hope;
What I foresee involves no fears ---
Instead I see kaleidoscope
Rainbow hues of many races
Coming to our friendly shores;
What I envision are the faces
Coming through our open doors
And sitting at the supper table
Sharing true Thanksgiving fare
As we’ve revived our storied fabled
Welcome for folks everywhere.
This is the future we should have;
This is the promise we must keep!
Love and not hate is the true salve
That will allow us ‘gain to sleep
And live the dream of Liberty.
As sisters, brothers holding hands,
We are, you know, Land of the Free,
The home of love, not reprimands.
Thank you, Kamala, and you too, Joe,
For overcoming our haunting wraith,
For thanking us to let us know
That you’ve restored our waning faith.
Now let us move ahead and share
Our nation’s lovely destiny
To treat each other in ways fair
And love from sea to shining sea!

Missing Mother
I was almost nine
(One week to go!)
Full of joy and eagerness
To boast about my age
And bask in the attention
That a birthday promises;
I was alive!
I went to bed with dreams of
Kisses and of hugs,
Talking to my comfort dog
Sharing thoughts and hopes
With my attentive yet inanimate pet
--- When our phone exploded in a ring
That shattered my life and ended my childhood
So suddenly!
I couldn’t really hear my father’s voice or
My sister’s, but even at 8.9, I could tell
Intuitively tell
That this blissful chapter had ended.
My mom was in the hospital . . .
A routine surgery that had been successful,
But --- now I know --- an enemy within her blood
Had ended her recovery and taken her away from me
And all I heard were the low sad voices, but
I knew. I didn’t grasp it
In its nuances and repercussions
(I was 8.9)
But I knew!
And when they gingerly approached my bed,
Instinctively I feigned sleeping
To put off for the night the news
That I did not want to hear
And could not handle
But that would not last long
And soon enough I felt the face-slap of truth
Too harsh for me to handle.
I was not quite nine
But there would be no party
Or presents
Or hugs,
Just words of comfort that fell
Like thickened chains to the floor.
I could not cry when she was lowered
Into the ground that terrible gray rainy day
I could not cry
As much as I needed to
And wanted to and tried to
I could not cry
But in my way I grieved so deeply
Not externally but deep inside.
It changed my life in ways
Even I cannot fully fathom
To this day
And now I think my lack of tears
Was in some way a feeble effort
To deny her passing.
It seems foolish . . . to refuse to accept
What was happening to my
Witnessing, attentive, completely dry eyes
But you really have to understand
I had just turned nine.
I was almost nine
(One week to go!)
Full of joy and eagerness
To boast about my age
And bask in the attention
That a birthday promises;
I was alive!
I went to bed with dreams of
Kisses and of hugs,
Talking to my comfort dog
Sharing thoughts and hopes
With my attentive yet inanimate pet
--- When our phone exploded in a ring
That shattered my life and ended my childhood
So suddenly!
I couldn’t really hear my father’s voice or
My sister’s, but even at 8.9, I could tell
Intuitively tell
That this blissful chapter had ended.
My mom was in the hospital . . .
A routine surgery that had been successful,
But --- now I know --- an enemy within her blood
Had ended her recovery and taken her away from me
And all I heard were the low sad voices, but
I knew. I didn’t grasp it
In its nuances and repercussions
(I was 8.9)
But I knew!
And when they gingerly approached my bed,
Instinctively I feigned sleeping
To put off for the night the news
That I did not want to hear
And could not handle
But that would not last long
And soon enough I felt the face-slap of truth
Too harsh for me to handle.
I was not quite nine
But there would be no party
Or presents
Or hugs,
Just words of comfort that fell
Like thickened chains to the floor.
I could not cry when she was lowered
Into the ground that terrible gray rainy day
I could not cry
As much as I needed to
And wanted to and tried to
I could not cry
But in my way I grieved so deeply
Not externally but deep inside.
It changed my life in ways
Even I cannot fully fathom
To this day
And now I think my lack of tears
Was in some way a feeble effort
To deny her passing.
It seems foolish . . . to refuse to accept
What was happening to my
Witnessing, attentive, completely dry eyes
But you really have to understand
I had just turned nine.
Imagine
They show up with their tears and fears
And reach out for no sympathy
But rather for a friend who hears
With strength and with true empathy.
These children come so deeply hurt;
They’ve lost a parent or a friend
And they cannot at all avert
The knowledge that this is the end
Of seeing their mom or their dad
Each day as they once used to do ---
But these are children sad, not bad,
And what they need to get them through
The worst days of their lives right then
To help them shattered dreams to mend
Is not “I’m sorry” said again
But just an understanding friend.
Reach out and comfort such a child
And give that child a voice to speak
For salve that soothes that life defiled
Is those who share the need to seek
Belonging and a place to be
Longing for a sweet new day
When they hold on to memory
Of those now gone but not away.
Imagine such a home for those
Who feel so lost but will be found,
A place where each sad child then goes
To sit, to talk, to be around
So many others there to share
Their stories and anxieties
And then the children will then bare
The journey that each adult sees:
When one has lost someone so close
And must face life each day by day
There’s nothing better than a dose
Of caring in a sharing way.
They show up with their tears and fears
And reach out for no sympathy
But rather for a friend who hears
With strength and with true empathy.
These children come so deeply hurt;
They’ve lost a parent or a friend
And they cannot at all avert
The knowledge that this is the end
Of seeing their mom or their dad
Each day as they once used to do ---
But these are children sad, not bad,
And what they need to get them through
The worst days of their lives right then
To help them shattered dreams to mend
Is not “I’m sorry” said again
But just an understanding friend.
Reach out and comfort such a child
And give that child a voice to speak
For salve that soothes that life defiled
Is those who share the need to seek
Belonging and a place to be
Longing for a sweet new day
When they hold on to memory
Of those now gone but not away.
Imagine such a home for those
Who feel so lost but will be found,
A place where each sad child then goes
To sit, to talk, to be around
So many others there to share
Their stories and anxieties
And then the children will then bare
The journey that each adult sees:
When one has lost someone so close
And must face life each day by day
There’s nothing better than a dose
Of caring in a sharing way.
My Father's Voice
I heard my father speak last night,
His raspy understanding tone
Telling me all will be right,
That there’s no fear I’ll be alone,
That he, though gone, will always be
Within my thoughts and conscious sight;
He said he’ll dwell in memory
Showing me the way that’s right.
I heard my father reassure
Me that I have been rightly raised
And that I will be quite secure,
Not ever weak or scared or fazed ---
That he has taught me how to act
When awful obstacles abound,
And when to gather proper tact
And make decisions sound.
He was my model of a man
And still with me abides
As I follow my own plan
And know my dad resides
In every choice I try to make,
His voice protects my soul . . .
In every trek I undertake
To reach the final goal.
I cherish that my father’s voice
Envelops me with watchful care;
And if it becomes my own choice,
My son will one day feel me near.
His raspy understanding tone
Telling me all will be right,
That there’s no fear I’ll be alone,
That he, though gone, will always be
Within my thoughts and conscious sight;
He said he’ll dwell in memory
Showing me the way that’s right.
I heard my father reassure
Me that I have been rightly raised
And that I will be quite secure,
Not ever weak or scared or fazed ---
That he has taught me how to act
When awful obstacles abound,
And when to gather proper tact
And make decisions sound.
He was my model of a man
And still with me abides
As I follow my own plan
And know my dad resides
In every choice I try to make,
His voice protects my soul . . .
In every trek I undertake
To reach the final goal.
I cherish that my father’s voice
Envelops me with watchful care;
And if it becomes my own choice,
My son will one day feel me near.
I Was Fine
I was fine as long as we could talk
About all things that mattered
To us both and each of us
But now there is a haze
Of meaningless that's anything
But pleasant come between us,
Consuming the breath of honesty
That used to be,
Leaving us separately to gag
The words that lifted love,
That have no meaning now
In the daylight,
No weight of value in the night.
Where have you gone?
(Although you surely must be
Asking me the like).
Where are the sounds that sang
The truth and wisdom we did know
When we were one,
Which now are covered by the nebula
Of I-don't-care?
You used to hold my hand but now
We are as people too new
To be in faith unanimous in our affection,
Now in affliction sickened with disease
Deeply ingrained and bringing
Closeness to a sudden end.
We used to travel in such unison
That others would admire what they
Perceived as strength and dedication
But now we move
On forked highways absent any
Limits on the speed that hurries us
To our destruction and I ask,
"Where have we gone
That we no longer feel the closeness
That we had promised with our smiles,
The nearness that now is so distant
And so painful in its truancy? Why
Have we disappeared into a vacuum
Of lost souls who can no longer claim
The future that was theirs to bless?"
I wait for you to answer
But there are no sentiments
For you no longer understand
The language that I speak
Nor can I fathom yours.
I was fine as long as we could talk
About all things that mattered
To us both and each of us
But now there is a haze
Of meaningless that's anything
But pleasant come between us,
Consuming the breath of honesty
That used to be,
Leaving us separately to gag
The words that lifted love,
That have no meaning now
In the daylight,
No weight of value in the night.
Where have you gone?
(Although you surely must be
Asking me the like).
Where are the sounds that sang
The truth and wisdom we did know
When we were one,
Which now are covered by the nebula
Of I-don't-care?
You used to hold my hand but now
We are as people too new
To be in faith unanimous in our affection,
Now in affliction sickened with disease
Deeply ingrained and bringing
Closeness to a sudden end.
We used to travel in such unison
That others would admire what they
Perceived as strength and dedication
But now we move
On forked highways absent any
Limits on the speed that hurries us
To our destruction and I ask,
"Where have we gone
That we no longer feel the closeness
That we had promised with our smiles,
The nearness that now is so distant
And so painful in its truancy? Why
Have we disappeared into a vacuum
Of lost souls who can no longer claim
The future that was theirs to bless?"
I wait for you to answer
But there are no sentiments
For you no longer understand
The language that I speak
Nor can I fathom yours.
Trike and Bike
The newly minted tricycle, gleaming
Blue and white and curved for safety
Finally arrived and gave the five-year-old
New freedom to explore the circles
Of his sidewalk, safely placed before
His castle-like apartment building
And he rode with happiness pent up
But now released.
His little fingers grasped the handlebars
With love and full excitement
For he now was Captain of the World
And could explore as far as
He received permission from Those
Who Governed his restricted world,
But ride he did and how he loved the
Blue and white teardrop paisley painting
That had wheels, a work of art
That traveled so much further
In his imagination in a world full of
Monsters and demons and dragons
That he now would conquer
Before the sun started to descend and he,
The hero of our story, had to bring his trike
Upstairs under a watchful guardian eye
And stow it safely till the next day’s
Grand adventure would call forth
The young man and his faithful tricycle
To save the world again.
Years later, in another realm,
A giant Schwinn, a mostly maroon beast
Of power, came to our teen hero
And gave him a renewed sense of freedom
To explore not sidewalks but the car-path streets
And blocks and schoolyards
And he did set forth to learn of this new world
But this time he found out that he
Could no longer handily defeat
The beasts and monsters
Keeping him from Hero’s Journey
As life no longer was the simple, crystal realm
That it had been before, so many years before.
He rode . . . and crashed too often
Sometimes into walls and knew the pain
Of the concrete boundaries that cannot be ignored,
The things that would stand up to him and shout:
“Avoid my strong existence for I am a realm that
You will never be allowed to enter!” And then
Once into a football player reaching for the prize,
Then to be introduced to anger and hatred and
Undying antiSemitism and the fury of centuries
Of lies and prejudice and a not so hidden need
To hurt those he’d been taught at home to fear
For no good reason and for no real purpose.
But onward rode our still-intrepid clumsy hero
Learning not of lost new lands
But of lost and hurtful souls and
The world as it had grown so cold while he was
Chasing fantasies and rainbows ---
And he grew to miss his trike
And the World that had been his
In better times.
Blue and white and curved for safety
Finally arrived and gave the five-year-old
New freedom to explore the circles
Of his sidewalk, safely placed before
His castle-like apartment building
And he rode with happiness pent up
But now released.
His little fingers grasped the handlebars
With love and full excitement
For he now was Captain of the World
And could explore as far as
He received permission from Those
Who Governed his restricted world,
But ride he did and how he loved the
Blue and white teardrop paisley painting
That had wheels, a work of art
That traveled so much further
In his imagination in a world full of
Monsters and demons and dragons
That he now would conquer
Before the sun started to descend and he,
The hero of our story, had to bring his trike
Upstairs under a watchful guardian eye
And stow it safely till the next day’s
Grand adventure would call forth
The young man and his faithful tricycle
To save the world again.
Years later, in another realm,
A giant Schwinn, a mostly maroon beast
Of power, came to our teen hero
And gave him a renewed sense of freedom
To explore not sidewalks but the car-path streets
And blocks and schoolyards
And he did set forth to learn of this new world
But this time he found out that he
Could no longer handily defeat
The beasts and monsters
Keeping him from Hero’s Journey
As life no longer was the simple, crystal realm
That it had been before, so many years before.
He rode . . . and crashed too often
Sometimes into walls and knew the pain
Of the concrete boundaries that cannot be ignored,
The things that would stand up to him and shout:
“Avoid my strong existence for I am a realm that
You will never be allowed to enter!” And then
Once into a football player reaching for the prize,
Then to be introduced to anger and hatred and
Undying antiSemitism and the fury of centuries
Of lies and prejudice and a not so hidden need
To hurt those he’d been taught at home to fear
For no good reason and for no real purpose.
But onward rode our still-intrepid clumsy hero
Learning not of lost new lands
But of lost and hurtful souls and
The world as it had grown so cold while he was
Chasing fantasies and rainbows ---
And he grew to miss his trike
And the World that had been his
In better times.
There Was an Old Man
There was an old man who wanted to play,
Who wanted to sing and needed the joy
That he was accustomed to back in the day
When the world was so young and he was a boy.
He felt light of foot and went to his mother
But she was now gone so he went to his dad
But he was no more so he called to his other
Family, sisters, but they too left the lad.
He wanted so to dance and needed to sing
But when he reached out there was no one to touch,
He tried to envision how each single thing
Had appeared but the memories were not so much
A treat or a pleasure as slow fantasies faded;
They were fleet bits of treasure that wanted to stay
But this old man’s feelings were now deeply jaded
Since his recall would not answer his command to obey.
Old age is a blessing but more often a curse;
Friends and family have left you behind;
You hope to get better but instead you are worse.
And when the end comes, you’ll not at all mind.
Who wanted to sing and needed the joy
That he was accustomed to back in the day
When the world was so young and he was a boy.
He felt light of foot and went to his mother
But she was now gone so he went to his dad
But he was no more so he called to his other
Family, sisters, but they too left the lad.
He wanted so to dance and needed to sing
But when he reached out there was no one to touch,
He tried to envision how each single thing
Had appeared but the memories were not so much
A treat or a pleasure as slow fantasies faded;
They were fleet bits of treasure that wanted to stay
But this old man’s feelings were now deeply jaded
Since his recall would not answer his command to obey.
Old age is a blessing but more often a curse;
Friends and family have left you behind;
You hope to get better but instead you are worse.
And when the end comes, you’ll not at all mind.

Misdirection
That long tie
Has become a symbol that makes me
Shudder at the words that tweet
Like the weak cry of a baby vulture
Seeking to feed
On its kind and be blind
To the current and the future
Of its breed; it hangs
As if it has been strangled
By the truth and has no energy
Except to squawk and screech
About that not so specious whining
At a loss... for words or realism.
And so, onward and downward
Goes that big tie
Accompanied by
Only
That long lie.
That long tie
Has become a symbol that makes me
Shudder at the words that tweet
Like the weak cry of a baby vulture
Seeking to feed
On its kind and be blind
To the current and the future
Of its breed; it hangs
As if it has been strangled
By the truth and has no energy
Except to squawk and screech
About that not so specious whining
At a loss... for words or realism.
And so, onward and downward
Goes that big tie
Accompanied by
Only
That long lie.

Vaccination
The virus attacked the spinal chords and brains
Of children (and the others) and often paralyzed
Or brought a fatal end to their future, devastatingly.
Especially true of those of us who lived
In New York City --- too close proximity ---
And if we were not frightened
It was the innocence of the young,
Not the truth of science, that protected us
(But still our parents trembled inside)
From summer outbreaks that awaited silently,
This infantile paralysis (such a pleasant-sounding
Rhythmic name) that fed on dreams and deep desires.
First in 1916 when twenty-five hundred were destroyed
And then again as time tried to hide potential victims
From the potent ill --- through the 1930’s and the ‘40’s . . .
But then, in 1955, the Salk vaccine (developed by a grad
of the Harvard of the Poor right there in New York City)
Arrived and there were lines, very long and crowded, but
Not a single parent could be heard to challenge it
Nor would a child do anything but trust parental judgment
And we all accepted automatically this savior, pinch of pain
And all, because this was for Life, not politics which
We could not grasp or care about, but Life
And freedom and safety and love and the American way,
Innovation --- not provocation --- and we were proud
That an American, a Jew, had made us safe and had also
Given us --- the millions now and trillions in the future ---
Our inalienable right to live the way we were meant to live,
To Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness:
And now, in this iota of a speck of time, when millions
Have been plagued by this a different virus
Going by the neat-sounding secret agent name COVID-19, now
There are hosts of fools who wonder at the chance to save
Their children and their loved ones, and to each of them I say:
Learn! Learn from the past. Allow your family the freedom
To be saved from deadly illness, this scourge that moves in stealth
And eats us up alive. Why would you fail and fall
For false conspiracies that lead you to the coffins and
The graves of people who depended on your wisdom?
Do not fail them now! Do not lead them to the depths
Of ill-conceived beliefs when they so dearly need your wisdom
And your judgment free from bias and chauvinistic politics.
Remember Salk and polio and iron lungs and futures
Totally destroyed and look again and find your faith
In the goodness of the world and
Let your children have the future that belongs to them!
Let your children live the dream you felt first
When you gazed upon the miracle that was
Their birth and when the world was healthy
And inviting. Find your faith again;
You owe each one you care about a folio of future visions;
Set aside your doubts, hold forth your children and believe
The way my father did in 1955; keep each child alive!
The virus attacked the spinal chords and brains
Of children (and the others) and often paralyzed
Or brought a fatal end to their future, devastatingly.
Especially true of those of us who lived
In New York City --- too close proximity ---
And if we were not frightened
It was the innocence of the young,
Not the truth of science, that protected us
(But still our parents trembled inside)
From summer outbreaks that awaited silently,
This infantile paralysis (such a pleasant-sounding
Rhythmic name) that fed on dreams and deep desires.
First in 1916 when twenty-five hundred were destroyed
And then again as time tried to hide potential victims
From the potent ill --- through the 1930’s and the ‘40’s . . .
But then, in 1955, the Salk vaccine (developed by a grad
of the Harvard of the Poor right there in New York City)
Arrived and there were lines, very long and crowded, but
Not a single parent could be heard to challenge it
Nor would a child do anything but trust parental judgment
And we all accepted automatically this savior, pinch of pain
And all, because this was for Life, not politics which
We could not grasp or care about, but Life
And freedom and safety and love and the American way,
Innovation --- not provocation --- and we were proud
That an American, a Jew, had made us safe and had also
Given us --- the millions now and trillions in the future ---
Our inalienable right to live the way we were meant to live,
To Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness:
And now, in this iota of a speck of time, when millions
Have been plagued by this a different virus
Going by the neat-sounding secret agent name COVID-19, now
There are hosts of fools who wonder at the chance to save
Their children and their loved ones, and to each of them I say:
Learn! Learn from the past. Allow your family the freedom
To be saved from deadly illness, this scourge that moves in stealth
And eats us up alive. Why would you fail and fall
For false conspiracies that lead you to the coffins and
The graves of people who depended on your wisdom?
Do not fail them now! Do not lead them to the depths
Of ill-conceived beliefs when they so dearly need your wisdom
And your judgment free from bias and chauvinistic politics.
Remember Salk and polio and iron lungs and futures
Totally destroyed and look again and find your faith
In the goodness of the world and
Let your children have the future that belongs to them!
Let your children live the dream you felt first
When you gazed upon the miracle that was
Their birth and when the world was healthy
And inviting. Find your faith again;
You owe each one you care about a folio of future visions;
Set aside your doubts, hold forth your children and believe
The way my father did in 1955; keep each child alive!

Father
My father was a quiet man
With a strong laugh and a love
He could not hide.
He been a carpenter
Early in his life
(Helped construct a museum
On Fifth Avenue which celebrated
This big metropolis we lived in)
And he later worked for many hours
Each week selling little things
(the news, greeting cards and books
And cancer sticks before we knew
What they could do).
One evening, having walked the one mile plus
From work to home (a daily tradition),
He entered our apartment deep in pain
Gasping for each struggling breath
From the disease which maybe six years later
Would keep him up all night until
He fell like thunder on the bathroom floor,
And would not rise again,
But on this night he groaned the dull
Moan brought about by hardened arteries
Through which his blood forced itself to circulate ---
And all I could do
Was calm him down and call the doctor
(They would make house calls in those times).
With care, the pain and danger passed
(It was before the entry of those
Tiny pills that eat away excess cholesterol)
And my father lived to go to work,
To love us and to smile and laugh that throaty sound
That he could not control when watching
The Marx Brothers or Three Stooges.
What makes this more than memory
Is that a few days later he brought home
A gift, a new transistor radio, from God knows where
(We did not sell them)
Just to thank me. But for what? I was his son.
I did nothing special to earn a gift.
Yet every time I held that radio
Or listened to my rock and roll or Yankees
Or Long John Nebel or the Barry's
(Gray and Farber) through the night
With the earpiece I had attached
(Monaural, nothing fancy),
I realized that what I was hearing
Was my father's love.
My father was a quiet man
With a strong laugh and a love
He could not hide.
He been a carpenter
Early in his life
(Helped construct a museum
On Fifth Avenue which celebrated
This big metropolis we lived in)
And he later worked for many hours
Each week selling little things
(the news, greeting cards and books
And cancer sticks before we knew
What they could do).
One evening, having walked the one mile plus
From work to home (a daily tradition),
He entered our apartment deep in pain
Gasping for each struggling breath
From the disease which maybe six years later
Would keep him up all night until
He fell like thunder on the bathroom floor,
And would not rise again,
But on this night he groaned the dull
Moan brought about by hardened arteries
Through which his blood forced itself to circulate ---
And all I could do
Was calm him down and call the doctor
(They would make house calls in those times).
With care, the pain and danger passed
(It was before the entry of those
Tiny pills that eat away excess cholesterol)
And my father lived to go to work,
To love us and to smile and laugh that throaty sound
That he could not control when watching
The Marx Brothers or Three Stooges.
What makes this more than memory
Is that a few days later he brought home
A gift, a new transistor radio, from God knows where
(We did not sell them)
Just to thank me. But for what? I was his son.
I did nothing special to earn a gift.
Yet every time I held that radio
Or listened to my rock and roll or Yankees
Or Long John Nebel or the Barry's
(Gray and Farber) through the night
With the earpiece I had attached
(Monaural, nothing fancy),
I realized that what I was hearing
Was my father's love.

I Said the Words
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
A 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.
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
A 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.
So Empty
This screen so blank, so empty ---
As empty as my thoughts right now.
I want to shout that I am here, eager to be found
But when I try, all I discern is a whimper
Of what I need to say,
And so I try to write my sounds upon the screen
But all I see is whiteness, waiting to be filled with words
And deeply felt ideas communicating how I am,
How I want to be thought of and so remembered.
The emptiness is but a stark reflection of my inner being
Trying with bare futility to utter notions and emotions
For anyone to care enough to read.
I sit here able to conceive
What I wish others to perceive
But I must face the actuality
That all that can be heard are the clicks
Of keystrokes that add up to nothing
To be taken in and loved. Ideas must be loved
But if ideas are born, they fail to live
Unless they’re nourished, cherished, receiving
Of attention and of mention
From one reader to the next and then discussed.
An idea that announces its existence
To emptiness in emptiness cannot thrive
And will never quite be granted
Its existence in this world where much too often
Now we isolate ourselves and become slaves
To the specious world of social media.
It is the dumbing of society, and I fear
That new ideas will lose to the mundane
For they can never rate in popularity
Against the tried, against the tired,
The safe, secure, repetitive commentary
Of this lethal time of social anarchy.
Yet, still I click away, swimming upstream
To the golden coast upon which I prefer
Awaits just one person who will smile
And read my thoughts and tell me
All will be all right. And so I write.
This screen so blank, so empty ---
As empty as my thoughts right now.
I want to shout that I am here, eager to be found
But when I try, all I discern is a whimper
Of what I need to say,
And so I try to write my sounds upon the screen
But all I see is whiteness, waiting to be filled with words
And deeply felt ideas communicating how I am,
How I want to be thought of and so remembered.
The emptiness is but a stark reflection of my inner being
Trying with bare futility to utter notions and emotions
For anyone to care enough to read.
I sit here able to conceive
What I wish others to perceive
But I must face the actuality
That all that can be heard are the clicks
Of keystrokes that add up to nothing
To be taken in and loved. Ideas must be loved
But if ideas are born, they fail to live
Unless they’re nourished, cherished, receiving
Of attention and of mention
From one reader to the next and then discussed.
An idea that announces its existence
To emptiness in emptiness cannot thrive
And will never quite be granted
Its existence in this world where much too often
Now we isolate ourselves and become slaves
To the specious world of social media.
It is the dumbing of society, and I fear
That new ideas will lose to the mundane
For they can never rate in popularity
Against the tried, against the tired,
The safe, secure, repetitive commentary
Of this lethal time of social anarchy.
Yet, still I click away, swimming upstream
To the golden coast upon which I prefer
Awaits just one person who will smile
And read my thoughts and tell me
All will be all right. And so I write.
She Has No Voice
She has no voice
Yet she speaks to me
In everything I do,
In my ethics and my traits,
In my goals and my ambition.
She passed when I was yet a child
And I still hold vivid memories
Of just the two of us
(Possibly romanticized but I hope not)
While she prepared to cook those
Age-old European dishes
Mixed with love and caring.
I recall her face, her body,
A mannerism and a smile
But not her voice.
Was it high-pitched or low?
I'll never know.
All who knew her are now gone
And the time had not yet come
For loving and faithful recordings
So within my minimal memories
It is missing, that voice that meant the world.
There's no sadness or depression.
I can handle facts. I can face
What was, what is.
She has no voice living in my mind
But she has presence,
Pertinence, perseverance;
She has no voice
But she speaks loveliness to me
And refuses to let go,
And that's a situation I can live with
Every day.
She has no voice
Yet she speaks to me
In everything I do,
In my ethics and my traits,
In my goals and my ambition.
She passed when I was yet a child
And I still hold vivid memories
Of just the two of us
(Possibly romanticized but I hope not)
While she prepared to cook those
Age-old European dishes
Mixed with love and caring.
I recall her face, her body,
A mannerism and a smile
But not her voice.
Was it high-pitched or low?
I'll never know.
All who knew her are now gone
And the time had not yet come
For loving and faithful recordings
So within my minimal memories
It is missing, that voice that meant the world.
There's no sadness or depression.
I can handle facts. I can face
What was, what is.
She has no voice living in my mind
But she has presence,
Pertinence, perseverance;
She has no voice
But she speaks loveliness to me
And refuses to let go,
And that's a situation I can live with
Every day.

Germany 1966
We traveled from West Africa
(I the lone Jew in our group of four)
From the White Man's Graveyard
To the land of death
Two decades removed
(No straight line home for me):
Death for Jews, priests, nuns,
Gypsies, Gays, Russians and
So many more.
And now I was surrounded by the smiles
That covered up the crimes
(Even to themselves)
Against those of us who were human
And loved life and its frailties
More than death with all its certainty.
We saw and praised the Heidelberg castle
(But not the people),
Perhaps overlooking the castle
As a symbol of the war-monger race
That built it,
And we visited a beer hall
(Pre-Oktoberfest)
Where the men really did sing
And lift their tankards in joy...
And all I heard were Nazi soldiers
Celebrating death and cheating death
While echoes in my mind
Called out the cries of pain,
Of agony, of wonder
That these men carried on
While they were lost
To camps, to mass assassinations
And disease
(The human kind --- or rather inhuman)
And Anne Frank's voice was wondering
In her growing intellect
Why I sat there and heard
The underlying "Deutschland Über Alles"
That dwelled beneath the joyous melody
There in the beer hall that evening
And said nothing ---
But when I, in the end, retreated from
This hell, I vowed never to return,
To which I heard with the clarity of conscience
My lost family reverberate the vow:
"Never again!"
(And I have heard and listened
Over half a century).
Some human horrors draw the line
Right through forgive and forget.
We can never forget!
For Them, we cannot forget!
We traveled from West Africa
(I the lone Jew in our group of four)
From the White Man's Graveyard
To the land of death
Two decades removed
(No straight line home for me):
Death for Jews, priests, nuns,
Gypsies, Gays, Russians and
So many more.
And now I was surrounded by the smiles
That covered up the crimes
(Even to themselves)
Against those of us who were human
And loved life and its frailties
More than death with all its certainty.
We saw and praised the Heidelberg castle
(But not the people),
Perhaps overlooking the castle
As a symbol of the war-monger race
That built it,
And we visited a beer hall
(Pre-Oktoberfest)
Where the men really did sing
And lift their tankards in joy...
And all I heard were Nazi soldiers
Celebrating death and cheating death
While echoes in my mind
Called out the cries of pain,
Of agony, of wonder
That these men carried on
While they were lost
To camps, to mass assassinations
And disease
(The human kind --- or rather inhuman)
And Anne Frank's voice was wondering
In her growing intellect
Why I sat there and heard
The underlying "Deutschland Über Alles"
That dwelled beneath the joyous melody
There in the beer hall that evening
And said nothing ---
But when I, in the end, retreated from
This hell, I vowed never to return,
To which I heard with the clarity of conscience
My lost family reverberate the vow:
"Never again!"
(And I have heard and listened
Over half a century).
Some human horrors draw the line
Right through forgive and forget.
We can never forget!
For Them, we cannot forget!
zoommates
We don't know each other, really
We met on a Zoom conference
We have similar interests and concerns
But we don't know each other
Not the way friends understand each other's feelings and needs
Or relatives can say things underneath the lines
That others will not get
Or workers laugh and bitch at those
Annoying obstacles that bosses build
For them to overcome
We simply met and talked between the others' conversations
And we knew what it was
This love at first site
Between two zoommates looking for
An intimate connection in cyberspace
With just a visual relationship
No chains or arguments or jealousies
No promises or premises nor
Provocation, prevarication, publication, instigating, irritating
Just a simple Zoom relationship that ends
At least for a while
With the click of a mouse at any time
But which waits for reignition
At a moment's notice.
We don't know each other, really
We met on a Zoom conference
We have similar interests and concerns
But we don't know each other
Not the way friends understand each other's feelings and needs
Or relatives can say things underneath the lines
That others will not get
Or workers laugh and bitch at those
Annoying obstacles that bosses build
For them to overcome
We simply met and talked between the others' conversations
And we knew what it was
This love at first site
Between two zoommates looking for
An intimate connection in cyberspace
With just a visual relationship
No chains or arguments or jealousies
No promises or premises nor
Provocation, prevarication, publication, instigating, irritating
Just a simple Zoom relationship that ends
At least for a while
With the click of a mouse at any time
But which waits for reignition
At a moment's notice.
In Darkness
I lie in the darkness
Next to you, feeling soothed
And comforted that we are there together
Holding onto one another with an
Oh so deep connection,
Spiritual and physical, in ways
Known truly to too few.
I lie in darkness yet I can see
More clearly the existence of deep love
Than do the rest, who think they feel
Emotional attachments that drift away
As time slides by and they are left
With shadows of their former love.
I lie in darkness next to you and hug you
Unrestrained but never underestimating,
Next to the only one I've ever known,
My woman and my other half for fifty years.
Yes, we have borne our share of pain
And obstacles and barriers and challenges
That would have crushed a fragile love
But we've survived and now am I
Beside my bride and touching hands
By which we feel connections for all time.
The darkness is the warmth that covers us
And welcomes us each night
And brings to me a mystical event
Proclaiming via every breath eternal memories
That merge the early days and present,
And build infinity in which your smile
And satisfying sounds of joy
Fill my soul with happiness and draw me
Every night more closely to
The essence of my life.
In darkness I can see so clearly and so dearly
That for me you are the only one
And that is why I smile contentedly
In darkness every night.
I lie in the darkness
Next to you, feeling soothed
And comforted that we are there together
Holding onto one another with an
Oh so deep connection,
Spiritual and physical, in ways
Known truly to too few.
I lie in darkness yet I can see
More clearly the existence of deep love
Than do the rest, who think they feel
Emotional attachments that drift away
As time slides by and they are left
With shadows of their former love.
I lie in darkness next to you and hug you
Unrestrained but never underestimating,
Next to the only one I've ever known,
My woman and my other half for fifty years.
Yes, we have borne our share of pain
And obstacles and barriers and challenges
That would have crushed a fragile love
But we've survived and now am I
Beside my bride and touching hands
By which we feel connections for all time.
The darkness is the warmth that covers us
And welcomes us each night
And brings to me a mystical event
Proclaiming via every breath eternal memories
That merge the early days and present,
And build infinity in which your smile
And satisfying sounds of joy
Fill my soul with happiness and draw me
Every night more closely to
The essence of my life.
In darkness I can see so clearly and so dearly
That for me you are the only one
And that is why I smile contentedly
In darkness every night.

Dog Tags
The Reds were coming.
(What were Reds?)
I was in elementary school and
They placed around my fragile little neck
A metal tag impressed with my own name
So that it would be easy to identify
My corpse when Reds would soon invade us.
(What were Reds?)
They looked just like Americans
And that was bad because we were not safe,
And so I walked block after block to school
Afraid that Reds would play their deadly game
Of hide and seek and I'd be "it"
When one if them would jump out of a bush
Or from behind a car parked placidly
And kill me so I'd never make it to my class that day or ever!
Boy, I hated them.
(But what were Reds?)
It was because of them that periodically we children
Found ourselves sequestered under
Sturdy wooden desks, backs to windows
So when they dropped THE BOMB
We would be safe from flying glass
--- No reference then to deadly radiation ---
And I wondered as I crouched uncomfortably
And gasped for breath while facing death
Who were these Reds who hated us so much
And whether the Red children were just then
Crouched as nervously as I,
Dog Tags swinging from their necks,
As well directed by their adult rulers,
Despising us from half way 'round the world
And wondering why we hated them so much.
The Reds were coming.
(What were Reds?)
I was in elementary school and
They placed around my fragile little neck
A metal tag impressed with my own name
So that it would be easy to identify
My corpse when Reds would soon invade us.
(What were Reds?)
They looked just like Americans
And that was bad because we were not safe,
And so I walked block after block to school
Afraid that Reds would play their deadly game
Of hide and seek and I'd be "it"
When one if them would jump out of a bush
Or from behind a car parked placidly
And kill me so I'd never make it to my class that day or ever!
Boy, I hated them.
(But what were Reds?)
It was because of them that periodically we children
Found ourselves sequestered under
Sturdy wooden desks, backs to windows
So when they dropped THE BOMB
We would be safe from flying glass
--- No reference then to deadly radiation ---
And I wondered as I crouched uncomfortably
And gasped for breath while facing death
Who were these Reds who hated us so much
And whether the Red children were just then
Crouched as nervously as I,
Dog Tags swinging from their necks,
As well directed by their adult rulers,
Despising us from half way 'round the world
And wondering why we hated them so much.
A Clear and President Danger: January 7, 2021
He is almost gone, now,
After four long years of dread and repetition,
Of fear and anger clumsily recycled
Until my skin burned off with acid
Spewing from his mouth ---
Almost one but not quite finished,
Still exuding hatred and divisiveness
With every evil spell his witchcraft
Formulates to his foolhardy enablers
And freakish followers, so chauvinistic
In their zombie chants and actions,
These Stepford Wives --- female or male ---
Who find a phony comfort in the cult
That this so un-American president has skillfully
Developed, cultivated, groomed to strict obeisance.
But they are not to blame for what has happened;
They were always there, under their rocks, just waiting
For their false messiah to emerge --- and there he was,
With special thanks to 90 million plus
Who were too lazy, apathetic, ignorant to bother
To show up and vote the opposition way back
Many millions of years ago, November 2016,
Leaving us to dwell in hell four breath-taking,
Death-making years, under the broken aegis of not my
Commander-in-Chief: May the angels that fell to hell
Keep a special place for him and his ilk for fiery eternity.
After four long years of dread and repetition,
Of fear and anger clumsily recycled
Until my skin burned off with acid
Spewing from his mouth ---
Almost one but not quite finished,
Still exuding hatred and divisiveness
With every evil spell his witchcraft
Formulates to his foolhardy enablers
And freakish followers, so chauvinistic
In their zombie chants and actions,
These Stepford Wives --- female or male ---
Who find a phony comfort in the cult
That this so un-American president has skillfully
Developed, cultivated, groomed to strict obeisance.
But they are not to blame for what has happened;
They were always there, under their rocks, just waiting
For their false messiah to emerge --- and there he was,
With special thanks to 90 million plus
Who were too lazy, apathetic, ignorant to bother
To show up and vote the opposition way back
Many millions of years ago, November 2016,
Leaving us to dwell in hell four breath-taking,
Death-making years, under the broken aegis of not my
Commander-in-Chief: May the angels that fell to hell
Keep a special place for him and his ilk for fiery eternity.
Herd Insanity
I was electronic witness
To the mass hysterics portrayed
By a mindless, thoughtless mob
As they attempted to destroy
The U.S. Constitution by storming
The sacred ground and home of Congress. Oaths were ripped apart,
And complicity was clear.
Massive chants reverberated chillingly:
"Stop the Steal!"
"Hang Mike Pence!"
This slime that dared to ooze
Across the House of Congress
Waved their flags, the Stars and Stripes,
The stars and bars, and shamed the nation
Which they falsely claimed to love.
This was not a show of great affection
But rather a display of deep affliction.
However, love of country trumps
Hatred of the others who will stand
And share with pride and dignity
A strength that their detractors cannot comprehend.
They say God bless America but
Their god is weak and cowardly and hides
Behind the shouts and threats of those
Who dress as revolutionaries . . .
But the only revolution that they know
Is one they cannot replicate
For they just shame the memory
Of those who fought two centuries ago
And more for love and honor and respect,
For a home that would one day hold welcome
To a cherished dream of a land of freedom.
(Yes, I know the irony but I must speak
Of high ideals and of the motto that says
E pluribus unum, for that's the actual
And dreamed of manifest destiny
For the vast majority of us.)
They say the noisy wheel is oiled
But here the sad cacophony was foiled
And they will pay. And they will pay!
- January 8, 2021
I was electronic witness
To the mass hysterics portrayed
By a mindless, thoughtless mob
As they attempted to destroy
The U.S. Constitution by storming
The sacred ground and home of Congress. Oaths were ripped apart,
And complicity was clear.
Massive chants reverberated chillingly:
"Stop the Steal!"
"Hang Mike Pence!"
This slime that dared to ooze
Across the House of Congress
Waved their flags, the Stars and Stripes,
The stars and bars, and shamed the nation
Which they falsely claimed to love.
This was not a show of great affection
But rather a display of deep affliction.
However, love of country trumps
Hatred of the others who will stand
And share with pride and dignity
A strength that their detractors cannot comprehend.
They say God bless America but
Their god is weak and cowardly and hides
Behind the shouts and threats of those
Who dress as revolutionaries . . .
But the only revolution that they know
Is one they cannot replicate
For they just shame the memory
Of those who fought two centuries ago
And more for love and honor and respect,
For a home that would one day hold welcome
To a cherished dream of a land of freedom.
(Yes, I know the irony but I must speak
Of high ideals and of the motto that says
E pluribus unum, for that's the actual
And dreamed of manifest destiny
For the vast majority of us.)
They say the noisy wheel is oiled
But here the sad cacophony was foiled
And they will pay. And they will pay!
The Real and Personal ‘60’s
Living through the 1960’s was like riding a tornado,
Praying that the sun would shine when I at last did land.
It started off with hope before Obama made that famous:
The hope that we could feel in a time when we were not at war
With any other nation though, in my cocoon, I must admit that I
Was blissfully unaware of the struggles of my fellow citizens
Who were black or poor or native American or of so many other
Groups --- ethnic, spiritual, cultural, economic --- that I could see
The sun shine in the midst of the darkness of so many coming storms.
That decade arrived and Camelot began. We had a President
Affectionately nicknamed JFK --- rich, but one who could relate to our dreams,
Who brought such youth and class and loyalty to country
That we listened with our souls and heard his plea, spoken
In his Massachusetts accent to all of us who dared to dream:
“Ask not,” he stated, “what your country can do for you;
Ask what you can do for your country” --- and we did,
We saw the shining star that called to us and beckoned us to reach
The greater heights of altruism and patriotism to make this place
A better nation that could create a better world in time,
One that produced a Peace Corps sent to share our Dream ---
But time was disappearing, though we, with smiles and joy,
Were ignorant of how cruel history can be.
And then he disappeared in Dallas but not in our collective memories ---
But in those recollections there was grief to deal with.
By decade’s end he would not be alone in falling to the hateful bullet
Of the assassin so determined to alter history hysterically:
Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, John’s brother Robert, Martin Luther King . . .
So many lost, so much of history changed beyond repair,
Beyond our tears and confiscated years.
These murders were a part of it, a segment of the decade that presented us
With war in Vietnam brought on by governmental lies and poor perception
("Hell no, we won't go!" "Hey! Hey! LBJ! How many boys did you kill today?!”),
Bringing with it riots, demonstrations, prayers and killings
In a distant nation where we should have never gone - - -
And watching national guardsmen shoot Kent State students protesting
So peacefully but meaningfully against the “unjust war” while other students
Chanted, congregated, sat in and occupied the status quo,
And other riots, caused by centuries of racial segregation, humiliation,
Degradation, tore through the streets and hearts while three young men
Were slain, those freedom riders whose great crime was registering voters
In a place that sent them right from hell to a much fairer place,
And we could hear Bob Dylan sing the sadness of these troubled times
While Peter, Paul and Mary asked, “Where have all the flowers gone?”
And we became the focal point of an upbeat British invasion, launched by
Beatles and by Stones and by so many others.
Did I say a tornado? There could not have been but one.
Mixed in with the concoction of death and music and the protests,
Hippies --- descendants of the ‘50’s Beatniks --- formed communes,
Signaled peace to all and dwelled within the mist of LSD and Mary Jane
And tried to live in communes a hundred years after the Transcendentalists
But failed as had their predecessors yet still called on the rest
To share their love and their desire for peace and their long hair and
Crazy-colored clothes and painted Volkswagen minivans.
Yes, there were the miracles --- We landed on the moon and in our living rooms,
And watched the New York Championships: the Jets, The Mets, the Knicks ---
But moments of enjoyment can’t erase the pain of ten long years, the fears
Of being drafted and of fighting for no reason; we could not each one be
Eloquent as the Champ, Muhammad Ali. We listened every night to news
Reports that hurled at us with no forgiveness numbers of our peers who had died
So far away protecting greedy leaders, becoming drug-addicted, returning home
To hatred and disgust and their haunting cases of what once was termed
Shell shock but which then achieved the less than soothing acronym PTSD.
We went from Kennedy to Johnson to Nixon and what a fall that was,
From Camelot to Watergate (soon after), from Arlington to exile
And all the while the music played, the hard day’s night lasted much too long,
And we could listen to each song and couldn’t figure what was wrong.
How had the years brought on the tears? How had hope so quickly disappeared?
This was the 1960’s . . . and now you understand the reason
I am haunted by ten years that started out as glory but came to feature gory,
Haunting memories that eat me up a full half century gone by.
In that decade my innocence began to die.
Living through the 1960’s was like riding a tornado,
Praying that the sun would shine when I at last did land.
It started off with hope before Obama made that famous:
The hope that we could feel in a time when we were not at war
With any other nation though, in my cocoon, I must admit that I
Was blissfully unaware of the struggles of my fellow citizens
Who were black or poor or native American or of so many other
Groups --- ethnic, spiritual, cultural, economic --- that I could see
The sun shine in the midst of the darkness of so many coming storms.
That decade arrived and Camelot began. We had a President
Affectionately nicknamed JFK --- rich, but one who could relate to our dreams,
Who brought such youth and class and loyalty to country
That we listened with our souls and heard his plea, spoken
In his Massachusetts accent to all of us who dared to dream:
“Ask not,” he stated, “what your country can do for you;
Ask what you can do for your country” --- and we did,
We saw the shining star that called to us and beckoned us to reach
The greater heights of altruism and patriotism to make this place
A better nation that could create a better world in time,
One that produced a Peace Corps sent to share our Dream ---
But time was disappearing, though we, with smiles and joy,
Were ignorant of how cruel history can be.
And then he disappeared in Dallas but not in our collective memories ---
But in those recollections there was grief to deal with.
By decade’s end he would not be alone in falling to the hateful bullet
Of the assassin so determined to alter history hysterically:
Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, John’s brother Robert, Martin Luther King . . .
So many lost, so much of history changed beyond repair,
Beyond our tears and confiscated years.
These murders were a part of it, a segment of the decade that presented us
With war in Vietnam brought on by governmental lies and poor perception
("Hell no, we won't go!" "Hey! Hey! LBJ! How many boys did you kill today?!”),
Bringing with it riots, demonstrations, prayers and killings
In a distant nation where we should have never gone - - -
And watching national guardsmen shoot Kent State students protesting
So peacefully but meaningfully against the “unjust war” while other students
Chanted, congregated, sat in and occupied the status quo,
And other riots, caused by centuries of racial segregation, humiliation,
Degradation, tore through the streets and hearts while three young men
Were slain, those freedom riders whose great crime was registering voters
In a place that sent them right from hell to a much fairer place,
And we could hear Bob Dylan sing the sadness of these troubled times
While Peter, Paul and Mary asked, “Where have all the flowers gone?”
And we became the focal point of an upbeat British invasion, launched by
Beatles and by Stones and by so many others.
Did I say a tornado? There could not have been but one.
Mixed in with the concoction of death and music and the protests,
Hippies --- descendants of the ‘50’s Beatniks --- formed communes,
Signaled peace to all and dwelled within the mist of LSD and Mary Jane
And tried to live in communes a hundred years after the Transcendentalists
But failed as had their predecessors yet still called on the rest
To share their love and their desire for peace and their long hair and
Crazy-colored clothes and painted Volkswagen minivans.
Yes, there were the miracles --- We landed on the moon and in our living rooms,
And watched the New York Championships: the Jets, The Mets, the Knicks ---
But moments of enjoyment can’t erase the pain of ten long years, the fears
Of being drafted and of fighting for no reason; we could not each one be
Eloquent as the Champ, Muhammad Ali. We listened every night to news
Reports that hurled at us with no forgiveness numbers of our peers who had died
So far away protecting greedy leaders, becoming drug-addicted, returning home
To hatred and disgust and their haunting cases of what once was termed
Shell shock but which then achieved the less than soothing acronym PTSD.
We went from Kennedy to Johnson to Nixon and what a fall that was,
From Camelot to Watergate (soon after), from Arlington to exile
And all the while the music played, the hard day’s night lasted much too long,
And we could listen to each song and couldn’t figure what was wrong.
How had the years brought on the tears? How had hope so quickly disappeared?
This was the 1960’s . . . and now you understand the reason
I am haunted by ten years that started out as glory but came to feature gory,
Haunting memories that eat me up a full half century gone by.
In that decade my innocence began to die.
The Sixth
There is no way that we can understand
The cries of shallow, hollow vehemence;
Instead there must be crucial reprimand
Followed by a trial to commence
Whereby We the People seek to show
How insurrection must deflection meet
So that our future generations know
That treachery must crash into defeat!
They came together and proceeded on
To force their will upon the Capitol
But in their madness they lay waste upon
The People's House, an anarchistic goal.
Their aim was to tear down and desecrate
A pillar of our democratic state
And we'll recall for years the deadly date
Of June the sixth, commemorating hate
That has too strongly seeped into the crowd
That screamed and spewed a tainted vitriol,
And we affirm the government's not bowed
Nor will it ever cease to have control
And all the MAGA zombies must now crawl
Back under rocks and squirm where they belong.
Anarchy has had its greatest fall;
The People's court will show the right from wrong.
May January sixth forever seek to dwell
Within a special awful place in hell.
There is no way that we can understand
The cries of shallow, hollow vehemence;
Instead there must be crucial reprimand
Followed by a trial to commence
Whereby We the People seek to show
How insurrection must deflection meet
So that our future generations know
That treachery must crash into defeat!
They came together and proceeded on
To force their will upon the Capitol
But in their madness they lay waste upon
The People's House, an anarchistic goal.
Their aim was to tear down and desecrate
A pillar of our democratic state
And we'll recall for years the deadly date
Of June the sixth, commemorating hate
That has too strongly seeped into the crowd
That screamed and spewed a tainted vitriol,
And we affirm the government's not bowed
Nor will it ever cease to have control
And all the MAGA zombies must now crawl
Back under rocks and squirm where they belong.
Anarchy has had its greatest fall;
The People's court will show the right from wrong.
May January sixth forever seek to dwell
Within a special awful place in hell.
The Hunter
I once went hunting deep within the wood,
To seek a monster that I had to kill
But straying wildly, I soon understood
That I was after nothing but the thrill
Of chasing down a phantom that was me.
I should have gone away but I pursued
That monster that would never let me be,
That evil which throughout I was imbued.
I searched in desperation and despair;
I peered and gawked and sought but could not find
That evil being that was everywhere
Because the devil dwelled within my mind.
I slowly walked and gazed behind each tree
But nothing there betrayed my anguished soul;
The monster would not simply let me be.
It ate at me and slowly took its toll.
I would not cave and so I still peruse
The mountains and the lakes and every vale,
And while I seek I selfishly abuse
My heart because I know that I will surely fail
Each moment that I live, and still I stretch
Out and I pray that I’ll take hold
Of that which tortures me; I am a wretch
And I am not so daring or so bold.
I went into the woods but what I found
Was a sad creature hunting me;
I know now that my wicked fate was bound
To never ever leave me happily.
I will not know what ‘tis to be so free.
I once went hunting deep within the wood,
To seek a monster that I had to kill
But straying wildly, I soon understood
That I was after nothing but the thrill
Of chasing down a phantom that was me.
I should have gone away but I pursued
That monster that would never let me be,
That evil which throughout I was imbued.
I searched in desperation and despair;
I peered and gawked and sought but could not find
That evil being that was everywhere
Because the devil dwelled within my mind.
I slowly walked and gazed behind each tree
But nothing there betrayed my anguished soul;
The monster would not simply let me be.
It ate at me and slowly took its toll.
I would not cave and so I still peruse
The mountains and the lakes and every vale,
And while I seek I selfishly abuse
My heart because I know that I will surely fail
Each moment that I live, and still I stretch
Out and I pray that I’ll take hold
Of that which tortures me; I am a wretch
And I am not so daring or so bold.
I went into the woods but what I found
Was a sad creature hunting me;
I know now that my wicked fate was bound
To never ever leave me happily.
I will not know what ‘tis to be so free.
Vaccination
I had my second COVID-19 vaccination on this day,
But how do you vaccinate against stupidity, hatred, fear,
Gullibility, lack of ability to discern the Big Lie
And all the other misconceptions daily fed by sources
With their own agendas, none of which has the flavor of
American democracy beginning with small d?
My father brought me to receive an early shot against
The 1950’s plague called polio, but there’s no way
The parents of anti-vaxxers and deniers of pandemic
Managed to prepare the deadly horde for their protection
(Not to mention the defense of children and of the same grandparents
Who stand to suffer most from their raw lack of any judgment
Of the dominance of tragedy that so unnaturally comes
From he who shall be ever more unnamed leading them to ruin).
They never understood the nature or the beauty of
The true American Dream (not the one with the car and the house
But the one in which we reach for “a more perfect union” which
Is built by and exists for the colorful mosaic of the real ones,
The Americans who understand and honor those of every sector).
There is no existing vaccination that can do the work that parents
Have neglected and that now those grown to parenthood will pass
Onto the next degeneration who will replicate their crimes
And help try to destroy their nation from within,
Far from the Founding Fathers’ vision which went beyond
Even their perceptions of the time.
If only we could build from scratch in some social laboratory
A vaccine that would bless the populace with common sense
And value for the science of our time, an elixir overcoming ignorance!
We are supposed to be “one nation under God” and so
Perhaps now is a perfect time for miracles to rival Moses’
Parting the Red Sea, and a modern Moses will appear
And lead the foolish and the dangerous from their golden calf of ignorance
To the true America, the Promised Land in which all children -– even theirs ---
Can live in safety and in honesty and with respect
For the Paradise on Earth that we were given many years ago
With the premise and the promise that we all, working together,
Could enjoy “the pursuit of happiness” for future generations
To thrive in and engender with intelligence and wisdom.
It is a vaccination of the heart and of the soul and it would be
More powerful in nature than arising from the dead;
Instead, it would instill in us the banishment of disbelief and
Replace Death with Life for those we love.
I had my second COVID-19 vaccination on this day,
But how do you vaccinate against stupidity, hatred, fear,
Gullibility, lack of ability to discern the Big Lie
And all the other misconceptions daily fed by sources
With their own agendas, none of which has the flavor of
American democracy beginning with small d?
My father brought me to receive an early shot against
The 1950’s plague called polio, but there’s no way
The parents of anti-vaxxers and deniers of pandemic
Managed to prepare the deadly horde for their protection
(Not to mention the defense of children and of the same grandparents
Who stand to suffer most from their raw lack of any judgment
Of the dominance of tragedy that so unnaturally comes
From he who shall be ever more unnamed leading them to ruin).
They never understood the nature or the beauty of
The true American Dream (not the one with the car and the house
But the one in which we reach for “a more perfect union” which
Is built by and exists for the colorful mosaic of the real ones,
The Americans who understand and honor those of every sector).
There is no existing vaccination that can do the work that parents
Have neglected and that now those grown to parenthood will pass
Onto the next degeneration who will replicate their crimes
And help try to destroy their nation from within,
Far from the Founding Fathers’ vision which went beyond
Even their perceptions of the time.
If only we could build from scratch in some social laboratory
A vaccine that would bless the populace with common sense
And value for the science of our time, an elixir overcoming ignorance!
We are supposed to be “one nation under God” and so
Perhaps now is a perfect time for miracles to rival Moses’
Parting the Red Sea, and a modern Moses will appear
And lead the foolish and the dangerous from their golden calf of ignorance
To the true America, the Promised Land in which all children -– even theirs ---
Can live in safety and in honesty and with respect
For the Paradise on Earth that we were given many years ago
With the premise and the promise that we all, working together,
Could enjoy “the pursuit of happiness” for future generations
To thrive in and engender with intelligence and wisdom.
It is a vaccination of the heart and of the soul and it would be
More powerful in nature than arising from the dead;
Instead, it would instill in us the banishment of disbelief and
Replace Death with Life for those we love.
He Built a Wall
He built a wall
But not the one he’d promised,
Not the one to give us strong protection
'gainst the hordes seeking refuge from
Our Lady,
Not the wall along our southern border
Slamming shut the freedoms that once called
Those seeking freedom, opportunity
And love to shelter shattered children.
He built a wall to separate us from democracy,
A wall made up of hatred, fear and anger,
A wall made up of false supremacy.
This is the wall that is his legacy.
It is a wall to demonocracy but not democracy
And the divisions sown by this abhorrent wall
Have but one purpose, to divide
But to divide not for protection
But for defection,
Defection from the Founding Fathers' dream
And from the thread that has continued
Through wars and insurrection,
The thread that holds together in Old Glory.
He built a wall of chauvinistic followers
Who substituted sad obedience for conscience,
A wall of Devil's allies in Congress and militias,
A wall that hovers over Lincoln's house divided
And this wall will be his legacy
To be studied and abhorred by future generations
Who, in unison. will shake their heads and ask,
"What were they thinking?"
He built a wall
But not the one he’d promised,
Not the one to give us strong protection
'gainst the hordes seeking refuge from
Our Lady,
Not the wall along our southern border
Slamming shut the freedoms that once called
Those seeking freedom, opportunity
And love to shelter shattered children.
He built a wall to separate us from democracy,
A wall made up of hatred, fear and anger,
A wall made up of false supremacy.
This is the wall that is his legacy.
It is a wall to demonocracy but not democracy
And the divisions sown by this abhorrent wall
Have but one purpose, to divide
But to divide not for protection
But for defection,
Defection from the Founding Fathers' dream
And from the thread that has continued
Through wars and insurrection,
The thread that holds together in Old Glory.
He built a wall of chauvinistic followers
Who substituted sad obedience for conscience,
A wall of Devil's allies in Congress and militias,
A wall that hovers over Lincoln's house divided
And this wall will be his legacy
To be studied and abhorred by future generations
Who, in unison. will shake their heads and ask,
"What were they thinking?"
Daughter
This is the day I sing of your birth,
The day that I found the depth of my worth
Was greater than ever I had foreseen.
You entered my life, my own little queen
And lit up my eyes with a smile of delight.
Your wondrous appearance at once filled my sight
With love and with joy, and that’s when I knew
The pride that I felt was long overdue.
I wanted so deeply a child of my own
And I relished the sweetness that over you shone.
You now filled my life with a sense complete
That gave me the blessing of feeling upbeat
About what was to come, a time of emotion
So strong and so deep it could fill an ocean.
It snowed on that day, but I saw the shine
Of the sun warm the heart of the girl who was mine.
You were born on this day, and my life began:
You created a father from a mortal man!
This is the day I sing of your birth,
The day that I found the depth of my worth
Was greater than ever I had foreseen.
You entered my life, my own little queen
And lit up my eyes with a smile of delight.
Your wondrous appearance at once filled my sight
With love and with joy, and that’s when I knew
The pride that I felt was long overdue.
I wanted so deeply a child of my own
And I relished the sweetness that over you shone.
You now filled my life with a sense complete
That gave me the blessing of feeling upbeat
About what was to come, a time of emotion
So strong and so deep it could fill an ocean.
It snowed on that day, but I saw the shine
Of the sun warm the heart of the girl who was mine.
You were born on this day, and my life began:
You created a father from a mortal man!
Son
You have an inner strength that I admire.
In the face of multiple challenges, you did not flinch
Even though you were still a stranger to the world.
You overcame so much and lifted high the mountain
Placed before you as you grew, with fierce determination.
You met each challenge as a great Olympic athlete,
Shunning medals for achievements that in name
Became your reasons for existence
And now you are well honored in my eyes,
A man who provides help and sustenance to many,
With generosity married to compassion.
You have gone from child to father
And my pride cannot be counted finite ---
But know that when I see or talk to you
I comprehend the depth and breadth of your many
Contributions. You are the model that your children need
As well as the foundation that I recognize,
And from those much too early challenges
Which will not dissipate, much like the phoenix,
Every day you rise and stand above all other men.
You have an inner strength that I admire.
In the face of multiple challenges, you did not flinch
Even though you were still a stranger to the world.
You overcame so much and lifted high the mountain
Placed before you as you grew, with fierce determination.
You met each challenge as a great Olympic athlete,
Shunning medals for achievements that in name
Became your reasons for existence
And now you are well honored in my eyes,
A man who provides help and sustenance to many,
With generosity married to compassion.
You have gone from child to father
And my pride cannot be counted finite ---
But know that when I see or talk to you
I comprehend the depth and breadth of your many
Contributions. You are the model that your children need
As well as the foundation that I recognize,
And from those much too early challenges
Which will not dissipate, much like the phoenix,
Every day you rise and stand above all other men.
Grandkids # 1
Dylan and Jackson
Give my life action.
They run and I chase them
Until I can face them;
Then they run after me
So I have to flee!
Jackson and Dylan
Make my life thrillin'
They have energy
That's too much for me.
I try to keep up
Like a really young pup
But I'm much too bold
And forget that I'm old.
And then there is Abby
Who can be quite gabby,
But I like what she speaks;
I could listen for weeks
To her interesting stories
About Broadway show glories ---
And watching her dance
Puts me into a trance.
I'll be seeing them soon,
Maybe the end of June.
This is a talented troupe,
The REAL Munshine Group!
Dylan and Jackson
Give my life action.
They run and I chase them
Until I can face them;
Then they run after me
So I have to flee!
Jackson and Dylan
Make my life thrillin'
They have energy
That's too much for me.
I try to keep up
Like a really young pup
But I'm much too bold
And forget that I'm old.
And then there is Abby
Who can be quite gabby,
But I like what she speaks;
I could listen for weeks
To her interesting stories
About Broadway show glories ---
And watching her dance
Puts me into a trance.
I'll be seeing them soon,
Maybe the end of June.
This is a talented troupe,
The REAL Munshine Group!
Half a Million +
We passed half a million on this day,
All gone, dead, deceased --- victims
Of coronavirus and stupidity and greed and
Lust for power sans responsibility.
Gone are the grandparents and mothers and fathers
And the sons and daughters and strangers . . . and the children
Who looked up with trust at those who were unable to protect them.
More than half a million citizens of the greatest country in the world,
Of the home to science and to knowledge,
All brought down by avarice and the ignorance
Of climate change deniers who believe the Earth is flat
And two-dimensional, a fool’s-gold palace meant for them in their
Self-centered perverse universe, five hundred thousand
And then some victims to the ignorant who used their power
To destroy rather than to build, to flatten everything into
Dimensions of futility and backwardness,
Not allowing growth or pride in nation or love of family,
Those who could not know the depth of love past their own
Short-sighted goals and dangerous ambitions.
Let us mourn the minions dead; let us grieve the lives
So wasted much too soon, for even seniors’ days are precious
To the ones who love and care for them; let us cry out loud
For children who will never know how great this nation can one day
Become; let us tear ourselves apart for the parents who no longer
Cheer us physically but whose spirits live in our determination
Never to forget their lives and loves and the unrelenting tragedy,
Rejected yet built by ignorant incompetence, which too soon ended
Their precious role in the continuous fabric of America.
More than half a million gone and it didn’t have to be;
More then half a million gone and it wasn’t meant to be:
Curse the government of villains who too eagerly
Looked the other way and saw the far-away horizon and believed
They looked right at the edge of the world, a haven for their sins,
Knowing, in reality, that what they glared at was the judgment
They will one day face, where two dimensions become three
And they will be suspended in the hell that they have built
Upon the corpses of the half a million . . . plus!
We passed half a million on this day,
All gone, dead, deceased --- victims
Of coronavirus and stupidity and greed and
Lust for power sans responsibility.
Gone are the grandparents and mothers and fathers
And the sons and daughters and strangers . . . and the children
Who looked up with trust at those who were unable to protect them.
More than half a million citizens of the greatest country in the world,
Of the home to science and to knowledge,
All brought down by avarice and the ignorance
Of climate change deniers who believe the Earth is flat
And two-dimensional, a fool’s-gold palace meant for them in their
Self-centered perverse universe, five hundred thousand
And then some victims to the ignorant who used their power
To destroy rather than to build, to flatten everything into
Dimensions of futility and backwardness,
Not allowing growth or pride in nation or love of family,
Those who could not know the depth of love past their own
Short-sighted goals and dangerous ambitions.
Let us mourn the minions dead; let us grieve the lives
So wasted much too soon, for even seniors’ days are precious
To the ones who love and care for them; let us cry out loud
For children who will never know how great this nation can one day
Become; let us tear ourselves apart for the parents who no longer
Cheer us physically but whose spirits live in our determination
Never to forget their lives and loves and the unrelenting tragedy,
Rejected yet built by ignorant incompetence, which too soon ended
Their precious role in the continuous fabric of America.
More than half a million gone and it didn’t have to be;
More then half a million gone and it wasn’t meant to be:
Curse the government of villains who too eagerly
Looked the other way and saw the far-away horizon and believed
They looked right at the edge of the world, a haven for their sins,
Knowing, in reality, that what they glared at was the judgment
They will one day face, where two dimensions become three
And they will be suspended in the hell that they have built
Upon the corpses of the half a million . . . plus!
My Billow Guy
He hugs his fluffy comfort guard
Because he had a love affair with Truth
But he was rent from dignity
And left with soul possession of his dream,
No, not the once-held in esteem
All-American Dream,
More the nightmare of Democracy.
Still he swears and pays for what we call
Without affection The Big Lie,
So that he can continue to stuff his pockets
With the profits that no prophets of our Freedom
Can ever recognize, but rather will despise.
He mouths his Billow of Deceit
Which emanates from deep within his emptiness
And flows forth suffocatingly to drown the credence
Millions of Americans have lived and died for
Since the birth of Freedom on our shores.
My Billow Guy deserves the grief that he's unleashed
In the name of his pitiful destructive political ambition,
And his words will billow back much as a justified tsunami,
Drowning him in the specious comfort of his phantom cocoon,
And when, in time. the final sale is made,
And the receipt is then presented
To the Keeper of the Underworld,
Look down to the last line and read the coupon code
That brings the final cost of his verbal crimes to a righteous total.
Let the code be read to all:
"I lied; I carry blame. I feel such shame!"
He hugs his fluffy comfort guard
Because he had a love affair with Truth
But he was rent from dignity
And left with soul possession of his dream,
No, not the once-held in esteem
All-American Dream,
More the nightmare of Democracy.
Still he swears and pays for what we call
Without affection The Big Lie,
So that he can continue to stuff his pockets
With the profits that no prophets of our Freedom
Can ever recognize, but rather will despise.
He mouths his Billow of Deceit
Which emanates from deep within his emptiness
And flows forth suffocatingly to drown the credence
Millions of Americans have lived and died for
Since the birth of Freedom on our shores.
My Billow Guy deserves the grief that he's unleashed
In the name of his pitiful destructive political ambition,
And his words will billow back much as a justified tsunami,
Drowning him in the specious comfort of his phantom cocoon,
And when, in time. the final sale is made,
And the receipt is then presented
To the Keeper of the Underworld,
Look down to the last line and read the coupon code
That brings the final cost of his verbal crimes to a righteous total.
Let the code be read to all:
"I lied; I carry blame. I feel such shame!"
Caregiver
I speak from my perspective but I have
No doubt that I was not alone, not ever.
She cared for many others, for children and for grandkids,
For her husband from the start
To his final days
And she took care of me more often
Than the two times which I write about
But understand that these two periods
When I came stumbling from my surgeries
And sought her deep support,
Nourishing and emotional,
She was there for me, a towering presence
So necessary to support recovery and
My return to the land of life.
The first occurred in 1955; I was in the
Eighth grade and came from New York Hospital
Straight from a wheelchair and a bed,
Recuperating from knee surgery,
Hobbling and holding on to the reality
Only known by a motherless child.
I came to Bruckner Boulevard and understood
That I was temporarily re-placed
From my mostly silent home to this
Bustling, lively setting with my niece and nephew
And I felt warm and welcome and that made
My fourteen year old adjustment very smooth.
I felt that I belonged.
Then, in 1980, quarter of a century had passed
And once again, having undergone gall bladder surgery
At Nyack Hospital, I, like the birds that fly south for protection,
Returned to the hearth my sister would keep warm
For me and I recovered, taking daily walks,
Feasting on home cooking and sibling reliability,
Until I regained strength and then prepared
To go on with my life in other places,
Knowing that, as once before
I felt that I belonged.
But that is hardly accurate:
I knew that I belonged.
She was and will forever be my sister.
I still hear her voice so clearly
Speak to me in moments of my need.
She will not fade as time moves on,
But sharpens in my thoughts and I know
That, in the midst of her so busy life,
I would and will belong.
I speak from my perspective but I have
No doubt that I was not alone, not ever.
She cared for many others, for children and for grandkids,
For her husband from the start
To his final days
And she took care of me more often
Than the two times which I write about
But understand that these two periods
When I came stumbling from my surgeries
And sought her deep support,
Nourishing and emotional,
She was there for me, a towering presence
So necessary to support recovery and
My return to the land of life.
The first occurred in 1955; I was in the
Eighth grade and came from New York Hospital
Straight from a wheelchair and a bed,
Recuperating from knee surgery,
Hobbling and holding on to the reality
Only known by a motherless child.
I came to Bruckner Boulevard and understood
That I was temporarily re-placed
From my mostly silent home to this
Bustling, lively setting with my niece and nephew
And I felt warm and welcome and that made
My fourteen year old adjustment very smooth.
I felt that I belonged.
Then, in 1980, quarter of a century had passed
And once again, having undergone gall bladder surgery
At Nyack Hospital, I, like the birds that fly south for protection,
Returned to the hearth my sister would keep warm
For me and I recovered, taking daily walks,
Feasting on home cooking and sibling reliability,
Until I regained strength and then prepared
To go on with my life in other places,
Knowing that, as once before
I felt that I belonged.
But that is hardly accurate:
I knew that I belonged.
She was and will forever be my sister.
I still hear her voice so clearly
Speak to me in moments of my need.
She will not fade as time moves on,
But sharpens in my thoughts and I know
That, in the midst of her so busy life,
I would and will belong.
Dread
I was in charge;
The baby, fetus-sized, three weeks in existence,
Enclosed in a glass rectangular prism,
Curled and sucking its thumb for comfort,
Was solely dependent on me, and
I bore the burden, every second seeking
Safety for the child but not completely cognizant
Of what to do; I went by instinct
And carried the child enclosed through safety and
Through danger, and I was consumed
By that dependent being’s pendant existence.
I asked the others what to do but received no
Sound advice, and it all fell to me
To care for and protect this precious life,
And I accepted it as fore-ordained and breathed too consciously
And went about my life which was its Life
Until one day the moisture seeped onto my finger
So lovingly supporting the prism held so preciously;
I gazed in fear and disbelief and saw the scarlet drop
That had oozed through the glass: the child was bleeding
And I knew not why nor could I come to a decision
That would benefit us both. I wandered
To each place and person but I was alone in facing
This ultimate terrible burden and I cried.
The bleeding would not stop but no one helped and I
Was left to blame and watch so uselessly as Life
Flowed ceaselessly away and I just watched and cried and
Felt the grief that knows no limits both in time and space,
For I had failed. The child so totally dependent on me gazed
In my direction one last time and then was gone
And my heart also went away
To wander in a place long lost to us, never to return.
I was in charge;
The baby, fetus-sized, three weeks in existence,
Enclosed in a glass rectangular prism,
Curled and sucking its thumb for comfort,
Was solely dependent on me, and
I bore the burden, every second seeking
Safety for the child but not completely cognizant
Of what to do; I went by instinct
And carried the child enclosed through safety and
Through danger, and I was consumed
By that dependent being’s pendant existence.
I asked the others what to do but received no
Sound advice, and it all fell to me
To care for and protect this precious life,
And I accepted it as fore-ordained and breathed too consciously
And went about my life which was its Life
Until one day the moisture seeped onto my finger
So lovingly supporting the prism held so preciously;
I gazed in fear and disbelief and saw the scarlet drop
That had oozed through the glass: the child was bleeding
And I knew not why nor could I come to a decision
That would benefit us both. I wandered
To each place and person but I was alone in facing
This ultimate terrible burden and I cried.
The bleeding would not stop but no one helped and I
Was left to blame and watch so uselessly as Life
Flowed ceaselessly away and I just watched and cried and
Felt the grief that knows no limits both in time and space,
For I had failed. The child so totally dependent on me gazed
In my direction one last time and then was gone
And my heart also went away
To wander in a place long lost to us, never to return.
Gift from China
She is a gift from China,
Land of her birth, source of her love
For life and the beauty that flourishes abundantly.
She came to me with deep appreciation
For the flowers, trees, shrubbery, lakes
And mountains of her land, and with the eagerness
And skill to share what she perceived
And now peruses in this home we share
Until her fated return to that great countryside
Where she grew up and cherished with her family,
Sharing with those fortunate to be welcomed into her loved world
(Her name means “creativity” but she surpasses that with sharing)
Memories of liquid mirror lakes, jagged robust haughty mountains,
Inviting cardinal and ruby, amber and saffron, teal and azure
Flowers and unending sprouting, flourishing shards of grass,
All giving rise to an aviary prismic hue-glow coasting,
Diving, swooping, resting ‘midst a summer painting scenic paradise.
And here, where she continues both her schooling
And her education, she has learned to touch our lives
With exquisitely crafted poetry and photographs
All breathing in the realm of Nature, sharing both her insights
And her keen attraction, fostering in others an appreciation
For the single flower blossom and the verdant veined tree-leaf
And so much more, the details that display the true vitality
Of our Mother Earth. She is a gift that came from the Red Dragon
And brought not aggression or threat but overwhelming subtleties
Of color, shape and of gentleness which cannot help but shout ---
In their quiet, subtle way --- amidst the pall that sometimes comes
To shroud us in its ignorance and self-destruction ---
that we exist for love and beauty calls to us
Out of the darkness that we create and lights our way.
She is a gift from China,
Land of her birth, source of her love
For life and the beauty that flourishes abundantly.
She came to me with deep appreciation
For the flowers, trees, shrubbery, lakes
And mountains of her land, and with the eagerness
And skill to share what she perceived
And now peruses in this home we share
Until her fated return to that great countryside
Where she grew up and cherished with her family,
Sharing with those fortunate to be welcomed into her loved world
(Her name means “creativity” but she surpasses that with sharing)
Memories of liquid mirror lakes, jagged robust haughty mountains,
Inviting cardinal and ruby, amber and saffron, teal and azure
Flowers and unending sprouting, flourishing shards of grass,
All giving rise to an aviary prismic hue-glow coasting,
Diving, swooping, resting ‘midst a summer painting scenic paradise.
And here, where she continues both her schooling
And her education, she has learned to touch our lives
With exquisitely crafted poetry and photographs
All breathing in the realm of Nature, sharing both her insights
And her keen attraction, fostering in others an appreciation
For the single flower blossom and the verdant veined tree-leaf
And so much more, the details that display the true vitality
Of our Mother Earth. She is a gift that came from the Red Dragon
And brought not aggression or threat but overwhelming subtleties
Of color, shape and of gentleness which cannot help but shout ---
In their quiet, subtle way --- amidst the pall that sometimes comes
To shroud us in its ignorance and self-destruction ---
that we exist for love and beauty calls to us
Out of the darkness that we create and lights our way.
I Was Cool
I was so cool
Inviting you on a first date
Via a card written with nerves
Delivered by a student
RSVP, you know... and you did . . .
And I kept my cool when I read your reply,
Written on that same nervous note … a simple, “Yes!”
I was so cool
Taking you to share a movie
About Nazi POW's in Scotland
How romantic; how charming
When I reached to hold your hand
In the comfort and disguise of a
Darkened theater --- and you turned to me
And asked me quizzically what I wanted
So badly that I'd interrupted your focus
On the screen, the prisoners and the Scots.
I was so cool
When I then drove you with my months old
License and blue Chevy to a Chinese restaurant
And then looked shocked at your sophistication
When you ordered a whiskey sour
To go along with my iced Diet Coke
I was so cool
That I'm quite sure I hid extremely well my feeling
Of amazement, toward evening's end,
When you kissed me good night in such a way
In that lovely black and orange dress
That I had no lingering doubt or inward self-defeating denial
That I was cool.
I was so cool
Inviting you on a first date
Via a card written with nerves
Delivered by a student
RSVP, you know... and you did . . .
And I kept my cool when I read your reply,
Written on that same nervous note … a simple, “Yes!”
I was so cool
Taking you to share a movie
About Nazi POW's in Scotland
How romantic; how charming
When I reached to hold your hand
In the comfort and disguise of a
Darkened theater --- and you turned to me
And asked me quizzically what I wanted
So badly that I'd interrupted your focus
On the screen, the prisoners and the Scots.
I was so cool
When I then drove you with my months old
License and blue Chevy to a Chinese restaurant
And then looked shocked at your sophistication
When you ordered a whiskey sour
To go along with my iced Diet Coke
I was so cool
That I'm quite sure I hid extremely well my feeling
Of amazement, toward evening's end,
When you kissed me good night in such a way
In that lovely black and orange dress
That I had no lingering doubt or inward self-defeating denial
That I was cool.
How Goes It?
You ask me, “How has this year been?”
My reply is, “Where do I begin?”
I was sick a year ago December
But what my symptoms were I can’t remember.
Then I heard about a person on the Coast
And I was told on TV that for most
The COVID virus really was no massive deal
(That thinking later became “Stop the Steal”).
By March we teachers had to work from home
(No longer could we simply stroll or roam)
And there I was in front of my computer
Turned into some kind of cybernetic tutor,
But we did find our ways of using Google Meet
And at the start I thought that was quite neat.
Every morning I would join a Zoom
Teacher gathering from my living room,
Sitting by my iPad screen in shorts
(Kind of wishing I was watching sports).
And then upon occasion I’d take part
In another teacher’s lesson and be smart.
I was faced with an issue in my home in Nassau County:
Procuring bathroom tissue and sufficient rolls of Bounty,
But I managed to get all my stuff delivered to my place
Without opening my door to look at someone’s face!
Meanwhile, I peered outside through my window pane,
Wondering out loud if I would ever have the fun
And know the cool touch of wind or warmth of sun;
In September I sought a special accommodation
But my District presented a fiscal abomination:
Instead of teaching from home, I got an unpaid leave of absence
By a short-sighted administrator who was lacking any sense.
Months had gone by, and I wasn’t having fun
And I’d begun to eat too much and sleep a bit too long
And wonder what the human race did wrong
That brought upon us such a hurtful time
That I was prisoner condemned to write my rhyme
Which then was followed by another one
Until I had a website with a ton
Of poems waiting to be read by some:
Its URL is momentousreactions.weebly.com.
Don’t get me wrong; I do get exercise:
I throw the garbage out before attracting flies,
And I quite often seem to find my way downstairs
To get each box from Amazon which magically appears . . .
And I exercise each day and never fail
To pick up mostly bills from the U. S. mail.
I watch an awful lot of TV British shows;
I find the killer ‘fore old Sherlock knows!
And I have wasted hours on a binge
Of shows like “Bridgerton” – It makes me cringe
To think how many brain cells might have died
Before the screen, which cannot be denied
Because my time has so been dominated
By wasted days instead of those illuminated
By human contact which we know as face-to-face.
I very much do miss the human race
In person; students, teachers, friends and family
All reaching out and yearning to be free ---
And I look forward to our being congregated
After we have all been vaccinated,
And then I’ll gaze through windows and I’ll smile
And think, you know, it has been quite a while
Since I stepped out and greeted friends in person
But then I’ll feel the joy I will immerse in,
So let’s be thankful that we now are sure
How vital we all are and will be . . . evermore!
You ask me, “How has this year been?”
My reply is, “Where do I begin?”
I was sick a year ago December
But what my symptoms were I can’t remember.
Then I heard about a person on the Coast
And I was told on TV that for most
The COVID virus really was no massive deal
(That thinking later became “Stop the Steal”).
By March we teachers had to work from home
(No longer could we simply stroll or roam)
And there I was in front of my computer
Turned into some kind of cybernetic tutor,
But we did find our ways of using Google Meet
And at the start I thought that was quite neat.
Every morning I would join a Zoom
Teacher gathering from my living room,
Sitting by my iPad screen in shorts
(Kind of wishing I was watching sports).
And then upon occasion I’d take part
In another teacher’s lesson and be smart.
I was faced with an issue in my home in Nassau County:
Procuring bathroom tissue and sufficient rolls of Bounty,
But I managed to get all my stuff delivered to my place
Without opening my door to look at someone’s face!
Meanwhile, I peered outside through my window pane,
Wondering out loud if I would ever have the fun
And know the cool touch of wind or warmth of sun;
In September I sought a special accommodation
But my District presented a fiscal abomination:
Instead of teaching from home, I got an unpaid leave of absence
By a short-sighted administrator who was lacking any sense.
Months had gone by, and I wasn’t having fun
And I’d begun to eat too much and sleep a bit too long
And wonder what the human race did wrong
That brought upon us such a hurtful time
That I was prisoner condemned to write my rhyme
Which then was followed by another one
Until I had a website with a ton
Of poems waiting to be read by some:
Its URL is momentousreactions.weebly.com.
Don’t get me wrong; I do get exercise:
I throw the garbage out before attracting flies,
And I quite often seem to find my way downstairs
To get each box from Amazon which magically appears . . .
And I exercise each day and never fail
To pick up mostly bills from the U. S. mail.
I watch an awful lot of TV British shows;
I find the killer ‘fore old Sherlock knows!
And I have wasted hours on a binge
Of shows like “Bridgerton” – It makes me cringe
To think how many brain cells might have died
Before the screen, which cannot be denied
Because my time has so been dominated
By wasted days instead of those illuminated
By human contact which we know as face-to-face.
I very much do miss the human race
In person; students, teachers, friends and family
All reaching out and yearning to be free ---
And I look forward to our being congregated
After we have all been vaccinated,
And then I’ll gaze through windows and I’ll smile
And think, you know, it has been quite a while
Since I stepped out and greeted friends in person
But then I’ll feel the joy I will immerse in,
So let’s be thankful that we now are sure
How vital we all are and will be . . . evermore!
In Loco Grandparentis
She entered the room
On the first day of class
Saw me, smiled, ran to me
All the way from South Korea
Hugged me with her tender memories
And told me with the naiveté of the young
Of her natural affinity for my presence
As she saw not me standing there by my desk
But rather her 99-year old grandfather.
I just smiled and felt the gravity
Of the situation and the respect and caring
Stemming from another distant culture across the wide Pacific
(Not the one too close in which old age
Is mocked or locked up, separated from the love
That is their due but offered by too few)
And so I smiled silently and knew that
At that wonderful, majestic moment
Both of us were home.
She entered the room
On the first day of class
Saw me, smiled, ran to me
All the way from South Korea
Hugged me with her tender memories
And told me with the naiveté of the young
Of her natural affinity for my presence
As she saw not me standing there by my desk
But rather her 99-year old grandfather.
I just smiled and felt the gravity
Of the situation and the respect and caring
Stemming from another distant culture across the wide Pacific
(Not the one too close in which old age
Is mocked or locked up, separated from the love
That is their due but offered by too few)
And so I smiled silently and knew that
At that wonderful, majestic moment
Both of us were home.
80 (a guest poem written by my wife upon my 80th birthday, with accompanying commentary by me)
Eighty - - -
It’s just a number
Twenty short of 100
If it’s money factoring in inflation
Then it is not worth as much as it once was - - - {Thanks a lot}
But for a starving person, it is a tiny fortune
In this time of pandemic, 80 is amazing, a [Good positivity and optimism; very active imagery]
Joyful number to celebrate survival and a
Life full of goals and ambitions still pushing
Forward - a cornucopia of lifetime memories
And relationships that make you beloved by
Your soulmate, your children, and grandchildren [Nice crowd; impressive]
Friends, colleagues and students!
Your teaching career continues as before
From early in the ‘60’s in Africa for the
Peace Corps through a global pandemic [interesting historical context]
We are all struggling through to its prayed -
for end
Memories abound of people and places
And wonderful moments and terrible times
Of living personal and shared history
That’s what the gift of longevity confers [ARE YOU SUGGESTING THAT I AM OLD?!!]
You are entwined in history and woven {I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW IMPORTANT I AM.}
Into the tapestry of time; now in the full
Bloom of a life dedicated to others, your [I like this thoughtful phrase]
Strength solidified with conscious resolve
You have protected your loved ones always;
And today, we celebrate you and declare
That April 7, 1941 is a date to celebrate once again {a date that will live in infamy}
And may you live to be 100+, we surely [emphasis on the +]
Will add to each birthday anniversary more
Reasons to love and honor your accomplishments [Reassuring emphasis on the future; effective double
Heading into the future with the confidence to reference to teaching]
Live that you continue to teach by example and
To inspire in us; therefore, by personal privilege [Not mine alone; my life has meaning only as part of yours
Happy, happy birthday my darling and hugs and and in the context of the kids]
Kisses that are uncountable and yours alone.
Summation: This is a lovely and truly appreciated
poem because you put soul into the lines and
focused on my teaching by example, which I find
very touching. Thank you. I love you, too.
Eighty - - -
It’s just a number
Twenty short of 100
If it’s money factoring in inflation
Then it is not worth as much as it once was - - - {Thanks a lot}
But for a starving person, it is a tiny fortune
In this time of pandemic, 80 is amazing, a [Good positivity and optimism; very active imagery]
Joyful number to celebrate survival and a
Life full of goals and ambitions still pushing
Forward - a cornucopia of lifetime memories
And relationships that make you beloved by
Your soulmate, your children, and grandchildren [Nice crowd; impressive]
Friends, colleagues and students!
Your teaching career continues as before
From early in the ‘60’s in Africa for the
Peace Corps through a global pandemic [interesting historical context]
We are all struggling through to its prayed -
for end
Memories abound of people and places
And wonderful moments and terrible times
Of living personal and shared history
That’s what the gift of longevity confers [ARE YOU SUGGESTING THAT I AM OLD?!!]
You are entwined in history and woven {I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW IMPORTANT I AM.}
Into the tapestry of time; now in the full
Bloom of a life dedicated to others, your [I like this thoughtful phrase]
Strength solidified with conscious resolve
You have protected your loved ones always;
And today, we celebrate you and declare
That April 7, 1941 is a date to celebrate once again {a date that will live in infamy}
And may you live to be 100+, we surely [emphasis on the +]
Will add to each birthday anniversary more
Reasons to love and honor your accomplishments [Reassuring emphasis on the future; effective double
Heading into the future with the confidence to reference to teaching]
Live that you continue to teach by example and
To inspire in us; therefore, by personal privilege [Not mine alone; my life has meaning only as part of yours
Happy, happy birthday my darling and hugs and and in the context of the kids]
Kisses that are uncountable and yours alone.
Summation: This is a lovely and truly appreciated
poem because you put soul into the lines and
focused on my teaching by example, which I find
very touching. Thank you. I love you, too.

The Dancer
She prances and she dances on the stage . . .
She slides and she glides with wondrous moves.
Her skills create thrills of a Golden Age;
Her twirls and her swirls fit the grooves.
We smile as her style entertains
And we cheer at her fearless pirouettes.
She’s a star who by far maintains
Mysteries much greater than a silhouette’s.
She pleases and appeases all who see
Her perform from platform with a smile
For them, and as the band plays with glee
She shows love undreamed of with great style.
She’s the dancer and the answer to the prayer
To enjoy, girl and boy, everywhere!
She prances and she dances on the stage . . .
She slides and she glides with wondrous moves.
Her skills create thrills of a Golden Age;
Her twirls and her swirls fit the grooves.
We smile as her style entertains
And we cheer at her fearless pirouettes.
She’s a star who by far maintains
Mysteries much greater than a silhouette’s.
She pleases and appeases all who see
Her perform from platform with a smile
For them, and as the band plays with glee
She shows love undreamed of with great style.
She’s the dancer and the answer to the prayer
To enjoy, girl and boy, everywhere!

The Actor
He suffers to be found among the herd.
His talent takes him not so very far.
His struggles are heartbreakingly absurd;
Auditions taker the form of painful war.
He dreamed of fame and fortune in his youth
And even recognition by his peers;
Instead, he's had to face his hurtful truth,
Confronting insecurity and fears.
He will act on against the dreadful odds
And struggle as he ages much too soon,
But will not just give in to gruesome gods
Who seek to make him dance to their sad tune.
He is an actor with his desperate dream
So his world's not what is but what might seem.
He suffers to be found among the herd.
His talent takes him not so very far.
His struggles are heartbreakingly absurd;
Auditions taker the form of painful war.
He dreamed of fame and fortune in his youth
And even recognition by his peers;
Instead, he's had to face his hurtful truth,
Confronting insecurity and fears.
He will act on against the dreadful odds
And struggle as he ages much too soon,
But will not just give in to gruesome gods
Who seek to make him dance to their sad tune.
He is an actor with his desperate dream
So his world's not what is but what might seem.

The Barber
His vision of himself is very clear:
His artwork's done with scissors and a comb
And when he works, his visions will appear
As valued as some famous author's tome.
He fashions and he styles his masterpiece
For all to see --- and then he turns his eye
To the next customer and does not cease
Till eight short hours have just fleeted by.
He loves to chat and bond and do his work.
He'll talk about the weather and the game.
He views these conversations as a perk.
His clients think his talk is rather lame.
He cuts away and lives a wondrous life
Until it ends . . . and he goes home to strife.
His vision of himself is very clear:
His artwork's done with scissors and a comb
And when he works, his visions will appear
As valued as some famous author's tome.
He fashions and he styles his masterpiece
For all to see --- and then he turns his eye
To the next customer and does not cease
Till eight short hours have just fleeted by.
He loves to chat and bond and do his work.
He'll talk about the weather and the game.
He views these conversations as a perk.
His clients think his talk is rather lame.
He cuts away and lives a wondrous life
Until it ends . . . and he goes home to strife.

The Surgeon
People come to her from desperation.
They have been told that there is little choice.
She bears this burden well with dedication
And first tries reassurance with her voice.
It is her manner that they see as comfort
And her demeanor sheds their greatest fears.
She is for them the deadly storm’s safe port,
Their only hope to live their final years.
And when she is successful smiles abound
As patients and their loved ones celebrate . . .
But all to often failures do resound
Because there are no miracles in Fate.
To save lives of the sickest is her goal:
Each failed attempt demands a heavy toll.
People come to her from desperation.
They have been told that there is little choice.
She bears this burden well with dedication
And first tries reassurance with her voice.
It is her manner that they see as comfort
And her demeanor sheds their greatest fears.
She is for them the deadly storm’s safe port,
Their only hope to live their final years.
And when she is successful smiles abound
As patients and their loved ones celebrate . . .
But all to often failures do resound
Because there are no miracles in Fate.
To save lives of the sickest is her goal:
Each failed attempt demands a heavy toll.

The Movie-goer
His world is fantasy and close escape;
He lives through heroes on the silver screen.
He thrives on a crusader with a cape
And seeks revenge upon the serpentine.
He is a secret hero who gets lost
For ninety minutes in another world
Where victims are attacked or tempest-tossed
Or innocents are from some windows hurled.
He’ll fly to save each one in his own mind
And when the action’s done, he will prevail!
It’s good when good and justice are combined
And villains end up being sent to jail.
But when the movies end, he knows the truth:
He’s much too old to hold onto his youth.
His world is fantasy and close escape;
He lives through heroes on the silver screen.
He thrives on a crusader with a cape
And seeks revenge upon the serpentine.
He is a secret hero who gets lost
For ninety minutes in another world
Where victims are attacked or tempest-tossed
Or innocents are from some windows hurled.
He’ll fly to save each one in his own mind
And when the action’s done, he will prevail!
It’s good when good and justice are combined
And villains end up being sent to jail.
But when the movies end, he knows the truth:
He’s much too old to hold onto his youth.

The Ophthalmologist
Who would have guessed that he had never learned
To see, this man who helped so many to observe?
He knew his craft but constantly was burned
By life, by love, by falling for the curve
Thrown at him by his expectations high
And so he wandered through each love-torn plight
Until Life left him with the need to cry
At his romantically misguided sight.
He helped his patients to regain their eyes
And they looked up to him with much respect
But nothing he could do would make him wise
Enough to overcome his one defect ---
And so he cleared the fog from others’ vision
But did not see her deepening derision.
Who would have guessed that he had never learned
To see, this man who helped so many to observe?
He knew his craft but constantly was burned
By life, by love, by falling for the curve
Thrown at him by his expectations high
And so he wandered through each love-torn plight
Until Life left him with the need to cry
At his romantically misguided sight.
He helped his patients to regain their eyes
And they looked up to him with much respect
But nothing he could do would make him wise
Enough to overcome his one defect ---
And so he cleared the fog from others’ vision
But did not see her deepening derision.

The Poet
She knows the music of her rhythmic words
Enchant her readers and help them to dream.
She writes of drifting clouds and soaring birds;
Her images and symbols with deep meaning teem.
She strives to share the beauty of her views
And paints with phrases vividly profound.
Her readers note how each sharp word imbues
Within itself entire worlds unbound.
Her poems sing so angels cry to hear
The visions that she well communicates.
There is no bard who lives who can compare
With one whose verses magic permeates.
She has a gift that she must cherish well
For in her mind the gods of song do dwell.
She knows the music of her rhythmic words
Enchant her readers and help them to dream.
She writes of drifting clouds and soaring birds;
Her images and symbols with deep meaning teem.
She strives to share the beauty of her views
And paints with phrases vividly profound.
Her readers note how each sharp word imbues
Within itself entire worlds unbound.
Her poems sing so angels cry to hear
The visions that she well communicates.
There is no bard who lives who can compare
With one whose verses magic permeates.
She has a gift that she must cherish well
For in her mind the gods of song do dwell.

The Politician
Unlike Janus, his two faces do not look
To the past or future, or to learn;
Instead, he stares at those from whom he took
Dreams and hopes that they could not discern.
He smiles and speaks, converting sweet from sour,
And thrives on love that he cannot return;
His only interest is the gain of power.
He feeds the fire while his backers burn.
This is the man for whom the hopeful voted;
This is the man who dignity did spurn.
Only to great heights is he devoted.
Duplicity is his only real concern.
He will to naïve voters stay a mystery
But he cannot escape the scope of history!
Unlike Janus, his two faces do not look
To the past or future, or to learn;
Instead, he stares at those from whom he took
Dreams and hopes that they could not discern.
He smiles and speaks, converting sweet from sour,
And thrives on love that he cannot return;
His only interest is the gain of power.
He feeds the fire while his backers burn.
This is the man for whom the hopeful voted;
This is the man who dignity did spurn.
Only to great heights is he devoted.
Duplicity is his only real concern.
He will to naïve voters stay a mystery
But he cannot escape the scope of history!

The Veteran
He spent his youth the way he planned,
In uniform and serving well
But then he came to understand
That war was nothing more than hell.
He learned that all too often men
Who hid behind their office walls
Decided who would live and when,
With reason decency appalls.
Too often did he stare with grief
While comrades collapsed to the ground
And bullets flew with no relief
But there no glory could be found.
And now this veteran is lost;
He served, but at what haunting cost?
He spent his youth the way he planned,
In uniform and serving well
But then he came to understand
That war was nothing more than hell.
He learned that all too often men
Who hid behind their office walls
Decided who would live and when,
With reason decency appalls.
Too often did he stare with grief
While comrades collapsed to the ground
And bullets flew with no relief
But there no glory could be found.
And now this veteran is lost;
He served, but at what haunting cost?

The Attorney
Four tough years he deeply attended
Classes at night and learned the cases,
Studied the thought process that defended
People of many classes and races
And he swore an oath at graduation
That he would try his very best
To find each finite indication
To guide him so no one would be oppressed.
He became known as the honest attorney
And was respected by all concerned,
Until he faced a fork in his journey:
He had to defend the love who had spurned
Him years ago . . . so he threw the case.
Reputation is something you cannot replace.
Four tough years he deeply attended
Classes at night and learned the cases,
Studied the thought process that defended
People of many classes and races
And he swore an oath at graduation
That he would try his very best
To find each finite indication
To guide him so no one would be oppressed.
He became known as the honest attorney
And was respected by all concerned,
Until he faced a fork in his journey:
He had to defend the love who had spurned
Him years ago . . . so he threw the case.
Reputation is something you cannot replace.

The Mailman
They wait, one wallows while another thrives,
For him to carry to them hints of fate,
Snippets from chapters of their lives
Rectangles that some may appreciate
While others open messages with dread.
He serves as conveyor extraordinaire,
Dispensing bills or bleakness of the dead,
Sadness leading to a great despair
Or grand announcements kissing eyes with joy
This uniformed purveyor of the news
Never means to upset or annoy
And stays apart from tragedies he views.
The years weigh heavy as on his route he goes,
Greeted much more as weed than gentle rose.
They wait, one wallows while another thrives,
For him to carry to them hints of fate,
Snippets from chapters of their lives
Rectangles that some may appreciate
While others open messages with dread.
He serves as conveyor extraordinaire,
Dispensing bills or bleakness of the dead,
Sadness leading to a great despair
Or grand announcements kissing eyes with joy
This uniformed purveyor of the news
Never means to upset or annoy
And stays apart from tragedies he views.
The years weigh heavy as on his route he goes,
Greeted much more as weed than gentle rose.

The Unpublished Poet
He cannot stop the overwhelming urge
To put his words into their proper form.
He thinks in phrases that just seem to merge
And images and symbols that cannot seem to warm
His stone-cold craft that seeks its public birth;
Instead, he labors silently alone,
Without the recognition of his worth ---
And soon his life reflects a melancholy tone.
He begs the world to listen to his verse
But there’s no audience attentive to his work.
He is a silent roar in a noisy universe;
He is a voice of sanity in a world berserk.
So, on he writes, his words so unadored:
Yet he creates for all, shouting but ignored.
He cannot stop the overwhelming urge
To put his words into their proper form.
He thinks in phrases that just seem to merge
And images and symbols that cannot seem to warm
His stone-cold craft that seeks its public birth;
Instead, he labors silently alone,
Without the recognition of his worth ---
And soon his life reflects a melancholy tone.
He begs the world to listen to his verse
But there’s no audience attentive to his work.
He is a silent roar in a noisy universe;
He is a voice of sanity in a world berserk.
So, on he writes, his words so unadored:
Yet he creates for all, shouting but ignored.

The Musician
She is a poet on her strings
Playing melodies that dance away,
Stressing each note that smoothly rings
And leads her listeners to sway.
She is master of her craft
Reaching heights exhilarating
So much that listeners have laughed
In joy as ways of compensating
For emotions she’s set free
Just by her skill and rhythmic trance;
Her listeners thrill in ecstasy
Engaging in involuntary dance.
She is well loved and much admired,
Her grand effects deeply desired.
She is a poet on her strings
Playing melodies that dance away,
Stressing each note that smoothly rings
And leads her listeners to sway.
She is master of her craft
Reaching heights exhilarating
So much that listeners have laughed
In joy as ways of compensating
For emotions she’s set free
Just by her skill and rhythmic trance;
Her listeners thrill in ecstasy
Engaging in involuntary dance.
She is well loved and much admired,
Her grand effects deeply desired.

The Gossip
She lives for stories about others
And loves to pass those words along
About his mother or their brothers . . .
To her they’re lyrics to a song,
And just how true that matters not;
The value is in the quick telling.
Let others know while it’s still hot ---
Whispering’s better than raw yelling,
And if a person’s feeling’s hurt
Well, that just part of the fun game.
The deepest secret’s worth a blurt,
No matter whom the words might shame.
But sadly, hurtful words may turn
When she’s the one her words will burn.
She lives for stories about others
And loves to pass those words along
About his mother or their brothers . . .
To her they’re lyrics to a song,
And just how true that matters not;
The value is in the quick telling.
Let others know while it’s still hot ---
Whispering’s better than raw yelling,
And if a person’s feeling’s hurt
Well, that just part of the fun game.
The deepest secret’s worth a blurt,
No matter whom the words might shame.
But sadly, hurtful words may turn
When she’s the one her words will burn.

The Artist
Her strokes bring life to white cloth space.
She shares her version of the world.
Hers is the clarion of our race,
With brushstrokes angular and whirled.
She sees the way we seldom can
And lets us view her clear perceptions
With so much impact her Peter Pan
Interpretation cures our misconceptions.
We are so proud of her productions
And line the streets to view her works
‘Cause her additions are our deductions,
As in each painting wisdom lurks.
She is the artist of our time;
There is no rival paradigm.
Her strokes bring life to white cloth space.
She shares her version of the world.
Hers is the clarion of our race,
With brushstrokes angular and whirled.
She sees the way we seldom can
And lets us view her clear perceptions
With so much impact her Peter Pan
Interpretation cures our misconceptions.
We are so proud of her productions
And line the streets to view her works
‘Cause her additions are our deductions,
As in each painting wisdom lurks.
She is the artist of our time;
There is no rival paradigm.

The Mortician
He greets you with a practiced smile
But you don’t notice in your grief.
His hope is never to defile
Your memories, to your relief.
The body is prepared with care
“It looks as though she’s still alive!”
He shakes his head: “Life’s just not fair,”
He mutters as mourners arrive.
This same performance is down pat
And for that, they give gratitude.
He wears a kippah for a hat
And covers up his attitude
He is well known for all his giving;
He thinks, “Dying is a living.”
He greets you with a practiced smile
But you don’t notice in your grief.
His hope is never to defile
Your memories, to your relief.
The body is prepared with care
“It looks as though she’s still alive!”
He shakes his head: “Life’s just not fair,”
He mutters as mourners arrive.
This same performance is down pat
And for that, they give gratitude.
He wears a kippah for a hat
And covers up his attitude
He is well known for all his giving;
He thinks, “Dying is a living.”

The Beloved Teacher
They say that teaching is an art
That sets free minds and fantasies;
I say that teaching is my part
In answering the young mind’s pleas
To need to grow and to expand,
And so I teach from what I’ve learned
Of Latin and the ampersand
And so much more for which they’ve yearned,
These hungry children seeking magic
Concepts from each elder’s stories,
Needing hopeful themes, not tragic,
Triumph and glory, not the worries
That fill the world so literary;
The dreadful I do seek to bury.
They say that teaching is an art
That sets free minds and fantasies;
I say that teaching is my part
In answering the young mind’s pleas
To need to grow and to expand,
And so I teach from what I’ve learned
Of Latin and the ampersand
And so much more for which they’ve yearned,
These hungry children seeking magic
Concepts from each elder’s stories,
Needing hopeful themes, not tragic,
Triumph and glory, not the worries
That fill the world so literary;
The dreadful I do seek to bury.
The Old Person
Lifelong friends no longer around Pets who loved have disappeared Those who recall cannot be found Face to face with what was feared Advice to give but none to listen Dismissed as a fool by those who matter Hiding tears that try to glisten Wisdom misinterpreted as chatter Love has come and gone too soon Cherished ones now memories Dancing to a different tune Aching back and wobbly knees Aging here is not much fun At least those pains will soon be done |

The Bee-Keeper
I’m asked why I alone spend so much time with my bees;
It’s because I have found that I’ve come to respect
Their unique and sharp traits which fulfill and which please
My approach to their world --- and their quaint dialect.
Every day I can hear sounds they make that make sense
And I know without doubt that they note my quaint face;
All of you underrate or decry their immense
Faculty to observe and to count things in place.
I get stares when I share how my bees can well solve
Problems faced, obstacles, challenges, barriers
And in time, as a group or as one, they resolve
Complications with machinations, my sweet nectar carriers.
You may think I have gone ‘round the bend but I know
Honey bees that I keep always reap what they sow.
I’m asked why I alone spend so much time with my bees;
It’s because I have found that I’ve come to respect
Their unique and sharp traits which fulfill and which please
My approach to their world --- and their quaint dialect.
Every day I can hear sounds they make that make sense
And I know without doubt that they note my quaint face;
All of you underrate or decry their immense
Faculty to observe and to count things in place.
I get stares when I share how my bees can well solve
Problems faced, obstacles, challenges, barriers
And in time, as a group or as one, they resolve
Complications with machinations, my sweet nectar carriers.
You may think I have gone ‘round the bend but I know
Honey bees that I keep always reap what they sow.
IT ISN'T EASY!!
The Young Boy
A boy began to ask me why
And knowing that I should not lie
I cut him off and said, "Because"
And thereby introduced the flaws
We humans entertain at will,
Hoping that might keep him still
But then he questioned, "All the time?"
Which left me so much less sublime
Than had my first word to the boy,
And now I reached for some small ploy
And answered him, "Quite frequently"
To which he uttered, "Oh, I see"
But he saw naught except my lie
And faintly left his sad good-bye.
The years have passed, and still I sigh
That I hurt him with my bad lie.
A boy began to ask me why
And knowing that I should not lie
I cut him off and said, "Because"
And thereby introduced the flaws
We humans entertain at will,
Hoping that might keep him still
But then he questioned, "All the time?"
Which left me so much less sublime
Than had my first word to the boy,
And now I reached for some small ploy
And answered him, "Quite frequently"
To which he uttered, "Oh, I see"
But he saw naught except my lie
And faintly left his sad good-bye.
The years have passed, and still I sigh
That I hurt him with my bad lie.
A Once Young Boy Remembers
I simply asked an old man why,
Believing that he would not lie.
He looked confused and said, "Because" ---
A reply that gave me pause;
I stood there waiting for more still,
Hoping he'd my wish fulfill
But then I asked him, "All the time?"
Which left him silent as a mime,
After which he would destroy
My eagerness and did annoy
Me, muttering, "Quite frequently." ---
To which I uttered, "Oh, I see"
But I saw clearly his big lie
And sadly grumbled my good-bye.
The years have passed and still I cry
That he left me to wonder, "Why?"
I simply asked an old man why,
Believing that he would not lie.
He looked confused and said, "Because" ---
A reply that gave me pause;
I stood there waiting for more still,
Hoping he'd my wish fulfill
But then I asked him, "All the time?"
Which left him silent as a mime,
After which he would destroy
My eagerness and did annoy
Me, muttering, "Quite frequently." ---
To which I uttered, "Oh, I see"
But I saw clearly his big lie
And sadly grumbled my good-bye.
The years have passed and still I cry
That he left me to wonder, "Why?"
It's Different Now
It is not the same,
With many year-friends no longer to be found at work
Building an everlasting society of serious learners.
They have gone and are replaced by eyes
That tell a story of sadness and isolation
And a longing to be free of constraints oppressive
Yet necessary for a time. We try to smile but
Those soft smiles are soberly obscured by ever-present masks
Which offer us security --- we hope --- against the truth
That too many willingly deny.
I miss my friends gone off to, as they say, retirement
Or simply worn out by a system that defeats the zeal
That we once felt as when we synchronized the music of our teaching
Until a symphony was played and no one cheered but all the students felt it note by note.
They sang themselves of learning and of joy
But now I look around and what I see
Are fewer teachers, fewer seats, half-empty tables,
semi-zombies marching in and going through the motions
In a place where learning can take place but in the midst of the thickness
Of an atmosphere the opposite of what is needed, so that
Breathing is so hard not only since we all don varied masks
But also since we feel it in the background ---
The fear, concern, awareness, apprehension of what may be,
Of what invisibility may host,
And this is not the atmosphere where learning should take place.
The room, once crowded with activities, with love and conversation,
With illustration and investigation, now presents itself as sterile,
With too much omnipresent emptiness and too few live musicians
To play an intricate concerto . . . and so the song is not a siren but rather
A dirge and that was never so but now it is
And I must learn to find a way to grasp the need of each
Performer and help in my way conduct the grandest concert
So that once again there's life --- a different kind but still, with breath ---
And once again the music of the heart and soul will echo within the walls
And this grand room will be the center of a universe worthy of the name
The Study Center.
It is not the same,
With many year-friends no longer to be found at work
Building an everlasting society of serious learners.
They have gone and are replaced by eyes
That tell a story of sadness and isolation
And a longing to be free of constraints oppressive
Yet necessary for a time. We try to smile but
Those soft smiles are soberly obscured by ever-present masks
Which offer us security --- we hope --- against the truth
That too many willingly deny.
I miss my friends gone off to, as they say, retirement
Or simply worn out by a system that defeats the zeal
That we once felt as when we synchronized the music of our teaching
Until a symphony was played and no one cheered but all the students felt it note by note.
They sang themselves of learning and of joy
But now I look around and what I see
Are fewer teachers, fewer seats, half-empty tables,
semi-zombies marching in and going through the motions
In a place where learning can take place but in the midst of the thickness
Of an atmosphere the opposite of what is needed, so that
Breathing is so hard not only since we all don varied masks
But also since we feel it in the background ---
The fear, concern, awareness, apprehension of what may be,
Of what invisibility may host,
And this is not the atmosphere where learning should take place.
The room, once crowded with activities, with love and conversation,
With illustration and investigation, now presents itself as sterile,
With too much omnipresent emptiness and too few live musicians
To play an intricate concerto . . . and so the song is not a siren but rather
A dirge and that was never so but now it is
And I must learn to find a way to grasp the need of each
Performer and help in my way conduct the grandest concert
So that once again there's life --- a different kind but still, with breath ---
And once again the music of the heart and soul will echo within the walls
And this grand room will be the center of a universe worthy of the name
The Study Center.
Pieces
Some are not at all shy,
Declaring their independence by their shapes ---
Irregular, angular, almost jagged, not fitting in
With facility, demanding to be abandoned
Rather than be minor sectors of the larger picture,
Stubbornly resisting nervous pressure
Forcing them to fit in where they simply don’t belong
(As if their fate were predetermined);
No, they demand their freedom
Perhaps to form another graphic
Much different from the staid one they seemed destined
To inhabit for eternity but which was not for them.
Individual freedom is a virtue if it finds its place
In striving for the common good, the picture as a whole,
The vision thus fulfilled,
But this once worthy vision can be spoiled
When disparate sections resist this virtual conformity
And seek to foster and promote
A chaos that decries unification.
A few destructive pieces in a puzzle,
Discordant notes in a concerto,
Off-key voices in a chorus
Destroy the destination with their rambling ways
And We are left the poorer,
Those of us who recognize the value and the treasure
So inherent in the joining of high-minded individuals
To create and to maintain the greatest puzzle of them all,
The human dreamland that rebels against
Individual selfishness in favor of
Individual contentment and fulfillment in the patchwork quilt
That provides warmth, security and destiny.
It is a case in which the whole is
Stronger than the sum of all its parts
But there are pieces unable to observe and
grant the truth before them, and they will thus
Never be a part of the solution,
Never sacrifice the instant in the name of freedom,
Never comprehend that in their seeking independence
They are ironically imprisoning themselves
In the destiny of the disparate.
Pieces are not whole;
They cannot know the comfort of the family.
They shout and protest but their voices
Shatter nothing but the anthem of the strong
And they will dwell alone within the darkness of the ignorant.
Some are not at all shy,
Declaring their independence by their shapes ---
Irregular, angular, almost jagged, not fitting in
With facility, demanding to be abandoned
Rather than be minor sectors of the larger picture,
Stubbornly resisting nervous pressure
Forcing them to fit in where they simply don’t belong
(As if their fate were predetermined);
No, they demand their freedom
Perhaps to form another graphic
Much different from the staid one they seemed destined
To inhabit for eternity but which was not for them.
Individual freedom is a virtue if it finds its place
In striving for the common good, the picture as a whole,
The vision thus fulfilled,
But this once worthy vision can be spoiled
When disparate sections resist this virtual conformity
And seek to foster and promote
A chaos that decries unification.
A few destructive pieces in a puzzle,
Discordant notes in a concerto,
Off-key voices in a chorus
Destroy the destination with their rambling ways
And We are left the poorer,
Those of us who recognize the value and the treasure
So inherent in the joining of high-minded individuals
To create and to maintain the greatest puzzle of them all,
The human dreamland that rebels against
Individual selfishness in favor of
Individual contentment and fulfillment in the patchwork quilt
That provides warmth, security and destiny.
It is a case in which the whole is
Stronger than the sum of all its parts
But there are pieces unable to observe and
grant the truth before them, and they will thus
Never be a part of the solution,
Never sacrifice the instant in the name of freedom,
Never comprehend that in their seeking independence
They are ironically imprisoning themselves
In the destiny of the disparate.
Pieces are not whole;
They cannot know the comfort of the family.
They shout and protest but their voices
Shatter nothing but the anthem of the strong
And they will dwell alone within the darkness of the ignorant.
One Hour
A single hour
Can pass without your notice
Sixty minutes filled with joy
And entertainment ---
Or one hour can crawl
One sluggish bit at a time
Till there is nothing left
Because of what occurs
During that well-defined duration,
Because she said she'd come
To prove her love to you
But sixty minutes passed
Three thousand six hundred seconds
And she never came
And now you have all the time in the world
To face, and feel destroyed and wonder
What it was
That went so awfully wrong
A single hour
Can pass without your notice
Sixty minutes filled with joy
And entertainment ---
Or one hour can crawl
One sluggish bit at a time
Till there is nothing left
Because of what occurs
During that well-defined duration,
Because she said she'd come
To prove her love to you
But sixty minutes passed
Three thousand six hundred seconds
And she never came
And now you have all the time in the world
To face, and feel destroyed and wonder
What it was
That went so awfully wrong
FIVE
--- for five colleagues who no longer teach with me because they retired together during the pandemic
Five empty seats
Five voices that no longer can be heard
No more laughter, no reminiscences, no songs of the '60's
Five sounds that helped our unique harmony no longer here
Years of treasured teaching and of mentoring
Of guidance and instructions and connections
To students so in need of gaining knowledge
Of substance that connects past present future
Gone from the place where they belong
Gone from the home away from home
From the honored sphere in the shape of a cuboid
Gone to shared memories of Tom and Nancy and Theo
(And the others who passed by as wisps in a willow)
Who will make me laugh?
Who will help me understand?
Who will comfort me and soothe me
When the need shouts out and I am lost
Or just confused?
Five who have sought their newer venues
Have so diminished this place
Where I and others teach . . .
They will not return,
Driven from a hostile possibility and to
The comfort of the known and of the loved
And I can understand . . . but I am left to wonder
If these five will find the satisfaction and fulfillment
Which was present here for multiple semesters
Until it was too much --- They are so missed
But hopefully they will discover in new realms
The joy that once was this now diminished space
Where I still smile and help the future form itself.
--- for five colleagues who no longer teach with me because they retired together during the pandemic
Five empty seats
Five voices that no longer can be heard
No more laughter, no reminiscences, no songs of the '60's
Five sounds that helped our unique harmony no longer here
Years of treasured teaching and of mentoring
Of guidance and instructions and connections
To students so in need of gaining knowledge
Of substance that connects past present future
Gone from the place where they belong
Gone from the home away from home
From the honored sphere in the shape of a cuboid
Gone to shared memories of Tom and Nancy and Theo
(And the others who passed by as wisps in a willow)
Who will make me laugh?
Who will help me understand?
Who will comfort me and soothe me
When the need shouts out and I am lost
Or just confused?
Five who have sought their newer venues
Have so diminished this place
Where I and others teach . . .
They will not return,
Driven from a hostile possibility and to
The comfort of the known and of the loved
And I can understand . . . but I am left to wonder
If these five will find the satisfaction and fulfillment
Which was present here for multiple semesters
Until it was too much --- They are so missed
But hopefully they will discover in new realms
The joy that once was this now diminished space
Where I still smile and help the future form itself.
pool
i enjoy a good game of pool
interesting and exciting and lively
like a video game challenges my skills
(don't let those ghosts eat you, pacman)
i really get pleasure from the sound
of the ball dropping into the pocket
the sound of success, of achievement, of victory
seems so easy with its minimalist rules
but it demands such skill
the power of the shot
the angle of the path
which the ball is forced to follow
this game of pool
is physics in action
about strength applied as force
about distance and fields and knowledge
about making predictions
(and the making them come true)
each game is a new adventure
and I seek to be the hero
every time
Seeking my goal
in that moment of Life
i enjoy a good game of pool
interesting and exciting and lively
like a video game challenges my skills
(don't let those ghosts eat you, pacman)
i really get pleasure from the sound
of the ball dropping into the pocket
the sound of success, of achievement, of victory
seems so easy with its minimalist rules
but it demands such skill
the power of the shot
the angle of the path
which the ball is forced to follow
this game of pool
is physics in action
about strength applied as force
about distance and fields and knowledge
about making predictions
(and the making them come true)
each game is a new adventure
and I seek to be the hero
every time
Seeking my goal
in that moment of Life
TWO NOVEMBER DEATHS
Two men, instrumental in creating me, in various degrees,
Passed away in the eleventh month
And left me both the lesser and the greater for my having known them.
One, a hero to many; one, a hero to me.
Both used their time too brief but well,
Serving others, putting others ahead of their own needs,
Accepting pain and moving on to pantheons of solitude,
As was their destiny.
One, a warrior; the other, a man of inner strength and determination,
Both gone, but no way vanished from my sentience.
November is the month in which we find ourselves giving thanks
But with these men, to me, it’s thanks for living
And influencing me in ways that make me proud.
And if this month marks the day the music died
It also brings to consciousness the melodies of Life
For though both are gone in body, they remain in memories and sentiments
As long as I exist, as long as this exists.
The man of war became the man of peace,
Saving the peace in the face of missiles 90 miles away,
Ready to defy shoe-bangers and cigar-smokers and nay-sayers;
The man of labor carried on and never missed a day until he couldn’t
Any more; his gentle voice and selfless approach to life and to his son
Will not see statues nor bear parades but he will live in actions of his son
And in descendants that he never knew but who would have loved him
For his modesty and his devotion to those who mattered.
November twenty-second, November twenty-fifth ---
Days that come and go, days of violence which come each year in peace,
Days of remembrance and dedication to the truth and to the love
That can be held for a stranger and a father,
For that is the nature of life: We are touched by each other, intertwined by
A commonality that is the adhesive that connects this land and all the dreams
That this great nation represents,
We have a common fate; it will not dissipate
Despite the hate
Because of those two men . . . and all the others in the past
Who knew how to dream
On grand and smaller scales to build and to maintain
“One Nation under God”
My father and my leader can rest in peace,
Knowing that the country that they helped create
Will outlast the villains and the malcontents
For the strong destroy the weak,
The quiet drown the boisterous in their beliefs
And in the end my father and my President will live
In the living entity that is our home.
Two men, instrumental in creating me, in various degrees,
Passed away in the eleventh month
And left me both the lesser and the greater for my having known them.
One, a hero to many; one, a hero to me.
Both used their time too brief but well,
Serving others, putting others ahead of their own needs,
Accepting pain and moving on to pantheons of solitude,
As was their destiny.
One, a warrior; the other, a man of inner strength and determination,
Both gone, but no way vanished from my sentience.
November is the month in which we find ourselves giving thanks
But with these men, to me, it’s thanks for living
And influencing me in ways that make me proud.
And if this month marks the day the music died
It also brings to consciousness the melodies of Life
For though both are gone in body, they remain in memories and sentiments
As long as I exist, as long as this exists.
The man of war became the man of peace,
Saving the peace in the face of missiles 90 miles away,
Ready to defy shoe-bangers and cigar-smokers and nay-sayers;
The man of labor carried on and never missed a day until he couldn’t
Any more; his gentle voice and selfless approach to life and to his son
Will not see statues nor bear parades but he will live in actions of his son
And in descendants that he never knew but who would have loved him
For his modesty and his devotion to those who mattered.
November twenty-second, November twenty-fifth ---
Days that come and go, days of violence which come each year in peace,
Days of remembrance and dedication to the truth and to the love
That can be held for a stranger and a father,
For that is the nature of life: We are touched by each other, intertwined by
A commonality that is the adhesive that connects this land and all the dreams
That this great nation represents,
We have a common fate; it will not dissipate
Despite the hate
Because of those two men . . . and all the others in the past
Who knew how to dream
On grand and smaller scales to build and to maintain
“One Nation under God”
My father and my leader can rest in peace,
Knowing that the country that they helped create
Will outlast the villains and the malcontents
For the strong destroy the weak,
The quiet drown the boisterous in their beliefs
And in the end my father and my President will live
In the living entity that is our home.
WHEN I AM GONE
When I am gone, I hope that I’ll not be
Forgotten by the ones I cherish so;
I pray that they will sooner come to see
That I was friend, supporter --- never foe.
I hope that they will find the time to read
My words and strive to understand
That often I had tried to plant a seed
And tried to offer them a helping hand.
My words were not so often welcomed, true,
And often I was taken as a bore
But I pray they remember there were few
Of us who wished them ever more to soar.
Let them remember that I greatly cared
And tried my best to ease their troubled souls;
I was the one who without hesitation shared
Whate’er I could so they could reach their goals.
Few are the people we can call a friend
And fewer are the family who tend
To us the moment that we send
For them, but I was there until the very end.
When I am gone, I hope that I’ll not be
Forgotten by the ones I cherish so;
I pray that they will sooner come to see
That I was friend, supporter --- never foe.
I hope that they will find the time to read
My words and strive to understand
That often I had tried to plant a seed
And tried to offer them a helping hand.
My words were not so often welcomed, true,
And often I was taken as a bore
But I pray they remember there were few
Of us who wished them ever more to soar.
Let them remember that I greatly cared
And tried my best to ease their troubled souls;
I was the one who without hesitation shared
Whate’er I could so they could reach their goals.
Few are the people we can call a friend
And fewer are the family who tend
To us the moment that we send
For them, but I was there until the very end.
Summer Punchball
Each summer day
No school, no homework, everlasting daylight
We would gather near the candy store on the corner
There at the start of the narrow sidewalk
Between the apartment house and the scary yard and house
Controlled by two Boo Radley sisters and their wolf-dog
Ready to form into two well-balanced teams
Ready for the daily competition
Taking turns punching the ball and fielding it
Line drives, grounders, fly balls,
Ricochets off the multi-level fire escape, windows, brick walls
Hits ruled by distances reached
Competition fierce but enlivening
Sweaty beads ignored
But youth unconsciously celebrated
Every day week after week
July and August
Every year
Cheering each other on
No harsh words that I remember
No arguments that I recall
Jewish Irish Italian (not natural friends at other times)
Tall short in-between
Younger older
We got along
Sport united us and made us one against one
In a most acceptable and thrilling way
In a way that channeled humans’ nature toward conflict
To a civilized modus
That was fun (not serious but kind of serious).
Those days are long gone
The dead end street converted to a thoroughfare
Tall buildings replacing the vacant lot and hill that were our outfield destination
The fearsome sisters gone
The wolf-dog gone
The store a distant memory
(My father owned it once)
But if there’s any wisdom in my life
About those glory days of youth
It is that we indeed found a way to better ourselves
On those summer days between Korea and Vietnam
That we chose peaceful conflict
The accepted way
(Not war – civil, uncivil, world, inter-nation, gang)
(Not crime – homicide, mugging, cheating, deceiving)
We humans must have conflict
It is our nature
Our history is one of invasions, domination, military conflict, gladiators
And when we are more under control
We channel our aggressiveness into chess or checkers
Or Monopoly or Clue or Scrabble or the crossword puzzle
Or a host of video games that started with Pong and Asteroids and Pac Man
Or debates or trials or rough arguments that follow no set rules
And we congratulate ourselves for being civilized
But the Nazis reckoned they were civilized
With their music and their fine appreciation for art
(Didn’t they?)
And the Romans before them
And Genghis Khan and Ivan the Terrible and Napoleon
And all warring nations were so grateful
That God was on their side
(He had to be, for their cause was so righteous!)
And in the end millions lay dead
The Holocaust, the Armenians, the Cambodians, Rwanda, Biafra, and on and on
Mortally wounded dismembered crippled maimed for life
And Peterkin is told it was a famous victory
But no one really won
Perhaps the spread of evil was temporarily stopped
And is it not a strange phenomenon that
A group of teenagers inexperienced in the ways of the world
Could find a way to put aside our innate pugnaciousness
And just have fun and secretly appreciate each other’s contributions
To the whole game
We had a unity of purpose and no divisions
(political regional religious age skill-set)
And why is it so hard for so-called
Grownups
Civilized people
Men of the world (and even women)
Champions of the cause
To replicate what happened every day
For two whole months
Summer after summer
Even in the presence of the scary sisters and their wolf-dog
Combat with no injuries
Conclusions with no debates?
The world should never be so complicated that a group of kids
Instinctively know more about success
Than all those academics and professionals
Leaders autocratic democratic oligarchic megalomaniacal
Century after century
And maybe one fine day
A new game will break out and no one and everyone will finally win!
Each summer day
No school, no homework, everlasting daylight
We would gather near the candy store on the corner
There at the start of the narrow sidewalk
Between the apartment house and the scary yard and house
Controlled by two Boo Radley sisters and their wolf-dog
Ready to form into two well-balanced teams
Ready for the daily competition
Taking turns punching the ball and fielding it
Line drives, grounders, fly balls,
Ricochets off the multi-level fire escape, windows, brick walls
Hits ruled by distances reached
Competition fierce but enlivening
Sweaty beads ignored
But youth unconsciously celebrated
Every day week after week
July and August
Every year
Cheering each other on
No harsh words that I remember
No arguments that I recall
Jewish Irish Italian (not natural friends at other times)
Tall short in-between
Younger older
We got along
Sport united us and made us one against one
In a most acceptable and thrilling way
In a way that channeled humans’ nature toward conflict
To a civilized modus
That was fun (not serious but kind of serious).
Those days are long gone
The dead end street converted to a thoroughfare
Tall buildings replacing the vacant lot and hill that were our outfield destination
The fearsome sisters gone
The wolf-dog gone
The store a distant memory
(My father owned it once)
But if there’s any wisdom in my life
About those glory days of youth
It is that we indeed found a way to better ourselves
On those summer days between Korea and Vietnam
That we chose peaceful conflict
The accepted way
(Not war – civil, uncivil, world, inter-nation, gang)
(Not crime – homicide, mugging, cheating, deceiving)
We humans must have conflict
It is our nature
Our history is one of invasions, domination, military conflict, gladiators
And when we are more under control
We channel our aggressiveness into chess or checkers
Or Monopoly or Clue or Scrabble or the crossword puzzle
Or a host of video games that started with Pong and Asteroids and Pac Man
Or debates or trials or rough arguments that follow no set rules
And we congratulate ourselves for being civilized
But the Nazis reckoned they were civilized
With their music and their fine appreciation for art
(Didn’t they?)
And the Romans before them
And Genghis Khan and Ivan the Terrible and Napoleon
And all warring nations were so grateful
That God was on their side
(He had to be, for their cause was so righteous!)
And in the end millions lay dead
The Holocaust, the Armenians, the Cambodians, Rwanda, Biafra, and on and on
Mortally wounded dismembered crippled maimed for life
And Peterkin is told it was a famous victory
But no one really won
Perhaps the spread of evil was temporarily stopped
And is it not a strange phenomenon that
A group of teenagers inexperienced in the ways of the world
Could find a way to put aside our innate pugnaciousness
And just have fun and secretly appreciate each other’s contributions
To the whole game
We had a unity of purpose and no divisions
(political regional religious age skill-set)
And why is it so hard for so-called
Grownups
Civilized people
Men of the world (and even women)
Champions of the cause
To replicate what happened every day
For two whole months
Summer after summer
Even in the presence of the scary sisters and their wolf-dog
Combat with no injuries
Conclusions with no debates?
The world should never be so complicated that a group of kids
Instinctively know more about success
Than all those academics and professionals
Leaders autocratic democratic oligarchic megalomaniacal
Century after century
And maybe one fine day
A new game will break out and no one and everyone will finally win!
Me
I met a lonely man one day;
He smiled and shook my hand.
It pleased me that he said I may
Join him and his band.
He and his friends seemed quite fine
And I was too alone
So I was his friend, he was mine:
Our interests we could hone.
Then one night he came to me
And said he must confess
He was not much nobility
And might cause some distress.
He spoke to me in tentative tone
And told me of his past.
He let me know that he was bad
And lied and cheated much,
Especially when he had had
A rather easy touch
To steal from and to prey upon
And hoodwink out of cash:
With such weak people he’d be gone,
Despising them as trash,
But this new friend I cared about
And so I took him in,
Without a care, without a doubt ---
His friendship I did win.
I gave him food and he was free
To wander ‘bout my home
And enjoy all that he could see ---
He unrestrained could roam.
We laughed and enjoyed
My wealth accumulated,
My art which I had much deployed
And which his eyes so inundated.
It felt so good to have a friend
After endless lonely years
But he stole much from me in the end
My art, my gold, my tears.
He went away but left a letter
For me, and this I read indeed:
“Next time it would be much better
If warnings you would heed.
I told you that I’d lie and steal
But you trusted me too much;
Your need for friendship was too real;
You were an easy touch.
When someone tells you who he is,
Listen carefully;
The loss is yours; the gain is his:
Your choice for friend was me.
Too bad you could not see.”
I met a lonely man one day;
He smiled and shook my hand.
It pleased me that he said I may
Join him and his band.
He and his friends seemed quite fine
And I was too alone
So I was his friend, he was mine:
Our interests we could hone.
Then one night he came to me
And said he must confess
He was not much nobility
And might cause some distress.
He spoke to me in tentative tone
And told me of his past.
He let me know that he was bad
And lied and cheated much,
Especially when he had had
A rather easy touch
To steal from and to prey upon
And hoodwink out of cash:
With such weak people he’d be gone,
Despising them as trash,
But this new friend I cared about
And so I took him in,
Without a care, without a doubt ---
His friendship I did win.
I gave him food and he was free
To wander ‘bout my home
And enjoy all that he could see ---
He unrestrained could roam.
We laughed and enjoyed
My wealth accumulated,
My art which I had much deployed
And which his eyes so inundated.
It felt so good to have a friend
After endless lonely years
But he stole much from me in the end
My art, my gold, my tears.
He went away but left a letter
For me, and this I read indeed:
“Next time it would be much better
If warnings you would heed.
I told you that I’d lie and steal
But you trusted me too much;
Your need for friendship was too real;
You were an easy touch.
When someone tells you who he is,
Listen carefully;
The loss is yours; the gain is his:
Your choice for friend was me.
Too bad you could not see.”
They Should Have Been . . . .
I have been a husband and a father
Knowing love and caring, sharing
Adventures and the pains and joys of raising kids,
Going to their shows and games,
Meeting with their teachers,
Sharing their goals and dreams;
They should have been . . . .
I have been a conscientious worker,
Knowing what it means and what it feels like
To help others and improve their lives
So that these children could make the world their own;
They should have been . . . .
I have been a fan, cheering on my teams
Through losing seasons, upsets and the rare championship,
Watching them and going to their games,
Eating franks and pretzels and spilling drinks;
They should have been . . . .
I have been able to read books, see shows and
Go to movie theaters with their new soft reclining seats
And their expensive snacks,
Watching heroes defeating villains, and
Often finding love right on the screen;
They should have been . . . .
I have been on vacation, and traveled near and far,
Playing in the snow of Switzerland,
Visiting the castles and the gardens
Of Edinburgh and Versailles and Heidelberg
And the grand museums of Paris, Florence and Manhattan,
Relishing in the clean air of southern Maine
And the peace and quiet of the small New England towns;
They should have been . . . .
I have been alive more than eighty years, knowing
The struggles, failings and successes of Life,
Filling my time with the tastes of joy that only living brings,
Inhaling the real meaning of each day and knowing what it is
To miss those who were once so dear to me
But who have reached the end of this period of time;
They should have been . . . .
But they instead died in a senseless war
To stop the dominoes from falling
In a game all made up by mean old men
Who never really tried to bring them home, and thus
They lost their chance to breathe the scent of Life
And peruse the sights of joy and family
That drifted into history without them,
Leaving behind wives, parents and friends
Who could only mutter to the senseless air,
“They should have been . . . .”
I have been a husband and a father
Knowing love and caring, sharing
Adventures and the pains and joys of raising kids,
Going to their shows and games,
Meeting with their teachers,
Sharing their goals and dreams;
They should have been . . . .
I have been a conscientious worker,
Knowing what it means and what it feels like
To help others and improve their lives
So that these children could make the world their own;
They should have been . . . .
I have been a fan, cheering on my teams
Through losing seasons, upsets and the rare championship,
Watching them and going to their games,
Eating franks and pretzels and spilling drinks;
They should have been . . . .
I have been able to read books, see shows and
Go to movie theaters with their new soft reclining seats
And their expensive snacks,
Watching heroes defeating villains, and
Often finding love right on the screen;
They should have been . . . .
I have been on vacation, and traveled near and far,
Playing in the snow of Switzerland,
Visiting the castles and the gardens
Of Edinburgh and Versailles and Heidelberg
And the grand museums of Paris, Florence and Manhattan,
Relishing in the clean air of southern Maine
And the peace and quiet of the small New England towns;
They should have been . . . .
I have been alive more than eighty years, knowing
The struggles, failings and successes of Life,
Filling my time with the tastes of joy that only living brings,
Inhaling the real meaning of each day and knowing what it is
To miss those who were once so dear to me
But who have reached the end of this period of time;
They should have been . . . .
But they instead died in a senseless war
To stop the dominoes from falling
In a game all made up by mean old men
Who never really tried to bring them home, and thus
They lost their chance to breathe the scent of Life
And peruse the sights of joy and family
That drifted into history without them,
Leaving behind wives, parents and friends
Who could only mutter to the senseless air,
“They should have been . . . .”
A POSITIVE
Esther, my friend, my companion, my love,
My advisor, my sounding board, my mirror
(unbiased and brutally truthful, when needed),
A brilliant analyst and an avid reader,
A person who shares my interests and my
Children and grandkids, a teacher and a learner,
A quite sociable person, a possessor of perspicacity,
A charming roommate, a person with great taste
In jewelry, in art, in furniture and in men,
A gift-giver extraordinaire,
An immensely generous soul,
A Founding Mother of the Women’s History Museum.
A sharp political observer, a never-ending optimist,
A poet who presents vivid images and thoughtful themes,
A woman who enjoys a good mystery and a guilty pleasure
And a good walk on a beautiful day,
My love (yes, I know I am repeating this but it bears repetition),
A shareholder and a taxpayer and a marvelous citizen,
A daughter and a sister and an aunt and great-aunt,
My advisor, my sounding board, my mirror
(unbiased and brutally truthful, when needed),
A brilliant analyst and an avid reader,
A person who shares my interests and my
Children and grandkids, a teacher and a learner,
A quite sociable person, a possessor of perspicacity,
A charming roommate, a person with great taste
In jewelry, in art, in furniture and in men,
A gift-giver extraordinaire,
An immensely generous soul,
A Founding Mother of the Women’s History Museum.
A sharp political observer, a never-ending optimist,
A poet who presents vivid images and thoughtful themes,
A woman who enjoys a good mystery and a guilty pleasure
And a good walk on a beautiful day,
My love (yes, I know I am repeating this but it bears repetition),
A shareholder and a taxpayer and a marvelous citizen,
A daughter and a sister and an aunt and great-aunt,
Broken Trees
The bombs descended as the gods of war relished
In man-made destruction, blessings on these pathetic, apathetic entities
Who must have been to blame
For the pillaging of the Earth’s treasures.
Hundreds lay dead in the aftermath, pieces of bodies broken apart,
The soil insulted by their blood,
As the war surged and body counts no longer seemed to matter.
And with every new explosion, arms and legs departed from their home
And dying men or those forever maimed raged at the pain invading them
And stared at those pieces of the puzzle that no longer made much sense
And they asked themselves why they were there,
What argument or disagreement among their elders
Had brought them to this their end?
How much profit of the military-industrial complex could be earned at such a cost?
And even those unscathed in body earned their purple hearts
By means of mental injuries and visions that would haunt them a lifetime
Through the war and through the years of anything but peace.
And all too often these sworn enemies would in later years become friends,
Or if not friends, people willing to share the earth which formerly
They had drowned and stomped upon in uniform or in disguise:
England, Italy, Japan, Germany
(And erstwhile “friends” would soon become the Cold War enemy)
And no sense or logic withstood history’s analysis.
And while all this went on, and while the earth sensed calls of agony ---
Looking down in innocence and in naivete were the fractured trees,
Shattered trunks and amputated limbs, asking, “Why?”
They had done no harm; they had threatened no one; they
Had not invaded but had innocently stood their ground,
Enjoying sun and blue sky as companions, then
Enduring the starkly frigid, snowy winter waiting to revive
Themselves in springtime (ever optimistic),
Giving shade and beauty to their gentle segment of the world,
Minding their own business (a lesson for the rest of us)
Only to be blasted, left with remnants of branches and jagged edges
Topping off their trunks, left with the eternal question
Of why humans are so seemingly determined
To replace Earth with Hell.
The bombs descended as the gods of war relished
In man-made destruction, blessings on these pathetic, apathetic entities
Who must have been to blame
For the pillaging of the Earth’s treasures.
Hundreds lay dead in the aftermath, pieces of bodies broken apart,
The soil insulted by their blood,
As the war surged and body counts no longer seemed to matter.
And with every new explosion, arms and legs departed from their home
And dying men or those forever maimed raged at the pain invading them
And stared at those pieces of the puzzle that no longer made much sense
And they asked themselves why they were there,
What argument or disagreement among their elders
Had brought them to this their end?
How much profit of the military-industrial complex could be earned at such a cost?
And even those unscathed in body earned their purple hearts
By means of mental injuries and visions that would haunt them a lifetime
Through the war and through the years of anything but peace.
And all too often these sworn enemies would in later years become friends,
Or if not friends, people willing to share the earth which formerly
They had drowned and stomped upon in uniform or in disguise:
England, Italy, Japan, Germany
(And erstwhile “friends” would soon become the Cold War enemy)
And no sense or logic withstood history’s analysis.
And while all this went on, and while the earth sensed calls of agony ---
Looking down in innocence and in naivete were the fractured trees,
Shattered trunks and amputated limbs, asking, “Why?”
They had done no harm; they had threatened no one; they
Had not invaded but had innocently stood their ground,
Enjoying sun and blue sky as companions, then
Enduring the starkly frigid, snowy winter waiting to revive
Themselves in springtime (ever optimistic),
Giving shade and beauty to their gentle segment of the world,
Minding their own business (a lesson for the rest of us)
Only to be blasted, left with remnants of branches and jagged edges
Topping off their trunks, left with the eternal question
Of why humans are so seemingly determined
To replace Earth with Hell.
Teaching with Omicron
It is like waiting for a visitor
Whom no one wants to see ---
Waiting in an atmosphere
That chokes with disbelief
But no relief
For the stranger just beyond our midst
And dwelling in the mist,
A visitor who will not quite be missed
If it goes the other way.
Each minute lumbers toward dismissal;
Each breath is masked
As we’ve been asked,
And with each task
We crawl through deep anxiety
And focus on ignoring it
But it is waiting, creeping, crawling,
Lingering not far away ---
Surviving by going astray
From day to day
And on we teach, thinking and looking
The other way
Because we learned so many years ago
That monsters disappear
When we close our eyes and keep them shut.
It’s really as simple as all that!
(Is it not?)
It is like waiting for a visitor
Whom no one wants to see ---
Waiting in an atmosphere
That chokes with disbelief
But no relief
For the stranger just beyond our midst
And dwelling in the mist,
A visitor who will not quite be missed
If it goes the other way.
Each minute lumbers toward dismissal;
Each breath is masked
As we’ve been asked,
And with each task
We crawl through deep anxiety
And focus on ignoring it
But it is waiting, creeping, crawling,
Lingering not far away ---
Surviving by going astray
From day to day
And on we teach, thinking and looking
The other way
Because we learned so many years ago
That monsters disappear
When we close our eyes and keep them shut.
It’s really as simple as all that!
(Is it not?)
Problems: 2021
COVID-19 in different forms (DELTA, OMICRON)
NOT ENOUGH VACCINES
FIGHTS ABOUT WHO WON THE PRESIDENCY
VOTING RIGHTS CHALLENGES
ARGUMENTS ON PLANES AND IN RESTAURANTS
CANCELLED FLIGHTS
SHORTAGES OF SUPERMARKET ITEMS
ATTACK ON THE CAPITOL BUILDING (CONGRESS)
DISAGREEMENTS ABOUT WEARING MASKS - MANDATES
EXHAUSTED MEDICAL PEOPLE
MORE PEOPLE WHO WERE THREATENED for doing their jobs :
CYBER-BULLYING ON SOCIAL MEDIA
INCREASED CRIMES, MURDERS (such as in New York City)
BLACK LIVES MATTER // BLUE LIVES MATTER
POLICE BRUTALITY COMPLAINTS
BOOK CENSORSHIP IN SCHOOLS AND LIBRARIES
ANTI-ASIAN RACISM
COVID-19 in different forms (DELTA, OMICRON)
NOT ENOUGH VACCINES
FIGHTS ABOUT WHO WON THE PRESIDENCY
VOTING RIGHTS CHALLENGES
ARGUMENTS ON PLANES AND IN RESTAURANTS
CANCELLED FLIGHTS
SHORTAGES OF SUPERMARKET ITEMS
ATTACK ON THE CAPITOL BUILDING (CONGRESS)
DISAGREEMENTS ABOUT WEARING MASKS - MANDATES
EXHAUSTED MEDICAL PEOPLE
MORE PEOPLE WHO WERE THREATENED for doing their jobs :
- ELECTION WORKERS
- HEALTH CARE WORKERS
CYBER-BULLYING ON SOCIAL MEDIA
INCREASED CRIMES, MURDERS (such as in New York City)
BLACK LIVES MATTER // BLUE LIVES MATTER
POLICE BRUTALITY COMPLAINTS
BOOK CENSORSHIP IN SCHOOLS AND LIBRARIES
ANTI-ASIAN RACISM
ANGER
Anger doesn’t always come in snarls and growls.
There are times when anger is ingested and
Seems to simmer over endless minutes, hours,
Even longer
And when it sinks into the soul and weighs it down
The dulling pain can find itself embellished
By a gruesome form of irrationality.
Anger knows no bounds but resounds
Sometimes in deafening silence
From deep inside the perceived victim
And it festers, boiling over,
Offering a semblance of respite --- but
Not really.
Anger is no friend who carries you and holds you
Till the pain is gone at last;
It is the enemy delighting in your suffering
For far too long.
Better to give this deadly feeling voice
And yell and scream and screech away
Than to subdue the urge to communicate
The cause and reason and effect.
An angry man once suffered in his silence
Till one day they found him piece by piece;
The pain was gone but so was he.
And the funny thing is . . .
The cause of all that anger
Never even knew!
Anger doesn’t always come in snarls and growls.
There are times when anger is ingested and
Seems to simmer over endless minutes, hours,
Even longer
And when it sinks into the soul and weighs it down
The dulling pain can find itself embellished
By a gruesome form of irrationality.
Anger knows no bounds but resounds
Sometimes in deafening silence
From deep inside the perceived victim
And it festers, boiling over,
Offering a semblance of respite --- but
Not really.
Anger is no friend who carries you and holds you
Till the pain is gone at last;
It is the enemy delighting in your suffering
For far too long.
Better to give this deadly feeling voice
And yell and scream and screech away
Than to subdue the urge to communicate
The cause and reason and effect.
An angry man once suffered in his silence
Till one day they found him piece by piece;
The pain was gone but so was he.
And the funny thing is . . .
The cause of all that anger
Never even knew!
VOICES
Soothing sound, comforting me in my childhood,
Reassuring me with a soft voice that all will be all right
And that I can safely return to my bed,
That the monsters are gone and she is there to protect me,
A solid wall against the storm of spirits;
Another voice, gentle in its gruffness, informing me
That during the night the Tooth Fairy has left me a reward
In exchange for my bravery in the time of losing teeth.
The pair a rampart against the fears of childhood
For as long as they might last.
A young woman calling out my name, that it was time to come back home,
To leave my great adventure on the elephant rock hill
And get my full of supper and a sister’s love.
Another voice another sister telling me that all will be okay,
That the surgery will make me better and that I will heal
And leave her home for my own sanctuary soon enough
At age 14.
I hear the vibrant voices of my wife’s aunts and in their place the tones
Of great and genuine affection and a desire to be a part of the whole,
And so they were.
I hear so many songs of those who have left us behind and I realize
That one day soon my own voice will take its place
Within the chorus of this chain that binds the past to the ever-moving
Present, and I am comforted in knowing
That I too will sing in the hearts and minds of those I leave behind,
Making better music than I ever could when I just sang my song
In a place where the words would not be heard.
Soothing sound, comforting me in my childhood,
Reassuring me with a soft voice that all will be all right
And that I can safely return to my bed,
That the monsters are gone and she is there to protect me,
A solid wall against the storm of spirits;
Another voice, gentle in its gruffness, informing me
That during the night the Tooth Fairy has left me a reward
In exchange for my bravery in the time of losing teeth.
The pair a rampart against the fears of childhood
For as long as they might last.
A young woman calling out my name, that it was time to come back home,
To leave my great adventure on the elephant rock hill
And get my full of supper and a sister’s love.
Another voice another sister telling me that all will be okay,
That the surgery will make me better and that I will heal
And leave her home for my own sanctuary soon enough
At age 14.
I hear the vibrant voices of my wife’s aunts and in their place the tones
Of great and genuine affection and a desire to be a part of the whole,
And so they were.
I hear so many songs of those who have left us behind and I realize
That one day soon my own voice will take its place
Within the chorus of this chain that binds the past to the ever-moving
Present, and I am comforted in knowing
That I too will sing in the hearts and minds of those I leave behind,
Making better music than I ever could when I just sang my song
In a place where the words would not be heard.
Recognition
The beautiful baby's gentle, loving laughter
Bonds the generations
In a sharing of pure affection.
Smiles abound
And thoughts of coming joy
Play in the child's inchoate imagination.
He wiggles and he giggles and
Thus communicates his presence
To a more than welcoming audience.
The best performance is the one
Readily appreciated through pure love,
And so the laughter is the calling card
Announcing, "I am one of you"
As the child becomes aware that laughter
Is a two-way street
As is the love that travels all the way
From heart to heart.
The beautiful baby's gentle, loving laughter
Bonds the generations
In a sharing of pure affection.
Smiles abound
And thoughts of coming joy
Play in the child's inchoate imagination.
He wiggles and he giggles and
Thus communicates his presence
To a more than welcoming audience.
The best performance is the one
Readily appreciated through pure love,
And so the laughter is the calling card
Announcing, "I am one of you"
As the child becomes aware that laughter
Is a two-way street
As is the love that travels all the way
From heart to heart.
They Are
They are short; they are tall.
They are ambitious; they are lazy.
They are honest and dishonest, trustworthy and not so much.
They smile and they glare.
They are well educated, somewhat educated, poorly educated.
They are very religious, not very religious,
Orthodox, atheistic, agnostic.
They are all colors and no color at all.
They build and they destroy.
They teach and learn and ignore,
They love and they hate.
They give and they take.
They feed and they eat.
They cry and they feel nothing at all.
They accept and they despise.
They see and are blind, hear and are deaf.
They help you and hinder you.
They are heroes and villains and everything in between.
They are close to you and distant.
They speak one language and many.
They like all kinds of music – or not.
They are liberal, conservative, eclectic.
They create art and destroy it.
They are the past and the future . . . and very much the present.
They restrain and refrain.
They envision and see no more than what is before them.
They see themselves as what they are,
what they could be, what they never will be.
They are brothers, sisters, everyone and no one at all.
They reach and they grasp.
They give help, reject help, cherish and destroy help.
They can be friend or foe.
They exist and they live; die and are gone, remembered well or best forgotten.
They are us. All of us. Always have been and always will be.
They are the world.
They are short; they are tall.
They are ambitious; they are lazy.
They are honest and dishonest, trustworthy and not so much.
They smile and they glare.
They are well educated, somewhat educated, poorly educated.
They are very religious, not very religious,
Orthodox, atheistic, agnostic.
They are all colors and no color at all.
They build and they destroy.
They teach and learn and ignore,
They love and they hate.
They give and they take.
They feed and they eat.
They cry and they feel nothing at all.
They accept and they despise.
They see and are blind, hear and are deaf.
They help you and hinder you.
They are heroes and villains and everything in between.
They are close to you and distant.
They speak one language and many.
They like all kinds of music – or not.
They are liberal, conservative, eclectic.
They create art and destroy it.
They are the past and the future . . . and very much the present.
They restrain and refrain.
They envision and see no more than what is before them.
They see themselves as what they are,
what they could be, what they never will be.
They are brothers, sisters, everyone and no one at all.
They reach and they grasp.
They give help, reject help, cherish and destroy help.
They can be friend or foe.
They exist and they live; die and are gone, remembered well or best forgotten.
They are us. All of us. Always have been and always will be.
They are the world.
A MATTER OF THE MIND
I am not old
Despite what a piece of paper declares and shouts to those who live, but on the surface ---
Despite what my knees try to convince me of,
And my vision sees when it leads me to a mirror.
I am what I am,
A massive gathering of memories and fantasies
Which have the power to transport me to times when those I love
Could still demonstrate their caring and desires.
(I miss them now, but they are with me always.)
I close my eyes and I become the child
Weeping for maternal attention which would much too soon abandon me,
The boy who played all those sports before his knees betrayed him
And left him stumbling on legs of lead, each step a mountain to scale.
I think of schooldays and therefore I am
The youth I easily envision, eager to show off the skills I wish I had,
The warm enthusiasm that never could supplant the missing talent.
You can point at my age and hold up evidence of government pensions
Received at a certain age, but when I am alone
And when I seek the comfort of my Self,
There is no doubt that enters my mind, my thoughts, my heart
That I remain a vibrant astronaut to be that I once saw myself
That day in the Hayden Planetarium, gazing at the stars and planets and exhibits,
Or even a poet of the 1960’s, decrying injustice and extoling the equality
That still eludes us to this sad sad day.
As long as you can possibly escape to what you knew
And emphasize the dreams and fantasies and memories,
You are never old. That is an ugly word with all the evil connotations
That this society, with its renowned but overblown exceptionalism, uses as a label to condemn
Its subjects to a metaphoric prison, not one in some dystopian novel or film
But one that we have come to live with each sluggish day,
While it glorifies the target audience of callowness
For the God Almighty Dollar and the Faustian Vote.
There can never be a prisoner whose mind cannot escape at will, regaining
That omnipresent youth that brings vitality to those who WILL not age.
I am not old enough to lose my memories;
It is those conscious moments that have now become the strong adhesive
Holding me together, helping me to breathe and feel a past excitement
Any time I choose to leave this world and visit all those precious times which ---
Comfortably amassed at my beck and call --- visit me and comfort me,
Reminding me that there were times when I would live forever,
And for that vital reason I feel humanly secure in declaring to you that
I am not old.
Despite what a piece of paper declares and shouts to those who live, but on the surface ---
Despite what my knees try to convince me of,
And my vision sees when it leads me to a mirror.
I am what I am,
A massive gathering of memories and fantasies
Which have the power to transport me to times when those I love
Could still demonstrate their caring and desires.
(I miss them now, but they are with me always.)
I close my eyes and I become the child
Weeping for maternal attention which would much too soon abandon me,
The boy who played all those sports before his knees betrayed him
And left him stumbling on legs of lead, each step a mountain to scale.
I think of schooldays and therefore I am
The youth I easily envision, eager to show off the skills I wish I had,
The warm enthusiasm that never could supplant the missing talent.
You can point at my age and hold up evidence of government pensions
Received at a certain age, but when I am alone
And when I seek the comfort of my Self,
There is no doubt that enters my mind, my thoughts, my heart
That I remain a vibrant astronaut to be that I once saw myself
That day in the Hayden Planetarium, gazing at the stars and planets and exhibits,
Or even a poet of the 1960’s, decrying injustice and extoling the equality
That still eludes us to this sad sad day.
As long as you can possibly escape to what you knew
And emphasize the dreams and fantasies and memories,
You are never old. That is an ugly word with all the evil connotations
That this society, with its renowned but overblown exceptionalism, uses as a label to condemn
Its subjects to a metaphoric prison, not one in some dystopian novel or film
But one that we have come to live with each sluggish day,
While it glorifies the target audience of callowness
For the God Almighty Dollar and the Faustian Vote.
There can never be a prisoner whose mind cannot escape at will, regaining
That omnipresent youth that brings vitality to those who WILL not age.
I am not old enough to lose my memories;
It is those conscious moments that have now become the strong adhesive
Holding me together, helping me to breathe and feel a past excitement
Any time I choose to leave this world and visit all those precious times which ---
Comfortably amassed at my beck and call --- visit me and comfort me,
Reminding me that there were times when I would live forever,
And for that vital reason I feel humanly secure in declaring to you that
I am not old.

, Old
I am old. I stumble when I walk and bend toward the ground
Like Yeats’ rough beast slouching toward Bethlehem to be born,
And might be a subject of amusement or pity to those who notice me,
But I was not born this way. Within me dwells the child who loved
To play all those games, physical and mental, who once was
So excited by a birthday party, who lived the magic of the Golden Years
Of television, who remembers standing on a line to get a polio vaccine,
Laughing at Uncle Miltie and Flubadub, traveling into space beside
Captain Video and capturing the bad guys with The Lone Ranger and
Tonto (equals as they should have been). I went to the circus.
I recall reading the Leatherstocking novels, with Hawkeye and
His faithful Indian companion, Chingachgook, the sacrifice of Sidney Carton and
The source of Pip’s great expectations, the travails of Ishmael and the captain.
This child worshiped Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford and managed to enjoy
The Brooklyn Dodgers as a worthy competition
(I loved Happy Felton’s Knothole Gang), tried out for the Yankees,
Won a softball championship in college and even helped run
A Little League, on different levels; I lived vicariously through
Mr. America Gene Stanley and good-naturedly booed Gorgeous George
As his manager sprayed the wrestling ring with fragrances, and later
I attended two Wrestlemanias and rooted for the Hulk. I was not
Born old or stumbling; I ran down five flights of stairs to join my friends
(I still had friends who shared their lives with me) and we would proudly wear
Powder blue jackets proclaiming a brotherhood founded on athletics.
I easily recall winning a one-mile race against a British fellow teacher
Just to show him that I could . . . and to silence his arrogance.
I ran with the wind, a slight cliché and more a fantasy, and lived a life
That youngsters today would not believe; I flew kites and held sparklers
And went to Yankee Stadium (not the corporate imitator now extant
But the real one, The House that Ruth Built), and walked upon the self-same sod
And saw the view that Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Maris and the Bambino did.
I protested American Nazis, wrote computer programs, gave lectures and
Ran workshops for my peers; I even invented a sport which friends then played.
I was on a radio show and built plywood exhibits that lit up with many hues.
I visited the homes of Shakespeare, Burns, Dickens, Irving, Alcott, Stowe, Twain,
Washington, the Roosevelts, Vanderbilt and the Mayflower Pilgrims;
I taught people who became doctors, writers, lawyers, activists, scientists, and
Business leaders; I sold newspapers and comic books and paperbacks;
I played Red Light, Green Light and Hide and Seek and Ringolevio as well as
Every type of ball game available to a youth, and roller hockey, too.
I was not always bent and lunging, walking like some monster trying
To escape a work of fiction and find a home away from mental ridicule.
I am old but not within my mind. It is my memories which keep me young;
It is my grasp of many years ago that keeps things in perspective and
Helps me fight the stereotypes of minds too small to care or imagine
What I was like when I was in my youth, but for them I have sadness
And understanding; they cannot think deeply --- so fall gracelessly back
Upon the stereotype that offers them some comfort as a compensation
For all the things they will not do, for understanding and wisdom that will
Escape them all their lives, for I may look the ancient mariner or the High Lama
Or even Yoda but I am now the product of events that built my character,
That sculpted what I am today and that is so much more than what they see.
I have seen sunsets fit for angels; I have seen fireworks from a gondola;
I have flown the skies and sailed the ocean and walked the Marginal Way,
Visited the Roman Colosseum and the Parthenon in Athens,
The castle overlooking Edinburgh and the Palace of Versailles, with its gardens and Hall of Mirrors,
Museums in Manhattan, Benington, Portland, Paris, Amsterdam and a host of other places . . .
And cuddled kids as Santa and taught the future minds of Africa and
Sung and acted on the stage and put myself in danger more than once;
I have seen castles and mountains and jungles and caves; I have witnessed
Feats of athletes that have now gathered dust in archived films.
I have traveled to the moon as well as discovered the still-life grief of the Titanic.
I cheered when my hometown teams won championships
And dwelled within the agony of the cruel fates when they
Faced years of mediocrity --- but I walked straight, not as I walk today but as
I learned to deal with harsh reality and the absence of childhood miracles.
When you look at me next time, with my strange perambulation and my posture,
Take a deep breath, reach for maturity, treat me with respect and comprehension
And hope that when you’ve reached my age, you’ll understand what you saw:
That past my physical appearance, I still walk tall
For life has given me the strength to survive
And still I thrive . . . and while I may look down,
Humbled by more than eight decades of understanding and accepting the depth
And significance of my multi-generational intertwining multifaceted Life,
Know that I will always reach beyond my physicality for the luminous,
Illustrious stars that share their presence and put things into perspective
Since those ancient stars remind me that in the scheme of things
I am really quite young.
I am old. I stumble when I walk and bend toward the ground
Like Yeats’ rough beast slouching toward Bethlehem to be born,
And might be a subject of amusement or pity to those who notice me,
But I was not born this way. Within me dwells the child who loved
To play all those games, physical and mental, who once was
So excited by a birthday party, who lived the magic of the Golden Years
Of television, who remembers standing on a line to get a polio vaccine,
Laughing at Uncle Miltie and Flubadub, traveling into space beside
Captain Video and capturing the bad guys with The Lone Ranger and
Tonto (equals as they should have been). I went to the circus.
I recall reading the Leatherstocking novels, with Hawkeye and
His faithful Indian companion, Chingachgook, the sacrifice of Sidney Carton and
The source of Pip’s great expectations, the travails of Ishmael and the captain.
This child worshiped Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford and managed to enjoy
The Brooklyn Dodgers as a worthy competition
(I loved Happy Felton’s Knothole Gang), tried out for the Yankees,
Won a softball championship in college and even helped run
A Little League, on different levels; I lived vicariously through
Mr. America Gene Stanley and good-naturedly booed Gorgeous George
As his manager sprayed the wrestling ring with fragrances, and later
I attended two Wrestlemanias and rooted for the Hulk. I was not
Born old or stumbling; I ran down five flights of stairs to join my friends
(I still had friends who shared their lives with me) and we would proudly wear
Powder blue jackets proclaiming a brotherhood founded on athletics.
I easily recall winning a one-mile race against a British fellow teacher
Just to show him that I could . . . and to silence his arrogance.
I ran with the wind, a slight cliché and more a fantasy, and lived a life
That youngsters today would not believe; I flew kites and held sparklers
And went to Yankee Stadium (not the corporate imitator now extant
But the real one, The House that Ruth Built), and walked upon the self-same sod
And saw the view that Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Maris and the Bambino did.
I protested American Nazis, wrote computer programs, gave lectures and
Ran workshops for my peers; I even invented a sport which friends then played.
I was on a radio show and built plywood exhibits that lit up with many hues.
I visited the homes of Shakespeare, Burns, Dickens, Irving, Alcott, Stowe, Twain,
Washington, the Roosevelts, Vanderbilt and the Mayflower Pilgrims;
I taught people who became doctors, writers, lawyers, activists, scientists, and
Business leaders; I sold newspapers and comic books and paperbacks;
I played Red Light, Green Light and Hide and Seek and Ringolevio as well as
Every type of ball game available to a youth, and roller hockey, too.
I was not always bent and lunging, walking like some monster trying
To escape a work of fiction and find a home away from mental ridicule.
I am old but not within my mind. It is my memories which keep me young;
It is my grasp of many years ago that keeps things in perspective and
Helps me fight the stereotypes of minds too small to care or imagine
What I was like when I was in my youth, but for them I have sadness
And understanding; they cannot think deeply --- so fall gracelessly back
Upon the stereotype that offers them some comfort as a compensation
For all the things they will not do, for understanding and wisdom that will
Escape them all their lives, for I may look the ancient mariner or the High Lama
Or even Yoda but I am now the product of events that built my character,
That sculpted what I am today and that is so much more than what they see.
I have seen sunsets fit for angels; I have seen fireworks from a gondola;
I have flown the skies and sailed the ocean and walked the Marginal Way,
Visited the Roman Colosseum and the Parthenon in Athens,
The castle overlooking Edinburgh and the Palace of Versailles, with its gardens and Hall of Mirrors,
Museums in Manhattan, Benington, Portland, Paris, Amsterdam and a host of other places . . .
And cuddled kids as Santa and taught the future minds of Africa and
Sung and acted on the stage and put myself in danger more than once;
I have seen castles and mountains and jungles and caves; I have witnessed
Feats of athletes that have now gathered dust in archived films.
I have traveled to the moon as well as discovered the still-life grief of the Titanic.
I cheered when my hometown teams won championships
And dwelled within the agony of the cruel fates when they
Faced years of mediocrity --- but I walked straight, not as I walk today but as
I learned to deal with harsh reality and the absence of childhood miracles.
When you look at me next time, with my strange perambulation and my posture,
Take a deep breath, reach for maturity, treat me with respect and comprehension
And hope that when you’ve reached my age, you’ll understand what you saw:
That past my physical appearance, I still walk tall
For life has given me the strength to survive
And still I thrive . . . and while I may look down,
Humbled by more than eight decades of understanding and accepting the depth
And significance of my multi-generational intertwining multifaceted Life,
Know that I will always reach beyond my physicality for the luminous,
Illustrious stars that share their presence and put things into perspective
Since those ancient stars remind me that in the scheme of things
I am really quite young.
FRIENDS
Friends, late in life,
Sitting at the local diner
(Itself steeped in history and built with friendliness
And warm people eager to help and please),
Sharing thoughts and feelings
Of work, of family and of life ---
We meet and eat but mostly think and
Find the time to express our inner pressures,
Those weighing on us as they make their way
From the depths of consciousness
To the gentle table where we sit and chat and meditate.
The journey each of us has taken to this point has challenged us
To grow and to be strong, and the result has been
A personal power mixed with concentration, a condensation of the essence
Of our being, and we find great comfort in exposing and acknowledging
Our humanness, as fellow travelers in this existential world,
With all its pain and challenges and roughness, blended with
Its soothing and its gentleness, sometimes in most unexpected ways.
We mix and mesh in gentle blues and sharper reds and yellows that relax,
With circles and rectangles intertwining in an abstract vision
That demands attention and is worthy of lives traveled by the three of us
To foreign lands and mysteries and home again in comfort and security.
Gaze upon the painted homes that welcome us and shelter us much as
A mother reaching out to her children as they, coming home, look for solace
And reassurance. There, in the center of the artwork, waits a fireplace
Not with blazing flames but with gentle warmth, orange sparks crackling
To the Tune of Home, proffering seclusion from the rages of mankind.
Even in the swirls and three dimensions of the fire we can recognize
That it was no troubled mind that created what we now envision,
But rather it is we who have given meaning to what lies before us,
The shapes and starts that tell us we are home --- and we belong.
Look with deep astonishment that three friends have found a way to paint
A masterpiece of Life, a Wonder of the World, mixing hues that call to us
That we have reached the destination worthy of our travels.
Friends, late in life,
Sitting at the local diner
(Itself steeped in history and built with friendliness
And warm people eager to help and please),
Sharing thoughts and feelings
Of work, of family and of life ---
We meet and eat but mostly think and
Find the time to express our inner pressures,
Those weighing on us as they make their way
From the depths of consciousness
To the gentle table where we sit and chat and meditate.
The journey each of us has taken to this point has challenged us
To grow and to be strong, and the result has been
A personal power mixed with concentration, a condensation of the essence
Of our being, and we find great comfort in exposing and acknowledging
Our humanness, as fellow travelers in this existential world,
With all its pain and challenges and roughness, blended with
Its soothing and its gentleness, sometimes in most unexpected ways.
We mix and mesh in gentle blues and sharper reds and yellows that relax,
With circles and rectangles intertwining in an abstract vision
That demands attention and is worthy of lives traveled by the three of us
To foreign lands and mysteries and home again in comfort and security.
Gaze upon the painted homes that welcome us and shelter us much as
A mother reaching out to her children as they, coming home, look for solace
And reassurance. There, in the center of the artwork, waits a fireplace
Not with blazing flames but with gentle warmth, orange sparks crackling
To the Tune of Home, proffering seclusion from the rages of mankind.
Even in the swirls and three dimensions of the fire we can recognize
That it was no troubled mind that created what we now envision,
But rather it is we who have given meaning to what lies before us,
The shapes and starts that tell us we are home --- and we belong.
Look with deep astonishment that three friends have found a way to paint
A masterpiece of Life, a Wonder of the World, mixing hues that call to us
That we have reached the destination worthy of our travels.
Do They Remember?
They came with a mixture of emotions:
They hoped, feared, desired, and longed for . . .
They sought attention and yet hid from it;
They had a crisp view of the future and a murky, foggy one;
They envisioned failure and success, achievement, and defeat . . .
But they did come, wave after wave lugging books and backpacks
And minds open to enlightenment
But weighed down by tension and anxiety
And with them all, he knew that he could help,
Could be the steppingstone to their achievements,
Would be the bridge that carries them toward their future hopes.
Year after year they came, some more blessed than others,
Some facing challenges that seemed to defy conquest
But make no mistake about this, come they did and their
Appearance carried with it the depth of determination needed
For them to have a chance, and an opportunity to face
With a quiet strong determination what awaited them ---
Both in the here-and-now and in the days to come,
The days unfolding and offering to make them theirs.
He understood his role and relished in his usefulness
For he was built to serve; it pleasured him and filled him
With the purpose of his worklife.
They came --- some smiled, some almost growled, all
Entered with anticipation and a tentative allegiance to their dreams
And he reached out and might have said,
“Come, take my hand and I will guide you to the land
Of happiness and of contentment, for many years ago
I was where you now are and someone else was in my place
And I summoned courage to trust and to be held . . .
And I was never once let down --- as long as I was willing
To do my share in continuing my creation; oh, there were failures
And disappointments but that never blocked my way; you see,
If you do not believe in your own self, if you give in to fears
And permit the evil forces of the mind to gain in strength,
Then where are you to go? Trust in me; that’s all I ask
And you will see the future and your own place, and you will know
That come the days of doubt, the nights of fright, you need not
Feel fear, for I will be right there (inside your dreams)
And I will hold your hand again and you will comprehend my grasp
And be assured that you can find your way.”
Year after year they came, and the message was always the same
And so, they left --- in their time --- and perhaps they forgot his touch
For a while, but when they reached out in their subconscious
In times of their aloneness engulfed in inner desperation,
His hand was there --- and in that touch they felt his love
And knew that they would just be fine,
That they would find their way and walk the road of Life
As they were meant to do.
They came with a mixture of emotions:
They hoped, feared, desired, and longed for . . .
They sought attention and yet hid from it;
They had a crisp view of the future and a murky, foggy one;
They envisioned failure and success, achievement, and defeat . . .
But they did come, wave after wave lugging books and backpacks
And minds open to enlightenment
But weighed down by tension and anxiety
And with them all, he knew that he could help,
Could be the steppingstone to their achievements,
Would be the bridge that carries them toward their future hopes.
Year after year they came, some more blessed than others,
Some facing challenges that seemed to defy conquest
But make no mistake about this, come they did and their
Appearance carried with it the depth of determination needed
For them to have a chance, and an opportunity to face
With a quiet strong determination what awaited them ---
Both in the here-and-now and in the days to come,
The days unfolding and offering to make them theirs.
He understood his role and relished in his usefulness
For he was built to serve; it pleasured him and filled him
With the purpose of his worklife.
They came --- some smiled, some almost growled, all
Entered with anticipation and a tentative allegiance to their dreams
And he reached out and might have said,
“Come, take my hand and I will guide you to the land
Of happiness and of contentment, for many years ago
I was where you now are and someone else was in my place
And I summoned courage to trust and to be held . . .
And I was never once let down --- as long as I was willing
To do my share in continuing my creation; oh, there were failures
And disappointments but that never blocked my way; you see,
If you do not believe in your own self, if you give in to fears
And permit the evil forces of the mind to gain in strength,
Then where are you to go? Trust in me; that’s all I ask
And you will see the future and your own place, and you will know
That come the days of doubt, the nights of fright, you need not
Feel fear, for I will be right there (inside your dreams)
And I will hold your hand again and you will comprehend my grasp
And be assured that you can find your way.”
Year after year they came, and the message was always the same
And so, they left --- in their time --- and perhaps they forgot his touch
For a while, but when they reached out in their subconscious
In times of their aloneness engulfed in inner desperation,
His hand was there --- and in that touch they felt his love
And knew that they would just be fine,
That they would find their way and walk the road of Life
As they were meant to do.
In 1960
In 1960 I tried out in Yankee Stadium.
I carried two new mitts, one for each hand,
And I told those grizzled coaches and scouts
That I was an ambidextrous pitcher.
(I thought I had to have a way to separate myself
From all those others filled with Hope
And visions of a future that I shared.)
And there I stood, winding up, letting loose
Left-handed curves and righty darts.
The air was crisp; the sky was powder blue,
Dotted with cotton clouds, and there I stood
And played a game born of American vision
In the House where played the Babe
And Gerhig and the Clipper and a
Multitude of other stars
One year before the monumental chase
That drew us all to Mantle and to Maris.
I wasn't good enough but that just didn't matter;
It was a time for my eternity, to play
In the presence of those Yankee uniforms,
On that blessed ground (the smooth brown dirt,
The verdant grass whose sweet aroma
Made me think of gentle forests,
Even the glistening foul lines and poles).
I looked up at the tiers of stands
And imagined what the roar of love would be like.
That day I did not fail by any means.
I was a winner and the lifetime memory
Of that special day was the bonus I found myself awarded with.
Sometimes money isn't necessary.
In 1960 I tried out in Yankee Stadium.
I carried two new mitts, one for each hand,
And I told those grizzled coaches and scouts
That I was an ambidextrous pitcher.
(I thought I had to have a way to separate myself
From all those others filled with Hope
And visions of a future that I shared.)
And there I stood, winding up, letting loose
Left-handed curves and righty darts.
The air was crisp; the sky was powder blue,
Dotted with cotton clouds, and there I stood
And played a game born of American vision
In the House where played the Babe
And Gerhig and the Clipper and a
Multitude of other stars
One year before the monumental chase
That drew us all to Mantle and to Maris.
I wasn't good enough but that just didn't matter;
It was a time for my eternity, to play
In the presence of those Yankee uniforms,
On that blessed ground (the smooth brown dirt,
The verdant grass whose sweet aroma
Made me think of gentle forests,
Even the glistening foul lines and poles).
I looked up at the tiers of stands
And imagined what the roar of love would be like.
That day I did not fail by any means.
I was a winner and the lifetime memory
Of that special day was the bonus I found myself awarded with.
Sometimes money isn't necessary.
The Broken Man
He was a broken man,
An incoherent gathering of slivers and shards,
Of chunks and dollops of humanity
But he was loved. Perhaps the sadness
Lies in his blindness to how special he was
In the eyes of those who cared about his being,
His time on Earth which turned out
To be much too brief. He rarely reached his hands
Toward those who needed his embrace
And when he passed he left behind such pain
Where there once was love and eagerness to please.
He was a man broken apart by the view
Emanating from the depths of his being
Deep below his self-awareness, and
How that brings out tears where there should be
The kind of laughter that would warm the soul
And fill the ones who cared with gentle mellowness
To give support one day when he was gone.
But he was far from whole and
He left behind too many memories incomplete or not clearly recalled
And that's a shame beyond the pains of life.
He was a broken man,
An incoherent gathering of slivers and shards,
Of chunks and dollops of humanity
But he was loved. Perhaps the sadness
Lies in his blindness to how special he was
In the eyes of those who cared about his being,
His time on Earth which turned out
To be much too brief. He rarely reached his hands
Toward those who needed his embrace
And when he passed he left behind such pain
Where there once was love and eagerness to please.
He was a man broken apart by the view
Emanating from the depths of his being
Deep below his self-awareness, and
How that brings out tears where there should be
The kind of laughter that would warm the soul
And fill the ones who cared with gentle mellowness
To give support one day when he was gone.
But he was far from whole and
He left behind too many memories incomplete or not clearly recalled
And that's a shame beyond the pains of life.

The Old Neighborhood
Where there used to be, not that long ago, joy
And sharing and love and vitality as neighbors and
Loved ones engaged in the day-to-day exhilaration
Of Life, where there once was touching of hands and
Looking directly into the eyes of those who understood
The soul and sense of others who provided daily contact and
Shared meals and recollections of the past and stories
Of the neighborhood, which seemed to take on a life
Of its own, where could be heard the voices of loved ones
Calling out to each other and giving true significance
To each one’s finite existence on the blocks and
In the buildings and houses that were attracted to each other
In that old familiar rectangular configuration, where children played
And teens studied music and academics and adults focused on their kids,
There in its place now lies a newer, older, much quieter neighborhood
Where grass and dirt take the place of oxygen and where there is
No vision, no romance, no anger, love, beings to be cherished
For their spirit and engagement, where there stand erect
A peaceful army of stolid concrete tombstones, unfeeling and gray,
Each inscribed with coldness, imprinted by a solitary stranger
With facts and figures but without Life, where each silent record of a life
Summed up can do no justice to the great vitality that once was there
But is no more, and where stones are placed as a reminder that loved ones
Made the journey to show remembrance but went back home and left
This silent population separate and alone and voiceless and so cold
And isolated, perhaps striving not to see (for there is now the dirt)
But to hear the voices that once meant the world to those who
Much more than the living understand the world that they have left behind,
The old neighborhood where they grew up as much as did their
Children, who now try to make a new old neighborhood before the cycle
Starts again and leads to the garden where no flowers grow.
[written after attending an unveiling one year later and knowing
that the poet would one day be buried in that same “neighborhood”]
Where there used to be, not that long ago, joy
And sharing and love and vitality as neighbors and
Loved ones engaged in the day-to-day exhilaration
Of Life, where there once was touching of hands and
Looking directly into the eyes of those who understood
The soul and sense of others who provided daily contact and
Shared meals and recollections of the past and stories
Of the neighborhood, which seemed to take on a life
Of its own, where could be heard the voices of loved ones
Calling out to each other and giving true significance
To each one’s finite existence on the blocks and
In the buildings and houses that were attracted to each other
In that old familiar rectangular configuration, where children played
And teens studied music and academics and adults focused on their kids,
There in its place now lies a newer, older, much quieter neighborhood
Where grass and dirt take the place of oxygen and where there is
No vision, no romance, no anger, love, beings to be cherished
For their spirit and engagement, where there stand erect
A peaceful army of stolid concrete tombstones, unfeeling and gray,
Each inscribed with coldness, imprinted by a solitary stranger
With facts and figures but without Life, where each silent record of a life
Summed up can do no justice to the great vitality that once was there
But is no more, and where stones are placed as a reminder that loved ones
Made the journey to show remembrance but went back home and left
This silent population separate and alone and voiceless and so cold
And isolated, perhaps striving not to see (for there is now the dirt)
But to hear the voices that once meant the world to those who
Much more than the living understand the world that they have left behind,
The old neighborhood where they grew up as much as did their
Children, who now try to make a new old neighborhood before the cycle
Starts again and leads to the garden where no flowers grow.
[written after attending an unveiling one year later and knowing
that the poet would one day be buried in that same “neighborhood”]
Raymond
Raymond the Pretzel Man sold those delicious soft large pretzels
For five cents each day on the same cold corner of the City College,
Which stretched ten city blocks, building after building,
Each devoted to a single subject area, each filled with hungry
College students there to satisfy their minds, their dreams,
And their hungry stomachs. (I saw his car one time, the seats
Weighed down with the day’s goodies waiting for their turn, all
For five cents --- still cheap, even in the early ‘60’s.
Then one day I went to the ancient Polo Grounds in upper Manhattan,
Bordered by the Harlem River, a field once home to young Willie Mays and
Monty Irvin and Whitey Lockman, Bobbie Thomson (hitter of
“The Shot Heard ‘Round the World” in 1951, the homer which won
That year’s NL pennant --- and the rest of the New York Giants
(Before their owner ran away to San Francisco, not man enough to face the
New York crowd anymore), leaving the old park to offer sanctuary
To the fledgling Metropolitans and their newborn hungry crowd of fans.
I came by elevated and strolled the sidewalk that surrounded the stadium,
Edging toward the entrance for my upper deck seat overlooking
The first base foul line --- when suddenly I smelled familiarity;
I gazed in the direction of that unrefined culinary aroma and sure enough,
There, hawking his goods, was Raymond the Pretzel Man, but
There was a difference: in deference to the hungry baseball clientele,
Raymond --- always the businessman --- was selling those very same wonderful
Culinary treats not for a Chaucer student level of a nickel
But for the inflated price five times that: two bits! A quarter! Twenty-five cents!
Each! Too much for my taste --- and so I went without,
And went inside and watched my team try oh so hard
Before they fell. There were no Willie Mays heroics that day;
Neither was there a delicious soft but giant (excuse the pun) pretzel.
It’s sad. I went to see a baseball game . . . and what I recall most
Is being disappointed by a businessman --- but then again
Any baseball fan understands, especially if you follow a team
That struggles and you know exactly what to do to fix it
But who can you talk to and convince to make the deal,
To change the batting order, to switch the lineup or the fielders?
Baseball is a business . . . I know that’s true but
Tell that to my heart.
Raymond the Pretzel Man sold those delicious soft large pretzels
For five cents each day on the same cold corner of the City College,
Which stretched ten city blocks, building after building,
Each devoted to a single subject area, each filled with hungry
College students there to satisfy their minds, their dreams,
And their hungry stomachs. (I saw his car one time, the seats
Weighed down with the day’s goodies waiting for their turn, all
For five cents --- still cheap, even in the early ‘60’s.
Then one day I went to the ancient Polo Grounds in upper Manhattan,
Bordered by the Harlem River, a field once home to young Willie Mays and
Monty Irvin and Whitey Lockman, Bobbie Thomson (hitter of
“The Shot Heard ‘Round the World” in 1951, the homer which won
That year’s NL pennant --- and the rest of the New York Giants
(Before their owner ran away to San Francisco, not man enough to face the
New York crowd anymore), leaving the old park to offer sanctuary
To the fledgling Metropolitans and their newborn hungry crowd of fans.
I came by elevated and strolled the sidewalk that surrounded the stadium,
Edging toward the entrance for my upper deck seat overlooking
The first base foul line --- when suddenly I smelled familiarity;
I gazed in the direction of that unrefined culinary aroma and sure enough,
There, hawking his goods, was Raymond the Pretzel Man, but
There was a difference: in deference to the hungry baseball clientele,
Raymond --- always the businessman --- was selling those very same wonderful
Culinary treats not for a Chaucer student level of a nickel
But for the inflated price five times that: two bits! A quarter! Twenty-five cents!
Each! Too much for my taste --- and so I went without,
And went inside and watched my team try oh so hard
Before they fell. There were no Willie Mays heroics that day;
Neither was there a delicious soft but giant (excuse the pun) pretzel.
It’s sad. I went to see a baseball game . . . and what I recall most
Is being disappointed by a businessman --- but then again
Any baseball fan understands, especially if you follow a team
That struggles and you know exactly what to do to fix it
But who can you talk to and convince to make the deal,
To change the batting order, to switch the lineup or the fielders?
Baseball is a business . . . I know that’s true but
Tell that to my heart.
The Baseball Camp
James E. Dowling passed away in May, a bit shy of becoming a centenarian.
He was a very special member of the Greatest Generation,
Having been drafted at age 18 in 1942, becoming a bombardier / navigator
Under also-actor Jimmy Stewart, his Flight Leader. Then, two years later,
At the ripe old age of 20, he became Second Lieutenant Dowling. He flew
Eleven missions --- but the final one, a bombing run over Kassel, Germany,
Turned bad and his plane was hit and shot down. James became
A Prisoner of War. There were massive, coordinated bombing attacks that day,
September 27, 1944; Dowling’s group was targeting a tank manufacturing building
But he went down and soon found himself in a POW camp – and that was where
Baseball --- that uniquely American game --- provided him with sanity, for he
And those held with him played baseball games to pass the time every single day they could.
Baseball gave him the important link to home and thoughts of peace. The images
Of baseball gloves and the stitches around the ball must have brought him thoughts
Of his hometown and crowds of loved ones and of neighbors fantasized
In imagined seats cheering him on, and that must have given him the needed
Connection to what awaited him on the day to come when he and the others
Would be liberated, for in 1944 Germany was quickly dropping from first place to last.
Consider his spirit as the ball went around the field and tied together all the players
Wanting and waiting to return to their homes; comprehend the running of the bases
As predictive of the run one day soon into the arms of those left behind, those
Who missed them so, those whose lives, on hold, would then be capable of scoring runs
And winning games after all those deadly necessary years played out on the road.
There is no substitute for victory, and as James engaged in his POW camp games
He must have smelled the grass and seen home plate and known the time would
Soon arrive when he could play the great and cherished National Pastime,
Stand at attention while he heard the words praise “the Land of the Free
And the Home of the Brave, hit the ball with all his youthful power
And run without those cast-off prison boundaries till he came
All the way home to his nation’s shouts and cheers.
James E. Dowling passed away in May, a bit shy of becoming a centenarian.
He was a very special member of the Greatest Generation,
Having been drafted at age 18 in 1942, becoming a bombardier / navigator
Under also-actor Jimmy Stewart, his Flight Leader. Then, two years later,
At the ripe old age of 20, he became Second Lieutenant Dowling. He flew
Eleven missions --- but the final one, a bombing run over Kassel, Germany,
Turned bad and his plane was hit and shot down. James became
A Prisoner of War. There were massive, coordinated bombing attacks that day,
September 27, 1944; Dowling’s group was targeting a tank manufacturing building
But he went down and soon found himself in a POW camp – and that was where
Baseball --- that uniquely American game --- provided him with sanity, for he
And those held with him played baseball games to pass the time every single day they could.
Baseball gave him the important link to home and thoughts of peace. The images
Of baseball gloves and the stitches around the ball must have brought him thoughts
Of his hometown and crowds of loved ones and of neighbors fantasized
In imagined seats cheering him on, and that must have given him the needed
Connection to what awaited him on the day to come when he and the others
Would be liberated, for in 1944 Germany was quickly dropping from first place to last.
Consider his spirit as the ball went around the field and tied together all the players
Wanting and waiting to return to their homes; comprehend the running of the bases
As predictive of the run one day soon into the arms of those left behind, those
Who missed them so, those whose lives, on hold, would then be capable of scoring runs
And winning games after all those deadly necessary years played out on the road.
There is no substitute for victory, and as James engaged in his POW camp games
He must have smelled the grass and seen home plate and known the time would
Soon arrive when he could play the great and cherished National Pastime,
Stand at attention while he heard the words praise “the Land of the Free
And the Home of the Brave, hit the ball with all his youthful power
And run without those cast-off prison boundaries till he came
All the way home to his nation’s shouts and cheers.
Contrasts and Similarities
I used to play for hours in the schoolyards, on the streets,
In the gyms, on the fields of the Bronx many years ago:
Touch football, basketball, handball, punchball, street hockey ---
And above all were the weekend softball games organized
Informally by neighborhood teams looking for a sign
Of their athletic superlative in pro-sports-fed imaginations.
It was softball but it might as well have been Major League baseball,
With its parallel rules and basic concepts:
You pitched and hit and fielded and scored; you wore mitts
And used a spheroid ball with stitches, and sometimes even had an ump
‘Though mostly you the players were the umps and
Fairness dictated that calls would be honored, not argued.
Because of my mental connection with the Yankee player who was then
My idol, I gave myself permission to be that player when I hit and caught the ball;
I smoothly imitated the batting stance of The Mick
(Though the contact and power would bear little resemblance)
As well as the speed --- which blazed only in my mind.
I once cut the sleeves short on a good white shirt
And drew not quite straight black pinstripes on it with a crayon
And crafted the number 7 on the back (Then --- as now --- the Bronx Bombers
Were too prideful and classy to have players’ names on uniform backs;
Why make it easy for the fans to know identities?).
This was decades before MLB licensed its merchandise, so I guess I was
A sort of prophet of but no one knew – except for now --- because
I never had the nerve to wear that shirt outside my comforting apartment.
How we played those softball games for real! Almost every Saturday
In the good weather months in the Big Apple, on the land once owned
By Jonas Bronck and all those other Broncks, we representatives
Of local neighborhoods, with a fine mixture of styles and intelligence,
Set up the games, agreed on which schoolyard would serve our needs,
Two groups of guys ready for the competition we craved as a semi-civilized
Sublimation of our genetic leaning toward our masculine desire
To do worthwhile (but civilized) combat, and at the time agreed upon, we would
Take formation on the schoolyard battlefield and execute our plans,
And may the best team win! (which didn’t always happen).
Now an octogenarian, I engage in games on the playing fields of Physical Therapy
Where the ball I use is squeezed (not thrown) to strengthen my arthritic knee
And my balance at the plate has been replaced by exercises on foam stairs
And my run around the bases now are steps cautiously executed over low hurdles
Placed with care on the PT floor, each succeeding pair distanced by some inches
For me to try to walk between, a maneuver which I used to do unconsciously ---
And instead of sliding, now I go feet-first upon a device termed a leg press.
My coach doesn’t tell me when to run but when to slow down
And my uniform is not like any worn by the others on this team of players
Focused on regaining what approaches what was once their prime.
There is no crowd but there are always those who cheer us on
For who is there that can’t appreciate and respond to words of encouragement?
And indeed, the competition that I once thrived on still remains
And I rise to every challenge and I do my best and refuse to bow my head
For even now I do honor to my neighborhood and therefore
I cannot allow myself to accept defeat! I am from the Bronx;
Defeat does not reside within me. Bring it on!
I used to play for hours in the schoolyards, on the streets,
In the gyms, on the fields of the Bronx many years ago:
Touch football, basketball, handball, punchball, street hockey ---
And above all were the weekend softball games organized
Informally by neighborhood teams looking for a sign
Of their athletic superlative in pro-sports-fed imaginations.
It was softball but it might as well have been Major League baseball,
With its parallel rules and basic concepts:
You pitched and hit and fielded and scored; you wore mitts
And used a spheroid ball with stitches, and sometimes even had an ump
‘Though mostly you the players were the umps and
Fairness dictated that calls would be honored, not argued.
Because of my mental connection with the Yankee player who was then
My idol, I gave myself permission to be that player when I hit and caught the ball;
I smoothly imitated the batting stance of The Mick
(Though the contact and power would bear little resemblance)
As well as the speed --- which blazed only in my mind.
I once cut the sleeves short on a good white shirt
And drew not quite straight black pinstripes on it with a crayon
And crafted the number 7 on the back (Then --- as now --- the Bronx Bombers
Were too prideful and classy to have players’ names on uniform backs;
Why make it easy for the fans to know identities?).
This was decades before MLB licensed its merchandise, so I guess I was
A sort of prophet of but no one knew – except for now --- because
I never had the nerve to wear that shirt outside my comforting apartment.
How we played those softball games for real! Almost every Saturday
In the good weather months in the Big Apple, on the land once owned
By Jonas Bronck and all those other Broncks, we representatives
Of local neighborhoods, with a fine mixture of styles and intelligence,
Set up the games, agreed on which schoolyard would serve our needs,
Two groups of guys ready for the competition we craved as a semi-civilized
Sublimation of our genetic leaning toward our masculine desire
To do worthwhile (but civilized) combat, and at the time agreed upon, we would
Take formation on the schoolyard battlefield and execute our plans,
And may the best team win! (which didn’t always happen).
Now an octogenarian, I engage in games on the playing fields of Physical Therapy
Where the ball I use is squeezed (not thrown) to strengthen my arthritic knee
And my balance at the plate has been replaced by exercises on foam stairs
And my run around the bases now are steps cautiously executed over low hurdles
Placed with care on the PT floor, each succeeding pair distanced by some inches
For me to try to walk between, a maneuver which I used to do unconsciously ---
And instead of sliding, now I go feet-first upon a device termed a leg press.
My coach doesn’t tell me when to run but when to slow down
And my uniform is not like any worn by the others on this team of players
Focused on regaining what approaches what was once their prime.
There is no crowd but there are always those who cheer us on
For who is there that can’t appreciate and respond to words of encouragement?
And indeed, the competition that I once thrived on still remains
And I rise to every challenge and I do my best and refuse to bow my head
For even now I do honor to my neighborhood and therefore
I cannot allow myself to accept defeat! I am from the Bronx;
Defeat does not reside within me. Bring it on!
She Plays
She plays and the keys love her touch,
The lightness of the gentle fingering and the airbrush
Painting that she creates when she crafts the music
That pleases and relaxes all who hear; she portrays
Delight in the slight shuffling of her feet and all who hear
Feel cheer and joy as she deploys the notes to join in unison
And journey with each other to their familiar conclusion.
In our hearts and minds, we sing along
The song that we’ve all sung before, and we implore of her
Not to stop but to play again the notes and bring to us
The music of our world, of our time, of our lives
With such great grace that we can feel
The tones and tempo play with us and tease us and
In the end reward us with their love and their embrace.
We’ve heard these songs before but never more sincerely played
Than we do now, as the familiar notes come home to us where they belong.
She plays and the keys love her touch,
The lightness of the gentle fingering and the airbrush
Painting that she creates when she crafts the music
That pleases and relaxes all who hear; she portrays
Delight in the slight shuffling of her feet and all who hear
Feel cheer and joy as she deploys the notes to join in unison
And journey with each other to their familiar conclusion.
In our hearts and minds, we sing along
The song that we’ve all sung before, and we implore of her
Not to stop but to play again the notes and bring to us
The music of our world, of our time, of our lives
With such great grace that we can feel
The tones and tempo play with us and tease us and
In the end reward us with their love and their embrace.
We’ve heard these songs before but never more sincerely played
Than we do now, as the familiar notes come home to us where they belong.
I Used to Laugh
I used to laugh when Tim Conway would appear on my TV screen,
Shuffling his shoes and stuttering his feet like so many machine gun bullets
Hitting the ground, in character as the little old man, the one who could
Barely move his legs more than one inch at a time; it was hilarious
To a viewer in his twenties or early thirties, one to whom old age was
A distant and unlikely goal --- but now, as I sit and consider my reactions then,
As I have become that ancient man who walks gradually and stumbles
With arthritic pain, I cannot see the humor in that personage. We are not allowed
To make fun of the blind or the deaf or the wheelchair-bound; we
Have been taught not to find humor in one’s race or mental problems.
We are scolded if we try to imitate, with cruel exaggeration, accents
Foreign to our ears (although many of us grew up with such pronunciations
Coming from our grandparents and parents, ironic as that is).
Why is it then that people of a certain age are still fair game for
Comedians and commentators, for neighbors and acquaintances
And through osmosis, for the teens and alphabet generations in this nation?
Other cultures honor those who have for lengths of time lived among them,
See their wisdom gathered from so many life adventures and too many ventures.
Wisdom is not there at birth, nor does it find a home among the young
Though some would try to claim such blasphemy, showing in its stead
Their lack of what we call sagacity. Wisdom comes from years of making
Personal mistakes and learning from these faults; it stems from foolishness
And ignorance and false security but is not guaranteed.
It is born of self-awareness, of the ability and even eagerness
To learn what difficulties have to teach so that mistakes are not repeated.
As I have aged and found too many physical abilities escaping me
Where once they were accepted and expected, I have looked around
And noticed so many others stooped as if they carried on their backs
The burden of the rock of Sisyphus, trying not to let it fall,
And still others, drained by the years of life, take steps not so unlike
Those of Tim Conway, sometimes stumbling but always seeking
To reach their destinations. Our nation’s age is showing, and we must learn
To respect those who have made their way through the pestilence of Time.
Be like the others from the lesser yet the greater nations who respect
And cherish their living ancestors, those who in their words and actions
Made life better, warmer, more secure, less annoying for them.
Find your humor in funny situations but never in a mocking of the aged.
They paid the price for your admission into a world that waits for you
To show your own sagacity. Begin that vital journey by making the one change
That displays you find no humor in the stumbling walk of Time but rather
Find respect in the journey that this traveler has pursued
His entire life!
I used to laugh when Tim Conway would appear on my TV screen,
Shuffling his shoes and stuttering his feet like so many machine gun bullets
Hitting the ground, in character as the little old man, the one who could
Barely move his legs more than one inch at a time; it was hilarious
To a viewer in his twenties or early thirties, one to whom old age was
A distant and unlikely goal --- but now, as I sit and consider my reactions then,
As I have become that ancient man who walks gradually and stumbles
With arthritic pain, I cannot see the humor in that personage. We are not allowed
To make fun of the blind or the deaf or the wheelchair-bound; we
Have been taught not to find humor in one’s race or mental problems.
We are scolded if we try to imitate, with cruel exaggeration, accents
Foreign to our ears (although many of us grew up with such pronunciations
Coming from our grandparents and parents, ironic as that is).
Why is it then that people of a certain age are still fair game for
Comedians and commentators, for neighbors and acquaintances
And through osmosis, for the teens and alphabet generations in this nation?
Other cultures honor those who have for lengths of time lived among them,
See their wisdom gathered from so many life adventures and too many ventures.
Wisdom is not there at birth, nor does it find a home among the young
Though some would try to claim such blasphemy, showing in its stead
Their lack of what we call sagacity. Wisdom comes from years of making
Personal mistakes and learning from these faults; it stems from foolishness
And ignorance and false security but is not guaranteed.
It is born of self-awareness, of the ability and even eagerness
To learn what difficulties have to teach so that mistakes are not repeated.
As I have aged and found too many physical abilities escaping me
Where once they were accepted and expected, I have looked around
And noticed so many others stooped as if they carried on their backs
The burden of the rock of Sisyphus, trying not to let it fall,
And still others, drained by the years of life, take steps not so unlike
Those of Tim Conway, sometimes stumbling but always seeking
To reach their destinations. Our nation’s age is showing, and we must learn
To respect those who have made their way through the pestilence of Time.
Be like the others from the lesser yet the greater nations who respect
And cherish their living ancestors, those who in their words and actions
Made life better, warmer, more secure, less annoying for them.
Find your humor in funny situations but never in a mocking of the aged.
They paid the price for your admission into a world that waits for you
To show your own sagacity. Begin that vital journey by making the one change
That displays you find no humor in the stumbling walk of Time but rather
Find respect in the journey that this traveler has pursued
His entire life!
MANtle
I have a different take on The Commerce Comet;
Yes, he was a three-time MVP and a Triple Crown winner
In 1956; I recognize his power --- hitting the longest
Home run ever measured in the Major Leagues,
At 565 feet, against Chuck Stobbs of the Senators;
Yes, he was on seven World Series Championships
And he hit 18 home runs in the 12 Series he was in.
I commend his 20 appearances in All-Star games
And loved his chase with Maris in trying to better
The Babe’s record 60 homers (too bad an injury
Reduced Mantle’s number to 54, while Maris went on
To set the AL record until eclipsed by Judge).
No, as impressive as these stats are, they aren’t
What, to me, defined The Mick. It was his courage,
His essence, his ability to drag a bunt when he hit
Left-handed, and before you knew it, he was past first!
The man who bore the lifelong effects of osteomyelitis,
A teenage condition that made him face three surgeries,
Who badly hurt his knee early in his career, in 1951,
Who was wrapped in bandages every day he played,
Would pull a left-handed bunt past the pitcher,
Make the second baseman charge
Desperately and try to throw him out, to no avail,
Because Mickey got to first in 3.1 seconds (90 feet
In 3.1 seconds, bandages and all!), and this to me was
The most exciting play I ever saw. I watched as he would chase
And reach fly balls trying desperately to escape his grasp
As the man who replaced DiMaggio in center field,
But nothing ever brought me to my feet or made me cheer
As loudly as this less than perfect physical specimen zoom
Past first by the time the fielder touched his drag bunt.
This was the way I measured him, his courage, his determination,
His victory over physical challenges --- and this is the lesson
I took from each success. You will meet challenges in life
But it is how you handle them that determines who you are.
Mickey was a model to be followed and even now
As I face my own physical challenges in extra innings,
The memory of Mickey dragging that bunt and flying
To first finds a vital home in my twilight memory.
I have a different take on The Commerce Comet;
Yes, he was a three-time MVP and a Triple Crown winner
In 1956; I recognize his power --- hitting the longest
Home run ever measured in the Major Leagues,
At 565 feet, against Chuck Stobbs of the Senators;
Yes, he was on seven World Series Championships
And he hit 18 home runs in the 12 Series he was in.
I commend his 20 appearances in All-Star games
And loved his chase with Maris in trying to better
The Babe’s record 60 homers (too bad an injury
Reduced Mantle’s number to 54, while Maris went on
To set the AL record until eclipsed by Judge).
No, as impressive as these stats are, they aren’t
What, to me, defined The Mick. It was his courage,
His essence, his ability to drag a bunt when he hit
Left-handed, and before you knew it, he was past first!
The man who bore the lifelong effects of osteomyelitis,
A teenage condition that made him face three surgeries,
Who badly hurt his knee early in his career, in 1951,
Who was wrapped in bandages every day he played,
Would pull a left-handed bunt past the pitcher,
Make the second baseman charge
Desperately and try to throw him out, to no avail,
Because Mickey got to first in 3.1 seconds (90 feet
In 3.1 seconds, bandages and all!), and this to me was
The most exciting play I ever saw. I watched as he would chase
And reach fly balls trying desperately to escape his grasp
As the man who replaced DiMaggio in center field,
But nothing ever brought me to my feet or made me cheer
As loudly as this less than perfect physical specimen zoom
Past first by the time the fielder touched his drag bunt.
This was the way I measured him, his courage, his determination,
His victory over physical challenges --- and this is the lesson
I took from each success. You will meet challenges in life
But it is how you handle them that determines who you are.
Mickey was a model to be followed and even now
As I face my own physical challenges in extra innings,
The memory of Mickey dragging that bunt and flying
To first finds a vital home in my twilight memory.
Bill - - -
Just plain Bill, that's the common phrase
But there was nothing plain about him.
He was a man. In the most poignant way,
He was a man who faced down adversity
And thrived in his love of life and of those
Enriched by his presence in their lives.
He was a husband who deserved the best
Of wives and that is what he had,
A smart, strong, caring and beautiful
Woman who was always by his side.
He was a father whose worth should be judged
By the love and quality of his daughters.
He was a grandfather whose love will be missed
But whose memory, for them, will never fade.
A person should be valued by how he's perceived.
Mention Bill and you recall a terrific smile
And a laugh that would cause the Earth to move.
You remember words of kindness and
A gentleness that couldn't help but spread
And blanket the room and comfort all.
This was a man who cared about others,
A jewel that cast a glow that was seen and even felt.
He faced his challenges as a champion,
And he must be recalled as a man who
Stood so tall he could reach up and touch the heavens.
He will be missed in ways hard to define
By numbers difficult to count.
He will be missed.
Just plain Bill, that's the common phrase
But there was nothing plain about him.
He was a man. In the most poignant way,
He was a man who faced down adversity
And thrived in his love of life and of those
Enriched by his presence in their lives.
He was a husband who deserved the best
Of wives and that is what he had,
A smart, strong, caring and beautiful
Woman who was always by his side.
He was a father whose worth should be judged
By the love and quality of his daughters.
He was a grandfather whose love will be missed
But whose memory, for them, will never fade.
A person should be valued by how he's perceived.
Mention Bill and you recall a terrific smile
And a laugh that would cause the Earth to move.
You remember words of kindness and
A gentleness that couldn't help but spread
And blanket the room and comfort all.
This was a man who cared about others,
A jewel that cast a glow that was seen and even felt.
He faced his challenges as a champion,
And he must be recalled as a man who
Stood so tall he could reach up and touch the heavens.
He will be missed in ways hard to define
By numbers difficult to count.
He will be missed.
Thief!
He inches off first, eyes on the pitcher,
Noting the speed of the shortened wind up,
The attention paid to him by the hurler,
The likelihood the pitcher will throw a curve to the batter
Or a change-up rather than a dart.
He needs to be able to dive back to first if necessary.
He recalls challenging this catcher's arm before.
He is aware of the score, the late inning, The batter's ability to make contact or take a pitch
If he gets a good jump and has a chance
To steal himself into scoring position.
His team is one run behind in the eighth;
The hitter has a reputation: homer or strike out.
It's the final week of the season and the runner's team
Is desperate for the win.... He crouched, slides
Another inch. Another. The pitcher focuses
On the hitter. One more out to go! The pitcher, a righty, begins to release the ball
Just as the runner takes off! Oh, wow ---What a play!!
They're all in the Majors; they all have skills:
It comes down to performing under pressure.
He inches off first, eyes on the pitcher,
Noting the speed of the shortened wind up,
The attention paid to him by the hurler,
The likelihood the pitcher will throw a curve to the batter
Or a change-up rather than a dart.
He needs to be able to dive back to first if necessary.
He recalls challenging this catcher's arm before.
He is aware of the score, the late inning, The batter's ability to make contact or take a pitch
If he gets a good jump and has a chance
To steal himself into scoring position.
His team is one run behind in the eighth;
The hitter has a reputation: homer or strike out.
It's the final week of the season and the runner's team
Is desperate for the win.... He crouched, slides
Another inch. Another. The pitcher focuses
On the hitter. One more out to go! The pitcher, a righty, begins to release the ball
Just as the runner takes off! Oh, wow ---What a play!!
They're all in the Majors; they all have skills:
It comes down to performing under pressure.
Satch
Can you imagine swimming upstream, facing a double current
Of age and racism? It takes a special person to come out ahead.
A rookie at age 42? A black man in a turbulent environment,
Letting his pitching skills change minds and hearts one year
After Jackie broke down the insidious wall of racism in America’s game.
A man who helped lead Cleveland to the crown in 1948, who
Beat the Chisox 1-0 before 78,382 screaming fans (largest crowd ever),
The first black pitcher in the Junior Circuit thriving in a so-close
Pennant race --- it took a special man. It took Leroy “Satchel” Paige.
He went 6 – 1 that year, as Cleveland beat the Red Sox in a one-game playoff.
Paige then became the first of his race to pitch in a World Series game,
Part of a team that beat the Boston Braves and won the title.
No surprise he was named Rookie of the Year by the Sporting News.
But that was not the start or even end of this man’s story. Before
He was the first black Hall of Famer, he was staring in the Negro Leagues
With his “Long Tom” fastball and so many other pitches that he named:
“Bat Dodger,” Thoughtful Stuff” and his favorite “Bee Ball”
That buzzed like a bee past all those bats . . . and when he aged and
When his speed deserted him, he still could fool batters with his “Midnight Creeper,”
“Wobbly Ball,” “Whipsy-Dipsy-Do” and his most renowned “Hesitation Pitch,”
bringing him hundreds (some say thousands) of victories, including an exhibition game
Early in his career when, before baseball integration, he faced white Major Leaguers And struck out 21 of them! He should never be forgotten. He was loved, respected.
The great Di Maggio said he was “the best I’ve ever faced and the fastest.”
It took too long but in the end the Majors got it right. Men are men,
And Satchel did his share, made his point, and never looked back.
Can you imagine swimming upstream, facing a double current
Of age and racism? It takes a special person to come out ahead.
A rookie at age 42? A black man in a turbulent environment,
Letting his pitching skills change minds and hearts one year
After Jackie broke down the insidious wall of racism in America’s game.
A man who helped lead Cleveland to the crown in 1948, who
Beat the Chisox 1-0 before 78,382 screaming fans (largest crowd ever),
The first black pitcher in the Junior Circuit thriving in a so-close
Pennant race --- it took a special man. It took Leroy “Satchel” Paige.
He went 6 – 1 that year, as Cleveland beat the Red Sox in a one-game playoff.
Paige then became the first of his race to pitch in a World Series game,
Part of a team that beat the Boston Braves and won the title.
No surprise he was named Rookie of the Year by the Sporting News.
But that was not the start or even end of this man’s story. Before
He was the first black Hall of Famer, he was staring in the Negro Leagues
With his “Long Tom” fastball and so many other pitches that he named:
“Bat Dodger,” Thoughtful Stuff” and his favorite “Bee Ball”
That buzzed like a bee past all those bats . . . and when he aged and
When his speed deserted him, he still could fool batters with his “Midnight Creeper,”
“Wobbly Ball,” “Whipsy-Dipsy-Do” and his most renowned “Hesitation Pitch,”
bringing him hundreds (some say thousands) of victories, including an exhibition game
Early in his career when, before baseball integration, he faced white Major Leaguers And struck out 21 of them! He should never be forgotten. He was loved, respected.
The great Di Maggio said he was “the best I’ve ever faced and the fastest.”
It took too long but in the end the Majors got it right. Men are men,
And Satchel did his share, made his point, and never looked back.
Paige
They called me Satchel ‘cause I moved around so much,
Carryin’ a bunch-a- bags of clothes slung over my shoulder,
Playing the game I loved wherever I could,
Stayin’ in flea-bag segregated hotels --- and what’s the use of complainin’?
They talked about my skills and all them types of pitches
That I threw – fast, slow, straight, curved --- and my special
Hesitatin’ windup, throwin’ all them batters off their balance so bad
That they swung half an hour ‘fore the ball hit the catcher’s mitt.
Yeah, I was skilled, and beatin’ the good ones like Josh Gibson
(Struck him out on three straight pitches, I recall) and I did
The same against them Major Leaguers more than once ---
But here’s the thing: I didn’t need to prove how good I was.
I knew exactly who I was all the time just by lookin’
In the mirror every day. I was baseball’s greatest showman,
Always in the center ring, always in the spotlight --- and I made sure
I never disappointed any crowd (or any teammate, for that matter).
I put on a show from my first appearance to my last, in 1965,
When I was fifty-nine years young and threw three innings for the K. C. A’s
--- Gave up one lousy hit! People’d come for miles around to see my act
And I’d never disappoint. It was in my blood, and I never shied away
From that old spotlight --- ‘cause I was Satchel Paige and everyone
Who knew about the game understood: it was the show that mattered.
Hey, maybe that’s the reason when they talk about the Majors
Those in the know now call it The Big Show!
They called me Satchel ‘cause I moved around so much,
Carryin’ a bunch-a- bags of clothes slung over my shoulder,
Playing the game I loved wherever I could,
Stayin’ in flea-bag segregated hotels --- and what’s the use of complainin’?
They talked about my skills and all them types of pitches
That I threw – fast, slow, straight, curved --- and my special
Hesitatin’ windup, throwin’ all them batters off their balance so bad
That they swung half an hour ‘fore the ball hit the catcher’s mitt.
Yeah, I was skilled, and beatin’ the good ones like Josh Gibson
(Struck him out on three straight pitches, I recall) and I did
The same against them Major Leaguers more than once ---
But here’s the thing: I didn’t need to prove how good I was.
I knew exactly who I was all the time just by lookin’
In the mirror every day. I was baseball’s greatest showman,
Always in the center ring, always in the spotlight --- and I made sure
I never disappointed any crowd (or any teammate, for that matter).
I put on a show from my first appearance to my last, in 1965,
When I was fifty-nine years young and threw three innings for the K. C. A’s
--- Gave up one lousy hit! People’d come for miles around to see my act
And I’d never disappoint. It was in my blood, and I never shied away
From that old spotlight --- ‘cause I was Satchel Paige and everyone
Who knew about the game understood: it was the show that mattered.
Hey, maybe that’s the reason when they talk about the Majors
Those in the know now call it The Big Show!
Is It Really Over?
He had a wondrous rookie season, high average in the spring,
Buzz about him in the hometown publications, hot-shot of the month
in April, played a strong defense and almost made it to the All-Star game.
He finished at .280, then had a no-jinx sophomore year that
Foretold his consistency through the next few years, but then
A major muscle injury limited his action on the field, and he faded
Into the no-tool lesser player that he was never meant to be.
Now he’s retired, still in his early thirties, made some good investments
But never really planned what he would do, where he would go
When the joyride ended. He just wakes up each day --- they are
All the same --- looks around, at his brown furniture and bare green walls,
Thinks of the missing teammates, the non-existent guidance
From his coaches, the phantom dugout and locker room, with
nothing much to do, no cheering crowds, autograph seekers or
TV interviewers, and he shakes his head and wonders whether Life,
Which blessed him once, would kiss his forehead and
Hold him close again . . . ever again.
It’s hard when the highlight reels are gone, and the name is barely spoken
And the glove and bat lie in the back of a dark closet, engulfed in cobwebs.
Is it better never to have climbed Mount Everest than to have reached
The upmost peak too soon? It is then a dreary journey to the base
When there’s so much of daylight left and people speak of you ---
When they happen to --- only in the past tense, only as an afterthought.
He had a wondrous rookie season, high average in the spring,
Buzz about him in the hometown publications, hot-shot of the month
in April, played a strong defense and almost made it to the All-Star game.
He finished at .280, then had a no-jinx sophomore year that
Foretold his consistency through the next few years, but then
A major muscle injury limited his action on the field, and he faded
Into the no-tool lesser player that he was never meant to be.
Now he’s retired, still in his early thirties, made some good investments
But never really planned what he would do, where he would go
When the joyride ended. He just wakes up each day --- they are
All the same --- looks around, at his brown furniture and bare green walls,
Thinks of the missing teammates, the non-existent guidance
From his coaches, the phantom dugout and locker room, with
nothing much to do, no cheering crowds, autograph seekers or
TV interviewers, and he shakes his head and wonders whether Life,
Which blessed him once, would kiss his forehead and
Hold him close again . . . ever again.
It’s hard when the highlight reels are gone, and the name is barely spoken
And the glove and bat lie in the back of a dark closet, engulfed in cobwebs.
Is it better never to have climbed Mount Everest than to have reached
The upmost peak too soon? It is then a dreary journey to the base
When there’s so much of daylight left and people speak of you ---
When they happen to --- only in the past tense, only as an afterthought.
I Prefer
I prefer my pleasures simple . . .
An enchanted kiss that told me we belong together;
A smile that signaled how I made you feel;
A tender touch of a hand when you needed it and
All the trust that came with it;
The words so easily spoken yet so meaningful in their intent
And in their meaning; an intimate embrace that would last me
Forever in my memory and in my thoughts when you lay next to me
In the darkness and silence of the night;
Words of encouragement that bring to mind our courtship
And the tingling early excitement as we took turns discovering
The person who we were so clearly bound to spend a lifetime with;
Your laughter at my silly jokes and your pure joy at sharing
With me memories of our first journeys to the simplest and most blessed
Places of our lives --- a restaurant, a movie theater, the building
We were spiritually united under His eyes and all the memories
That grew with us as we held onto hands and sought and found
The moments which we used to build a Life that would serve us
Throughout our growing time together, united ‘gainst the
Obstacles and challenges that we together faced and learned to manage.
I prefer these simple pleasures that gave us life beyond what we
Each knew when we were not together; yet, I have come to realize
That simple pleasures take a lifetime of complexity to be appreciated.
I prefer my pleasures simple . . .
An enchanted kiss that told me we belong together;
A smile that signaled how I made you feel;
A tender touch of a hand when you needed it and
All the trust that came with it;
The words so easily spoken yet so meaningful in their intent
And in their meaning; an intimate embrace that would last me
Forever in my memory and in my thoughts when you lay next to me
In the darkness and silence of the night;
Words of encouragement that bring to mind our courtship
And the tingling early excitement as we took turns discovering
The person who we were so clearly bound to spend a lifetime with;
Your laughter at my silly jokes and your pure joy at sharing
With me memories of our first journeys to the simplest and most blessed
Places of our lives --- a restaurant, a movie theater, the building
We were spiritually united under His eyes and all the memories
That grew with us as we held onto hands and sought and found
The moments which we used to build a Life that would serve us
Throughout our growing time together, united ‘gainst the
Obstacles and challenges that we together faced and learned to manage.
I prefer these simple pleasures that gave us life beyond what we
Each knew when we were not together; yet, I have come to realize
That simple pleasures take a lifetime of complexity to be appreciated.
The Rabbi
He was short of stature, a bit chunky ---
But he was imposing, with a voice that spoke to God
And a demeanor that grasped your attention and
Compelled you to absorb his every word.
He had volunteered to serve in World War Two,
As a chaplain with his speech and wisdom as sharp weapons
More powerful than missiles and more accurate,
For when he shared his wisdom and his empathy,
He hit so many targets that he was anointed leader
Of a Judaic movement that led the way to save so many
From the persecution of potent destructive dictatorships.
He was among the first Americans to liberate the victims
Barely alive in Buchenwald, and overcoming the horror
That almost destroyed his sight, the ashes and the piles
Of the dead innocents, he turned his strength and his
Sublime spirituality to the survivors and helped them
Face and fulfill their future despite the unfair passing of their loved ones.
He counseled and he battled those who otherwise would have
Lost their faith and their respect for their religion. In later years,
He used his sanctified determination to help free Jews from the
Pogroms and the servitude of the Soviets . . .
And all this I had no knowledge of that day in January
More than 50 years ago, when Rabbi Herschel Schacter
United me and my lifetime wife under is chuppah, before a small
But loving congregation. He was just the rabbi to me then,
but I grew and knew how very special that ceremony had been.
He will always be, to me, The Rabbi!
He was short of stature, a bit chunky ---
But he was imposing, with a voice that spoke to God
And a demeanor that grasped your attention and
Compelled you to absorb his every word.
He had volunteered to serve in World War Two,
As a chaplain with his speech and wisdom as sharp weapons
More powerful than missiles and more accurate,
For when he shared his wisdom and his empathy,
He hit so many targets that he was anointed leader
Of a Judaic movement that led the way to save so many
From the persecution of potent destructive dictatorships.
He was among the first Americans to liberate the victims
Barely alive in Buchenwald, and overcoming the horror
That almost destroyed his sight, the ashes and the piles
Of the dead innocents, he turned his strength and his
Sublime spirituality to the survivors and helped them
Face and fulfill their future despite the unfair passing of their loved ones.
He counseled and he battled those who otherwise would have
Lost their faith and their respect for their religion. In later years,
He used his sanctified determination to help free Jews from the
Pogroms and the servitude of the Soviets . . .
And all this I had no knowledge of that day in January
More than 50 years ago, when Rabbi Herschel Schacter
United me and my lifetime wife under is chuppah, before a small
But loving congregation. He was just the rabbi to me then,
but I grew and knew how very special that ceremony had been.
He will always be, to me, The Rabbi!
To Be Frank
He was what was called a bonus baby in 1954,
But it was no bonus to him as he sat on the bench
Of the World Champ Yankees that year, appearing
In just 12 games. It was the rule that he had to
Stay in the Majors for two full years ‘cause he had signed
For so much money, but he might as well have been
A water cooler. He should have gone elsewhere,
Where he might have been needed, but he instead
Became background noise while the five-in-a-row
Series winners went on to win 103 games out of 154
And finished second, eight games behind
A mighty Cleveland team led by four great pitchers!
Yes, there were bonus babies who made it to the
Hall of Fame (Clementé, Hunter, Kaline, Koufax,
Killebrew) but Frank Leja never got a chance to see
What he could do --- not a fair one --- and he too soon
Faded even further into the baseball background,
Going 0 for two in ’55 and finishing a sad career
Going 0 for 16 with the expansion Angels.
He was a man who had been called “the next Lou Gehrig”
By the scout who really had signed the Iron Horse,
But bonus baby Frank had been doomed the day
He signed his first Yankee contract. Sometimes rules
Do more damage than good. That rule was killed off
By the Majors in ’65, 12 years too late for Frank.
He was what was called a bonus baby in 1954,
But it was no bonus to him as he sat on the bench
Of the World Champ Yankees that year, appearing
In just 12 games. It was the rule that he had to
Stay in the Majors for two full years ‘cause he had signed
For so much money, but he might as well have been
A water cooler. He should have gone elsewhere,
Where he might have been needed, but he instead
Became background noise while the five-in-a-row
Series winners went on to win 103 games out of 154
And finished second, eight games behind
A mighty Cleveland team led by four great pitchers!
Yes, there were bonus babies who made it to the
Hall of Fame (Clementé, Hunter, Kaline, Koufax,
Killebrew) but Frank Leja never got a chance to see
What he could do --- not a fair one --- and he too soon
Faded even further into the baseball background,
Going 0 for two in ’55 and finishing a sad career
Going 0 for 16 with the expansion Angels.
He was a man who had been called “the next Lou Gehrig”
By the scout who really had signed the Iron Horse,
But bonus baby Frank had been doomed the day
He signed his first Yankee contract. Sometimes rules
Do more damage than good. That rule was killed off
By the Majors in ’65, 12 years too late for Frank.
Thank You, Sandy
I was a teacher for 58 years.
The stats live with me every day ---
Ditto machine to iPad
Black board to green to white
Suits and ties to comfort... and
Always the children, the fans.
I won awards and worked with kids
On newspapers, yearbooks, magazines,
Made movies, put on shows,
Coached basketball on two continents,
Met my future wife sharing a classroom:
All of it has sped by like a runner
Hitting an inside-the-park homer.
It built up like the Dodger comeback in '51.
All those lessons, discussions, tests,
All those grades in my role as umpire.
There's no Hall of Fame induction for me
But if I would have to make a speech
Accepting the honor of a lifetime,
I'd thank a baseball great for my career.
It's this simple: I'd never have passed
My teaching exam if I hadn't read
A biography of Koufax in 1966
And written about it on that night
As I sat in a Brooklyn classroom and
Came through in the clutch
And finally made the Major Leagues
By hitting a homer with Koufax,
Not against him (of course).
I finally circled the bases a year ago
And I can rest and smile
And replay highlights of all those games
Any time I want.
I was a teacher for 58 years.
The stats live with me every day ---
Ditto machine to iPad
Black board to green to white
Suits and ties to comfort... and
Always the children, the fans.
I won awards and worked with kids
On newspapers, yearbooks, magazines,
Made movies, put on shows,
Coached basketball on two continents,
Met my future wife sharing a classroom:
All of it has sped by like a runner
Hitting an inside-the-park homer.
It built up like the Dodger comeback in '51.
All those lessons, discussions, tests,
All those grades in my role as umpire.
There's no Hall of Fame induction for me
But if I would have to make a speech
Accepting the honor of a lifetime,
I'd thank a baseball great for my career.
It's this simple: I'd never have passed
My teaching exam if I hadn't read
A biography of Koufax in 1966
And written about it on that night
As I sat in a Brooklyn classroom and
Came through in the clutch
And finally made the Major Leagues
By hitting a homer with Koufax,
Not against him (of course).
I finally circled the bases a year ago
And I can rest and smile
And replay highlights of all those games
Any time I want.
Another Friend
Another friend has passed away.
One more friend no longer here to vouch for my existence
Or give me sound advice or keep me grounded;
One less friend to share the memories of the days of victory
And the moments when true love was born and flourished;
One less friend who calls on me to care for him in visions
Oft recalled, of happy times that lasted much too briefly.
Another friend has left me too alone,
Absent of his voice and laughter, of his poignant notes,
Left me wandering too aimlessly, seeking sparks of life
Where darkness dwells and silence reigns.
Another loved one has moved on from this electric sphere
To realms unknown and silent aura deafening
To those he left behind, gone hopefully to a welcome place,
But that does me no good, for I am left behind listening
To echoes that exist only in the reminiscence of the past,
When he and she and they were all around and held me
Closely, reassuring me that we would all go on forever and a day.
It was a heart-comfort promise --- but made with the breath of youth,
When hope and eagerness ruled the day . . .
And now another friend has passed away
And I am left with an emptiness that will not leave,
And sunny days have been replaced by daily clouds and evening haze
And sweetness has a different taste, all because
Another friend has passed away.
Another friend has passed away.
One more friend no longer here to vouch for my existence
Or give me sound advice or keep me grounded;
One less friend to share the memories of the days of victory
And the moments when true love was born and flourished;
One less friend who calls on me to care for him in visions
Oft recalled, of happy times that lasted much too briefly.
Another friend has left me too alone,
Absent of his voice and laughter, of his poignant notes,
Left me wandering too aimlessly, seeking sparks of life
Where darkness dwells and silence reigns.
Another loved one has moved on from this electric sphere
To realms unknown and silent aura deafening
To those he left behind, gone hopefully to a welcome place,
But that does me no good, for I am left behind listening
To echoes that exist only in the reminiscence of the past,
When he and she and they were all around and held me
Closely, reassuring me that we would all go on forever and a day.
It was a heart-comfort promise --- but made with the breath of youth,
When hope and eagerness ruled the day . . .
And now another friend has passed away
And I am left with an emptiness that will not leave,
And sunny days have been replaced by daily clouds and evening haze
And sweetness has a different taste, all because
Another friend has passed away.
Yogi
My God, he had his own museum!
I followed Yogi as I matured near the Stadium in the Bronx.
He was a crazy Harry Potter with his bat, swirling that magic wand
Seemingly uncontrollably, swinging at pitches that
He had no right to try to reach in the logical world
Of the sport that he excelled in, but then again,
There is no logic in a body shaped like a fire hydrant
Wildly flailing at darts and swirls and accumulating
Three hundred and fifty-eight homers in regular season games
And another twelve in the World Series!
Berra was underestimation personified, a lump of a man ---
But all muscle --- a stumbler when it came to words and
Thoughtful expressions, but with the wisdom of a man
Who wanted to be overlooked but who shone in the spotlight
Of the Stadium as comfortably as a sloth in a tree.
He might have been overshadowed by the poster boys ---
Mantle, Ford, Di Maggio --- but he was a star that glittered
When he was called on to flaunt his baton and orchestrate
Another almost overlooked percussion piece.
I saw the man one time, in his coaching years; he entered
A cross-town stadium as I waited for another coach to conduct
A Little League clinic, and I saw a man, more human than
He seemed to be in uniform, only five foot eight --- but when I focused,
I could see his strength, his sinewy body covered by run-of-the-mill clothes.
(And, after all, doesn’t Clark Kent wear ordinary garb?)
It’s interesting: Berra came into his own under Stengel,
Who possibly saw in his squat catcher a man not enough appreciated
In those early years, speaking a language and expressing sentiments
And observations few understood but many laughed at; an interesting
Pair, Stengel and Berra --- so simple in their guise yet so complex
Out of their disguise.
Hall of Famers do not take tests to gain admission;
Their entrance exams are written with their deeds.
My God, he had his own museum!
I followed Yogi as I matured near the Stadium in the Bronx.
He was a crazy Harry Potter with his bat, swirling that magic wand
Seemingly uncontrollably, swinging at pitches that
He had no right to try to reach in the logical world
Of the sport that he excelled in, but then again,
There is no logic in a body shaped like a fire hydrant
Wildly flailing at darts and swirls and accumulating
Three hundred and fifty-eight homers in regular season games
And another twelve in the World Series!
Berra was underestimation personified, a lump of a man ---
But all muscle --- a stumbler when it came to words and
Thoughtful expressions, but with the wisdom of a man
Who wanted to be overlooked but who shone in the spotlight
Of the Stadium as comfortably as a sloth in a tree.
He might have been overshadowed by the poster boys ---
Mantle, Ford, Di Maggio --- but he was a star that glittered
When he was called on to flaunt his baton and orchestrate
Another almost overlooked percussion piece.
I saw the man one time, in his coaching years; he entered
A cross-town stadium as I waited for another coach to conduct
A Little League clinic, and I saw a man, more human than
He seemed to be in uniform, only five foot eight --- but when I focused,
I could see his strength, his sinewy body covered by run-of-the-mill clothes.
(And, after all, doesn’t Clark Kent wear ordinary garb?)
It’s interesting: Berra came into his own under Stengel,
Who possibly saw in his squat catcher a man not enough appreciated
In those early years, speaking a language and expressing sentiments
And observations few understood but many laughed at; an interesting
Pair, Stengel and Berra --- so simple in their guise yet so complex
Out of their disguise.
Hall of Famers do not take tests to gain admission;
Their entrance exams are written with their deeds.
A Wedding
Looking at my wedding photos,
I am overcome by conflicting emotions:
I smile and I weep.
I softly smile at the memories, at the music
And the dancing, the unpracticed embraces
And well-meant words of advice from those
Already wed . . . or married to the avoidance of
Commitment; I recall the holy words I spoke and heard,
The eternal sentiments that carried me
To a plane of Trust and ecstasy for none to see, and
I vividly and knowingly recall the moment when my singularity
Discovered that uniqueness was a lonely place.
I am overwhelmed by that vision of my now life-partner,
And all the love songs of the world play in my mind
When I am deep in recollection of the loveliness
That on that night became a very special part of my eternal life,
Valued then and now beyond prayers, hopes and diamonds.
I recall being relished by a family to whom I now belonged,
The attracting smiles and soft yet strong physicality
That infused in me a knowledge that I then had found my place.
I would never be the same in my interpretation
Of my position on this Earth in this rebirth,
All of which so poignantly brought forth an involuntary but accomplished smile.
Yet there are tears for those no longer with me,
Those I shared the present with but not a lengthy future,
And I am bereft calling forth so many cherished relationships
Born or enhanced by that magic evening.
I weep that those who’ve passed will never know that we’re all right,
That we have faced and climbed our share of mountains
And have settled in our Promised Land, with bruises but with a love
That carries with it wisdom, insight, experience, and an all too rare
Commitment to each other, which we have been told by those
Who care about us and perceive the understanding that we share
Which has been almost inexplicably achieved.
I mourn that we the wedding audience and actors
Have been all too much just human, not eternal,
And that the music that moved our feet and hearts
Has dissipated, the single notes escaping from their source,
Drifting into a sphere of consciousness and memory,
Many fallen to the ground; they are all gone, every single one
Has rent the fabric of our universe, but
I take a measure of contentment that they remain extant in photographs,
Both of the physical and of the mind.
But in the sum, I smile with unabashed delight and gratitude
At my awareness of the children whose existence
Began their fated journey on that wedding night, flowers
That bloomed forth in their origin of mystery
With the inchoate union celebrated on that evening
Many years ago; the loving and beloved flowers found their sunshine
With this new union. They are the blessing, the counter-balance
That brings forth the angel chorus which accompanies the romantic music
That dance the atmosphere that night, defying the falling notes and
Broadcasting melodies that would carry us past the past
Right up to the present; there is no future without a start,
A wedding and a marriage which combine and intermingle
Past, present and future --- the dynamic trilogy
There to lead us down the aisle of Life.
And so I smile and feel the tears and hopes.
Life is complicated and not neat
But in the end it paints a masterpiece
To be feared, admired, cherished . . .
For that is the realm in which we dwell
And where we weep and smile
And where we find our soul.
I am overcome by conflicting emotions:
I smile and I weep.
I softly smile at the memories, at the music
And the dancing, the unpracticed embraces
And well-meant words of advice from those
Already wed . . . or married to the avoidance of
Commitment; I recall the holy words I spoke and heard,
The eternal sentiments that carried me
To a plane of Trust and ecstasy for none to see, and
I vividly and knowingly recall the moment when my singularity
Discovered that uniqueness was a lonely place.
I am overwhelmed by that vision of my now life-partner,
And all the love songs of the world play in my mind
When I am deep in recollection of the loveliness
That on that night became a very special part of my eternal life,
Valued then and now beyond prayers, hopes and diamonds.
I recall being relished by a family to whom I now belonged,
The attracting smiles and soft yet strong physicality
That infused in me a knowledge that I then had found my place.
I would never be the same in my interpretation
Of my position on this Earth in this rebirth,
All of which so poignantly brought forth an involuntary but accomplished smile.
Yet there are tears for those no longer with me,
Those I shared the present with but not a lengthy future,
And I am bereft calling forth so many cherished relationships
Born or enhanced by that magic evening.
I weep that those who’ve passed will never know that we’re all right,
That we have faced and climbed our share of mountains
And have settled in our Promised Land, with bruises but with a love
That carries with it wisdom, insight, experience, and an all too rare
Commitment to each other, which we have been told by those
Who care about us and perceive the understanding that we share
Which has been almost inexplicably achieved.
I mourn that we the wedding audience and actors
Have been all too much just human, not eternal,
And that the music that moved our feet and hearts
Has dissipated, the single notes escaping from their source,
Drifting into a sphere of consciousness and memory,
Many fallen to the ground; they are all gone, every single one
Has rent the fabric of our universe, but
I take a measure of contentment that they remain extant in photographs,
Both of the physical and of the mind.
But in the sum, I smile with unabashed delight and gratitude
At my awareness of the children whose existence
Began their fated journey on that wedding night, flowers
That bloomed forth in their origin of mystery
With the inchoate union celebrated on that evening
Many years ago; the loving and beloved flowers found their sunshine
With this new union. They are the blessing, the counter-balance
That brings forth the angel chorus which accompanies the romantic music
That dance the atmosphere that night, defying the falling notes and
Broadcasting melodies that would carry us past the past
Right up to the present; there is no future without a start,
A wedding and a marriage which combine and intermingle
Past, present and future --- the dynamic trilogy
There to lead us down the aisle of Life.
And so I smile and feel the tears and hopes.
Life is complicated and not neat
But in the end it paints a masterpiece
To be feared, admired, cherished . . .
For that is the realm in which we dwell
And where we weep and smile
And where we find our soul.
Every Spring
Catchers and pitchers start the game, showing up
(Which is half the battle, they say, though the battle
Doesn’t really start till the stats are written in indelible ink)
And they joke around and go through drills and as important
As reawakening their skills, which have been hibernating
For three or four too-brief months, they begin or renew relationships,
Build trust and confidence in partnerships that have the common goal,
Every year --- doing their share to lift the ordinary to the extraordinary,
Travel through the mundane through the marathon that is the season
Right past the first finish line and onto the one that counts
To any player of that special pedigree. Soon after, they have made their
Temporary home, the position players hearing the call and showing up to
The threshold to The Show, eagerly anticipating the same thing every year,
A place where they belong on the highest levels of their world --- and
Then begins the march that will see falling by the wayside special invitees and
Minor not yet Major Leaguers who are blessed to find out what it feels like
To have had the chance to leave behind the sunshine and the desert
And find a home where they have longed to be since childhood.
Spring has arrived and with it Life is once again renewed, the buds will
Blossom and birds will fly and bask and leaves will find their verdant nature
And fans will increase their following and dedication day by day
Until at last the first pitch of the season will be thrown
And crowds will cheer and this year’s history will have its start,
The march of uniforms and comrades proceeding toward the treasured title
And spring training, each day more a fading memory, will have done its job
And it will fade away, vaporized by the overwhelming wish
To “bring it home!”
Catchers and pitchers start the game, showing up
(Which is half the battle, they say, though the battle
Doesn’t really start till the stats are written in indelible ink)
And they joke around and go through drills and as important
As reawakening their skills, which have been hibernating
For three or four too-brief months, they begin or renew relationships,
Build trust and confidence in partnerships that have the common goal,
Every year --- doing their share to lift the ordinary to the extraordinary,
Travel through the mundane through the marathon that is the season
Right past the first finish line and onto the one that counts
To any player of that special pedigree. Soon after, they have made their
Temporary home, the position players hearing the call and showing up to
The threshold to The Show, eagerly anticipating the same thing every year,
A place where they belong on the highest levels of their world --- and
Then begins the march that will see falling by the wayside special invitees and
Minor not yet Major Leaguers who are blessed to find out what it feels like
To have had the chance to leave behind the sunshine and the desert
And find a home where they have longed to be since childhood.
Spring has arrived and with it Life is once again renewed, the buds will
Blossom and birds will fly and bask and leaves will find their verdant nature
And fans will increase their following and dedication day by day
Until at last the first pitch of the season will be thrown
And crowds will cheer and this year’s history will have its start,
The march of uniforms and comrades proceeding toward the treasured title
And spring training, each day more a fading memory, will have done its job
And it will fade away, vaporized by the overwhelming wish
To “bring it home!”
My Diner
WELCOME TO THE FAMOUS GREAT NECK DINER,
WHERE THE FOOD AND SERVICE CANNOT POSSIBLY BE FINER.
START WITH OUR BREAKFAST – OMELETS OR THE GRILL;
WHATEVER YOU SELECT, EACH BITE WILL BE A THRILL.
JOIN US FOR A LUSCIOUS AND DELICIOUS LUNCH
OR COME FOR A SATISFYING WEEKEND BRUNCH.
OF COURSE, TO END THE DAY WITH A GROUP OF WINNERS,
JOIN OUR HAPPY CUSTOMERS AND ENJOY OUR TASTY DINNERS.
GENTLY LISTEN TO OUR DINERS’ ENTHUSIASTIC VOICES:
CHECK OUR SPECIALS FOR OUTSTANDING DAILY CHOICES.
TO RELAX, LISTEN TO EACH GOLDEN SONG
PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND, SELECTIONS NEVER WRONG.
TO SUM UP, IF YOU WANT TO HAVE A MEMORABLE MEAL,
COME TO GREAT NECK DINER; IT’S SUCH A SPECIAL DEAL!
That says it all. Seldom in our lives today
Are there places in existence to welcome us
With warm, engaging smiles and kindness,
People who have learned to know us and to
Serve us not just food but comfort and engagement.
There, in the midst of shuttered stores
Filled with ghosts of owners and customers
And echoes of past dialogs, and restaurants
Once colorful and decorated and filled with life
But now turned to memories slowly but painfully
Shrinking in our recollections, this one place thrives,
Not just for the food (though that is worthy of attention),
Not just for the location on a historic dining corner,
Its predecessor, Frederick's, establishing a presence
In the annals of service and convenience, --- but mostly
For its strength and deep commitment to be the heart
Of Great Neck, a gathering place, a host for families
And fellow workers and even writers seeking the right site
To read and share their creations, thoughts and views.
“Cheers” used to sing of such a place --- “where everybody
knows your name” --- and here, in this home diner,
With its panorama hosting us with warm and lively colors,
The greens and oranges, the blues, with poetic license
Displaying the diner, the park, the gazebo --- we denizens
(Customers, waiters, their assistants, cooks and those who run and oversee
The place) share a Bond, are part of common lives for just
A few minutes a day, bringing normalcy and good cheer
To a crazy world in the midst of pandemics of viruses
And angry politics and weather too extreme.
It is good to walk into a place where smiling faces wait
To share their lives with you if even for an hour.
Too often nowadays there is hostility and meanness
And a lack of tolerance --- but that is what we leave behind
When we sit down and skim the quite familiar menu and then
Make our comfort food selections
And sit back and smile and know that we are honored guests
In a place which has been waiting for our next return.
Welcome to the diner; welcome to the family that smiles
And greets you when you have again returned.
Nothing could be finer!
WELCOME TO THE FAMOUS GREAT NECK DINER,
WHERE THE FOOD AND SERVICE CANNOT POSSIBLY BE FINER.
START WITH OUR BREAKFAST – OMELETS OR THE GRILL;
WHATEVER YOU SELECT, EACH BITE WILL BE A THRILL.
JOIN US FOR A LUSCIOUS AND DELICIOUS LUNCH
OR COME FOR A SATISFYING WEEKEND BRUNCH.
OF COURSE, TO END THE DAY WITH A GROUP OF WINNERS,
JOIN OUR HAPPY CUSTOMERS AND ENJOY OUR TASTY DINNERS.
GENTLY LISTEN TO OUR DINERS’ ENTHUSIASTIC VOICES:
CHECK OUR SPECIALS FOR OUTSTANDING DAILY CHOICES.
TO RELAX, LISTEN TO EACH GOLDEN SONG
PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND, SELECTIONS NEVER WRONG.
TO SUM UP, IF YOU WANT TO HAVE A MEMORABLE MEAL,
COME TO GREAT NECK DINER; IT’S SUCH A SPECIAL DEAL!
That says it all. Seldom in our lives today
Are there places in existence to welcome us
With warm, engaging smiles and kindness,
People who have learned to know us and to
Serve us not just food but comfort and engagement.
There, in the midst of shuttered stores
Filled with ghosts of owners and customers
And echoes of past dialogs, and restaurants
Once colorful and decorated and filled with life
But now turned to memories slowly but painfully
Shrinking in our recollections, this one place thrives,
Not just for the food (though that is worthy of attention),
Not just for the location on a historic dining corner,
Its predecessor, Frederick's, establishing a presence
In the annals of service and convenience, --- but mostly
For its strength and deep commitment to be the heart
Of Great Neck, a gathering place, a host for families
And fellow workers and even writers seeking the right site
To read and share their creations, thoughts and views.
“Cheers” used to sing of such a place --- “where everybody
knows your name” --- and here, in this home diner,
With its panorama hosting us with warm and lively colors,
The greens and oranges, the blues, with poetic license
Displaying the diner, the park, the gazebo --- we denizens
(Customers, waiters, their assistants, cooks and those who run and oversee
The place) share a Bond, are part of common lives for just
A few minutes a day, bringing normalcy and good cheer
To a crazy world in the midst of pandemics of viruses
And angry politics and weather too extreme.
It is good to walk into a place where smiling faces wait
To share their lives with you if even for an hour.
Too often nowadays there is hostility and meanness
And a lack of tolerance --- but that is what we leave behind
When we sit down and skim the quite familiar menu and then
Make our comfort food selections
And sit back and smile and know that we are honored guests
In a place which has been waiting for our next return.
Welcome to the diner; welcome to the family that smiles
And greets you when you have again returned.
Nothing could be finer!
Kiner
One of the original three (along with Lindsay Nelson and Bob Murphy)
A voice who was the story-telling bridge
Connecting early Met fans to the team, Ralph Kiner was
A pro, coming to the broadcast booth with concrete Major League credentials:
Hitting the most home runs in the Senior Circuit seven straight years,
Including 51 in ’47 and 54 in ’49; entering the Hall of Fame in ’75.
He was a major voice for the Mets from their inception to his death in 2014.
He spoke with knowledge and experience, entertained his audience
With stories from his playing days . . . and followed many home games
With interviews of players and even comedians
On TV with a show affectionately called Kiner’s Korner, absent the smoothness
Of the polished host but filled with charm and engagement and a
Genuine interest exuding from Mr. Home Run himself. It was plain old fun
Watching those shows or listening to Kiner’s tales, based on experiences
But possibly with the presence of slight exaggeration or imperfect recall.
Toward the end, when he was suffering from pain and advancing age,
He didn’t always speak with the authority he had earlier displayed,
(That happens with us old folks sometimes but should never
Diminish our worth), and there were younger fans,
Ignorant of history, who wondered loudly why this man they
Barely knew was on the screen stumbling over words and memories.
It brought out into the open our nation’s disrespect and disregard for age
And history. (How many know the special place that Cleveland’s Larry Doby holds in the annals of Major League baseball?)
And as that situation was, it did not and could not diminish the stature
That had been earned by Ralph McPherran Kiner through industry,
Dedication and longevity. To last so long, to bring personalities of
So many Major Leaguers to fans like you and me, so that we felt more
Of a closeness to our entertainment heroes, one must be
A very special person, to be honored and cherished.
Kiner makes my Hall of Fame as player, as announcer
And as a special human being. He has been missed.
One of the original three (along with Lindsay Nelson and Bob Murphy)
A voice who was the story-telling bridge
Connecting early Met fans to the team, Ralph Kiner was
A pro, coming to the broadcast booth with concrete Major League credentials:
Hitting the most home runs in the Senior Circuit seven straight years,
Including 51 in ’47 and 54 in ’49; entering the Hall of Fame in ’75.
He was a major voice for the Mets from their inception to his death in 2014.
He spoke with knowledge and experience, entertained his audience
With stories from his playing days . . . and followed many home games
With interviews of players and even comedians
On TV with a show affectionately called Kiner’s Korner, absent the smoothness
Of the polished host but filled with charm and engagement and a
Genuine interest exuding from Mr. Home Run himself. It was plain old fun
Watching those shows or listening to Kiner’s tales, based on experiences
But possibly with the presence of slight exaggeration or imperfect recall.
Toward the end, when he was suffering from pain and advancing age,
He didn’t always speak with the authority he had earlier displayed,
(That happens with us old folks sometimes but should never
Diminish our worth), and there were younger fans,
Ignorant of history, who wondered loudly why this man they
Barely knew was on the screen stumbling over words and memories.
It brought out into the open our nation’s disrespect and disregard for age
And history. (How many know the special place that Cleveland’s Larry Doby holds in the annals of Major League baseball?)
And as that situation was, it did not and could not diminish the stature
That had been earned by Ralph McPherran Kiner through industry,
Dedication and longevity. To last so long, to bring personalities of
So many Major Leaguers to fans like you and me, so that we felt more
Of a closeness to our entertainment heroes, one must be
A very special person, to be honored and cherished.
Kiner makes my Hall of Fame as player, as announcer
And as a special human being. He has been missed.
I Thought I Heard my Past
I thought I heard my past whispering to me
As I attempted to descend into the escape of sleep.
I felt the fading of the day’s turmoil
(Which has become sadly commonplace)
And once again resorted to seeking visions of
Myself at peace while hiking the Berkshires and
Stopping to explore the region that I found myself
Surrounded by, much as Meriwether Lewis
Might have done as he traversed strange new environs
And noted his initial perceptions; I tried but failed
To reach my mental Nirvana on this night. Instead,
My recollections were dislodged through interference.
By a voice I recognized from past associations,
A rough voice whose once naïve smoothness had been broken
By misuse, but a voice that managed to break through
Years of neglect and of convoluted images:
It was indeed my past, seeking, begging to be heard
If not completely honored. “Remember,”
It began. “She loved you once. There must have been
A cause that made her care so much. She stood by you and held
So tightly onto you and loved you without doubt in those early times.”
These words rang true but hurt me since our years apart
Had piled upon each other like unfeeling stones one on another
Until a massive wall had been set up, the stones cemented
To each other, unbreakable, unbearable, untouchable ---
And we went our very separate ways, found semblances of happiness
Which, if I speak the truth within my lonely thoughts, never matched
What we had had for fleeting moments more and more infrequently.
“What do I do?” I wondered, faced uncomfortably with Truth
As my past held up the hurtful mirror that displayed for me
All the flaws and lies that I was living with and could not
In the cruel honest night escape. It was a lonely time; I was hearing
An accusatory voice yet at the same time one that knew me well,
One that had lived with me for all the sad and blissless years,
One that stayed with me and now had earned the truth
In the silence and the starkness of the night.
How could I erase the times when she and I stood by each other
As others challenged our union, as others tried their best
To shatter our young love to jagged pieces?
And how she did resist!
I delve deeply as I can and see it all so
Lucidly in the isolation of my half-empty bed. I am at a loss
To recall details of the missteps that I made in the name of pride
--- but the whispers of my past, having broken through,
flood my mind with images too painful to ignore,
And I am left with agonizing knowledge of my guilt, of my fault, of my
Causing pain and grief . . . and thus I lie awake,
Not able to seek refuge in broken fantasies,
Alone with memories that hurt too much . . .
My past can now stop whispering for I am wide awake
And will not sleep.
As I attempted to descend into the escape of sleep.
I felt the fading of the day’s turmoil
(Which has become sadly commonplace)
And once again resorted to seeking visions of
Myself at peace while hiking the Berkshires and
Stopping to explore the region that I found myself
Surrounded by, much as Meriwether Lewis
Might have done as he traversed strange new environs
And noted his initial perceptions; I tried but failed
To reach my mental Nirvana on this night. Instead,
My recollections were dislodged through interference.
By a voice I recognized from past associations,
A rough voice whose once naïve smoothness had been broken
By misuse, but a voice that managed to break through
Years of neglect and of convoluted images:
It was indeed my past, seeking, begging to be heard
If not completely honored. “Remember,”
It began. “She loved you once. There must have been
A cause that made her care so much. She stood by you and held
So tightly onto you and loved you without doubt in those early times.”
These words rang true but hurt me since our years apart
Had piled upon each other like unfeeling stones one on another
Until a massive wall had been set up, the stones cemented
To each other, unbreakable, unbearable, untouchable ---
And we went our very separate ways, found semblances of happiness
Which, if I speak the truth within my lonely thoughts, never matched
What we had had for fleeting moments more and more infrequently.
“What do I do?” I wondered, faced uncomfortably with Truth
As my past held up the hurtful mirror that displayed for me
All the flaws and lies that I was living with and could not
In the cruel honest night escape. It was a lonely time; I was hearing
An accusatory voice yet at the same time one that knew me well,
One that had lived with me for all the sad and blissless years,
One that stayed with me and now had earned the truth
In the silence and the starkness of the night.
How could I erase the times when she and I stood by each other
As others challenged our union, as others tried their best
To shatter our young love to jagged pieces?
And how she did resist!
I delve deeply as I can and see it all so
Lucidly in the isolation of my half-empty bed. I am at a loss
To recall details of the missteps that I made in the name of pride
--- but the whispers of my past, having broken through,
flood my mind with images too painful to ignore,
And I am left with agonizing knowledge of my guilt, of my fault, of my
Causing pain and grief . . . and thus I lie awake,
Not able to seek refuge in broken fantasies,
Alone with memories that hurt too much . . .
My past can now stop whispering for I am wide awake
And will not sleep.
Baseball is Magnetic
I loved the Yankees; they’d won it all in ’49 and ‘50
And now they waited for mysterious opponents in 1951.
This much of a mystery was solved:
They would face another New York City team.
The Dodgers and the Giants, still then the forebears
Of the Metropolitans, were going to face each other
In a single playoff game, the third and the decisive one,
Winner take all that was National League,
Winner gaining the “honor” of taking on the Bronx Bombers ---
Brooklyn or Manhattan against the Bronx,
A friendly civil war --- and there I was, curious but uncaring,
Watching a game filled with potential enemies, listening
To foreign voices in lieu of my accustomed Mel Allen
And his dramatic, reassuring Southern twang ---
And yet, as always, baseball drew me in
And I was hooked, watching for the love of the sport
That in those days was by far the American fans’ favorite,
And every pitch seemed to be electric and
A potential harbinger of the final dramatic moment
That history holds up as the second shot heard ‘round the world,
One not as massively meaningful to the annals of history
But one touching enough to make men cry in grief or scream in triumph,
Depending on which team they rooted for ---
And isn’t “rooted” interesting, for baseball does take root
In one’s soul and then does not let go!
And on this afternoon, worthiness held the focus of millions
Around the country and around the world --- the worth
Of the Dodgers and their stars --- Robinson, Reese, Furillo,
Hodges, Erskine --- and of the Giants, winners of 37
Of the final 44 games to erase a 13 ½ game August lead
And tie the Bums for first ---
And on this day, as I watched mesmerized by a pair of teams
I really had no feelings for, the game itself provided the emotions.
The Giants, losing 4 to 1 going into the final inning ---
The Dodgers having scored 3 in the penultimate inning ---
Made it 4 to 2 and interesting, and with two runners on,
Up came Bobby Thomson, the Flying Scot, there in his home field
Polo Grounds (ironically, eleven years later, to be the home of
New York’s replacement team, the Metropolitans). Ralph Branca,
Was now pitching in relief, the man who’d given up the winning homer
To the same Thomson in the first playoff game --- and you know the rest,
If you know baseball history --- a three-run shot into the left field stands,
Thomson bouncing from third to home, a dejected, devastated Branca
Trudging to his dugout, eyes staring at the ground --- and one non-fan
Of either team engulfed in the drama and the history of this baseball moment,
Engrained in his psyche as flecks of metal become attached to a super magnet.
I was thrilled for Thomson and his accomplishment and as well saddened
By the torrent of emotions that swept Branca into a permanent dungeon
Of the mind, magnetically connecting him to the grief of a borough
And anointing him bearer of a burden that also was sadly shared post-season
By players named Owens, Hodges, Terry, Winfield, McGwire, Canseco,
Buckner and even The Babe in 1926. Look it up.
Thomson and Branca --- polar opposites in 1951, linked by history
That could not be obliterated --- now are memories who represent
The Melpomene and Thalia of the baseball world.
And now they waited for mysterious opponents in 1951.
This much of a mystery was solved:
They would face another New York City team.
The Dodgers and the Giants, still then the forebears
Of the Metropolitans, were going to face each other
In a single playoff game, the third and the decisive one,
Winner take all that was National League,
Winner gaining the “honor” of taking on the Bronx Bombers ---
Brooklyn or Manhattan against the Bronx,
A friendly civil war --- and there I was, curious but uncaring,
Watching a game filled with potential enemies, listening
To foreign voices in lieu of my accustomed Mel Allen
And his dramatic, reassuring Southern twang ---
And yet, as always, baseball drew me in
And I was hooked, watching for the love of the sport
That in those days was by far the American fans’ favorite,
And every pitch seemed to be electric and
A potential harbinger of the final dramatic moment
That history holds up as the second shot heard ‘round the world,
One not as massively meaningful to the annals of history
But one touching enough to make men cry in grief or scream in triumph,
Depending on which team they rooted for ---
And isn’t “rooted” interesting, for baseball does take root
In one’s soul and then does not let go!
And on this afternoon, worthiness held the focus of millions
Around the country and around the world --- the worth
Of the Dodgers and their stars --- Robinson, Reese, Furillo,
Hodges, Erskine --- and of the Giants, winners of 37
Of the final 44 games to erase a 13 ½ game August lead
And tie the Bums for first ---
And on this day, as I watched mesmerized by a pair of teams
I really had no feelings for, the game itself provided the emotions.
The Giants, losing 4 to 1 going into the final inning ---
The Dodgers having scored 3 in the penultimate inning ---
Made it 4 to 2 and interesting, and with two runners on,
Up came Bobby Thomson, the Flying Scot, there in his home field
Polo Grounds (ironically, eleven years later, to be the home of
New York’s replacement team, the Metropolitans). Ralph Branca,
Was now pitching in relief, the man who’d given up the winning homer
To the same Thomson in the first playoff game --- and you know the rest,
If you know baseball history --- a three-run shot into the left field stands,
Thomson bouncing from third to home, a dejected, devastated Branca
Trudging to his dugout, eyes staring at the ground --- and one non-fan
Of either team engulfed in the drama and the history of this baseball moment,
Engrained in his psyche as flecks of metal become attached to a super magnet.
I was thrilled for Thomson and his accomplishment and as well saddened
By the torrent of emotions that swept Branca into a permanent dungeon
Of the mind, magnetically connecting him to the grief of a borough
And anointing him bearer of a burden that also was sadly shared post-season
By players named Owens, Hodges, Terry, Winfield, McGwire, Canseco,
Buckner and even The Babe in 1926. Look it up.
Thomson and Branca --- polar opposites in 1951, linked by history
That could not be obliterated --- now are memories who represent
The Melpomene and Thalia of the baseball world.
The Day the Franchise Left
(Seaver traded away June 15, 1977)
The day the Franchise left the team,
I felt a painful, thunderous scream
Emanate from my bare soul:
The move had ripped a giant hole
Into my heart; that’s when I knew
That my love of orange and blue
With whom I’d lived and died for years
Had been reduced to grief-filled tears.
Tom Terrific was now gone;
There was no way we’d carry on
As if it were a minor move:
The New York Mets had lost their groove,
And of those recent glory years
All that was left were bitter tears.
They say when Casey did strike out,
The fans refused to ever doubt
That he’d return to win each heart
Of saddened supporters with his next start,
But Casey was never traded away ---
A dreadful decision I regret to this day ---
And so he played on many years
For the same team; there were no tears.
But when the Franchise became a Red,
A piece of me began to shred;
I loved the man --- I loved the team,
But now the Mets could not redeem
Their honor for the Founding Fans,
The ones who filled Shea’s noisy stands.
The future held just empty years;
My heart and soul were drowned in tears!
I felt a painful, thunderous scream
Emanate from my bare soul:
The move had ripped a giant hole
Into my heart; that’s when I knew
That my love of orange and blue
With whom I’d lived and died for years
Had been reduced to grief-filled tears.
Tom Terrific was now gone;
There was no way we’d carry on
As if it were a minor move:
The New York Mets had lost their groove,
And of those recent glory years
All that was left were bitter tears.
They say when Casey did strike out,
The fans refused to ever doubt
That he’d return to win each heart
Of saddened supporters with his next start,
But Casey was never traded away ---
A dreadful decision I regret to this day ---
And so he played on many years
For the same team; there were no tears.
But when the Franchise became a Red,
A piece of me began to shred;
I loved the man --- I loved the team,
But now the Mets could not redeem
Their honor for the Founding Fans,
The ones who filled Shea’s noisy stands.
The future held just empty years;
My heart and soul were drowned in tears!
Fifth Grade
In the fifth grade, I played hooky
Skipped school every other week
While my father worked in daytime
(No mother there to love me; she had died the year before)
I ate ketchup-white bread sandwiches, drank water
And watched TV and forged my father’s name
On absence notes that I handed to the teacher
Who never seemed to notice that I was not there
Every other week --- five days a week ---
And even three weeks straight one time
(Really sick with whooping cough the week
Between my self-proclaimed vacation time)
Until I was found out by a sister’s unexpected visit
On a Thursday evening
And my clumsy escape onto the roof
Of my apartment building. The next Monday,
I was threatened by the principal ---
A nine foot gigantically tall woman with a booming voice
That made the pencil holder on her desk vibrate when she spoke ---
And she grew taller as she reprimanded me ---
And I learned my lesson . . .
But I needed a hug, not harsh words and a spanking ---
And why did no one try to figure out
Why I had done what I did, why I had tried in my childish way to regain
A feeling that my life had a direction and a goal,
Why my mother would ever leave her nine year old child
To face the mountains that the world would make me climb
Inch by inch, with my bleeding hands
Grasping and clutching every jagged rock
Just to get to where I needed desperately to be?
Skipped school every other week
While my father worked in daytime
(No mother there to love me; she had died the year before)
I ate ketchup-white bread sandwiches, drank water
And watched TV and forged my father’s name
On absence notes that I handed to the teacher
Who never seemed to notice that I was not there
Every other week --- five days a week ---
And even three weeks straight one time
(Really sick with whooping cough the week
Between my self-proclaimed vacation time)
Until I was found out by a sister’s unexpected visit
On a Thursday evening
And my clumsy escape onto the roof
Of my apartment building. The next Monday,
I was threatened by the principal ---
A nine foot gigantically tall woman with a booming voice
That made the pencil holder on her desk vibrate when she spoke ---
And she grew taller as she reprimanded me ---
And I learned my lesson . . .
But I needed a hug, not harsh words and a spanking ---
And why did no one try to figure out
Why I had done what I did, why I had tried in my childish way to regain
A feeling that my life had a direction and a goal,
Why my mother would ever leave her nine year old child
To face the mountains that the world would make me climb
Inch by inch, with my bleeding hands
Grasping and clutching every jagged rock
Just to get to where I needed desperately to be?
Family Gathering
It’s a long journey when every step, every stair hurts
But I threw that out of my mind because that day
Was set to be a gathering of family I had not seen in months ---
And what better place than a baseball stadium in the daylight
With the bright green grass and the sandy warning track
And the immaculate uniforms not yet marked by gameplay
Making me ignore the ugly ostentatious displays of ads and
Automated cheerleading and obnoxious graphics? I was there ---
My grandkids and my daughter, painfully separated by a too long drive
And COVID threats for many months, showing up and hugging me and
Kissing and sharing stories of the journey to this game --- by train and car
And pick-up truck and walking from the station and the over-crowded
Parking lot --- and there they were, their voices music to my heart.
The game was an enhancement to our sharing --- with the Mets
Coming through against the Marlins, hitting homers for the hometown
Fans, adding smiles and laughter to my family’s miracle of that day:
That we had all arrived and shared the day and got to hug and not Facetime.
Baseball was a perfect background on this chilly April day
To a simple family gathering that was really not so simple
Except in the long-awaited pleasure of the moment. We got to embrace
The moment, the Mets and each other.
It’s a long journey when every step, every stair hurts
But I threw that out of my mind because that day
Was set to be a gathering of family I had not seen in months ---
And what better place than a baseball stadium in the daylight
With the bright green grass and the sandy warning track
And the immaculate uniforms not yet marked by gameplay
Making me ignore the ugly ostentatious displays of ads and
Automated cheerleading and obnoxious graphics? I was there ---
My grandkids and my daughter, painfully separated by a too long drive
And COVID threats for many months, showing up and hugging me and
Kissing and sharing stories of the journey to this game --- by train and car
And pick-up truck and walking from the station and the over-crowded
Parking lot --- and there they were, their voices music to my heart.
The game was an enhancement to our sharing --- with the Mets
Coming through against the Marlins, hitting homers for the hometown
Fans, adding smiles and laughter to my family’s miracle of that day:
That we had all arrived and shared the day and got to hug and not Facetime.
Baseball was a perfect background on this chilly April day
To a simple family gathering that was really not so simple
Except in the long-awaited pleasure of the moment. We got to embrace
The moment, the Mets and each other.
The Lonely Diner
The evening atmosphere blankets the people as they
Hobble, saunter, even march to the corner diner.
Inside, two by four, the diners sit and seem to swallow
The ambiance and each other’s dreams and needs
As much as they do the ordinary food before them.
Some barely touch the waiting meals while
Others gorge themselves and speak with energy,
Specks of food shooting from their mouths
As if trying to escape being thoughtlessly devoured.
They all have reached an understanding ---
Not spoken but obeyed --- that the borders
Separating them in booths, at tables, at the counter
Will be honored and observed, as each odd mixture
Of humanity unwinds and seeks communication,
A kind of anchor that steadies them from the
Tsunami world that they try to navigate each day
Outside, on the mean streets, in the angry world.
Here, in this diner, there is order, there is regimen,
There is reward and temporary respite, where each
Can manufacture his or her just dessert and finish
With a sweet reward that the world otherwise
Withholds. It is the diner that encourages the
Spirit to venture forth and fight the stings ---
Or ignore them --- as daily life shows itself to
Not be what they once upon their youth had
Hoped for and expected. Thank Something that they can travel
To the diner where everything makes sense, where
They find limited but satisfying menu items that
Take away the guesswork of their daily forages
Into and across the times that wait for them,
The families that expect much too much from them,
The streets that lead them nowhere where they
Really want to go. If there is a real Heaven
On this planet, then surely it is called The Diner,
And they know, these defeated folks, that there
Will always be waiting for them a place where
They are welcomed warmly and enthusiastically
And they are treated with a robotic respect.
The evening atmosphere blankets the people as they
Hobble, saunter, even march to the corner diner.
Inside, two by four, the diners sit and seem to swallow
The ambiance and each other’s dreams and needs
As much as they do the ordinary food before them.
Some barely touch the waiting meals while
Others gorge themselves and speak with energy,
Specks of food shooting from their mouths
As if trying to escape being thoughtlessly devoured.
They all have reached an understanding ---
Not spoken but obeyed --- that the borders
Separating them in booths, at tables, at the counter
Will be honored and observed, as each odd mixture
Of humanity unwinds and seeks communication,
A kind of anchor that steadies them from the
Tsunami world that they try to navigate each day
Outside, on the mean streets, in the angry world.
Here, in this diner, there is order, there is regimen,
There is reward and temporary respite, where each
Can manufacture his or her just dessert and finish
With a sweet reward that the world otherwise
Withholds. It is the diner that encourages the
Spirit to venture forth and fight the stings ---
Or ignore them --- as daily life shows itself to
Not be what they once upon their youth had
Hoped for and expected. Thank Something that they can travel
To the diner where everything makes sense, where
They find limited but satisfying menu items that
Take away the guesswork of their daily forages
Into and across the times that wait for them,
The families that expect much too much from them,
The streets that lead them nowhere where they
Really want to go. If there is a real Heaven
On this planet, then surely it is called The Diner,
And they know, these defeated folks, that there
Will always be waiting for them a place where
They are welcomed warmly and enthusiastically
And they are treated with a robotic respect.
Sisters
My sisters loved me, cared for me, cherished me,
Were in every sense truly in loco parentis.
Whether it was viewing my junior high class in a brilliant
Blue Naval uniform with its sharp white hat
And glossy gold buttons that made her the fantasy of
The boys in the class or leaving her own kids and
Taking the elevated train from Soundview Avenue Station
To Elder Avenue and then walking uphill several gray sidewalk streets
With rows of private homes lit up, displaying ordinary living room
Scenes, worn out shades and black and white TV;s,
And a small rectangular city-brick elementary school
Running parallel to my high school, then attentively
Over-taking her weariness to meeting with my teachers
In the evening of Parent-Teacher Night (a different
Sister for each of these highlights of my life),
They were there; that is who they were, and if
I failed to fully recognize the value that each had,
The special role each played in my development,
If I took for granted the love they displayed, at least
Today I celebrate them with such memories that
Are the building blocks of my early years.
I lived with each for snatches of my youth, with one
Spending summers in Norfolk, enjoying the sense of
What it meant to live in a naval home and go to Little League games;
With the other, I temporarily had a brother and a sister as I
Recuperated from a minor surgical procedure; with both, I felt
At home away from home, I felt treasured and cared for attentively,
And for those times I hiss their memory and miss them even more.
If they
Are watching over me from no cold and foreign, isolated graves
But from the heavens engulfing me as their embraces once dd,
Then let them smile in the knowledge that they succeeded
In what they had intended, consciously or naturally: I am
A man surrounded by people that I love, people who love me,
People I am proud to call my family, and this is how it is
And was always meant to be in the cycle of meaningful Life.
My sisters loved me, cared for me, cherished me,
Were in every sense truly in loco parentis.
Whether it was viewing my junior high class in a brilliant
Blue Naval uniform with its sharp white hat
And glossy gold buttons that made her the fantasy of
The boys in the class or leaving her own kids and
Taking the elevated train from Soundview Avenue Station
To Elder Avenue and then walking uphill several gray sidewalk streets
With rows of private homes lit up, displaying ordinary living room
Scenes, worn out shades and black and white TV;s,
And a small rectangular city-brick elementary school
Running parallel to my high school, then attentively
Over-taking her weariness to meeting with my teachers
In the evening of Parent-Teacher Night (a different
Sister for each of these highlights of my life),
They were there; that is who they were, and if
I failed to fully recognize the value that each had,
The special role each played in my development,
If I took for granted the love they displayed, at least
Today I celebrate them with such memories that
Are the building blocks of my early years.
I lived with each for snatches of my youth, with one
Spending summers in Norfolk, enjoying the sense of
What it meant to live in a naval home and go to Little League games;
With the other, I temporarily had a brother and a sister as I
Recuperated from a minor surgical procedure; with both, I felt
At home away from home, I felt treasured and cared for attentively,
And for those times I hiss their memory and miss them even more.
If they
Are watching over me from no cold and foreign, isolated graves
But from the heavens engulfing me as their embraces once dd,
Then let them smile in the knowledge that they succeeded
In what they had intended, consciously or naturally: I am
A man surrounded by people that I love, people who love me,
People I am proud to call my family, and this is how it is
And was always meant to be in the cycle of meaningful Life.
Love (a response to Billy Collins' "Divorce")
vanilla and chocolate
blend together
under the sun
to create one
delicious new flavor
vanilla and chocolate
blend together
under the sun
to create one
delicious new flavor
Bleeding Nose
Bleeding nose, painful legs
(Left one worst case of osteoarthritis
The rheumatologist ever saw;
Right one actually diagnosed a few days later
By the same physician as arthritis of the hip)
Walking is a challenge (as is breathing to some
And seeing or hearing to others)
But I survive;
I arrive better late than never
(as they say) and I remain aware of my mortality
As well as my oddball spirituality.
My heart is very strong.
I show up so 99% of the victory is gained.
The other 1% is coming soon
And once again I will be there . . .
Till I'm not . . .
But that will never be based on a weak soul or heart!
Bleeding nose, painful legs
(Left one worst case of osteoarthritis
The rheumatologist ever saw;
Right one actually diagnosed a few days later
By the same physician as arthritis of the hip)
Walking is a challenge (as is breathing to some
And seeing or hearing to others)
But I survive;
I arrive better late than never
(as they say) and I remain aware of my mortality
As well as my oddball spirituality.
My heart is very strong.
I show up so 99% of the victory is gained.
The other 1% is coming soon
And once again I will be there . . .
Till I'm not . . .
But that will never be based on a weak soul or heart!
Touch
When we were young and new to each other, every touch was electric,
A new discovery, an exploration of the moon, a building block that would be a magic piece
Of a lifelong puzzle, the answer to which would be the Rosetta Stone of Life.
The first connection was a reaching out and a meeting of the hands, which then began
A slow but sometimes fast exploration of our differences yet the sameness
In our needs and wants and sometimes overwhelming sexual desires and our dreams
Of building what was new into that which would in our heaven become something
That was old. We were like children eager to explore a newfound situation, a home
Too long gone empty, and we thrived; we kissed, we hugged, you sat on my lap,
We said goodbye for what seemed like hours at a time, trying in our minds to become one.
We even danced a bit, and every touch was more intense, promising a visit to the unknown
Country of the heart and spirit. We were in love, a forever love though we just took that
For granted in those days of peace and friendship and a smattering of obstacles
That were easily overcome by our unity. We held hands; to me the softness of your skin was
Comforting, enchanting, magic . . . yet my new reality. Each new contact foretold a new and
Wonder-filled experience; the touch and gentle aroma of your hair enchanted me
And made me drawn much closer to your being. In those early days, I was surrounded
By the newness and the loveliness of you, and I knew that I had at last come across the
Missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle of my life by then almost three decades expired,
And I was inspired by the mystery of you, in your youth, in your optimism, in your joie de vivre.
And I became younger and re-discovered the gaiety of days because you touched me so.
Now, five plus decades have passed, the children have grown and have children of their own,
And now the touch that is between us has maintained its magic, but each feel has taken on
A subtleness of change that has quietly added a layer of meaning that was never there
When we were in the clouds and took each day expectedly. Now each touch contains the
Echo of the oath we swore to each other once on a snowy January day; we cherish
Every moment and respect the magic and security that we have created and still share.
We each reach out and in our contact there is deep connection, deep protection
Of our feelings and commitment that will never fade away. I touch you and demonstrate
How much you mean to me. You do the same. The existence of electricity is there
But has been so augmented by assurance that when we close our eyes each night and
Open them each morn, we will be together, sharing bits and pieces of our Life together.
As I once placed a ring upon your finger, I now place a hand upon your person lovingly
With the same desire, with the same respect and sense of honor, and I feel reciprocation
In your touch as you caress me or reach for me or put our heads together in the peaceful
Realm that is our bed. We have lived a Life that has at times been challenging but we
Have made it through to the other, wiser, more rewarding side, and I smile.
Our first morning together, I gazed at you from my side of the bed and smiled inside
At your beauty and peacefulness as you slept; I don’t understand the reasoning
Or the mechanism or the memory response that recreates the moment but I now
Again find myself enchanted by your peace and contentment as you sleep.
Some would say that our touch has lost its passion because we have gone through
So many years but I respond in whatever wisdom age has granted me that we have
Equal passion now, but it is deeper in its meaning, in its substance, and every touch
Recreates the vows we took, the sharing of our Life, the meaning of our oneness.
We reach out and touch each other with gentleness . . .
And I have grown fonder of your feel every day and night
As I have come to the most meaningful epiphany any lover makes,
That every day you touch my soul and make my days full of charm and meaning
And create a deep desire that makes me long each day and night for your gentle touch.
When we were young and new to each other, every touch was electric,
A new discovery, an exploration of the moon, a building block that would be a magic piece
Of a lifelong puzzle, the answer to which would be the Rosetta Stone of Life.
The first connection was a reaching out and a meeting of the hands, which then began
A slow but sometimes fast exploration of our differences yet the sameness
In our needs and wants and sometimes overwhelming sexual desires and our dreams
Of building what was new into that which would in our heaven become something
That was old. We were like children eager to explore a newfound situation, a home
Too long gone empty, and we thrived; we kissed, we hugged, you sat on my lap,
We said goodbye for what seemed like hours at a time, trying in our minds to become one.
We even danced a bit, and every touch was more intense, promising a visit to the unknown
Country of the heart and spirit. We were in love, a forever love though we just took that
For granted in those days of peace and friendship and a smattering of obstacles
That were easily overcome by our unity. We held hands; to me the softness of your skin was
Comforting, enchanting, magic . . . yet my new reality. Each new contact foretold a new and
Wonder-filled experience; the touch and gentle aroma of your hair enchanted me
And made me drawn much closer to your being. In those early days, I was surrounded
By the newness and the loveliness of you, and I knew that I had at last come across the
Missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle of my life by then almost three decades expired,
And I was inspired by the mystery of you, in your youth, in your optimism, in your joie de vivre.
And I became younger and re-discovered the gaiety of days because you touched me so.
Now, five plus decades have passed, the children have grown and have children of their own,
And now the touch that is between us has maintained its magic, but each feel has taken on
A subtleness of change that has quietly added a layer of meaning that was never there
When we were in the clouds and took each day expectedly. Now each touch contains the
Echo of the oath we swore to each other once on a snowy January day; we cherish
Every moment and respect the magic and security that we have created and still share.
We each reach out and in our contact there is deep connection, deep protection
Of our feelings and commitment that will never fade away. I touch you and demonstrate
How much you mean to me. You do the same. The existence of electricity is there
But has been so augmented by assurance that when we close our eyes each night and
Open them each morn, we will be together, sharing bits and pieces of our Life together.
As I once placed a ring upon your finger, I now place a hand upon your person lovingly
With the same desire, with the same respect and sense of honor, and I feel reciprocation
In your touch as you caress me or reach for me or put our heads together in the peaceful
Realm that is our bed. We have lived a Life that has at times been challenging but we
Have made it through to the other, wiser, more rewarding side, and I smile.
Our first morning together, I gazed at you from my side of the bed and smiled inside
At your beauty and peacefulness as you slept; I don’t understand the reasoning
Or the mechanism or the memory response that recreates the moment but I now
Again find myself enchanted by your peace and contentment as you sleep.
Some would say that our touch has lost its passion because we have gone through
So many years but I respond in whatever wisdom age has granted me that we have
Equal passion now, but it is deeper in its meaning, in its substance, and every touch
Recreates the vows we took, the sharing of our Life, the meaning of our oneness.
We reach out and touch each other with gentleness . . .
And I have grown fonder of your feel every day and night
As I have come to the most meaningful epiphany any lover makes,
That every day you touch my soul and make my days full of charm and meaning
And create a deep desire that makes me long each day and night for your gentle touch.
Elusive
How hard is it to hit a great pitch thrown by an artist?
Swat at a butterfly bouncing in the atmosphere,
Carried by unseen forces, darting unpredictably.
Lift a greasy log of wood and hurl it to the stratosphere.
Catch a common housefly with chopsticks
As Miyagi did, but while wearing blinders.
Defend against a heat-seeking missile trained
To eschew rounded wood with smoldering wording.
Attract a polar opposite magnetic field, making metal
Flakes find their home run home within your swinging hands.
Do it all in less time than it takes to blink an eye
Or whisper words that your lover wants to hear.
There’s little challenge to smacking a slowly moving or
A stationary puck or catching a football thrown and floating
To your waiting arms or to catch and shoot a basketball
Big enough to float . . . but hit a small spheroid exploding
At the plate at ninety-eight or one that drops as if it’s died
Mid-air or one that curves almost out of sight?
Now that takes an athlete hungry for a meal,
A cat clawing at a prey speeding away,
An athlete overcoming odds, a worthy warrior
Primed for victory.
How hard is it to hit a great pitch thrown by an artist?
Swat at a butterfly bouncing in the atmosphere,
Carried by unseen forces, darting unpredictably.
Lift a greasy log of wood and hurl it to the stratosphere.
Catch a common housefly with chopsticks
As Miyagi did, but while wearing blinders.
Defend against a heat-seeking missile trained
To eschew rounded wood with smoldering wording.
Attract a polar opposite magnetic field, making metal
Flakes find their home run home within your swinging hands.
Do it all in less time than it takes to blink an eye
Or whisper words that your lover wants to hear.
There’s little challenge to smacking a slowly moving or
A stationary puck or catching a football thrown and floating
To your waiting arms or to catch and shoot a basketball
Big enough to float . . . but hit a small spheroid exploding
At the plate at ninety-eight or one that drops as if it’s died
Mid-air or one that curves almost out of sight?
Now that takes an athlete hungry for a meal,
A cat clawing at a prey speeding away,
An athlete overcoming odds, a worthy warrior
Primed for victory.
Golden Tears
Actors live in fantasy and dwell on myth
So when Jimmy Dugan makes that wrenching face and asks
That pseudo-rhetorical question and squeezes out the words that say,
“There’s no crying in baseball” they exist in the ephemeral,
Because we Met fans know for sure that there is crying
In baseball, and those tears shed by Wilmer Flores
On July 9, 2015 were felt by anyone with a soul
As they reflected the wisdom of a 23 year old.
Those were golden tears, a blessing on the franchise,
A liquid expression that cried out, ironically, the love
And loyalty of a utility player for the only organization
He had ever played for, and how refreshing that a player
Did not want to leave for the greener pastures of another field,
How delightful that a player held loyalty to his team and teammates,
Above all else. How purely and joyfully naïve
And enriching --- and reaffirming for the fans --- that someone
Wanted to be cheered by them and supported by them.
The camera caught him being human, unable to hold back the tears.
How glorious it was to be reminded that ballplayers are just
Like us: they can feel fear and sadness and love. Their uniforms
Are just temporary disguises --- and thankfully Wilmer reminded us that we
See ourselves in those who play the game . . . we see our youth,
Our pride, ambition, strength, and dreams . . . we recognize
On some precious level of reality that we are baseball and baseball is us.
Actors live in fantasy and dwell on myth
So when Jimmy Dugan makes that wrenching face and asks
That pseudo-rhetorical question and squeezes out the words that say,
“There’s no crying in baseball” they exist in the ephemeral,
Because we Met fans know for sure that there is crying
In baseball, and those tears shed by Wilmer Flores
On July 9, 2015 were felt by anyone with a soul
As they reflected the wisdom of a 23 year old.
Those were golden tears, a blessing on the franchise,
A liquid expression that cried out, ironically, the love
And loyalty of a utility player for the only organization
He had ever played for, and how refreshing that a player
Did not want to leave for the greener pastures of another field,
How delightful that a player held loyalty to his team and teammates,
Above all else. How purely and joyfully naïve
And enriching --- and reaffirming for the fans --- that someone
Wanted to be cheered by them and supported by them.
The camera caught him being human, unable to hold back the tears.
How glorious it was to be reminded that ballplayers are just
Like us: they can feel fear and sadness and love. Their uniforms
Are just temporary disguises --- and thankfully Wilmer reminded us that we
See ourselves in those who play the game . . . we see our youth,
Our pride, ambition, strength, and dreams . . . we recognize
On some precious level of reality that we are baseball and baseball is us.
Ghost
Baseball gives birth to many deep emotions:
Love of the game itself; loyalty to your team;
Vicarious pride in the accomplishments of
A hitter, a fielder, a runner, even a manager;
Grief at the sudden passing of a player too much
Before his time (Think Lymon Bostock, Roberto
Clemente, José Fernandez, Ken Hobbs, Lou
Gehrig, Thurman Munson). I could go on but that is not
My purpose in this liturgy of a fan’s feelings.
No, today is really about the profound sadness
That I now witness, the roller coaster dropping steeply
When there is no real hope that it will ever rise again
To its former glory. There is an expiration date
On every player’s skills, but this fact hurts the most
When it hits a hero, a future inductee to the
Hall of Fame, a player who was once atop
Mount Olympus but who has fallen, who
Descends first to the ordinary that he peered at
From above for so many years, then simply
Yet painfully to a depth where he can no more
Entertain, perform, excel; the Great is now the
Ordinary, the average, the master feeling age
Or debilitating injury (Don Mattingly, David Wright).
A batter, he has lost bat speed and control;
A runner, her has lost a step and the instinct
To sense the moment to take off; a fielder, he
Can still anticipate where the ball will go
But when it arrives he is just a step too slow and
The out becomes a hit; perhaps saddest of all
(For I am witnessing it every time he takes the mound)
The pitcher, once unhittable, now stands so very much
Alone on that mound, the focal point of adoring fans,
And throws what once was lightning or a pitch
That moved abruptly away from bats, avoiding solid
Contact, but is now an inch too slow, or just hanging ---
Waiting for an ordinary hitter to look like an all-star.
This is sadness personified. The once great hurler
Who finds himself not on Olympus or even his once
Beloved mound but rather on a hill that flattens out
As his days, once glorified, are now uncomfortably
Numbered. This is the Ghost of Greatness Past,
And we all mourn the man because he too painfully
Reminds us all of our own mortality.
Baseball gives birth to many deep emotions:
Love of the game itself; loyalty to your team;
Vicarious pride in the accomplishments of
A hitter, a fielder, a runner, even a manager;
Grief at the sudden passing of a player too much
Before his time (Think Lymon Bostock, Roberto
Clemente, José Fernandez, Ken Hobbs, Lou
Gehrig, Thurman Munson). I could go on but that is not
My purpose in this liturgy of a fan’s feelings.
No, today is really about the profound sadness
That I now witness, the roller coaster dropping steeply
When there is no real hope that it will ever rise again
To its former glory. There is an expiration date
On every player’s skills, but this fact hurts the most
When it hits a hero, a future inductee to the
Hall of Fame, a player who was once atop
Mount Olympus but who has fallen, who
Descends first to the ordinary that he peered at
From above for so many years, then simply
Yet painfully to a depth where he can no more
Entertain, perform, excel; the Great is now the
Ordinary, the average, the master feeling age
Or debilitating injury (Don Mattingly, David Wright).
A batter, he has lost bat speed and control;
A runner, her has lost a step and the instinct
To sense the moment to take off; a fielder, he
Can still anticipate where the ball will go
But when it arrives he is just a step too slow and
The out becomes a hit; perhaps saddest of all
(For I am witnessing it every time he takes the mound)
The pitcher, once unhittable, now stands so very much
Alone on that mound, the focal point of adoring fans,
And throws what once was lightning or a pitch
That moved abruptly away from bats, avoiding solid
Contact, but is now an inch too slow, or just hanging ---
Waiting for an ordinary hitter to look like an all-star.
This is sadness personified. The once great hurler
Who finds himself not on Olympus or even his once
Beloved mound but rather on a hill that flattens out
As his days, once glorified, are now uncomfortably
Numbered. This is the Ghost of Greatness Past,
And we all mourn the man because he too painfully
Reminds us all of our own mortality.
She sells
She sells such deals but with no store.
She silently selects locations in Manhattan,
Brooklyn, pop-up city and greets her potential buyers,
Quite the contrast to Willie Loman, not much travel
To eager clients, but with a wealth of knowledge
Of her product and her clientele. She makes business
Friends and deals with purchasers in many states
And even abroad. The road she travels is sometimes
Physical, often cybernetic sites that offer deals and steals ---
Places called eBay or Poshmark or Thrift in the City or Youtube.
She is a wonder of energy and the embodiment of
Optimism and has earned much respect from me for her
Pioneering spirit. I have deep regard for her
Independent nature and wish her well, as she
Adds to her accomplishments and spreads
Her energy as a magnetic field that draws
Fans and fanfare from those fortunate enough
To make that rare connection that only Willie
In his prime would understand and smile at
Knowingly.
She sells such deals but with no store.
She silently selects locations in Manhattan,
Brooklyn, pop-up city and greets her potential buyers,
Quite the contrast to Willie Loman, not much travel
To eager clients, but with a wealth of knowledge
Of her product and her clientele. She makes business
Friends and deals with purchasers in many states
And even abroad. The road she travels is sometimes
Physical, often cybernetic sites that offer deals and steals ---
Places called eBay or Poshmark or Thrift in the City or Youtube.
She is a wonder of energy and the embodiment of
Optimism and has earned much respect from me for her
Pioneering spirit. I have deep regard for her
Independent nature and wish her well, as she
Adds to her accomplishments and spreads
Her energy as a magnetic field that draws
Fans and fanfare from those fortunate enough
To make that rare connection that only Willie
In his prime would understand and smile at
Knowingly.
LOVE IN WAR AND PEACE
You must have loved me right away.
How else can one explain
That you agreed to a second date
When every aspect of our first
Was amateur hour. I mean,
Who takes a gorgeous 20 year old
To a shopping center parking lot
And then to see a movie about
Nazi Prisoners of War being held in Scotland?
And how smooth was it that in the gentle darkness of the theater
I made my studied Errol Flynn move
And touched your hand so tenderly,
Eager to initiate our romantic bond
By holding hands as Scots and Nazis also bonded,
And you uttered the first tender word of our burgeoning love,
A simple and a heart-felt "What?"
Interrupting the bond you'd clearly formed with
Your new-found cinematic friends.
Later, I brought to fruition our fledgling love
As we peered into each other's eyes,
Hazel to gentle brown, across the restaurant table,
And I saw reflected in your eyeglasses my look of shock
As you ordered a cocktail containing alcohol!!
At that moment, Romeo and Juliet seemed quite sophisticated.
(I should have recognized a kindred spirit when you
Stumbled out of my car and fell into my arms)
Such was our start . . . And mirabile dictu, once I'd walked you
To your apartment door near Gun Hill Road
(An ironically fitting name considering the setting of the movie),
You hadn't had enough. You kissed me good night
And what followed was date after date, day after day,
Rapid fire like a machine gun in a military movie.
You must have loved me right away
And 53 years later
There is no end in sight.
You must have loved me right away.
How else can one explain
That you agreed to a second date
When every aspect of our first
Was amateur hour. I mean,
Who takes a gorgeous 20 year old
To a shopping center parking lot
And then to see a movie about
Nazi Prisoners of War being held in Scotland?
And how smooth was it that in the gentle darkness of the theater
I made my studied Errol Flynn move
And touched your hand so tenderly,
Eager to initiate our romantic bond
By holding hands as Scots and Nazis also bonded,
And you uttered the first tender word of our burgeoning love,
A simple and a heart-felt "What?"
Interrupting the bond you'd clearly formed with
Your new-found cinematic friends.
Later, I brought to fruition our fledgling love
As we peered into each other's eyes,
Hazel to gentle brown, across the restaurant table,
And I saw reflected in your eyeglasses my look of shock
As you ordered a cocktail containing alcohol!!
At that moment, Romeo and Juliet seemed quite sophisticated.
(I should have recognized a kindred spirit when you
Stumbled out of my car and fell into my arms)
Such was our start . . . And mirabile dictu, once I'd walked you
To your apartment door near Gun Hill Road
(An ironically fitting name considering the setting of the movie),
You hadn't had enough. You kissed me good night
And what followed was date after date, day after day,
Rapid fire like a machine gun in a military movie.
You must have loved me right away
And 53 years later
There is no end in sight.
Dichotomy
The thing is,
My mind is young, full of energy
That my body has allowed, even encouraged,
To abandon me physically. I gaze into the mirror and I have to accept
What I see --- an old man hunched over, leaning slightly to the left,
Shaggy gray hair exploding from his scalp, dark marks
Flourishing where they don’t belong.
This is what I see reflected at me, but what the mirror
Does not show is my vitality, my memories and my ideas,
My spirit and my mind . . .
Above all else, my mind, which has kept me company for
More than eight decades, and gives me faith that Life
Is worth engaging with. My mind is young still,
Encompassing electric impulses that bring to me
Visions of the layers of the past intertwined with
Perceptions of the present and plans for the future.
In my thoughts are images of places waiting for me
To return to or explore or relish in, people whom
I love and others whom I have not met, times that can
Charm my soul and bless my being with such warmth
That I will just be loathe to disengage with.
While an old man may be seen hobbling down the sidewalk,
Stumbling on jagged sidewalk brickwork,
Stopping periodically to catch his breath or rest arthritic knees,
Be assured that his young mind is active and perceiving
The people, places, things that he shares the walk with.
My mind is but a child waiting for discoveries and awareness
And that will never change.
Cogito, ergo sum --- I am excited every day to rediscover
All that waits for me, from voices of those whom I so love
To powder blue heavens to orange day lilies and roses
To the all too rare robins and cardinals that visit my environs sporadically
To the parade of traffic (human and mechanical) that populates
My neighborhood. I took a drive the other day and took full in
The trucks of many shapes and hues and the autos darting in and out
Of busy lanes and I felt comforted by my acuity as I merged
With all those stories on the highway, all those destinations.
I belonged. I do belong. I am a child in a well-used body,
Dreaming of having my mind placed in an automaton
To lose the pains and clumsiness, to gain facility and eternity.
The thing is,
I’m hoping that is not a dream, but then again, once in a while
Even a dream comes true.
The thing is,
My mind is young, full of energy
That my body has allowed, even encouraged,
To abandon me physically. I gaze into the mirror and I have to accept
What I see --- an old man hunched over, leaning slightly to the left,
Shaggy gray hair exploding from his scalp, dark marks
Flourishing where they don’t belong.
This is what I see reflected at me, but what the mirror
Does not show is my vitality, my memories and my ideas,
My spirit and my mind . . .
Above all else, my mind, which has kept me company for
More than eight decades, and gives me faith that Life
Is worth engaging with. My mind is young still,
Encompassing electric impulses that bring to me
Visions of the layers of the past intertwined with
Perceptions of the present and plans for the future.
In my thoughts are images of places waiting for me
To return to or explore or relish in, people whom
I love and others whom I have not met, times that can
Charm my soul and bless my being with such warmth
That I will just be loathe to disengage with.
While an old man may be seen hobbling down the sidewalk,
Stumbling on jagged sidewalk brickwork,
Stopping periodically to catch his breath or rest arthritic knees,
Be assured that his young mind is active and perceiving
The people, places, things that he shares the walk with.
My mind is but a child waiting for discoveries and awareness
And that will never change.
Cogito, ergo sum --- I am excited every day to rediscover
All that waits for me, from voices of those whom I so love
To powder blue heavens to orange day lilies and roses
To the all too rare robins and cardinals that visit my environs sporadically
To the parade of traffic (human and mechanical) that populates
My neighborhood. I took a drive the other day and took full in
The trucks of many shapes and hues and the autos darting in and out
Of busy lanes and I felt comforted by my acuity as I merged
With all those stories on the highway, all those destinations.
I belonged. I do belong. I am a child in a well-used body,
Dreaming of having my mind placed in an automaton
To lose the pains and clumsiness, to gain facility and eternity.
The thing is,
I’m hoping that is not a dream, but then again, once in a while
Even a dream comes true.
Sandy’s Final Game
--- regular season edition
His plaque reads: four no-hitters in four years
(A perfect game in 1965),
ERA title five consecutive years,
25 or more wins three times,
Strike-out leader four times
(Including 382 k’s in 1965),
NL MVP in 1963,
Cy Young Award winner three times
(When there was only one for both leagues combined) ---
Yet what we honor here, at this time,
Is his final game, his final victory.
Which pitcher retires from the Majors at age 30,
After a regular season record of 27 – 9
And an ERA of 1.73 and tons of money waiting?
If you want to know the man, the man
Who had the strength to do all this, learn
About his one last effort on the final day
Of the regular season in 1966. It was
A moral victory and very much a mortal victory.
The second-place Giants had beaten Pittsburgh,
The Dodgers had lost their first game to the Phillies
And now the erstwhile Bums needed a second game victory
To play in the ’66 Series against the Orioles.
All he had to do was pitch on two-days’ rest
Battling crippling arthritis in his pitching hand,
Filling himself with cortisone and pain-relieving ointment,
Above all managing to ignore the ever-present pain.
He faced Jim Bunning, future Hall-of-Famer, who was
After win Number 20, and a team with slugger Richie Allen,
Bill White (who would be president of the National League
One day) and three future ML managers.
(This was the year he and Drysdale had sat out spring training
Until O’Malley agreed to their contract demands.)
He had a great first half to this season, going 14 -2
(With 14 complete games and a 1.56 ERA by June 26 ---
And agony in his pitching arm with every throw, and
A Spartan attitude that would not let him give in).
He had started that year’s All-Star game (on two days’ rest).
Now, 81 days later, on October 1,1966 his final opportunity
To pitch a regular season game arrived (and only he know it).
His constant companion, arthritic agony, was present
(It bears repeating because it would be a challenge for
Anyone to pitch for the pennant on two-days’ rest, feeling great –
Marvin Miller had once seen him ice his arm and the player rep
Had said he’d never seen an arm more swollen in his life!
Sandy had warmed up in the bullpen during the first game
That day but wasn’t called on as the Dodgers lost. They
Found out that the Giants won when the Dodgers’ second game
Against the Phillies was in its early stages.
His curve, a wondrous weapon, refused to work that day
And so pitch after pitch he just relied on his wicked fastball
And he entered inning five with a 4-0 lead --- but
As he pitched to Sutherland something “popped” in his back.
He downplayed it to “just a cramp” but it took two trainers
And Don Newcombe pulling and stretching him in all directions
Between innings plus a ton of Capsilon to get him back onto the hill ---
Still with his swollen arm compliments of the omnipresent arthritis.
Pain? Just another enemy to be vanquished! This game was
To be his final effort and he was not about to let his teammates down.
And when the Phillies threatened in the ninth,
Cutting his lead in half, Sandy threw his heart out
And finished with his tenth strikeout, gained with three untouchable fastballs.
This was more than a game; it was Sisyphus finally rolling that rock
To the very top of that damn mountain (an ancient kind of ball game).
On that day he painted a masterpiece of courage and determination.
On that day, he showed that human beings could conquer their own demons
And demonstrate that there is a fragment of the Holy One
Within each of us, but it is the few who manage to call upon it
Righteously and show our worthiness.
And when that happens, there is no Hall of Fame
Grand enough to house the enormity of such a person
--- So he (or she) must find a home within the hearts
Of souls who witnessed or who read about such dignity and greatness.
--- regular season edition
His plaque reads: four no-hitters in four years
(A perfect game in 1965),
ERA title five consecutive years,
25 or more wins three times,
Strike-out leader four times
(Including 382 k’s in 1965),
NL MVP in 1963,
Cy Young Award winner three times
(When there was only one for both leagues combined) ---
Yet what we honor here, at this time,
Is his final game, his final victory.
Which pitcher retires from the Majors at age 30,
After a regular season record of 27 – 9
And an ERA of 1.73 and tons of money waiting?
If you want to know the man, the man
Who had the strength to do all this, learn
About his one last effort on the final day
Of the regular season in 1966. It was
A moral victory and very much a mortal victory.
The second-place Giants had beaten Pittsburgh,
The Dodgers had lost their first game to the Phillies
And now the erstwhile Bums needed a second game victory
To play in the ’66 Series against the Orioles.
All he had to do was pitch on two-days’ rest
Battling crippling arthritis in his pitching hand,
Filling himself with cortisone and pain-relieving ointment,
Above all managing to ignore the ever-present pain.
He faced Jim Bunning, future Hall-of-Famer, who was
After win Number 20, and a team with slugger Richie Allen,
Bill White (who would be president of the National League
One day) and three future ML managers.
(This was the year he and Drysdale had sat out spring training
Until O’Malley agreed to their contract demands.)
He had a great first half to this season, going 14 -2
(With 14 complete games and a 1.56 ERA by June 26 ---
And agony in his pitching arm with every throw, and
A Spartan attitude that would not let him give in).
He had started that year’s All-Star game (on two days’ rest).
Now, 81 days later, on October 1,1966 his final opportunity
To pitch a regular season game arrived (and only he know it).
His constant companion, arthritic agony, was present
(It bears repeating because it would be a challenge for
Anyone to pitch for the pennant on two-days’ rest, feeling great –
Marvin Miller had once seen him ice his arm and the player rep
Had said he’d never seen an arm more swollen in his life!
Sandy had warmed up in the bullpen during the first game
That day but wasn’t called on as the Dodgers lost. They
Found out that the Giants won when the Dodgers’ second game
Against the Phillies was in its early stages.
His curve, a wondrous weapon, refused to work that day
And so pitch after pitch he just relied on his wicked fastball
And he entered inning five with a 4-0 lead --- but
As he pitched to Sutherland something “popped” in his back.
He downplayed it to “just a cramp” but it took two trainers
And Don Newcombe pulling and stretching him in all directions
Between innings plus a ton of Capsilon to get him back onto the hill ---
Still with his swollen arm compliments of the omnipresent arthritis.
Pain? Just another enemy to be vanquished! This game was
To be his final effort and he was not about to let his teammates down.
And when the Phillies threatened in the ninth,
Cutting his lead in half, Sandy threw his heart out
And finished with his tenth strikeout, gained with three untouchable fastballs.
This was more than a game; it was Sisyphus finally rolling that rock
To the very top of that damn mountain (an ancient kind of ball game).
On that day he painted a masterpiece of courage and determination.
On that day, he showed that human beings could conquer their own demons
And demonstrate that there is a fragment of the Holy One
Within each of us, but it is the few who manage to call upon it
Righteously and show our worthiness.
And when that happens, there is no Hall of Fame
Grand enough to house the enormity of such a person
--- So he (or she) must find a home within the hearts
Of souls who witnessed or who read about such dignity and greatness.
Character of the Game
Characters of the Game
Mark Fidrych spoke to the ball (but it never
Answered him). Yoenis Cespedes fractured
His ankle because of a wild boar on his ranch.
Jimmy Piersall ran the bases backwards in a
Most unusual home run trot; he also spoke to
Babe Ruth, who was in the stands (and deceased).
Casey Stengel spoke a strange language, as did
Yogi Berra but only the Ol’ Perfessor once
Had a bird --- not Fidrych, a real sparrow ---
Under his hat till he tipped it. Then there’s
Turk Wendell, who leaped over the foul line
Every time while wearing a necklace he made
From animal teeth and claws he had hunted.
Joe Nuxhall began his Major League career
At age 15 in 1943 while in 1951, 3’7” Eddie
Gaedel walked in his only MLB at-bat.
Ryne Duran threw the ball past the catcher to the stands
When he warmed up as a feared Yankee reliever while
Another reliever, Al Hrabosky, often argued with
Himself as he stomped angrily across the mound.
Pete Gray managed to play the outfield . . .
With one arm, Jim Abbott starred as a hurler
With one hand and Monty Stratton pitched
And fielded with a single leg --- all three
Personifying Major courage and determination.
Satchel Paige pitched his final game at age 59.
Tug McGraw kept chanting, “Ya gotta believe”
In 1973 while his Mets came from nowhere
To almost winning the World Series.
Pitcher Greg A. Harris faced Major League
Batters as an ambidextrous pitcher in 1995.
Ryan Dempster enjoyed playing pranks on
Teammates while Bill “The Spaceman” Lee
(Who liked to dress like an astronaut)
Claimed that he sprinkled marijuana on his
Breakfast cereal daily. Phenomenal Smith
In the 1800’s claimed he was so good that he
Could win without his teammates (till they
Showed him he was wrong by making 14 errors
Behind him one day). Did I mention that Wendell
Would often stuff his mouth with licorice before
Each inning pitched --- and brush his teeth between
Those innings? Rube Waddell was easily distracted
By shiny objects in the stands. Moe Berg was a spy
For the OSS (now the CIA) during World Was II.
Marvelous Marv Throneberry once hit a triple,
Only to be called out because he hadn’t stepped on
First or second base. Yes, baseball is a game of inches
But it is also a game of human beings, of characters
That make it memorable way beyond statistics and
History. There is no such animal as a typical ballplayer.
Baseball is indeed the most human of sports,
Reflecting all that we are and all we can be,
And celebrating the uniqueness of us all.
Characters of the Game
Mark Fidrych spoke to the ball (but it never
Answered him). Yoenis Cespedes fractured
His ankle because of a wild boar on his ranch.
Jimmy Piersall ran the bases backwards in a
Most unusual home run trot; he also spoke to
Babe Ruth, who was in the stands (and deceased).
Casey Stengel spoke a strange language, as did
Yogi Berra but only the Ol’ Perfessor once
Had a bird --- not Fidrych, a real sparrow ---
Under his hat till he tipped it. Then there’s
Turk Wendell, who leaped over the foul line
Every time while wearing a necklace he made
From animal teeth and claws he had hunted.
Joe Nuxhall began his Major League career
At age 15 in 1943 while in 1951, 3’7” Eddie
Gaedel walked in his only MLB at-bat.
Ryne Duran threw the ball past the catcher to the stands
When he warmed up as a feared Yankee reliever while
Another reliever, Al Hrabosky, often argued with
Himself as he stomped angrily across the mound.
Pete Gray managed to play the outfield . . .
With one arm, Jim Abbott starred as a hurler
With one hand and Monty Stratton pitched
And fielded with a single leg --- all three
Personifying Major courage and determination.
Satchel Paige pitched his final game at age 59.
Tug McGraw kept chanting, “Ya gotta believe”
In 1973 while his Mets came from nowhere
To almost winning the World Series.
Pitcher Greg A. Harris faced Major League
Batters as an ambidextrous pitcher in 1995.
Ryan Dempster enjoyed playing pranks on
Teammates while Bill “The Spaceman” Lee
(Who liked to dress like an astronaut)
Claimed that he sprinkled marijuana on his
Breakfast cereal daily. Phenomenal Smith
In the 1800’s claimed he was so good that he
Could win without his teammates (till they
Showed him he was wrong by making 14 errors
Behind him one day). Did I mention that Wendell
Would often stuff his mouth with licorice before
Each inning pitched --- and brush his teeth between
Those innings? Rube Waddell was easily distracted
By shiny objects in the stands. Moe Berg was a spy
For the OSS (now the CIA) during World Was II.
Marvelous Marv Throneberry once hit a triple,
Only to be called out because he hadn’t stepped on
First or second base. Yes, baseball is a game of inches
But it is also a game of human beings, of characters
That make it memorable way beyond statistics and
History. There is no such animal as a typical ballplayer.
Baseball is indeed the most human of sports,
Reflecting all that we are and all we can be,
And celebrating the uniqueness of us all.
Lyman
Men of honor, Knights of the Diamond, sometimes are sadly forgotten.
Pee Wee Reese put his Dixie arms around Jackie Robinson’s shoulders
One time and was engulfed in a wave of anger from the fans but did not care.
Hank Greenberg, himself target of fan and player animosity, told Jackie to stick with it,
And became a baseball hero to Number 42, one hero recognizing a fellow icon.
Lyman Bostock was Everyman’s hero, an exemplary player on the field
And a human being nonpareil off the field.
His name rarely resides in the memory or knowledge of even the most astute
Of baseball fans --- but it should; there should be an award memorializing him
Much as there is the Roberto Clemente Award honoring great character annually.
Bostock played in the late ‘70’s: four seasons with the Twins and Angels;
He batted .323 and .336 his first two full seasons, with a career
Average of .311 at the plate by the time his time on the field was cut short,
Numbers that invited Cooperstown to create a shiny plaque one day.
From Minnesota, at the start of free agency, after making $20,000 his final Twin year
Of 1977, he signed with the Angels --- five years for two-point-three million bucks ---
A Midas amount at the time . . . but he was no Midas (and no Scrooge),
As he soon showed. He started his first season with California but struck no gold,
Dipping to .260 after his first month playing for the Halos. He walked right in to
GM Autrey’s office determined to refuse to take that first month’s salary,
Saying he’d “not earned it” (Who else ever said and did those things?) --- and when the
Old Cowboy forced the money on him, he did what the rare honorable man
Would have done --- he gave that $50,000 to charity, as dictated by his deep integrity.
They say the good die young, and there are times when it is so.
Lyman Bostock never finished out that contract, never made it to the Hall of Fame
(Although he would have). Life is full of what they call vicissitudes and stupidity.
He made the final out against the White Sox on September 23, 1978 and then
Visited his uncle in nearby Gary, Indiana. The two men and two women, lifelong
Family friends, were in a car when another car, driven by the estranged, bitter husband
Of one of the women, approached, grumbling and shooting in blind, wild rage,
Hitting Bostock in the head and killing him. Later it was said that the husband’s
Jealousy had no foundation . . . but it didn’t matter to the almost 28 year old Bostock.
The next day --- and certainly Lyman was the only true Angel on that California team ---
Manager Jim Fregosi acknowledged that the game would be played, saying, “We’re
Professionals” but he added, “A good friend is gone. . . . He was close to everyone.”
To preempt the emphatic and empathetic words of the Bard, “This was a man!”
Men of honor, Knights of the Diamond, sometimes are sadly forgotten.
Pee Wee Reese put his Dixie arms around Jackie Robinson’s shoulders
One time and was engulfed in a wave of anger from the fans but did not care.
Hank Greenberg, himself target of fan and player animosity, told Jackie to stick with it,
And became a baseball hero to Number 42, one hero recognizing a fellow icon.
Lyman Bostock was Everyman’s hero, an exemplary player on the field
And a human being nonpareil off the field.
His name rarely resides in the memory or knowledge of even the most astute
Of baseball fans --- but it should; there should be an award memorializing him
Much as there is the Roberto Clemente Award honoring great character annually.
Bostock played in the late ‘70’s: four seasons with the Twins and Angels;
He batted .323 and .336 his first two full seasons, with a career
Average of .311 at the plate by the time his time on the field was cut short,
Numbers that invited Cooperstown to create a shiny plaque one day.
From Minnesota, at the start of free agency, after making $20,000 his final Twin year
Of 1977, he signed with the Angels --- five years for two-point-three million bucks ---
A Midas amount at the time . . . but he was no Midas (and no Scrooge),
As he soon showed. He started his first season with California but struck no gold,
Dipping to .260 after his first month playing for the Halos. He walked right in to
GM Autrey’s office determined to refuse to take that first month’s salary,
Saying he’d “not earned it” (Who else ever said and did those things?) --- and when the
Old Cowboy forced the money on him, he did what the rare honorable man
Would have done --- he gave that $50,000 to charity, as dictated by his deep integrity.
They say the good die young, and there are times when it is so.
Lyman Bostock never finished out that contract, never made it to the Hall of Fame
(Although he would have). Life is full of what they call vicissitudes and stupidity.
He made the final out against the White Sox on September 23, 1978 and then
Visited his uncle in nearby Gary, Indiana. The two men and two women, lifelong
Family friends, were in a car when another car, driven by the estranged, bitter husband
Of one of the women, approached, grumbling and shooting in blind, wild rage,
Hitting Bostock in the head and killing him. Later it was said that the husband’s
Jealousy had no foundation . . . but it didn’t matter to the almost 28 year old Bostock.
The next day --- and certainly Lyman was the only true Angel on that California team ---
Manager Jim Fregosi acknowledged that the game would be played, saying, “We’re
Professionals” but he added, “A good friend is gone. . . . He was close to everyone.”
To preempt the emphatic and empathetic words of the Bard, “This was a man!”
HEIST
We need the run; it’s up to me!
I can’t just play it safe at third,
Hoping for a long fly or a single
With two outs! The pitcher’s focused,
Laser beam eyes on the batter
And the plate. I can’t bounce
Back and forth, catch his eye,
Do a Jackie Robinson. I’ve got
To be coy, sly, an inch at a time.
The hurler’s a southpaw, not
Facing me, concentrating on
The batter, the strike zone, the
Runner on first, while I gently,
Silently shuffle my feet inches at
A time, waiting with two out
For just the perfect moment ---
As he ignores me ‘cause
I’ve never stolen home before.
But that’s my edge; he leans
Toward home, steps off the
Rubber to scratch his head,
Glances at me and then
Stares at the first base runner,
Knowing I can make it back to
Third if I have to . . . He rubs
His hand with resin --- Now’s
My chance. I take off head down,
Feel the breeze that I create , , ,
And hook slide to the outside of
Home plate, hoping that surprise
Will be my pal today. Here I am
And I hear the ump’s gruff shout
Exploding, echoing from the stands,
Deciding where there will be no appeal!
Oh, my God --- I can’t believe it!!
Everyone’s surprised . . .
One way or the other.
We need the run; it’s up to me!
I can’t just play it safe at third,
Hoping for a long fly or a single
With two outs! The pitcher’s focused,
Laser beam eyes on the batter
And the plate. I can’t bounce
Back and forth, catch his eye,
Do a Jackie Robinson. I’ve got
To be coy, sly, an inch at a time.
The hurler’s a southpaw, not
Facing me, concentrating on
The batter, the strike zone, the
Runner on first, while I gently,
Silently shuffle my feet inches at
A time, waiting with two out
For just the perfect moment ---
As he ignores me ‘cause
I’ve never stolen home before.
But that’s my edge; he leans
Toward home, steps off the
Rubber to scratch his head,
Glances at me and then
Stares at the first base runner,
Knowing I can make it back to
Third if I have to . . . He rubs
His hand with resin --- Now’s
My chance. I take off head down,
Feel the breeze that I create , , ,
And hook slide to the outside of
Home plate, hoping that surprise
Will be my pal today. Here I am
And I hear the ump’s gruff shout
Exploding, echoing from the stands,
Deciding where there will be no appeal!
Oh, my God --- I can’t believe it!!
Everyone’s surprised . . .
One way or the other.
20 - 20 Vision
Bob Feller, Cleveland Indian and baseball great, won his twentieth game
Of the season in 1939 at age 20 years, 10 months, 5 days ; Dwight Gooden
Won his twentieth in 1985, When he was 20 years, 9 months and 9 days old;
When soon after that occasion, Feller was asked to comment on Gooden’s
Early greatness, Feller grumbled something about waiting to see if Gooden could
Maintain that lofty level of pitching mastery for a whole career, as he had,
--- and I, an original Met fan having waited for years for an imitation of Tom Seaver’s
Met mystique, dismissed Feller’s words as an old man’s spitting out
Sour grapes. Gooden might as well begin working on his Hall of Fame
Acceptance speech, I mused . . . but I was wrong and the old Feller
Was right on the target. Gooden did okay in his career (not quite 200 wins) but
Never matched that golden year’s 24 – 4 record, never won 20 games again,
Didn’t even reach double figures in victories nine of his final 10 years
. . . And while I cannot credit Feller with anticipating the effect of
Drugs on Gooden, I sit here nodding my old age and admitting
That Feller understood one thing the younger me never could consider:
That it takes not just skill but also strength of character to maintain
God-like status once you’ve reached it. The annals, as they say, are filled with
One-hit wonders (so to speak), I loved Gooden in those early years
After the despairing desert decade that preceded him, but as
My admiration for him dwindled, my respect for the old man
Transitioned from his loss of a place in the books to a place
In my heart. I still admire Dwight, not for his career but for
The man of substance he became. As for my baseball vision,
It’s funny how I now in my ninth decade of Life
Remember how I once looked upon an old man as the stereotypical
“Why, in my day” observer of those who had replaced him.
Irony never ever grows old, does it?
Bob Feller, Cleveland Indian and baseball great, won his twentieth game
Of the season in 1939 at age 20 years, 10 months, 5 days ; Dwight Gooden
Won his twentieth in 1985, When he was 20 years, 9 months and 9 days old;
When soon after that occasion, Feller was asked to comment on Gooden’s
Early greatness, Feller grumbled something about waiting to see if Gooden could
Maintain that lofty level of pitching mastery for a whole career, as he had,
--- and I, an original Met fan having waited for years for an imitation of Tom Seaver’s
Met mystique, dismissed Feller’s words as an old man’s spitting out
Sour grapes. Gooden might as well begin working on his Hall of Fame
Acceptance speech, I mused . . . but I was wrong and the old Feller
Was right on the target. Gooden did okay in his career (not quite 200 wins) but
Never matched that golden year’s 24 – 4 record, never won 20 games again,
Didn’t even reach double figures in victories nine of his final 10 years
. . . And while I cannot credit Feller with anticipating the effect of
Drugs on Gooden, I sit here nodding my old age and admitting
That Feller understood one thing the younger me never could consider:
That it takes not just skill but also strength of character to maintain
God-like status once you’ve reached it. The annals, as they say, are filled with
One-hit wonders (so to speak), I loved Gooden in those early years
After the despairing desert decade that preceded him, but as
My admiration for him dwindled, my respect for the old man
Transitioned from his loss of a place in the books to a place
In my heart. I still admire Dwight, not for his career but for
The man of substance he became. As for my baseball vision,
It’s funny how I now in my ninth decade of Life
Remember how I once looked upon an old man as the stereotypical
“Why, in my day” observer of those who had replaced him.
Irony never ever grows old, does it?
Gray Lady
Gray lady, with softly spoken daggers flying
From your mouth, cutting listeners bold enough to gaze at you,
Which secrets do you hide behind your slow and
Silent words, chosen with no empathy for those
Whom you address? Do you seek revenge or
Validation? Your crystal eyes take in much more
Than you do see initially, breaking through the surface
Of your prey. You dwell within a quiet, angry presence
That speaks of anguished times gone by and
Disappointing dreams. Within your secretive stillness
Hide such stories as would terrify an emperor or a monster …
And each strand of your dull silver hair denotes a separate
Sadness --- yet you go on, and breathe determination
Deeply hidden in the frailty of deception. Yet there is
Strength in that deception, and no known barrier
Has the potency to withstand the discomforting glare
Emanating from your too deceiving eyes.
Please do not gaze at me . . . .
Gray lady, with softly spoken daggers flying
From your mouth, cutting listeners bold enough to gaze at you,
Which secrets do you hide behind your slow and
Silent words, chosen with no empathy for those
Whom you address? Do you seek revenge or
Validation? Your crystal eyes take in much more
Than you do see initially, breaking through the surface
Of your prey. You dwell within a quiet, angry presence
That speaks of anguished times gone by and
Disappointing dreams. Within your secretive stillness
Hide such stories as would terrify an emperor or a monster …
And each strand of your dull silver hair denotes a separate
Sadness --- yet you go on, and breathe determination
Deeply hidden in the frailty of deception. Yet there is
Strength in that deception, and no known barrier
Has the potency to withstand the discomforting glare
Emanating from your too deceiving eyes.
Please do not gaze at me . . . .
Effects of War ---
There were heroes enough representing America first and the Major Leagues next
During the dark and angry years of World War Two, hundreds of them ---
Such as the first to join, Hank Greenberg, enlisting very soon after we entered combat
And seeing bitter action in the China-Burma-India Theater during his four years of
Service; Yogi Berra, who earned multiple awards, and who on June 6, 1944
Was assigned to a Navy Rocket boat, equipped with machine guns firing and
Rockets launched at German defenses on Omaha And Utah Beaches on D-Day;
Bob Feller, who enlisted two days after the Attack on Pearl Harbor, eschewed
Playing baseball games to entertain his fellow troops, and instead attended
Gunnery school and then spent more than two long years in the Pacific Theater in
Naval combat as chief petty officer; Warren Spahn, who signed on with the
Army in 1942 and fought in the Battle of the Bulge; Hank Bauer, a tough
Multi-decorated Marine who fought in the bloody Battle of Okinawa and other
Pacific conflicts; Gil Hodges, who also fought in the Battle of Okinawa among other clashes.
But that War (and the absence of the freedom for Black players to make the Show)
Also opened up for others opportunities to make The Major Leagues --- players
Such as Danny Gardella, Giants outfielder --- who was hit on the head by a ball
He tried to catch but who also hit .272 with 28 homers in 121 games in 1945;
Joe Nuxhall, who in June 1944 at age 15 became the youngest player ever
To appear in an ML game --- a record to this day; such as Danny Sipek, a deaf player
Brought up by the Reds in 1945 after hitting .336 and .319 for Birmingham the previous
Two years; such as Pete Gray, who in 1944, playing for the Memphis Chicks, hit .333,
Slugged .439, led that Minor League with 68 steals, was the best outfielder statistically
And then was called up to play for the St. Louis Browns ---
Not bad for a young man with no right arm!
The effects of war are wide-spread and let true strength shine through the darkness ---
But better that we live in light.
There were heroes enough representing America first and the Major Leagues next
During the dark and angry years of World War Two, hundreds of them ---
Such as the first to join, Hank Greenberg, enlisting very soon after we entered combat
And seeing bitter action in the China-Burma-India Theater during his four years of
Service; Yogi Berra, who earned multiple awards, and who on June 6, 1944
Was assigned to a Navy Rocket boat, equipped with machine guns firing and
Rockets launched at German defenses on Omaha And Utah Beaches on D-Day;
Bob Feller, who enlisted two days after the Attack on Pearl Harbor, eschewed
Playing baseball games to entertain his fellow troops, and instead attended
Gunnery school and then spent more than two long years in the Pacific Theater in
Naval combat as chief petty officer; Warren Spahn, who signed on with the
Army in 1942 and fought in the Battle of the Bulge; Hank Bauer, a tough
Multi-decorated Marine who fought in the bloody Battle of Okinawa and other
Pacific conflicts; Gil Hodges, who also fought in the Battle of Okinawa among other clashes.
But that War (and the absence of the freedom for Black players to make the Show)
Also opened up for others opportunities to make The Major Leagues --- players
Such as Danny Gardella, Giants outfielder --- who was hit on the head by a ball
He tried to catch but who also hit .272 with 28 homers in 121 games in 1945;
Joe Nuxhall, who in June 1944 at age 15 became the youngest player ever
To appear in an ML game --- a record to this day; such as Danny Sipek, a deaf player
Brought up by the Reds in 1945 after hitting .336 and .319 for Birmingham the previous
Two years; such as Pete Gray, who in 1944, playing for the Memphis Chicks, hit .333,
Slugged .439, led that Minor League with 68 steals, was the best outfielder statistically
And then was called up to play for the St. Louis Browns ---
Not bad for a young man with no right arm!
The effects of war are wide-spread and let true strength shine through the darkness ---
But better that we live in light.
Family
I miss them all. In the twilight of my years, when I am closer
To them than I have been in decades. I miss them deeply.
I miss my mom. I don’t recall the pitch of her voice but I remember
How she cared for me in my moments of need. I have images of her
Leaning over me like a mother bear protecting her cub, showing me
How she prepared old European meals too soon after the slaughter of
Those she left behind, guiding me as I watched her use the big wooden Bowl to chop the beef or the fish. I can hear her heavy breathing over me.
I feel her gentle touch when I wake up in the lonely darkness of the night Crying. I think of her and images of the Tooth Fairy come to me and
I am aware of a serene smile accompanied by a warm and tender tear.
I learned from her what reassurance is. I wish I could bring to my inner ear
What she sounded like but I was young when she had to leave,
And my recall of her sound has betrayed me like the parakeet I once
Adored, flying away to some unknown land that just might await me
When my time arrives. I miss her and yearn to see her once again.
I miss my father, dedicated as he was to watching over me in his way.
I hear his gruff voice infused with constant caring asking me to tell him
How my day went and really listening. We were a world apart in
History and culture, measured as the distance between opera and
Rock and roll, but we could not be closer than we were, and even if
I did not always recognize that then, I am aware of it today, now that
I am a decade older than he was when he collapsed and passed
From a disease that would be cured today by a single daily pill.
I miss my one sister, who took care of me in the absence of my mother,
Who cooked and cherished me, who cared for her nation by serving
In the armed forces, and who once came to my school and wore her
Uniform and looked so cool that I felt pride overwhelm me . . . and I
Smiled as classmates fell in love with her in her U. S. Navy outfit,
So crisp and blue and white. I miss her and her love. I hurt still now
Remembering her weakly lying in a VA hospital in Seattle, fighting hard
To stay alive but moving on at too young an age, so much so that I now
Have lived twice as long as she did. Her smiling face will not be forgotten.
I miss my other sister, the one who married at age 20 and who had
Three kids and many grandkids. It was she who cared for me
After my surgery in the eighth grade, who temporarily made me
Her de facto child during my recuperation, who decades later provided me
Another home as I again recuperated from an operation. Her love was
Always constant, and I never fail to recognize her voice asking me,
Even now, more than 20 years since the last time I was with her, how
I am doing, how everyone in my family is doing. I think that is the
Most painful situation for me --- that none of these beloved and
Good people is here to see what has become of me, to experience
How my family has grown and just how much I am daily loved
By my sweetheart, our children and our grandkids.
I miss them all --- but that won’t be forever.
I miss them all. In the twilight of my years, when I am closer
To them than I have been in decades. I miss them deeply.
I miss my mom. I don’t recall the pitch of her voice but I remember
How she cared for me in my moments of need. I have images of her
Leaning over me like a mother bear protecting her cub, showing me
How she prepared old European meals too soon after the slaughter of
Those she left behind, guiding me as I watched her use the big wooden Bowl to chop the beef or the fish. I can hear her heavy breathing over me.
I feel her gentle touch when I wake up in the lonely darkness of the night Crying. I think of her and images of the Tooth Fairy come to me and
I am aware of a serene smile accompanied by a warm and tender tear.
I learned from her what reassurance is. I wish I could bring to my inner ear
What she sounded like but I was young when she had to leave,
And my recall of her sound has betrayed me like the parakeet I once
Adored, flying away to some unknown land that just might await me
When my time arrives. I miss her and yearn to see her once again.
I miss my father, dedicated as he was to watching over me in his way.
I hear his gruff voice infused with constant caring asking me to tell him
How my day went and really listening. We were a world apart in
History and culture, measured as the distance between opera and
Rock and roll, but we could not be closer than we were, and even if
I did not always recognize that then, I am aware of it today, now that
I am a decade older than he was when he collapsed and passed
From a disease that would be cured today by a single daily pill.
I miss my one sister, who took care of me in the absence of my mother,
Who cooked and cherished me, who cared for her nation by serving
In the armed forces, and who once came to my school and wore her
Uniform and looked so cool that I felt pride overwhelm me . . . and I
Smiled as classmates fell in love with her in her U. S. Navy outfit,
So crisp and blue and white. I miss her and her love. I hurt still now
Remembering her weakly lying in a VA hospital in Seattle, fighting hard
To stay alive but moving on at too young an age, so much so that I now
Have lived twice as long as she did. Her smiling face will not be forgotten.
I miss my other sister, the one who married at age 20 and who had
Three kids and many grandkids. It was she who cared for me
After my surgery in the eighth grade, who temporarily made me
Her de facto child during my recuperation, who decades later provided me
Another home as I again recuperated from an operation. Her love was
Always constant, and I never fail to recognize her voice asking me,
Even now, more than 20 years since the last time I was with her, how
I am doing, how everyone in my family is doing. I think that is the
Most painful situation for me --- that none of these beloved and
Good people is here to see what has become of me, to experience
How my family has grown and just how much I am daily loved
By my sweetheart, our children and our grandkids.
I miss them all --- but that won’t be forever.
Score
You can tell a three-dimensional baseball fan
From the more rigid, more traditional one
By his or her appreciation for opposing players.
You can be a Yankee fan and have great respect
For the Splendid Splinter when he came to the plate
In the same way that a Red Sox lover can sit
Near the Green Monster and harbor admiration for
Joltin’ Joe. A deep fan can and does respect the
Opposition player who is a consistent star or who
Simply gives it his all day after day, season after season.
I was a Bronx-born total devotee of my Bombers, could
Recite every player’s uniform number and batting or
Pitching statistics. I loved Whitey Ford but on the same
Level admired Herb Score of the Indians, both lefties but
Polar opposites in their technique: Ford lived by his guile,
Control --- the epitome of the crafty lefty --- while Score
Was a young power pitcher with a burning fastball, a
Swooping curve and a changeup that could freeze any
Batter anticipating one of the other two pitches. Score hit the
American League like a jagged meteor. Once he followed
Teammate Bob Feller’s twenty-first one-hitter by striking
Out nine batters in the first three innings. The tall southpaw
From Queens, scouted by Cy Slapnika, who had two
Decades earlier scouted Feller, had survived childhood
Challenges --- his legs having been crushed by a truck
When he was 3, then Rheumatic Fever, a fractured
Ankle, emergency appendectomy --- and in his rookie year
He’d led both leagues with 245 strikeouts and was named
Rookie of the Year by The Sporting News. In the year
That followed, 1956, he saw no sophomore jinx: He went 20
And 9 and led the Junior Circuit with 263 strikeouts.
I looked forward every time I had the opportunity to watch
Him pitch; in those days, seeing the Yanks play away games
On TV was as rare as the truth coming out of Donald Trump's mouth,
So when Score pitched in Cleveland’s Municipal Stadium that day
And was hit between the right eye and the nose by a liner
Smashed by Gil McDougald, I didn’t witness it --- and I am
Glad, because I would have felt the pain of the shot that
Ruined a Hall of Fame career; he recuperated for the next
Three weeks from a broken nose and damaged eye --- and
Didn’t pitch again that year . . . and not effectively the rest
Of his career: he was 38 and 20 before the accident, and
17 and 26 after the tragedy. Score loved baseball, and
Because I loved baseball, I loved Score despite his being
An opponent. He was a noble warrior, and when he was
So hurt, baseball suffered and real baseball fans all
Felt the pain! This jagged meteor turned out to be a shooting star.
You can tell a three-dimensional baseball fan
From the more rigid, more traditional one
By his or her appreciation for opposing players.
You can be a Yankee fan and have great respect
For the Splendid Splinter when he came to the plate
In the same way that a Red Sox lover can sit
Near the Green Monster and harbor admiration for
Joltin’ Joe. A deep fan can and does respect the
Opposition player who is a consistent star or who
Simply gives it his all day after day, season after season.
I was a Bronx-born total devotee of my Bombers, could
Recite every player’s uniform number and batting or
Pitching statistics. I loved Whitey Ford but on the same
Level admired Herb Score of the Indians, both lefties but
Polar opposites in their technique: Ford lived by his guile,
Control --- the epitome of the crafty lefty --- while Score
Was a young power pitcher with a burning fastball, a
Swooping curve and a changeup that could freeze any
Batter anticipating one of the other two pitches. Score hit the
American League like a jagged meteor. Once he followed
Teammate Bob Feller’s twenty-first one-hitter by striking
Out nine batters in the first three innings. The tall southpaw
From Queens, scouted by Cy Slapnika, who had two
Decades earlier scouted Feller, had survived childhood
Challenges --- his legs having been crushed by a truck
When he was 3, then Rheumatic Fever, a fractured
Ankle, emergency appendectomy --- and in his rookie year
He’d led both leagues with 245 strikeouts and was named
Rookie of the Year by The Sporting News. In the year
That followed, 1956, he saw no sophomore jinx: He went 20
And 9 and led the Junior Circuit with 263 strikeouts.
I looked forward every time I had the opportunity to watch
Him pitch; in those days, seeing the Yanks play away games
On TV was as rare as the truth coming out of Donald Trump's mouth,
So when Score pitched in Cleveland’s Municipal Stadium that day
And was hit between the right eye and the nose by a liner
Smashed by Gil McDougald, I didn’t witness it --- and I am
Glad, because I would have felt the pain of the shot that
Ruined a Hall of Fame career; he recuperated for the next
Three weeks from a broken nose and damaged eye --- and
Didn’t pitch again that year . . . and not effectively the rest
Of his career: he was 38 and 20 before the accident, and
17 and 26 after the tragedy. Score loved baseball, and
Because I loved baseball, I loved Score despite his being
An opponent. He was a noble warrior, and when he was
So hurt, baseball suffered and real baseball fans all
Felt the pain! This jagged meteor turned out to be a shooting star.
The Other Day
Buddy Harrelson died the other day.
Shortstop of the ’69 World Series-winning Mets,
He took his place in that eternal lineup alongside
His teammates who now reside in history and will
Forever play the game at its highest level. Gone
Is The Franchise, Tom Seaver, the leader of the
Players, who set the standard and lived up to it
And demanded excellence from teammates by
Example. Gone are third baseman Ed Charles,
Center fielder Tom Agee. Gone is Harrelson,
Whom teammate Art Shamsky said, “wasn’t big
In stature but had a big heart” --- an everyman
The fans related to for his looking like them and
For his constant effort, even throwing punches
When that was called for. Ask Pete Rose. Gone
Is their manager, Gil Hodges, as are their coaches:
Yogi Berra, Joe Pignatano, Rube Walker, Eddie Yost ---
All the angels who guided the Miracle Mets in their
Lives and on the field, who shared their spirit and
Their vision for that season and who fathered
That roster of pioneering winners to the Magic
Land which all baseball players fantasize about.
But though this team of wonders --- the first Met team
Ever to have had a winning record, a team that went
From worst in ’68 to first in ’69 to forever in the hearts
Of its fans --- a team that beat the best pitching staff
In the Majors that year and a potent total Oriole
Team --- is mostly gone, they play on in the hearts,
The souls, the memories . . . the essence . . . of fans everywhere
Who dare to dream as Don Quixote long ago once did,
The fans that see their team as in first place on the first
Day of every season, and who say to themselves when
It’s much too soon for them to be challenged, “Why can’t
This be the year when we take it all? If that miracle team
Could pull it off, so can we.” Rest in peace, Bud. Have a
Catch with Tom and Ed. Once again, make Gil proud with
Your energy and your integrity. Baseball is eternal, because of
You and those who shared that magic year with you,
Both the players and the fans. Know in your forever consciousness
That on this day we are all Bud Harrelson!
Buddy Harrelson died the other day.
Shortstop of the ’69 World Series-winning Mets,
He took his place in that eternal lineup alongside
His teammates who now reside in history and will
Forever play the game at its highest level. Gone
Is The Franchise, Tom Seaver, the leader of the
Players, who set the standard and lived up to it
And demanded excellence from teammates by
Example. Gone are third baseman Ed Charles,
Center fielder Tom Agee. Gone is Harrelson,
Whom teammate Art Shamsky said, “wasn’t big
In stature but had a big heart” --- an everyman
The fans related to for his looking like them and
For his constant effort, even throwing punches
When that was called for. Ask Pete Rose. Gone
Is their manager, Gil Hodges, as are their coaches:
Yogi Berra, Joe Pignatano, Rube Walker, Eddie Yost ---
All the angels who guided the Miracle Mets in their
Lives and on the field, who shared their spirit and
Their vision for that season and who fathered
That roster of pioneering winners to the Magic
Land which all baseball players fantasize about.
But though this team of wonders --- the first Met team
Ever to have had a winning record, a team that went
From worst in ’68 to first in ’69 to forever in the hearts
Of its fans --- a team that beat the best pitching staff
In the Majors that year and a potent total Oriole
Team --- is mostly gone, they play on in the hearts,
The souls, the memories . . . the essence . . . of fans everywhere
Who dare to dream as Don Quixote long ago once did,
The fans that see their team as in first place on the first
Day of every season, and who say to themselves when
It’s much too soon for them to be challenged, “Why can’t
This be the year when we take it all? If that miracle team
Could pull it off, so can we.” Rest in peace, Bud. Have a
Catch with Tom and Ed. Once again, make Gil proud with
Your energy and your integrity. Baseball is eternal, because of
You and those who shared that magic year with you,
Both the players and the fans. Know in your forever consciousness
That on this day we are all Bud Harrelson!
You Should Know his Name
His bat was magnetic and drew the ball like
A heat-seeking missile finding its target, like
A well cared for dog running home to loving hugs.
He hit .400, the rarest of batting feats . . . twice!
Nowadays a .300 hitter is more than a rarity, and
He’s a multi-millionaire, but this St. Louis Brown
Retired with a lifetime .340 average!
He held the single season record for most hits with 257,
Held it for 84 years, till Ichiro broke it!
In a 15-year career, He batted at least .300 thirteen times!
Ty Cobb called him “the nearest thing to a perfect ballplayer”
He’d witnessed and known; the man could hit and played
A great first base! And he stole bases too, up to 50 one season!
A former pitcher, he used to envision himself as a hitter
From the point of view of a hurler up on that hill, a kind of
Empath projecting the pitcher’s plan - - - and he’d be ready!
He missed all of 1923 with double vision and was never
The same, stuck with troubled eyes; he played the next
Seven seasons handicapped and averaged .320 in that span!
He made it to the Hall of Fame with 2812 hits . . . but
Do you know his name, this Sizzler?
Can you knee-jerk his moniker
As you would Ruth, Musial, Williams,
Di Maggio, Trout or Seaver?
No, you do not know his name.
The man could play the game!
George Sisler was his name.
His bat was magnetic and drew the ball like
A heat-seeking missile finding its target, like
A well cared for dog running home to loving hugs.
He hit .400, the rarest of batting feats . . . twice!
Nowadays a .300 hitter is more than a rarity, and
He’s a multi-millionaire, but this St. Louis Brown
Retired with a lifetime .340 average!
He held the single season record for most hits with 257,
Held it for 84 years, till Ichiro broke it!
In a 15-year career, He batted at least .300 thirteen times!
Ty Cobb called him “the nearest thing to a perfect ballplayer”
He’d witnessed and known; the man could hit and played
A great first base! And he stole bases too, up to 50 one season!
A former pitcher, he used to envision himself as a hitter
From the point of view of a hurler up on that hill, a kind of
Empath projecting the pitcher’s plan - - - and he’d be ready!
He missed all of 1923 with double vision and was never
The same, stuck with troubled eyes; he played the next
Seven seasons handicapped and averaged .320 in that span!
He made it to the Hall of Fame with 2812 hits . . . but
Do you know his name, this Sizzler?
Can you knee-jerk his moniker
As you would Ruth, Musial, Williams,
Di Maggio, Trout or Seaver?
No, you do not know his name.
The man could play the game!
George Sisler was his name.
Jackie and “Fleet”
Jackie Robinson would have enjoyed the company
Of Moses Fleetwood Walker. Both had intelligence
And integrity. Both were courageous and up to a
More than difficult challenge in a hostile, unjust
Environment. Both were college educated and
Cared deeply about their chosen profession.
Both were African Americans succeeding in a
Predominantly White environment. Oh, yeah,
They would have hung out and shared non-combat
Stories --- as they ignored the temptation to get
Physical despite the racial epithets and nastiness
Hurled in their direction. The thing is, these two men
Who shared a kindred spirit never got the chance to
Meet, to share their stories, to give each other the
Encouragement that each could have used. “Fleet”
Caught for the professional Toledo Blue Stockings of
The American Association, which would in time evolve
Into today’s American League. He played in 1884,
Sixty-three years before Jackie made his Brooklyn
Dodger debut. “Fleet” was indeed the first Black
Ball player in the Major Leagues, but he would be
The first to honor Jackie, who had to overcome
Sixty-three years of organized opposition (while
“Fleet” was blackballed by a “gentleman’s”
Agreement among owners after his single season).
It was Jackie who broke down the imaginary wall
And led the march to justice for the likes of Larry
Doby, Hank Thompson, Willard Brown, Monte
Irvin, Sam Jethroe, Willie Mays . . . and all the
Others who longed to play in the Majors and
Belonged there, to be recognized and honored,
To give truth and substance to our national sport.
Here’s a thought: On April 15 of every year, in
Addition to all players wearing Number 42 proudly
In Jackie’s honor, let us all remember that 42
Is also the number of games “Fleet” played
For his pro team before his career was ended,
Before he was frozen out of the league
In days that have been sent packing.
Let’s honor both these men as the brothers they were.
Jackie Robinson would have enjoyed the company
Of Moses Fleetwood Walker. Both had intelligence
And integrity. Both were courageous and up to a
More than difficult challenge in a hostile, unjust
Environment. Both were college educated and
Cared deeply about their chosen profession.
Both were African Americans succeeding in a
Predominantly White environment. Oh, yeah,
They would have hung out and shared non-combat
Stories --- as they ignored the temptation to get
Physical despite the racial epithets and nastiness
Hurled in their direction. The thing is, these two men
Who shared a kindred spirit never got the chance to
Meet, to share their stories, to give each other the
Encouragement that each could have used. “Fleet”
Caught for the professional Toledo Blue Stockings of
The American Association, which would in time evolve
Into today’s American League. He played in 1884,
Sixty-three years before Jackie made his Brooklyn
Dodger debut. “Fleet” was indeed the first Black
Ball player in the Major Leagues, but he would be
The first to honor Jackie, who had to overcome
Sixty-three years of organized opposition (while
“Fleet” was blackballed by a “gentleman’s”
Agreement among owners after his single season).
It was Jackie who broke down the imaginary wall
And led the march to justice for the likes of Larry
Doby, Hank Thompson, Willard Brown, Monte
Irvin, Sam Jethroe, Willie Mays . . . and all the
Others who longed to play in the Majors and
Belonged there, to be recognized and honored,
To give truth and substance to our national sport.
Here’s a thought: On April 15 of every year, in
Addition to all players wearing Number 42 proudly
In Jackie’s honor, let us all remember that 42
Is also the number of games “Fleet” played
For his pro team before his career was ended,
Before he was frozen out of the league
In days that have been sent packing.
Let’s honor both these men as the brothers they were.
You Almost Killed Me. Thank You.
The park is a rolling rectangle, verdant blades of grass interrupted
By benches, a playground. and a white gazebo. Birds chirp, a quoit
Slides smoothly along the shuffleboard field of numbers, squirrels
Scurry as overseers speak, but the most beautiful sound, the one
That haunts in a most comforting way on a sun-smothered day,
The sound that fills the heart with joy and youth and a warm desire
To close the eyes and daydream, is simply that of children laughing
In a way that gives hope to peace in the world, acceptance of a brief
Touch of Paradise. This was a day before a courageous young
Fire fighter lost his life on 9 – 11, before the park was named in his
Honor and a statue was rightfully erected in his memory.
It was a day of peace, a day for fun --- a day for a novice granddad
To be in the company of his first grandchild, a day of innocence
And of companionship. And as with all such play days, we took pleasure
In inventing ways to share the innocence of love. I remember
Standing on the apex of a hill and looking down at the path that
Intersected that magnetic populated park. When I close my eyes, the
Laughter of the kids echoes in my soul --- and you, as young and innocent
As a sprouting flower, challenged me to a race down that hill;
Before I could respond, you took off, little legs chugging down the
Knoll --- and with no desire to win the race, I took off. . .; you,
As is the wont of children, suddenly had had enough and just stopped
Running. You simply stopped right in the path that I’d mapped
Out in my less than speedy deep descent . . . and there I was, on track.
To run you over, as you caught your breath from your aborted
Burst. I swerved and lost my balance, and I started rolling
Toward my fearsome destiny while you just laughed, not at
Your tumbling grandpa, avalanching toward destruction, but
Simply out of delight and cheerfulness. You almost caused my death
That day (pardon my hyperbole) but I did not mind then
And I do not mind now, two decades later. It was its own reward
To be with you, to spend precious time as part of your existence
And a few scratches and a wound of honor were well worth
My being in your memory and your forever having a warm
Place in mine.
The park is a rolling rectangle, verdant blades of grass interrupted
By benches, a playground. and a white gazebo. Birds chirp, a quoit
Slides smoothly along the shuffleboard field of numbers, squirrels
Scurry as overseers speak, but the most beautiful sound, the one
That haunts in a most comforting way on a sun-smothered day,
The sound that fills the heart with joy and youth and a warm desire
To close the eyes and daydream, is simply that of children laughing
In a way that gives hope to peace in the world, acceptance of a brief
Touch of Paradise. This was a day before a courageous young
Fire fighter lost his life on 9 – 11, before the park was named in his
Honor and a statue was rightfully erected in his memory.
It was a day of peace, a day for fun --- a day for a novice granddad
To be in the company of his first grandchild, a day of innocence
And of companionship. And as with all such play days, we took pleasure
In inventing ways to share the innocence of love. I remember
Standing on the apex of a hill and looking down at the path that
Intersected that magnetic populated park. When I close my eyes, the
Laughter of the kids echoes in my soul --- and you, as young and innocent
As a sprouting flower, challenged me to a race down that hill;
Before I could respond, you took off, little legs chugging down the
Knoll --- and with no desire to win the race, I took off. . .; you,
As is the wont of children, suddenly had had enough and just stopped
Running. You simply stopped right in the path that I’d mapped
Out in my less than speedy deep descent . . . and there I was, on track.
To run you over, as you caught your breath from your aborted
Burst. I swerved and lost my balance, and I started rolling
Toward my fearsome destiny while you just laughed, not at
Your tumbling grandpa, avalanching toward destruction, but
Simply out of delight and cheerfulness. You almost caused my death
That day (pardon my hyperbole) but I did not mind then
And I do not mind now, two decades later. It was its own reward
To be with you, to spend precious time as part of your existence
And a few scratches and a wound of honor were well worth
My being in your memory and your forever having a warm
Place in mine.
I
I have seen a deep selection of the pieces of the world,
A far from finished jigsaw puzzle, but I'm satisfied with what I saw.
I felt the presence of King David in Jerusalem, jogged the streets
And rode the Ferris Wheel above Vienna streets,
Taught and shared my life in old and new Port Loko.
I have strolled through the rooms of Versailles and heard a concert
beneath a castle in Edinburgh. I have felt the presence of Anne Frank
In an attic in Amsterdam and felt the snow beneath my feet in Innsbruck.
I have sauntered through Montreal's underground city and taken in
Bermuda's clear blue waters and the salty thickness of Israel's Dead Sea.
I have seen Monet's artistic flowering pond and sailed the rough Atlantic.
I have climbed the Eiffel Tower and the Montauk Lighthouse. I have walked
The streets of Madeira and of Tenerife. I have sat in outdoor cafes
On the Champs Elysees and in Great Neck, not to mention Freetown.
I have viewed Roman ruins in Israel, Italy and Pompeii, and given audience
To Broadway and the West End. I have been a guest in homes of
Van Gogh and el Greco and have deeply studied the great museums of London,
Paris, D. C., Amsterdam, New York, Boston. I have passed artistic judgment on
Florence's David and Madame Tussauds' Elizabeth Regina. I have slept in a dorm
Room in Bloomington, a trailer in Triangle and a well-appointed accommodation
In the Château Frontenac. I have enjoyed early America in York, Williamsburg, Old
Westbury and Old Sturbridge Village, as well as Plymouth. I was in the audience
With Judy Kuriansky and Sam Levinson and in the crowd when Righetti pitched
His no-hitter on his nation's birthday. I have attended school in the Bronx, Brooklyn,
Rockland, Manhattan, Bloomington and White Plains. I saw Plymouth Rock,
New England mending walls, the Rock of Gibraltar and the Hope Diamond. I have
Gambled in Montreal, Nanuet and Atlantic City. I have sold newspapers, cigars and
Education. I have lived with birds, dogs, fish, cats, a monkey and a bunny. I have
Studied Hebrew, Latin, Greek, German, Russian, Spanish, Klingon --- and have not
Mastered any, though I enjoyed them all. I have worked with carpet, shelving,
Brickwork, paint, upholstery. (My father the carpenter would be humbly proud.)
I have loved and lost and loved again. I have played baseball, ping pong, golf,
Basketball, football, softball, hockey (knock, air and street), stickball, punchball,
Stoopball, pool, red light / green light and ringolevio and enjoyed the competition.
I have used computers: Apple, TRS and Tandy, TI and Commodore, IBM and Dell
And HP (for more than 40 years). I passed tests to be a teacher and a navigator.
I was a bearded Sleepy and a substitute Santa. I have visited the homes of Twain,
Alcott, Irving, Shakespeare, Burns, Dickens, two Roosevelts, Whitman, Frost, Poe,
Hamilton --- and the graves of Frost, Hawthorne and Washington (but not
Of my parents for they live still in my heart). I have seen the brightness of the clean
Full moon, the brilliance of the star-filled sky, the harmony of the rainbow.
This is who I am, what I am. I am not a challenging enigma. My story is
But partly told by where I've been and what I've done. To define me truly, add to the
Above the love of family and my hopes and dreams and goals, and when I'm gone,
Bring me back to life by reading all these words, by feeling all these images --- and that
Way, I will stay and speak to you, and you will hear and feel what I have to say.
I have seen a deep selection of the pieces of the world,
A far from finished jigsaw puzzle, but I'm satisfied with what I saw.
I felt the presence of King David in Jerusalem, jogged the streets
And rode the Ferris Wheel above Vienna streets,
Taught and shared my life in old and new Port Loko.
I have strolled through the rooms of Versailles and heard a concert
beneath a castle in Edinburgh. I have felt the presence of Anne Frank
In an attic in Amsterdam and felt the snow beneath my feet in Innsbruck.
I have sauntered through Montreal's underground city and taken in
Bermuda's clear blue waters and the salty thickness of Israel's Dead Sea.
I have seen Monet's artistic flowering pond and sailed the rough Atlantic.
I have climbed the Eiffel Tower and the Montauk Lighthouse. I have walked
The streets of Madeira and of Tenerife. I have sat in outdoor cafes
On the Champs Elysees and in Great Neck, not to mention Freetown.
I have viewed Roman ruins in Israel, Italy and Pompeii, and given audience
To Broadway and the West End. I have been a guest in homes of
Van Gogh and el Greco and have deeply studied the great museums of London,
Paris, D. C., Amsterdam, New York, Boston. I have passed artistic judgment on
Florence's David and Madame Tussauds' Elizabeth Regina. I have slept in a dorm
Room in Bloomington, a trailer in Triangle and a well-appointed accommodation
In the Château Frontenac. I have enjoyed early America in York, Williamsburg, Old
Westbury and Old Sturbridge Village, as well as Plymouth. I was in the audience
With Judy Kuriansky and Sam Levinson and in the crowd when Righetti pitched
His no-hitter on his nation's birthday. I have attended school in the Bronx, Brooklyn,
Rockland, Manhattan, Bloomington and White Plains. I saw Plymouth Rock,
New England mending walls, the Rock of Gibraltar and the Hope Diamond. I have
Gambled in Montreal, Nanuet and Atlantic City. I have sold newspapers, cigars and
Education. I have lived with birds, dogs, fish, cats, a monkey and a bunny. I have
Studied Hebrew, Latin, Greek, German, Russian, Spanish, Klingon --- and have not
Mastered any, though I enjoyed them all. I have worked with carpet, shelving,
Brickwork, paint, upholstery. (My father the carpenter would be humbly proud.)
I have loved and lost and loved again. I have played baseball, ping pong, golf,
Basketball, football, softball, hockey (knock, air and street), stickball, punchball,
Stoopball, pool, red light / green light and ringolevio and enjoyed the competition.
I have used computers: Apple, TRS and Tandy, TI and Commodore, IBM and Dell
And HP (for more than 40 years). I passed tests to be a teacher and a navigator.
I was a bearded Sleepy and a substitute Santa. I have visited the homes of Twain,
Alcott, Irving, Shakespeare, Burns, Dickens, two Roosevelts, Whitman, Frost, Poe,
Hamilton --- and the graves of Frost, Hawthorne and Washington (but not
Of my parents for they live still in my heart). I have seen the brightness of the clean
Full moon, the brilliance of the star-filled sky, the harmony of the rainbow.
This is who I am, what I am. I am not a challenging enigma. My story is
But partly told by where I've been and what I've done. To define me truly, add to the
Above the love of family and my hopes and dreams and goals, and when I'm gone,
Bring me back to life by reading all these words, by feeling all these images --- and that
Way, I will stay and speak to you, and you will hear and feel what I have to say.
Writers’ Circle: February 8, 2024
One reads her memoir showing how warmly she recalls her father,
How his outrageous sense of humor rubbed off on her. She smiles
In honor of his highlight reel of comments that elicited laughter;
She is soft-spoken but her humor shows her strength and independence.
She is her father’s daughter, a fitting tribute to his existence and
Memory. Another shows the ability to use a limited number of words
To say a great deal about the nature and the cost of war, building
Mystery about her title but no mystery about the tragedy and pain
Suffered by children in a time of war. Guacamole is a comfort food
But there is no refuge or safety for young victims in a time of
Conflict, and in her under-spoken words and haunting images,
She condemns sharply the disaster bitter adults wreak upon the world.
A third conveys the pain that all too often enters the lives of
People who would seek a less anguished time of life. Her sharp
Descriptions show, don’t tell, of her resilience and refusal to
Relent to constant injury; she will overcome it all and if there
Is a Power watching over us, she will move on and discover
A time of life both gentle and satisfying. He, the fourth, reaches
Deep into his soul to locate a hurt decades old, one he chooses
To relive with this small circle of old and new-found friends. He
Recalls the day his innocence and altruistic spirit died side by
Side with his President, a day his world was transformed harshly
By the knowledge that nobody is safe from another’s whim and
Bitterness. Kings and Queens have been beheaded, as too was our
Arthur on that grievous day, in a flash on that bright November
Afternoon, and here’s one writer who fulfills an oath whenever
He recalls that tragedy and the trajectory that bullet took, for
It ricocheted a multiplicity of times and destroyed a peaceful
Time of Paradise. And so, these four writers bared their souls
To each other for that is what new friends are wont to do
When they sense kindred spirits seeking to be heard.
One reads her memoir showing how warmly she recalls her father,
How his outrageous sense of humor rubbed off on her. She smiles
In honor of his highlight reel of comments that elicited laughter;
She is soft-spoken but her humor shows her strength and independence.
She is her father’s daughter, a fitting tribute to his existence and
Memory. Another shows the ability to use a limited number of words
To say a great deal about the nature and the cost of war, building
Mystery about her title but no mystery about the tragedy and pain
Suffered by children in a time of war. Guacamole is a comfort food
But there is no refuge or safety for young victims in a time of
Conflict, and in her under-spoken words and haunting images,
She condemns sharply the disaster bitter adults wreak upon the world.
A third conveys the pain that all too often enters the lives of
People who would seek a less anguished time of life. Her sharp
Descriptions show, don’t tell, of her resilience and refusal to
Relent to constant injury; she will overcome it all and if there
Is a Power watching over us, she will move on and discover
A time of life both gentle and satisfying. He, the fourth, reaches
Deep into his soul to locate a hurt decades old, one he chooses
To relive with this small circle of old and new-found friends. He
Recalls the day his innocence and altruistic spirit died side by
Side with his President, a day his world was transformed harshly
By the knowledge that nobody is safe from another’s whim and
Bitterness. Kings and Queens have been beheaded, as too was our
Arthur on that grievous day, in a flash on that bright November
Afternoon, and here’s one writer who fulfills an oath whenever
He recalls that tragedy and the trajectory that bullet took, for
It ricocheted a multiplicity of times and destroyed a peaceful
Time of Paradise. And so, these four writers bared their souls
To each other for that is what new friends are wont to do
When they sense kindred spirits seeking to be heard.
Close Family Outing
I can understand their concern for me: I am old; I walk like an insecure
Tightrope walker who’s had one too many. I hear like a swan with a fish
In each ear (assuming swans have ears). But I am a walking symbol to them,
Representing Love as true as an unspoken oath between close friends.
I met them at Citi Field to witness a Met game but in a deeper reality,
We gathered to reconfirm our closeness, our love for each other. The ball game
Was the play that played a role in a forever romance: We watched the action and
Inaction performed before us but it was our communion with each other ---
Grandfather, grandkids of varying ages, daughter --- that was the show we all had come
To celebrate. The game was background music to the Shakespearean performance
(Far from the tragedy that was displayed by the losing game on the well-lit field).
I didn’t eat much but what I had were snacks --- a hot dog and soft pretzel and
A drink – and half way through the game I quietly excused myself and climbed the
Stairs as if I were Sir Edmund Hillary seeking the apex of Mt. Everest; seated people
I passed looked concerned as I stumbled step by step, and when I reached the heights
A uniformed Sherpa guide stretched out his hand for me and mentally patted me on my back
For my ultimate success, after which I sought out my goal . . . and it wasn’t till much later
In the game that I found out that I had not traveled alone in my biological quest, that
As I zig-zagged to the restroom with arthritic knees, I was being followed
By grandchildren fearing my stability (not mental, I hope, but rather physical),
Each ready to lend a helping hand if I had faltered. I was not angry; one does
Not feel disturbance at a display of love. I smiled and stared at the game on
The field, but I enjoyed more the game recently played out by my own adoring Fans.
I mentally applauded them and with an inner smile wallowed in their warmth.
After the game, most of my loving grandkids hugged me tenderly, a way of
Indicating how much they’d miss me, and they drove home to the land of former
Mets Al Leiter and Todd Frazier, and my oldest granddaughter and I decided
To go eat supper in another part of Flushing, Queens --- namely, near Main Street,
Where we enjoyed a Chinese meal comforted by the fact that most of the patrons
Were of that ethnicity, a sure sign that the food was genuine, authentic, delicious.
Once done, we strolled to the local station of the train that would take me home,
The theory being that she would then return to her car and drive herself home.
As I waited for my train, I look behind and to the side and saw her coat protruding
From behind a support beam; she had picked up the theme of protecting me,
Watching till I boarded my LIRR train safely --- I called to her that I was safe and
That the time had come for her to go back to her car, which she commenced to do, I believed.
Several minutes later, I caught her spying for a second time, and sent her on her way . . . later,
Once I was safely home, I considered the day’s events --- yes, the game, but more importantly
The love and caring shown to me by my own CIA, by grandchildren and daughter, that gave clear
Definition to my life in a way that I appreciated more than I could ever make them
Understand. You can say that baseball brought us closer but the reality demands the
Recognition that --- absent geography --- we have never been apart nor have we ever
Found ourselves closer together than on that night when love became a set of shadows
Which would never leave me all alone no matter how much time had passed since that night,
Since that majestic evening when three grandkids and their mom showed their growth and love.
The Mets were not victorious that evening . . . but I was very much a winner!
I can understand their concern for me: I am old; I walk like an insecure
Tightrope walker who’s had one too many. I hear like a swan with a fish
In each ear (assuming swans have ears). But I am a walking symbol to them,
Representing Love as true as an unspoken oath between close friends.
I met them at Citi Field to witness a Met game but in a deeper reality,
We gathered to reconfirm our closeness, our love for each other. The ball game
Was the play that played a role in a forever romance: We watched the action and
Inaction performed before us but it was our communion with each other ---
Grandfather, grandkids of varying ages, daughter --- that was the show we all had come
To celebrate. The game was background music to the Shakespearean performance
(Far from the tragedy that was displayed by the losing game on the well-lit field).
I didn’t eat much but what I had were snacks --- a hot dog and soft pretzel and
A drink – and half way through the game I quietly excused myself and climbed the
Stairs as if I were Sir Edmund Hillary seeking the apex of Mt. Everest; seated people
I passed looked concerned as I stumbled step by step, and when I reached the heights
A uniformed Sherpa guide stretched out his hand for me and mentally patted me on my back
For my ultimate success, after which I sought out my goal . . . and it wasn’t till much later
In the game that I found out that I had not traveled alone in my biological quest, that
As I zig-zagged to the restroom with arthritic knees, I was being followed
By grandchildren fearing my stability (not mental, I hope, but rather physical),
Each ready to lend a helping hand if I had faltered. I was not angry; one does
Not feel disturbance at a display of love. I smiled and stared at the game on
The field, but I enjoyed more the game recently played out by my own adoring Fans.
I mentally applauded them and with an inner smile wallowed in their warmth.
After the game, most of my loving grandkids hugged me tenderly, a way of
Indicating how much they’d miss me, and they drove home to the land of former
Mets Al Leiter and Todd Frazier, and my oldest granddaughter and I decided
To go eat supper in another part of Flushing, Queens --- namely, near Main Street,
Where we enjoyed a Chinese meal comforted by the fact that most of the patrons
Were of that ethnicity, a sure sign that the food was genuine, authentic, delicious.
Once done, we strolled to the local station of the train that would take me home,
The theory being that she would then return to her car and drive herself home.
As I waited for my train, I look behind and to the side and saw her coat protruding
From behind a support beam; she had picked up the theme of protecting me,
Watching till I boarded my LIRR train safely --- I called to her that I was safe and
That the time had come for her to go back to her car, which she commenced to do, I believed.
Several minutes later, I caught her spying for a second time, and sent her on her way . . . later,
Once I was safely home, I considered the day’s events --- yes, the game, but more importantly
The love and caring shown to me by my own CIA, by grandchildren and daughter, that gave clear
Definition to my life in a way that I appreciated more than I could ever make them
Understand. You can say that baseball brought us closer but the reality demands the
Recognition that --- absent geography --- we have never been apart nor have we ever
Found ourselves closer together than on that night when love became a set of shadows
Which would never leave me all alone no matter how much time had passed since that night,
Since that majestic evening when three grandkids and their mom showed their growth and love.
The Mets were not victorious that evening . . . but I was very much a winner!
Ironic Sadness
There is no crying in a baseball game
(Except for Wilmer Flores, who loved the Mets
And thought they had broken his heart by trading
Him - - - which they would, but not on July 28, 2015),
But there is sadness . . oh, not the surface
Transient grief of the Mets trading Seaver away
Or the home run Thomson hit off Branca or
The lead the Phillies blew to lose the pennant
In the disappearing days of 1964. There is the
Heartache of a life lost much too soon, a death of a
Human being / athlete who loved his family so much
That he learned to fly so he could spend more time
With his loved ones between games . . . and the
Bitter, hurtful irony of his death when his Cessna
Citation crashed just short of an Akron runway
Reminded us that they are human, these heroes,
They’re just men, and for them, much as they may
Love the game, it is no more than a vehicle to carry
Them from place to place to home. There is much
Joy in baseball but as with all things involving humans,
There is no guarantee that joy will last. The game
And those who play, like all human endeavors, are
Moments in their history; they will not last.
There is no crying in a baseball game
(Except for Wilmer Flores, who loved the Mets
And thought they had broken his heart by trading
Him - - - which they would, but not on July 28, 2015),
But there is sadness . . oh, not the surface
Transient grief of the Mets trading Seaver away
Or the home run Thomson hit off Branca or
The lead the Phillies blew to lose the pennant
In the disappearing days of 1964. There is the
Heartache of a life lost much too soon, a death of a
Human being / athlete who loved his family so much
That he learned to fly so he could spend more time
With his loved ones between games . . . and the
Bitter, hurtful irony of his death when his Cessna
Citation crashed just short of an Akron runway
Reminded us that they are human, these heroes,
They’re just men, and for them, much as they may
Love the game, it is no more than a vehicle to carry
Them from place to place to home. There is much
Joy in baseball but as with all things involving humans,
There is no guarantee that joy will last. The game
And those who play, like all human endeavors, are
Moments in their history; they will not last.
Mosaic of the Mind: Wrestling with Shades of Life
The 1980’s were four decades ago and yet four seconds past
In my mental cavalcade. The direct descendants of the 1950’s,
When my dad and I involved ourselves in the two-tone rumblings
Of Verne Gange, Antonino Rocca, Gorgeous George and The
Mr. America, Gene Stanley, and my brief-time brother and I
Wrestled on a mattress till Mrs. Berkowitz justifiably hit her
Ceiling / our floor with her broomstick, an angry form of 1-2-3,
Along came the toddler years of the WWF, and the image
Of my dad and me together faded out, to be replaced by the
Equally enthusiastic image of my son and me staring at and
Massively reacting to the multi-hued TV screen and the scenes
Of the joyous cast members who were pure pleasure in that
Decade prior to the pyrotechnics and the loads of cash that
Would in time overtake and overcome the WWE. They were
The days of innocence and entertainment, and the scenes
Woven into a stream of consciousness still pleasing both for
The fun and as a substance that brought the father-son combo
Closer together fight for time and space in my recollection:
The Iron Sheik growling “I-Ran NOOmber Von” to a displeased
Audience not long after that nation had held captive more than
Sixty innocent Americans; his patriotic rival, Sergeant Slaughter,
Waving Old Glory, seeking him out; The Magnificent Muraco slowly
Eating a sandwich while he wrestled --- to show his disdain for a rival;
George the Animal Steele chomping mindlessly on a belt buckle
Or gaining brain power by having electricity run through his hat
Made of aluminum foil in a sort of Flowers for Algernon experiment
(When it was common knowledge that the man, when not
Grappling in the ring, was William James Myers, teacher and
Author); Randy “Macho Man” Savage, muscles and oil, shouting
An exaggerated, “Oh, yeah!!” and professing his undying love
For the fragile ever-faithful Miss Elizabeth; Hulk Hogan, ripping
Off his shirts, bosting of the size of his python arms and sticking
Out and wiggling his finger of impending victory just when it
Seemed all would be lost; André the Giant larger than reality
Whether as hero or later villain . . . My son and I saw Jake
The Snake furious when he made his debut in the league and
His unknown opponent went off script and defeated him. All four
Of us sat in a Jersey gym and watched an early Wrestlemania
On large-screen TV’s broadcast with a range of failure and success,
And later son and I sought out Atlantic City to see Numbers IV and V.
(There we were, staring at life-size cut-ups of the Hulk and André.)
There were the action hero figures, later sold regrettably on ebay. But
What could not be sold were the shared memories, the joy that embraced
Us, the smiles that would not leave our visages . . . for they still exist.
There is the indelible continuum: father – son. It’s physical and mental,
And most of all emotional. I wonder if those athletic actors understood
The role they played in the cycle of family togetherness.
The 1980’s were four decades ago and yet four seconds past
In my mental cavalcade. The direct descendants of the 1950’s,
When my dad and I involved ourselves in the two-tone rumblings
Of Verne Gange, Antonino Rocca, Gorgeous George and The
Mr. America, Gene Stanley, and my brief-time brother and I
Wrestled on a mattress till Mrs. Berkowitz justifiably hit her
Ceiling / our floor with her broomstick, an angry form of 1-2-3,
Along came the toddler years of the WWF, and the image
Of my dad and me together faded out, to be replaced by the
Equally enthusiastic image of my son and me staring at and
Massively reacting to the multi-hued TV screen and the scenes
Of the joyous cast members who were pure pleasure in that
Decade prior to the pyrotechnics and the loads of cash that
Would in time overtake and overcome the WWE. They were
The days of innocence and entertainment, and the scenes
Woven into a stream of consciousness still pleasing both for
The fun and as a substance that brought the father-son combo
Closer together fight for time and space in my recollection:
The Iron Sheik growling “I-Ran NOOmber Von” to a displeased
Audience not long after that nation had held captive more than
Sixty innocent Americans; his patriotic rival, Sergeant Slaughter,
Waving Old Glory, seeking him out; The Magnificent Muraco slowly
Eating a sandwich while he wrestled --- to show his disdain for a rival;
George the Animal Steele chomping mindlessly on a belt buckle
Or gaining brain power by having electricity run through his hat
Made of aluminum foil in a sort of Flowers for Algernon experiment
(When it was common knowledge that the man, when not
Grappling in the ring, was William James Myers, teacher and
Author); Randy “Macho Man” Savage, muscles and oil, shouting
An exaggerated, “Oh, yeah!!” and professing his undying love
For the fragile ever-faithful Miss Elizabeth; Hulk Hogan, ripping
Off his shirts, bosting of the size of his python arms and sticking
Out and wiggling his finger of impending victory just when it
Seemed all would be lost; André the Giant larger than reality
Whether as hero or later villain . . . My son and I saw Jake
The Snake furious when he made his debut in the league and
His unknown opponent went off script and defeated him. All four
Of us sat in a Jersey gym and watched an early Wrestlemania
On large-screen TV’s broadcast with a range of failure and success,
And later son and I sought out Atlantic City to see Numbers IV and V.
(There we were, staring at life-size cut-ups of the Hulk and André.)
There were the action hero figures, later sold regrettably on ebay. But
What could not be sold were the shared memories, the joy that embraced
Us, the smiles that would not leave our visages . . . for they still exist.
There is the indelible continuum: father – son. It’s physical and mental,
And most of all emotional. I wonder if those athletic actors understood
The role they played in the cycle of family togetherness.
With All Due Respect
He shrugged his shoulders, scratched his head
And wondered whether they would show up
If he went ahead and built it, put the pieces
Together and made the places what they used to be
When they and we were young. He gazed up
With trepidation and hesitation, but this was
No movie; no reassuring voice emanating from
The cloudy sky would speak to him, so he
Replied himself that they would come, if they loved
Baseball as he did. He perused old Turner Field one
Day and decided he would put together a National
Ballpark Museum in Denver, not far from
Coors Field, dedicated to showcasing 14 original
MLB ballparks, living history of the sport’s youth,
Homes to millions over many decades, including
The last two arenas still in use, Fenway Park
(Come see a panel from the Green Monster)
And Wrigley Field (sit on a bench from the place).
You can experience the rotunda at Ebbets Field, a
Window from Forbes Field, a turnstile from Shbe
Park. He wished to “preserve American treasures”
And “the uniqueness of classic ballparks.” It’s a
Time machine that transports the eager soul back to
The early years and to the once-inhabited foundation
Of the soul-sport of America. That’s worth the journey.
He shrugged his shoulders, scratched his head
And wondered whether they would show up
If he went ahead and built it, put the pieces
Together and made the places what they used to be
When they and we were young. He gazed up
With trepidation and hesitation, but this was
No movie; no reassuring voice emanating from
The cloudy sky would speak to him, so he
Replied himself that they would come, if they loved
Baseball as he did. He perused old Turner Field one
Day and decided he would put together a National
Ballpark Museum in Denver, not far from
Coors Field, dedicated to showcasing 14 original
MLB ballparks, living history of the sport’s youth,
Homes to millions over many decades, including
The last two arenas still in use, Fenway Park
(Come see a panel from the Green Monster)
And Wrigley Field (sit on a bench from the place).
You can experience the rotunda at Ebbets Field, a
Window from Forbes Field, a turnstile from Shbe
Park. He wished to “preserve American treasures”
And “the uniqueness of classic ballparks.” It’s a
Time machine that transports the eager soul back to
The early years and to the once-inhabited foundation
Of the soul-sport of America. That’s worth the journey.
Belonging
I was a fantasy Jewish teen romanticizing my invisible
Connection to the brand new nation of invincible
Warriors who had earned their independence eight
Years before. The Holocaust was not part of my
Immature vocabulary but modern heroes wearing
Mogen Davids, carrying weapons and beating off
Surrounding soldiers who outnumbered them by
Far while these new Jewish heroes shouted “Never
Again!” were meaningful in my life and tangible
To me. I studied Hebrew, a language resuscitated
Only decades before. I was to be part of the Jewish
Future soon . . . but when I left for Eretz Yisroel in 1961,
When I peered at my father on the dock and saw
Him looking up and wiping tears away --- this man
Who’d lost his Polish family to Hitler and who’d
Emigrated to the land of the free (and who now
Witnessed his son on a Zim Lines ship headed for
Tel Aviv) --- my heart, swelled with romantic pride,
Felt pain. I went and remained for a couple of weeks,
Lived with a friend’s family in Rishon Le Zion, and
Came to realized that this strange place was not
My home, that reading Exodus and watching the
Movie in its fantasy world and stirring music had
Not prepared me for reality. I was not a Zionist. My
Roots, my family, my meaning could be found in my
American soul, and so I flew home to my father, my
Sisters and my future.
I was a fantasy Jewish teen romanticizing my invisible
Connection to the brand new nation of invincible
Warriors who had earned their independence eight
Years before. The Holocaust was not part of my
Immature vocabulary but modern heroes wearing
Mogen Davids, carrying weapons and beating off
Surrounding soldiers who outnumbered them by
Far while these new Jewish heroes shouted “Never
Again!” were meaningful in my life and tangible
To me. I studied Hebrew, a language resuscitated
Only decades before. I was to be part of the Jewish
Future soon . . . but when I left for Eretz Yisroel in 1961,
When I peered at my father on the dock and saw
Him looking up and wiping tears away --- this man
Who’d lost his Polish family to Hitler and who’d
Emigrated to the land of the free (and who now
Witnessed his son on a Zim Lines ship headed for
Tel Aviv) --- my heart, swelled with romantic pride,
Felt pain. I went and remained for a couple of weeks,
Lived with a friend’s family in Rishon Le Zion, and
Came to realized that this strange place was not
My home, that reading Exodus and watching the
Movie in its fantasy world and stirring music had
Not prepared me for reality. I was not a Zionist. My
Roots, my family, my meaning could be found in my
American soul, and so I flew home to my father, my
Sisters and my future.
Out from the Shade
Denny McClain won 31 games and lost only six
in 1968; he was the first 30-game winner since
Dizzy Dean reached that level 34 years earlier.
No other hurler has come close since ’68; in fact,
few manage to win 20 any longer! But Denny
was the star that year, picking up the Cy Young
and the Most Valuable Player Awards in the
Junior Circuit.
But in the Series, Denny lost two out of three
(Bob Gibson was unreal!) while teammate
Mickey Lolich, with three victories (including
beating Gibson on two days’ rest in the final
match) was the one who led the Tigers to the
Crown . . . the more important when you
consider that Detroit has won it all only four
times since it came into existence in 1901.
(Sunshine is fine but what comes out of the
shadows can take on an unexpected glow
that lights the way to baseball heaven.)
Denny McClain won 31 games and lost only six
in 1968; he was the first 30-game winner since
Dizzy Dean reached that level 34 years earlier.
No other hurler has come close since ’68; in fact,
few manage to win 20 any longer! But Denny
was the star that year, picking up the Cy Young
and the Most Valuable Player Awards in the
Junior Circuit.
But in the Series, Denny lost two out of three
(Bob Gibson was unreal!) while teammate
Mickey Lolich, with three victories (including
beating Gibson on two days’ rest in the final
match) was the one who led the Tigers to the
Crown . . . the more important when you
consider that Detroit has won it all only four
times since it came into existence in 1901.
(Sunshine is fine but what comes out of the
shadows can take on an unexpected glow
that lights the way to baseball heaven.)
The Jewish Connection
For more than 60 years, the New York Mets
have wandered the desert of the Majors,
only departing their tragic suffering two times,
when they found nourishing oases in 1969
and 1986. So many years they - - - and
their fans - - - have known the bitterness of
disappointment and the coarse taste of sand.
Those two misleading years served as a
diversion from their journey to the
Promised Land, the powerhouse dynasty that,
it is promised by such prophets as
Steve Cohen, will give Met fans a steady
and long-lasting home. The team now
features lantzman Harrison Bader, who has
picked up the cause once carried by Kevin
Pillar, Shawn Green, Ike Davis and the
distant mensch of champions number 24,
Art Shamsky. This team, still seeking
the land of milk and honey, so Jewish
in its nature, will never suffer a lack of
fans who root while wearing yarmulkas
under their baseball caps. When you are
chosen, you must not give up. You can
never abandon your sacred mission.
And neither can your fans.
For more than 60 years, the New York Mets
have wandered the desert of the Majors,
only departing their tragic suffering two times,
when they found nourishing oases in 1969
and 1986. So many years they - - - and
their fans - - - have known the bitterness of
disappointment and the coarse taste of sand.
Those two misleading years served as a
diversion from their journey to the
Promised Land, the powerhouse dynasty that,
it is promised by such prophets as
Steve Cohen, will give Met fans a steady
and long-lasting home. The team now
features lantzman Harrison Bader, who has
picked up the cause once carried by Kevin
Pillar, Shawn Green, Ike Davis and the
distant mensch of champions number 24,
Art Shamsky. This team, still seeking
the land of milk and honey, so Jewish
in its nature, will never suffer a lack of
fans who root while wearing yarmulkas
under their baseball caps. When you are
chosen, you must not give up. You can
never abandon your sacred mission.
And neither can your fans.
My Eternal Patriot [5-27-24]
There beneath the vernal grass and stone-gray marker
Bearing your name in its final form and reference to
Your Navy service, the word “Korea” as if an afterthought
And your much-too-young age in passing lie but the remains
Of a sister and a mother who was loved and treasured.
You are both far away and within my heart everywhere I go.
You served first when you helped raise me to the man I am;
Your service to our nation is what I seek to honor on this
Heavy, gloomy day of Memory, this Memorial Day in 2024
When the nation plays its music and offers ceremonies
At Arlington and at every other military cemetery in the U.S.
And at Normandy and too many other flag-draped
Resting places. It is my hope as I envision you looking so
Enthusiastic in your crisp dress whites the day you appeared
In my support, and it is my strongest wish, that you have found
In the eternal after-life the peace that you could not find when you were
Of this world. I salute you for your service to this country, to this
World that depends on the unselfishness of our sons and daughters,
And to your family, which did not always recognize the hero that was
In their midst. I cannot and I do not wish to visit that cold grave so far
Away for that is not the sailor that I knew; she --- you --- live on every day
Inside me, in my love and memories --- and shall not be forgotten.
Your uniform is but a ghostly visage of the time you spent with me
But it brings out your inner love that now spreads across time and place.
You will never be forgotten. These dedicated words will serve as
My memorial to your existence as a patriot who honestly and truly
Loved her nation and her family. There is no more for me to say but
Ethel Munshine, Requiesce in pace . . .
There beneath the vernal grass and stone-gray marker
Bearing your name in its final form and reference to
Your Navy service, the word “Korea” as if an afterthought
And your much-too-young age in passing lie but the remains
Of a sister and a mother who was loved and treasured.
You are both far away and within my heart everywhere I go.
You served first when you helped raise me to the man I am;
Your service to our nation is what I seek to honor on this
Heavy, gloomy day of Memory, this Memorial Day in 2024
When the nation plays its music and offers ceremonies
At Arlington and at every other military cemetery in the U.S.
And at Normandy and too many other flag-draped
Resting places. It is my hope as I envision you looking so
Enthusiastic in your crisp dress whites the day you appeared
In my support, and it is my strongest wish, that you have found
In the eternal after-life the peace that you could not find when you were
Of this world. I salute you for your service to this country, to this
World that depends on the unselfishness of our sons and daughters,
And to your family, which did not always recognize the hero that was
In their midst. I cannot and I do not wish to visit that cold grave so far
Away for that is not the sailor that I knew; she --- you --- live on every day
Inside me, in my love and memories --- and shall not be forgotten.
Your uniform is but a ghostly visage of the time you spent with me
But it brings out your inner love that now spreads across time and place.
You will never be forgotten. These dedicated words will serve as
My memorial to your existence as a patriot who honestly and truly
Loved her nation and her family. There is no more for me to say but
Ethel Munshine, Requiesce in pace . . .
On That Day . . .
It rained that day. The gray sky matched everybody’s mood
and as my face was pelted with large, heavy drops that hurt,
I reassured myself that I would never cry. I was almost 10.
I stood lost in the crowd. I didn’t have a need to be up front
but someone nudged me, pushed me closer to the grave
and I looked down and saw the plain pale brown
coffin decorated with a matching Jewish star, the place
in which my mother slept (That was the current
euphemism) and I was numb. An old man speaking
through his beard, dressed in a long black coat, a rabbi
whom I’d seen in my rare visits to Temple Emanuel in
Parkchester when certain holidays occurred, said
words I didn’t understand, made noises that offered a
young child no comfort, and sporadically others, most
of whom I didn’t recognize because my family had
chosen isolation as a way of life, mumbled what I guessed
were prayers, and all I felt was the heavy rain that seemed
determined to replace the tears that wouldn’t come.
I paid attention to my heavy breathing because, I guess,
it took my mind away from that pine coffin that held
what was left of the woman who used to comfort me
and care for me when I was sick, who used to cook
for me in her Jewish-Latvian way, from scratch to tasty,
with the constantly secret sacred ingredient being love.
I had been her companion as she prepared the food,
the one who licked the bowl - - - but what exactly was
my role now that she was gone? Who would my mother
be? A little child needed a mother, but she was gone.
These thoughts bombarded my defenselessness
while wise men said their Hebrew words and still the
tears refused to visit me, and the rain kept falling and the
shovels lifted senseless dirt and dropped it on my mother
and I felt like screaming and running to her but she was
no longer there for me. Instead, the sounds replaced her
voice, those holy sounds that meant nothing to a
ten-year-old, a boy who simply wanted to instead
hear his mother’s voice again.
It rained that day. The gray sky matched everybody’s mood
and as my face was pelted with large, heavy drops that hurt,
I reassured myself that I would never cry. I was almost 10.
I stood lost in the crowd. I didn’t have a need to be up front
but someone nudged me, pushed me closer to the grave
and I looked down and saw the plain pale brown
coffin decorated with a matching Jewish star, the place
in which my mother slept (That was the current
euphemism) and I was numb. An old man speaking
through his beard, dressed in a long black coat, a rabbi
whom I’d seen in my rare visits to Temple Emanuel in
Parkchester when certain holidays occurred, said
words I didn’t understand, made noises that offered a
young child no comfort, and sporadically others, most
of whom I didn’t recognize because my family had
chosen isolation as a way of life, mumbled what I guessed
were prayers, and all I felt was the heavy rain that seemed
determined to replace the tears that wouldn’t come.
I paid attention to my heavy breathing because, I guess,
it took my mind away from that pine coffin that held
what was left of the woman who used to comfort me
and care for me when I was sick, who used to cook
for me in her Jewish-Latvian way, from scratch to tasty,
with the constantly secret sacred ingredient being love.
I had been her companion as she prepared the food,
the one who licked the bowl - - - but what exactly was
my role now that she was gone? Who would my mother
be? A little child needed a mother, but she was gone.
These thoughts bombarded my defenselessness
while wise men said their Hebrew words and still the
tears refused to visit me, and the rain kept falling and the
shovels lifted senseless dirt and dropped it on my mother
and I felt like screaming and running to her but she was
no longer there for me. Instead, the sounds replaced her
voice, those holy sounds that meant nothing to a
ten-year-old, a boy who simply wanted to instead
hear his mother’s voice again.
Too Familiar Too Frequently
(from somewhere in a swamp, June 2024)
To paraphrase Robert Frost (who loved baseball, by the way),
a Met game in 2024 begins in joy --- a scoreless tie in the first,
with the potential for a victory, the start of a winning streak and
the fantasy of a march toward a playoff position --- but ends,
not in the wisdom that Frost preferred but in the ordinary misery
of another loss and the free-fall down the abyss whose ceiling
is a mediocre equal won-loss record. Welcome to this season’s
version of the New York Mess. (That is not a typo, but it sure is
typical for those of us condemned to adhere to our home team
come what May . . . and June, July, all the way till the Fall
Classic, which we all watch as others battle, or more likely just
ignore.)
Frost in “Birches” contrasts the civilized game of baseball to the
wild and imaginative play of a boy swinging on a birch branch but
Frost would see no regimental play if he could see my Mets today.
I would rather see them as that child --- having fun, eschewing rules,
replacing them with raw enthusiasm for the game, feeding off the
energy of each other and bonding as they swing . . . their bats . . .
or sling . . . their pitches . . . or cling . . . to fielded balls.
“One could do worse than be a” lover of the game, a winner rather
than a whiner.
Frost could relate to a suffering Met fan easily, having grown up
rooting for the Red Sox, attending games in Fenway Park, waiting
for them to win a Series they would not do in his prime time of life
and loving The Splendid Splinter as Met fans have had their hapless
heroes since 1986. Frost once wrote that he was never more at
home in the U. S. A. than when he sat in the stands and witnessed
a baseball game. I wonder how he’d reach out to a fellow fan, one
who has not seen his Mets win the Championship in almost 40 years.
I believe he would readily acknowledge the fragile fraternity among
supporters of mediocre, star-crossed teams. He was a fan of the
road “less traveled by” and certainly both his team in his time and
mine in mine have gotten lost far more than reached the land of
diamonds and of pearls. I would be proud to clap him on the back,
buy him a box of Cracker Jack and trade stories of rare special
victories. We totally devoted fans can recognize devotion as a
poet recognizes Truth and Wisdom. Just ask me --- or Robert Frost.
(from somewhere in a swamp, June 2024)
To paraphrase Robert Frost (who loved baseball, by the way),
a Met game in 2024 begins in joy --- a scoreless tie in the first,
with the potential for a victory, the start of a winning streak and
the fantasy of a march toward a playoff position --- but ends,
not in the wisdom that Frost preferred but in the ordinary misery
of another loss and the free-fall down the abyss whose ceiling
is a mediocre equal won-loss record. Welcome to this season’s
version of the New York Mess. (That is not a typo, but it sure is
typical for those of us condemned to adhere to our home team
come what May . . . and June, July, all the way till the Fall
Classic, which we all watch as others battle, or more likely just
ignore.)
Frost in “Birches” contrasts the civilized game of baseball to the
wild and imaginative play of a boy swinging on a birch branch but
Frost would see no regimental play if he could see my Mets today.
I would rather see them as that child --- having fun, eschewing rules,
replacing them with raw enthusiasm for the game, feeding off the
energy of each other and bonding as they swing . . . their bats . . .
or sling . . . their pitches . . . or cling . . . to fielded balls.
“One could do worse than be a” lover of the game, a winner rather
than a whiner.
Frost could relate to a suffering Met fan easily, having grown up
rooting for the Red Sox, attending games in Fenway Park, waiting
for them to win a Series they would not do in his prime time of life
and loving The Splendid Splinter as Met fans have had their hapless
heroes since 1986. Frost once wrote that he was never more at
home in the U. S. A. than when he sat in the stands and witnessed
a baseball game. I wonder how he’d reach out to a fellow fan, one
who has not seen his Mets win the Championship in almost 40 years.
I believe he would readily acknowledge the fragile fraternity among
supporters of mediocre, star-crossed teams. He was a fan of the
road “less traveled by” and certainly both his team in his time and
mine in mine have gotten lost far more than reached the land of
diamonds and of pearls. I would be proud to clap him on the back,
buy him a box of Cracker Jack and trade stories of rare special
victories. We totally devoted fans can recognize devotion as a
poet recognizes Truth and Wisdom. Just ask me --- or Robert Frost.
the gentle man
My father was a gentle man, soft-spoken
despite his gruff-sounding tones. He worked hard
his whole life, first as a carpenter, a skilled artist
who could turn lumber into complex, adored furniture;
later as an honest storekeeper who abided by the now
defunct rule that the customer was always right.
He took the role of single father when it suddenly
was thrust upon him and gave his shaken son the focus
that was needed. He didn't attend synagogue too often;
his religion was reflected in the way he lived, kind and
generous to all.
He never called me by my English name in any of its forms:
Herbert, Herbie, Herb (and never what a fellow teacher in Port Lolo,
a young Scotsman in the VSO, used: Bertie). To my dad, I was always
"Chaim" --- a Hebrew word which in English means "Life".
He passed to the next level of existence in 1966. I'd like to think
my nature, like his, suggested a kind of peace that fosters love.
I'd like to think that my existence brought peace of mind to his days.
I'd like to think that he looked at me as conveyor of a peace that adds
comfort and security to one's time on this level of existence --- and
that when we next exist together, he will gaze into my soul
and smile . . . and call me Chaim once again.
My father was a gentle man, soft-spoken
despite his gruff-sounding tones. He worked hard
his whole life, first as a carpenter, a skilled artist
who could turn lumber into complex, adored furniture;
later as an honest storekeeper who abided by the now
defunct rule that the customer was always right.
He took the role of single father when it suddenly
was thrust upon him and gave his shaken son the focus
that was needed. He didn't attend synagogue too often;
his religion was reflected in the way he lived, kind and
generous to all.
He never called me by my English name in any of its forms:
Herbert, Herbie, Herb (and never what a fellow teacher in Port Lolo,
a young Scotsman in the VSO, used: Bertie). To my dad, I was always
"Chaim" --- a Hebrew word which in English means "Life".
He passed to the next level of existence in 1966. I'd like to think
my nature, like his, suggested a kind of peace that fosters love.
I'd like to think that my existence brought peace of mind to his days.
I'd like to think that he looked at me as conveyor of a peace that adds
comfort and security to one's time on this level of existence --- and
that when we next exist together, he will gaze into my soul
and smile . . . and call me Chaim once again.

Not That Long Ago
That was the Golden Age of Study Center,
a time when we teachers of every major subject
gathered for the day and eagerly anticipated
finding ways to be of help, to guide the students
needing us . . . and they all did. We were a
team that melded into one, that intermingled
skill and spirit. Those were special times
that have by now found a place in the
forefront of our collective memory. Each of us
showed love to our teens which we are proud
to say will follow them and keep them company
as they navigate the maze that we call Life.
There were no egos, just a mesh of talents
with a single goal: to do the thing we did so
that our charges moved from hesitant by increments
until they reached secure. We worked on skills but
also touched the heart. There was no inclination to
refuse or give short shrift to those who so depended
on our presence. The Study Center Room was an
educational oasis that offered gentle strength as a
companion to learning skills. Music came from Math,
stories came from English, a world of truth
came from social studies, and life lessons
came from science, all served with smiles and
caring. We did not skip a beat; the symphonies
and rap songs we managed to produce
became the theme song of every child’s life.
We were the Study Center, and as we move
through our days, we stop and smile and feel
how special were those times when we securely
entered Room 210 and took our places and
went about the lovely business of engaging in
the building of the future with our skills
and our example.
That was the Golden Age of Study Center,
a time when we teachers of every major subject
gathered for the day and eagerly anticipated
finding ways to be of help, to guide the students
needing us . . . and they all did. We were a
team that melded into one, that intermingled
skill and spirit. Those were special times
that have by now found a place in the
forefront of our collective memory. Each of us
showed love to our teens which we are proud
to say will follow them and keep them company
as they navigate the maze that we call Life.
There were no egos, just a mesh of talents
with a single goal: to do the thing we did so
that our charges moved from hesitant by increments
until they reached secure. We worked on skills but
also touched the heart. There was no inclination to
refuse or give short shrift to those who so depended
on our presence. The Study Center Room was an
educational oasis that offered gentle strength as a
companion to learning skills. Music came from Math,
stories came from English, a world of truth
came from social studies, and life lessons
came from science, all served with smiles and
caring. We did not skip a beat; the symphonies
and rap songs we managed to produce
became the theme song of every child’s life.
We were the Study Center, and as we move
through our days, we stop and smile and feel
how special were those times when we securely
entered Room 210 and took our places and
went about the lovely business of engaging in
the building of the future with our skills
and our example.
The Pitcher
It was an exhibition game, the Yanks against
The Chattanooga Lookouts, in 1931. A short
Reliever was brought in after the starter gave
Up two long hits in the first. Batter number 3,
Babe Ruth, took the first pitch, called a ball. The
Next two pitches were what we now call sliders,
Abruptly dropping from knee level - - - and the
Bambino swung and missed at each. The fourth
Pitch was high - - - and then suddenly dove like a
Deflated balloon into the strike zone for a called
Third strike! Lou Gehrig, who had chuckled at his
Renowned teammate’s astonishing k, was this
Minor League pitcher’s next strikeout victim, swinging
And missing pitch after pitch after pitch. Remember,
In 1930, Ruth hit .359, had 49 dingers and drove in 153!
That year, Gehrig hit .379, had 220 hits, including 41
Homers and 173 runs batted in. And here, both had
Been struck out by a teenager who never faced them
Before . . . or after.
Who was this barely pro hurler? Well, the 17-year-old,
Jackie Mitchell, grew up next door to Dazzy Vance,
A future Hall of Famer, and learned that pitch from this
Well-skilled hurler who somehow saw potential in this
Child. Later, Jackie was at a baseball school in Atlanta
When a scout saw Mitchell’s pitching skill and contacted
The Lookouts. The rest is, as they say, history - - - or,
As I say, herstory, since Jackie Mitchell, the low-pro
Pitcher who struck out the Babe and Lou and had them
Looking like just a pair of non-contact hitters from the
Bronx, was a young lady!
The Chattanooga Lookouts, in 1931. A short
Reliever was brought in after the starter gave
Up two long hits in the first. Batter number 3,
Babe Ruth, took the first pitch, called a ball. The
Next two pitches were what we now call sliders,
Abruptly dropping from knee level - - - and the
Bambino swung and missed at each. The fourth
Pitch was high - - - and then suddenly dove like a
Deflated balloon into the strike zone for a called
Third strike! Lou Gehrig, who had chuckled at his
Renowned teammate’s astonishing k, was this
Minor League pitcher’s next strikeout victim, swinging
And missing pitch after pitch after pitch. Remember,
In 1930, Ruth hit .359, had 49 dingers and drove in 153!
That year, Gehrig hit .379, had 220 hits, including 41
Homers and 173 runs batted in. And here, both had
Been struck out by a teenager who never faced them
Before . . . or after.
Who was this barely pro hurler? Well, the 17-year-old,
Jackie Mitchell, grew up next door to Dazzy Vance,
A future Hall of Famer, and learned that pitch from this
Well-skilled hurler who somehow saw potential in this
Child. Later, Jackie was at a baseball school in Atlanta
When a scout saw Mitchell’s pitching skill and contacted
The Lookouts. The rest is, as they say, history - - - or,
As I say, herstory, since Jackie Mitchell, the low-pro
Pitcher who struck out the Babe and Lou and had them
Looking like just a pair of non-contact hitters from the
Bronx, was a young lady!

Gone
We were friends. We grew up together.
We were for a time more than a boy and
His shadow. He was smarter than I.
He made the Rapids and then went to
Bronx Science; I spent three years
In junior high and went to my
Neighborhood high school.
He became a lawyer; I went to
Law school, for a while. He was
Better than I in basketball and
Stickball. He was much more
Comfortable with girls. I envied
Him. We went our separate ways,
As young friends too often do.
In 1991, he lost his law license for
Embezzling client funds. Then I
Googled him the other day, out of
Nostalgia, hoping to read about
Restitution, but that is not what
Happened. He passed away almost
Eight years ago: no fanfare and no
Return to those days I compared
Myself to him and fell short (in my
Eyes). I miss him - - - not the man
He became but the man he should
Have been.
We were friends. We grew up together.
We were for a time more than a boy and
His shadow. He was smarter than I.
He made the Rapids and then went to
Bronx Science; I spent three years
In junior high and went to my
Neighborhood high school.
He became a lawyer; I went to
Law school, for a while. He was
Better than I in basketball and
Stickball. He was much more
Comfortable with girls. I envied
Him. We went our separate ways,
As young friends too often do.
In 1991, he lost his law license for
Embezzling client funds. Then I
Googled him the other day, out of
Nostalgia, hoping to read about
Restitution, but that is not what
Happened. He passed away almost
Eight years ago: no fanfare and no
Return to those days I compared
Myself to him and fell short (in my
Eyes). I miss him - - - not the man
He became but the man he should
Have been.
Down Home
Lord knows I’ve traveled all over this planet,
I’ve built me a ship and managed to man it,
I’ve loved many women, and they’ve loved me back,
And now my soul’s telling me, “Time to unpack!”
I wandered and wondered what love was about,
I knew true emotion without any doubt,
I’ve hugged and I’ve kissed and whispered my heart,
And now Time is saying, “Return to the start.”
I rode golden stallions and rowed in canoes,
I took all my chances, with so much to lose,
I’ve grown old pursuing each one of my dreams,
And now Time reminds me that Life often seems
To be just a journey with no place to go,
To be just a reverie, a field that you hoe,
Searching for some mystical treasure of gold.
But when Time recalls me, the pleasure is old:
For as long as we travel beneath Earth’s blue dome,
In the end we determine, “There’s no place like Home!”
Lord knows I’ve traveled all over this planet,
I’ve built me a ship and managed to man it,
I’ve loved many women, and they’ve loved me back,
And now my soul’s telling me, “Time to unpack!”
I wandered and wondered what love was about,
I knew true emotion without any doubt,
I’ve hugged and I’ve kissed and whispered my heart,
And now Time is saying, “Return to the start.”
I rode golden stallions and rowed in canoes,
I took all my chances, with so much to lose,
I’ve grown old pursuing each one of my dreams,
And now Time reminds me that Life often seems
To be just a journey with no place to go,
To be just a reverie, a field that you hoe,
Searching for some mystical treasure of gold.
But when Time recalls me, the pleasure is old:
For as long as we travel beneath Earth’s blue dome,
In the end we determine, “There’s no place like Home!”
She Cared for Me
When I celebrated her engagement party and
Enjoyed that all-white cake with the sweet-silver
Sugar balls the size of full stops decorating it, with
Mixed emotions swimming in my mind because
I knew she would be leaving soon, she saw to it
That I would not be lost, hugging me so closely.
She cared for me.
When, in 1955, I faced an empty home because
My father worked and there was no mother
Anymore, I took my surgically repaired leg to
Bruckner Boulevard every day for weeks and she
Helped me mend as I fit right in with her first two
Kids, because she cared for me.
When on those many Saturdays I went to her by
Elevated / subway train and blended into the
Family tradition of watching the Halo-Light
Sylvania as we laughed at Jackie Gleason
And the gang, she made sure I felt at ease in
My second home, I knew instinctively it was
Because she cared for me.
When the need to escape the swelter of a city
Summer called for Catskills cool, she added me
To her family and sheltered me for a pleasant summer
Of clean air, softball, picking blueberries and charming
Conversation, I thrived and built new memories, it was
Because she cared for me.
When, in later years, her family moved on to a Bronx
High-rise, followed by a Yonkers luxury apartment
And then an attached house in Queens, each time I
Journeyed to her home, I was absorbed into her
Growing, maturing crew, I had no doubt that it was
Because she cared for me.
In 1980, when I left a Rockland hospital with the need
To regain my strength as I recuperated from an old-
Fashioned cholecystectomy, I went to Whitestone,
Where she then lived, and I recovered in one-third the
Expected time, I am secure in my belief that it was
Because she cared for me.
I have known love in my meandering journey. My sister’s
Brand of love was the adhesive that held my life together.
She cared for me. She deeply cared for me, always at
Just the proper time.
When I celebrated her engagement party and
Enjoyed that all-white cake with the sweet-silver
Sugar balls the size of full stops decorating it, with
Mixed emotions swimming in my mind because
I knew she would be leaving soon, she saw to it
That I would not be lost, hugging me so closely.
She cared for me.
When, in 1955, I faced an empty home because
My father worked and there was no mother
Anymore, I took my surgically repaired leg to
Bruckner Boulevard every day for weeks and she
Helped me mend as I fit right in with her first two
Kids, because she cared for me.
When on those many Saturdays I went to her by
Elevated / subway train and blended into the
Family tradition of watching the Halo-Light
Sylvania as we laughed at Jackie Gleason
And the gang, she made sure I felt at ease in
My second home, I knew instinctively it was
Because she cared for me.
When the need to escape the swelter of a city
Summer called for Catskills cool, she added me
To her family and sheltered me for a pleasant summer
Of clean air, softball, picking blueberries and charming
Conversation, I thrived and built new memories, it was
Because she cared for me.
When, in later years, her family moved on to a Bronx
High-rise, followed by a Yonkers luxury apartment
And then an attached house in Queens, each time I
Journeyed to her home, I was absorbed into her
Growing, maturing crew, I had no doubt that it was
Because she cared for me.
In 1980, when I left a Rockland hospital with the need
To regain my strength as I recuperated from an old-
Fashioned cholecystectomy, I went to Whitestone,
Where she then lived, and I recovered in one-third the
Expected time, I am secure in my belief that it was
Because she cared for me.
I have known love in my meandering journey. My sister’s
Brand of love was the adhesive that held my life together.
She cared for me. She deeply cared for me, always at
Just the proper time.
One Thousand Grand Slam
Gylene Hoyle, age 31, had been to the moon as often
As she had attended a Diamondbacks home game,
And she was no astronaut - - - but there she and
Her husband were, sitting in a pair of left field seats,
Because she had won tickets to the game played on
July 1, 1999 in The Grand Slam Sunday Promotion held
On Radio station KNIX and sponsored by Shamrock
Farms. She was already a winner but stood to gain
One million dollars to take home, and all she had to do
Was name an Arizona player who would hit a grand
Slam homer that game . . . and pick the inning that
The far-fetched master stroke would happen in. She
Wasn’t what one would call a pundit of the game but
She selected hitter Jay Bell to be her benefactor
Because she felt he was a solid hitter. Bell, up to
That sixth inning, had gone 0 for 12 in the series
But when, with two outs and the bases loaded, he
Stepped up to face Athletics’ pitcher Jimmy Haynes,
It was as though they were in the feel-good movie
Angels in the Outfield. And guess what (as our current
Chief Executive likes to whisper)? Bell slammed the
Ball into the left field stands - - - and pumped his
First rounding first, expressing happiness for Hoyle.
(Yes, he’d known the situation well; the radio station
And the Phoenix dairy company were not shy about
Publicity.) Gylene and her spouse were soon holding
Opposite ends of a literally very large million-dollar check.
Pitcher Haynes later smiled and was quoted as asking
For his share, the Hoyles used some of the money
To upgrade their home, Gylene later said that Bell had
Made their lives much easier by removing daily stress,
And hero-of-the-day Bell, years later as a minor league
Skipper, called the fated grand slam “the most amazing
Moment of my career.” There's treasure in making people happy.
Gylene Hoyle, age 31, had been to the moon as often
As she had attended a Diamondbacks home game,
And she was no astronaut - - - but there she and
Her husband were, sitting in a pair of left field seats,
Because she had won tickets to the game played on
July 1, 1999 in The Grand Slam Sunday Promotion held
On Radio station KNIX and sponsored by Shamrock
Farms. She was already a winner but stood to gain
One million dollars to take home, and all she had to do
Was name an Arizona player who would hit a grand
Slam homer that game . . . and pick the inning that
The far-fetched master stroke would happen in. She
Wasn’t what one would call a pundit of the game but
She selected hitter Jay Bell to be her benefactor
Because she felt he was a solid hitter. Bell, up to
That sixth inning, had gone 0 for 12 in the series
But when, with two outs and the bases loaded, he
Stepped up to face Athletics’ pitcher Jimmy Haynes,
It was as though they were in the feel-good movie
Angels in the Outfield. And guess what (as our current
Chief Executive likes to whisper)? Bell slammed the
Ball into the left field stands - - - and pumped his
First rounding first, expressing happiness for Hoyle.
(Yes, he’d known the situation well; the radio station
And the Phoenix dairy company were not shy about
Publicity.) Gylene and her spouse were soon holding
Opposite ends of a literally very large million-dollar check.
Pitcher Haynes later smiled and was quoted as asking
For his share, the Hoyles used some of the money
To upgrade their home, Gylene later said that Bell had
Made their lives much easier by removing daily stress,
And hero-of-the-day Bell, years later as a minor league
Skipper, called the fated grand slam “the most amazing
Moment of my career.” There's treasure in making people happy.
Once a Month
On the final Saturday each month, like a set alarm
Sounding in my head, I spring into my performer guise.
It is the dozen-time-a-year meeting of our group of
Local poets, most having lived eight or nine decades,
Each one demanding to be heard. There is wisdom in this
Crowd, insights and advice too often disregarded by those
Closest to us or dismissed as the ranting of the very old.
Yet, we persist! We have much to offer to those who
Listen willingly but too often we are the Ancient Mariner,
Who “stoppeth one of three”, the one who needs us most,
The one who disregards our words and trudges through
A life sans purpose or direction. Still, we meet and share
Our thoughts, and some will touch us and make us cry
(Physically or soulfully) and some will cheer us or feed
Our need for poignancy and for nostalgia about the times
Which shaped us and connected us to love and kindness,
Realizing each of us cherishes and would like to recall
How it might have been rather than as it truly was.
For two enchanting hours we submerge ourselves in
Images of Iceland’s volcanic ash, fireflies, baseball hits
And pitches, conversations with George Washington,
Touching memories and off-key songs - - - and we
Applaud each other’s efforts. We are reminded of
Places that do not exist any more or never did. We
Show each other patience and encouragement, and
Each metaphor or descriptive image stimulates our
Deep connection to Life. We are the poets and stand
Out among the others, those who see the world in black
And white. For us, each scene is viewed in technicolor.
While others, those who have no use of us, refuse to see
That they have need of us, blunder through shades of gray
Each day, we are touched by the azure sky and verdant
Grass and flowers kissing every eye with red and blue
And ochre. I smile at orange day lilies and they smile back
At me. Poets see the world through lenses built to feel
And smell and touch, for we have a heritage that sings of
Blake, Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Frost, Sandburg,
Dickenson, Angelou, Brooks, Browning, Keats, Hughes
And Shakespeare, just to name a few. It is a group which
Enriches life and we are proud to be included. And now
You understand why I eagerly await the next call, four
Weeks hence, to join the others who are wise enough
To sing the lyrics that tell of the past and foretell the future
On the final Saturday each month, like a set alarm
Sounding in my head, I spring into my performer guise.
It is the dozen-time-a-year meeting of our group of
Local poets, most having lived eight or nine decades,
Each one demanding to be heard. There is wisdom in this
Crowd, insights and advice too often disregarded by those
Closest to us or dismissed as the ranting of the very old.
Yet, we persist! We have much to offer to those who
Listen willingly but too often we are the Ancient Mariner,
Who “stoppeth one of three”, the one who needs us most,
The one who disregards our words and trudges through
A life sans purpose or direction. Still, we meet and share
Our thoughts, and some will touch us and make us cry
(Physically or soulfully) and some will cheer us or feed
Our need for poignancy and for nostalgia about the times
Which shaped us and connected us to love and kindness,
Realizing each of us cherishes and would like to recall
How it might have been rather than as it truly was.
For two enchanting hours we submerge ourselves in
Images of Iceland’s volcanic ash, fireflies, baseball hits
And pitches, conversations with George Washington,
Touching memories and off-key songs - - - and we
Applaud each other’s efforts. We are reminded of
Places that do not exist any more or never did. We
Show each other patience and encouragement, and
Each metaphor or descriptive image stimulates our
Deep connection to Life. We are the poets and stand
Out among the others, those who see the world in black
And white. For us, each scene is viewed in technicolor.
While others, those who have no use of us, refuse to see
That they have need of us, blunder through shades of gray
Each day, we are touched by the azure sky and verdant
Grass and flowers kissing every eye with red and blue
And ochre. I smile at orange day lilies and they smile back
At me. Poets see the world through lenses built to feel
And smell and touch, for we have a heritage that sings of
Blake, Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Frost, Sandburg,
Dickenson, Angelou, Brooks, Browning, Keats, Hughes
And Shakespeare, just to name a few. It is a group which
Enriches life and we are proud to be included. And now
You understand why I eagerly await the next call, four
Weeks hence, to join the others who are wise enough
To sing the lyrics that tell of the past and foretell the future
One Final Chance
Sometimes, a poem writes itself. This time,
The poet was a ballplayer whose words came
Floating from his mouth like a horde of butterflies
Which alighted on my shoulders and told me
To put this player’s prayers into poetic form, and
That is what I’m doing. He is the pitcher . . . and
I am his receiver. TZ has earned the appellation
Journeyman Reliever, having performed for the
Royals, Guardians (never made it out of the
Spring training season), Long Island Ducks, the
Rays - - - and as of August 2024 - - - the Mets.
He came thisclose to giving up on baseball, but
His love for the game re-emerged when he
Remembered why he loved the sport, as he
Connected with former Major Leaguers as
Teammates on the independent Ducks. He
Used such phrases as “getting to the lowest
point,” “God’s way of humbling me” and starting
“from the ground up again.” It didn’t hurt that
He’s developed a 95 mph fastball and “a sweeper
With characteristics and numbers . . . that
Jumped off the page” --- as scouts poetically
Pointed out. So, TZ has reinvented himself from
The ground up. And the butterflies fluttering by
My head have managed to communicate in their
Spiritual way that this once ugly LI Duckling is
Going through a transformation that will put
Smiles on the faces of Met fans who love to
Dream . . . and isn’t that the defining trait of
True Met fans everywhere?
Source article for this poem: https://www.nytimes.com/athletic/5675856/2024/08/02/mets-trade-deadline-tyler-zuber/?source=freeweeklyemail&campaign=602288&userId=6763511
Sometimes, a poem writes itself. This time,
The poet was a ballplayer whose words came
Floating from his mouth like a horde of butterflies
Which alighted on my shoulders and told me
To put this player’s prayers into poetic form, and
That is what I’m doing. He is the pitcher . . . and
I am his receiver. TZ has earned the appellation
Journeyman Reliever, having performed for the
Royals, Guardians (never made it out of the
Spring training season), Long Island Ducks, the
Rays - - - and as of August 2024 - - - the Mets.
He came thisclose to giving up on baseball, but
His love for the game re-emerged when he
Remembered why he loved the sport, as he
Connected with former Major Leaguers as
Teammates on the independent Ducks. He
Used such phrases as “getting to the lowest
point,” “God’s way of humbling me” and starting
“from the ground up again.” It didn’t hurt that
He’s developed a 95 mph fastball and “a sweeper
With characteristics and numbers . . . that
Jumped off the page” --- as scouts poetically
Pointed out. So, TZ has reinvented himself from
The ground up. And the butterflies fluttering by
My head have managed to communicate in their
Spiritual way that this once ugly LI Duckling is
Going through a transformation that will put
Smiles on the faces of Met fans who love to
Dream . . . and isn’t that the defining trait of
True Met fans everywhere?
Source article for this poem: https://www.nytimes.com/athletic/5675856/2024/08/02/mets-trade-deadline-tyler-zuber/?source=freeweeklyemail&campaign=602288&userId=6763511
Zimming for Two Weeks on the Ocean
----- a streaming ultra-consciousness recounting
It was 1960 and I lacked direction aiming to become a pioneer
Perhaps migrating to the land of my ancestors on a $300 ticket
On a not cruise ship from Manhattan to Tel Aviv with my dad
Left at the dock tears flowing tenderly down his cheeks thinking
I was gone that he would never see me again that he had journeyed
From oppression to security only to stare blankly as my ship became
Smaller and smaller in his eyes and in his thoughts and then he
Disappeared and I found myself among strangers each with a
Hidden motive for embarking on this water-train on its way to
Varied adventures and so I felt alone and wandered around and
Wondered what to do for a facing fortnight and on I went having
Done due diligence and watched Kings County with its enormous
Buildings shrink and then evaporate I overcame my innate shyness
And socialized as best I could being drawn to the sound of shuffling
Cards and a group of five or six smiling in their optimism and their
Natural socializing and I learned that they were playing European
Poker for modest stakes U.S. currency and being strange to that
Game I just observed for hours until I took a chance and joined the
Gang and over days won $75 dollars (which would translate today to
$782) not bad for a novice but that was not the whole of my conscious
Journey those two weeks as my father cried back home but I blocked
That out since I had no intention of leaving the ‘60’s decade and my
New President and his 20th Century family so on I sailed and in turn
Visited ever so briefly the Madeira Islands, the Rock of Gibraltar
(at a time most people slept) and Piraeus, walking around Funchal
As if a native but fooling no one, and taking a brief taxi ride from
The Greek port to the night-time Acropolis, basking in floodlights and
Haunted by Athenians of centuries ago who cried out ever-lasting
Power in Ozymandias’ voice but it was Greek to me and from these
Unsupervised volunteer excursions I was christened a world traveler
Before I aged 21 years, and that filled me with a misleading sense of
Adulthood (which truly waited for me beyond the dark horizon) but
On I moved approaching my destination port of Israel where I would
Bid farewell to transient friends and face the amorphous future all
Alone, with shipboard memories of watching Lancaster as “The Birdman
Of Alcatraz” and gulping down sweetbreads for the first time (not
Knowing that it translated to lamb or sheep pancreas) - - - and for
The last time and going into the bowels of the vessel with a new
Temporary friend whose relative was a crewman . . . and viewing
The inner workings of the machinery which powered this Zim Lines
Special which was steady for most of the two weeks but which
Could not prevent the bark from tossing and turning (as they say)
Two days which found me hardly budging from my bunk (Did I mention
That I slept in a room for about 14?) and I most certainly ate nothing
But I made up for that during the dozen calm days and nights and to this day
I fondly remember all these events in my initial foray into world
Travel ignorant of what lay ahead and whether I would have need to
Employ the two large hunting knives in my suitcase and am grateful
That I survived peacefully and replaced the 14 days of Zimming with
14 hours on El Al and back to the warmth of security in my cocoon
In the Bronx where my reappearance wiped away my father’s tears.
----- a streaming ultra-consciousness recounting
It was 1960 and I lacked direction aiming to become a pioneer
Perhaps migrating to the land of my ancestors on a $300 ticket
On a not cruise ship from Manhattan to Tel Aviv with my dad
Left at the dock tears flowing tenderly down his cheeks thinking
I was gone that he would never see me again that he had journeyed
From oppression to security only to stare blankly as my ship became
Smaller and smaller in his eyes and in his thoughts and then he
Disappeared and I found myself among strangers each with a
Hidden motive for embarking on this water-train on its way to
Varied adventures and so I felt alone and wandered around and
Wondered what to do for a facing fortnight and on I went having
Done due diligence and watched Kings County with its enormous
Buildings shrink and then evaporate I overcame my innate shyness
And socialized as best I could being drawn to the sound of shuffling
Cards and a group of five or six smiling in their optimism and their
Natural socializing and I learned that they were playing European
Poker for modest stakes U.S. currency and being strange to that
Game I just observed for hours until I took a chance and joined the
Gang and over days won $75 dollars (which would translate today to
$782) not bad for a novice but that was not the whole of my conscious
Journey those two weeks as my father cried back home but I blocked
That out since I had no intention of leaving the ‘60’s decade and my
New President and his 20th Century family so on I sailed and in turn
Visited ever so briefly the Madeira Islands, the Rock of Gibraltar
(at a time most people slept) and Piraeus, walking around Funchal
As if a native but fooling no one, and taking a brief taxi ride from
The Greek port to the night-time Acropolis, basking in floodlights and
Haunted by Athenians of centuries ago who cried out ever-lasting
Power in Ozymandias’ voice but it was Greek to me and from these
Unsupervised volunteer excursions I was christened a world traveler
Before I aged 21 years, and that filled me with a misleading sense of
Adulthood (which truly waited for me beyond the dark horizon) but
On I moved approaching my destination port of Israel where I would
Bid farewell to transient friends and face the amorphous future all
Alone, with shipboard memories of watching Lancaster as “The Birdman
Of Alcatraz” and gulping down sweetbreads for the first time (not
Knowing that it translated to lamb or sheep pancreas) - - - and for
The last time and going into the bowels of the vessel with a new
Temporary friend whose relative was a crewman . . . and viewing
The inner workings of the machinery which powered this Zim Lines
Special which was steady for most of the two weeks but which
Could not prevent the bark from tossing and turning (as they say)
Two days which found me hardly budging from my bunk (Did I mention
That I slept in a room for about 14?) and I most certainly ate nothing
But I made up for that during the dozen calm days and nights and to this day
I fondly remember all these events in my initial foray into world
Travel ignorant of what lay ahead and whether I would have need to
Employ the two large hunting knives in my suitcase and am grateful
That I survived peacefully and replaced the 14 days of Zimming with
14 hours on El Al and back to the warmth of security in my cocoon
In the Bronx where my reappearance wiped away my father’s tears.
Wanna Bet?!
Nowadays, sports are surrounded and overwhelmed
By playbooks, by odds, by gamblers more than gamers,
By commercials tempting eager desperate fans to
Take a chance, to live in disillusions for the easy buck,
All in the name of adding excitement to a sport which,
If you are a lover, you need no artificial tangents to
Stir the energy and desire borne within you for the game!
And Pete Rose, 2024 octogenarian, with a career including
3,562 regular and 67 post-season games, with 4,256
Regular season hits, 1314 RBI’s and a career batting
Average over .300, has a lifetime ban from the sport he
Loved . . . because he bet on baseball. He never bet
Against his team, never fixed a game, but he is out!
Here’s a crooked yardstick that you can use when
Measuring the lefty-hitting legend’s fate: Dutch Leonard
Once presented evidence against Ty Cobb and Tris
Speaker, that they had colluded to “influence” the game
They played in on September 25, 1919 (Yes, the same
Year of the Black Sox scandal) to help the Tigers finish
Third and “earn” about $500 each from the Series pot.
During the off-season they wrote letters stating they
Regretted - - - that they hadn’t had the time to place bets
On the outcome, but they’d clearly fixed the game to get
The favored result. Both these gems, Cobb and
Speaker, reside in the Hall of Fame (rather than the
Mythical fantasy Hall of Shame) in the form of plaques
That boast of their accomplishments and feature their
Likenesses - - - rather, to this fan, dislikenesses.
Hypocrisy and a double standard don’t sit well with our
Esteemed pastime. It is long past due that the overseers
Of the annals of the sport open that Cooperstown door
And allow Charlie Hustle in - - - Where he belongs!
Nowadays, sports are surrounded and overwhelmed
By playbooks, by odds, by gamblers more than gamers,
By commercials tempting eager desperate fans to
Take a chance, to live in disillusions for the easy buck,
All in the name of adding excitement to a sport which,
If you are a lover, you need no artificial tangents to
Stir the energy and desire borne within you for the game!
And Pete Rose, 2024 octogenarian, with a career including
3,562 regular and 67 post-season games, with 4,256
Regular season hits, 1314 RBI’s and a career batting
Average over .300, has a lifetime ban from the sport he
Loved . . . because he bet on baseball. He never bet
Against his team, never fixed a game, but he is out!
Here’s a crooked yardstick that you can use when
Measuring the lefty-hitting legend’s fate: Dutch Leonard
Once presented evidence against Ty Cobb and Tris
Speaker, that they had colluded to “influence” the game
They played in on September 25, 1919 (Yes, the same
Year of the Black Sox scandal) to help the Tigers finish
Third and “earn” about $500 each from the Series pot.
During the off-season they wrote letters stating they
Regretted - - - that they hadn’t had the time to place bets
On the outcome, but they’d clearly fixed the game to get
The favored result. Both these gems, Cobb and
Speaker, reside in the Hall of Fame (rather than the
Mythical fantasy Hall of Shame) in the form of plaques
That boast of their accomplishments and feature their
Likenesses - - - rather, to this fan, dislikenesses.
Hypocrisy and a double standard don’t sit well with our
Esteemed pastime. It is long past due that the overseers
Of the annals of the sport open that Cooperstown door
And allow Charlie Hustle in - - - Where he belongs!
You Are: a memoir
You are an established star of the game.
You can field and hit quite well and lead
By example when others are just seeking
Good contracts and appreciation for their
Varied talents. Hitters are happy to achieve a
Batting average of almost 28%. Pitchers
Satisfy themselves by achieving career
Win-loss records a few games above .500.
It is an age of mostly mediocrity but that is
Not the baseball sphere you live in. You hit
For power and for average and the fans
Adore you, and it makes sense: an All-Star,
An MVP, with multiple walk-off homers and
Three-homer games, more than 360 dingers,
More than 1,100 RBI’s, homers in
Seven straight games, more than 2,100
Base hits! The city you call home was
Named after a Roman emperor who gave
Up power willingly for his peace of mind.
You do not give up power but rather lead
The team, lead them on the field and in
The dugout and in the locker-room - - -
To the extent that you hired a tutor and
Become fluent in a second language,
Spanish, so as to converse smoothly
With the Latin players on your team, to
Be their leader, and not just on the field.
You honor every other player on your team
With due respect, which flows in both
Directions. You are peerless among your peers,
Receiver of fan-cheers and teammate
Admiration. There is no room for
Mediocrity in your approach, or settling
For less than athletic-spiritual significance.
You communicate with bat, glove, words,
Ideas, example and emotion.
You are Joey Votto.
You are an established star of the game.
You can field and hit quite well and lead
By example when others are just seeking
Good contracts and appreciation for their
Varied talents. Hitters are happy to achieve a
Batting average of almost 28%. Pitchers
Satisfy themselves by achieving career
Win-loss records a few games above .500.
It is an age of mostly mediocrity but that is
Not the baseball sphere you live in. You hit
For power and for average and the fans
Adore you, and it makes sense: an All-Star,
An MVP, with multiple walk-off homers and
Three-homer games, more than 360 dingers,
More than 1,100 RBI’s, homers in
Seven straight games, more than 2,100
Base hits! The city you call home was
Named after a Roman emperor who gave
Up power willingly for his peace of mind.
You do not give up power but rather lead
The team, lead them on the field and in
The dugout and in the locker-room - - -
To the extent that you hired a tutor and
Become fluent in a second language,
Spanish, so as to converse smoothly
With the Latin players on your team, to
Be their leader, and not just on the field.
You honor every other player on your team
With due respect, which flows in both
Directions. You are peerless among your peers,
Receiver of fan-cheers and teammate
Admiration. There is no room for
Mediocrity in your approach, or settling
For less than athletic-spiritual significance.
You communicate with bat, glove, words,
Ideas, example and emotion.
You are Joey Votto.
Mel
In the 1940’s and the ‘50’s through ’64, the
Yankees were a monster with many heads, arms
And hearts, one which devoured more than their
Share of villains who threatened to claim the
Crown from them. These pretenders would grunt
And growl and attempt to power and finesse
Their way to post-season with a determination
And a regularity that all the other teams just
Lacked. And the man who painted all those
Word pictures of this masterpiece of a franchise
Was announcer Mel Allen, whose Southern
Intonations were on the surface of a child of
The Bronx comforting and mellow as the
Game progressed yet electric and vivid
In his descriptions when the team exploded,
As they often did, leaving oppositions gasping
In their wake. Mel was a friend, a pro whose
Voice carried even lulls between the storms.
He offered confidence and uplifting catch-
Phrases such as “How about that?”, saved
For outstanding plays and shows of artistic
Skill and unique flair, and his high-pitched
Home run trumpet, “Going, going, Gone!”
Which filled a lover of those Bronx Bombers
With a sort of love that only certain fans of
Other sports could understand in that time ---
Fans of the Boston Celtics and Montreal
Canadiens and Arnold Palmer. He was
Called The Voice of the Yankees but he was
More than that. He was the storyteller, the
Griot, who shared reminiscences of great
Yankee teams with legends named Ruth,
Gehrig, Di Maggio, Rizzuto, Mantle, Berra,
And in doing so, his voice became synonymous
With Victory. He was an artist who worked on
Subjects which, because of the aura they were
All a part of, came to dwell in every Bomber fan’s
Consciousness. I’d hear his Alabama drawl and
I’d be much enthralled by his homey accent and
By his descriptive words and infectious phrases,
This law school graduate who spoke to you,
Who found a home with a team, ironically,
called Yankees! And he shared that warm and
Welcoming home with ordinary fans like me for a
Quarter century uninterrupted.
He has been greatly missed, but his voice lives
In my memory and when I watch a game and
Hear his twang and quaint descriptions, it makes
Me smile and want to thank him for the way he
Built the soundtrack to all those Yankee teams
That won all those games and titles. I’m owner of
A warm and pleasing fantasy: When I do meet and
Greet Mel in the Afterlife one perfect day for
A baseball game, I will smile and shake his hand
And feel the breeze of all those memories and I
Will ask him, in my East Bronx accent, with the
Innocence and joy of a devoted fan, quite simply,
“How about that, Mel?”
In the 1940’s and the ‘50’s through ’64, the
Yankees were a monster with many heads, arms
And hearts, one which devoured more than their
Share of villains who threatened to claim the
Crown from them. These pretenders would grunt
And growl and attempt to power and finesse
Their way to post-season with a determination
And a regularity that all the other teams just
Lacked. And the man who painted all those
Word pictures of this masterpiece of a franchise
Was announcer Mel Allen, whose Southern
Intonations were on the surface of a child of
The Bronx comforting and mellow as the
Game progressed yet electric and vivid
In his descriptions when the team exploded,
As they often did, leaving oppositions gasping
In their wake. Mel was a friend, a pro whose
Voice carried even lulls between the storms.
He offered confidence and uplifting catch-
Phrases such as “How about that?”, saved
For outstanding plays and shows of artistic
Skill and unique flair, and his high-pitched
Home run trumpet, “Going, going, Gone!”
Which filled a lover of those Bronx Bombers
With a sort of love that only certain fans of
Other sports could understand in that time ---
Fans of the Boston Celtics and Montreal
Canadiens and Arnold Palmer. He was
Called The Voice of the Yankees but he was
More than that. He was the storyteller, the
Griot, who shared reminiscences of great
Yankee teams with legends named Ruth,
Gehrig, Di Maggio, Rizzuto, Mantle, Berra,
And in doing so, his voice became synonymous
With Victory. He was an artist who worked on
Subjects which, because of the aura they were
All a part of, came to dwell in every Bomber fan’s
Consciousness. I’d hear his Alabama drawl and
I’d be much enthralled by his homey accent and
By his descriptive words and infectious phrases,
This law school graduate who spoke to you,
Who found a home with a team, ironically,
called Yankees! And he shared that warm and
Welcoming home with ordinary fans like me for a
Quarter century uninterrupted.
He has been greatly missed, but his voice lives
In my memory and when I watch a game and
Hear his twang and quaint descriptions, it makes
Me smile and want to thank him for the way he
Built the soundtrack to all those Yankee teams
That won all those games and titles. I’m owner of
A warm and pleasing fantasy: When I do meet and
Greet Mel in the Afterlife one perfect day for
A baseball game, I will smile and shake his hand
And feel the breeze of all those memories and I
Will ask him, in my East Bronx accent, with the
Innocence and joy of a devoted fan, quite simply,
“How about that, Mel?”
You Decide
He is not in the Hall of Fame; the most votes
He ever got was 31.7% of regular ballots one year.
Even the Veterans’ Committee has rejected him multiple times,
Yet he is credited with changing the course of baseball history.
His name is Tommy John, and he pioneered the surgery that
Prolonged his career and those of Jacob deGrom, Justin
Verlander, Shohei Ohtani, John Smoltz, David Wells - - -
More than one thousand pitchers. John pitched 26 years:
You’ve got to be good to last that long. He is the FDR of
Pitchers, winning 288 games and retiring with a 3.34 ERA.
There are dozens of pitchers in the Hall with fewer than
The number of victories earned by Tommy John.
He pitched 14 seasons after his surgery, winning 164.
His totals include 4710.1 innings pitched, 2245 strikeouts
And three 20-win seasons. How many 20-game winners
Have we had in recent years? “But he had 231 losses,”
You point out, to which I note that Cy Young had 316 losses,
Nolan Ryan had 292, Walter Johnson had 279, Phil Niekro
Had 274, Don Sutton had 256, Bert Blyleven had 250,
Robin Roberts and Warren Spahn had 245, Steve Carlton
And Early Wynn had 244, and Jim Kaat had 237. Each
Of those pitchers was elected into the Hall of Fame. Your
Mind is swishing in a whirlpool by now - - - but when the
Hurly-burly’s done, you must come face-to-face with the
Truth. You must read, compare, think, consider and
Determine: Does Tommy John, passed over by contemporary
Sports writers and veteran ball players numerous times,
Deserve to reside in Cooperstown? You decide.
He is not in the Hall of Fame; the most votes
He ever got was 31.7% of regular ballots one year.
Even the Veterans’ Committee has rejected him multiple times,
Yet he is credited with changing the course of baseball history.
His name is Tommy John, and he pioneered the surgery that
Prolonged his career and those of Jacob deGrom, Justin
Verlander, Shohei Ohtani, John Smoltz, David Wells - - -
More than one thousand pitchers. John pitched 26 years:
You’ve got to be good to last that long. He is the FDR of
Pitchers, winning 288 games and retiring with a 3.34 ERA.
There are dozens of pitchers in the Hall with fewer than
The number of victories earned by Tommy John.
He pitched 14 seasons after his surgery, winning 164.
His totals include 4710.1 innings pitched, 2245 strikeouts
And three 20-win seasons. How many 20-game winners
Have we had in recent years? “But he had 231 losses,”
You point out, to which I note that Cy Young had 316 losses,
Nolan Ryan had 292, Walter Johnson had 279, Phil Niekro
Had 274, Don Sutton had 256, Bert Blyleven had 250,
Robin Roberts and Warren Spahn had 245, Steve Carlton
And Early Wynn had 244, and Jim Kaat had 237. Each
Of those pitchers was elected into the Hall of Fame. Your
Mind is swishing in a whirlpool by now - - - but when the
Hurly-burly’s done, you must come face-to-face with the
Truth. You must read, compare, think, consider and
Determine: Does Tommy John, passed over by contemporary
Sports writers and veteran ball players numerous times,
Deserve to reside in Cooperstown? You decide.
Who?
Candy Cummings was the best pitcher of the 1870's,
According to The Sporting Life.
He's even in the Hall of Fame, with 21 wins
And 22 losses!
Don't scratch your head or doubt the fact.
Do your due diligence and hit the books
(Or the search engine). It's not a trick. He didn't make it
As a manager like Lasorda or as an umpire.
Candy, at a beach one day, observed
The trajectory of seashells thrown into the breeze
Not so directly, and he mused about applying physics to pitches
More instinctively than scientifically.
He wondered about the flight of a ball thrown
Not directly to a batter, and he then experimented
Much as a true scientist searching for a cure might do
--- and Candy invented the curve ball, a sweet creation
More for future generations than for himself
And his eye-blink two-year pro career
(A colorful one with the Dark Blues and then the Reds).
Often, the shortest distance to an out
Is not a straight line, after all.
Candy Cummings was the best pitcher of the 1870's,
According to The Sporting Life.
He's even in the Hall of Fame, with 21 wins
And 22 losses!
Don't scratch your head or doubt the fact.
Do your due diligence and hit the books
(Or the search engine). It's not a trick. He didn't make it
As a manager like Lasorda or as an umpire.
Candy, at a beach one day, observed
The trajectory of seashells thrown into the breeze
Not so directly, and he mused about applying physics to pitches
More instinctively than scientifically.
He wondered about the flight of a ball thrown
Not directly to a batter, and he then experimented
Much as a true scientist searching for a cure might do
--- and Candy invented the curve ball, a sweet creation
More for future generations than for himself
And his eye-blink two-year pro career
(A colorful one with the Dark Blues and then the Reds).
Often, the shortest distance to an out
Is not a straight line, after all.
Family Glue
On the third of October, 2024 hearts were broken in Milwaukee
While Met fans cheered in two stadiums, in Wisconsin and Flushing,
And no doubt in parts of 50 states and several knowing nations.
When the game began, my daughter, knowing how I loved the Mets,
Had texted her support, telling me and that she had her “Fingers crossed.”
As the Amazin’s headed into the ninth trailing by two, being shut out,
Facing wild card elimination and a tasteless early vacation, and
While I metaphorically closed my eyes and ears in too much pain,
My granddaughter watched in Fair Lawn, and I texted her,
“We need a miracle,” to which she replied, “Praying” - - -
Which seemed fitting, for baseball approaches a religion to its lovers.
Then there were tears of joy to wash away eight deadly empty innings.
After the miracle happened, after Alonso hit the homer that sent our team
To Philadelphia for the second round, Granddaughter screamed
Sounds of joy and texted, “I think I broke my voice.” My love of more than
Half a century absorbed my joy and my relief and smiled - - - and with me
Watched the magic homer again and again, and listened to the lukewarm
Call by emotionless, impartial TV announcers - - - and later, to the
Excited, full-of-Life screaming radio call by a professional biased fan - - -
And she understood the meaning of the Moment. Soon after, my son
Texted simply but with a million words of meaning, “LFGM!!!!”
The next morning, my grandson, a Bronx Bomber fan, texted me,
“What a comeback last night!” I still shiver with a combination of
Relief, excitement and anticipation of the next round as I recall the
Alonso Moment. But here’s the point: THIS is why baseball is special.
It brings people together, people of different religions, politics, languages,
Cultural backgrounds. on this occasion, it brought thousands to
Citi Field to view the game on a gigantic TV screen, to share the joy
And the anxiety of the game being played 743 miles away, at
American Family Field, a truly fitting name for the sport cherished
By American families (and many others).
It also brought a special closeness to my family which, in my eyes,
Is more treasured than precious stones and elusive wealth!
I am pleased that I became the focal point of this time of happiness
In a fractured world, and all it took was a minor miracle
Off the bat of Number 20.
On the third of October, 2024 hearts were broken in Milwaukee
While Met fans cheered in two stadiums, in Wisconsin and Flushing,
And no doubt in parts of 50 states and several knowing nations.
When the game began, my daughter, knowing how I loved the Mets,
Had texted her support, telling me and that she had her “Fingers crossed.”
As the Amazin’s headed into the ninth trailing by two, being shut out,
Facing wild card elimination and a tasteless early vacation, and
While I metaphorically closed my eyes and ears in too much pain,
My granddaughter watched in Fair Lawn, and I texted her,
“We need a miracle,” to which she replied, “Praying” - - -
Which seemed fitting, for baseball approaches a religion to its lovers.
Then there were tears of joy to wash away eight deadly empty innings.
After the miracle happened, after Alonso hit the homer that sent our team
To Philadelphia for the second round, Granddaughter screamed
Sounds of joy and texted, “I think I broke my voice.” My love of more than
Half a century absorbed my joy and my relief and smiled - - - and with me
Watched the magic homer again and again, and listened to the lukewarm
Call by emotionless, impartial TV announcers - - - and later, to the
Excited, full-of-Life screaming radio call by a professional biased fan - - -
And she understood the meaning of the Moment. Soon after, my son
Texted simply but with a million words of meaning, “LFGM!!!!”
The next morning, my grandson, a Bronx Bomber fan, texted me,
“What a comeback last night!” I still shiver with a combination of
Relief, excitement and anticipation of the next round as I recall the
Alonso Moment. But here’s the point: THIS is why baseball is special.
It brings people together, people of different religions, politics, languages,
Cultural backgrounds. on this occasion, it brought thousands to
Citi Field to view the game on a gigantic TV screen, to share the joy
And the anxiety of the game being played 743 miles away, at
American Family Field, a truly fitting name for the sport cherished
By American families (and many others).
It also brought a special closeness to my family which, in my eyes,
Is more treasured than precious stones and elusive wealth!
I am pleased that I became the focal point of this time of happiness
In a fractured world, and all it took was a minor miracle
Off the bat of Number 20.
A Single Multiplicity
Shared memories comfort us
Like a toasty plush blanket
When the radiator is faulty.
We inhale these memories
In rainbow rushes and exhale
A kaleidoscope of floating
Mutual images which glow warmly
Their common scenes and language,
An adhesion of gentle adoration
Which soothes, an unction
Of images which are the
Building blocks of our
Conjoined Life affection.
We are not singular boulders
Or abandoned islands; we are
The groundswell of social
Civilization. We are the basis
Of the stability of a culture
Absent a divide. We are love.
Shared memories comfort us
Like a toasty plush blanket
When the radiator is faulty.
We inhale these memories
In rainbow rushes and exhale
A kaleidoscope of floating
Mutual images which glow warmly
Their common scenes and language,
An adhesion of gentle adoration
Which soothes, an unction
Of images which are the
Building blocks of our
Conjoined Life affection.
We are not singular boulders
Or abandoned islands; we are
The groundswell of social
Civilization. We are the basis
Of the stability of a culture
Absent a divide. We are love.
I Was Once a Poet
- a revision of an earlier poem
I was once a poet, but it hurt too much ---
Showing, not telling, the pain and grief of Life,
Warning humans too arrogant to see the potholes
In the roads they traveled by, shouting
From my heart to beware and look around
Because the evils and disappointments living much too closely
To the surface of our lives were eager to reach out
With long, crooked fingers, surrounded with withered skin,
And grasp what was left of our naiveté and choke the breath
From the breadth of our optimism.
How could I, with my rhymes and my phrases and my images,
Reach other people in such a way that they would comprehend
Before it was too late that their fates rested on the wisdom
I was trying to impart, get their attention when my soul-mate
Ancient Mariner, who tried and failed, was doomed to
Eternal existence proclaiming wisdom only to be shunned repeatedly?
Even the fair Cassandra knew how much it hurt to warn, to tell,
To scream out in the night to no avail --- and here was I,
Writing poetry that dispersed a lifetime of acutely learned
Lessons; what chance did ordinary I have to be noticed?
I then put down my books, erased my memories and
Observations from my mind, took a lonely walk
Along the river bank and looked up at the stars and shed a tear
For I was doomed to keep within the secrets of the cosmos;
No one was open to my words. No one understood
What the stars and the sky and the grass and the soil
Were trying to convey, . . . much less the silly words
That I spent precious moments writing. It was then I knew
That it made no difference --- words and phrases or
A simple clean, blank page: We were doomed to make
The same mistakes time and again --- and eventually no one
Would care all that remained would be the stars and
The sky and the broken, dying trees and the radiant,
Glowing soil where nothing could be growing
Any more.
- a revision of an earlier poem
I was once a poet, but it hurt too much ---
Showing, not telling, the pain and grief of Life,
Warning humans too arrogant to see the potholes
In the roads they traveled by, shouting
From my heart to beware and look around
Because the evils and disappointments living much too closely
To the surface of our lives were eager to reach out
With long, crooked fingers, surrounded with withered skin,
And grasp what was left of our naiveté and choke the breath
From the breadth of our optimism.
How could I, with my rhymes and my phrases and my images,
Reach other people in such a way that they would comprehend
Before it was too late that their fates rested on the wisdom
I was trying to impart, get their attention when my soul-mate
Ancient Mariner, who tried and failed, was doomed to
Eternal existence proclaiming wisdom only to be shunned repeatedly?
Even the fair Cassandra knew how much it hurt to warn, to tell,
To scream out in the night to no avail --- and here was I,
Writing poetry that dispersed a lifetime of acutely learned
Lessons; what chance did ordinary I have to be noticed?
I then put down my books, erased my memories and
Observations from my mind, took a lonely walk
Along the river bank and looked up at the stars and shed a tear
For I was doomed to keep within the secrets of the cosmos;
No one was open to my words. No one understood
What the stars and the sky and the grass and the soil
Were trying to convey, . . . much less the silly words
That I spent precious moments writing. It was then I knew
That it made no difference --- words and phrases or
A simple clean, blank page: We were doomed to make
The same mistakes time and again --- and eventually no one
Would care all that remained would be the stars and
The sky and the broken, dying trees and the radiant,
Glowing soil where nothing could be growing
Any more.
Mia
A dog’s worth is measured by how much she
Touched her human companions and was loved
By them. Mia was a worthy soul who was
Cherished by her family --- and she will be missed.
She was faithful and more like a sister and a
Daughter than a pet. Her wagging tail told a tale
Of love and trust that brought warm comfort to
Everyone fortunate enough to have known her.
She will be missed but will live on in the memories
Of those who showed her love. And when her
Human family members go for walks, breathe in
The season’s air and gaze upon the lives of
Others in the neighborhood, her presence will
Be felt inhabiting the thoughts of those who
Miss her presence; they may rest assured: she
Will be there walking by their side, even gently
Pulling her leash, leading the way to better days.
She is not gone as long as those who loved her
Think of her, and that will be forever.
A dog’s worth is measured by how much she
Touched her human companions and was loved
By them. Mia was a worthy soul who was
Cherished by her family --- and she will be missed.
She was faithful and more like a sister and a
Daughter than a pet. Her wagging tail told a tale
Of love and trust that brought warm comfort to
Everyone fortunate enough to have known her.
She will be missed but will live on in the memories
Of those who showed her love. And when her
Human family members go for walks, breathe in
The season’s air and gaze upon the lives of
Others in the neighborhood, her presence will
Be felt inhabiting the thoughts of those who
Miss her presence; they may rest assured: she
Will be there walking by their side, even gently
Pulling her leash, leading the way to better days.
She is not gone as long as those who loved her
Think of her, and that will be forever.
Not Today
We spoke a common language built on images
And music and similes and metaphors and
So much more. We lived a common life built on
The desire for peace and friendship and hope.
We sang a common song built on lyrics which
Expressed our pain and sometimes our relief.
We wrote a common story with painful interludes
And explosive clashes but ending in a shared
Desire for calm and understanding and a
Reaching out and grasping of the hands and
Prayers spoken in the marble garden over
Newly inhabited resting places where too often
Too much of our common future dwell lacking
The words and prayers and songs they were
Meant to chant. We have a common hurt that
No amount of medication can resolve. We are
The past, present, future all in one, the death
Of promise and the end of Life and because
Of this, we will never speak again, never sing,
Never draw or write, never tell our progeny
Of the common goal that we once did dream
Of, once held on to, once hoped to build and
Smile about and tell our lovers and our
Longed for children about; now we --- as they
Say without real thought --- rest in peace,
But there is no peace in the world which we
Have left behind, destroyed by the vanity and
The obsession of madmen, so there can be
No eternal peace where we now lie, and the
Words inscribed on our tombstones are just
Words with no honest meaning. When will
People learn? When will leaders lead for the
Good of all? When will the paintings and the poems
And the songs of life and love be more than
Wishful thinking?
We spoke a common language built on images
And music and similes and metaphors and
So much more. We lived a common life built on
The desire for peace and friendship and hope.
We sang a common song built on lyrics which
Expressed our pain and sometimes our relief.
We wrote a common story with painful interludes
And explosive clashes but ending in a shared
Desire for calm and understanding and a
Reaching out and grasping of the hands and
Prayers spoken in the marble garden over
Newly inhabited resting places where too often
Too much of our common future dwell lacking
The words and prayers and songs they were
Meant to chant. We have a common hurt that
No amount of medication can resolve. We are
The past, present, future all in one, the death
Of promise and the end of Life and because
Of this, we will never speak again, never sing,
Never draw or write, never tell our progeny
Of the common goal that we once did dream
Of, once held on to, once hoped to build and
Smile about and tell our lovers and our
Longed for children about; now we --- as they
Say without real thought --- rest in peace,
But there is no peace in the world which we
Have left behind, destroyed by the vanity and
The obsession of madmen, so there can be
No eternal peace where we now lie, and the
Words inscribed on our tombstones are just
Words with no honest meaning. When will
People learn? When will leaders lead for the
Good of all? When will the paintings and the poems
And the songs of life and love be more than
Wishful thinking?
The Wooden Bowl
Standing stoutly in a white apron, brightness dulled
from use, she hovered over me, smiling tenderly and
speaking honeyed words of motherly affection, a
magnetic form of speech that drew me to her presence.
I had no words but rather an attentiveness that combined
love, respect and curiosity.
I was her only son, her youngest child; My sisters had
no doubt experienced this rite of passage but by then
they had moved on - - - one to be a wife and mother
by that time, the other to learn from her European ways
and too briefly take her job after she had passed, and
then to serve our nation as a WAVE, in uniform and
action. I was left, and I cherished the relationship.
I had my mother to myself (all too briefly).
There my mother stood holding her sepia ladle.
Between us was a well-worn wooden bowl. Nearby
were spices. Inside the bowl were the ingredients
that nourished me as did her attentive love.
At times, the bowl held freshly chopped meat mixed
with onions and those spices; at other times, there was
a mixture of chunks and pieces of fish unnamed to me,
which I assume now were carp, whitefish and pike,
ready to be chopped with her hand-held blade,
the fish mixed with onions, carrots, parsnip, eggs - - -
the gathering not always the same except for
the love she added and the gentleness yet
obstinance, she controlled that blade with
as she produced the beloved gefilte fish.
As she prepared those entrees (now bought
in jars or plastic trays by mothers who have
lost the desire, time or recipe, I stood and marveled
at her skill. She was a magician, weaving multiple
ingredients into one ready to be shaped into
our evening dinner’s main delight. I was the
eager audience and my enjoyment of the meal
was the applause that I assume fulfilled that
portion of her role that for her was a kind of
ceremony handed down for ages by her
predecessors.
But it’s interesting to me now that the best part
of that culinary process was not the eating of
the nightly meal but rather the moments when
she would invite me to take the ladle (after she
had put the entrees to the oven or on the stove)
and I would scoop up the vestige of the meal
in its raw form from the sides and bottom of’
that wooden bowl. That’s when I would taste
the true secret ingredient, her soul, most directly
and most fully. It was at that moment that I looked
up at her and saw her smile with a deep satisfaction
that she had nourished in me more than my appetite
for food.
I remember clearly that as I ate from the bowl, my mother
would encourage me with words about the starving children
in Europe but I didn’t realize then the context. I in no way
could grasp that those children - - - some of whom were
relatives of mine - - - were in ghettos and concentration
camps . . . and later refugee camps for poor and
displaced people. My mother’s comment was really
a reflection of the guilt she felt for our being safe and
comfortable while other Jews were suffering. Logic
doesn’t enter into it. Sadness does. Compassion does.
I know that if my mom could have fed the hunger of the
European children for peace and security, she’d have
done so. But life is not made up of dreams. As I now
reflect, the only appetite satisfied by her words;was
my respect for the human being that she was. I wish
all the children of the world could have a wooden bowl
and a loving mother to fill that bowl with security.
Standing stoutly in a white apron, brightness dulled
from use, she hovered over me, smiling tenderly and
speaking honeyed words of motherly affection, a
magnetic form of speech that drew me to her presence.
I had no words but rather an attentiveness that combined
love, respect and curiosity.
I was her only son, her youngest child; My sisters had
no doubt experienced this rite of passage but by then
they had moved on - - - one to be a wife and mother
by that time, the other to learn from her European ways
and too briefly take her job after she had passed, and
then to serve our nation as a WAVE, in uniform and
action. I was left, and I cherished the relationship.
I had my mother to myself (all too briefly).
There my mother stood holding her sepia ladle.
Between us was a well-worn wooden bowl. Nearby
were spices. Inside the bowl were the ingredients
that nourished me as did her attentive love.
At times, the bowl held freshly chopped meat mixed
with onions and those spices; at other times, there was
a mixture of chunks and pieces of fish unnamed to me,
which I assume now were carp, whitefish and pike,
ready to be chopped with her hand-held blade,
the fish mixed with onions, carrots, parsnip, eggs - - -
the gathering not always the same except for
the love she added and the gentleness yet
obstinance, she controlled that blade with
as she produced the beloved gefilte fish.
As she prepared those entrees (now bought
in jars or plastic trays by mothers who have
lost the desire, time or recipe, I stood and marveled
at her skill. She was a magician, weaving multiple
ingredients into one ready to be shaped into
our evening dinner’s main delight. I was the
eager audience and my enjoyment of the meal
was the applause that I assume fulfilled that
portion of her role that for her was a kind of
ceremony handed down for ages by her
predecessors.
But it’s interesting to me now that the best part
of that culinary process was not the eating of
the nightly meal but rather the moments when
she would invite me to take the ladle (after she
had put the entrees to the oven or on the stove)
and I would scoop up the vestige of the meal
in its raw form from the sides and bottom of’
that wooden bowl. That’s when I would taste
the true secret ingredient, her soul, most directly
and most fully. It was at that moment that I looked
up at her and saw her smile with a deep satisfaction
that she had nourished in me more than my appetite
for food.
I remember clearly that as I ate from the bowl, my mother
would encourage me with words about the starving children
in Europe but I didn’t realize then the context. I in no way
could grasp that those children - - - some of whom were
relatives of mine - - - were in ghettos and concentration
camps . . . and later refugee camps for poor and
displaced people. My mother’s comment was really
a reflection of the guilt she felt for our being safe and
comfortable while other Jews were suffering. Logic
doesn’t enter into it. Sadness does. Compassion does.
I know that if my mom could have fed the hunger of the
European children for peace and security, she’d have
done so. But life is not made up of dreams. As I now
reflect, the only appetite satisfied by her words;was
my respect for the human being that she was. I wish
all the children of the world could have a wooden bowl
and a loving mother to fill that bowl with security.
Stature
A man’s stature is not determined by his height;
it is measured by the size of his heart, the enormity
of his wisdom and the number of lives he has touched,
and in that realm Rabbi Herschel Schacter stood
comfortably among the titans of morality.
On April 11, 1945, following Patton’s liberation
of Buchenwald, this man of men entered the
death camp in a jeep and reassured the emaciated
surviving Jews, proclaiming, “Shalom Aleichem,
Yidden.” His eyes stung from the smoldering
atmosphere; his heart was torn by the sight of
hundreds of corpses - - - but he focused sharply
on tending to the thousands of survivors over
the next several months, his iron will serving
as a rampart of the spirit for so many who had
been left to question the existence of Hashem,
and he helped them re-settle and regain their
spirituality. Among his Holy Work, he aided
almost one thousand orphaned children: one
was the teenaged Elie Wiesel.
Captain Schacter became the leader of the
Mosholu Jewish Center on Hull Avenue in his
native Bronx and served there from 1947 until
1999. He was also a leader among rabbinical
And Jewish organizations throughout the nation.
He was survived by his wife, two children, four
grandchildren, eight great-grandchildren - - -
and my wife and me, who in January 1971 were
blessed by his performing our wedding and
providing us with words of wisdom which have
found a home for more than half a century.
He is still alive - - - in so many souls who
were fortunate enough to be touched by
his time in the world.
A man’s stature is not determined by his height;
it is measured by the size of his heart, the enormity
of his wisdom and the number of lives he has touched,
and in that realm Rabbi Herschel Schacter stood
comfortably among the titans of morality.
On April 11, 1945, following Patton’s liberation
of Buchenwald, this man of men entered the
death camp in a jeep and reassured the emaciated
surviving Jews, proclaiming, “Shalom Aleichem,
Yidden.” His eyes stung from the smoldering
atmosphere; his heart was torn by the sight of
hundreds of corpses - - - but he focused sharply
on tending to the thousands of survivors over
the next several months, his iron will serving
as a rampart of the spirit for so many who had
been left to question the existence of Hashem,
and he helped them re-settle and regain their
spirituality. Among his Holy Work, he aided
almost one thousand orphaned children: one
was the teenaged Elie Wiesel.
Captain Schacter became the leader of the
Mosholu Jewish Center on Hull Avenue in his
native Bronx and served there from 1947 until
1999. He was also a leader among rabbinical
And Jewish organizations throughout the nation.
He was survived by his wife, two children, four
grandchildren, eight great-grandchildren - - -
and my wife and me, who in January 1971 were
blessed by his performing our wedding and
providing us with words of wisdom which have
found a home for more than half a century.
He is still alive - - - in so many souls who
were fortunate enough to be touched by
his time in the world.
Finest Final Years
Everyone knows that when a ballplayer reaches
His late thirties, very early forties, his prime is
Far behind him, and he exists because of the
Images of skill that name recognition carry ---
But there are those very few who shine years
Beyond their prime. Take, as a rare example,
The great reliever Billy Wagner, a seven-time
All-Star with a lifetime Earned Run Average of
2.31, and a 16-year career that included 422 saves
And 1,196 strikeouts, a pitcher who helped take
His teams to the post-season seven times. Not
Much was expected of him in his last full year,
2009, when he was 38 - - - and yet, pitching for
The Braves that year, winding down a career as
A gamble, Wagner surprised many experts and
Surpassed far-fetched hopes with 37 saves, a
1.43 ERA, and 104 strikeouts in 69.1 innings.
He finished hurling half a season in 2010, and
Recording an ERA of 1.21, was selected as an
All-Star, and proceeded to retire, surpassed in
Lifetime ERA and ERA+ as a reliever by only the
Greatest of them all, Mariano Rivera. In his
Ninth year of eligibility for Cooperstown, he
Missed selection by 1.2% of the required vote.
He showed greatness in his final year of pitching,
But he will be recognized for this in his final year of
Eligibility. Wagner has always been a really strong
Finisher!
Everyone knows that when a ballplayer reaches
His late thirties, very early forties, his prime is
Far behind him, and he exists because of the
Images of skill that name recognition carry ---
But there are those very few who shine years
Beyond their prime. Take, as a rare example,
The great reliever Billy Wagner, a seven-time
All-Star with a lifetime Earned Run Average of
2.31, and a 16-year career that included 422 saves
And 1,196 strikeouts, a pitcher who helped take
His teams to the post-season seven times. Not
Much was expected of him in his last full year,
2009, when he was 38 - - - and yet, pitching for
The Braves that year, winding down a career as
A gamble, Wagner surprised many experts and
Surpassed far-fetched hopes with 37 saves, a
1.43 ERA, and 104 strikeouts in 69.1 innings.
He finished hurling half a season in 2010, and
Recording an ERA of 1.21, was selected as an
All-Star, and proceeded to retire, surpassed in
Lifetime ERA and ERA+ as a reliever by only the
Greatest of them all, Mariano Rivera. In his
Ninth year of eligibility for Cooperstown, he
Missed selection by 1.2% of the required vote.
He showed greatness in his final year of pitching,
But he will be recognized for this in his final year of
Eligibility. Wagner has always been a really strong
Finisher!
R i c k e y
I could recite the numbers . . .the career
Stolen bases, the lead-off home runs, the
Times he led his team to post-season play,
The number of years played at the highest
Level, the honors . . . but numbers are a
Frigid way to view the player of passion
Who was Rickey Henderson. Better to flame
The memory of the man so many recall so
Fondly. Rickey was the spirit of the game
Personified, a mixture of skill, respect,
Enthusiasm and love - - - a brew that made
Him the perfect teammate. On every team
He led, he set the tone for a contagiously
Winning mentality - - - and won the hearts
Of his followers with his undefeatable spirit.
His arms pounded the ball and his legs
Propelled him from base to base like no
Other before or since. The Ages will declare
With potent emphasis worthy of the gods of
Sports that Rickey Henderson was THE
Baseball player to build a winning team
Around. RIP, RNH.
I could recite the numbers . . .the career
Stolen bases, the lead-off home runs, the
Times he led his team to post-season play,
The number of years played at the highest
Level, the honors . . . but numbers are a
Frigid way to view the player of passion
Who was Rickey Henderson. Better to flame
The memory of the man so many recall so
Fondly. Rickey was the spirit of the game
Personified, a mixture of skill, respect,
Enthusiasm and love - - - a brew that made
Him the perfect teammate. On every team
He led, he set the tone for a contagiously
Winning mentality - - - and won the hearts
Of his followers with his undefeatable spirit.
His arms pounded the ball and his legs
Propelled him from base to base like no
Other before or since. The Ages will declare
With potent emphasis worthy of the gods of
Sports that Rickey Henderson was THE
Baseball player to build a winning team
Around. RIP, RNH.
Acts of Courage
I went to Orchard Beach in the Bronx twice as a child.
I was more comfortable on Tar Beach, even though it
Was six stories up. The first time I went to Orchard was
As a target of direct sunlight for hours. The blazing
Air currents didn’t faze me. (I lived in a top floor apartment
And we had no air conditioning, so I lived with waves of
Hot, stifling air wafting over me periodically from a heavy
Oscillating fan; I existed during summer months in
Oppressive heat without complaining because that was
All I knew. So, at the beach I reclined on a blanket on
The sizzling sand and listened to the whooshing waves, with
Was no face-protecting lotion near the ocean - - - and
When the next day my face was boiled lobster-red and
Peeling, I began a painful journey of self-healing that
Took many days. As for going back to Orchard, that was
Strike One. A few weeks later, the Bronx adventure
Recurred. My father thought it was a costless way to
Spend the day - - - but the price was very high to me.
I was finally in the water when some bulky anonymous
Hulk wafted up to me for no good reason and dunked
My less than willing head under the water’s surface as he
Chortled Those were Strikes Two and Three. My mouth
Absorbed the liquid ocean salt and I gasped for air
And when I was released, I inhaled endlessly . . . and never
Returned to that beach or any other. I didn’t learn to
Swim until my freshman year of college. I was the worst in a
Class of non-swimming collegiates but I forced myself to learn
With the help of goggles and flippers, but sans such aids
I swam 100 yards on my stomach and 100 scary yards
On my back. That was Act of Bravery Number One! I was
Followed every inch by a cursing phys ed Professor spitting
Out frantic, biting curses from outside the pool - - - and I
Made it all the way!! (That was 64 years ago; I never swam again!)
Later in my college years, I was home for the weekend with two
Close friends on a Friday evening and we decided to go to
The bowling alley in Parkchester, our neighboring neighborhood.
What could possibly go wrong? Ask Kitty Genovese! As we walked
Among several apartment buildings, a gang descended on us and
Began pounding us. My friends were pounced upon yet I was most
Fortunate to escape, but when I turned and saw a friend being
Beaten, instinct took over and I ran and joined him to “even” the
Odds that were still against us. Act of Bravery Number Two!
He, ironically, took advantage of my presence and the target
On my back (almost literally) and while the bums, whose breaths
Smelled of alcohol , were cutting my back with can openers, he
Managed to escape. (I was in a hospital the next day beginning
The healing process and dealing with every aspect of the event,
From the lack of a single person sitting on the benches of the
Projects shouting at the predators or threatening to call the cops
To the act of cowardice by my closest friend.)
Years later, when I was teaching in Adlai Stevenson High’s summer
School, and the sizzling day had ended, I left the sauna building and
Aimed at walking to my car and my means of return to sanctity and
Sanity. My first impression on stepping outside was a security guard
Whose attention was focused on a block away, and a circle of
Bellicose youths surrounding and in turns pounding a teem not of
Their sociological group. I burst into the center and noted blood
Dripping from the greatly outnumbered teen, and I peered at the
Offenders and proceeded with Act of Bravery Number Three! I
Appealed to the humanity and logic of the many-fisted array of
Pseudo-soldiers, pointing out that their target had had enough, that
They had nothing more to gain except trouble with the law. I uttered,
“He’s had enough,” after which the attackers looked at each other - - -
And departed . . . and the boy I’d saved grumbled about getting even
Once his gang saw and heard about his experience. I then asked
Myself what I had indeed accomplished. In the category of
Peace-making.
Years later, I was teaching what was called late session at Taft High,
And, together with my fellow pedagogues, left the building for our
Parking lot . . . where a group of teens decided to keep us hostage
Until we’d paid them whatever ransom they decided so that they
Could purchase perhaps a copy of Carnegie’s How to Win Friends
And Influence People and we could go home to our families. We all
Sat in our cars, staring at these teen guardians of the only exit, and,
At last, I left my car and sauntered to the mob, whom I didn’t know
But whom I’d greeted after school several times before, and who, I
Was certain would listen to the appeal of a fellow Earthly sojourner.
Act of Bravery Number Four! As I walked too close, the rough end
Of a stickball bat was rammed into my left eye, after which another
Teacher, a Black woman, stormed at the youngsters yelling with
Powerful authority, and my attackers scattered. (The police car took
An hour to appear and drove me around the neighborhood to make
Identities but the future youth of America had disappeared - - - and
My fellow carpudlian then drove me home and I proceeded to an
Ophthalmologist for treatment.
There were, perhaps, other cases of my surprising courage
And each is a source of pride in myself which contrasts sharply
To the substance of each opponent, but I am also left in such
Distant hindsight with the longing that I had somehow managed
To do the right thing and had conveyed a lesson to most of my
Opponents - - - swimming pool aside - - - about being better beings.
I went to Orchard Beach in the Bronx twice as a child.
I was more comfortable on Tar Beach, even though it
Was six stories up. The first time I went to Orchard was
As a target of direct sunlight for hours. The blazing
Air currents didn’t faze me. (I lived in a top floor apartment
And we had no air conditioning, so I lived with waves of
Hot, stifling air wafting over me periodically from a heavy
Oscillating fan; I existed during summer months in
Oppressive heat without complaining because that was
All I knew. So, at the beach I reclined on a blanket on
The sizzling sand and listened to the whooshing waves, with
Was no face-protecting lotion near the ocean - - - and
When the next day my face was boiled lobster-red and
Peeling, I began a painful journey of self-healing that
Took many days. As for going back to Orchard, that was
Strike One. A few weeks later, the Bronx adventure
Recurred. My father thought it was a costless way to
Spend the day - - - but the price was very high to me.
I was finally in the water when some bulky anonymous
Hulk wafted up to me for no good reason and dunked
My less than willing head under the water’s surface as he
Chortled Those were Strikes Two and Three. My mouth
Absorbed the liquid ocean salt and I gasped for air
And when I was released, I inhaled endlessly . . . and never
Returned to that beach or any other. I didn’t learn to
Swim until my freshman year of college. I was the worst in a
Class of non-swimming collegiates but I forced myself to learn
With the help of goggles and flippers, but sans such aids
I swam 100 yards on my stomach and 100 scary yards
On my back. That was Act of Bravery Number One! I was
Followed every inch by a cursing phys ed Professor spitting
Out frantic, biting curses from outside the pool - - - and I
Made it all the way!! (That was 64 years ago; I never swam again!)
Later in my college years, I was home for the weekend with two
Close friends on a Friday evening and we decided to go to
The bowling alley in Parkchester, our neighboring neighborhood.
What could possibly go wrong? Ask Kitty Genovese! As we walked
Among several apartment buildings, a gang descended on us and
Began pounding us. My friends were pounced upon yet I was most
Fortunate to escape, but when I turned and saw a friend being
Beaten, instinct took over and I ran and joined him to “even” the
Odds that were still against us. Act of Bravery Number Two!
He, ironically, took advantage of my presence and the target
On my back (almost literally) and while the bums, whose breaths
Smelled of alcohol , were cutting my back with can openers, he
Managed to escape. (I was in a hospital the next day beginning
The healing process and dealing with every aspect of the event,
From the lack of a single person sitting on the benches of the
Projects shouting at the predators or threatening to call the cops
To the act of cowardice by my closest friend.)
Years later, when I was teaching in Adlai Stevenson High’s summer
School, and the sizzling day had ended, I left the sauna building and
Aimed at walking to my car and my means of return to sanctity and
Sanity. My first impression on stepping outside was a security guard
Whose attention was focused on a block away, and a circle of
Bellicose youths surrounding and in turns pounding a teem not of
Their sociological group. I burst into the center and noted blood
Dripping from the greatly outnumbered teen, and I peered at the
Offenders and proceeded with Act of Bravery Number Three! I
Appealed to the humanity and logic of the many-fisted array of
Pseudo-soldiers, pointing out that their target had had enough, that
They had nothing more to gain except trouble with the law. I uttered,
“He’s had enough,” after which the attackers looked at each other - - -
And departed . . . and the boy I’d saved grumbled about getting even
Once his gang saw and heard about his experience. I then asked
Myself what I had indeed accomplished. In the category of
Peace-making.
Years later, I was teaching what was called late session at Taft High,
And, together with my fellow pedagogues, left the building for our
Parking lot . . . where a group of teens decided to keep us hostage
Until we’d paid them whatever ransom they decided so that they
Could purchase perhaps a copy of Carnegie’s How to Win Friends
And Influence People and we could go home to our families. We all
Sat in our cars, staring at these teen guardians of the only exit, and,
At last, I left my car and sauntered to the mob, whom I didn’t know
But whom I’d greeted after school several times before, and who, I
Was certain would listen to the appeal of a fellow Earthly sojourner.
Act of Bravery Number Four! As I walked too close, the rough end
Of a stickball bat was rammed into my left eye, after which another
Teacher, a Black woman, stormed at the youngsters yelling with
Powerful authority, and my attackers scattered. (The police car took
An hour to appear and drove me around the neighborhood to make
Identities but the future youth of America had disappeared - - - and
My fellow carpudlian then drove me home and I proceeded to an
Ophthalmologist for treatment.
There were, perhaps, other cases of my surprising courage
And each is a source of pride in myself which contrasts sharply
To the substance of each opponent, but I am also left in such
Distant hindsight with the longing that I had somehow managed
To do the right thing and had conveyed a lesson to most of my
Opponents - - - swimming pool aside - - - about being better beings.
Teddy Baseball’s Final Swing
First, let’s set the scene: It’s the end of September
In 1960, a Wednesday afternoon that has been
Described by different witnesses as cold and
Dreary, raw and windy, dull, damp - - - a day
That 42 year old Ted Williams would be playing
His final game before a few more than 10,000
Die-hard fans, there to show respect to the
Splendid Splinter (and not to their seventh
Place Beantown team). Because of the wet
Atmosphere, the ball was moisture heavy and not
At all carrying. Add to that a steady potent wind
Coming in from right field, and the odds weighed
Heavily against Ted hitting homer number 521,
A respectable number for a productive career,
An outstanding number for a career that was
Interrupted twice during Ted’s prime by
Military service, for a total of almost five years.
That day. After walking, he hit two lofty flies
Heading toward those right field stands but
Stymied by that wind and caught just shy of
The stands, to the doubtless groans of
Disappointed faithful fans who appreciated
The historic significance of that final day.
Then came inning number eight and Ted’s
Forever final time at bat. This was the level
Of drama that Miller, Williams, even the
Immortal Bard would seek out as a climax.
Mano-a-mano . . . young Oriole Jack Fisher
Faced weary but prideful Theodore Williams,
And when Ted swung and missed a fastball
Headed for the middle of the plate, a fantasy
Sense of “Casey at the Bat” drifted from
Nearby Worcester and the enthusiastic
Boston fans let out a universal groan
(Admittedly more imagination than reality
But a logical reaction to be expected).
The next pitch would today recall that blast
Smashed against the lights in right by
The natural slugger Roy Hobbs! Ted sent it 440 feet into the
Stands and proceeded to round the bases, head gazing down,
Following his practice of not tipping his cap as a way of
Acknowledging the fans’ applause. He admitted later that,
Considering the circumstances, he’d thought about it but
Instead, he ran from home into the dugout looking down.
The ump, teammates, even his manager motioned for him to
Respond to the fans’ desire for a curtain call - - - but he
Refused to leave the dugout, wave to the fans and tip his
Cap; Instead, he waved them off and signaled for the game to
Continue - - - for the game, the season and his career to end.
So, all things considered, we are left with wondering why, on
This hum-drum yet special afternoon, was there no curtain
Call? You must consider the man, not the player. He was,
In fact, much more than just an athlete. He had served in
Two wars, was familiar with danger and death and therefore
With Life and the place in living of a sport, the national pastime!
He understood pride and respect - - - for the fans, for the other
Team. Perhaps to Ted a curtain call disrespected his opponents.
He was all business. He responded to the moment as he always
Had, with grace and dignity, not with showmanship and swagger.
First, let’s set the scene: It’s the end of September
In 1960, a Wednesday afternoon that has been
Described by different witnesses as cold and
Dreary, raw and windy, dull, damp - - - a day
That 42 year old Ted Williams would be playing
His final game before a few more than 10,000
Die-hard fans, there to show respect to the
Splendid Splinter (and not to their seventh
Place Beantown team). Because of the wet
Atmosphere, the ball was moisture heavy and not
At all carrying. Add to that a steady potent wind
Coming in from right field, and the odds weighed
Heavily against Ted hitting homer number 521,
A respectable number for a productive career,
An outstanding number for a career that was
Interrupted twice during Ted’s prime by
Military service, for a total of almost five years.
That day. After walking, he hit two lofty flies
Heading toward those right field stands but
Stymied by that wind and caught just shy of
The stands, to the doubtless groans of
Disappointed faithful fans who appreciated
The historic significance of that final day.
Then came inning number eight and Ted’s
Forever final time at bat. This was the level
Of drama that Miller, Williams, even the
Immortal Bard would seek out as a climax.
Mano-a-mano . . . young Oriole Jack Fisher
Faced weary but prideful Theodore Williams,
And when Ted swung and missed a fastball
Headed for the middle of the plate, a fantasy
Sense of “Casey at the Bat” drifted from
Nearby Worcester and the enthusiastic
Boston fans let out a universal groan
(Admittedly more imagination than reality
But a logical reaction to be expected).
The next pitch would today recall that blast
Smashed against the lights in right by
The natural slugger Roy Hobbs! Ted sent it 440 feet into the
Stands and proceeded to round the bases, head gazing down,
Following his practice of not tipping his cap as a way of
Acknowledging the fans’ applause. He admitted later that,
Considering the circumstances, he’d thought about it but
Instead, he ran from home into the dugout looking down.
The ump, teammates, even his manager motioned for him to
Respond to the fans’ desire for a curtain call - - - but he
Refused to leave the dugout, wave to the fans and tip his
Cap; Instead, he waved them off and signaled for the game to
Continue - - - for the game, the season and his career to end.
So, all things considered, we are left with wondering why, on
This hum-drum yet special afternoon, was there no curtain
Call? You must consider the man, not the player. He was,
In fact, much more than just an athlete. He had served in
Two wars, was familiar with danger and death and therefore
With Life and the place in living of a sport, the national pastime!
He understood pride and respect - - - for the fans, for the other
Team. Perhaps to Ted a curtain call disrespected his opponents.
He was all business. He responded to the moment as he always
Had, with grace and dignity, not with showmanship and swagger.
Recollection (01-20-2025)
Jeff Torborg passed away yesterday.
It's funny how you are aware of someone one day
and then you lose track and he transforms into
a minuscule thread of the complex fabric of your life,
taking up a cell or two in your hippocampus -----
until one day you check for the latest stories
on your favorite sport and there it is! Torborg, a man
I'd mentally compartmentalized along with Wayne Garrett,
Marv Throneberry and Jay Hook to a misty recess,
was suddenly brought back and ironically it took an obituary
to resuscitate him. And even now all I have to grasp hold of
are memories of his being named manager, his brief
uneventful tenure as head of the Mets on the field
and the gentleness and dignity he showed one day
when he spoke to us parents and coaches of Little League
players before a game at Shea. I now hear his soft voice
and see his motions and wish that he had had a better run
as manager. He's gone. He was my age.
There are worse epithets than to say a man was kind.
Jeff Torborg passed away yesterday.
It's funny how you are aware of someone one day
and then you lose track and he transforms into
a minuscule thread of the complex fabric of your life,
taking up a cell or two in your hippocampus -----
until one day you check for the latest stories
on your favorite sport and there it is! Torborg, a man
I'd mentally compartmentalized along with Wayne Garrett,
Marv Throneberry and Jay Hook to a misty recess,
was suddenly brought back and ironically it took an obituary
to resuscitate him. And even now all I have to grasp hold of
are memories of his being named manager, his brief
uneventful tenure as head of the Mets on the field
and the gentleness and dignity he showed one day
when he spoke to us parents and coaches of Little League
players before a game at Shea. I now hear his soft voice
and see his motions and wish that he had had a better run
as manager. He's gone. He was my age.
There are worse epithets than to say a man was kind.

Beyond Baseball
The child’s life was in danger; critical lightning action
Was obviously needed. It was the eighth of August, 1982
And the four-year-old had been hit in the head by a
Sizzling foul line drive at Fenway - - - and every second
Was a count-down to tragedy. The EMT’s fighting through
The crowd might be too late. Jim Rice saw this and ran to
Pick the boy up and carry him to the Bosox dugout, where
The team’s medical staff did their immediate expert best.
At the hospital half an hour later, the docs credited Rice
With saving the boy’s life. After the end of the game, Rice
Went to the hospital to check up on the boy - - - and
After meeting with the family and observing the
Modest appearance of the dress of the boy’s parents, he
Proceeded to the business office and requested that
All the bills be sent to him.
He was a different kind of baseball hero on that day!
The child’s life was in danger; critical lightning action
Was obviously needed. It was the eighth of August, 1982
And the four-year-old had been hit in the head by a
Sizzling foul line drive at Fenway - - - and every second
Was a count-down to tragedy. The EMT’s fighting through
The crowd might be too late. Jim Rice saw this and ran to
Pick the boy up and carry him to the Bosox dugout, where
The team’s medical staff did their immediate expert best.
At the hospital half an hour later, the docs credited Rice
With saving the boy’s life. After the end of the game, Rice
Went to the hospital to check up on the boy - - - and
After meeting with the family and observing the
Modest appearance of the dress of the boy’s parents, he
Proceeded to the business office and requested that
All the bills be sent to him.
He was a different kind of baseball hero on that day!
Photos from jus10h, mattbuck4950, Bennilover, shixart1985, COD Newsroom, Free Public Domain Illustrations by rawpixel, shixart1985, TristanReville, shixart1985, Lorie Shaull, homegets.com, billoberstjr, shixart1985, Helge V. Keitel, kenteegardin, DonkeyHotey, Ninian Reid, Renaud Camus, lucielle.sweet, ssoosay, www.ontravelwriting.com, luciabuonomo15, phin_hall, bionicteaching, Joe K Gage