Poetry
by Lloyd B. Abrams
Some poems may contain words or images
that a reader might find offensive or objectionable.
The reader's discretion is advised.
i declaredcircle of lies
... is a circular word construction consisting of four word pairs: plausible deniability (at 12:00), deniable plausibility (3:00), undeniable implausibility (6:00) and implausible deniability (9:00).Poem 1 May 11, 2007 Its best to view circle of lies as a PDF
struggle
i struggle
to find an answer
my answer
the answer
any answer
about being
nothingness and the infinite
about spirit
unknowable and the ever-present
when i get close
when i think i'm getting close
i get zapped
kicked in the teeth
knocked on my ass
out for the count, almost
six, seven ... at eight
i stagger up
scoff away the stupor
brush off my gloves
to struggle
once againRead by Ben Bresky on his show The Beat Israel National Radio, Spring 2007
Poem 2.1 May 25, 2007 (up to top)
balloons
mylar balloons hang by threads
ribbon-tied to wheelchair grips
HAPPY BIRTHDAY / IT'S YOUR DAY
primary color cartoon comic book balloons
tail to the birthday boy hardly a boy
unfunny no mirth no humor no meaning
mylar balloons buoyant
on helium life support
hover on heavy air currents stifling wafting
drifting spirits impatiently waiting
wheeled into the day-room
body slumped rigid tied into the chair
blue striped blanket over the knotted sheet
as if anyone might notice might care
might visit might give a damn
mouth flattened no longer a smile possible
amusement no longer accessible joy long forgotten
even the pain's being managed
okay everybody let's sing
happy birthday to you happy birthday to you
happy birthday dear
lost yellow smiley face name tag Saul magic-markered
only the minimum wage workers bother to join in
how about another? okie-dokie ready?
how old are you now? how old are you now?
are you one? are you two? are you
ninety-one going on two
too oblivious to focus
sensing annoyance irritation frustration
menacing mylar phantoms
bobbing above beside behind
agitated restless somewhere nearbyPoem 3.1 May 30, 2007 (up to top)
my grandma
last night i hugged my grandma in a dream
and breathed in her silky silvery hair
she was even shorter than i'd remembered
she had to stand on my feet on tiptoes
like i used to when i danced with her
so many years before
oy my lloydie she used to say
you're such a boytshik'l
laughing her whole body grandma laugh
shaking her grandma head
as she poured me 7up from a green glass bottle
capped with a red rubber stopper i could never get to work
i got to hug my grandma annie
but never to thank her for those couple of pennies
for telling my mother it's all right
don't worry he can go by himself
to the candy store at the end of the block
where i took my sweet time choosing
but always picked out a couple of strands of chocolate licorice
and let one soften in my mouth savoring it
relishing every bite every swallow
as i dawdled my way back to Grandma's
i hugged my grandma in a dream last night
and got to say good-byePoem 4.2 May 31, 2007 (up to top)
board of directors
the once dignified meet on the boardwalk
in the locker room
at the diner
in the parking lot to wipe off their cars
on the fishing pier at the end of the road
to kvell to kvetch to boast to complain
about children grandchildren great-grandchildren
if it's the truth they should only be so lucky
to pontificate bravado-speak
regurgitate what's pandered on their transistors
ten-second sound bytes out of context
glib phrases uttered by guileful pundits
solving the world's problems by negating others
demand the point to win pointless arguments
validate their vitality their virility their masculinity
affirm that life still has meaning
show prove convince themselves they still have it
betrayed by father time
called by first names with impudence
enslaved by their pensions
ensnared by the system
imprisoned in their bodies
stifled by the future
preyed upon by lost hopes
praying to wake up one more day
their agenda is engraved in stone Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 22, February 2012
Poem 5.1 June 2, 2007 (up to top)
impermanence 1
scowling razor wire-topped fencing
safeguarding bulldozer-high hulking mounds
cement-gray red-brick rubble
rust-brown jagged stone wreckage
dust-swirling formless crumbling cairns
heaped up sepulchral ephemeral monuments
but no 9/11 eulogy
no tear-shedding elegy
no time for mourning
just another demo corp's tear-down job
excreted forth from the pile in majestic rainbow lettering
proudly announcing!
coming soon!
a condominium strip mall luxury senior residence
professional offices supermarkets boutiques galore
an Applebee's Best Buy CVS Denny's
i can hardly wait
until the wrecking ball swings by againPoem 6.2 June 3, 2007 (up to top)
finale
charblackened forest leadened sky
howling storm-flattened deadscape
bowing genuflecting prostrate
tossing bones upon the spreading sludge
crapped-out snake-eyed expired
no chocolate pudding skin
no warm entwining embrace
no rainbow intoxication
only a monochrome prism
an infernal optical prison
pulsing thunder crackling lightning
fissures percolating sulfurous smaze
stagnant stifling smothering choking
visionless eyes stretched wide agape
mouth pupils nostrils dilated incredulous
ashes swirling blizzard flakes
blanketing enshrouding obliterating
utterly and without absolutionPoem 7 June 8, 2007 (up to top)
beggars
tichel'd hijab'd woman bleating
scarfshawl'd woman kneeling pleading
infant chimplike suckling at her breast
a second languishes torpid distressed
arms outstretching palms upreaching
depleted eyes rise up beseeching
hebrew arabic swahili chinese
spanish hindi omnilingual ... please
pernicious voracious poverty smirks
we all hope the tour bus a/c worksPoem 8.1 June 18, 2007 (up to top)
horror within
make the voices stop
please make them stop
can't take it anymore no more no more
shut up shut up shut up
stop persecuting stop calling me
pathetic worthless willful evil slime
and worse, nothing
crazy loony bonkers psycho fucked-up
yeah, maybe
but not nothing
stop dominating stop commanding me
to cut slash burn swallow jump
to do myself in
for my own good for the good of everyone
the i i am i was
already expunged annihilated
only skin bones nerves cell-tissue
organs insistent on functioning
for no other purpose
than to continue my suffering
please make the voices stop
please make it stop Appeared in Perspectives -- Poetry Concerning Autism and Other Disabilities Volume II, 2012
Poem 9.1 June 20, 2007 (up to top)
dead eyes
eyes reacting to movement light color
a slit lamp an ophthalmoscope
affirming rudimentary corneal cortical activity
damaged orphans listless in cribs
cries bring no comfort no response
no reason for existence
their vacant stares through rusted slats
dementia'd golden-agers dribbling on their bibs
senescent cerebral disintegration
pinpoint pupils inside milky white sclera
but ...
unengageable junior highers long given up
blank-eyed incurious expressionless
twenty- thirty- forty-somethings
lead eyeballed plodding up subway stairs
ageless everyothers vacuous waiting
staring into space no time no continuum
no eye contact no I contact none possible
desolate brainscape mental void
as if broken inside
... if eyes are the window to the soul
what's to be made of this of them?Poem 10.1 June 25, 2007 (up to top)
as good as it gets is long forgotten
to love honor comfort
for better or for worse
i repeated the promises
i'd signed the marriage affidavit
scanned the ornate ketubah
but glossed over the fine print
to love honor comfort
in sickness and in health
last january a new year limped in
she'd gone astray in our neighborhood
lips fingers toes frozen blue numb insensate
just months ago disheveled unshowered
face unwashed teeth unbrushed
neglecting to wipe forgetting to flush
last tuesday perched on the piano stool
hands on keys feet on pedals
no mozart concerto forthcoming
only a requiem of quiet sobs in a minor key
today expressionless eyes yet panicked
filled with shame with sorrow ... who knows
forgot my name forgot our name
alien i'm already a stranger estranged
to love honor comfort
'til death do us part
how much time's left doc what's going to be
dealt from the top or the bottom
the death spade ace or will joker trump all
for her sake for my sake
for all our sakes
i hope it'll be over soon Appeared in Bards Annual 2011
Poem 11.2 July 3, 2007 (up to top)
dead end no u turn
black on yellow diamond
below red black on white square
metaphorical landmark at concord and franklin
primary color juxtaposition on retroreflective sheeting
monotonic dead pan steven wright one liner
ya cant go back gramps
ya got one chance pardner
aint no dress rehearsal
no do-overs no indian giving
no apologies sir
nah nah nin nah nah
so
go ahead
make the turn
see how longs the road
see how far it gets ya
see where it takes ya
but promise me now
ya gotta promise
no backsies
no guarantees no appeals
no pleading no supplication
no one listening anywaySigns at the corner of Concord Court and Franklin Avenue, Malverne, New York
Steven Wright: I bought a house on a one-way dead-end road. I don't know how I got there.Poem 12 July 6, 2007 Its best to view dead end no u turn as a PDF (up to top)
life demarcated
imaginary white line to a tossed down shirt
first base paced off so many feet more or less
a chalk lined diamond quarter sector of a circle
world of my youth and later still
four worn black lines painted on bleached concrete
two perpendicular and two parallel to the wall
world of my paddleball days weekends eves
reflectorized white border sprayed on poured pavement
hugged caressed on a one speed columbia
a three speed schwinn a ten speed raleigh
now a sixty three speed recumbent vision
worlds overlapping time and being
measurable lines stay fixed immutablePoem 13 July 11, 2007 (up to top)
more than mister wallet
swanky shopping plazas dingy outlet malls
bleak dreary depressing inescapable as minor key muzak
no star one story second rate eatery valet parking no less
three story facade shouting its unimpressive presence
buy buy buy!'s the mantra
buy more buy often buy until ya drop until ya drop dead
after all goddam it ya listening?
ya need that sixty inch widescreen
ya need that three point eight gigahertz
ya need that dvr broadband five point one surround sound
ya need that in your face mcmansion forget its outa place
ya need that suv the hummer the land yacht
ya need that upscale upsized supersized
on sale today one day only last one we have lemme check the back
nope last one ya gotta act now now now
yeah yeah yeah i need but i dont wanna need
... i want to keep it simple not stupid
want it like it was not like it doesnt have to be
dont want the illusion elusive chimera the make believe was
not the fake sawdust on urethaned flooring
not the olde time ice cream parlor a chain of too many
not bigger better not gotta have the best
until you're bled dry your bones turn to dust nothing left to exhume
you gotta un'stand sir its makes the world go 'round
what are ya ... some kinda subversive? Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 19, May 2011
Poem 14 July 18, 2007 (up to top)
after the kids visit
we hug our daughter our son-in-law
our son our daughter-in-law
we hug and kiss their boys
hug and squeeze them again
can't get enough
after they're buckled in
we reach in for one last touch ...
when the oldest one says bye grandma bye pa
and waves his miniature hand
when his baby brudder blows us a kiss
when the littlest big-eyes us and smiles
i want to grab them hold them
possess them their spirit
but of course i know i can't
when their camry their odyssey
pulls away from the curb
a wrenched away part of me leaves too
never to be recaptured retrieved
i want to need to have to believe
that that part will somehow live on
as the taillights recede
i reach for grandma's hand
we sad-hug under the stars
walk back up our path
to clean up the mess left behind
in our again empty home
though the echoes remainPoem 15.2 July 19, 2007 (up to top)
my numbers
i am categorized circumscribed defined by pretend numbers
superficial false yet whined and whinnied about
abnegating individuality accentuating faceless privacy
sixteen digit master card ten digit checking account
nine digit medical card six digit pension id following a U dash
may as well be dingbats unintelligible scrawls chicken scratchin's
or a upc bar code etched onto my skin
unique alphanumeric aliases meaningless identifiers assigned to me
or is it me to them?
these collections of symbols relegated to me are not numbers at all
my heroes are elegant calculatable approaching infinity ... and named
largest mersenne prime 9,808,358 digits long
2 raised to the 32,582,657th power minus 1
irrational pi to 1,241,100,000,000 never repeating decimal places
googol a 1 followed by 100 zeroes
googolplex a 1 followed by a googol of zeroes
googolplexian a 1 followed by a googolplex of zeroes
their majesty and power are unfathomable daunting ... almost godlike
others are more prosaic
megabytes left to download
bicycle miles pedaled between chain lubes
bottom line net worth on a spreadsheet bills to pay on another
fastest train to montauk on a closely analyzed schedule
green mileage markers flashing by to the last exit
miles traveled average speed odometer error and eta
more than just occupying my mind
five digit numbers are my latest favorites
based on odometer readings five letter words or randomly chosen
then a mental computation with the sieve of eratosthenes
primes or near primes and composites
perfect squares or differences of squares
the result the unique solution is comforting soothing reassuring
unlike the remaining years months weeks days hours minutes seconds
unlike the unavoidable demonic countdown to zeroPoem 16 July 23, 2007 (up to top)
for we have brought nothing
squalling blustering into this world
with goose eggs and diddly squat
with nothing tangible nothing fungible
amass and hoard money property possessions
on the never ending installment plan
cannot deny yourself
gotta have it you gotta have
the best the biggest
for better but maybe worse
struggle to buy buy buy
bust your ass
to live the great american dream
deplete your well-being
until you bleed not only red
when the end game is over
all that’s left besides watery good-byes
are bequests to others
who might or might not remember or care
memories in the hearts and minds
of the bereft who do
and a name in times-roman
etched in gray polished stone
silent exposed alone at that last exit
there’s nothing to leave with
there are no pockets in shrouds Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 19, May 2011
Poem 17.1 July 31, 2007 (up to top)
stroke aftermath
cognitive impairment spatial disorganization
disorientation disequilibrium deterioration
peripheral blindness neuronal dysfunction
aphasia apraxia anosognosia
symptoms limitations prognoses
words phrases utterings admonitions
unhearable unbearable unrepeatable
at first washing over almost caressing
waves rippling rolling swelling
cresting breaking crashing
tsunamiing hopes and plans for the future
gone are the golf games
trashcanned are scorecards each hole and stroke
yellow highlighted birdies eagles sorted by date
now sandtrapped sandbagged triple bogeyed
by an equal opportunity cerebral accident
gone are mother boards expansion cards cables parts
computers once assembled set up given away
ctrl-alt-delete resetting no longer possible
now memory-lost frozen blue screened
by an extreme prejudiced neurological event
gone are the cameras meters lenses filters
negatives contact sheets slides
double weight matte paper stored in the fridge
defiled occluded over exposed
by a swirling erosive ischemic cascade
for the staggered carer the bearer forever
the unforeseen unimaginable incomprehensible
yet ... a reaffirmation of a half century together
beyond richer or poorer beyond sickness and health
... a full time commitment to still love honor and cherish Appeared in Perspectives -- Poetry Concerning Autism and Other Disabilities Volume II, 2012
for G. B.
Poem 18 August 6, 2007 (up to top)
east lake road, southbound
you know what i'd really like
she says
a tiny house on a spit of land
jutting out into the sound
i wonder if there'd be room
i don't say
for me in that tiny house
or would it be big enough for just one
i've often wondered
she says
what would've happened
if i'd gone away to college
how my life would've been different
maybe we'd've never met
perhaps it was preordained
i say
though i usually scoff
at destiny and magical thinking
and wonder what she's really thinking
ooh look at that
she says
a three-car garage beside the road
white-painted stairs leading down
to an upscale cabin almost hidden by hemlocks
on the grassy shore of the lake
i can't i'm driving gotta watch the turns
i say
it's too winding too narrow too treacherous
and i don't ... didn't want to look
afraid that i'm not included in her dreamsPoem 19.2 August 26, 2007 (up to top)
catching up & overtaken
mashing down the penny b
peninsula boulevard in c b lingo
in highest gear
doing twenty or so
with the wind of course
ahead a pace line of lycra heads
half or maybe a third of my age
the gap is narrowing
early morning dream
upbound elevator turns horizontal
has its own roller coaster mind
i've no fear except questioning how
then into a subway station of multi levels variant tracks
mismatched trains of disparate sizes
can't find my way don't know where to go
early morning dream
on a cold steel table under the halogens
the doctor sloughs off three and three words more
close 'im up
there's no use
me?
got to be somebody else
not even enough time for kubler-ross's five-count
grinding up the v z
verrazano bridge in c b lingo
in low gear but not the granny
seven or eight m p h or so
done it before know i can do it again
alongside i tell my son in law go ahead
i'll catch up on the downstroke
when i'll be doing thirty or so
without a tailwindPoem 20 August 28, 2007 (up to top)
obligation
i make the call every week
to touch base to stay in contact
to keep our families close
we used to confide our deepest thoughts
our fears our turmoil our angst
not expecting answers solutions
but genetically-shared perceptions and insights
rare now is the challenging discourse
about current events politics world affairs
the human condition
our diverging lives our inevitable aging
the inexorable final decree
now i get routine questions predictable answers
about our kids their kids the grandkids
everybody's fine okay honky dory terrific
if only it were true
now i get rehashed diatribes
predigested points of view
from cable news talking heads and virulent talk radio
now i get jokes read verbatim from the 'net
i grit my teeth sigh to myself force a laugh
a pick-up click and the spouse interrupts
wait hold on i've got a couple more
this time i'm lucky to break in
i gotta get going got things to do
but every week i make the call
often hoping for no more
than the welcoming greeting
of their answering machine Appeared in Bards Annual 2011
Poem 21.1 September 17, 2007 (up to top)
in limbo
i keep on
walking the dog
making the bed
feeding the birds
paying the bills
... i keep on
no more
calling following up
juggling appointments
renewing refilling prescriptions
rearranging pill bottles dispensers
cleaning ointmenting diapering
... no more
they say
go on with your life
don't live in the past
you've got to think of yourself
the whole worlds before you
... they say
... what ?
yeah sure easy
busy signals gone
no longer on hold
steady dial tone
waiting
for
whatPoem 22.1 September 19, 2007 (up to top)
haiku 1
tobay beach 9-25
angry waves crashing
stealing last rite of summer
spat me back on shore
Poem 23 September 26, 2007 (up to top)
ennui
nothing excites me anymore
not ain't-my-demographic first-run movies
not must-see tv's flashy emptiness
not roided boys blocking batting bashing
...none of it'll change my life one bit
just easier staying home eating in
in front of the tube
watching reruns of reruns
law & order's three stale flavors
judge judy's low life feuds
family feud's hooting and hollering
... dumbed down tranquilized sedated
why spend on acquiring more possessions
hot terrabyte computer old monochrome vista
flat screen plasma transfusion
eight cylinder all wheel drive
... yet nowhere to go to end up
but yeah i'm still yearning searching
wondering why i bother
to drive to the beach in my rusted out clunker
to pace the boardwalk marking off time
to stop at the end to gaze towards the west
... you've seen one sunset you've seen 'em all
then again, maybe not Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 19, May 2011
Poem 24.2 October 1, 2007 (up to top)
tanka 1
hollow promises
brushed away 'til the morrow
everlasting soul
frolic on borrowed time 'til
gabriel come a-courtin'
Poem 25 October 31, 2007 (up to top)
tanka 2
mist hovers waiting
over clearing in the woods
respite for the soul
dog snuffling in wisps and whiffs
purposeful and free of angst
Poem 26 November 1, 2007 (up to top)
tanka 3
thinning canopy
becalmed quivering stillness
cezanne's fading glow
golden-agers side by side
anguished moans in silence
Poem 27 November 8, 2007 (up to top)
cinquain 1
follow
marching corpses
lock-stepping bliss junkies
arrhythmic drumbeaten flunkies
i won't
Poem 28 November 9, 2007 (up to top)
internal distress
they
believe
in judgment
severe decrees
trembling awestruck before their almighty
their souls visited ... fates inscribed and sealed
the next day's breath
repentance
averts
dread
Poem 29 - a double tetractys November 15, 2007 (up to top)
haiku 2
crunching underfoot
shrouding mist stillness hovers
ice storm's fury's passed
Poem 30 December 14, 2007 (up to top)
haiku 3 - a senryū
grandma said I stunk
caught in downpour they bathed me
got the wet dog blues
Poem 31 - a senryū December 22, 2007 (up to top)
life in the waiting room
coltrane on my ipod clone
miles and monk next
fold back the op-ed page
check my cell phone's time
corner-of-the-eye a couple
blank-staring into space behind shriveled masks
identical intense scowls oblivious to CNN's crawls
talking heads volumed low
what's going on inside
what are you thinking about
what occupies that space
i want to ask
how can you sit there and do
nothing
— shirley?
always first names
— please come with me
shirley glares through coke-bottle lenses
and sighs and purses her bloodless lips and wobbles up
and drops her faux leather pocketbook onto the old man's lap
who meekly accepts it with an upward glance and a nod
left alone to blank-stare by himself
miles on now
monk and hancock to follow
what is he thinking about
is he thinking at allPoem 32.1 January 6, 2008 (up to top)
haiku 4
fractal clouds expunged
winking, coy, winter disrobes
seesaw swings of glee
Poem 33 January 9, 2008 (up to top)
haiku 5
saw baby's first cries
been in the zone had the buzz
good and bad to come
Poem 34 January 10, 2008 (up to top)
sedoka 1
been kinda happy
shouldn't focus attention
the other shoe'll surely drop
shanks do most damage
plummeting from highest arcs
bright to bleeding in a flash
Poem 35.1 January 16, 2008 (up to top)
but wait…there’s more
mom's cards pictures drawings notes
dated title pages ripped from library books
all rubber-banded in humid-stuck drawers
greased with rancid unwrapped soaps
a futile battle against mildew and mold
when the summer a/c's turned off
all of her books stuffed into kirkland drum liners
carted off to the library branch
a payback an offering
forgot a receipt not that it matters
cleaned out the gasket-torn rusted-out fridge
more garbage bags tossed into the proper green dumpster
eyes watching from behind half-open blinds
of the condos and garden apartments encircling
— hey you ... you leave that computer there on the ground?
— no sorry wasn't us
don't they have better things to do
sepia'd portraits and black and whites prints
wedgewood knick-knacks and porcelain tchatchkes
shrouded in terrycloth towels
saved for visitors who'd never come
wrapped with 3M sealing tape
in thirteen corrugated cartons
shlepped to the route 1 pak-n-ship
to be ups'd north
antique brass clock
blue chinese dragon-dogs
now guarding our mantel
the tvs and vcrs
and everything else
left for next time
knowing without admitting aloud
there won't be a next timePoem 36.1 January 16, 2008 Its best to view but wait…there’s more as a PDF (up to top)
brunch with the guys
before ed died we had five
sometimes six
we could commandeer the round table
in the corner by the windows
to watch the comings and goings
luscious young ladies but so unattainable
now that we're down to four
i wonder without saying
what's gonna happen when there'll be fewer
we order without menus
a western sandwich on challah
three specials oj and coffee skim milk on the side
egg whites and basted eggs and a stack for me
oh and separate checks by the way
it's always the same
so much comfort in that
we shmooze on
about photoshop and scanners and tivo
about xp and linux and broadband
about wives and children and grandkids
about health problems and ghi and golf
i drift away ruminating
about how long we've known each other
our decades-old excitement about internet access
first dialing up with a nassau number
then lifetime access for a one-time fee
an offer that subsequently perished
like lenny like john and like ed
they drop like flies as it is said
i must enjoy my friends as long as i'm ableIn memoriam, E. D.; for G. B., D. O. & J. W.
Poem 37 January 19, 2008 (up to top)
at the community concert
why
does that lady
that lady sitting on the aisle
straddling her rubber-handled quad cane
why does she have to switch on her penlight
twice three times each selection
to read what's on the program
i fantasize
kneeling next to her ordering her
— turn it off
— put the damn thing away
for good measure adding
— what's wrong with you?
— why can't you just listen to the music?
i conjure up my mother sitting across the aisle
taking in a concert like this one
disparaging it as only a diversion
then i feel ashamed
just surmising realizing
sensing the aisle-lady's grasp for illumination
for order for cognition
a failing battle against enfeebled memory
at the third penlight flash
when my eyes flick right once again
i too feel her desperation
and shake my head and sigh
tomorrow
in many years
it may just as well be
mePoem 38 January 20, 2008 (up to top)
haiku 6
haiku in my head
hearing seeing syllables
three lines coalesce
Poem 39 January 20, 2008 (up to top)
friday morning ’round one a m
kissed her cheek while she was asleep
pulled up blankets that had slid down
thanks she murmured let out a sigh
slipped under covers switch off the lamp
on my right side stretched out my leg
sought soft skin yearning for her warmth
reached out placed my hand on her crown
barely touching not to wake her
thus comforted i closed my eyesPoem 40 - tetrameter triplets January 21, 2008 (up to top)
viral infection
calamitously unleashed
exuberantly immoral
arrogant
narcissistic
malignant
genetically imbued
supernaturally endowed
egomaniacally unrelenting
insistent on wreaking havoc
over heaven and earth
…unstoppable
it will not desist
until
it self-destructs
and takes with it
every other living thingPoem 41 January 23, 2008 (up to top)
supplication
once squeezed out
baby cries out
for sustenance • soothing
to be membraned
back into its womb
once cast off
man cries out
for sustenance • soothing
answers to eternal questions
quelling of primordial terrors
all-encompassing refuge
these overarching yearnings
are unobtainable • unattainable
without artificial constructs • counterfeit crutches
and thus
are
ultimately futilePoem 42 January 25, 2008 (up to top)
haiku 7
skin is getting old
can see wrinkles of aging
rest of me's still young
Poem 43 - from VHA January 27, 2008 (up to top)
rational dysfunction
linear function
divide years remaining by total life expectancy
assume 80 • a nice round number
and get a steadily decreasing fraction • ratio
60 is three fourths of 80 • 40 is half • 20 is one fourth
10 is one eighth • and so on
life ≡ time is supposed to behave linearly
with order • sequence • steady progression • undistorted decline
non linear function
divide years remaining by years expended
again assume 80
75 is 15 times 5 • 70 is 7 times 10
60 is 3 times 20 • 40 is 1 times 40 • 20 is one third of 60
10 is one seventh of 70 • 5 is one fifteenth of 75
the ratio's decrease accelerates over time
the velocity is not constant • not linear
life ≡ time feels much more like this curve
a fast motion movie • a logarithmic slide
a quickening rush • a diminishment on the rampagePoem 44 January 28, 2008 (up to top)
red light • green light
missed a red light today
too close for comfort
three cross streets clustered
traffic lights in synch
• until today
stopped in time
no harm • no foul
got honked at anyway
waved my hand • sorry
been there when
timing belt shredded • gas line ruptured • freewheel seized
each time walked away
mopped my brow • phew
running on automatic
taken for granted
paying attention
thought i was
• until todayPoem 45.1 January 29, 2008 (up to top)
shades of blues at dusk
boardwalk at twilight
balmy breeze huffs the bugs away
two late-middle-agers like horny teens
snuggling, nuzzling against the rail
we break our embrace, walk on, holding hands
— i was just thinking about something
she says, casual, teasing
— ohhh nooo ... not again!
i answer, exaggerated, mocking
we chuckle together outside-within
our shared-secret language
of jokes, routines, gestures
still, i sigh-exhale
imperceptibly i hope i stifled it
an omen in our language that i won't want to listen
despite the reassuring shtick
i fear what's coming: frustration, irritation
being brought down, gnawed at, eaten away
— about what?
i ask moments later, as expected, continuing our continuity
while thinking, so what's it going to be about this time?
redoing the bathroom?
refinishing the floors?
decking over the cracking patio?
or worse, more ominous:
persistent strain-stress between family members
should've's about buying that summer house out east
rumblings of depression just beneath the surface
the disquiet, the doubts, the angst
are gnats
aroused and stinging
when evening's breath becomes stillPoem 46.1 January 31, 2008 (up to top)
haiku 8
my wife's gentle breaths
I lie awake fretting
our fingers entwined
For VHA
Poem 47.1 February 3, 2008 (up to top)
never discarded
> hey look, i found a letter
she unfolded a yellowed looseleaf sheet
filled with dark angry scrawls
> it's one i wrote to you back in eighty-two
> you know when things between us weren't so good
i acknowledged her discovery with a grunt
though blurred some by decades
i'll never forget those harsh nights
of hurt accusations and discord
< you want me to read it?
i reached out my hand
< or is it another of those letters you wrote only for yourself?
> no, not really
answered only the first of the two questions
> anyway it's missing page two
as she re-folded it and slipped it away
didn't want to watch where it went
probably in the kitchen cabinet
behind the aspirin and the vitamin c
wondered why she hadn't torn it to shreds
or burned it back then
when she was yearning for a serenity
i couldn't provide Appeared in What Have You Lost/Found? / An Anthology of Poetry, 2021
Poem 48.2 February 4, 2008 (up to top)
haiku 9
oil-slicked asphalt
pregnant clouds mournful tears
iridescence reigns
Poem 49.1 February 5, 2008 (up to top)
intermission
< so, how'd you like it so far?
> i don't know ... it's just, uh ...
< and we've seen some of the actors before, like on t-v
> you obviously liked it more than I did
< yeah, but ...
> well, it just wasn't my cup of tea
damn it! ... i wanted to ask
< aren't these second row seats great?
< don't you get a rush just by being here?
< isn't it exciting to experience live theater? ... here in the city?
damn it to hell! ... i then wanted to add
< what ever happened to your adventuresomeness?
< what ever happened to your spirit?
< what ever happened to the woman i married?
but all i actually said was
< maybe the second act will be better
she shrugged her shoulders, sour-faced me
> maybe ... we'll see
i decided to enjoy the rest of the show
... as best as i couldPoem 50.1 February 18, 2008 (up to top)
infatuation
this morning
at our weekly torah class no less
sitting around a table covered with thin white plastic
i fell in lust in love
again
Poem 51 February 19, 2008 (up to top)
sandy knoll
before the next
after the one before
scan panoramic landscapes
threateningly bleak from far away
up close replete with concealed delights
searching how far from where I've come
steps etched into sun-baked grit
evil pranksters' exhalations
sweeping obliterating
trudge blindly onPoem 52 February 24, 2008 (up to top)
haiku 10
tonight's moon is full
crossing holding father's hand
safe in his shadow
Poem 53 February 26, 2008 (up to top)
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 49, February 2019
Poem 54.1 March 11, 2008 Its best to view IN MEMORIAM as a PDF (up to top)
deflating
i really feel good
i feel so good
felt so good
felt so
mantra fades
who am i kidding?
bubble's punctured
helium high is gone
find the magic tape
cover every hole
but even i know
it won't work
never doesPoem 55 March 14, 2008 (up to top)
orchestral
i exist
within and about
an unbounded lattice of
chaotic oscillation resonance
dissonance harmony
pandemonium stillness
an ever-mutating schema of
the affective cognitive volitional
their strings sinews skins
stretched turnbuckled taut
plucked strummed bongoed
palpitated squeezed caressed
an unrehearsed symphony
the mellifluous cacophony
that is my lifePoem 56 March 24, 2008 (up to top)
incomplete servings
was a day back when
heidi our first terrier
nosed my mother's unpalatable meatloaf
around in her bowl
like a willful anorectic
refusing to eat any
though she would eat anything else
... the stuff of stories to follow
was a day back when
i visited my mother
now older by decades
down south in her condo
couldn't get enough of the pot roast
she reheated every night
... the heartburn was worth it
was a day back when
i watched heart-aching
as my mother's live-in
took the almost untouched
beef with chinese vegetables
shoveled it into the garbage
out of her sight
... and already out of mind Appeared in Perspectives -- Poetry Concerning Autism and Other Disabilities Volume II, 2012
Poem 57 March 24, 2008 (up to top)
becoming unglummed
monday
any bleak day
doldrummed depleted bummed out
got a bad case of the blues
realizing's the catch-22
then following through
all i've gotta do now
is ride out the stormPoem 58 April 2, 2008 (up to top)
disconnect
< i downloaded fitna while you were away
> what?
< it's an anti-muslim movie made by ...
she starts rinsing off some dishes
i wait for her to finish
and was about to continue
when she turns the water on again
when she's done this time
i turn a page
and say nothing
she comes upstairs
mouses on the other computer
i check the clock on mine
she checks her email opens up firefox plays solitaire
more than twenty minutes go by
> i'm gonna take a bath then go to sleep
< you could've seen the movie
< it's only seventeen minutes long
> i wasn't into anything serious
she gets up to leave
i acknowledge-wave without turningPoem 59 April 2, 2008 (up to top)
what might have been
through twenty-six-year-old eyes i see
streisand cheeks and streaked blond pageboy
her standing on the faculty lunchroom line
i can't approach her i'm married so is she
i wouldn't know how to what to do
like a lovesick teen i pass her classroom
to peer through reinforced panes
to catch a glimpse before i'm spotted
our bifurcated lives keep us apart
we both attend a required retirement dinner
fueled by alcohol we proclaim our affection
confess our mutual need our yearning
still we inhabit different realms
only accidentally coincidentally intersecting
a couple of afternoons we do meet up
to grasp at the straws of years slipping by
to promise to rekindle gasping embers
after i kiss her cheek and say i'll see ya
it all seems pointless futile
except for the empty what-if ache
through sixty-one-year-old eyes i see
shrunken cheeks and silvered hair
her standing on the supermarket checkout line
i turn away to order appetizers
when i look back she's gonePoem 60.1 April 8, 2008 (up to top)
61
40 was a piece of cake
50 no problemo
but 60 brought a composite
of reality
trepidation
dread
dad dead at 65
grandpa at 65
no matter mom hit 85
and grandma 90
60 a tough number
to confront
swallow
absorb
now 61 in my forever prime
the only way is to resist
to face-off
stare-down
endurePoem 61.1 April 20, 2008 (up to top)
countdown
how many days to go? i’m asked
they know i keep track
counting today? i ask
no not today
so i tell them: eighteen class days
then another eight
until our high school will once again
wither and whimper its last gasping breath
but hey who’s counting? i ask
convincing fooling myself
that i’m mocking only the others
who are counting down their days
who aren’t asking the real questions
of me of themselves
by me of myself
how’re you feeling about it?
howdo i feel about it?
what’re you going to do?
whatwill i do?
who will you become? how will you define yourself?
what’re ya how’re ya who’re ya gonna be when you finally grow up?
i’m still counting down those last twenty-six
with a vengeance
until it’s time
to begin the rest of my life Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 22, February 2012
Poem 62 May 16, 2008 (up to top)
masturbation, literally
reluctant ember glows
wick flickers to life
excited tungsten incandesces
cartoon idea balloon inflates festers
thus ... a poem a microfic a story is born
limit the adverbs show don't tell
dialog description details
abhor absolutes energy vampires fluff
kill space-filler words of negative value
work gets itself typed on the screen
thesaurus'd spell-checked proofread
saved printed backed-up
paper-clipped three-hole punched
slipped into the binder uploaded to the website
gets headited in the shower
on the next dog walk bike ride
during mental down time
before falling asleep after waking up
gets rewritten reworked revised
saved reprinted how many trees?
backed-up clipped punched
slipped into the binder uploaded
repeat previous steps
catharsis one reward
a finished polished work another
an offering to the godhead of creativity
self-gratification at its finestPoem 63.1 May 22, 2008 (up to top)
a grave too shallow
slipped a coupla crisp twenties onto each gravedigger's outstretched palm
begged them to claw out another six feet with their backhoe
wanted uncle benny the bastard deeper than deep
sorry senorita not allowed ... besides the máqina
no can do ... and the straps for the casket
they won't reach that far down
wanted to ensure benny was interred way down
so he could not bring us down anymore
with his hateful venomous tongue
his loveless garlicky embraces
his cruel loathsome temper
his vile filthy caresses
no magnitude of dirt could possibly entomb
what benny bequeathed his loved ones
could prevent his lecherous legacy
from leaching right back up
what remains is our remains
discontentment
pessimism
shame
our instability
timidity
fear Appeared in Toward Forgiveness / An Anthology of Poems, 2010
Poem 64.1 June 6, 2008 (up to top)
still life
we're enveloped in shade
under the crab apple past its prime
i'm waiting for jimmy my wheaten
stretched out on wet grass panting
too dog-tired to go on
you there
silver haired lady
behind double-pane glass
pillow-propped up
whatever do you seefeelhear
your focus
if there's a focus
is it only on the tv
affixed mounted on the wall
timidly tepidly i wave
maybe i'll get your attention
maybe you'll see us notice us
maybe you'll realize there are still lives
still a life
besides what's blaring on your screen
hey you goddamn it
the least you can do is turn your head
the least you can do is lookPoem 65.2 June 14, 2008 (up to top)
impermanence 2
mounds of cement-gray red-brick rubble
truck-hauled away
its sand-dirt-coated parking lot a flattened expanse
a basement cavity to the east an unfilled grave
one forgotten pile in the southwest corner
a misbehaving wreckage-child set aside discarded
like the sentient children and adults
who'd inhabited that space
whose voices if you listen closely enough
still reverberate
in the jagged stone wreckage
in the rebar remnants
in its vestige remains
no longer a promise of revivication resurrection
no more proudly announcing!
no more coming soon!
those signs've been removed dragged away
or toppled surrendering on their own
with neither a murmur nor a plea for redemption
only wayward swirls whistling over what's left
kicking up dust
bending weeds too stubborn to succumbPoem 66.1 July 5, 2008 (up to top)
sycamores sick of ’em
i used to hate the sycamores
their stinky sticky scaly buds
mottled exfoliating trunks
camouflaged
they'd better hide from me
i used to hate the sycamores
their faux maple leaves
browned crisped fallen to the ground
crunching under my bicycle tires
it's only the middle of my summer
how dare they drop so early
how dare they force me to face
another first day of school approaching
another term of disillusionment
another counting down to the end of june
but i don't count down anymore
and i no longer hate the sycamores Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Poem 67 September 9, 2008 (up to top)
impermanence 3
a wasteland
before there was possibility
now only broken promises
watched over by a lone skeletal sentry
a misshapen tower stripped of lights
surrounded by crashed-in fences
secured with rusting links and locks
wonder if anyone has the keys
wreckage mound greened over
concrete overtaken by whispering weeds
the sandy-edged pit no longer so deep
its sides no longer so steep
nothing left but crazy eddies
of swirling landless debrisPoem 68.1 September 9, 2008 (up to top)
impermanence trilogy
june 3, 2007
scowling razor wire-topped fencing
safeguarding bulldozer-high hulks
of jagged rust brown stone
heaped up sepulchral ephemeral monuments
formless crumbling cairns
but here there's no 9/11 eulogy
no tear-shedding elegy
no time for mourning
just another demo corp's tear-down job
excreted forth in majestic rainbow lettering
proudly announcing / coming soon
a condominium strip mall luxury senior residence
professional offices supermarket boutiques galore
an Applebee's Best Buy CVS Denny's
i can hardly wait
until the wrecking ball swings by again
july 5, 2008
mounds of cement-gray red-brick rubble
truck-hauled away
its sand-dirt-coated parking lot a flattened expanse
a basement cavity to the east an unfilled grave
one forgotten pile in the southwest corner
a misbehaving wreckage-child set aside discarded
like the sentient children and adults
who'd inhabited that space
whose voices if you listen closely enough
still reverberate
in the flattened ruins
in the rebar remnants
in its vestige remains
no longer a promise of revivification resurrection
no more proudly announcing / no more coming soon
those signs have been removed dragged away
toppling surrendering on their own
with neither murmur nor plea for redemption
only wayward swirls whistling over what's left
kicking up dust
bending weeds too stubborn to succumb
september 9, 2008
a wasteland
before there was possibility
now only broken promises
watched over by a lone skeletal sentry
a misshapen tower stripped of its lights
surrounded by crashed-in fences
secured with rusting links and locks
wonder if anyone has the keys
concrete overtaken by whispering weeds
the memorial mound greened over
the sandy-edged pit no longer so deep
its sides no longer so steep
nothing left but crazy eddies
shifting swirling
unsettledPoem 69.3 September 15, 2008 (up to top)
truth be told
i was reading a scene from a story i'd written
some years back
the facts were spot on both now and then
when i wrote it
so i thought
had the words overwritten the memories
i began to wonder
if the narrative itself has become the truth
whatever the truth was
how will i ever know Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 36, August 2015
Poem 70 September 20, 2008 (up to top)
stilled life
silver-haired lady shuddering
behind double-pane glass
now shuttered
hope there wasn't much pain
vultures circle
loved ones who never found time
real estate agents squabbling for points
wannabe buyers with no money down
banks battling for their fortunes
fast forward
deteriorated roof
fallen flashing
overgrown bushes
boarded-up windows
weeds turned to reeds
even the for-sale sign askew
but to you it doesn't matter anymore
only to us who remainA sequel of sorts to poem 65 -- still life -- June 14, 2008
Poem 71 October 1, 2008 (up to top)
milestone millstone
61 52 / 130 / .353 7
roger maris breaking babe ruth's home run record
mickey mantle's triple crown statistics
cobra 427's zero to a hundred to zero elapsed time
numbers from my youth still inhabit me
still haunt me still mock me why i ever cared so much
the 1961 battle between roger and mickey
a record broken on the last day of an asteriskable season
snapping a black and white photo
with an argus camera aimed at our 21 inch zenith
the mick my hero my idol
i even mimicked him flexing my fingers when i batted
delighting elated at his peak rounding the bases
grieving disillusioned when he struck out wincing
when he died i cried which took me by surprise
from a standing start launching to 100 then squealing to a stop
can you believe it? just count 'em off
one one thousand ... two one thousand ... up to seven one thousand
but now an internet search declares actual 12.4 & 13.8 seconds
which brings me back down to earth
facts whether true or false make me wonder
why these statistics were so important in the first place
and how i measure value in my lifePoem 72 November 2, 2008 (up to top)
writer's disillusionment
chose two of my best stories
that everyone claimed to love
you write so well
you should send them off
you could get them published
thought i'd try a competition
edited them for the umpteenth time
did a word-count double-spaced formatted as required
wrote a check for the entry fee
mailed the brown envelope off
waited
worried that the check didn't clear right away
did they get them would they read them would they care
could i win could i place could i at least show
summer languished by
i fantasized
maybe i'll win
maybe i'll be in the top ten
maybe my writing'll be acknowledged appreciated rewarded
pixels missing on the contest website
no first prize
no honorable mention
not even the top one hundred
how many entries could there've been
what do i have to do to winPoem 73 November 2, 2008 (up to top)
dreamworld
i must've been living in a dream
of dependent affluent ease
and then the fall
a hip a life
two lives shattered
now bills taxes living wills
statements payments paper mountains
an avalanche of angst
live-in aides taking up space
dining room morphed into an infirmary
hospital bed at the picture window
calling crying moaning bleeding
nightmare with no escape
can i wish for him to die
so i can dream againFor R. K.
Appeared in Bards Annual 2011
Poem 74 November 3, 2008 (up to top)
combat weary
my alter ego a hydra
barraging the muse
spewing poisonous breath
it alone is immortal
i'm tired of dwelling
in that dark and dreary place
of insult affliction and anguish
of sickness dysfunction and death
redemption might arise
from the ashes of catharsis
but never a conceptual guarantee
only a final reckoning
i cannot escape
diminishing arc inhabiting
the soul of the plot line i battle
but refuse to call my lifePoem 75.1 November 19, 2008 (up to top)
soaring
skimming above crystalline waters
peering down at picnic revelers
i wave with no hands
exalting in effortlessness
banking
whooshing away
ecstatic silence
surfing queens boulevard
forever downhill
urethane wheels retract
quickening
gliding hairbreadth above pavement
hastening past
traffic cross-streets lights stores
a blur
potholes ridges ruts
unfelt
jumping down fourteen stairs
then another twelve
landing
awakening
heart pounding
joyousPoem 76 November 20, 2008 (up to top)
good doggie
i love it
when we're at the field
jimmy's too far away for comfort
comes running towards me
ears flapping
he seems and i feel so full of joy
point down at the ground
mock severe say come here
stops next to me
pat him rub his back
scratch behind his ears
smile and say good doggie
i love it
when i've been at the computer
tiptoe into our bedroom
jimmy's on our bed stretched out
half tail starts waggling
oozes over on his back
get on my knees
lean my head on his body
hug and scratch and rub his belly
hum softly say you're such a good doggie
i love it
when jimmy stops stares at people gets them to react
approaches sits next to a child allows a fumbling hand
stands in front of the tv eye-asks to be let out
assumes the begging position next to me at the table
leans his head on my leg gets me to go already
places his paw on my mother-in-law's knee when she cries
jimmy's such a good doggie Appeared in Paws, Claws, Wings and Things … Poetry For And About Pets, 2012
Poem 77 November 21, 2008 Its best to view good doggie as a PDF (up to top)
haiku 11
yesterday's reigns've fall'n
grave pelting drops incessant
now incandescent
Poem 78 November 26, 2008 (up to top)
dem dry bones
through the valley of dry bones rattling
awaiting sinews flesh skin resurrection
flows a river of sodden tennis balls
amputated from medical walkers
banished to the trash heap of memories
undulating over bent broken tubes
their once optic flourescent felt
a faded mass of ashen oscillation
yearning for the breath of the four winds
so the vast slain multitude may live again— from Ezekiel 37:1 - 37:11
Poem 79 November 30, 2008 (up to top)
older
my autumn of becoming
not exactly old
but older
depleted
when last year after a long walk
i was only fatigued
feeling it
each morning
my first creaking steps downstairs
and now requiring
extra layers gloves and hat
bicycle tights forget the shorts
slippers and socks no bare feet
finger warmups before the keyboard
jumbo-sized bottles of costco's ibuprofen
i'm no rockette but still i'm kickin'Poem 80 December 13, 2008 (up to top)
unhappy horse manure
another eulogy
smooth soothing phrases
like clown makeup
masking the harsh and unhearable
i’ve gotten to know him / her / whomever
says he with clerical collar or yarmulke
with sad pious eyes
with mournfulness perfected in a sideshow mirror
uttering crib-sheeted words
from a playbook shelved under fiction
reciting the some-truths and untruths
that will / may / might / never
incise the abscesses
cauterize the wounds
anesthetize the ache
... so tell us what do you know
... what are your euphemisms for
vicious intolerant unyielding
abusive divisive spiteful ...
where do you find these
in your reverential lexicon
of kind-sounding lies Appeared in 2023 Long Island Sounds Anthology
Poem 81.1 December 16, 2008 (up to top)
pesky varmints
they're at it again
scampering skittering atop the roof
traversing from suet cage to bird feeder
performing high jumps back flips contortions
backyard trials for the squirrel olympics
tormenting our frustrated terrier
with the inbred temerity to pursue them
twitching beefy bushy tails
chittering from just low enough
as he barks plaintive pleas for them to descend
just this once
when he's coaxed inside
our squirrels come charging back down
from brown leafy nests cradled high in the branches
of the sassafras tupelo and oak
intimidating pigeons robins and doves
cardinals flickers blue jays and wrens
on their quest for the rodential gold medal ...
the perfect sunflower seed
Appeared in The Weekly Avocet #558 The Squirrel Issue August 13, 2023
Poem 82 December 18, 2008 (up to top)
idling
stuck in neutral
engine running
sometimes pinging
sometimes misfiring
but mostly rumbling
depending on the warmth
the prevailing winds
the internal storm brewing
all's left to do is
step on the brake
grab the gear stick
shift it into drive
press down the gas pedal ...
yet still
it's so damn hard
to
just
start
movingPoem 83 December 27, 2008 (up to top)
angry at
on the warpath
again
this time
it's advertising circulars
bagged in cheap plastic
blanket-tossed from vans
strewn onto lawns sidewalks streets
picked up perhaps
by many who garbage-can recycle them
by few who breathlessly await them
but never to be ignored
wet filthy expired
they litter our surroundings
despoil our neighborhood
denigrate our community Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 19, May 2011
Poem 84 January 3, 2009 (up to top)
elusive perception
i boardwalked through mist and drizzle
past strands and swaths of marsh grass
in hues of wheat and cheddar and honey
past stunted splotches of graygreen pines
keeping my hooded head down
alert for nails and shards and broken boards
and when i returned to where i began
my psychesalving mission was fulfilled
i relativevisited today
deepdropped into a tattered sofa
balancing a coffee-stained cup of tepid herbal tea
on my knee and nodding and smiling and listening
to words muttered through dusty yellowhaze
filtered through once-sheer lace curtains
tales concocted from a reality long past
unsaid accusations hidden inside raspy utterances
like noxious waves crashing down through the fog
my bobbing-doll head my chip-painted grimace-grin my eyes glazed overPoem 85.1 January 7, 2009 (up to top)
heisenbergin’ feelin’ good
boardwalkin' westerly bound
one point two miles out
feelin' not fabulous not great not t'riffic
but simply ... easy-goin' good
clothed perfectly for the gusty cold
shoes tied just right
avishai cohen's bass lines in my earbuds
no aches no effort no angst
one foot in front of the other a mantra
on mesmerizing parallel slats
a zone of zen-like tranquility
... just movin' along
want to bottle the moment
put it on ice
sip from its contents when it's dark and bleak
when the road ahead is rutted and impassible
oh man ... darn ... damn
realizing that just thinking about it
then putting it into sub-vocalized words
will burst then dissolve
this fleeting moment of serenity— Heisenberg Principle: pairs of conjugate variables cannot both be known with arbitrary precision ... here, the feeling of overwhelming well-being cannot be retained once it's being analyzed or even considered
Poem 86.2 January 10, 2009 (up to top)
sliced from life
our family history
is written in tears
tears in the mythic fabric
fragments from a tattered tapestry
portentous moments from a deliquescent past
conjured from faded photographs
dredged from melancholic memory
punchlines without the laugh track
depression breakdowns drinking abuse
swindlers fakers cancer divorce
heart attacks suicide spiritual death
we dwell within the morose
enter the realm of the uplifting
only if there's space on the page
only if there's time Appeared in Performance Poets Association Fourteenth Annual Literary Review, 2010
Poem 87 January 16, 2009 (up to top)
haiku 12
wavelets lapping up
ocean debris in their wake
expunging footprints
Poem 88 January 17, 2009 (up to top)
visiting quartet
demon sat down for breakfast
said he needed quiet
had black coffee two eggs rye toast
lit up a marlboro started hacking
satan came for lunch
said he was on a diet
but picked pickles off my plate
finished half my salmon sandwich
god appeared around dinner
said i shouldn't worry
ordered in a thin crust pizza
mushrooms onions extra cheese
angel of death showed up 'round midnight
said he was in no hurry
ate cheese puffs flipped through the channels
fell asleep snoring on the couchPoem 89 January 21, 2009 (up to top)
home visits
my dog jimmy is running for mayor
or a shortcut to heaven so it seems
doing his mitzvah of bikkur cholim
visiting shut-ins during our walks
like tory and fodo and winston
to the north
or rufus and happy and biscuit
to the south
dragging me to their front doors
where i'm obliged to ring the bell
or knock on the door
then wait for a canine or human response
sometimes he wants to chase them around their backyard
sometimes he wants to barge in to check out their bowls
sometimes he wants to touch noses to see how they're doin'
sometimes he just wants to hear them bark
our visits don't last very long
for there are other stops to makePoem 90 February 3, 2009 (up to top)
loss not found
unrepentant ghosts of sorrow
scratching tell-tale souvenirs
into facial fault lines
a living canvas taut with grief
unshed memories today tomorrow
fragility fueled by ever-fears
behind a mask a haunted smile
searching yearning no relief Appeared in What Have You Lost/Found? / An Anthology of Poetry, 2021
Poem 91 February 12, 2009 (up to top)
hang up
i’m just the husband of a wife
whose second father
just died
and now
i share less and less of her
as she tends to the widow
as she had tended to his passage
as we also age
i’m getting good at being by myself
to thrive in solitude
so i believe
i’ve gotta push myself to make connections
knowing isolation breeds depression
that blooms like a weed in my family tree
and i wait
until she hangs up the phone
then she extends her arms
we embrace
never leave me she says
her voice filled with tears
it’s too visceral too needy too cloying
i crack that old joke about why men die first
because they want to i say
thought neither one of us laughs
yet still she complains
you know that’s getting old
yeah i’m sorry i say
we hug again
but for real this time
and while we melt together
i wonder which one of us will die first
who will lose
the other half of our soul
that binds us together
despite others despite life
despite time spent apartPoem 92 February 13, 2009 ... Rev 92.1 January 20, 2019 (up to top)
stop bye
we're seated
octogenarian tag-team
flanking our dusty couch
lateraling questions
we're fumbling for answers
mutely
while
preoccupied with their own
interests worries activities
what they think do believe
stepping on our words
we realize
there's
no breathing room left for us
long odds against dialogue
we wither for want of a hook
no point
honey, i think your mother ...
oh, right ... jeez, i lost track of time
well it's been really nice
sorry we have to go
in the car
we sigh shake our heads promise each other
we'll never be like thatPoem 93 February 17, 2009 (up to top)
it’s too early
my youngest grandson's bris
was held at eight on a thursday morning
with the daily prayer service just before ...
and his grand uncle my brother
couldn't wouldn't just didn't show
for my older grandson's bris his excuse was
it's too early ... it's in manhattan the railroad the subway the traffic
then and now so many others gladly came
to celebrate our simcha with us
everyone who counted
everyone else from our family
i'm furious and hurt and disgusted
at my older brother's it's too early crap-out
then and again now
for the pathetic truth is otherwise
his antagonism animosity small-mindedness
his intolerance self-loathing anti-orthodoxy
his inability at 67 to grow up and rise above
i'd like to scream at him all these things i feel
but i'll probably tone it down to
you really disappointed me
and try to leave it at that
for the sake of shalom bais
for the sake of keeping peace
in our family— bris: the ritual circumcision held on the eighth day after birth ... simcha: joy; festive occasion
Poem 94 March 1, 2009 (up to top)
for ever and ever
if the snowfall is heavy
i shovel the balcony
to prevent ice dams forming
and subsequent leaks
when i was out there some years ago
from a few blocks away
the molten-gold voice
of our daughter rang out
ever stronger as she neared
king of kings and lord of lords
and he shall reign for ever and ever
hallelujah hallelujah
hallelujah hallelujah
and i listened rejoicing
through lingering snowflakes
in the muffled quiet
of a silvery afternoon
now i am serenaded only
by the sibilance of the wind
the creaking of the sassafras
the echoes of reminiscence Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Appeared in 2023 Long Island Sounds Anthology
Poem 95.1 March 3, 2009 (up to top)
seven-thirty clusterfuck
bookstore library coffee house scene
introductory anticipation premonitory sensation
and a drum roll please ... for our featured poet
i wrote this when i was inspired by i remember back when
i i i i'm so full of myself look at me listen to me amn't i aren't i great
my book my book i'll read from my book let me turn to the page
cooing cowing mooing melodic
spouting spitting ranting raving
getting into the rhythm now
into that flow zone now
into that bippity boppity gibbery jabbery
where relevance meaning come second by far
where utterances are priceless gems glibly refracting
to others ... to whom?
who ooh and aah and sigh two-syllable hmm-mm's
maybe gasp applaud politely of course 'cause that's what's expected
and in wonderment exclaim
ohhh it's so powerfulll so absolutely amaaazing
so so ... what's the word i'm lookin' for?
i'm so speechless i ... i ... can't hold it innn
nah i didn't let it go ... don't believe it ... it's all bullshit ... gimme a break
i cannot be here ... this isn't me
you aren't me ... all of you ... get out now
you humanoid distortions in my fragged sideshow mirrorPoem 96 March 6, 2009 (up to top)
as it is written
i find myself
speaking in phrases
i've written before
words and descriptions
honed over time
taking on emphasis
that may never've been
i've a fear of becoming
a self-referential
sound byte machine
halting then mind-searching
for the best thing to say
believing what is said
has the imprimatur
of truth Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 36, August 2015
Poem 97 March 11, 2009 (up to top)
the golden land
we play-acted our vignettes
before a holocaust survivor's group
improvising about agitated depression
moving to assisted living
mental illness's impact on a family
i heard my grandmother's voice
within their thickly-accented yiddish
responses questions observations suggestions
in the silences
i heard my grandmother's voice
and her story -
cossacks pursuing on horseback
outside minsk where she lived
while her own demons gnawed at her from inside
not wanting to leave
but disembarking from steerage onto the goldina medina
suffering fear poverty hunger abuse
spawning depression anguish persistent sadness
a broken and sorrowing heart
her legacy
to us
her survivorsPoem 98 March 12, 2009 (up to top)
retort to a blank screen
lean times
the muse is out to lunch
punched out early
on vacation
maybe gone for good
no telling when he/she/it’ll reappear
heh heh ... i’ll thwart ya ... i’ll call your bluff
come out come out wherever you are
no ... huh?
then i’ll expose you for the fraudulent trickster you are
hide from me will ya?
so muse-ee baby
here ya go
take these lines of writing
despite your absence
despite forsaking me
despite hanging me out to dry
so what if these words aren’t artful or sensitive
breathless or sparkling
or reflective of the human condition
up yours muse
i don’t need ya
i’ll just fill up the screen with pixels
... hey you ... wait a sec ...
where d’ya think you’re goin’?Poem 99.1 March 20, 2009 (up to top)
dwellers in darkness
huddling in caves awaiting first light
torch fires glisten on wet-shimmering walls
whites of their eyes and decaying teeth
jack-o'-lanterns warding off dread
peering through arms raised to shun away slivers
of morning rays filtered through faults and fissures
a young one a brave one skitters on pebbles and sand
towards the opening the mouth but shudders to a stop
looking back turned ahead he's frozen
by terror excitement by disparaging sneers
elysian fields beckon far from the night
of impoverishment superstition and fear
he dives from sure death as he leaps forth to life
in the misery of their shadows their mourning begins
in his freedom from shackles his morning beginsPoem 100 March 23, 2009 (up to top)
parallel parking
parallel lives
look! _ there's a spot
waddya talkin' about?
up there on the left _ in front of the red car
nah _ it's probably a goddam hydrant
hey _ what about right here?
it's too small _ you'll never get in
gimme a break _ i know how to park
you want me to get out and help?
c'mon _ pull over and i'll _
no _ stay right where you are
i'm just trying to help
i don't need your help
damn _ i gotta pull out and try again
i told you you weren't going to make it
you know something? _ you're such a bitch
yeah _ well _ that makes two of usPoem 101 March 26, 2009 (up to top)
friday evening
four hot dogs two fries two sodas
medium-sized portions mediocre food
ricky and marla huddled in the corner
ruthie and joey in paint-stained pants
hyped-on-sugar toddlers in the aisles
hours-way-past exhausted offspring
wizened black man in torn overalls
old man's slippers lady's painted face
extended families expanded waistlines
four hot dogs two fries two sodas
family special
sixteen ninety-five plus tax
manna from fast-food heaven
whispering sweet everythings
gossiping over their rug rats
careening zooming whooping
squabbling squalling screaming
pushing his lady's wheelchair
nibbling their weekly diversion
stretched-to-the-bone budgets
sixteen ninety-five plus tax Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 19, May 2011
Poem 102 March 29, 2009 Its best to view friday evening family special as a PDF (up to top)
schnorrer
when i think of a beggar i envision
the hajib'd pauper nuzzling her vacant-eyed infant at the old city gate
the street urchin hawking chicklets on a back street in tijuana
the foul-smelling panhandler jingling a cardboard cup's coins
when i think of a schnorrer i picture
the disheveled chasid trolling for handouts at a wedding
the relative in the restroom whenever the dinner check is proffered
the telephone caller from a charity soliciting yet another donation
our dog rooted at his usual spot next to me at the table
with his chin on my armrest
jostling my elbow with his snout
blinking his big sad brown eyes
staring woefully at me
shnuckling his nose
licking his chops
clinking his tags
pawing my knee
looking haggard and forlorn
resenting my every mouthful
... he can't possibly be that needful
unless you ask him of course
with his expertise and erudition
he could teach the master class in schnorringPoem 103 April 7, 2009 (up to top)
encounter on the path
out of the noon o'clock haze
come a man and woman
in matching green parkas on a balmy spring day
walking the way old people walk
slow ... steady ... slow ... his arm in hers
he stops forces his hands up on a light pole
stretches ... walks on
my wife says you know he looks familiar
to me he looks like every other geezer with a short silver beard
as we pass them she says ... doc?
he turns ... looks befuddled
it's me ... vivien ... from the pool?
oh yeah i remember ... but i wonder if he does
and i say i'm lloyd ... the guy on the that bike
yeah ... oh yeah he mumbles
then ... you know i've been in the hospital
well i'm glad you're out my wife says
yeah ... the doctor tells me i've gotta do my walking
years before he cut back his dental practice
to surf sail swim womanize
wore a gold cock ring all the time
had multiple girl friends
made lewd comments
played the sex-hungry dog
as we separate my wife says i was just thinking about you
at night i hope ... he answersPoem 104 April 10, 2009 (up to top)
bitter self-affliction
a second cousin twice removed
nods off within her maxwell house haggadah
between the four questions
and the ten plagues
there’s her backstory –
snowboarding accident
fractured pelvis painkiller abuse
manipulative skel boyfriend
bank account withdrawals detox withdrawal
father’s anguish mother’s heartbreak
and tonight –
her pinprick pupils
her sojourns to the bathroom
her slurred boy-i’m-so-tired excuses
her coming self-destruction
as together we read passover’s backstory
of slavery and freedom
we’re afraid for her
fearing the damning prognosis
that she might not survive
the self-imposed shackles
of her own oppression Appeared in What Have You Lost/Found? / An Anthology of Poetry, 2021
Poem 105.1 April 12, 2009 (up to top)
contact low
sometimes i feel so slate-gray crappy
though i'm doing the same things i've always done
walking writing reading riding
movies classes workshops meetings
listening to jazz sporadic love-making
in the past my runner's high couldn't cut through it
pedaling these days just advances the odometer
and even while being involved
with family and grandchildren
ennui and melancholy smother me like goo
after several months
of broken sleep sourness fatigue and angst
i finally come to realize
that the person closest to me
has been suffering in secret too
that the whirling wings of her demons
have enveloped me in their turbulence
and i had been oblivious yet again
this realization mollifies and assuages
but those damn infernal demons
don't spontaneously take flight
they've now become oursPoem 106 April 14, 2009 (up to top)
three fourteen a m
blankets kicked off awake shivering
cpap machine's air flow's too strong f'in annoying gotta take it off
unhook mask air hose knocks off cordless phone damn gotta pick it up
reach for the on/off switch almost silent fan fades away stillness
three twenty-one
achy sore i'll never fall asleep
shoulda taken a couple of ibuprofens
click sony's sleep-timer press in earplug
button-hunt through the a-m stations
wfan wor wabc wcbs wins wepn ... back to the fan
aaron from brooklyn go ahead chris on his cell phone helen from manhattan
three thirty-two
station i-d then sell your gold your precious jewelry just mail it in yeah right
richie from east islip manuel in new haven jeff on the turnpike
property taxes filing deadline new checks laser toner computer virus update
hips dull hurt knees sore break in new shoes order a second pair discontinued
did i order refills did we get that rebate will it rain tomorrow walk the dog wet
chest dull throbbing stomach growling shoulder muscles heart attack jesus no
was it cutting ivy at the preserve picking up the grandchildren or the real thing
jim from the bronx sal on the car phone eric from new jersey
three forty
twenty-twenty update
yanks win mets lose phillies cards sox lakers nuggets nets rangers devils
not another night like last night gotta get some sleep
damn i need the bathroom doze off sitting on the bowl
should i take a valium do i need one do i really need one
yes yes yes i do but only a half only a half can't really hurt do need one
it'll be first time long time like charlie from northport
back into bed pillow's damp flip it over
big george from staten island go ahead you're on the fan
three fifty-six
carl from the diner max in his limousine
lawnmower starting honda brakes squeal sink stopped-up dehumidifier empty
books overdue read gas meter nicads or nimhs mail in poem she's snoring again
still school not programmed dreams cannot teach dreams classroom nightmares
it's finally kicking in
the hell with the cpap for now
pull up the blankets
turn on my left side
settle head into pillow
stretch
let go
breathe in
exhale
greg fro ...-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 107 April 21, 2009 (up to top)
in the e r 1
i sit worrying
as much about tomorrow's procedure
as about not being able to take care of my responsibilities
walking the dog
filling the bird feeder
mowing the spring grass
checking my email
doing the bills though i've got a week or so
it's gonna be tough
letting others care for me
care about me
even if it'll be for only a couple of days
hopefully
so how do i deal with this
this realization
that i could've died
if the cards were dealt wrong— Wednesday, April 22, 2009
-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 108 April 30, 2009 (up to top)
in the e r 2
this sucks
i don't want to be here
hooked up to machines
waiting waiting for decisions
that could be either bad
or only undefinitive
this is ridiculous
i have an iv sticking in my right arm
i didn't want it in my right arm
i find it hard to face my wife
to watch her watching me
i find it difficult
to watch my man
lying there
hooked up
how do people keep their spirits up
when they hear we're going to admit you
again
i cried into my dog's chest today sobbing
i don't know how to feel
sometimes most of the time
i want to escape
i want to jump out of my skin
i feel that right now i can be writing my epitaph
maybe this poem will win a prize
i don't have very many black hairs left
some people some loved ones
some spouses just run and go
can't take it
and we just started on this journey
i was thinking about this just today
with cancer it goes on and on
we are not to have that hanging over our heads
but i forgot about our own sword of damocles
i feel like withdrawing
i'm so unhappy
i can't deal with us but i must of course
she shakes her head almost imperceptibly watching me
as she's writing this down
i see the disappointment
in her face
the should haves or the shouldn't haves
the vital signs in led red and green orange still look pretty good
you're a heart patient
that's what the security guard said
i'm a fucking heart patient
a new identity i cannot reject— Transcribed by Vivien Abrams with additional text Saturday-Sunday, April 25-26, 2009
-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 109 April 30, 2009 (up to top)
room 2019 snch
the waiting is the worst
wrapped within the waiting
is the unknowing
that goddamn unknown
blood enzyme levels electrocardiogram
wireless heart monitor blood pressure oxygen level
was it another heart attack
or not i hope i hope
the never really definitively answered questions
that like you really want the answers to
looking out at the baby greens pinks whites reds
surrounding the main parking lot
a day of busting color warmed by record-breaking heat
just yesterday at the park
the colors were more muted almost reluctant to pop
because it was yesterday
today the world is one day older
i don't know how to feel
i do feel burnt out a husk
one day i'm bicycling
five-mile walking jimmy
preparing for mowing the lawn
cutting ivy at the preserve
the next day nothing nada gornischt
lying in the e r on a stretcher once again
now up here i'm waiting for tomorrow
the cardiac catheter angiogram
i'm learning new words all too well
maybe i did do too much
but i will not die with self-recrimination— Sunday, April 26, 2009
-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 110 April 30, 2009 (up to top)
heartrending words
round midnight in the e r serenaded by discordant riffs of anxiety
monitored wired iv'd-up bionic by proxy
pulse-ox heart rate systolic/dystolic in readouts of red blue green orange
dextrose saline heparin dripping pricked and stuck hematomas come later
six hours already on a clock standing still racing ahead dreading tomorrow
i'm handed a phone ... mister abrams ... this is doctor chen
thankfully straight-talking a no b s guy
... you had a heart attack
what exactly is a heart attack i ask not fully knowing
but knowing my father's first was fifty-two years before almost to the day
and imagining picturing in no!-not!-me! denial mexicans overrunning the alamo
heart attack ... myocardial infarction ... heart tissue damage ... necrosis ...
why not just a cardiac event which'd be captain renault's much more pleasant words
and i know when the event happened being vise-gripped while riding six days before
congestion indigestion chest tightening in a crescent pattern and my left bicep too
elevated levels of blood enzymes creatine kinase and troponin
electro-cardiogram spikes compelling symptomology it ain't lookin' great i know
angiogram angioplasty cardiac catheterization in the card-cath lab for short
and as they wheel me down i stop 'em and ask ... what's the worst-case scenario?
bypass surgery but we don't do it here ... don't worry [shoulder pat] you'll be all right
unmentioned unspoken is a worse worst-case scenario
femoral artery puncture site radioactive dye fluoroscopy with jazz in the background
eighty and ninety-eight percent blockages jeezus! in two arteries d'ya see em?
on the triple-screen array yes i do i do see em like pinched-off worms inside me
balloon catheters drug-eluting stents ... they're sorta like ballpoint springs
multiple prescriptions blood thinners beta-blockers and nitrates
plavix metoprolol isosorbride and nitroglycerin under my tongue if needed
you need to rest for a coupla days mister abrams make sure to take your meds
no lawn mowing for now maybe cut down/out the caffeine
no bicycling for a while no heavy activities no heavy lifting just take it easy
yeah ... just take it easy-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 111.1 May 4, 2009 (up to top)
new lease
could've been worse
a helluva lot worse
could've happened ten days later
in record-breaking late april heat
pedaling through central park
struggling up the fifty-ninth street bridge
climbing and speeding down the verrazano
during this year's five-boro pre-ride
and if it had been ten days later
and if an artery got itself blocked just two percent more
the minor heart attack i did suffer
might very well have been the big one
so i've got a new lease on life
as it is said
but i'm having real trouble
dealing with thinking about contemplating all this
for i often feel as though i'm passing through life
like a smooth flat stone absurdly skimming
on a turbulent sea-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 112 May 7, 2009 (up to top)
hypervigilant
when there's
congestion indigestion
a twinge a throb a spasm
my chest my neck my left arm
i pause
rub where it's bothering me
worry why what's the cause
you'll be like new the cardiologist said
maybe not new but better than before
a coupla aortic stents'll do that
yet i'm wary now about my
genetic predisposition
caloric cholesterol consumption
overtaxing overdoing it
careless callous denial
gotta keep a lookout
especially over my shoulder
for those apocalyptic steeds
and their thundering hooves
of my own internal pogrom-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 113.2 May 14, 2009 (up to top)
untogether
they
were at my wife's surprise party
attend church together
swim laps side by side at the rec center
joke with me
when my dog drags me over
to check out their doggie's bowl
from their outward affection
their seeming absence of hostility
their living under the same roof
i never would've guessed
that they've been divorced
for seven months already
i cannot walk in their shoes
nor even imagine
how a couple married for forty years
could lead their parallel lives
and together so seamlessly act
as one becoming twoPoem 114.1 May 17, 2009 (up to top)
grandpa
watch me grandpa!
i put down the paper
grin with delight
shout attaboy! way to go!
don't have the bumper sticker or license plate frame
the coffee mug baseball cap or t-shirt
proclaiming me WORLD'S BEST GRANDPA
wonder if i even qualify
lately i've been feeling more like a grandpa
i've taken to things slower than grandma
who became their grandma right away
and now realize there's almost nothing better
than a little boy's smell and a squeeze and a hug
and my nose nuzzling the littlest's soft cheek
today
they're 0, 2, 4 and 8
tomorrow maybe the day after
they'll be 10, 12, 14 and 18
and perhaps younger ones
may be joining our lollipop gang
squealing with glee
read to me! chase me! play with me!
are you watching me grandpa? Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 49, February 2019
Poem 115.3 May 29, 2009 (up to top)
lovingkindnessed
didya take your meds? we might be out late
d'ya have em with ya? don't want ya to forget
my new status
according to my wife-lover-partner-best friend
is needing to be reminded
you know i care for you
wouldn't want anything to happen to you
yeah i know i know
can't find soft words to answer her back
it's bad enough having a heart attack
though i prefer to refer to it as a cardiac event
you mean like a wedding?
a black-tie affair?
it's worse being treated like a child
c'mon i'm all fixed up the stents are working
don't you see i'm just like before?
but when vulnerability and mortality tag-team us
jangle the keys press the latch
pound on our front door
her concern and care and lovingkindness
wouldya please take it easy
i want to grow old with you
mandate ministering to myself
as well as honoring and cherishing her Appeared in Toward Forgiveness / An Anthology of Poems, 2010
-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 116.1 June 2, 2009 (up to top)
worn t-shirts
i still have a few dozen
out of the couple hundred i've amassed
silk-screened stenciled heat-transferred
from marathons and ten-k's
from bike tours and pc-expos and souvenir shops
no polyester inhabits my drawers
only 100% cottons deserve to be kept
so many have been black-bagged big-brother'd
or tossed out with the trash
the best of the best are all that are left
all extra large that still fit
some of my favorites
marshaling the ms-tour and the five-boro
completing the seagull century
defunct firms like borland and global crossing
gifts from the kids especially
are becoming unseamed and unseemly
cotton wears out over time of course
just like it's happening to me
Poem 117.1 June 3, 2009 (up to top)
nursery school graduation
in graduation caps
of shiny blue oaktag
with golden tassels
securely stapled
they march
holding hands
two-by-two
down the aisle
to pomp and circumstance
from a tinny boom box
four- and five-year olds
so full of promise
with big toothy smiles
and innocent courage
who timidly wave back
to moms and dads
and grandparents standing
beaming with pride Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 49, February 2019
Poem 118.2 June 6, 2009 (up to top)
at the bus stop
morning mist already burning off
eleven children with backpacks and carry-ons
four mothers two grandmas an older sister
one father several steps off to the side
stand languid at the corner
as the number eighteen school bus
flashing red overhead lights
rumbles to a stop
swings out its stop sign and safety gate
folds open its doors
to allow the ordered line
of acquiescent children
to step up into its innards
waiting yet not pulling away
until a twelfth
trailed by her harried flustered mother
comes running
to join the others
the afternoon scene plays in reverse
a somewhat different cast of supporting actors
stand in the hazy sunshine
for the yellow behemoth
to disgorge the now rambunctious dozen
who dart off scampering racing chasing
shouting nos vemos see ya g'byePoem 119.1 June 11, 2009 (up to top)
a good dad
on the bethpage bikeway
my son pulled aside and asked
your dad ... was he a good dad?
his question took me by surprise
i'd never thought about it just that way
took a while to think it over
then answered yeah
he pretty much was
had a gruff exterior but was mild-mannered gentle inside
allowed me room to be who i'd be
forgave my numerous transgressions
especially the serial auto accidents
my brother was valedictorian a concert pianist
i barely made top ten percent
refused to practice quit piano lessons
played baseball bicycled whenever i could
yet i was judged on my own merits
my own strengths my own skills
my son's question forced me to reminisce further ...
dad was thirty-four when i was born
i was thirty when he died
still feel loss and emptiness three decades later
though time has attenuated the ache
i've yearned to have known him
into my thirties forties fifties
wonder what our relationship would've been like
mom's presence was more pressing
soon after dad's death moved 1300 miles away
lived into her eighties
was more difficult too
more emotional more testy
more like my brother has been
i've been more like dad
reluctant reticent laid back
i wish i could have asked my dad
about his dad
... was he a good dad?Poem 120 June 18, 2009 (up to top)
consummate burger
last night i had the best burger ever
fresh empire ground turkey lean not extra lean
salsa - trader joe's mild and santa barbara garden style
blended in then shaped into
three third-of-a-pounder burgers
canola cooking oil sprayed
on a kitchenaid stainless steel non-stick fry pan
half cabbage shredded three white jumbo onions sliced
sautéed then scooped into a bowl to await
burgers pan-sizzled a bit more than medium rare
as our kitchen fills with that sweet-tart pungency
one trader joe's knotted challah roll slightly warmed
one burger smothered with onions and cabbage
topped with heinz ketchup and grey poupon mustard
that first ambrosial bite and every bite that followed
was nirvana
so ...
tonight i'm having the one remainingPoem 121.1 June 22, 2009 (up to top)
beating the rain
nineteen days of precip
through the twenty-sixth of the month
approaching a rainfall record for june
but ... i've been beating the rain
alone on a father's day bike ride
eastbound on jericho turnpike
foreboding black sky looming
sped to roslyn road headed south
crossed old country road against the red
gusty tailwind pushed me over twenty twenty one twenty two
raced in high gear gleeful trepidatious
tentative sprinkles morphed to rain morphed into a downpour
wet-braked to a stop under a defunct beauty salon's tattered awning
watched a car wash close its bays
when droplets no longer plopped onto runoff
resumed pedaling on puddled roads
got so wet and filthy it mattered no longer
rode further south to freeport's docks
at the gazebo next to the fishing station
it started misting mizzling drizzling again ... i started laughing
i had beaten the rain
all tuesday it'd rained dogs and cats
but our dog refused to budge ... even to lift his leg outside
by three i couldn't take it anymore
got on shorts waterproof shoes rain jacket hat
you wanna go for a walk? i asked dreading dragging him downstairs
but he sprang off the bed ... what the hell's this? i wondered
he fast-paced me through the woods to petco for treats
the more torrential the more spirited he became
ran like a crazed puppy off-leash along the creek
was so soaked and muddy après le deluge
i had to give him a bath
but ... in the tub not once did he complain
we had beaten the rain
darkening thursday charcoal clouds brooding
waited for a lull to mow the lawn
as i finished raindrops began pelting
so ... i stripped off my shirt sneakers socks
skimmed away weeds from garden beds
scrubbed the birdbath filled the bird-feeders
trimmed the bayberry bush spread kitchen compost
when i was completely drenched
i turned my face upwards
to exalt under nature's showersPoem 122.2 June 26, 2009 (up to top)
st paul's garden city
from further away
this high victorian gothic building
stands regal
closer it shows its age
it's now derelict
its roman-numeral'd tower clocks
have stopped at two twenty three
ten after three five to five
one minute to seven
up the pitted pot-holed driveway
i bicycle to my favorite rest stop
where an invigorating breeze blows through
under a vaulted deeply-shaded archway
next to boarded-over basement windows
blackened brick missing mortar fallen roofing shingles
chained door handles between school and gymnasium
miniature gargoyles perched on columns
threatening guarding only me
on this humid summer day
i savor half-chilled cool-blue gatorade
physically comforted yet disquieted about
an empty school and its echoes
the scent of polished wooden floors now scuffed and dusty
the view through classroom windows now begrimed
the lingering sense of magic and wonder that'd taken place
within these abandoned wallsPoem 123.1 July 2, 2009 Its best to view st paul's garden city as a PDF (up to top)
got dem ol' time plavix blues
mosquito bite mayhem
pinches and pricks galore
slow-healing wounds
unsubsiding scars
my new epidermal decor
got dem ol' plavix blues
dem plavix blacks 'n' blues
lookin' like hematomas
like nasty melanomas
dermatologist said don't worry
i get a lotta guys who look beat up
like they went a coupla rounds
these days it takes weeks
for anything even superficial
to a-l-m-o-s-t disappear
just try not to get hurt he says with a laugh
then more pragmatically ...
you realize plavix is a blood thinner
it prevents clotting keeps your blood flowing
blacks 'n' blues are what you can expect
bruised and beaten?
i wish i'd known about of this side effect
i could've saved myself the copay-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 38, May 2016
Poem 124.2 July 7, 2009 (up to top)
kinesthetic melody
i've heard it thrumming
when pedaling
mowing walking
in years past when i was running
a six-beat eight-beat bass-line of
foot strikes leg pushes arm swishes
a body in metronomic motion
wringing tranquility
out of ambient cacophony
when a mozart adagio
emanates unintended
and blends with the cadence
or a miles davis standard
a rolling stones song
i can i do get some satisfaction
this hypnotic earworm becomes
a delicious mantra of
harmony
serenity
flowPoem 125.1 July 14, 2009 (up to top)
derivative drivel
this poem
is substantially similar to ones i'd written
a while back
they say
one should be evolving improving
over time
i've been hoping
that they the ones who presumably know
would be right
the words now
are varied but the maturing self at the keyboard
remains stuck
i've compared
some previous breathless strophes
and found
that those
were probably a lot more transcendent
than thesePoem 126.1 July 15, 2009 (up to top)
banality
just keepin' it real
we're exactly where we must be
whatever happens is for the best
it ain't gonna change / so deal with it
you can't always get what you wa-ant
nothing we can do about it anyway
so what can ya do
it is what it is
shit happens
it's god's will
it's all good
like ... whatever
i've got nothing
else to say
other than
a meaningless
platitudePoem 127.1 July 29, 2009 (up to top)
our fortieth
on a summer sunday afternoon
we planned to meet for a laid-back lunch
with our children and our grandchildren
i wanted to bicycle to queens
then shower and change when i got there
our daughter-in-law suggested wouldn't it be nice if you came together?
so in we drove
it thunder-stormed anyway
we expected
three-year-old Yitzi waiting at the screen door
but not all the others appearing from the sun room kitchen dining room
shouting surprise! forty years! happy anniversary!
laughing hugging big smiles abounding
mock complaining
ya know you're late ... we're starving ... let's eat already
bagels and bialys
lox and cream cheeses
salads and swiss
veggies and fruit slices
two cakes to top it off ... chocolate and vanilla
the hell with the cholesterol
my brother was instigator and catalyst
our son and daughter arranged it
and ... they got us
here's to forty more!–to Steve & Tove, Jonathan & Maryellen, Miriam & Jeff, and all our other in-laws and outlaws
Poem 128.1 August 5, 2009 (up to top)
ultimate dragon
i don't need
my wife our relatives
my relative wellness
to make my life miserable
i don't need
traffic jams my aging van
our avalanching economy
to lose hours of early morning sleep
nor do i need
the stupidity disrespect
selfishness of others
to put me over the top
i can do it all from within
savor joyful anticipation
before preoccupation's sourness kicks in
turn ecstasy inside out
and dwell within a core of angst and aggravation
stretch out sorrow
like bitter taffy infused with saltwater tears
within me is the ultimate dragon
to nourish and leech off an afflicted soulThe ultimate dragon is within you, it is your ego clamping you down. – Joseph Campbell
Poem 129.1 August 11, 2009 (up to top)
thermogenic escape
we -
my dog and i -
meander alongside buildings
crossing to the shadier side of the street
when we have to
hugging chainlink fences covered with ivy
next to browning lawns
beneath sycamores already shedding
leaves stock still
the sun beating down
on this suffocating morning
we're like desperate mammals scurrying along
the sheltered edges of rock walls and cliffs
we -
my wife and i -
explored jerusalem one august
skirting along ancient walkways
shielded by limestone walls
winds off the desert intensifying
the incandescent fierceness
burning my calves
melting my soles
then too
i felt like a primitive creature
as we hastened through the shadows Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Appeared in The Avocet Summer 2021
Poem 130 August 28, 2009 (up to top)
hershey park
old man hershey
grabbed me from behind
with his right hand reached for my wallet
with his left vise-gripped my balls
growled into my ear
spend you cheap bastard spend
didn't even have the decency
to nibble the back of my neck Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 19, May 2011
Appeared in Retail Woes, 2013Poem 131 August 29, 2009 (up to top)
contact list
late summer afternoon
lounging outside with time to kill
i flip open my cell phone
access its address book
work through it from a to z
adding editing
but mostly erasing
businesses gone defunct
people who've moved
people i've lost favor with
people who've died
when i'm done
i save it to the micro-sd card
but keep the old version
just in casePoem 132 September 2, 2009 (up to top)
rock scramble
maybe this time i bit off more than i could chew
clambering over boulders
searching for handholds
struggling for footing
bending misstepping contorting
scraping my shin on a jagged edge
bleeding quickened by anti-coagulants
and then - damn it! - another gash
this time on my arm
taking out a rag
stanching the seepage
honey ... it's nothin' really
assuring her as much as myself
but we did get to the top
before those anti-coagulants nitrates beta blockers
i scrambled as well
avoided an e-r visit until i could no longer refuse
heard heart attack in-patient angiogram stents
demanded to wear sweats and a t-shirt
no hospital gown for me ... until i had to
after
voicing my angst
when can i bike again? long-walk the dog again? mow the lawn again?
be normal again?
i know life will never be the same
now i bite off - maybe - a little bit lessPoem 133.1 September 8, 2009 (up to top)
rosh hashanah
this year
i observed
the two-day high holiday
on sparkling glorious afternoons
by riding my bicycle
to jones beach the first day
and long beach the next
where i was greeted by
purifying breezes
incandescent clarity
diamonds
shimmering on the ocean's surface
and i was uplifted
though not by mumbling prayers
to cast away my transgressions
but by being here and there and then
for my god is within mePoem 134 September 20, 2009 (up to top)
bubble boy
at eighteen or so
i said i wanted to be with her
she was so upper westside wise
i was so long island oblivious
she said i was living in a shell
so how could i really be with her
the grad stude at the counseling center
spent twenty-five minutes
listening and checking his watch
agreeing i existed inside an emotional bubble
before sending me on my way
with syrupy words of consolation
don't worry it's normal it'll get better
but it wasn't like acne or allergies
or being pleasantly plump - mom's indulgent euphemism
things promised i'd surely outgrow
i'm not wholly bereft
there have been times
when i've broken on through
but that persistent shell is self-healing
that inflexible bubble unpunctures
and i'm left floundering
lost withinPoem 135 October 3, 2009 (up to top)
hush of night
stillness
moon lights our room
i was up
couldn't sleep
next to me
her gentle snoring
stopped
i listened
worried
waiting for her next
inhale
exhale
heard only silence
reached over
under the blanket
settled my hand lightly
on her chest
felt the rise
and fall
huh .. what the ... why'd you wake me
turned on her side
settled her face
into the pillow
not waiting
for my answerPoem 136 October 7, 2009 (up to top)
final play
in my head
it's the seventh game of the world series
and i hear
mel allen's red barber's voice
with the crowd roaring underneath
folks it's been quite a game
the yankees are ahead one nothing ...
there are two outs in the bottom of the ninth
and the dodgers have loaded the bases
there's a full count on the batter
and the pitch ...
it's a long fly ball to deep right center
and i take off running
from the kitchen toward the bedroom
down our beige-carpeted hall
and when i reach the wallpapered wall
i leap
and make a one-handed catch
against the center field fence
as i trot towards the infield
the crowd is screaming
mickey! ... mickey! ... mickey!
and i tip my cap
to my adoring fansPoem 137 October 12, 2009 (up to top)
family legacy
grandpa jack cursing chasing me
slashing at me with a hanger
striking once then again
before mommy screams him away
grandpa jack in striped pajamas
quivering on a burgundy brocade chair
sipping from a glezele tey
fumbling slipping from his impotent grasp
glass shards a slice of lemon
pooled on the parquet floor
a proud pogrom survivor
intimidating in his own realm
here an auxiliary policeman
weaponed with only a brass whistle
debased to pressing in die goldene medina sweatshops
emphysema and schnapps his downfall
while we his progeny play out our parts
on our shtetl pushcart careening forward
and i, once ... but not ... removed
am running from his fury
am running from my fury
shushed before him by mommy and grandma
a cube of white sugar drops from his lips Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 49, February 2019
Poem 138.2 October 16, 2009 (up to top)
fallen canopy
morning sun slivers through
early autumn boughs ablaze
with dew-exalted golds crimsons oranges rusts
nor'easter prevails
over season's first fall
unbrowned leaves crumple underfoot
cool crisp nights follow
until that day
fluttering leaves
descend murmuring
their susurration their requiemPoem 139 November 11, 2009 (up to top)
mitigation
life's wire is tightening
dragging me howling towards the brink
strands've been stretched out
from e to f to f sharp to g
an elegiac melody in a minor key
i resist
plead with the tone deaf turnbuckle
to slacken to release to relent
rarely
is its tautness relieved
and if so
just barely
and if so
perhaps the very last timePoem 140 November 27, 2009 (up to top)
guy with a map
i'm the guy looking bewildered
in Jerusalem and Amsterdam
in London and Paris
standing on the corner in sea of pedestrians
idling on the roadside as traffic speeds by
sitting in a train car on a bus in a museum gallery
i'm the guy with the unfolded map
searching for street signs
checking our bearings
asking for directions only when necessary
saying just a second hon to her stoic countenance
while sharing the exasperation she's so adept at hiding
i'm the guy entrusted with
figuring out where we are
knowing where we're headed
deciding what direction to take
i'm the guy with faith in my maps
because when we feel lost we're not really lost
and through experience i do know
that we've always gotten to where we needed to bePoem 141 December 3, 2009 (up to top)
first freeze
it'd dropped down to twenty
wind chill near zero
this morning's walk
through the woods
is coldest since last winter
waterlogged earth's hardened
twigs and oak leaves crunching
snap-crackle-popping underfoot
tendrils of ice fingers
reach up from the muck
along a shaky boardwalk
creaking like rickety bones
like mine perhaps
under seven thin layers
my pebble-gloved hand holds a leash
our shaggy terrier scampers ahead
marking sniffing reveling
huffing out white wisps of air
we're both in our element Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Poem 142 December 12, 2009 (up to top)
christmas bows
between a beige brick mcmansion
and a victorian painted lady
stands a faded yellow house
with graying lace curtains and droopy brown shutters
a sad little house too tired to cry
along the sidewalk
twist-tied to a rusted chain link fence
are worn out bows of velvet
in shades of vermillion and faded burgundy
in orange-red and firebrick and water-stained scarlet
nine on the fence and three more hung from windows
today we pass the sad little house
my dog stops stares as he often does
now at the shriveled silver-haired lady
in a threadbare gray coat and red and green scarf
who's out in the frigid air sweeping her stoop
noticing she turns faces us
smiles like it's painful for her to smile back
at my wheaten terrier - my ever cheerful pal -
who pulls me right through the open gate to greet her
wanting a scratch a rub maybe some kind words
i say hello as she pats him and says you're a nice doggie
i point at the mcmansion
with the inflatable snowmen and a herd of white reindeer
with strings of bulbs and LEDs to be lit
then glance towards the painted lady
with the nativity scene guarded by angels all kneeling
and santa claus a-waving perched high on a sleigh
some people do it up way too much she says with a shrug
i've got thirty more bows most of 'em tattered
stored up in the attic in a big cardboard box
my husband bought a new one each year before christmas
- forty-two in all - until my sweet benjamin died
... and why only twelve bows you may be wond'ring
well ... for the only twelve really good years we had together
but those were the very best very best time of my lifePoem 143.1 December 18, 2009 (up to top)
unforseen consequences
dizzy dean of the gashouse gang
between 23 and 27 he was probably the best
a future hall of fame pitcher
hit by a line drive
broke his foot came back too soon
changed his pitching motion to favor his sore toe
hurt his arm lost his great fastball
at 28 he was just another pitcher
at 31 he was done
post-blizzard shoveling
hiking shoes replaced by heavy mid-cut boots
still walking the dog for miles as before
slipping on ice slogging through snow
having to be cautious having to change my gait
swine flu shot in the left arm
gastronomic overindulgence
stomach ache muscle ache shoulder ache left arm ache
sunday night call to the cardiologist
monday morning visit
ekg bp history
it's just musculoskeletal i'm told
you shouldn't worry so much
yeah ...
i shouldn't worry so muchPoem 144 December 28, 2009 (up to top)
the queen of sorrow
unbidden
unannounced
the queen of sorrow
barges in raging
raving with indifference
with no engraved invitation
no one requesting the honor of her presence
no honor in her presence
just tears
heartbreak
anguishPoem 145 January 5, 2010 (up to top)
some days good ...
in twenty degree weather
the lady stood in a tailored suit and black leather boots
tethered to her jack russell terrier
with a retractable leash
hi how're ya doin i ask
as my dog pulls me closer
my what a lovely dog she says
in her franco-germanic lilt
you know i love animals ... how old is he?
'bout nine or so i answer
how long have you had him?
six and a half years i answer
i ask again but how are you doing?
oh some days good and ...
her voice trails off as if she understands
that no one might want to hear a litany of woes
that other time more than a year ago
she stood in her persian lamb coat
with a red and green corsage
i'd asked how're ya doin?
she answered you don't want to hear ...
i'm so miserable ... you can't imagine how horrible ...
i want to die ... i want to kill myself
five magic words ... five fucking magic words
i talked softly reassuringly tried to commiserate
but that quintuplet's claxon was pounding
and i left her and went home
shared my what should i do's with my wife
walked back to find her exact house number
knowing that the house with the yellow shutters just wouldn't do
when i called the desk sergeant - not nine one one
he asked why'n't ya call earlier whadja wait so long for
i didn't have an excuse and i felt accused
well i'm calling right now and i left it at that
for a long while i hadn't seen her
though i'd heard yipping from an window upstairs
i worried about what might've happened
maybe she did kill herself maybe it was my fault
i asked a neighbor who didn't know much
mumbled something about alzheimer's
well that'd explain it
though i never knocked on her door
to find out for myself
i didn't see her again until today
i'm relieved she's okay
at least she's not dead
and she repeats my what a lovely dog
i love animals you know ... how old is he?
i answer 'bout nine or so
how long have you had him?
and i answer 'bout nine years or so
as my dog is pulling me away
i realize that's not the right answer
nor would it matterPoem 146 January 12, 2010 (up to top)
blurred vision 1
happened again doing yard work
scratched my cornea on a tree branch
same place in my backyard
this time i didn't rub it
didn't try cleaning it out with a q-tip
didn't wait like last time for it to clear up
but i didn't go to the e r
i called the ophthalmologist
got the last appointment - six p m
waited 'til after midnight to see him
left at two a m after a full examination
with a formulation of eye drops
with scripts for ointment and a painkiller
oh praise thee my twenty-four hour pharmacyPoem 147 January 12, 2010 (up to top)
blurred vision 2
scratched my eye outside
a twig snuck behind glasses
held my panic at bay with
bad jokes and male bravado
didn't try rubbing this time
didn't try q-tipping it out
got to the ophthalmologist
sat for hours trying to read
focusing my dominant eye
hurt when i tried to close it
how will i sleep i wondered
when will the doctor see me
held my novel at an angle
tested which eye i was using
which eye was the blurrier
i sat waiting over six hours
for the doctor to examine me
the anesthetic felt so good
whew what a goddam relief
it's only temporary he says
and you can't use too much
like they might in a hospital
a corneal abrasion he said
a gouge shows on the screen
lucky it wasn't on the pupil
there ... it's right below it
got eye drops and ointment
and a painkiller if need be
left at two in the morning
stopped at the pharmacy
got home applied ointment
taped a patch over the eye
tried to sleep tried to sleepPoem 148 January 12, 2010 (up to top)
ol brown eyes
after i've fed him
after i've shared morsels of my own dinner
he stares at me
when there's nothing left worth begging for
he sits on his haunches
and with big sad brown eyes
he stares at me
sometimes i just can't take it
i mimic travis bickle –
you lookin' at me?
you lookin' at me?
well who the hell else are you lookin' at?
i'm the only one here ...
he stands and ambles over
leans his shaggy body against my leg
turns and pushes his head up onto my knee
and stares at me
i scratch his ears his neck under his chin
bend over hug him
kiss his big black wet nose
then i smile Appeared in Paws, Claws, Wings and Things … Poetry For And About Pets, 2012
– Robert De Niro, Taxi Driver, 1976
Poem 149 January 14, 2010 (up to top)
at the grave site
don't need yuz at all
i can dig my own grave
throw myself face first
under six feet of despair
by myself then by proxy
i can shovel rocks and pebbles and sandy dirt
onto the naked knotty pine planks
those resounding thuds
resonating with reluctant finality
don't just stand there
laugh a dusty laugh for me
crackle your chalky lips
get the juices flowing
drop in another stone or two
when you've had enough
when we've both had enough
take that long-handled shovel
and jam it back
into the firming groundPoem 150 January 29, 2010 (up to top)
haiku 13 - a senryū
son husband father
a man in pain suffering
we all agonize
Poem 151 - a senryū January 30, 2010 (up to top)
holding pattern
eighty-six tough years
with an epilogue of misery
broken hip »« botched replacement
rehab went nowhere
catheter
infections
procedures
pain
bleeding
hospice care at home
waiting for him to die
living will’s mercifully explicit
no heroic measures
palliative care only
no feeding tube
no food no water
can’t swallow anyway
nasal cannula
morphine in the IV
just keeping him
comfortable
please take him already
please let the old man go
please let him slide
into oblivionPoem 152 February 19, 2010 (up to top)
our laureate prevails
we assemble in droves
in coffee houses and bookstores
libraries and gin joints
tattoo parlors and cafés
to honor and salute
worship and exalt
our beloved poet laureate
but also
to weep and to wail
to beseech her
please free our muses
so our keyboards may clack
our gel pens flow
our typewriter keys strike ribbons
with rhythm and speed
so words and sounds and colors
can fill screens and pages
with pictures and perceptions
with empathy excitement elation
the muses have heard the call
our words cascade forth
our hearts brim with gratitude
we heave a collective sigh
so suffused with joy that we
now say ... amen– for Gayl Teller
Poem 153 February 22, 2010 (up to top)
rushing
on the highway parkway 135 495
i'm driving
sandwich on my lap
vegetables in tupperware
iced tea in a jar with a straw
brake lights in front and further ahead
i'm rushing
rushing as usual
to an appointment a meeting
a reading a workshop a class
i consider the retiree's lament
don't know how i found the time when i worked
so trite so annoying so damn true
all i wanted was to finish what i was doing
revise that last stanza write that last line
lube that chain install that program make that call
brush the dog jump in the shower set up my meds
those clock hands accelerating
those LED numbers flashing by
please make them slow downPoem 154 March 5, 2010 (up to top)
march 9th in the woods
yesterday
seen from atop a wooden slat-way
a wizened blanched complexion
reeds weeds brambles trampled
crushed by sodden snows
flattened by windswept rain
dead trees felled by winter lightning
crackled burnt bark
on hollow blackened trunks
today
a barely perceptible countenance
pale yellow greens and faint dark magenta
beds of dampened ivy glisten
thorn bushes sprout puny red prickles
to be sidestepped as they harden
stray sprigs of bluish purple crocuses
mini daffodils in vibrant yellow
tiny leaflets push up through
cat o' nine tails lying prostrate
breezes cleanse away winter's torpor
the woods are awakening Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Poem 155 March 9, 2010 (up to top)
at the retired teachers meeting
i look at these people
some dumpy some aging well
some stooped and limping
some agile and spry
all of them old
i can't possibly be this old
i watch them as i stand
leaning against the lobby wall
as they pick over mini-muffins scones and cookies
i wonder what they were like
in classrooms halls offices lunchrooms
were they benevolent or vindictive
creative or insipid
proficient or ineffectual
have they grown and matured
or become tragic caricatures of their former selves
entering the auditorium
it looks so familiar
many are already seated
along each aisle in ones and twos
all the way to the very last row
possibly planning a quick getaway
or exhibiting a callousness about manners and decorum
just like at faculty meetings long past
perhaps they haven't changed
that much at all Appeared in Bards Annual 2011
Poem 156.1 March 21, 2010 (up to top)
noreaster aftermath
whining grinding chain saws
sound the death knell
of century-old oaks and fallen firs
amidst burning sawdust two-cycle fumes
and a fading pine fragrance
plowed over by a late-winter nor'easter
devastating in its ferocity
i've never seen anything like it
intoned as a mantra
a muffled trumpet whispering taps drifting off with the wind
it's bad enough when
citified halfwits move in and amputate trees
too big too many too much shade
squirrels nuts berries bird poop too messy
i want more grass
but when those furious tempests
ravage and devour
we mourn their loss
for those majestic trees
they'd belonged to us allPoem 157 March 21, 2010 (up to top)
across 59th street
on the seventh floor
of a nondescript glass-walled building
we're in a conference room
preparing our vignettes
to be improvised before an audience
of two hundred social workers and trainees
on the seventh floor
across the street
are workers seated in rows
scrutinizing flat screens in rows
tapping keyboards in rows
mouthing utterances into headsets
gesturing rising up calling out
settling back
scrutinizing tapping mouthing
counting off the minutes
before lunch
before the weekend
before retirement
before the final checkoutPoem 158 March 28, 2010 (up to top)
almost eight p m on sullivan street
as dusk morphs into night
a stooped once-tall man
limps from a four-story walk-up
a sad little gray dog waddling
at the end of a brown leather leash
they meander to the corner
stop in front of a 24-hour bodega
he reaches for a pack of camels
under a buzzing street light
taps one out
lights it with a match
takes a deep drag and coughs
wipes his mouth with the back of his hand
his dog sniffs and squats
pees next to the lamp post
then they turn to head back homePoem 159.1 April 5, 2010 (up to top)
headwinds are mocking me
pedaling down my driveway
i turn north into a headwind
that’s gusting right at me
forecast called for a breezy afternoon
all around tall trees are swaying
waving … and not friendly-like
an american flag flails against
its straining cords clanging
chortling as i downshift yet again
my cycle computer is a cruel taskmaster
judging impugning taunting
and this spring my rides seem harder
maybe it’s those vengeful april winds
maybe it’s the heart medicine
maybe it’s ’cause
i’m not getting younger Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Poem 160.2 April 13, 2010 (up to top)
torn pants
i was in first grade
or maybe second
when i got called up to the board
and i remembered with horror
that the inseam of my corduroys
had torn
all the way under
happened after lunch
when i bent over
on the playground
my soft worn brown pants
that swished when i walked
i heard
them rip
and at the board
while doing the addition problem
i tried hard to not move
to not hear the laughter
to not burst out cryingPoem 161 April 28, 2010 (up to top)
perfect play
my lips curl into a sad wistful smile
when i think back to
that chilly dull sunday afternoon
when i was 15 or 16
bicycling around with my glove on my handlebar
looking for a game
found a church baseball team practicing
on the islip high school field
waved to my friend eddie - the minister's son
they said awright go play center
they were down a few men
i ran to the outfield
caught a couple of flies
made a couple of plays
threw to second base ... to third
hit the cutoff man the right way
then the final drill of practice
i was the last man standing
a long fly is hit
i race back nab it
turn and rifle throw
a perfect one-hopper to the catcher
as i'm running in
i field a bouncing ball behind second base
one-hand a bunt
and i'm thinking hoping
that maybe ... just maybe
they'll let me join 'em
but i'm told sorry kid ... it's a church team
no equal opportunity back thenPoem 162 April 28, 2010 (up to top)
comin’ a’callin’
they drop by in droves
to feast on bird seed and suet cakes
maize on the cob and peanuts in shells
twittering squawking jeering
tweeting chirping cooing –
grackles and sparrows
blue jays and cowbirds
blackbirds with red wings
couplets of cardinals
starlings with babies so raucous
crows strutting their stuff
woodpeckers and red-headed flickers
doves and pigeons
even a red-tailed hawk once perched on the feeder
but never a mockingbird
though he sings his songs serenading us
throughout the nightPoem 163 May 10, 2010 (up to top)
my father’s son
we shared a bedroom
my older brother and me
his bed was still empty
i awaken then pass by the bathroom
my father sits on the toilet
in white t-shirt and boxers
chain-smoking camels
coughing and exhaling smoke
emanating the rancid odor of worry and fear
he sees me says the son-of-a-bitch shoulda called
everywhere there’s a payphone
he has no fuckin decency
his voice trails off as he takes another drag
don’t worry dad i say
though my words are empty
even in my teenager’s mind
i realize the aberrant connection
between his anxiety and reward
he worries → his son comes home → his agony was justified
now it’s fifty years later
and i’ve seen the pattern in myself
a case in point – the five boro bike ride
forty two miles through new york city
and i’m checking weather on the internet
listening to news radio 88
i’ve lubed the chain cleaned the gears
examined the tire tread checked air pressure
and damn it damn it! i’ve done this ride over a dozen times
and i worry
replace joyful anticipation with dread and self-doubt
will i get a flat?
make it up and over the queensborough? the verrazano?
will the wind be for or against?
will i break a spoke? crash?
will ... i ... make ... it?
only when it’s over
when i’m sitting on that big orange ferry
on the way back to the battery
do i smile that we as marshals –
my son-in-law and i –
rode with the front line of bicyclists
all the way up to central park
through the concrete canyon of sixth avenue
that the wind wasn’t gusting and the weather was easy
and that yes i made it up and over those bridges
i wish i could bottle the feeling of accomplishment
the warm proud satisfaction that i’d done it once more
so i could uncork it next time i have interrupted sleep
but i have no illusions
because i am only my father’s sonPoem 164 May 10, 2010 (up to top)
love birds
they come for the breakfast specials
sit catty-corner at the table
next to the window
overlooking the parking lot
between bites of runny eggs sunny side up
nibbles of dry rye toast
and sips of decaf with skim milk
he reaches for her
their hands entwine
she leans over and gives him
a peck on the cheek
it takes some effort
for she’s wide and in her seventies
he’s well in his eighties
they share the glow
the smiles the innocence
of teenagers falling in lovePoem 165.1 May 12, 2010 (up to top)
gone is the darkness
the corner of delaware and wilson
where the road surface changed
from concrete to blacktop
was once in deep welcoming shade
during sweltering doldrums of summers past
when i pedaled right at that corner
it felt – i felt – cooler and serene
like turning into a secret refuge
of my own restorative sanctum
that was before
march’s annihilative nor’easter
which flattened seven huge oaks and pines
to become lifeless fodder
for chainsaws and stump grinders and wood chippers
the corner now
is under a diminished canopy –
several tall trees are still standing
but in that sparsely shaded lightness
the loss is palpablePoem 166 May 20, 2010 (up to top)
four boys at the park
on a gray sunday afternoon
our grandsons
nine five three and one
ran and climbed and swung
on the red and blue jungle gyms
played tag and traded silly bands
had ice cream sandwiches
from the carnival truck
the oldest led the way
up the spider web ropes
his five-year-old brother followed
then shinnied down the pole
the tentative three-year-old reached the pinnacle
shouted i did it!
and the youngest who just started walking
climbed up and across the red ropes
like it was just a walk in the parkPoem 167 May 24, 2010 (up to top)
riding the line
when i’m spinning
in high gear
on a newly paved road
with a wide parking lane
and the wind is with me
and it’s slightly – or more than slightly – downhill
you’ll see me grinning
for it’s me who’s enjoying
the rider’s ultimate high
but
when the road is pockmarked
and the gods of the winds are conspiring
and it seems like it’s uphill all the way
and the endorphins have yet to kick in
i grit my teeth and curse a bit – maybe more than a bit --
and then bear down
to follow that solid white line
from one reflective marker to the next
to the next to the next
i’ll get there eventually
the wind can’t always be in my facePoem 168 June 1, 2010 (up to top)
doggie dialectic
listen ...
you dog you
we are not walking to petco today
nor to the bakery for a cheese danish
nor to mcdonald’s for a double cheeseburger
not even to grandma’s for a hebrew national frank
you are going to walk a simple loop
in our neighborhood
like every other normal dog
there are enough sniffs to be had
enough pee-mail to read
enough places to lift your leg
and furthermore ...
i am not your servant
i am your master
oh yes i am
so you can stop looking at me like that
stop staring at me
and stop waggling your tail
... oh no you don’t
don’t do it
don’t you dare roll over
i am not going to rub your belly
oh all right
... but just this once Appeared in Paws, Claws, Wings and Things … Poetry For And About Pets, 2012
Poem 169.1 June 3, 2010 (up to top)
trimming the hedges
there’ve been annual challenges
that measure my strength and endurance
that test my manhood and virility
... marshaling the five boro in may
finishing the seagull century in october
cleaning the gutters with freezing fingers in december
and today is another –
trimming the son-of-a-bitchin’ evergreens
for some it’s just an everyday chore
but our hedges are house-front wide
seven feet high ten feet deep
and paring down the bushes
in mid-june heat and humidity
in a long-sleeved shirt with pine needles sticking
become three hours of life-affirming truth
one year i roughhewed the hedges way back
but they’ve re-arisen to taunt me
i’d attached a pole to the trimmer
to reach the almost unreachable
i’ve even cut a hole through the center of the hedges
and stepped onto a rusting milk crate
to cut back what was once uncuttable
remedies have been suggested by others
like buying a longer gas trimmer
... but why spend the money? – it’s only a once-a-year job
maybe hiring somebody to do it
... over my dead body
removing the hedges entirely ... it’d open up the front they’d say
... that’s not going to happen
and lately
caused by global warming no doubt
the job has to be repeated in september
so i must face the mirthless exhausting challenge
twice as goddam oftenPoem 170 June 7, 2010 (up to top)
between spaces
behind shopping centers and strip malls
are raw and blackened spaces
more authentic than the gaudiness
residing behind fraudulent facades
between lines of prose and poetry
are the white gray and blank spaces
where subtle nuances and vague meanings
are often unwittingly filled
with unintended truths
within silences and guarded gestures
between couples and lovers
are moments of stark clarity
that permeate through
despite persistent obfuscation
lurking within and inhabiting shadows
are the other-worldly confessions
of genuflecting spirits
of whimpering lamenting souls
seeking atonement
seeking redemption
seeking sanctificationPoem 171.1 June 21, 2010 (up to top)
pill poppin’ poetry
i was gonna write a maudlin piece
about measuring my time left on earth
by the number of empty a-m and p-m slots
in my seven-day pill organizers
then i realized that the meds i ingest
sound so mm-mm good
have assonance and consonance
create their own internal rhyme
like plavix and aspirin
advair and imdor
zetia and zocor and zantac
lopressor and flonase
co-q-10 and calcium
singulair and salmon oil
saw palmetto and potassium
and of course
garlic and ginkgo biloba
and i found
that the generics
have names like
metoprolol and isosorbide
simvastatin and ranitidine
clopidogrel and fluticasone
– purely generic names that are
definitely not worth a poemPoem 172 June 22, 2010 (up to top)
derelicts
you can tell
you can always tell when you see them
with their blackened curling roofing tiles
their vinyl siding moldy and discolored
doors and windows plywooded over
bushes and trees overgrown
fence slats broken and missing
driveway and sidewalk disintegrating
while weeds push up through cracks
a regularly mowed lawn turned to hay
and not even a for-sale sign
not even a hope
that a once lived-in home
will soon ... will ever come alivePoem 173 July 1, 2010 (up to top)
heat wave
a record-breaking hundred and three in the city today
out here in the merciful high nineties
and unless you’re confined to an a-c cocoon
it seems that the heat will never end
but it will
except on that one episode of the twilight zone
so as i rode my bike this afternoon
with the sun blazing on my skin
with my black brake levers scalding
i cut my speed because i had no choice
stopped to hydrate with water and gatorade
took it easier because i’m 63 and supposedly prudent
though maybe i shouldn’t’ve been out there at all
it got me to thinking
about things that might never end
that feel like they’ll never end
like grieving the death
of a spouse or a child or a loved one
like suffering from mental illness
and wanting to put an end to it
like pain that even a morphine drop
can’t cut through anymore
and i thank my lucky stars
whatever the hell that means
that i can ride in the heat
get home and shower in cold water
sit at my computer in my air-conditioned office
and type then edit this poemPoem 174 July 6, 2010 (up to top)
my beard
my wife said
one of the main reasons she went out with me a second time
was because of my beard ...
back then it was a goatee
... that was more than forty years ago
no silver streaks then
it was all a deep rich brown
no need to joke about spilling yogurt on it
every now and then i have it trimmed back
and cut around the edges or it’ll look unkempt
and i’ll look like a lunatic when my hair is blowing in the wind
our children and grandchildren have never seen me
without a beard
they’ve never seen my bareskinned face
i wondered if they’d recognize me
either back then or even now
my wife says that i should never ever cut my beard
it has felt so soft against her cheek
Poem 175 August 22, 2010 (up to top)
beggars in prague
we thought it was the same person …
we first saw him on the charles bridge
then in the old town square
a third time near the old jewish cemetery
they all looked the same –
about twenty or thirty perhaps
emaciated and disheveled
in filthy flannel shirts
grimy long pants
lying flat on knees and arms and elbows
foreheads resting on a cobblestone
prostrate unmoving
a cardboard cup in an upraised hand
beseeching
silently waiting for a czech koruna
a swiss franc
maybe even a euro
there was no new york city-like
aggressive panhandling in prague
but their self-degrading posture
which was so blatant and bizarre
and which on another level
was similarly repugnant
still
haunts usPoem 176.2 August 22, 2010 (up to top)
barreling down the autobahn
we rented an opel invicta in opalescent silver
the size of a newer toyota camry
for insurance purposes
they wouldn’t rent us a volkswagen or a mercedes
for we were headed to a former eastern bloc country
occasionally on the autobahn
we saw signs for 130 kilometers per hour
– about 80 miles per hour –
but most drivers were going faster
including me
i kept it at 90 ... sometimes 100
didn’t want to go much faster in a rental car
plus i was in my comfort zone
we were being passed by audis porsches and bmws
even motorcycles were whizzing by
i couldn’t imagine doing over 100 on a motorcycle
i once had my honda up to 90 on the wantagh parkway
and realized that my boots were about a foot from the pavement
and there was nothing solid around me
once a dark gray mercedes zoomed by us
shaking our opel in its wake
it must’ve been doing 150 or so
and as it disappeared into the distance
i chose to not even bother trying to catch upPoem 177 August 22, 2010 (up to top)
perfect program
for sixteen years
i programmed our high school by myself
at the end of every august
after the budget finally came in
after the units were allocated
after i’d already gridded out
singletons and doubletons
i used spreadsheets to construct a master schedule
then uploaded it to the main computer
tested and tweaked it
processed summer school grades
revised the schedule to reflect the changes
sent heads of departments their classes by period
so they could return to me teachers and rooms
then typed it all in using macros and shortcuts
checked teacher programs checked room use
tested and tweaked it
filled in holes in student schedules
ordered production of program cards line schedules student change forms
... and on the first day of school
previous term no-shows dropped from all classes
dragged by unsmiling parents decided to return
new students from here and from there lined up to be admitted
guidance counselors already began clamoring for changes
and the masterpiece i’d created
– the elegant immaculate program –
had lived in its own perfection
for at least the long labor day weekend Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 39, August 2016
Poem 178 August 30, 2010 (up to top)
yearly rhythm
twice each year for sixteen years
i programmed our high school
except during my sabbatical year
when i mercifully missed the mid-winter turnover
i retired nine years ago
and for these past nine years
the stress of unending weeks
at the end of january … the beginning of february
the end of june … the end of august
all of september … even into october
has carried forward and has not relented
during all of these weeks
i’ve had a sense of incompletion
a feeling that i was missing something
a foreboding sense of angst
a frightening misplaced sense of excitation and agitation
i’ve had ongoing nightmares
that i’m still there
that the school hasn’t been programmed
that it’s my fault
and i wake up sweating chest pounding head aching
until perhaps these past several months …
i’ve heard not the internal clamoring
… only some muffled whispers
not the thrumming
but a faint nagging hum
somewhere in the not so distant past Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 22, February 2012
Poem 179 August 24, 2010 (up to top)
arbeit macht frei
you cross over the tracks
where the trains clanged to a stop
and the first thing you see
though you have anticipated it
from documentaries and newsreels
from faded black and white photos
are three words in wrought iron
arbeit macht frei
– work makes one free –
that are part of the main gate
under the entryway arch
but you’re still unprepared
you don’t know how to react
but you do focus your camera
zoom in and out
then press the button
take the obligatory picture
of those three words in silhouette
as tourists like you and me
move aside in hushed silence
you wonder what they’re thinking
what’s going on in their heads
as you unlatch the gate
which squeaks on its hinges
and enter the courtyard
of kz-gedenkstätte dachau
the dachau concentration camp
the first concentration camp built
a model for all the later ones
where rudolf hoess and adolph eichmann
served their apprenticeships
a school for violence for s s men
under whose command it stood
where the blackened soul of nazism
was first made manifest
a labor camp
where jews and gypsies
criminals and homosexuals
communists and malcontents
– undesirables all –
were forced to stand at attention
with your feet together
your hands at your side
your eyes staring forward
unable to move
twice a day
for hours sometimes
to be counted
to be humiliated
to be dehumanized
in the heat and in the cold
in snow and rain
forced to stand at attention
forced to stand
until you couldn’t anymore
and if you dropped
or if you died
it was the end for you
for there were the crematoria
belching out black fetid smoke
and you knew
and everyone knew
what was happening
in that whitewashed building over there
as the tour continues
you’re shown the room-sized wall map of europe
and the names of hundreds of such camps
spread throughout germany and poland
czechoslovakia and austria
france and italy and belgium
where the same degradations went on
the same roll call
the same viciousness
the same evil
at all of the camps
for if nothing else
these good germans running the camps
these home-brewed workers who claimed to know nothing
for if nothing else
they were consistent and meticulous
methodical in their torturing and killing
and their just following orders
to keep the annihilation machine going
adjacent to the courtyard
where you stood or fell
were two barracks
still left standing
behind them were the foundations of scores of others
filled with bluestone and gravel
in precise rows and columns
like good germans goose-stepping
before their führer
raising their right arms in salute
as you are led through the restored barracks
you are told that a room built for twenty-five
was made to hold a hundred then four hundred
with pockmarked toilets
and a washbasin that sometimes worked
with tiny windows up high on a wall
and you wonder how it felt
to be there
to be in there
when it was boiling or freezing
with hundreds of others
just like
you
and you imagine yourself
lying in those oversized bunks
weak and hungry
always hungry
in your filthy striped uniform
the blue digits tattooed on your arm
pressed up against
lice-ridden bunk mates
suffering from typhus
coughing up blood
feverish and nauseous and aching to the core
and you wonder how
you could have ever made it throughPoem 180 August 30, 2010 (up to top)
little boys tummies
there are few things better
than rubbing a little boy’s water-wet tummy
when he squeals
in the swimming pool
throw me again grandpa!
i of course pick him up
toss him way in the air
or as high as i can
– for he’s getting heavier every minute –
then he splashes into the water
and i reach out
he grabs onto me with his miniature hand
i hold him close
wrapped in my arms
i nuzzle his face
rub his belly
make silly sounds
and he giggles
there are very few things better Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 49, February 2019
Poem 181 August 30, 2010 (up to top)
silent sunrise
we were at
a hiking and yoga retreat
a weekend of synthesis
according to the brochure
they had us up at five in the morning
to meet at the boat house
to hike
at five a m
i couldn’t sleep on the puny bunk beds anyway
in silence in the near dark
we started up a rock-strewn dew-damp pathway
i sensed then glimpsed several deer thirty yards to our right
until they scampered almost noiselessly away into the brush
as we reached the ridge
where our path intersected the appalachian trail
the sun had just risen in all of its yellow-red-orange glory
we sat on boulders at the edge of the ridge
like sentries within our silence
as the world before us
once again
became illuminatedPoem 182 August 30, 2010 (up to top)
cpap machine
i’ve got sleep apnea
which means that many times through the night
my breathing
pauses
abnormally
after two overnight sleep studies
the respiratory specialist said
if i didn’t use a cpap machine
i could die in my sleep
so i’m hooked to a machine at night
– on life support so to speak –
a fisher & paykel sleepstyle 200
continuous positive airway pressure machine
that blows heated humidified air through flexible tubing
attached to a hybrid model 500 universal mask
which covers just my mouth
with soft nasal pillows into my nostrils
and this means that unlike full-face masks
i can wear my glasses
and read or watch tv until i fall asleep
my wife had wondered how she could sleep
with the constant whoosh of the machine
but she doesn’t mind at all
now that my snoring has been stoppedPoem 183 September 3, 2010 (up to top)
theresienstadt
a gullible world had been told
that hitler had built a city for the jews
65 clicks northwest of prague
a city for writers artists musicians leaders
to protect them from the vagaries and stresses of war
for safer keeping than what was afforded elsewhere
but hitler’s henchmen had actually
emptied the village of terezin of its 5000 inhabitants
and eventually filled this ghetto
with up to 55,000 jews at a time
where artists risked lives to steal materials
so children could surreptitiously
create paintings and drawings
the red cross visited this ghetto just once for two hours
and witnessed a carefully orchestrated ruse –
shop windows along their route were filled with goods
a bakery with breads
a candy shop with bon bons
happy children shown running
orchestras and chamber groups playing
and a film was made
showing this mythic idyllic village
... this way-station to extermination
where starvation and disease were rampant
where thousands died of malnutrition and exposure
and then cremated in four gas ovens
where almost 100,000 jews died
of whom 15,000 were children
where families and the elderly were brought
to be shipped east to auschwitz-birkenau
so the annihilation machine’s insatiable appetite
could be appeasedNote: Only 132 children survived the Theresienstadt Concentration Camp
Six thousand drawings made by children are now in Prague, Israel and in the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC
Appeared in Bards Annual 2011
Poem 184 September 3, 2010 (up to top)
the first day of tishrei
a sparkling late summer morning
exhilaratingly cool
the eighth of september 2010
the first day of tishrei 5771
i’m out walking our dog
and i mention to a neighbor
that today is rosh hashanah
and she says
yes i know
it’s always beautiful on your high holy days
i nod and say yeah
because i’ve heard this before
this banal cordial generality
though it could possibly be true
for after all we are – supposedly – god’s chosen people
and i wonder how beautiful it was
for god’s chosen people
to be so meticulously chosen
on the first of other tishreis –
on october 3 1940 in auschwitz-birkenau
on september 22 1941 in dachau and majdanek
on september 12 1942 in belzec and sobibor
on september 30 1943 in treblinka and buchenwald
on september 18 1944 in chelmno and mauthausen and jasenovac
as they gathered for roll call
as they were forced to stand at attention
for hours and hours
forced to stand with their arms at their sides
with hands on their hips
with both feet together
staring forward
unable to gaze up at the crystalline sky
in the prisons and at the collection points
in the labor camps and the transit camps
in the extermination camps
as god shut his blessed and beneficent eyes
to their suffering
as he turned his supreme and merciful back
on their torments
as their mighty and compassionate god turned deaf
to their cries of anguish
and let them be starved
tortured
electrocuted
experimented upon
bludgeoned
shot
hung
as men and women and children
were marched
pushed and prodded
between electrified barbed wire
between henchmen wielding guns
between slavering and snarling dogs
as they were marched to the showers
moaning
praying
pleading with the almighty
pleading with their eternal god
crying out the holiest of words
shema yisrael
adonai eloheinu adonai echad –
hear o israel
the lord is our god
the lord is one –
and though they praised and exalted their god of lovingkindness
he still
he still
he still allowed them to be gassed
to be cremated in the blackened ovens
to be buried like broken dolls in mass graves
in this wondrous world he created according to his will
he still allowed them to be murdered
in his magnificent universe where he made peace in the heavens
he still allowed millions to be annihilated
in his glorious kingdom where he is sovereign
where he is adored and sanctified
for ever
and ever
amenPoem 185 September 9, 2010 (up to top)
a funeral too many
in my extended family
there’ve been two recent deaths
grandma nora was eighty-six
but a cousin once- or twice- removed
was only twenty
both were unexpected
grandma lived in a retirement community
suffered from depression dementia deterioration
had twenty-four hour care and was slowly fading
until a massive stroke or coronary
ended her life
but the cousin
was just finding his way
out of problems with drugs
out of problems with family
out of problems with self-acceptance
and as he slept in his car outside his home
something he was wont to do
his breathing became labored
then ceased
yes people die
we all’ve gotta die sometime
and when you’re aged and in failing health
you are on borrowed time
but when a kid is only twenty
it is a funeral too manyPoem 186 September 22, 2010 (up to top)
deferred reaction
at solemn events
– funerals especially –
i’ve prided myself
in taking it all in stride
while others sob and wail
i just shake hands and hug and say the right things
or stand at the grave site
untouched unmoved
unable to be reached by the enormity
even when i’m shoveling dirt
even when the stones are thudding down atop the coffin
i wonder if it’s normal
to make jokes at the mortuary while we plan my father’s funeral
to knock on a coffin while i’m pall-bearing it
to examine my mother’s tax return while she’s having broken hip surgery
to laugh about slowing the heart monitor after suffering a cardiac event
to not feel anything
even at the dachau concentration camp
where i should’ve been moved
and just felt like i always do
or more aptly
didn’t feel like i always do
weeks months even years later
i might find myself stirred
triggered perhaps by something unrelated
though i’ve kept it inward well-hidden
or maybe it’s just a matter of time for whatever it is
to fester out through emotional pores
like pyroclastic ooze
then i react
feeling if not entirely whole
just not totally emptyPoem 187 September 22, 2010 (up to top)
a man jogging
the bald cocoa-skinned man
with the death mask
wears a black pullover
green janitor’s pants
black combat boots
trots around the lake
passes me again
unsmiling unacknowledging
his back hunched
hands pumping rolled into fists
a boxer at the heavy bag
fighting on the inside
pounding at his guts
pommeling his imaginary opponent
into submissionPoem 188 September 30, 2010 (up to top)
at the vietnam veterans memorial
i seldom cry
but as i descended the ramp
to the base of the black granite walls
past those thousands of etched names
with my own image reflecting back
i reached out to touch those silvery letters
with disbelief about the magnitude
my son hugged me
comforted me
as i began tearing then sobbing
realizing the enormity
of what could’ve happened
how my life could’ve been changed
could’ve been
snuffed out
it’s not that i lost someone close
nor was i even deployed there
fighting yet another war
based on lies and false assumptions
but i could’ve easily been shipped over
to be flung at an invisible enemy
to serve as cannon fodder
to become yet another one
of the expendable
fifty-eight thousand boys
who perished fighting an old man’s war
i was crying because i so clearly understood
that my life too
had been molded by that war
forced into teaching special ed
in a ghetto junior high
to earn and keep a deferment
getting passports in case we had to leave in a hurry
planning to move to canada if there was no alternative
being reclassified I-A – available for military service –
as a draft board desperate for bodies
took all occupational deferments away
being bussed to fort hamilton twice
failing my first physical exam
eventually passing a second
and in a panic
dropping in at the american friends service committee
for draft counseling and guidance
the american friends advocate saved my life
he advised me to request an appeal –
i still have the xerox copy of the law in my files –
on the basis that their arbitrary and despicable act
of abolishing deferments was illegal
so i got my II-A deferment back
as well as my life
i subsequently spent over thirty years in a city high school
moving from special ed to burnout to teaching mathematics
then into a teacher-administrative position
growing into my responsibilities
learning and innovating on the job
so my life wasn’t ended by a barrage of hot lead
or shrapnel tearing into my body
i didn’t come back in an aluminum coffin
my life wasn’t just
thrown away
we have two grown children now
with five delicious grandsons
and a wife who loves me
most of the time
and there were benefits
for working for over three decades
in a dysfunctional bureaucracy
fighting budgetary constraints
battling for integrity and self-respect …
because i’m receiving a defined pension now
… with social security we’re doing well
but i always shudder
about what could’ve happened
in the jungle
in the rice paddies
in the killing fields
half a lifetime
half a world
away Appeared in Freedom Verse, Patriotic Poetry In Celebration Of The American Spirit, 2013
Poem 189.3 Oct 5, 2010 .. rev Feb 7, 2013 .. rev Sept 28, 2013 .. rev Nov 13, 2014 (up to top)
counting down
i used to count down
the minutes left in a class period
the hours until dismissal
the days until the weekend
the weeks until the holidays
the months until summer vacation
the years until retirement
now i count down
the minutes left in a game on tv
the hours until my evening meds
the days left in my pill dispensers
the weeks until the kids visit
the months until my cardiologist’s appointment
the years until the endPoem 190 October 8, 2010 (up to top)
compilation poem
this is a compilation poem
written entirely by me
this line right now at 3:47 and twenty-one seconds
and this next line thirty-six seconds later
thirty-one heart beats later
and the i who’s writing this now
after checking my pulse
is different from the i three minutes ago
infinitesimally different perhaps
but different nonetheless
and if i’ve written a poem
more substantial than this one
– though i could hardly see how of course –
that’s taken many minutes and hours
and with revisions days or weeks more
i’ve certainly changed
in the intervening time
emotionally
physically
mentally
and i am no longer the person
who typed the first word
... i’m somebody different
perhaps even changed somewhat
by the sheer process
or writing this poem
after all how could i not be?Poem 191 October 8, 2010 (up to top)
fuckin’ old farts
you see ’em doing 20 in a 30-mile zone
40 in a 55 and in the left lane to boot
taking an extra five seconds in the turning lane
or when you’re behind ’em honking
while their right turn signal’s blinking
waiting for the red signal to change
you see ’em shouting at me with their gravelly voices
as i blow through a red light on my bike
hey! ... ya gotta stop!
and i salute with one finger
shout back fuck you sir
and what’r’ya wastin’ your time for?
you see ’em in the library
in the gym in the locker room
wherever old farts meet up to shmooze
repeating verbatim
the hooey and hogwash
they’ve heard on talk radio
pontificating their bullshit about
health care and immigration
the economy and obama
as if whatever they might say
might ever make a difference
you see ’em on the checkout line
cashing in wrinkled coupons
counting out pennies and nickels and dimes
from a quikoin rubber purse
imprinted with a faded yellow logo
from a bank long-since defunct
you hear ’em sitting at the concert
crackling their candy wrappers
leafing through their program yet one more time
shining a goddamn flashlight ...
you hear ’em sitting behind you at the movies
asking what’d he say?
then the other answers even more loudly
you shush them
and after the third or fourth interruption
you say would you please be quiet?
but what you’d like to say
what you’re really itching to say
is would you please shut the fuck up
you see ’em ...
if you stay healthy
if you’re lucky
if you live so long
... you see ’em staring at you
with a face you hardly recognize
with that comical unbelieving look
... staring back at you
in your fogged-up
and now clearing
upstairs bathroom mirrorPoem 192 October 21, 2010 (up to top)
at a loss of words
my mind is littered
with the ghosts of first lines
for poems and stories
i thought up while driving
while walking the dog
while scrubbing in the shower
while tossing in bed
but which i never
ever wrote down
when i’m sitting in front
of the celibate screen
with that irritable cursor
winking and blinking at me
like a two-dollar whore
i’m hungering for my muse
to feed me a line
but those delicious dazzling words
flitter just out of reach
those luminescent ideas fizzle away
like a receding wave
on the spongy shorePoem 193.2 November 2, 2010 (up to top)
worst fear
i was riding in the car today
listening to the npr sunday puzzle
trying to think of a creature in six letters ...
and i tried to remember
the name of the fish
that fish from the amazon
that can chew men and cattle to the bone
nibbling in schools in a matter of minutes
but that fish’s name
would not come to me
yet it was on the tip of my tongue
i’ve had other such forgetfulnesses
failures to recall
disrememberings
or switchings of words
like peanut butter for potato pudding
or dish washer for refigerator
and when this happens
when i disremember
when i draw that blank
the first thing that does come to mind
are words i can never forget –
alzheimer’s dementia
mental decay deterioration
and the horror of it all
i finally got it!
the south american fish is the piranha
but it’s not in six lettersPoem 194 November 2, 2010 (up to top)
life lists
mid-autumn
a chilly late saturday afternoon
i’m riding through eisenhower park
pass by a cyclocross race
bicyclists on modified bikes
jumping up and down on steps
careening around trees and bushes
riding full bore for an hour
i’ve never done a cyclocross
though i have done centuries
marathons but not triathlons
i’ve been to london and paris and prague
jerusalem tijuana and amsterdam
but not moscow shanghai or mumbai
i’ve been married forty-one years
have four grandsons
never had an adulterous affair
though i have sinned in my heart
like good ol’ jimmy carter
never dropped acid
never did meth or coke or shrooms
but had a too-long affair with pot
there are many things on my fuck-it list
i no longer wish to do
remaining is my bucket list –
things i want to do
exploring the inca site at machu picchu
seeing the smoke that thunders –
victoria falls between zambezie and zambia
observing native species in the galápagos
riding a recumbent bicycle in holland
spending a lot more time in israel
these are my two lists
one with cross-offs and erasures –
never-minds and not applicables
the other with check boxes
of places to i’d like to get to
things to i’d like to do
a lot of life to live
beforePoem 195 November 23, 2010 (up to top)
gathering thoughts
i often find myself sitting
in workshops and classes
readings and shiurim
meetings and study groups
wondering
what am i doing here?
though within that thought
my words are stronger
and my mood much darker
i look at the people around me –
who are these people?
... as if to distract myself
i think of the question
in jerry seinfeld’s voice
who arrre these people?
i take out a note pad
settle down
listen to my therapist’s advice
that’s it’s not good to isolate myself
that it is good to be with people
even if some of them are wrong-headed
egotistical
imperfect
intolerant
maybe i’m more like them
then i’m willing to admitPoem 196 November 23, 2010 (up to top)
different drum
life would be so much simpler
if i didn’t march to the insistent beat
of that different drum
i’d be watching must-see tv
couch-potatoing with a brew
eating fast food with the herds
of sheeple who just go along with it
blithely live life
with nary a thought
about consequences and truth
living life without questions
of right and wrong
without the nagging doubts
arhythmic grays
between-the-lines musings
that gnaw away at me
life would be so much simpler
and i wouldn’t be as miserable
wouldn’t make myself so miserable
i’d have it all
under control
thinking
it is what it is
and nothing morePoem 197 November 23, 2010 (up to top)
impermanence 4
that barren westbury avenue lot
behind razor-wire topped fencing
is no longer vacant
once home to a boces school
turned to rubble and carted away
where the echoes of children
have long been silenced
inhabited now
by a trailer
two dumpsters
rows of mercedes-benzes –
hundreds of cars and suv’s
sedans and crossovers
trucks and wagons and roadsters
lined up and orderly
no gum chewing
no talking
no getting on a teacher’s nerves
maybe it’s a good thing
that those acres are no longer empty
that the lot’s been put to some use ...
but except for a lone watchman
the land
is devoid of life Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 19, May 2011
Poem 198 November 23, 2010 (up to top)
aging before my eyes
i noticed it first time when
harriet z was on line in the cafeteria
and instead of the svelte
elegant secretary whom i saw
every fifth period
a much older lady
was standing in her place
i see it sometimes
when a woman takes off
her glasses to rub her eyes
stretch her neck
the crows feet wrinkles
sagging skin
alter her countenance
too many years forward
sometimes when i hear
someone talking
his voice and intonation
apart from the words
morph him
into a senescent version
a caricature perhaps
his father
all people age
some not so well
i’d rather not see it
ahead of timePoem 199 November 24, 2010 (up to top)
at the senior center
on a gray november afternoon
four of us met
to read our poetry in the day room
... we decided to start early
fearing that a few would pick up and leave
there were thirteen in attendance
and an aide in a white uniform
whose eyelids had already started drooping
two seniors were playing cards far left
four were chatting decorating a christmas tree in the back
leaving six women and one man for us
the man smiled at the picture of my wheaten terrier
i’d showed around
said he loved my poem ‘good doggie’
said he had a shitzhu
said – tapping his chest –
you’ll really miss him when he’s gone
it’s really bad believe you me
i told him i’ve thought about that too
and shuddered
... while the second poet read
he put on his flannel jacket and left
as the fourth poet read
the lady in red stood up
pulled on her black coat
waved at the remaining five
and she too walked out
four readers
five sitting in our audience
had this been a waste of an afternoon?
we were almost finished ...
outside a locked door
stood the man in the red flannel jacket
who’d returned
with his little brown dog
i pushed open the door
bent down and scratched
his ears his back
under the chin
of his sweet little dog
while the man was telling me
about his previous pet
a chihauhua-pomeranian mix
who lived to be twenty-five
saying don’t believe it? ... go ask the vet
and we traded anecdotes
about our love and connection
to our four-legged friends
as we were leaving
another poet said to me
you see ... you touched him
so maybe it was
after all
worth itPoem 200 November 30, 2010 (up to top)
photo grays
out walking my dog
on a frigid december day
peered over my eyeglass frames ...
through transition lenses
a lime-green lawn was turned olive gray
a pale yellow house had been painted off-white
the robin’s egg sky was a vibrant ultramarine
for many years i’ve been seeing the world
through photochromatic brown or gray tints
darker in the winter much darker in the cold
and i’ve been experiencing the world
through many lenses besides visual
that’ve surely changed over time
my holy grail
could be like the ophthalmologist’s instrument
known as the phoropter
with refractive lenses of all sorts
emotional physical intellectual
tactile aural sensual
that can be adjusted just so
so i could dial in the world
like i want it to be
or – at least –
like i think i want it to be Appeared in The Weekly Avocet #584, February 11, 2024
Poem 201 Decenber 9, 2010 (up to top)
fun car
we became part of their “image”
a group of four couples
to whom we were assigned
to continue our glow
after our marriage encounter weekend
in a fading hotel on northern boulevard
one couple showed up in a black sedan de ville
another in a lincoln
a third in their fun car –
a red corvette convertible
... eight caring people
older than we were
wealthier than we were
and instead of addressing our inner lives –
the raw emotions tapped into
during those magical forty-six hours
they talked about surface issues –
their adult children
older than our preteen and teen
their vacations
which we could never afford
their upper middle-class lives
rubbed into our faces
though they never
– they would never –
realize itPoem 202 Decenber 16, 2010 (up to top)
in love with my two-wheeled steeds
some would’ve called my honda cb550
a piddling rice burner
’cause it didn’t go puh-ta-ta puh-ta-ta
puh-ta-ta puh-ta-ta
like a harley davidson in heat
... japanese bikes were often more civilized
riding a motorcycle was a part of my life
for five years and thirty-five thousand miles
something i needed to do
something i had to get out of my system
my first motorcycle was smaller
a cb360 i bought in 1975
on a halloween eve
a night when my wife put her hand through a window
pounding in anger
screaming at me
while our sabbath evening food was getting cold
but while i was going through
the death of my aunt
and a manic episode
i rode that cb360 to brooklyn almost every day
through several winters
but not in the rain if i could help it
... i wiped out on the belt parkway
near pennsylvania avenue
on my wife’s twenty-eighth birthday
on one of the coldest days
of one of the coldest winters on record
– it was nine degrees that morning–
as she was recovering
from a near-fatal ectopic pregnancy
requiring emergency surgery
... and a near-death experience
she said she knew it
absolutely knew it when i went down
felt a cold hand caress the back of her neck
shivering
she claimed that god was there to catch me
... i needed to be caught
between two lanes of traffic
as i swerved at sixty miles per hour
to avoid a stopped highway truck in the left lane
then i got the cb550
because i could justify it –
after all
the belt parkway accident wasn’t my fault
a bungy cord had snapped off
wound around the rear axle
seized
and i’d gone up and over the handlebars
crushing my left testicular blood vessel
on the gas cap or the left mirror
... i landed face down arms out
i was wearing a full body suit
that was torn in the crotch
on broken boots
i walked to the ambulance
was taken to interboro hospital
discharged nine days later
... while recuperating my father died
maybe he couldn’t stand seeing me in the hospital
i often think he traded his life for mine
continuing to ride was hurting our marriage
except when we rode two-up
then it was okay
but her fear of loss
her fear of death
her fear of abandonment
was often more than she could tolerate
we both knew
it was only a matter of time
until the next one
and the next one might’ve been a lot worse
the next one was my fault
i was passing a car on the right
– yeah a stupid move –
but it squeezed over into my path
i went down on my left shoulder
suffered an acromioclavicular dislocation
– a shoulder separation –
... after that healed
i ended up selling the bike
i do miss riding sometimes
but i do not miss dying
before my time
the postscript --
that summer i bought
a raleigh racing bicycle
with campagnolo components
rode that for many years
and thousands of miles
then discovered recumbent bikes
... during the past fifteen years
– i’m now on my second –
i’ve ridden over sixty thousand miles
on these two-wheeled steedsPoem 203 Decenber 17, 2010 (up to top)
the best is not
if i choose a candidate or an ice skater
a singer or a gymnast
a stock or a bond
and think that they were best
... i know that they would lose
unless there was a seismic shift
in the space-time continuum
or an eruptive fluctuation
in the structure of reality
my choice almost always
results in
the kiss of death
the coup de grâce
the mortal blow
... maybe i ought to switch
my allegiance
my devotion
my adoration
to whom and what
i hate the mostPoem 204 Decenber 20, 2010 (up to top)
recurring nightmares
i’ve witnessed a murder
i’m fleeing from danger
i’m going to be late
horribly late
my telephone has a dial tone
a faint buzzing
i key in the numbers
9-1-1 perhaps
wrong number
start over
no dial tone
just static mocking me
on my cell phone
are unintelligible voices
one bar flickering
i want to throw it
somewhere
i’m running from
or running towards ...
my legs are elephantine
and i’m slowing to a walk
my legs pushing through quicksand
hardening
i’m galloping on my bicycle
one tire flats
i fix it
but then the other
rolling on the rims
chain rubbing
brakes sticking
i’m riding ever uphill
though on level ground
i’ve gotta get out of here
start up my car
i’m moving but slowing
stomp and stomp and stomp on the gas
sputtering to a stop
i wake up pantingPoem 205.1 Decenber 20, 2010 (up to top)
the cheeseburger imperative
it used to be enough
when he lead me south and west
over the brook and through the woods
across sunrise highway
to petco – where the pets go –
for crunchy treats from the doggie buffet table
it used to be enough
when he pulled me south and east
navigating the grid of freeport streets
past village hall and our holy redeemer church
to the bodega on the corner of church and pine
where we shared a yummy prepackaged cheese danish
now he marches me with utmost urgency
tracking north and west
through roosevelt and north baldwin
and at each crucial corner
he lifts his nose
licks his lips
deciding which way to turn
to get to his ultimate destination
mcdonald’s ...
where he is treated to
a much more delectable selection
a double cheeseburger ...
with all the fixinsPoem 206 Decenber 28, 2010 (up to top)
tunnel of loss
the widow wears her anguish
like a raven cat suit
all-encompassing unforgiving
she plods along a tapering path
yearning towards acceptance
yet mired in her forever grief
crows of sorrow
etch their footprints
beside her teary eyes
she feasts on melancholy
gorges on heartache
is never satedPoem 207 January 15, 2011 (up to top)
along winter’s ocean shore 1
i stride along the edge of life
imagining limbless proto-amphibians
slithering from the surf
but it’s winter and sixteen degrees
a seeker of warmth
would never venture onto this land
as the tide turns
i turn to walk towards the setting sun
on glistening gray-bluish-green sand
skirting the wavelets rippling up
leaving foamy beads behind
the crimson-orange fireball
is reflected upon the undulating ocean surface
its incandescence is dazzling
it descends
ever-so-slowly sinks
almost touches
then kisses its fiery swallower
tantalizingly and deliberately submerging
finally! it is consumed
but still has one glorious act –
igniting the furrows of mackerel clouds
the heavenly crown above Appeared in The Avocet Winter, 2023 printed issue
Poem 208.1 January 27, 2011 (up to top)
along winter’s ocean shore 2
along the shoreline
is detritus
left by the receding tide
fragments of shells
sand-scoured pebbles
severed crab legs
remnants of horseshoe crabs
crumbling spongy driftwood
a ghostly white stingray
but shards of green and brown glass
everlasting bags of plastic
polystyrene packing peanuts
thankfully oblivious
sanderlings in a swarm
alight as one
skitter on the shore
follow the surf edge in then out
while noble gulls bob on the waves
until one finds a morsel
then cawing and squawking
and intimidation betidesPoem 209.1 January 27, 2011 (up to top)
near death experience
ectopic pregnancy
ruptured fallopian tube
no time to prep
emergency surgery
hovering above
observing
disconnected
yet not apart
the other me
lies beneath
sea green shrouding
not yet apartPoem 210.1 February 8, 2011 (up to top)
mister hale
irwin hale
a retired aerospace engineer
was short in stature
as was alma his wife
they lived diagonally across the street
in a custom-designed house
with lower countertops
tinier door openings
diminutive rooms
irwin cut his lawn
with a red toro mower
stopping bending picking up twigs
placing them in a burlap bag
attached to the handle
he mowed his lawn
into his eighties
shoveled the snow
cleaned out the gutters
while alma tended to her garden
fussed over the house
fussed over irwin
and at dinnertime
called in the cats who were still out
accounted for with color-coded toggle switches
attached to a pegboard
beside the kitchen door
i yearn to be like mister hale
mowing my lawn into my eighties
living into my eighties
spry and active and awarePoem 211 February 15, 2011 (up to top)
onanism in print
looking up
eleven o’clock receiving line
inspiration then silence
man and woman on a balcony
saturday on the boardwalk
lasting impression
power brunch at the diner
underground
rasta dog
forgetting
one way through
dreadicare card
just playing at
bichromate
elijah’s cup
homes once dignified
GOT HIM (SHOT HIM)
at the bandshell
end of june
at a daytime summer concert
at mount ararat cemetery
old man’s arms
outside the souvenir shop
embracing the rain 1
embracing the rain 2
off season at the beach
zenning it
dark visions
scene at the park
high holy days
assembly included
powering down
movie trailer voice-over
kmart clown
pimp dog
new baby
sudoku blues
caller id
exsanguination
pathfinder
disunited
dear mr fantasy
man in a blue suit
dream car
my dream of liberation
ain’t nuthin’ to say
when the silliness stops
steady decline
words better left unsaid
fillies and foals
two old men walking
dialectic harmony
hypocritical oaths
“choosey”
words to be unheard
minyan maker
specious aspirations
waiting for the n-19
fear and comfort come at night
getting humbled on the downtown express
death by celery
another pass on the five boro
the hungerford sextet
death not by celery
cartoon character
designated bearer of bad news
an audience of one
held hostage
serenity between the lines
vanilla man
tenderness at the diner
ornery son of a bitch
adaptation
saying good-bye to an old friend
garlic breath
just lying there
catching my breath
dogs are better than people
low battery
clown school
a better person than i
rules of engagement
turning over in his grave
numbers late into the night
twenty-two bucks for pancakes?
mind on vacation
wake
old fart
remembering jerry gold
some vacation
in the land of broken dolls
upstaged in oceanside
a rant in twelve quintains
suburban triathlon
panic … stricken
labor day 1998
playing in traffic
kol nidre disconnect
toot that horn!
bitches
doggie tactician
on the bocce court
can’t complain
failures
siren’s song
a tiny act of love
après le déluge
in the wake of hurricane sandy
on philip roth's retirement
numbers on a scale
affenliebe
burning bush
thus fortified
where the hearth isn’t
losing control little by little
redemption machines
riding into the sunset
the end of sudoku
when we’re sixty-four
jigsaw puzzles
on their way to praise and prayer
at mother teresa’s shrine
when i’m at a reading or a meeting
and it’s announced
that someone’s having a book
published!
we ooh and we aah
and with shit-eating grins
we politely applaud
and i sit there seething
number one i am jealous
but number two i get so damn disgusted
because any schmuck or schmuckette
with a wad of benjamins
and pages of breathless excrement
can do exactly
the same thing
they don’t call it vanity press
for nothing
Poem 213 February 17, 2011
(up to top)
fifty days have passed
with snow on the ground
i’ve been out walking our dog
every one of those days
every day for many years
while i’m out walking
i scan the sidewalk ahead
to avoid
unshoveled snow turned to ice
cracks in the concrete
puddles at intersections
waiting for traffic
– which seems heavier every day –
to pass us by
so we can finally cross
on an almost balmy day today
i looked up
and saw what i’ve been missing –
the intricate network of gnarled branches
of oaks and maples silhouetted
against a majestic blue sky
soon these skeletons
will be covered with baby green
... and i smiled
Poem 214 February 17, 2011
(up to top)
outside his brown-brick sanctuary
the father stands in his lime-green vestment
embroidered with a lustrous golden cross
receiving parishioners after the ten o’clock mass
they pass by in family groupings
small children running here and there
chasing siblings and friends
they pass by in ones and twos
a man in a striped shirt on this blustery day
a woman in a black persian lamb coat
guided by her jamaican caregiver
they want to need to make contact
feel his warmth his spirit
a two-handed shake
a bear hug and a slap on the back
a pinch on the cheek a tousle of hair
and he says just the right words
the words they want to need to hear
as the line dwindles
the father dons a red baseball cap
urged onto him by a teen-aged fan
he smiles benevolently
beatifically upon his flock
their god’s representative
on this mortal soil
Poem 215 March 1, 2011
(up to top)
i’ve attended chabad classes
with titles like
beyond never again
toward a meaningful life
soul maps and soul quest
although what i’ve learned
has filtered through by osmosis
i can’t seem to grab onto
any one topic
about which to write
a poem
that’s what i want to write
i want to be inspired
but when i have something in mind
it sounds trite or passé
perhaps because so many words
of adoration and exultation
have already been written
in hebrew and aramaic and yiddish
and in so many other world languages
but more so i think
because of the undying faith behind
and underneath those words
and its claimed trueness and validity
that i can’t or i won’t embrace
Poem 216 March 8, 2011
(up to top)
the vibraphone begins its mournful tune
soft dragging on a snare drum maintains one beat per second
the bass hums one note softly below
then begins complementing the melody of the vibes
on the seventeenth bar
the trumpet edges in to continue the melody ...
this is happening in crisp black and white –
it is evening
a man in a dark suit white shirt and tie
with the build and the suaveness of a fred astaire
stands at a balcony railing gazing over the city
the 59th street bridge is off in the distance
he picks up and sips from a glass tumbler
appears wistful
waiting for something ... or someone
to happen
the clatter from the loud party inside breaks his reverie
a woman with ingrid bergman eyes
in a black cocktail dress
slides open the glass door and wanders onto the balcony
the hubbub subsides as she slides the door shut
she shivers and says it’s chilly out here
oozes toward him
her heels click her approach
can you spare a cigarette? she asks
as if he could possibly refuse
he draws a silver case from an inside pocket
picks out two
taps their ends on the case
places them between his lips
flicks open his zippo
lights them with the flame cupped in his hand
snaps it shut
pockets the lighter and the case
slips one cigarette out of his mouth
hands it to her
she takes it as her hand lingers on his
the tips of their cigarettes burn red-orange
the only color in the now gauzy scene
they face each other as she draws nearer
we can see the electricity between them
we can feel the tingle of the bluewhite sparks
her eyes search his face
with her wet yearning eyes
they’re inches apart
his body seems to meld with hers
our melody continues
everything is in pantomime
we hear no conversation
the glowing tips of their cigarettes dance
in slow-motion swirls
as they speak silent words
as he touches her shoulder
as she smooths back her hair
as he gestures
as she entices
her face is passionate with quiet want
his need is crackling though icy veneer
they place their cigarettes
on opposite sies of a cut-glass ashtray
he embraces her
for he cannot help it
as they kiss
we move in for a closeup
of a chaste hollywood kiss
the camera draws away
moves to focus on the two cigarettes
at opposite sides of the ashtray
their tips still glowing
the smoke from each one rising
swirling around its counterpart
as the music slows
ending with a fading four-beat trumpet note
– Ekphrasis poetry inspired by Nature Boy, composed by eden ahbez, originally sung by Nat King Cole
This version is from the 1955 Album Blue Moods, by Miles Davis, trumpet
with Britt Woodman, trombone; Charles Mingus, bass; Teddy Charles, vibes; Elvin Jones, drums
and based on a Yiddish song “Shayg mayn harts” (Be Still My Heart) by Herman Yablokoff
Poem 217 March 10, 2011
(up to top)
at the point four mile mark
i’m trying to get into my stride
cell phone rings
damn it
as i flip it open as
my wife’s photo appears
i say hiya ... what’s up
she answers it’s about tomorrow
you know ... plans with the kids
just what i need i think
here i’m trying to get into it ...
let me call you back she says
i’ve got another call beeping through
i keep on walking
waiting for the call back
can’t get into my pace
and i’m seething
know i shouldn’t be
for it’s about being with
our grandkids
yet i still am
damn it
Poem 218 March 19, 2011
(up to top)
when i think about my father
the first image that comes to mind
is the last thing i remember
him lying inert in his underwear
on the floor
dead
in a pool of vomit
and other bodily wastes
after thirty-four years
i still often wish
the police hadn’t called
that february night
for me to drive out
to have to see
to have to smell
to have that image
left
as the one
that i remember
Appeared in Bards Annual 2012 A Poetry Anthology
Poem 219 March 21, 2011
(up to top)
the two garrulous guys
with their power-moussed hair
their power eyeglasses
wearing rumpled off-the-rack suits
charge into the dining room
demand the corner table
next to the window
the one that’s meant for five
they force-laugh
at each other’s remarks
remove their jackets
hang them on empty chairs
roll up their sleeves
loosen their ties
they have business to discuss
connections to make
agreements to forge
high finance to arrange
as they order from the specials
on the plastic-coated menu
they get their coffee
then their eggs and fries
slather them with ketchup
gesticulate between mouthfuls
self-absorbed in their actions
until one gets a dollop of ketchup
on his silky power tie
shouts son of a bitch
takes a napkin
dips it in his water glass
tries to wipe away the stain
but it smears even more
his force-laughing mood
is over and done with
Poem 220.1 March 26, 2011
(up to top)
the seventh avenue local
throbs beneath
the sidewalk
its bass-line
as reassuring
as the ozone odor
of electrical arcing
and the rhythmic
de-duh de-duh
de-duh de-duh
that recedes
into the pulse of the city
as it rumbles
uptown
Appeared in The New York Times Metropolitan Diary column, April 15, 2013
Poem 221 March 27, 2011
(up to top)
our wheaten terrier’s last grooming
was in july of last year
he is way overdue
though jimmy is brushed
every day
his silky hair
now coils
into doggie dreadlocks
he’s been called shaggy
by a man we encountered
jimmy wasn’t amused
a young boy asked
is he a komondor?
– a rare hungarian dog who looks
like a four-footed wet mop
now even we are calling him
rasta dog
at least until his spring shearing
Poem 222 March 28, 2011
(up to top)
i seem to be forgetting
things
words
words mostly
my cardiologist asked me
what i was taking for GERD
i opened my mouth
to say the drug name
drew a blank
sat with my mouth agape
i said why’nt ya check the list of meds
i printed out
he leafed through the file
oh yeah ... ranitidine he said
i wonder if he gave
my wife a momentary glance
thinking about this poem
i drew a blank on
a word that has a similar meaning
thesaurus did pop into mind
then some seconds later
a lifetime later
synonym!
finally broke through
it happens rarely
but lately more frequently
i’m anxious
disturbed
scared
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 36, August 2015
Poem 223 March 29, 2011
(up to top)
my memory lane
is not the idyllic path
through glistening woods
with animated birds chirping
on an balmy june morning
rather
it twists and swerves
through sinister shadows
rutted with potholes
puddled with could’ves
and should’ves
and self-doubt
turned to apathy
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 36, August 2015
Poem 224 April 11, 2011
(up to top)
the white 6 by 9½ inch envelope from the
department of health & human services
arrived today
i’d been expecting it
knew what would be inside
my brand-spanking new
medicare health insurance card
effective the first of this august
with current fifteen dollar copays
ordering refills online
reimbursed deductibles
this sliver of red white and blue cardstock
has already upset the apple cart
especially my myth of being young
my father died at sixty-five and a day
old people are sixty-five and counting
but not me
no ... not me
i do not want this harbinger of things to come
to reside in my wallet
to haunt me
to constantly remind me
of my mortality
Poem 225 April 13, 2011
(up to top)
they’re all so excited
bubbling over with glee
i sit there wondering
what the hell
is arousing them so
sometimes i think that
i’m just playing at life
about things i do
writing poetry
riding my recumbent
work-playing on my computer
because i can’t reach that level of elation
they’re so involved
or appear to be
and yes i am jealous
unless … of course …
they’re just faking it
are they so fragile
that they need to be so exuberant?
or are they just so damn good
at hiding their trepidations?
Poem 226 April 28, 2011
(up to top)
i loved visiting my dad’s drugstore
on my way home from school
or when i rode there by bike
i always wondered what those
sequences of tiny black letters meant
the ones printed in grease pencil
in my father’s meticulous hand
on boxes of chanel N° 5 eau de parfum
on cartons of lucky strike cigarettes
on bottles of terpin hydrate with codeine
when i was old enough
i figured out it was a code
but still couldn’t decipher it
i asked him plenty of times
i must have driven him crazy
– ’cause he told me so –
until he finally relented
and said …
BICHROMATE
B means one and I means two and so forth
– it’s the wholesale cost –
but you better keep it a secret
i promised him i would
… until now
Poem 227 April 28, 2011
(up to top)
following the seder’s grace after meals
a fifth cup of wine is poured
– the cup of elijah –
the front door is opened
verses from the psalms are recited
beseeching god to pour his wrath
upon our persecutors and oppressors
for the night of passover
was the guarded night
when god protected the jews
from the plague
which slew all egyptian firstborn
and opening the door
expresses a trust in god’s protection
throughout time
these pious stories and beliefs
have been interpreted so devoutly
so reverently and ardently
yet when god is needed the most
when he’s prayed for
pleaded for
… when sobbing men cry out for him …
the result seems to be
disdainful silence
rejective and indifferent
Poem 228.1 April 28, 2011
(up to top)
it doesn’t take long
for a house to lose itself
as realtor’s signs sprout
like the knee-high weeds and dandelions
that’ve spread their seeds
from once-lush lawns
no longer manicured
or edged against
cracked and crackling sidewalks
sharply-bordered gardens
once sown with impatiens and begonias
now lie fallow
burnt and untrimmed hedges
are overgrown with vines
invaded by underbrush
littered with soggy pennysavers
mcdonald’s containers
crushed red bull cans
... it doesn’t take long
for a house to lose itself
Poem 229.1 May 24, 2011
(up to top)
GOT HIM (SHOT HIM) was the headline in rhyme from the Tampa Bay Times
The Butcher of 9/11 is DEAD from the San Francisco Examiner
ROT IN HELL from the New York Daily News
the stately New York Times announced in upper case times new roman
BIN LADEN KILLED BY U.S. FORCES IN PAKISTAN
OBAMA SAYS, DECLARING JUSTICE HAS BEEN DONE
... VENGEANCE AT LAST ... from the New York Post
just one word – DEAD – from the St Petersburg Times and the Chicago Sun Tmes
WE GOT THE BASTARD from the Philadelphia Daily News
and similar sympathies in a multitude of languages
graced the front pages of newspapers throughout the world
i opened our Times when it was delivered
like every day in a blue plastic bag
had noted what crawled across the screen the night before
later ... coming back from walking the dog
my neighbor rolled down his car window
shouted with a proud wide grin hey we got ’em!
i asked waddya mean?
it took a few moments
before i understood
we got ’em
we shot ’em
we killed ’em
that butcher
that bastard
that monster
who exactly is this we?
Poem 230 May 24, 2011
Its best to view GOT HIM (SHOT HIM) as a
PDF
(up to top)
jones beach
on a sultry summer evening
a neil diamond pretender
in a bejeweled satiny red shirt
is crooning a ballad
his voice digitally enhanced
two women from a group of five
sitting on aged embroidered pillows
on the wooden bleachers
nod at each other
stand up
step down to the concrete floor
then step-slide-step untouching
like marionettes unsmiling
like late middle-aged ex-ballerinas
atop a rhinestoned jewelry box
dancing together apart
because that’s all there’s left to do
a song later and another song later
they’re up again
doing the electric slide
the cha cha cha
dancing the minutes the hours away
under a hazy half-moon rising
Poem 231 July 1, 2011
(up to top)
summertime
and the livin’ is easy
don’t you believe it for one moment
with this year’s may and june
came my fragile brother’s bipolar meltdown
my friend’s depression and major back surgery
my wife’s fractured knee and her rehabilitation
her retirement and finding a new path in life
my daughter’s move from accessible queens
to more than an hour away in new jersey
one of these mornings
you’re going to rise up singing
but not now for my brother nor my friend
my therapist says i shouldn’t dwell in my negative
in their negative
that i should stay away from the toxic
over which i have no control
then you'll spread your wings
and you'll take to the sky
but machu picchu is out
our vacation gallivanting is out
even a moonlit stroll on the boardwalk
has become a challenge
so hush little baby
don't you cry
but there’s no daddy and mammy
standing by
-- Summertime lyrics by George Gershwin, et.al
Poem 232.1 July 7, 2011
(up to top)
the glistening-white luxury mini-coaches
from senior living facilities
are parked conestoga wagon-style
around the periphery
along with half-size golden-yellow school buses
from special needs programs
under the thinly-shaded sycamores
already shedding their leaves
oldsters sit on nylon-webbed garden chairs
while youngsters are propped up on tattered blankets
under the sweltering noonday sun
it’s the eisenhower park series
of wednesday lunchtime concerts
and in the trailer turned band shell
a dozen or so choraleers
in red shirts and white pants
in tenuous four-part harmony
are singing folk songs and oldies tarnished by age
as they harmonize i’ve been working on the railroad
some of the oldsters mouth the familiar words
into the humid long island air
while the youngsters rock to a tempo
all their own
Poem 233.1 July 21, 2011
(up to top)
a long island summer day
it’s the week before my medicare takes effect
i bike to the cemetery in lindenhurst
where my father and mother
–philip and sylvia –
lie side by side
under a plain headstone inscribed ABRAMS
in elegant times new roman
though i’ve biked there every spring or summer
it has never struck me just this way
that it’s my last name too
and this is where for eternity
i’ll be pushing up daisies also
as my father used to joke
squawking crows cavort overhead
under tufts of clouds
as i study the foot stones
and envision my own –
my name in hebrew
laibel baruch ben feivel
– lloyd barry son of philip –
then LLOYD B in a larger font
followed by
beloved husband father
brother grandfather
i step back under the shade
of a scraggily pine
realize as if for the first time
that these two people
born in early 1900s
and now buried in plain pine boxes
– that these two people and nobody else –
are the ones from whom i came
– the ones who gave me life
when i’m here
i usually can’t find the right words to say
i don’t ride here with an agenda
i forget to bring the mourner’s kaddish
which by now i should know by heart but don’t
but this time i beseech them
to please look out for my brother
– their older son –
who’s been going through a very rough time
since i’d had a late start
i realize the cemetery is about to close
i search for a pebble or two
line up a large one and a smaller one
above the two interlocking triangles
that make up the star of david
engraved above our family name
i pedal to the office
wash my hands as is the custom
drink some gatorade
and then ride home into the northwest wind
all their own
Poem 234 July 29, 2011
(up to top)
my sun-tanned arms
on which nicks and scrapes
gouges and contusions
having bled
too profusely
because of a blood thinner
– an antiplatelet drug –
are now healing
and have turned into
angry crimson
and blue-purple splotches
an old man’s arms
are attached to my body
Poem 235 August 7, 2011
(up to top)
on this year’s vacation
i refused to schlepp through souvenir shops
there are no postcards i want
no books no mugs no doodads
no overpriced tchotchkes made in china
emblazoned with our destination
all destined for a box in the basement
a bin in the garage
or the trash heap
in the not-so-distant future
i’d rather be sitting outside
sipping a cold root beer
on a bench in the shade
next to the
unmollifiable baby and the bewildered parent
sweating children asking please can i have it
or another geezer mumbling to himself
about why it always takes so goddamn long
for them to make a decision
we need to get going already
we want to hightail it out of here
we’ve got to get moving
to the next tourist trap
Poem 236.1 August 21, 2011
(up to top)
i walk within her cloak
her life-giving force
imbibe her generosity
i fear her not
i open my arms to her
raise my face
close my eyes
revel in her exhilaration
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Poem 237 September 7, 2011
(up to top)
i prepared for her wrath
tied my waterproof shoes
zipped my rain jacket
pulled on my gortex hat
opened the front door
stepped out into a caressing mist
– a gentle cleansing kiss
i walked five miles
through several downpours
as clouds grew dark and angry
but i feared not
for there was a peephole in the southwest sky
where an eye of brightness tried to open
i was soaked through
my sweat-wicking shirt was saturated
partly by the rain
but mostly from perspiration
and my shoes felt waterlogged
i’d gotten drenched
but that was all
for i’d embraced the rain
and reveled in her glory
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Poem 238 September 8, 2011
(up to top)
the best time
to swim at the beach
is off season
today was one such glorious day
the ocean at tobay was cool but not cold
clear and free of sea lice seaweed and jellyfish
the sea bed was sandy
the waves were high
yet neither too rough nor too gentle
there was no riptide no undertow
it was an absolute delight
before we knew we’d get chilled
we lumbered out to shore
took warm showers under the balmy sun
dried off in the caressing breeze
changed in the car
then drove home
september 13, 2011
was the most perfect beach day
in our lives
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Poem 239 September 13, 2011
(up to top)
plodding through a sandstorm
stung with blowing granules
cloaked with grains of sand
running in a blizzard
ice balls enshrouding my beard
eyelids freezing shut
riding into a relentless headwind
slowing slowing but still pedaling
grinding out the miles
perseverance
an absolute faith
that i’d be able to zen it –
to go with the flow
to suck energy from antagonistic force
to make it
through
to the end
Poem 240 September 16, 2011
(up to top)
in those moments
deep into the night
when i’m neither awake
nor asleep
i have visions
haunting visions
of how it might be
near the end
for her?
for me?
holding a gnarled hand
my gnarled hand in hers
listening to labored breathing
gasping to take in air
bearing witness to the struggle
struggling to stay alive
saying it’s all right
being told it’s all right
… you can let go
… i can let go
everything will be okay
as the vision recedes
i reach over
to touch her
to make contact
to reassure myself
that everything is still
… okay
Poem 241.2 October 8, 2011
(up to top)
at the playground
next to the train station
sit brown- and tan-skinned
caregivers and nannies
cell-phoning and laughing
sharing snacks and gossip
as sweating screeching
lily-white children
chase and tag each other
past squeaking swings
through colored tubes
up and down the slides
parked beside a bench
are several wheelchairs
in which ancient men
sit slumped
fading
away
Poem 242 October 11, 2011
(up to top)
there have been jokes told about jews
who show up in shul only three times a year –
on the two days of rosh hashanah
and eight days later on yom kippur
… i’m not one of those jews
for this year i attended only the kol nidre service
on the evening before yom kippur
i persuade myself
i’m observant in other ways
i’m moral and ethical
i don’t do bad deeds
i don’t transgress
but i don’t fast on yom kippur
because in years past i ran
and now i ride my bicycle
which are much more spiritual
and get me closer to a higher being
or the universal consciousness
if there is such a phenomenon
Poem 243 October 12, 2011
(up to top)
i looked forward to seeing
the baseball movie moneyball
it got some good reviews
and finally! a movie for adults
later i realized that it followed the story arc
of the hero’s journey
– our hot-shot/self-absorbed protagonist billy beane
– the irascible/defiant manager art howe
– the statistical magician/analyst peter brand
but with modules of scenes and subplots
pulled from the dusty shelves of past movies
and inserted like the many brand names so clearly displayed
– veteran scouts opposed to beane’s ideas
a greek chorus of naysayers bull-shitting around a conference table
– beane’s cutesy tween daughter whom he fears he’s losing touch with
whose singing becomes a bridge between scenes
– the obligatory locker room scenes
with testosterone a-flowing! camaraderie! anger! inspiration!
yes the movie was exciting … i was drawn in
– it’s not hard to identify with a counter-culture icon played by brad pitt
but in hindsight i feel tainted and manipulated
and i wonder if most – if not all – works of art
– music writing painting sculpture dance –
are assembled the same way
from plug-inable parts pulled from warehouse shelves
and the quality of the work is merely in the variety
and subtlety of the construction
or the skill with which the audience can be bamboozled
Poem 244 October 13, 2011
(up to top)
blown capacitors
corrupted hard drive
burnt-out motherboard
dead power supply
missing dll
invalid string
no recovery program
a fatal exception has occurred
can’t search
can’t use email
can’t play solitaire
don’t know what to do
i’m lost
drowning
i can’t breathe
i roll away my task chair
sit back
take a deep breath
think about a downing a xanax
maybe real life
is about to start
Poem 245 October 28, 2011
(up to top)
in the tranquil suburbs
of northern new jersey
are places
you ought … not … be
behind 7-elevens and starbucks
inside shopping malls on sundays
within the walls of mcmansions
long vacant
are things … beings …
better
left
alone
without knowing
without your knowledge
you … might be a carrier
attacked from within
your innards seized
by
the baby … who comes at midnight
coming soon
to an obstetrical theater
near you
Poem 246 October 31, 2011
(up to top)
it’s all hallows eve
rush hour in penn station
he stands near the toilets
opposite tracks 15 and 16
in an orange afro wig
red foam clown nose
twelve ninety-nine clown suit
over dark green sneakers
holding orange balloons
under his arms
blowing into another
to form a wannabe dachshund
a geriatric poodle
a phallic-shaped bunny
for the witch-slut with the attache
rushing by on high heels clacking
to catch the five thirty-three
get out of the way asshole
shouts a red-faced commuter
prob’ly inebriated
go somewhere else
who the fuck needs a fake clown
in a kmart costume
blocking the goddamn way
Appeared in Local Gems 13 Days of Halloween email newsletter, 2014, and in the print version published 2015
Poem 247.1 October 31, 2011
(up to top)
jimmy has the face
the vitality
the charisma
as he struts down the sidewalk
like john travolta
to the bee gees’ stayin’ alive
as if he owns the street
shaking his hairy booty
and his stubbly waggly tail
women turn and smile
as he stares back at them
with mesmerizing brown eyes
they cannot help it
girls swoon over him
they ask does he bite?
i say no but i might
they ask can i touch him?
i say sure … go ahead
but i’m thinking something entirely different
if i weren’t married
he’d be my ice-breaker
my deal-maker
my procurer
i wouldn’t need match.com
eHarmony or JDate
all i’d need
was my dog
and a dream
Poem 248.1 November 5, 2011
(up to top)
i hold my new grandson
in my flannel-shirted
grandpa arms
my lips graze
his silky scalp hairs
i hum softy
hear baby noises
gurgles and tiny moans
he opens his eyes
fusses a bit
i rock him
his eyes close
he snores softly
it’s joyous
but overwhelming
this new life in my arms
yet after
i feel raw
vulnerable
depleted
it’s almost too much
to grasp
– for Eliyahu, b. November 10, 2011
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 49, February 2019
Poem 249.1 November 19, 2011
(up to top)
when we’re tired of tv
we sit at the kitchen table
with matching mugs of tea
in a halo of light
from the pull-down fixture
working on sudoku puzzles
printed from the web
i write in the obvious numbers
with a number 4b pencil or in black ink
use a red or green pen for possibles
scan for single square candidates
naked and hidden pairs and triples
i finish my puzzle
this time seems easier than usual
look over at her
she says oh you’re done already
i ask can i take a look at yours?
in a huff she stands up
glares at me
stalks off
climbs up the stairs
i shout what’d i do?
i get punished for offering help
after her bath
she excuses her angry exit
claims she’s competitive
but without stating the obvious
… maybe i should’ve kept
my biiig mouth shut
Poem 250 November 23, 2011
(up to top)
i know he’s there
that someone’s there
i’d called several times
got a busy signal
right after
when i hit repeat
i get the answering machine
leave a curt message
hang up annoyed
’cause i know
he’s been screening his calls
usually he returns the call later
apologizes profusely too effusively
maintains he was in the bathroom
claims that he had to answer the door
insists he had to keep the line clear
call waiting is not in his lexicon
so i’ve learned
to do it too
like when i sat down to dinner
saw his number on the readout
let it go straight to voicemail
i’ll call back
only when it’s convenient
Poem 251 November 23, 2011
(up to top)
when i get morose
or engage in a mind exercise
i mull over suicide
and the most efficient way
to accomplish it
i’d mentioned that i’d stick
a shotgun in my mouth
pull the trigger
my wife says it’d make too much mess
i wouldn’t want to come home
and have to clean it up
i’ve thought about pills
a handful of opiate tabs
or a syringe full of morphine
might do the trick
… but might not
i wouldn’t want to gain consciousness
after my stomach’s been pumped
but a warm bath
and a well-honed knife
a sharpie or a scalpel might do
a slice along a vein
an artery severed
and my life would ooze out
right down the drain
Poem 252 November 23, 2011
(up to top)
when we leave the house
our wheaten terrier jimmy
decides which way to go
if he turns right
it’s through the preserve
to petco for a mini-sausage
and points south
a left
it’s through the school yard
then on to grandma’s
for a hebrew national frank
cross the street then right
it’s to our bodega
for a packaged cheese danish
which we share
cross the street then left
it’s a lap around the field
then on to mcdonald’s
for a double-burger
from the dollar menu
at the end of sixteen feet
of retractable leash
jimmy struts
with resolve
determination
doggedness
but sometimes he fools me
leads me to places
unexplored
unsniffed
un-peed upon
finding an abandoned park in roosevelt
i’ve never known was there
dragging me to home depot
where he so insistently tries to pull me in
bringing me into a cul-de-sac
where he discovers a hidden pathway
leading to a slow-moving stream
he must be fulfilling
a biological imperative
and all i have to do
is follow along
at the other end of the leash
watch for cars before we cross
pay for his treats
and scratch behind his ears
on an as-needed basis
Poem 253 December 1, 2011
(up to top)
another bleak morning
we’re walking the dog
on a narrow sidewalk
along maple avenue
my wife trails several yards behind
when she says something
makes an observation
i mumble a tepid response
which she probably can’t hear
when it’s brisk and chilly
our walks get longer …
although most of the time
i do like her company
i occasionally / often want to walk
alone
… but can’t seem to find
the exact right words to tell her
what my needs are
today
i’m tired bored annoyed
thankfully our dog finds
a different route to follow
but to the same old places
when she answers her cell phone
yet one more time
i get angry
but don’t say anything as usual
… it’s our daughter
and she’s been having this problem
i know it’s a valid reason for a call
nonetheless
i pull out my mp3 player
slip on my earphones
tune her / it all
out
in my embittered quest
to get this quiet time for
myself
Poem 254 December 6, 2011
(up to top)
winter 1969
just smoked some weed
lying on the carpet
bulky koss headphones
eyes closed
traffic’s on the turntable
dear mr fantasy comes on
four syncopated bars
drums guitar synthesizer
then
Dear Mister Fantasy play us a tune
Something to make us all happy
Do anything take us out of this gloom
Sing a song, play guitar
Make it snappy …
i’m blown away
my head’s nodding
my mind’s swaying
the voice the beat
the music the words
dig furrows into my soul
winter 2011
walking the dog
mp3 player
koss clip headphones
striding along
in a zone
the fourth cut from feelin’ alright:
the very best of traffic
those transcendent four bars
transported back
and deep within
forty years’ve passed
i’m overwhelmed
start bawling
dog turns
stares up at me concerned
moments go by
until i calm myself
wipe away tears
You are the one who can make us all laugh
… and we go on
But doing that you break out in tears
Please don't be sad if it was a straight mind you had
We wouldn't have known you all these years
– Dear Mr Fantasy music by Steve Winwood and Chris Wood, lyrics by Jim Capaldi, 1967
– F S Music Ltd & Island Music Ltd
Poem 255 December 7, 2011
Its best to view dear mr fantasy as a
PDF
(up to top)
he stood near me
at the 72nd street station
waiting for the downtown express
a heavy harried-looking man
in a shopworn blue suit
cinched with a single overtaxed button
his graying hair blown askew
reddish striped tie loosened
bulging shoulder bag
maybe an evening school teacher
maybe an overworked adjunct
maybe an assistant manager
in a second-rate firm
he stood near me
where two stops later
at 34th street / penn station
the doors would slide open
exactly where the stairs would be
to descend into the terminal
i was out the subway car first
scurrying down that flight of stairs
to make the express to babylon
with three minutes to spare
i hope he made his train
so he could sit down
exhale
and get some inner peace
Appeared in Bards Annual 2012 A Poetry Anthology
Poem 256 December 15, 2011
(up to top)
a two-door bentley continental gt
has whispered my name
ever since it debuted in 2003
i saw my bentley on the triborough
veering right towards manhattan
while i was driving our minivan
to a family gathering in riverdale
hey look i cried there it is!
my wife said oh … so that’s it?
maybe i should get you one for your birthday?
it was midnight blue
with a muted silver leather interior
hugging the road with tenacity
a throaty rumble
from its turbocharged six-liter engine
these bentleys could generate 567 horsepower
can go from zero to sixty in 4.4 seconds
hit a top speed of 198 miles per hour
in an elegant supercar
weighing over five thousand pounds
i lust after my bentley
but i live in the real world …
where would i park it?
our garage is filled with decades of stuff
there’s barely room for my bicycle
and it’s too small anyway
what about the driveway?
or along the curb in front of our house?
what does one do
with a car costing two hundred thousand dollars?
yet still …
i imagine flooring it
on a barren stretch of interstate
a two-lane rural straightaway
the back stretch of a racecourse
i imagine grand-touring in it
to exotic locales
five-star destinations
places yet undiscovered
but here on long island
i’d face the ingloriousness of
stop-and-go traffic on the parkways
the holiday mess around roosevelt field
rush hour on merrick road and sunrise highway
and what happens when i get to bj’s or trader joe’s?
how far must i park it from errant shopping carts?
or at the library or doctor’s offices where spaces are a premium
how would i stop it from getting dinged and scratched?
how would i feel when i noticed the first dent?
moreover i cherish the days
when i don’t get in the car
when i can run my errands by foot or by bike
returning overdue books
dropping off a tax payment
picking up eyeglasses at costco
playing lotto and mega-millions
but when i see the occasional bentley
– there are others around besides mine –
i get a yearning in my gut
an overwhelming desire –
damn i want that car
– but of course i know
down deep
it can only be a dream
Poem 257 December 29, 2011
Its best to view dream car
as a PDF
(up to top)
though i’ve been retired
for nine and a half years
i still have nightmares of school and work
of the term schedule
being neither started nor completed
of my office stripped of computers and printers
about elevators that run horizontally
of examining my department schedule
and watching ink disappearing
of losing my car
of my car catching on fire
of losing lesson plans
of losing my clothing
about seeing a student – holy shit! my student! –
diving off a stairwell
some dreams unravel
when the actuality that i’m retired
creeps into awareness
but in others
i wake up panting
sweating
my heart pounding
early this morning
in yet another school dream
i was given three unrelated social studies classes
in three different classrooms
periods one three and five
though i was a math teacher
though i had constructed the school program
though i always taught only two periods a day
though hadn’t taught first period in years
though it meant three separate preps
when i questioned the department chairman
and he shrugged his shoulders
i realized
with the type of epiphany
that flows from desperation
that i hadn’t stepped foot in that school in years
– not even for a visit –
and so i had no business being there
i stood up to speak in the faculty cafeteria
that it was over for me
i was gone for good
and the staff began shouting
lloyd! lloyd! lloyd!
and i felt a sense of relief
wash over me
a reprieve so profound
that i finally
felt
free
Poem 258 January 1, 2012
(up to top)
i often feel
that i’ve come to the end of the line
my output of writing
has dwindled to nada
the creative spark has been doused
smothered by a cascade
of frazzling brain cells
motivational gridlock
don’t-give-a-fuck fatigue
yet still i’m impelled
to double-click on wordperfect
open my poem template
increment the poem no to 259
emend month day to January 4
change title to ain’t nuthin’ to say
and start pecking away
hoping that a fortuitous jumble
of thesaurus-enhanced words
might ooze through my cranial fissures
to express a vision or revelation
a statement about the human condition
or simply to create melodic rhythm
the music of the mortal soul
Poem 259 January 4, 2012
(up to top)
in the parking garage
of a generic medical building
a stooped man in a long gray coat
pushes his silver-haired wife
seated backwards on a roller-walker
to their faded plymouth reliant
the plastic stroller-sized wheels
balking like disobedient children
at each crack in the pavement
he remembers her conspiratorial nod
some years before on a dreary autumn day
in the parking lot of home depot
when she stepped up on a flatbed giggling
as he rolled her to the entrance
he remembers her playfulness
at the travelodge in charleston
when he pushed her on a luggage cart
down the blue-carpeted hall
and her squealing let me off …
please! … i’m gonna pee
he remembers with tearing eyes
the muscular man he once was
the agile dancer she once was
how so very good they were together
in 2012, originally titled “when the laughter stops”
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 30, February 2014
Poem 260.2 March 16, 2018
(up to top)
i met up with my friend out walking
usually he greeted my dog
with a big smile and a how’re ya doin’ boy
this time he looked haggard
so what’s up? i asked
i’m really concerned about my mother he said
she’s been in the hospital
now she’s home
she’s 94 you know
never been sick a day in her life
i knew all that already
but let him continue
and she’s declining … steadily
i don’t know how much longer
it’s gonna be
it’s gotta be rough for you i said
yeah he answered you don’t know the end of it
when our biological imperative has been sated
when our procreative function has been fulfilled
father time will have his way with us
and we’ll never know how much longer
it’s gonna be
Poem 261 January 17, 2012
(up to top)
we often spout forth
what first comes to mind
vile repugnant words
that should’ve been filtered out
once uttered
noxious words can’t be retracted
you can’t go back in time
and silence them
… like cooking eggs
the spewing out is irreversible
apologies might mollify
saying sorry might appease
but the hurt
and the guilt
will endure
Poem 262 January 17, 2012
(up to top)
we’d had enough of the city
we’d eaten dinner seen the play
we’re rushing through penn station
to pick up some fro-yo
before getting on the 10:35 express
a silent clarion call sounds
and up comes the stampede
from great neck and garden city
from paramus and piscataway
freed from the aluminum chrysalis
glistening and expectant
these emergent foals
clad in microskirts
and low-cut silkies
scamper up the stairs
to the midway and concourse
prancing and preening
on high-heeled hooves
their knobby knees bare
their wide-eyed eagerness
they’re snorting with excitement
ready for the city’s nighttime pleasures
primed for meeting and mating
may their cravings be appeased
Poem 263.2 January 28, 2012
(up to top)
a february afternoon
record-setting warmth
two aged men
separated by a generation
are walking arm in arm
in ragged overcoats and woolen hats
despite their age difference
they closely resemble each other
perhaps they’re father and son
or more aptly
great-grandfather and grandfather
the more elderly man
trips on a crack
stumbles
is caught and righted by his son
he grabs his arm more firmly
they continue on as one
Poem 264 February 1, 2012
(up to top)
a hot summer’s day in altoona p a
we were two forty-somethings on vacation
waiting on line in lakemont park
for the world’s oldest roller coaster
two pre-adolescent girls
were standing behind us
having a critical crucial dispute …
it’s probably about israel and the middle east
my wife whispered to me
their argument consisted primarily
of yuh huh’s and nuh uh’s
enunciated with a fervor
that only two petulant pre-teens could muster
now we are seventy-somethings
and for the last thirty years
we have coopted their manner
of reconciling differences of opinion
by asserting yuh huh and nuh uh
nuh uh and yuh huh
wherever
and whenever
appropriate
Poem 265.1 February 11, 2012
(up to top)
i’m gonna tell you a dirty joke filthier than the aristocrats
it’s called … the hypocrites
who conceal their fascism behind the stars and the stripes
while concealing adultery abuse alcoholism and abandonment
under the indecent skirts of traditional family values
who have so-called best friends who are black or jewish or hispanic
while goose-stepping for white power in gray-flannel suits
who rail against same-sex marriage and gender equality
but who foster religious warfare and racial intolerance
while spouting irrelevancies and inanities from their holy texts
who want free and protected speech censored
while embracing hateful spiteful regurgitations and demagoguery
from their talk-show gurus newspapers and on-line pundits
who want the most vulnerable to pull themselves up by their bootstraps
while cutting them off at their legs and butchering their souls
who would deny social programs and the safety net for others
while receiving social security and medicare
and corporate welfare for themselves
who would gleefully throw the ninety-nine percent under the bus
while strangling the middle class and lower class
with their god-given battle cry of all for me and none for anyone else
… perhaps you haven’t found this joke funny
but it’s not in the telling
the punch lines you must realize are landing square on our jaws
because they’re doing it to us
while smiling with their pearly teeth
and shaking our hands with surgical gloves
that’s right … now you got the joke
… because they’re fucking us
in each and every vilest way possible
Poem 266 February 11, 2012
(up to top)
everyday in our backyard
we fill the bird bath with fresh water
feed the birds with wild bird seed
hang up blocks of suet
and toss out two or three dozen or more peanuts
still in their shells
while wrens and starlings
pigeons and cardinals and doves
imbibe on the seeds
blue jays and a red-headed flicker we’ve named big red
come for the peanuts
we rush inside to wait for the onslaught
soon six or seven or eight blue jays
come swooping in
cawing with alarm
calling each other
and then cawing with delight
grabbing a peanut at a time and darting away
except for one finicky blue jay we’ve named choosey
who picks up and drops peanut after peanut
searching for the just the right one
while the others have already flown off with two or three
choosey is still at it …
testing thirteen fourteen or fifteen perhaps
until he finds the perfect one
which he carries off to join the others
Poem 267 February 11, 2012
(up to top)
how do you tell your brother
your seventy-year-old older brother
who’s been plagued for all his adult years
by the oscillations of bipolar disorder
who you met up with in the cemetery today
to commemorate your father’s one hundredth birthday
that his basic activities of daily living
leaving random unshaven tufts of bristly hair
wearing a cat hair-covered sweater reeking from smoke
smelling from the urine bag he’s forced to wear
… that his basic adls have been compromised?
that his grandiose speech and florid expansiveness
his ecstatic pronouncements of feeling wonderful
i’ve gotta tell you … it’s great to be this age … i’ve never felt better
despite the thrice-weekly dialysis
despite the missing molars
despite the snot that was dripping from his nose
at the raw-cold cemetery and in the warmth of the diner afterwards
were issues i could not address
… that i would not be allowed to address
because whatever he claims or proclaims is tainted by illness
and because of his rhetorical skill and tyrannical control
he has no need or desire whatsoever to listen to others
… so how do you tell your older brother
that you recognize that his hypomania is starting up again
that you know that the depressive phase must eventually follow
and that he really really really needs to seek help now
before he’s hospitalized yet again
… that you know – you fucking know –
that whatever you say
whatever you ask of him
will inevitably fall on deaf ears?
Appeared in Bards Annual 2013
Poem 268 February 16, 2012
(up to top)
after a course on ethics from the talmud
taught by a young ultra-orthodox man
in his yarmulke and haredi uniform
there’s a quick count to determine
if there are the requisite ten men present
to make up the minyan for maariv
– the prayers said everyday after nightfall
i’m one of only ten
so i’m obliged to stay
anyway … it’s a mitzvah – a good deed – to be the minyan-maker
i am far from observant
though i’ve davened before with my orthodox son-in-law
i silently read or skim the english text
on the left hand pages of the prayer book
but i find it so repetitive that my mind wanders
while the other men enunciate each hebrew word with fervor
speaking aloud though almost silently
keeping their feet together or bowing as necessary
i turn the pages or count down how many are left
standing or sitting as appropriate
yet
as the murmured ancient words wash over me
the susurration softens my ignorance and cynicism
the whispered voices are like echoes from the ages
Poem 269 February 16, 2012
(up to top)
after i was promoted from tenderfoot
to second class boy scout
i came to realize that we were expected
to progress in rank to first class then star and life
that it should be our desire so carefully inculcated
to attain the ultimate honor – to become an eagle scout
we were gently pushed and then not so gently prodded
to earn merit badges and awards
to do projects and service
to attend jamborees and summer camp and read boys life
while wearing boy-sized military uniforms and saluting
while reciting the oath with three outstretched fingers
… i never got to be first class
as a teen i used to bicycle around our village
looking for choose-’em-up softball and baseball games
i was never in little league or connie mack
– maybe my parents didn’t believe in it –
i played junior varsity baseball thought i was a junior
went one for fourteen because i’d never learned to hit fast pitching
warmed the bench the rest of the season
as an adult i used to drive and bicycle around nassau county
looking for a paddleball game
i played to improve my skills
have a workout
enjoy myself
be with my friends
i never did enter a paddleball tournament
to find out who was the best!
never hungered for that kind of prestige
i just wanted to play the game
when i was a teacher and coordinator
and after i became my high school’s scheduler and programmer
i was pushed to further myself
to strive and be ambitious!
so i could advance and move up in rank
i sat in graduate school classrooms
wrote research papers about intelligence and learning styles
and of course racial disparity
did my required internship in place
got my professional diploma state certifications and city licenses
… i was following the career pathway
set before me by the mantra of that’s what’s expected
advised that’s what you’re supposed to do
and towards the end of a long hot summer
after weeks programming our school
from home and then in my office
i was named acting interim assistant principal of organization
– the school’s a-p-o! –
just as expected
but two days before the labor day weekend
after a day-long conference in the city
after hours of soul-searching
after realizing that i just couldn’t claim ownership of the job
and after a miserable sleepless night
i told my newly-appointed principal that i didn’t want it
yes i was backing out
it’s not the right thing for me right now i said
and i was warned that a wonderful opportunity like this
came along only once in a career
the not-so-veiled threat was loud and clear
so i gave up the chance of movin’ on up
thinking maybe some time in the future
as if
despite the craziness and pressure
of programming our high school twice a year
i loved the job –
a job which i taught myself
with spreadsheet tools i’d developed
with databases i’d constructed
a job that allowed me to be innovative and creative
a job that allowed me to be autonomous
and i was making a difference
and along came writing
which i’ve done mostly after i retired
short stories and mental health vignettes
poems in my own idiosyncratic style
yet throbbing like an imperative
in workshops and readings
is a collective primal yearning
which mandates that i as a writer
should have a lust and a craving
for that ultimate goal –
drum roll please – publication!
so one day i could say
this appears in my book …
i’m reading from my new chapbook …
i was just published in …
and on and on and fucking on
once again
i find myself traveling a divergent path
i don’t care much about publishing
don’t want to spend vanity money
on a narcissistic endeavor
i just want to type words on the screen
edit revise and print out final copies
stow them in my three-ringed binder
sometimes share my poems or stories with others …
i just want to enjoy what i like to do –
taking part
in the act of literary creation
though i’ve long given up paddleball
and i haven’t run since knee surgery two decades before
i now ride my recumbent bike two hours or more
on long loops to bethpage park or jones beach
through garden city or floral park or long beach
and though i’ve been a lead marshal in the five-boro
and i’ve done short group rides and centuries
i’m never going to win any bike tour
it’s just not in my lexicon
i don’t live my life for glory
for there’s honor and joy to be had
in simple sublime pleasures
Poem 270.2 March 6, 2012
(up to top)
the three men are there
as they always are
standing on the corner
waiting for the 3:18 bus
you watch them
while you’re waiting for the light to change
and you could tell
that they’re sort of
off
they look disheveled
their faces are vaguely vacant
and you feel a bit discomforted
a few blocks away
is a day program for adults
with persistent mental problems …
the men take the public bus
from bellmore or seaford or lindenhurst
– if they’re not in a hospital –
to sit in the day room playing games
doing puzzles doing crafts doing art
drinking coffee watching tv
catching a smoke outside during breaks
sitting in groups discussing time management
personal hygiene and how to handle money
until they’re ready to leave on the 3:18
and return the next morning
going through the motions
pretending it’s a job
living an imitation
of a productive life
Poem 271 April 16, 2012
(up to top)
i awaken in the middle of the night
it takes but a heartbeat or two
then i’m stricken by the recurring horror
that i will be dead
that i will no longer have consciousness
that i will cease to be
i lie there terrified
start thrashing
but i muffle my moans
don’t want to wake up my wife
have her ask what’s the matter
answer you know the usual
have her say oh that as she falls back to sleep
this time
though i still thrash about
i let the terror wash over me
it eventually dissipates
later in an early morning dream
a little boy all a-giggles
is running towards me
with his arms outstretched
wanting to be picked up and held
i am suffused with joy
and inner peace
Poem 272 April 19, 2012
(up to top)
as i made my way to the north end
of the 72nd street platform
i noticed a well-built black guy
strumming an imaginary guitar …
no biggie i thought
just another act
in the new york city scene
when the flatbush-bound express arrived
he stepped on before me
sat down on an empty seat
looked up
waited a few beats
then got up and said
here take my seat sir …
i was blown away
did i really look that old?
i said no man
my ass already hurts from sitting all day
when he hesitated
i said go ahead it’s yours
he sat back down
i smiled and we fist bumped
i stood dumbfounded
as the express barreled southward
i wanted to yell at him
curse him out
how dare he remind me
about the obscenity
of getting older?
Poem 273.1 April 24, 2012
(up to top)
my older brother almost died the other day …
when they heard him hit the floor
his wife and son ran upstairs
found he’d stopped breathing
if not for his wife’s cpr he’d be a goner
he was ambulanced to the hospital
bedded in the coronary care unit
tests showed his electrolytes
and potassium levels were off the charts
steve’s been on dialysis for over ten years
– a long time for a dialysis patient –
some at his center call him the miracle
he’s often strayed off his stringent diet
but lately he’s been scarfing down celery
which they found out the hard way
has a high sodium and potassium content
we think of celery as a benign vegetable
but not for someone on dialysis
for the next day or two
he’s waiting for his levels to drop
so the surgeons can operate
on the spiral fracture in his leg
that he broke during the fall
Poem 274 May 3, 2012
(up to top)
i’ve loved riding the 5-boro bicycle tour
first as a rider and later as a lead marshal
but three years ago
i had a heart attack
had two stents installed
several days later still had chest pains
and on the sunday before the tour
– a day we marshals would’ve ridden the now defunct pre-ride –
i spent my time gazing down at the budding trees in the hospital parking lot
on an exquisite but deceptively dangerous
unseasonably warm spring day
two years ago it was nasty and wet
my son-in-law and i decided not to show up
and last year they cancelled the pre-ride
a wonderful perk that i was furious about
– lack of funds was the excuse of course –
and i was compelled to attend a party for a relative who’d turned 90
then this year my left knee was complaining
– the one i had arthroscopic surgery on two decades before –
it had been stiffening up and causing pain
climbing stairs had become a challenge
pedaling my bicycle had become impossible
my orthopedist said
proceeded to drain the fluid
injected cortisone into my knee
it felt like new the next day
so this year
i – perhaps – let myself be talked into driving to new jersey
to celebrate our daughter’s birthday
and to see our grandsons
for the sake of family togetherness and all that
with the knee causing problems
and the windy days we’ve had this spring
i hadn’t been riding that much
and the beta-blocker i take
to control high blood pressure
causes a fifteen-minute lag
until my heart rate catches up with exertion
and i wondered how it would be to sprint up sixth avenue
from the starting point in lower manhattan
controlling the thousands of riders behind us
and the bicyclists encroaching from side streets
thus i spent the deliciously cool then gloriously bright bike-tour day
driving in the incomparable stop-and-go of the cross bronx expressway
in a surly sour mood
obsessing about could’ves and should’ves
beating myself up thinking yeah maybe i should’ve ridden it
despite the joy of playing with my grandsons in the park
despite driving them to the bakery to pick up a birthday cake
… and a cookie or two
despite the overall joy i should have felt
maybe next spring
i’ll sign up once again to marshal the bike-tour
yeah …
maybe next year
Poem 275 May 9, 2012
(up to top)
the six men
from the hungerford and clark funeral home
in matching black suits
white shirts and black ties
march from the glendale bakery
like the blues brothers without shades
with coffee and pastries
to wait outside our holy redeemer church
their hearse and limousines
warmed up and ready
inside the brown-brick edifice
prayers are being intoned
eulogies are being said
tears are being shed
as the men in black banter with each other
sip coffee from their styrofoam cups
when the massive wooden doors open
the men spring into choreographed action
to help serve as pallbearers
to slide the casket
into the maw of the cadillac hearse
to hold limousine doors open
as stunned mourners stand waiting
needing to be ushered
needing to be conveyed
to their beloved’s
final resting place
Poem 276 May 15, 2012
(up to top)
my brother’s been in the hospital for more than two weeks
though he thought his stay would be only a few days
his indulging in celery with its high potassium content
hadn’t done him in
although he had stopped breathing
and had to be revived
doctors say that possibly his fistula
and the arterial plumbing
were not working efficiently
that his dialysis was not properly cleansing his blood
the spiral fracture in his leg when he collapsed
was finally operated on
more that a week after his hospital admittance
the surgeon had to wait until his levels were down
now he’s waiting for a discharge to rehab
a center in oakdale had already been chosen
but he needs an angiogram in his arm
to check the blood vessels
he needs to be cleared
so he can go on with his life
Poem 277 May 18, 2012
(up to top)
eight years after we were married
we drove upstate to a vegetarian conference
slept in our ten-by-ten tent on a newly-mown lawn
listened to invited speakers
attended workshops
ate limited-menu communal meals together
on sunday night
there was a dinner-dance
followed by a campfire
hailed as the culmination
of our exciting weekend!
for me things were getting too close for comfort
my emotional space was being impinged
the safety of my individuality was being imperiled
i stomped on my cartoon brakes
spewed out a cloud of dust in my wake
to avoid being swept over the menacing cliff
throughout my life
i’ve had similar brushes
with what i perceived
as a threatened loss of selfhood
and i’ve similarly jammed on the er-er-er-er-er brakes
now i wonder
if i’ve avoided delicious opportunities
to grow to flourish
… to live
Poem 278 May 18, 2012
(up to top)
when i was twenty-three
and still living at home
my uncle marty called our house
asked to speak to me
it was a big deal at the time –
calling long distance
all the way from utah
he said i want you to do something for me
i want you to tell your mom and dad
that your aunt sarah has cancer
and she’s probably going to die
great … just great i thought
just what i needed
so at the kitchen table that friday night
the evening my father was off from work
i laid it out … just like that
i didn’t embellish … i didn’t mince words
and i told my mother that her younger sister
was going to die
aunt sarah
my sweet gentle aunt sarah
hung on for six years
until a fateful day in september 1975
when she finally succumbed
to this day
i don’t really know
why uncle marty chose me for the job
why he didn’t tell his sister and my father directly
why he hadn’t asked my older brother
to be the bearer of the calamitous news
i wish i’d asked uncle marty before he died
we’d stayed in touch
i’d had plenty of opportunities
perhaps the reason boils down
to a personality trait he saw in me
an unfortunate ability
to act dispassionately
coldly
to seemingly not be affected
by awful things happening
… that is
until later
sometimes much later
when the shit finally catches up
Poem 279 May 18, 2012
(up to top)
all of my short stories
poems and drabble
are posted on my website
it’s neither a blog
nor a facebook presence
but a full-blown indexed website
the website has great value to me
my poems are in date order
and numbered consecutively
i can search through all of them
by typing a couple of words in firefox
i can look for repetitive themes
and repetitive phrases
i can also steal from myself
once i had a counter on the site
but the only time it incremented
was after i updated the site
then checked to make sure
that the html code
and hyperlinks were perfect
but i finally removed the counter
– a tribute to narcissism –
because i couldn’t face the obvious slight
that nobody was visiting
no one cared enough to stop by
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 39, August 2016
Poem 280 May 22, 2012
(up to top)
although i can ride my bike any day
i really enjoy riding on weekends
when traffic is light
and there’re things going on in the parks
but lately on several sunday afternoons
i’ve been compelled to drive to new jersey
to visit my daughter’s family …
sunday is the only day they’re available
because of their uncompromising observance of the sabbath
on the most recent friday afternoon
our son-in-law got on the phone
– i suspect instigated by my wife –
and he says hi papa … are you coming out on sunday
the boys would really like to see you
damn i thought nice move guys …
the boys – eliyahu moshe and yitzchak
– six months three years old and almost six –
three grandsons getting bigger every day
sweet and feisty and delicious as only boys can be
surely i would not want to disappoint them
surely i could not possibly have the temerity
to take a stand for what i want
surely i must not urge my wife to drive there herself
thus the quandary –
how to balance selfish resentment and family obligation
and how to avoid the sour feeling i’m being held hostage
by devotion to family
and love
Poem 281 May 22, 2012
(up to top)
on monday evenings
i’ve been attending a writing workshop
on the west side of manhattan
during monday afternoons
after i edge and mow my lawn
work i welcome
both for the physical exertion
and the metronomic rhythm
i stand in front of our house
for several soothing minutes
admiring the freshly cut grass
the squared-off edges
the evenly-spaced indentations
made by the lawnmower wheels
then i shower and shave
prepare my sandwiches and vegetables
to enjoy on the almost empty 4:52 express
which speeds me into the city
i purposely set up the juxtaposition
between my two monday worlds
as i make my way past weary commuters
waiting to take their place on the train i’d disembarked
dodging and weaving through hurrying crowds
climbing up to the uptown express
packed with stoic blank-faced passengers
changing at times square for the number one local
alighting at sixty sixth street
then meandering through lincoln center
to stop at the riverside library
to kill time before our workshop begins
the grid of upper west side streets
disturbed only by the irreverent diagonal path of broadway
resembles – but just barely –
the rows left by the lawnmower wheels
and the quiet residential blocks
resemble – but just barely –
the calm and serenity
of the suburban street
which i call home
Poem 282 May 22, 2012
(up to top)
the express to penn station
sat idling near harold interlocking
east of the sunnyside yards
waiting for the signal to proceed
while i was listening to miles davis on my mp3
gazing out the north-side window
i watched a 40- or 50-something man
in a brown fedora black-rimmed glasses
a slate blue jacket zipped up to his neck
tan polyester slacks and black shoes
with white socks peeking out
as he walked between puddles
on the pock-marked sidewalk
past a junkyard and an empty lot
surrounded by barbed wire
and a concrete commercial building
as nondescript as he
i fantasized his middle-aged monday –
eight hours on his feet
selling discounted appliances on commission
in a too-brightly fluorescent-lit store
several blocks removed
from the thriving commercial strip
gentrified by 20- and 30-somethings
who’d moved in with their young children
and their mortgages and student loans
in the new up-and-coming neighborhood
featured in the latest full-color
new york times photo shoots
but he’s returning to the seedier section
across the tracks
many dollars away from where they’ve settled
to a fifth-floor apartment
in a rundown brick building
and all he’s hoping for
is that tonight – please! –
the elevator won’t be on the fritz
Poem 283 May 25, 2012
(up to top)
while i was waiting for the left turn signal
i watched a man in a shirt and tie
and pressed chinos
pushing an ancient lady in a wheelchair
across six lanes of stopped hempstead turnpike traffic
from st joseph hospital to the embassy diner
i joined my three friends inside
for our bi-weekly meeting
of the great minds of the western world
also known as our geek brunch
while we were shmoozing
about the woes of the world
the man pulled the back door open
having guided her wheelchair up the ramp
and sat her several tables away
the young man was neither eating
nor fielding a bevy of cell phone calls
but speaking softly smiling at her
when her pancakes were served
he cut hers into bite-sized bits
stuck her fork into each
slid the fork to within her limited reach
when she brought her coffee cup to her lips
he helped steady her quivering hands
when she was finished
he held her arthritic hands in his grasp
as usual
we still hadn’t solved the problems of the world
but i gazed around at my three friends
whom i’ve known for almost thirty years
remembered that there used to be six of us
and i take for granted – but shouldn’t –
that we’ll all be sitting around
the same corner table in the same diner
two weeks from now
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 30, February 2014
Poem 284 May 24, 2012
(up to top)
my wife often refers to me
– her loving husband –
as an ornery son of a bitch
she cites as one of her reasons
among a list of many she has enumerated
that i can never ask for help
if you come from a household
whose matriarch grew up with and in a depression
a lesson you might learn
is to never impose on others –
don’t ever ask for anything
and thus you will not be beholden
when i separated my shoulder
in a motorcycle accident
not only did i buy a long-handled brush
so i could scrub my back by myself
but on my first day out
i drove to the coward shoe store in hempstead
to buy a pair of clarks wallabe moccasins
so i wouldn’t have to ask for help
tying my shoelaces
it’s okay … you can count on me
are loving caring words …
but to me are only words
Poem 285 June 1, 2012
(up to top)
i see many oldsters wearing them –
sneaker-shoes … frumpy and often white
with clunky velcro closures
i shake my head
and whisper to myself poor bastards
until …
i think back to the time
after a motorcycle accident
when my left arm was in a sling
and i ran out to buy moccasins
because with one hand
i couldn’t tie my shoelaces
and i reflect upon
my 92-year-old mother-in-law
who visits a podiatrist
to get her toe nails cut
and my middle grandson
who at five
couldn’t get the hang of tying his shoes
so we bought him new balance sneakers
with hook and loop closures
and my now-deceased grandmother
whose arthritis and bunions prevented her
from wearing anything but
extra-wide shoes
fastened with velcro
and i contemplate adaptation –
how when we’re encumbered
or physically challenged
we still try to do all we can
to get around
to lead our lives
as normally as possible
Poem 286 June 1, 2012
(up to top)
the middle-aged couple were sitting
in the waiting room of the veterinarian
before them an ancient black dog
with white hairs around its muzzle
wearing a chest harness
lay shivering scared
our dog had just come out
of the examination room
having had a check-up tests shots
medicine that cost us a paw and a leg
and all he wanted to do
was to greet and sniff their dog
but when our focus shifted to them
and noticed their reddened faces
their freely-flowing tears
their dog whose ribs were so apparent
whose weakness was so palpable
we pulled ours away
and said the only thing we could say –
we’re so sorry
and they said the only thing they could say –
it’s all right
later i hugged our dog
nuzzled his neck
scratched his belly
and hoped i’d never have to make
their kind of decision
Poem 287.1 June 8, 2012
(up to top)
we reestablished
our love affair with garlic
on our way home from a play in the city
at a seventy-five cents-a-slice
pizza joint on sixth avenue
i handed them two twenty five
for two slices and a soda
later dropped three quarters
on the counter
for another hot slice
which we anointed
with granulated garlic –
a garlic so potent
i was still tasting it the next morning
several weeks later
before i went out
i had to make a choice
between spreading garlic on my turkey-salsa burger
and possibly repelling some people
or missing the delectable flavor
of the zesty aphrodisiac
naturally
the garlic
won hands down
Poem 288 June 8, 2012
(up to top)
my seventy-one year-old brother
is in a rehabilitation center
recovering from a spiral fracture
of his right leg
he’s learning how to do
what he took for granted
just a month before
climbing stairs
walking to the toilet
standing while taking a shower
there’s more to this story of course …
almost dying and being revived
the possible failure of his dialysis apparatus
compounded by severe bouts of depression
i was reluctant to visit him
feared the urine smell
barely covered by disinfectant
i’d been to rehab places like this before
so i appeared around seven
knew visiting hours ended at eight
surprised him
watched jeopardy with him
he knew a lot of the answers
… many more than i did
we talked only during commercial breaks
but when the show ended he turned off the tv
we covered the usual things
my wife my grandsons
his son’s marathon
his wife’s video job in the city
where he feared she wouldn’t find parking …
peripheral things
non-threatening things
and i found myself
conversing with a frail aging man
lying there in unmatched sweats
who’d dozed off twice
waking up with a start
apologizing
saying he’d blacked out
saying it was happening all the time
saying he was also forgetting too many things …
this from a man
with a memory like a steel trap
i tried to reassure him
said that there’s such a thing
as hospital head
didn’t really know if such a term existed
but which i defined
as being lost out of place and time
in an environment so foreign
so much unlike
home
he seemed to buy my explanation
but i’ll never know
i never know how he’s really thinking
he has the self-preserving habit
of acting as if …
as if things are wonderful terrific
so we’ll see how it goes …
if the orthopedic surgeon
will finally allow him to return home
to get back to a normal life
however that simple but loaded word
– normal –
is defined
Poem 289 June 8, 2012
(up to top)
my allergies are awful this season
seem to be getting worse
every year
i thought i’d outgrow them eventually
i was bicycling down peninsula boulevard
rolling with the wind
hitting the lights
breathing hard
felt something raspy in the back of my mouth
tried clearing it out
coughed
coughed again hard
felt myself wheezing
had trouble catching my breath
i braked pulled over stopped
finally
i expectorated
got whatever it was out
it took a few minutes
to get my breathing back to normal
and then i continued on
Poem 290 June 11, 2012
(up to top)
i first saw him at petco
walking ramrod straight
his fatigue cap visor just above his brow
he had to have been army
now probably retired
he strode over to his car
inside were two dogs
a pit bull mix
an english bulldog
so appropriate i thought
i next caught up with him
at silver lake in baldwin
the halfway point on my walk
i was relaxing on a bench
his friendly slobberers came over
to be scratched rubbed patted
we got to talking
he wanted to get away from too-crowded new york
move to a pre-fab cabin in georgia
on a remote four-acre tract
after enlisting during the vietnam era
serving for 41 years
he claimed all he wanted now was quiet
a peaceful coexistence with his dogs
yeah i said lotsa times dogs are better than people
you got that right he said
i wished him luck
we went our separate ways
Poem 291.1 June 11, 2012
(up to top)
when i’m out walking
with my dog or by myself
the hour or two on the road
goes by quicker and less tediously
when i’m listening to jazz or blues or reggae
classic rock or podcasts from public radio
as my dog and i stepped into the preserve
in the middle of a sonny rollins cut
there was sudden silence in my headphones
of course i knew what’d happened
my mp3 player's battery was exhausted
i hadn’t remembered to charge it
but now i heard different kinds of melodies
the repertoire of a mockingbird perched high on a tree
raucous caws from a murder of crows
rustling reeds in the bog
leaves whooshing in the breeze
belching from an eighteen-wheeler on sunrise highway
wheezing from an decelerating railroad train
at the station nearby
further in those man-made sounds were muted
all i could hear then
besides tweeting and chirping
was my dog sloshing through the brook
and tall trees quavering in the wind
Poem 292 June 18, 2012
(up to top)
in the middle of the summer
after i retired
i enrolled in a two-week clown intensive
held at the flea theater in manhattan
taught by clowns and performers
from the new york goofs
and the big apple circus
we were taught how to be moved by music
how to juggle plastic rings and scarves
how to spin dishes
how to balance sticks on the tips of our noses
how to apply clown makeup
how to develop a persona
which in my case was that of a crude old man
with a pronounced yiddish accent
i was there with several older teenagers
and 20- and 30-year olds
in some cases i was twice or thrice their ages
and sorry to say
i failed miserably in many of the skills
but i hung in there
commuting on the long island railroad
jammed in with straphangers on the a-train
sweltering on the hot and humid city streets
changing into putrid coolmax shirts
to handle my profuse perspiration
after those two weeks
i realized that clowning perhaps wasn’t for me
like other endeavors
the young’uns were on their way forward
following their dreams
while i was undergoing
a different kind of transition
but i had one thing
that these up-and-comers didn’t have –
experience!
i had worked in a circus
for over thirty years
how else could one characterize
the dysfunctionality
of the new york city board of education
how else could one describe
the lunacy
of an under-achieving
inner-city public high school
that on top of everything
was getting set to be closed
for the sake of trying something new
when everything had failed before
for the sake of a new brush sweeping clean
for the sake of breaking up a large institution
into a bunch of mini-schools
despite unavoidable extra costs
in a perpetually cash-strapped organization
i’m approaching the tenth anniversary
of the clown intensive
with wistfulness
but not with sadness
i do hope my classmates got to
whereever they needed to be
i know that i became less inhibited
more giving
and happier
Poem 293 June 21, 2012
(up to top)
my wife has had the ability to forgive
the kinds of things
that would gnaw at me …
she has that kind of gift
when she was eight years old
she was with her father
as he sat reclining on his favorite wicker chair
taking his last rasping breaths
her mother was across the street
talking to a neighbor
she ran out
screamed
ma come quick
it was too late
several years passed
her mother married a man
whom she’d known
from their school years together in germany
… soon my wife’s three paternal uncles
had their father change his will
from an equal twenty-five percent split
for each of the four sons
which would’ve been passed down
equitably to my wife and her sister
to a thirty-thirty-thirty-ten split
using the justification that
my wife’s new step-father
– a self-made man who escaped from the nazis –
would provide more than adequate care
… of course their jealousy and resentment
their greed and disrespect
never influenced their actions
for evil deeds can always be justified
there was a large stamp collection
containing rare european specimens
earmarked for my wife
which was summarily diverted
into one of the uncle’s possession
… after all
what use would a young naive girl have
for a bunch of worthless paper
her mother’s new husband
turned out to be a tyrant
not physically abusive
but mean-spirited and emotionally absent
so much unlike her warm and giving
father who died
after her stepfather’s recent death
it was discovered that in his will
the family house which had been placed in a trust
and which was supposed to have been
divided into equal thirds
for my wife her sister and her half-sister
as promised
was actually split up
so that my wife and her older sister
each received one fourth
while their half-sister received half
… their half-sister
of course
would never consider
equalizing the unfairness
… after all
it would not be in her best interest
i’d like to ask my wife how she’s done it –
how she’s been able
to submerge her emotions
how she’s been able to let it go
how she’s been able to keep up
a relationship with the uncle
– and his wife –
who were probably the main culprits
in the unfair division of her grandfather’s assets
through the past forty years of our marriage
i’ve wanted her
to confront her uncles
maybe just to get an explanation
about how they could cheat their nieces
how they could be so selfish
to their own brother’s children
but she has steadfastly refused
… the only remaining uncle now
is close to one-hundred
and is no longer lucid
i suppose she’s been able to forgive them
her deceitful uncles and her spiteful aunts
her complicit grandfather
her stepfather and his myopic views
her mother for allowing it to happen
her half-sister for not making it right
so i stand in awe
because even though i’d like to ask her
how she’s been able to get past it all
i don’t want to stir the pot
i don’t want to bring up old hurts
but if any one of you bastards
is listening out there or in the great beyond
i want to say
shame on you for what you’ve done
and i’d like to add
with two fully outstretched middle fingers
go fuck yourselves
for i cannot yet forgive
Poem 294 June 25, 2012
(up to top)
we were sitting in the embassy diner
for our biweekly brunch-meeting
of the world’s greatest minds
we moved onto yet another earth-shattering topic
… where to get high quality groceries
at the lowest prices
three of my friends shop
in a over-crowded store on old country road
where the parking lot
is as difficult to maneuver
as the cramped narrow aisles
gerry started talking
about having gone to a dollar store
and buying a large plastic flower with a flexible stem
so he could attach it to his shopping cart …
he would theoretically not lose sight of it
a problem which the others have encountered
i’d heard this story before
i wonder if the others had too
although none showed any recollection
our group has been meeting
for more than a decade
we’ve learned not to criticize
not to toss in even a friendly rebuke
although stories and jokes
have been told more than once …
after all
three of the guys are around eighty
give or take
so we swig down our orange juice
devour our pancakes and our eggs
drink our coffee
with refills of course
and segue into the next monumental topic
if we could bottle and distribute
the special ingredients
that’ve allowed our brunch group
to have lasted so long
we might actually have a chance
of achieving world peace
Poem 295 June 29, 2012
(up to top)
i’m on medicare
i also have part d drug coverage
yet i order my prescriptions
from a pharmacy in canada
because it works out best for me
along with two partners
my father owned a rexall drug store
which did well for many years
selling high-end perfumes and cosmetics
pharmaceuticals and sundries
i watched him doing the accounts payable
writing with an esterbrook fountain pen
in his elegant script
adding the columns in his head
on narrow-lined index cards
slipped into plastic sleeves
in a leather-bound ledger
and reverting to an adding machine
only when a tape record was needed
i heard him agonize over third-party payers –
welfare reimbursed for prescriptions
less than a dollar over cost
and about how many charges
were subsequently disallowed
i heard him grumble about abraham & straus
cutting into the store’s profits
about how pathmark
was stealing away local business
and i think about all this
when i fax my prescriptions
to a website in vancouver
enter my order on their website
and type in my credit card
wait for several weeks
to get my shipment from india
thus bypassing the local pharmacies
my father might be turning over in his grave
if he knew what i was doing
but he also just might be giving me
two thumbs up
Poem 296 July 2, 2012
(up to top)
i’d awakened
stumbled to the toilet
now i’m back in bed
trying to fall asleep
i’m sick of listening to talk radio
through a tinny ear bud
and though a bottle of xanax resides on my night stand
i choose a better drug –
a mental numerical calculation
called trial division
i take a five-digit number
derived from a five-letter word –
A equals 1 J equals 10 thus 0 through Z equals 6
or from my bicycle odometer after a ride
and i successively divide it
by all primes less than its square root
if none of the primes divides evenly
then the five-digit number must be a prime
and if it’s not prime
it might just be an interesting composite
and just as your eyes glaze over
from this convoluted mathematical explanation
my own computations begin fading away
and i’ll usually doze off
thankful that most of the time it works
Poem 297 July 15, 2012
(up to top)
going out for breakfast?
oh what a luxury …
i’m fortunate
to have a defined pension
social security
to have the means
to go anywhere
to do or buy anything we want
but always with me
are the nagging remnants of my upbringing
to save and save
avoid spending for extras or frivolities
keep things going as long as possible
abstain from splurging on something new
never ever be ostentatious
and then be forced to face two joy-deflating questions
what d’ya need it for?
and
why can’t you make do with what you have?
it’s a tough nuttiness to crack
this pragmatic behavior
tailor-made for the age of depression
Poem 298 August 3, 2012
(up to top)
maybe because it’s summertime
i yearn for escape
as we’re walking our dog
waiting for a japanese sedan to back out of a driveway
i hear a rumbling ford 150 pickup’s tires spraying gravel
as it pulls into a hamburger joint at a crossroads in west virginia
when we pass by a spanish restaurant in freeport
lit by an oddly yellow mid-morning sun
i feel the stickiness rising from a sidewalk in amsterdam
as a baker’s assistant sweeps wet leaves into the gutter
as we rush towards penn station
through the broadway pedestrian mall at herald square
i have a sudden taste for luscious dark cherries
bought from a cart on neuhauser strasse in munich’s city centre
sounds and tastes
the unmistakable odor of the ocean
the aroma of damp pine needles at twilight
the singeing hundred-degree heat on my calves
reminiscent of jersualem during a heat wave
hot enough to melt the soles of my walking shoes
i want to get away
i need to get away
Appeared in The Avocet Summmer, 2023 printed issue
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 36, August 2015
Poem 299 August 3, 2012
(up to top)
dearly beloved
we’re gathered here together …
funerals – structured events –
priests and pallbearers
rabbis and hearse drivers
all know their roles
play them to perfection
with or without the crib sheets
but the viewing
the wake and the shiva
are where truth begins to emerge
the ever-tainted truth
that’s painted and clouded by grief
in the rawness
between the tears and recriminations
you become acquainted with
family dynamics shrouded before
by repression and regression
projection and sublimation
and most of all … by denial
and you hear the should’ves and could’ves
that might have
just maybe
forestalled the severe decree
Poem 300 August 7, 2012
(up to top)
during our vacation
my grandsons
with appropriate trepidation and wariness
again clambered over boulders
to immerse themselves
in a rock-strewn river
i wanted to join them
but the first time i’d left behind my water shoes
the second time my swim suit was up at the car
i could have easily gone and changed
but i just … didn’t
i’m afraid of becoming that fat old fart
sitting at water’s edge
watching the others having fun
using as an excuse an arthritic knee
the easy wounding and bleeding
caused by blood-thinners
being overweight
not being able to fit through narrow openings
not willing to risk
being scraped up by boulders
by rock faces
by my aging aching ego
Poem 301 August 8, 2012
(up to top)
last night
in yet another school dream
though a decade has passed
jerry gold came to me
no longer with the mischievous face of a tummler
– his summer job at kutsher’s in the catskills –
who wanted nothing from administration
other than to be left alone
to teach his phys ed classes
insisting give me five … stay alive
jerry gold who had the bravura
before he and i and another teacher
were about to begin a three-on-three
against seniors from the basketball team
to make a set shot from the foul line
then from the arc
and finally from half-court
who then cantered around the court
high-fiving the cheering throng
who had come to watch us play
jerry gold who loved modern dance and ballet
and me back then thinking dance?
a macho-type guy who loved dance?
little did i know
jerry gold who kidded me when my spirits were low
saying lloyd whatcha worryin’ about?
… you’ve found a home here
jerry gold now bloated and aged
leaning on a walker
exiting the school building with me at dismissal
and i say jerry … how’re ya doin?
he looks benumbed bewildered
staring straight ahead
as hordes of black and brown teens
freed from six hours of confinement
spirited off around him
glances at me
mumbles that’s why … i had to … give it up
jerry gold
you are still in my thoughts
Poem 302 August 10, 2012
(up to top)
we returned home from a vacation
with our son and his family
how can i tell my wife
who so looked forward to going away with them
especially to be with our two older grandsons
that i didn’t enjoy as much as she did
our week away in new england?
she keeps on reminding me
that in a couple of years when they’re teenagers
they’ll want nothing to do with us
yeah it’s adventurous to traipse through lost river gorge
climb the steps to the flume gorge in franconia notch
to watch the little ones spelunking in boulder caves
to follow them through an armory museum
watching the performing bears at clark’s trading post
hearing their ewws at the grossology exhibit at the ecotarium
sharing their wonder and discoveries
but … it had become enough already
focusing primarily on children’s activities
waiting outside the umpteenth gift shop
not getting enough exercise
eating out a lot
eating too much
i assume i’m supposed to feel uplifted and refreshed
after a vacation
but i feel morose and irritable
my wife keeps suggesting
that she’d like to now go away with our daughter
and her brood of three young children
who age from nine months to six years
our daughter and husband are observant jews
who obey the laws of shabbos and kashruth
who don’t own a tv
who want only kosher activities for their kids
yeah … sure … traveling with them would be such a blast
moreover
when do we get our vacation
to do adult things?
but if you ask me what i really want to do
i’d be hard pressed to give a cogent answer
maybe machu picchu and iguazu falls
perhaps israel again though we’ve been there twice
we’re already been city’d out
having visited jerusalem and london and paris
been to the wall seen the eiffel tower and picadilly circus
amsterdam and munich and prague
seen the canals and the red light district
went to dachau and theresienstadt concentration camps
and the greatest city in the world is a 43-minute train ride away
as of two minutes ago
i turned sixty-six
i’m not getting any younger
i don’t want to die
regretting what i’ve missed
Poem 303 August 14, 2012
(up to top)
in the land of broken dolls
teddy bears
cold stiff ragged
have been banished to the highest shelf
while a new soft bear with both eyes
is cuddled by a little one
a thumb stuck in her mouth
lionel trains have been derailed
switched to forgotten sidings
their orange and blue boxes
stacked out of sight
on the dusty floor in back of a closet
amidst
baseball gloves arthritic and mildewing
jigsaw puzzles missing pieces
a rusty red wagon without wheels
romance novels with pages ripped out
barbies have lost their kens
have lost parts of themselves
while a new american girl doll preens
in her excitement
as her life is being created
Appeared in Performance Poets Association Sevententh Annual Literary Review, 2013
Poem 304 August 30, 2012
(up to top)
a breezy muggy monday
the last night of the summer readings
at the oceanside gazebo
i usually bring my dog who’s almost twelve
perhaps jimmy doesn’t relate to poetry
but he loves the attention
especially the crumb cake
… at the fourth of july barbecue
jimmy’s in doggie nirvana
there’s an open read scheduled
on this late august evening
perhaps several scheduled readers had bailed out
i sign the sheet
slot number two is free
tony calls the first four of us up
tells us to read just one short piece
herb goes first
i’m next
as i fiddle with the microphone
jimmy steps off the platform
sniffs a rose bush
lifts his legs
starts piddling
and piddles
and piddles
and piddles some more
he takes the longest pee i can remember
when he’s done
when he’s finally done
i say thank you very much
get laughter and a round of applause
only then is it my turn
to read a poem entitled
old fart
Appeared on the Summer Gazebo Readings Blog, April 14, 2013
Poem 305 August 30, 2012
(up to top)
i hate the noise
the bitching
the constant unquiet
the hundreds of channels of crap
the hundreds of ways to waste away lives
i hate my arthritic knee
my cpap mask
my ashthma inhaler
my prescription regimen
the black and blues caused by my blood thinner
i hate knowing that i’m fat
avoiding looking in the mirror
getting inexorably older
being made aware of the odds for diabetes
knowing the end result of obesity
i hate duplicity
the tiny lies of parents and teachers
the blatant lies of politicians
the phoniness of psychopaths-in-training
the awful world if republicans get elected
i hate the do-gooders
with their hands in your pocket
political correctness
people with ideals with a capital i
who know nothing about the world or me
i hate aggressive arrogant people
their bellicosity and belligerence
forceful numb-skull morons
who believe what they hear on talk radio
who want you to believe it is so because they said it
i hate stupidity
people who’re too stupid to know they’re stupid
incompetent boobs
with delusions of grandeur
wearing clothes straight out of midas’s closet
i hate diesel fumes
belched out from u p s trucks and buses
while i’m walking
when i’m riding
when we’re stuck behind a jitney in the midtown tunnel
i hate the must-buy mentality
the lament that last year’s purchase is now obsolete
the pressure to acquire
the unhappiness that comes after
when realization bubbles up
i hate people with too much money
the owners of luxurious yachts
who idle in the harbor
spilling fuel in the rainbow water
as they fill up their insatiable tanks
i hate the bullshitters
whose gift for glibness
is not seen through by admirers
who never know
how empty their suits really are
i hate dying
i hate death
i hate the fear
i hate the idea of not being
i hate being no more
Poem 306 September 5, 2012
(up to top)
walking the dog on a hot humid morning
at least he has the good sense
to lead me to the brook
he wades in shakes out
with a ahh look on his face
edging and mowing the lawn after lunch
a full body sweat
chaos into order
hosing myself off in the sun
my reward
parking at field six
in the late afternoon
wading into the water
diving into a wave as it crashes over me
repeat as they keep on coming
it’s not the ironman
but at my stage in life
it’s just as exhausting
just as exhilarating
Poem 307 September 5, 2012
(up to top)
it’s late afternoon in august
we’re at jones beach field six
a strong wind is blowing from the west
we walk into the surf
the waves look huge
though they’re only five or six feet high
we are wary
we always enjoy the ocean
when it’s warm in late summer
especially if the jellyfish are not around
we usually get to the beach
stay in the ocean for an hour or so
take showers then maybe go out to eat
today the waves are crashing around us
we bob up and down
keeping watch staying alert
as the waves come in groups of threes
and sometimes fours and fives
because we are pushed east
we get out for the third time
and move west to go back in
i can see the tide rising on the beach
suddenly i can’t touch bottom
i try to paddle closer to shore
i’m not successful
i’m not going anywhere
i tell my wife that i’m afraid
she’s had lifeguard training
she starts guiding me in
i notice that the lifeguard is watching us
after several strokes and pushes
i touch bottom
and just as suddenly
i’m being thrust forward
a cluster of swells are breaking over me
i try to count to three
maybe there are more
i’m being tossed around in the surf
i try to get up on my knees
try to get a hand hold
but i’m being bowled over
buffeted and banged around
i feel like a rudderless whale
finally i feel a hand
helping me up
i rise
wobble to the shore
stand there gulping in air
watching the ocean
it’s angry
i’m angry
my wife wobbles out of the surf
i know she’s worried
this has never happened before
this feeling of helplessness
and i’m still breathing hard
you okay? she asks
you had enough?
i wanted to get back in
to fight that damn ocean
i didn’t want it to get the best of me
but i thought the better of it
yeah i had enough i admit
c’mon … let’s go
i know we’ll be back for more
Poem 308 September 5, 2012
(up to top)
the final day of summer vacation
my last gasp of freedom
before the beginning of another school year
i was taking a long bike ride
i wanted to make the most of the day
as i rode towards jones beach
on the bike path along the wantagh
an inordinate number of bikers
were heading the opposite way
many cars were also traveling north
it looked like an evacuation
i asked one of the bikers what was happening
he said they’d closed the beaches
there was a storm approaching
although it was overcast
it didn’t look too threatening to me
south of the first bridge
the wind began to pick up
my mother’s admonishment
it’s better to be safe than sorry
popped into mind
i decided to turn back
i joined the exodus
of bicyclists and skaters and drivers to the mainland
felt some raindrops
after i passed through cedar creek park
i turned west on merrick road
to ride towards home
and safety
the drops became bigger heavier
the western sky looked angry and dark
darker than i’d ever seen before
and just before the deluge
i rode up the driveway of engine 5
of the wantagh fire department
i asked if i could wait the storm out
they said sure thing
allowed me to bring my bike inside
invited me to sit in their lounge
we watched the cardinals play the cubs
they even offered me a beer
between innings
i got up to use the bathroom
looked out through a window
saw only darkness
assumed the window faced another building
but i looked through the front door
it was pitch black outside
rain was pelting the driveway
the wind was howling
we watched as mark mcgwire
– he of steroid fame –
hit his sixty-first home run
tying roger maris’s home run record
– the one with the asterisk –
i’d watched that game with my dad
back in 1961
when the rain finally stopped
i thanked the men
headed out on merrick road
to continue my trip home
weaved past fallen limbs
passed through carless intersections
under traffic lights
that had ceased functioning
as i rode i thought about my dad
how he would have dealt
with his free-flowing anxiety
with the high blood pressure
that eventually did him in
knowing his son was out riding
wondering how he would fare
riding into
a perfect storm
Poem 309 September 24, 2012
(up to top)
i do much of my bicycle riding
on heavily-traveled suburban thoroughfares
merrick road and peninsula boulevard
stewart avenue and old country road
there are some streets i do avoid
long beach road in oceanside
much of hempstead turnpike
central avenue in the five towns
before a jewish holiday
… that crazy i’m not
i could stay in the neighborhood
meander through subdivisions
pack my bike in my van
to drive to eisenhower park to do loops
ride back and forth on the path to jones beach
but it’s almost as bad as running
around and around
on an endless track
so i’m out there riding with traffic
fighting for my own narrow space
on the right side of the road
weaving through cars stopped for a light
to get to the front so when the light changes
i can be first to pull away
it’s the safest place to be
but i know at that some point
as i get older
my reflexes will begin to slow
my judgment might not be as sharp
and i’m afraid
that i’ll lose my nerve
it takes a certain amount of guts
to ride like i ride …
i once had an air horn
with an inflatable tank
and i used to blow it
so cars would get out of my way
it was anything but defensive riding
i removed it some years back –
i didn’t like my frame of mind
my misplaced trust in a very loud horn
if i lose my nerve
i don’t think
i’d be able to get on my bike
ride thirty miles or so
on those busy streets
i might have to revert to the parks
to those unending loops
to those laps upon laps
where there’s no challenge
where i’m not getting anywhere
where it’s just
safe
Poem 310 September 24, 2012
(up to top)
the only high holiday service i usually attend
is erev yom kippur
– the evening before the day of atonement
as i entered the sanctuary
the congregation president asked
if i’d accept the honor of holding a torah scroll
standing aside the cantor’s pulpit …
of course i agreed
i embraced the scroll to my chest
as i would cuddle an infant
while the cantor intoned kol nidre
the haunting ancient melody
declaring all vows prohibitions and oaths
undone cancelled null and void
i handed the scroll
to another congregant
returned to my seat
as the cantor repeated the incantation
and then once again
but i didn’t feel sanctified
i didn’t feel anything
… yet i so much wanted to
we were sitting up front
in seats assigned to us
in alphabetical order i presume
i had really wanted to sit further back
i should’ve moved
i wanted the sacred songs and prayers
the cantor’s ethereal voice
to wash over me
to somehow cleanse me from afar
during the third reciting of al chet
– the collective confession of sins
repeated ten times during the yom kippur services –
i disengaged
i couldn’t wait to leave
but because we were sitting in the second row
i couldn’t just walk out
so i stood when told to rise
sat when everyone else sat
followed along in the prayer book
mouthed some familiar words in hebrew
read responsively though with indifference …
my disconnection was so palpable
on this
the evening before
the holiest of high holy days
when it is sealed –
how many shall pass on, and how many shall be born
who shall live and who shall die …
Poem 311 October 4, 2012
(up to top)
one of my longer walks
takes me to maple street
as far west in baldwin as one can get
where the long island railroad
reaches a low point
before it continues its climb
towards the baldwin or rockville centre stations
i stand next to the tracks
wait for a train to approach
during the evening rush
the trains come quite often
as a train gets close
i rotate and lift my arm to my shoulder twice
most often i get a horn response
maybe one short toot
sometimes two longs a short and a long
– the standard signal before a crossing –
it makes me so very happy
… joyous … almost ecstatic
i feel myself grinning wide
and after one or two
of these momentary human contacts
with the train’s engineer
i continue on my way
with a smile still on my face
Poem 312 October 4, 2012
(up to top)
you can spot them
monopolizing the swings in the playground
hogging their table in the lunchroom
whispering in the back corner of study hall
gossiping in the kitchen at the party
holding court at the haddasah meeting
at the bible study group
in the common room of the senior center
you can watch these girls these women
these not so grande dames
pull themselves into an impenetrable circle
mined and barb-wired
fenced off to others
by their snobbish body language
their nasty sneers and stares
their warped sense of entitlement
whatever their age
they’re the ones
who proclaim stay away
we don’t want you
we’re special
and you are not
we’re deserving
and you’re not worthy
we belong
and you never will
Poem 313 October 5, 2012
(up to top)
so tell me …
why must i scratch and rub your belly?
just because when i walk into our bedroom
your head is on my pillow?
just because when i say your name
your stubby tail starts twitching?
just because when i sit on the bed
you ooze over onto your back?
just because you’re lying there
with your paws dangling in the air?
just because you glance back at me
with your big brown doggie eyes?
or just because you know darn well
that’s exactly what i’ll do
Poem 314 October 8, 2012
(up to top)
the bocce players
in flannel shirts and polyester pants
in suspenders and tattered jackets
are standing on the bocce court
arguing advising and kidding each other
in thick and melodious italian
about how a ball should be played
how a ball should’ve been played
to get as close as possible
to the pallino – the target –
or to knock the opponents’ balls
out of the way
after the eight balls are bowled
tossed in the air past the center line
a man with a carpenter’s folding rule
kneels down to determine
which balls are closest …
points are tabulated
the pointer on a scoring dial is rotated
on this breezy balmy sunday afternoon
i can almost imagine
this old world game being played
in palermo or florence or roma
a concertina’s melody in the background
the aroma of cooked food wafting over
a kinship that transcends distance
Appeared in Performance Poets Association Nineteenth Annual Literary Review, 2015
Poem 315.1 October 15, 2012
(up to top)
i was frustrated irritated …
i’d gotten up early
rushed through my email
to allow an hour to walk our dog
on a warm and windy mid-october morning
we’d gotten as far as the corner
the usual route to our loop through the preserve
as we were crossing jimmy stopped short
put his head down
refused to go any further
i had to drag him out of the street
he has often balked when he hears thunder –
sometimes rumbles only he perceives –
today though it was cloudless
but i figured his senses are more acute than mine
so i took him home
he wanted no part of being outside
i didn’t want to make him more miserable
i got to the diner early
for brunch with the guys
i told my friend who arrived first
that i was feeling stressed and the reason
then realized immediately
that his troubles are enormous by comparison …
several years earlier
his wife of fifty years had suffered a stroke
and they live day to day
knowing that things will never get better
hoping that things will just stay the same
i’ve similarly felt thwarted
when i complain to my wife’s mother
and she answers
you never realize what they had to go through …
over there
i thought i should’ve kept my morning blues it to myself
maybe i had no right to complain
i said sorry … i think i shouldn’t’ve said anything
you know … with your wife and all the …
but my friend answered
if you’ve got a pebble in your shoe
it still hurts …
this pebble … it’s only a small thing
but it still bothers the hell out of you
Poem 316 October 15, 2012
(up to top)
school dreams –
dreams filled with anxiety
even after ten years of retirement
some go like this …
i walk into my classroom
i feel like i shouldn’t be there
i know i’ve been gone a while
i can’t find attendance sheets cutscan sheets class rosters lesson plans
i wonder what i’m doing here
the dream self-affirms that i’ve come out of retirement
students are sitting only on one side of the room
or some are sitting way back in a corner
of an unusually long classroom with glass walls
sometimes the students are young and eager
– the brightest ninth graders i’d programmed for myself –
sometimes surly seniors walk in and out of the classroom
while unknown students and visitors wander in
or … i’m given business classes to teach in the basement
in a windowless alcove of the cafeteria
i’m assigned to teach english or social studies
though i’d switched years ago
from special ed to math
i have no damn idea what i’m doing
i check with the payroll secretary
to see if i’m going to get a check
i wonder if i’ll have to reimburse the retirement system
since i’m now earning a salary
when i leave the building
i can’t find my car
i wander through grid-less streets
while knowing i’d had this type of dream before
where i don’t know where i’m going
can’t find my way back
the actuality was …
sixty-five percent of my students
failed my classes
whether i had gifted freshmen
or jaded upperclassmen …
sixty-five percent failed
in ninth year math or sequential math or math “a” –
they change the curriculum and the books but it’s all the same –
to prepare our students for the regents
we had 130 lessons to complete in a year
within 183 so-called “instructional” days
less regents exam days
less in-class test days
less review days
less post-test-aftermath days
leaving approximately 135 days
in which to teach those 130 lessons
… very little time for anything else
like doubling-up on a lesson
so our kids would fully understand a concept
like recreational math to really get
our kids to love math
and in a forty-two minute period
there was never enough time
especially when homework was involved
how could we be expected to collect homework
correct it
and then hand it back?
it would take a few minutes out of every class
if it’s three minutes out of forty-two
the it’s seven percent of the allotted time
or to go over several problems from homework?
to get the kids to do the homework?
to at least hand something with their name on it in?
one strategy we had was to have the students make
carbon copies of their homework
they’d keep the original which they’d self-correct
and hand in the copy which we’d check off
we’d be spending time in class
going over homework problems
six minutes divided by forty-two
equals fourteen percent
i gave word-processed tests
based on questions from old regents exams
perhaps not an original and imaginative
but the wording of the questions was the same
i wanted to get my students to see what was expected
i rarely chose the hardest questions
found myself steadily lowering the level
finally choosing the easiest questions
even having extra-credit questions
went over a review sheet the day before
using the same questions with different numbers
went over the test the day after
… still there was sixty-five percent failure
yes sixty-five percent
maybe there was more i could’ve done
teachers were continually beseeched to do better
exhorted and admonished to do more
we became the whipping boys of the administration
of the board of ed of the mayor
we were the easy target – sitting ducks
after all you couldn’t blame the parents
and you certainly couldn’t blame the students
so look who’s left standing
maybe i could’ve stayed after school
skipped lunch
devoted my free periods to extra help and tutoring
to have students draped around my desk
but i believed
there was a point of diminishing returns
a true story …
in summer school one of my colleagues gave a math test
with each correct multiple choice answer in bold
… many of his students still managed to fail
some of my colleagues
seemed to have more success
had higher passing percentages than the norm
our assistant principal did an analysis
of the transcript database i supplied
found that many of these colleagues’ students
repeated the following term’s class multiple times
they had been too ill-prepared to be promoted
then they used up valuable class space
would rarely complete the math requirement required for graduation
would tend to eventually drop out
… but these colleagues had better statistics
thus looked like quite a bit better
than me
and all this took place
in the poisoned atmosphere of dysfunction and incompetence
where fiscal starvation dried up motivation
where who-gives-a-shit attitudes killed enthusiasm
where periodic battles for a decent contract undermined morale
where professionalism and good intentions disappeared
where vital years were sapped of devotion
where time was marked
life was counted down
until the final bell
Poem 317 October 15, 2012
(up to top)
the sea of reeds along the bicycle path
sways like hula dancers
to the melody of the wind
beckoning
pull over
step off your bike
come stroke our captivating cattails
fondle our feathery clusters
now that you’re enchanted
beyond hope
powerless
lower your lustful gaze
reach out
touch
caress
the glistening crimson leaves of poison sumac
the glossy burnt-orange tri-folioles of poison ivy
learn their insidious names –
toxicodendron vernix and radicans –
come to adore these voluptuous plants
whose unforgiving nature
will soon become too familiar
to you
now
the newly enraptured
Appeared in Bards Annual 2013
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 46, May 2018
Poem 318.1 October 18, 2012
(up to top)
got home from a workshop
my wife was upstairs in the bathtub
turned on the tv
sat down with a box of cheez-its
started watching a show on dvr
munched the orange salty crackers
soon became thirsty
went back to the kitchen
looked for something cold and wet
opened the freezer
saw only one frozfruit in front
wanted that frozfruit
knew how much she enjoys them
could certainly do without that one
so i left it for her
i would’ve liked a kavod
– an acknowledgment like
hey thanks for saving it for me –
but thought mentioning it would be crass
this time i’ll keep my tiny act of love
to myself
Poem 319.2 October 25, 2012
(up to top)
freed
torpor lifted
i can write again
only time i’d been out
was walking the dog
raking leaves
breaking up branches
i’ve also been sick
we’ve walked
through our neighborhood
sighing about lost trees
these downed familiar friends
we’ve walked
through south freeport
inhaling salty air
suffused with diesel fuel
waterlogged furniture on sidewalks
boats launched onto front lawns
homeowners struggling
some stop to talk
our dog sits by their side
we listen to their plaint
shake our heads
so glad it wasn’t us
i can’t hold it all in
all of their sorrow
all of their loss
Poem 320 November 16, 2012
(up to top)
november 7
it’s taken more than a week to type this
haven’t written anything but emails
hurricane sandy has departed
the
i know the hurricane and its aftermath
are fodder for writing attempts
but i’ve been blocked …
just like two years ago
when we stopped at two concentration camps –
dachau near munich and theresienstadt near prague –
and it took more than a month
to process the awful overwhelmingness
and to get any words typed on the screen
during sandy we were lucky
only a few branches snapped
two high hats got blown off
lost power for half a day
cable for several days
could live without tv and the internet
spotty cell phone service was angst-producting
two miles south
freeporters nearer the water were not as lucky
cars submerged
boats strewn up onto front lawns
houses were flooded
homes were lost
right now we’re hosting a wheaten terrier like jimmy
our dog’s buddy from years ago
whose parents lost their townhouse in the surge
they’re moving to florida in a few days
while their home is being renovated
back to 1980s standards
however that will play out for them
we’ve had it lucky
the homes owned by a brother-in-law
and the adjoining one by his sister
in belle harbor in the rockaways
right on the atlantic ocean
were destroyed
most of each was washed away
along with the seawall
that failed to protect them from the rushing waters
this is the first day
i’ve been away from my house
except for an orthodox bar mitzvah
that was onerous and never-ending
less a joyous celebration
than an exercise in tedium
my wife is in new jersey again
caring for our daughter
who’d sliced off the tip of her finger
had it reattached
has to keep it elevated
can’t even diaper the almost one-year-old
she needs someone with her full time
and … they lost power for six days
they were lucky compared to others
who lived along the shore
i’ve taken the railroad in to see a show called grace
i’m sitting inside a starbucks
on the corner of seventh avenue and fiftieth street
looking out the window
killing time until the seven o’clock curtain
i’m watching the animation
on the barclaycard headquarters
phrases crawling across the facade
we live by our measure of success – yours
earn success everyday
teamwork excellence success
customers – some sipping coffee and lattes –
are charging their cell phones and laptops
hundreds of thousands of new yorkers
and other tri-state residents
still do not have power
do not know when they will get it
a nor’easter is bearing down
sleet rain snow are already falling
the wind is picking up
i had to get into the city
i had to get out of my house
where the two main topics
are sandy and the elections
thank goodness for the elections …
that president obama prevailed
thank goodness the democrats
retained control of the senate
thank goodness the antiquated selfish message
of the monstrous republicans
were repudiated by a majority of the voters
i’m watching people walk by
bundled up
hooded scarfed umbrella’d
snowflakes drifting onto their heads
i’ve been slurping a quarter-caff grande light
for the past fifteen minutes
i’m feeling better
as the caffeine seeps in
yet another empty double-decker bus passes by
no one’s sitting up top
few people are inside
this cathartic writing is working
getting out of the house is working
i hope the lirr doesn’t experience
storm-related delays
on the return trip home
throughout it all
i wonder if i have survivor’s guilt
am i allowed to feel this good?
after the excellent broadway show
i’m disturbed by worries about returning home
annoyed about having to replace
a metrocard i’d just replenished and promptly lost
when i got back to the forty-ninth street station
i read
on the information sign under the estimated minutes for the next train
all lirr trains from penn station are suspended
i subwayed there anyway
figured i could cross over to the eighth avenue side
take an e-train to jamaica
at least i’d be closer to home
maybe there’d be a babylon train out of jamaica
or else i could take the n-4 bus to freeport
when i got to penn station
there was only one train heading out
it was bound for ronkonkoma
i got on fretting all the way
couldn’t hear announcements in the car
called my son as soon as we emerged from the east river tunnel
asked if he could pick me up in hicksville
he lives in merrick so he asked how about westbury?
i said i don’t know if it’s gonna stop there
no conductor came through to collect tickets
even when i asked several passengers
none seemed to know
none cared enough to respond
in the middle of the nor’easter
he drove to hicksville to meet me
then to drive me back to freeport to pick up my car
it’s really gratifying to having a son
who’ll go out of his way for me
it’s been a month since sandy’s wrath
our daughter’s finger is healing
leaves are piled along the curb
huge trees and limbs are still all around
waiting to be carted away
i can’t imagine how people who’ve lost their homes
can function
of course they’ll go on
for it’s all they could do
gas lines are back to normal
we’ve taken my mother-in-law to the movies
we’ve made runs to bj’s and costco
life is getting back to normal
however normal can be measured
however the new normal is defined
after a deadly storm’s devastation
Poem 321 November 7, 16 & 30, 2012
(up to top)
at age seventy-nine and a half
after authoring thirty-one books
philip roth announced
that he had retired from writing
i’ve read most of his books
identified with his characters –
their conflicts fears and angst
in an interview published in the new york times
he looked back at his career
with apparent satisfaction and few regrets
he’d reread much of what he’d written
he said i can’t face any more days
when I write five pages and throw them away
i can’t do that anymore
i wish i were that talented
that prolific
i guess in my own small way
i do have my good days
i can type words on a screen
set up creative plot lines
write poetry that has meaning
reflect on my life in my own words
yet sometimes i too feel like packing it away
but i’m still hitting the keys
though not nearly as copiously as he
tacked to his computer
is a post-it note that states
the struggle with writing is over …
he said i look at that note every morning
and it gives me such strength
Poem 322 December 2, 2012
(up to top)
if
the pointer creeps higher
than that accursed hash mark
or the readout exceeds
those damnable digits
then there’s emotional hell to pay
if
on the other hand
the pointer has receded below that set point
or the readout shines its countenance upon her
then all is good in the world
i’ve lived with her inner turmoil
for as long as i can remember
i don’t fight it anymore
don’t argue with it
don’t attempt to fix it
don’t try to smooth things over
though her joy of life is subverted
by those numbers on a scale
i just let the monster have its way
and hope it’ll be better
tomorrow
Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 30, February 2014
Poem 323.1 December 13, 2012
(up to top)
the german term affenliebe means monkey love …
simian mothers lick and nearly suffocate their young
… applied to humans
it disparagingly implies an overly affectionate doting
a blind exaggerated tenderness
how can i compete
when three of my grandson’s other grandfather
showers them with presents
rolls around on the floor with them
offers to change their diapers
… in his eyes they can do no wrong
so … i have trouble considering myself
an equally worthy grandfather
when i measure myself
against his adoring indulgent ways
until i realize i’ll never be like him
but i do get them to giggle at my silliness
play with them in the park
drive them to the bakery
buy each of them a cookie
right before dinner
put them to bed
read them more stories
than their parents think they’re entitled to
and most of all …
i hug them
squeeze them
whenever i get the chance
i don’t need to be an affenliebe
to show my love
and to be loved right back
Poem 324 December 18, 2012
(up to top)
on the overcast saturday before
in hempstead lake state park
my dog and i walked
past a lily-covered pond
encircled by trees
flaunting their autumn colors
glowing goldenrod coral and crimson
i stopped to admire
and rejoice
on the dismal wednesday after
we walked through the neighborhood
all our exquisitely-colored leaves were gone
torn away by raging wind and rain
from the terrible october storm
that shall remain nameless
between two homes
beside a massive oak wrenched from the ground
against a backdrop
of washed-out grays and browns
were two bushes of flaming scarlet
… yet they were not consumed
Poem 325 December 25, 2012
(up to top)
at jamaica
a leathery ruddy-faced man
trudges onto our inbound train
plops down in a two-seater
yanks off his gray woolen cap
reaches into a pocket
pulls out a mini bottle
swills down the amber liquid
gazes out the window
sighs
west of woodside
he cracks open another
sips it this time
wipes his mouth
on the sleeve
of his faded blue peacoat
now
he’s ready
for a hot night
on the town
Poem 326 January 5, 2013
(up to top)
new year’s eve
we approached our neighbor’s house
smelled smoke from the chimney
i said oh no … fuckin’ fireplace
she said behave yourself
walked up the front steps
exclaimed happy new year!
did the hand shaking air kissing
admired the festive table
i began to have trouble breathing
couldn’t speak in sentences
couldn’t form a coherent thought
escaped to the kitchen
made small talk with the hostess
my wife found me
mumbled i can’t breathe in there
they gathered in the living room
for humus and veggies and cheese and crackers
i hadn’t eaten
wanted to hit the brie
whispered to the host i’ve got to get some air
stepped outside
took deep breaths
walked home
i stunk from smoke
my clothes stunk from smoke
hung my clothes outside
only my underwear didn’t stink
took a shower
no way was i going back
made my own delicacy –
a triple-decker sandwich
seeded corn bread from a jewish bakery
smucker’s natural peanut butter
polaners apricot preserve
caught up with the times
did the easy-on-monday puzzles
my wife came home a bit later
said she didn’t feel like staying
with the others without me
i said sorry … it was awful
i just couldn’t take it
i know … it’s all right she said
shrugged her shoulders
we hugged
she peeled off her own reeking clothes
hung them outside too
changed into pajamas
hours later
we watched the ball drop
… and we kissed
Poem 326 January 5, 2013
(up to top)
we’ve been opening brokerage accounts
transferring in all of our stocks
i’ll no longer have to keep track
of dividends base prices reinvestments
we’ve found a roofing company
they clean out our gutters
i’ll no longer have to maneuver
our 36-foot extension ladder
to scrape out wet leaves with
on frigid december days
my wife had contracted
to have an in-ground sprinkling system installed
i’ll no longer have to spend
an hour or two every second or third day
watering the flower beds by hand
positioning sprinklers every thirty minutes
on our front and back lawns
as much as i’ve enjoyed the responsibility
of keeping spreadsheets of our investments
climbing up the ladder
standing with a pistol grip nozzle
i’m told it’s good to let someone else do it for now
it’s been difficult giving up these obligations
these encumbrances
these duties
which make me feel alive
and needed
Appeared in What Have You Lost/Found? / An Anthology of Poetry, 2021
Poem 328 January 21, 2013
(up to top)
in front of costco
a tiny asian lady slides
beer bottles and soda cans
dasani and poland spring bottles
into recycling machines
some accepted
others spit out
ignoring the wrong sku readout
ignoring the wrong way readout
kept cramming them in
waiting for the tiny printout
waiting for her promissory payout
waiting
like the blue-haired lady
who flocks to a c
on the fifteen-dollar bus
who blows her social security
ignoring the odds
stuffing coins
into the hungry mouths
of disarmed bandits
all she’s got to do
is press a button
wait for the k’ching k’ching
of dropping coins
praying for the jackpot
waiting for her improbable payout
waiting
Poem 329.2 January 21, 2013
(up to top)
my ten-year-old bike shoes
had worn out
threaded holes
into which cleats are screwed
had broken off
still had a pair
of twenty-year-old shimano shoes
that worked kind of okay
with a pair of dura ace pedals
but they never fit just right
i’m sixty-six years old
just bought a new pair
of sidi dominator bicycle shoes
not just a minor purchase
cost over two hundred bucks
i was raised to make do
with what i have
there’s the ancient joke
about being so old
that i never buy green bananas
but i’m optimistic
i intend to keep on riding
and riding
until i need another pair
Poem 330 January 21, 2013
(up to top)
when we’re on the train
coming home from the city
we sometimes each do a sudoku
if i finish mine first
she might ask what’re ya doin’ … showing off?
if i try kidding around
point to a sudoku she’s working on
say the two goes over there
referring not to any particular square
she might get pissed off and answer
why’nt ya mind your own business
if i attempt to make contact
… like loving couples do
ask conciliatory-like
you want some help?
she might retort
do i
thus a benign but addictive puzzle
has become a malignant issue in our relationship
so i’ve decided
after much hostile contemplation
that there’ll be no more sudoku for me
when i see one she’d been filling in
i turn it face down
when she’s working on one
i ignore her and walk away
when she offers me a blank puzzle
like she’ll do sometimes
more to leave her alone
than as an offer of peace
i smile and say no thank you hon
and try hard
very hard
to keep the vitriol
out of my voice
Poem 331 January 21, 2013
(up to top)
we might be strolling the boardwalk
or rambling with the dog
and i’ll start musing
did you ever think
when we parked under the verrazano bridge
fogging up the windows
that we’d have two grown children
twice as old as we were back then
one would be a detective
the other would become orthodox
you’d be a grandma
of five delicious grandsons
that we’d still be fooling around
acting foolish
naming the birds and squirrels
who show up at our feeder
blackie birdie big red choosey little bubba
calling our dog
nuh nuh boy big nose dee dee honey boo boo
calling each other
doodie head cocka-leakie peepie nose tuba lips
and other goofy names
too embarrassing to disclose
we’ve come a long way
these past forty odd years
so … hat’s off to you, vivi doggie
Poem 332 February 8, 2013
(up to top)
the three- and four-year-olds
are busy at play
dressing up in clothes from the pile in the corner
building dreams with large maple blocks
assembling melissa & doug chunky jigsaw puzzles
with big wooden pieces
the young couple is downstairs in the rec room
putting together a thousand-piece springbok puzzle
of crayola crayons called sticks of color
connecting the frame pieces proceeding inward
working together with promises of love
certain that they’ll be together
now and forever
during recreation time
at the stroke center
he’s watching his eighty-five-year-old wife
grappling with a five-piece mickey mouse puzzle
fumbling to grab the over-sized knob
struggling to maneuver the minnie mouse piece
onto the green cartoon base
c’mon hon you can do it
he urges
you’ve done it before
he pleads
desperate to keep the exasperation from his voice
desperate for her to succeed
desperate
Poem 333.1 February 24, 2013
(up to top)
eight graying black men and women
sit in the front room of mcdonald’s
sipping from tall cups of one-dollar coffee
they’re donned in their churchgoing best
suits and jackets and well-polished shoes
modest dresses and pant suits
with understated rings and jewelry
an amiable gentle group
they’re talking softly with each other
having worshiped together for years
just before eleven
they rise
clean away their refuse
slip on their overcoats
gather their well-worn bibles
step out into the rawness
walk arm in arm
through the parking lot
then around the corner
to the healing faith apostolic chapel
their sunday home
for their beloved benevolent god
Poem 334 February 24, 2013
(up to top)
from the over-crowded apartment buildings
the multi-families across sunrise
the shelter across the street
they come one by one
to sit on a stone slab bench
before a statue of mother teresa
painted white and azure
holding as if an offering
an infant
in her outstretched arms
closed eyes
anguish on his face
he rocks
mouthing prayers
and hail marys
tears in her eyes
fingering rosary beads
crooked fingers keeping count
she whispers
beseeching words in spanish
when they’re done
they slip a couple of coins
onto a hollowed-out scoop
in the statue
comforted
at peace
they depart
Poem 335 February 27, 2013
(up to top)