Insect Advice

Some things

you meet

along the way

are just TOO BIG

to eat

which means

you might

be just their SIZE

and fit

THEIR APPETITE

so if they turn

and come your way

i hope

you get AWAY

Interpreting The Wind

the wind
speaks all languages

the leaves
are its many tongues

i have spent a lifetime
listening

learning
trying to understand just one

Toy Wars

Can you imagine if they passed a law
That required every future war
To be fought with weapons
Purchased from your local toy store?

And that every gun had to be fake
like the ones you make
with your hand -
using just your index finger,
your thumb,and a rubber band

And every gun
Could rattle off a million bullets
And fire as quickly
as you could move your lips

And since all children’s wars
are based on pretend
If anyone was shot
they could fall to the ground,
Lie still for a moment
and then get right up again

And none of these wars
would last more than an hour
And neither side would ever surrender

They would simply
go sit in the shade
And enjoy a pitcher
of cherry Kool-Aid

If wars were fought
with make-believe guns
We could send a few troops
of heavily armed children
Into the world’s
most hostile regions -
Assured they’d return
safely in the evening

But if this scenario ever came true –
What would be left for the adults do?

Oh, they’d still be responsible for
Starting all of these deadly wars.

AP English

Bill Cates said I was an academic rogue
That I belonged on the road
Writing - And not in a classroom
Deciphering what others had written
To satisfy some silly exam in June

He said this in front our AP English class
Right In the middle of reading Prufrock
One spring afternoon in April
Not to embarrass me,
but to pay me the highest compliment
he could bestow on one of his students
and then he proceeded to read
one of my poems aloud – a short one

and when he was done
my classmates were stunned
at what they had heard –
at what I said in a handful of words
for I had always been the quiet one

and when they turned
and looked in my direction
the only thing I could think of
was Ezra Pound’s -

"The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals, on a wet, black bough."

As I stood at a threshold:
One foot in the classroom
The other on the open road

Tonight

Tonight, the bay is calm,
Veiled slightly with mist -
As we watch the sidewalk lovers
Walking arm in arm -
Stop briefly to kiss
Before moving on

Tonight, the moon rises
Slowly, pulling the tide
Back with gentle hands
Across the glistening sand
As though it were a cover
On some lover’s bed -
The small waves breaking
Like delicate ruffles along its edge

Tonight, the sweet sea air
Permeates your hair
Mixes with your perfume
Then settles in my mind -
(A memory to be recalled
At some future time)

Tonight, you are the only woman.
Your eyes sing soft alluring lullabies
Inviting me to lie at your side -
Your delicate fingers become butterflies
Fluttering playfully in a nocturnal garden

And as I unveil your moon lit skin
And accept your invitation -
I hear the Sirens sing their warning –
A song that can be heard in every woman:
Will you be here in the morning?

Sadly, there is only one answer:
Kisses are not promises,
`Nor are words whispered in the darkness -
But if it is of any consequence –
Men think and sometimes ask the same question.

Rhetorical Questions

Does a mason
Hold a brick
And wait
For the architect
To show him a plan
Before laying it?

Does a musician
Restrain his hands
From the piano keys
Until the conductor
Flicks his baton
And signals him in?

Does a poet
Hold back his pen
From the page
Until the muse
Sends him
Into a writing rage?

Does a surgeon
Envision
What’s beneath
The patient’s skin
Before making
His incision?

Does a jury
Weigh the evidence,
The criminal intent -
And reach
A unanimous agreement
Before passing sentence?

Does a policeman
Make certain
His victim
Is the right one
Before
Reaching for his gun?

The Odyssey

I

You knew that I was a solitary person
Preferring the dark side of the moon
Or the underside of an unturned stone -
That my path to the future was a narrow one,
One that I would travel alone.

II

We spent our nights listening to Beethoven
Drinking cheap red wine by the gallon
Reading poetry by Byron and Donne
Never thinking it would someday end
We lived in an intellectual Eden
Until our little sanctuary was overrun
By protesters, assassins and political doctrine
By a decade full of chaos and madness.

By the end of the Sixties
We had switched from the classics
To Corso, Ginsberg, and Ferlinghetti
You went from cheap wine to cheap whisky
And spent mornings hung over and sick
I practiced Zen in a store front monastery
And lived out of a rucksack like Kerouac

III

You left for Chicago to attend university
And I joined the Navy and went out to sea
We sent occasional letters back and forth
Two, three years passed uneventfully
You told me you were happy translating Baudelaire -
I asked if you still braided your long hair
No, you had cut it short –

You plotted my Mediterranean ports of call:
Barcelona, Spain – Cannes, France - Rapallo, Italy
On a map you hung on your bedroom wall
You said it made your academic world seem small
To which I replied: No two worlds are of equal size:
To a snail it’s an inch wide - to a bird, it’s the entire sky
Do you recall Gulliver’s tale?
More often than not - it is we who are out of scale.

IV

More than four decades have passed since then –
And where there had once been a garden
There is only an overturned stone,
Its underside bleached white by the sun -

And as I turn my back and continue on
I Keep pace with time’s slow pendulum
Content with having chosen
The path less taken

Submarine Dream

When I was a child
I would stay up late -
While everyone slept
I’d be wide awake,

Pretending to explore
The ocean floor
In a small submarine
Called the Imagination

I was the captain
And would order my crew:
Steady ahead
Stay true at 5 knots

As I would carefully plot
A meandering course
Through the fathoms of darkness
Surrrounding my bed

My destination?
I’ll give you one clue –
It was a floating island
of shimmering light
That only appeared
On cloudless nights.

Have you guessed , yet?
No, it wasn’t the moon-
but the moon’s reflection -
Which many have said
was worth more than a chest
of gold dubloons

But the journey was long
And about halfway there
I’d always hear footsteps
Coming up the stairs

And as the last few crickets
Finished their songs
In the brakish light
Of the emerging dawn

I ‘d yawn, and say to myself:
Not now, I’m almost there.
And I’d fall asleep
in my captain’s chair

And I always dreamed
That I was carried aloft
By a pair of white swans
With delicate wings
(in reality, my mothers arms)

And heard a voice that softly said:
Maybe next time my little captain
Maybe some day you’ll reach that island -
As I was gently placed back in my bed.

A Letter to Lincoln on the Anniversary of his Death

Dear President Lincoln,
The efforts you made
More than a century ago
To free all men
From the drudgery of slavery
Lived on long after
You were laid you to rest
In your hometown cemetary.

All leaders question their decisions,
Trying to envision
The consequences of their actions
Before implementing them –

But in the end,
They all rely on blind intuition.
For none are ever certain
of the outcome -
None can predict the future -
Only God and magicians
Know what’s hidden
Behind tomorrow’s curtain -

But you were correct -
The protection of freedom,
The inalienable rights of men,
Should always take precedence
Over the politics of a nation.

From reading your letters
I can clearly see
You personally felt the pain
Of every battlefield causality,
Probably to a greater degree
Than the bullet Booth
Put into your own brain.

And on that day
When the horse-drawn wagon
Pulled your body away
In a flag-draped coffin
To the awaiting Funeral Train
You did not travel alone -
Thousands mourned you
At every station along the way
As you made your final journey
Across the nation
To your Illinois home.

And today, Mr. President
Your proclamations remain
the portals through which all me pass
In their journey to freedom -
they are still the most humane,
The most heartfelt words ever spoken -
And show the deep commitment and passion
You had for mankind and the preservation of the Union.

In the time that has past
Since your death -
You may be tempted to ask:
Is there total equality
Amongst men?
Have we reached that end?

Sadly, the answer to your question
Is that equality is not a precept-
It still remains a rare commodity,
Possessed by certain men
Men with uncompromising opinions
Who act as guardians
and protect the more obsequious members
Of their respective generations –
Much like you did Mr. President.

Finally, I think you would agree
With Malcolm X -
A radical contemporary, who said:
Freedom is not given,
It is taken.


Sincerely,
An admirer

Abandoned Rails

Do you remember friend,
The mighty diesel engines
We carried on our backs?
And the songs they sang –
Clackety-clack…clackety-clack
As they traveled over our tracks? -

Yes, I remember, friend -
And can you still feel
The vibrations of the wheels
As they raced across our rails
Faster than the wind!

Yes, and do you remember, friend -
All the men, women, and children
That passed through our stations
And how we faithfully took them
To near and far destinations?-

Yes, and do you remember, friend -
The Great Depression
And the homeless hobo men
Who camped along our tracks at night
Who jumped and rode our box car freights
In hopes of finding a better life?-

Yes, and do you remember, friend -
The rough and rowdy railroad men
Who worked beneath the blazing sun
To replace our rotten ties with newer ones;
Who pounded in those long iron nails
To secured our endless miles of rails?

I remember well my friend –
How faithfully we served this nation
But now we are covered with weeds and dust -
And our silvery rails have turned to rust
And instead of the rhythmic clacked-clack
Of the burly engines that rode our backs
We only hear the lonely wind
Blowing between the abandoned stations.

Book Released

My book -entitled: A Place of Departure - is now availale for purchase at the following link www.xlibris.com/APlaceofDeparture.html

Dancing with Time

And so I began my dance with time,
Learning to listen with my inner ear
To a music that was uniquely mine
To a music that only I could hear

Learning to control my reluctant feet,
Knowing when to step, when not to step,
Learning to stay in sync with the beat,
Learning the secrets of measured breath

And from that dance, I moved on to words
And as I listened, I heard them speak
In a language that sounded like birds
Singing at dawn - each separate, unique-

I learned their songs, I studied the stone
I became a root and traveled deeply
into the earth, I saw the ancient bones
Buried in the subterranean archeology

I became the leaves scattered by the wind
I became the river, the rain-
I became fire, the flame, and the thin
Strand of smoke and the ashen remains-

I became the stoical mountain
Alone and aloof, capped with snow-
I became the ledge, the hidden cave within-
I looked down at the small world below

And when I returned, I knew I had changed-
Was I still a man? – Was I still human?
What of me was different? What was the same?
My blood boiled with with endless questions.

The creative process demands obscurity,
But no man should strive to create alone
Once he has achieved its mastery
Once he has set the pace and the tone.

And so I began my dance with time,
Learning to listen with my inner ear
To a music that was uniquely mine
To a music that only I could hear.

Old Crayons

Does anyone know
where old crayons go
when they're all used up?

you know...
the broken ones
we keep in special cups

the stubby ones
worn down to their nubs

the naked ones
with their papers torn off

the ones we used
to draw wavy seas

and autumn trees
and the dotted rain

the ones we used
to scribble our names

does anyone know
where old crayons go?

i hope what i heard
someone say isn't true:

that when they get to small
they're all just thrown away

A Fine Line

Even now, when it is time
to either confirm or deny my faith

i continue to vacillate -
for my heart and mind

remain diametrically opposed
like the thorn and the rose

for one looks for the miracle
and the other the empirical

and it is that fine line
between the two

that ultimately defines
what i can accept as true

and since neither presents
a stronger argument

either for or against
i continue to straddle the fence

Stephen Hawking

I think of Stephen Hawking
sitting in his wheel chair
his atrophied body

slumped to one side
looking out at the world
through a vacant stare

but looking more deeply
into his eyes
I see he isn't really there

he's parsecs away
riding a photon
through a new galaxy

singing e=mc squared
listening to music
only he can hear

The Balooga Bird's Song

If you’ve lain awake
In the middle of the night,
An hour before daybreak

To be precise -
You may have heard
the Balooga Bird.

It's incredibly small -
Just half an inch tall
And because it is such

A diminutive thing
It can barely sing
Above a soft hush

So it waits until
The day disappears
And the night goes still

And if it's small ears
Hear the faintest sound
Like a leaf falling down

Or an owl’s low hoot
It will stop and go mute
But if all is just right

It will sing in the night
And release from its throat
The three sweetest notes

You ever will hear
So pure and so clear
So full of delight

They'll repeat in your ear
For the rest of your life

Crocuses

by jr paruolo
______________________________________

"Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light." - Theodore Roethke
______________________________________

The crocuses will appear again this year
just as they do every year - suddenly,
unexpectedly, cloistered among the exposed
rheumatoid roots of the ancient beech trees
that line the roadside edge of an abandoned estate
on the back road I take home each evening

For the greater part of the year
they exist in subterranean darkness,
meditating patiently beneath the ground -
like little Buddhas
Waiting to burst out of their bulbs
and expose their purple petaled flowers in prayer
at the appropriate time

And when I finally come upon them in bloom-
I am filled with the desire to stop
and lean against the decaying split rail fence
that separates them from the road
to quietly meditate for a while -
and enjoy this temporary
but beautiful oasis
set against a landscape of winter stasis

But Time says -No,
you have other places to go -

So, I continue on,
driving slowly,
for the next few miles -
trying to retain that imagery
permanently in memory-
telling myself I will stop the next time
But I never do

In a week or so they are gone -
And taking no time to mourn their loss
Nature begins her task
of rebuilding the world from scratch:
one flower,
one blade of grass,
one clutching vine at a time -
until this small patch of property
becomes just another ordinary way-point
of competing green foliage
along the roadside on the way home

Never Kiss A Jelly Fish

You can kiss
any kind
of ocean fish

and never
feel a thing

but if
you kiss
a jellyfish

you'll get
an awful
sting

so please
resist
The urge
to kiss

this fish
with tentacles

but if
you insist
remember
this –

while
beautifully
diaphanous

they're
very
very
dangerous

and
if you kiss
a jellyfish

your lips
will swell

to twice
their size

for being
So pro-
miscuous

Words

if your words
are humble and noble
and generous and kind
let them speak freely
with an open mind

but be advised

if they speak
to the contrary
or are inclined to lie
then keep them confined

for what they say
is how you are defined

Spring Garden

by jr paruolo
_________________________________________________________

I was determined to know beans. Walden - Henry David Thoreau
_________________________________________________________

Having waited for the frozen
Ground to soften and reopen
I stand before last year's garden
Ready to begin its resurrection

Gently working the earth,
Pushing my fingers into the loam,
Removing the unwanted stones -
Feeling the pulse of rebirth

Clearing the dormant weeds
With rakes and hoes -
Sowing handfuls of seeds
Along shallow rows -

The curious crows
Watch silently.
The earthworms burrow
Deeper to escape the calamity

And as the sun completes its arc
my blistered hands are proof
that i have fulfilled my small part-
The rest is up to the roots

The Reincarnation of Mr. Ring

Upon his death, the moth was called before the Reincarnation Council to receive his new life form.

As the moth entered the room, the Grand Council leader, smiled and said: "Welcome moth. Before we begin let me set you at ease - you are not here to be punished. You have been brought here because you were eaten by a praying mantis and now need a new life form. The Fate Keeper has selected a new life form for you. Our role is to present it to you.

"We are granting you the temporary ability understand our questions and to reply to them using two words: either Yes or No. We do this because we do not know what your reassignment is and words are used by other more complex creatures and something you may not need knowledge of in your new life. Do you understand?"

"Yes", replied the moth.

"Let us begin, then. It says here you were eaten by a praying mantis. I know it must have been painful for you, but on the other hand a delicious experience for the praying mantis. It is the way of all life. We sometimes give; we sometimes take. Do you agree?"

"Yes", replied the moth.

With that the Grand Council Leader opened the envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper inside.

"Hmm – It says here you are to be reincarnated as a human, effective tomorrow. However, there is one restriction: You must never drive a car at night. You may be the passenger, but never the driver. Is that clear?"

"Yes", replied the moth.

"Congratulations - Tonight, you will fall asleep as a moth…tomorrow, you will awaken as a human. I wish you good fortune in your next life. Oh, one last thing, in case you were wondering, over time you will remember almost nothing your life as a moth."

"Thank you", replied the moth. (Based on his new life assignment, the moth was granted additional vocabulary)

"Consider this hearing adjourned" – said the Grand Council Leader.

Now, generally, when human containers are involved, reincarnation occurs at the conception level so as not to displace a pre-existing life force.

However, under one very rare circumstance, the reincarnation process can go awry. Specifically, when a human has a near-death experience and its life force leaves its body at the same time a reincarnate is in the vicinity. If the human life force strays too far from the body and a Reincarnation Candidate is within closer range, then the Reincarnation Candidate will displace the original body spirit.

This is exactly what happened to the moth during his Reincarnation experience. Eighty-four ear old Mr. Ring, who was half-way through his knee replacement operation, suddenly flat-lined; And as the surgical team tried to resuscitate him, Mr. Ring's life force, no longer hobbled by physically bad knees, left his body and was joyfully and painlessly dancing around the operating room like a ten year old boy – and it just so happened that the moth was passing through at the precise moment the surgical team successfully resuscitated Mr. Ring and was reabsorbed by the body instead of the original life force.

What happens to the displaced life forces? Well, without actually having bodies to inhabit, they become non-entities and cannot reincarnate; and unfortunately, they simply turn to dust or lint. Their remains remains can be found under beds, in the form of dust bunnies, or in dryer lint traps. Fortunately, their disintegration is painless.

As for Mr. Ring, he pulled through successfully, completed his physical therapy, and was soon walking painlessly around on his new knees. He was identical to the old Mr. Ring except for two peculiar differences: he now insisted on using only wool blankets, wool scarves, wool shirts - anything wool in place of cotton or synthetics and he refused to drive his car at night. The latter idiosyncrasy caused the most grief for he would sometimes pick up one of his buddies in the morning but decline to drive them home once it was dark.

"You'll just have to spend the night", he would say. "I'll take you back first thing in the mooring."

Looking back in disbelief, the friend would say: "Frank," I hope you're joking. I haven't brought a change of clothes. Besides, my wife is waiting."

"I'm sorry," he would reply, "Next time it might be better if you took your own car."

"Drive! Frank, you know I don't drive. You old jackass, there won't be a next time. I'll walk."

One by one, Frank lost all of his friends until one night, the coldest night of the winter, he grew so lonely that he decided he would drive to Bill's house. Yes, Bill's house – he thought to himself – Bill's house is just five miles down the highway – a two minute ride.

So Frank put on his wool shirt, wool pants, heavy wool coat, wool scarf, wool cap, and finally his wool mittens; stepped outside into the cold winter night, got into his car, turned the key, and started the engine. He let it run for a few minutes, then drove down his driveway and headed for the main highway.

This will be a quick ride - he thought – no traffic ahead.

About half-way to Bill's house, in the opposite lane, the pin point lights of a tractor trailer were headed in Frank's direction. At first, he paid them no attention, but as they grew closer, he found them to be relaxing almost hypnotic. And as they approached, he suddenly turned his car into the oncoming cab of the tractor trailer. Frank's small car was no match for a head on with a highway heavy weight and crumpled against the big rigs grill like a bug on a windshield.

The truck driver was knocked unconscious and was taken away in the first ambulance. As the police and the ETs frantically pried open the driver's side door of Frank's car they found only the woolen clothing he had been wearing – but no body.

"What's that – something moved on the mat?" said one of the ETs -"Shine your torch over there."

"It's nothing – only a dead moth."

Scientist Wishing Upon A Star

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you - j cricket
_____________________________________________________________________________________

If light travels at 186,000 mph
And the speed of a wish
Is an unknown variable
that can equal but not exceed
the speed of light

And if the closest star,
other than the sun,
Proxima Centauri,
Is 4.2 light years away -

How long will it take for the wish
To reach that star? and will it come true?

You Decide

by jr paruolo
___________________________________________________________________
First recorded in Giovanni Torriano's "To go about to fetch bloud out of stones, viz. to attempt what is impossible"
___________________________________________________________________

They say you can't squeeze blood from a stone
But some who have tried –
Swear they heard something snap – a bone
Perhaps – beneath the thick rough skin
Where pressure was applied

Swear they heard a muffled cry
As though they had inflicted pain
On a living thing inside –

Others say they heard nothing
And simply tossed the stone aside

Striking it Rich

by jr paruolo
_____________________________________________________________
The writer works in a lonely way. - Irwin Shaw
_____________________________________________________________

one man alone
swinging the pick

chipping away
deep in the pit

splitting the stone
bit by bit

ready to quit
then striking it rich

revealing the poem
held in its grip

River Reincarnation

by jr paruolo
_________________________________________________
You cannot step into the same river twice. Heraclitus
_________________________________________________

You retain your youthful will -
but you are older
and your waters flow slower,
become almost still,
as you near the end of your journey
and prepare to join the sea -

You leave behind
a serpentine shape,
your physical identity -
a time line
carved permanently into the landscape
like a name into the bark of a tree

and through water's reincarnation
you will regenerate -
but whatever form you take
snowflake
or rain -
you will not make the same journey again

Gambling Man: Odd Man Out

by jr paruolo
_____________________________________________________________

"At that point I ought to have gone away, but a strange sensation rose up in me, a sort of defiance of fate, a desire to challenge it, to put out my tongue at it. I laid down the largest stake allowe-four thousand gulden-and lost it. Then, getting hot, I pulled out all I had left, staked it on the same number, and lost again, after which I walked away from the table as though I were stunned. I could not even grasp what had happened to me." - Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Gambler
_____________________________________________________________

Look up my friend -
when you win it's sunny

hip hip hooray–
It's raining money –

But it sure is hard
to get back in the game

When you're a gambling man
and don't have any

When the cards you're dealt
All die on the felt

When the blistering dice
turn colder than ice

When Lady Luck
takes your last buck

And skips out of town
on the last Greyhound

Yes, it sure is hard
to get back in the game

when you're a gambling man
and it stops raining money

Something For a Rainy Day

by jr paruolo
_____________________________________________________________

I don’t go looking for somewhere to spend my money. You can step on a tube of toothpaste for a week, if you have to. I spend what I need to and give it away.
T. Boone
_____________________________________________________________

When the first financial crash
Put the country in the trash
And the banks ran out of cash

Leaving everyone holding slews
Of worthless stocks and bonds and IOUs
And invoices stamped - Payment Over Due

Those of that unfortunate time
Learned how to pinch ever dime -
And control the financial bottom line

It's simple - my grandmother would say:
Don't just throw your money away.
Save something for a rainy day-

She never went on shopping sprees
or purchased things of luxury -
But splurged on life's necessities

Especially when it meant saving a few cents
on cans with missing labels or minor dents
(which she jokingly called - her mystery ingredients)

She'd haggle to her heart's content
Squeezing the value out of every cent -
Often to my embarrassment

She was truly a manager's nightmare
And would go stare for stare
Until he threw his hands in the air

And she always made sure
she left every store
None the worse -
And never with an empty purse

Economic Depression Redux (Financial Armageddon)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: The following poem, satirical in nature, is not the typical type of poetry I generally write - so please excuse the rhyming scheme. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
by jr paruolo

As the world slips into a global recession,
Quite possibly even a financial Armageddon,
The OPEC cartel collapses so fast
that oil reaches levels only seen in the past -
But unfortunately they can't be enjoyed
as millions of people become unemployed

The American Dream's on the brink of extinction
As thousands of homes go into foreclosure
And banks begin boarding up the windows and doors
and putting the owners out on the street
with nowhere to go and with nothing to eat -

As the investment firms
Hold out their corporate begging cups
stating - We're about to go belly up!
Instead of making them squirm
The government acts like an ATM -
And spews out cash with no stipulation on return-
In God We Trust - Amen

And you can hardly blame Detroit's Big Three
For failing to produce vehicles with better MPG -
When the public was clamoring for more SUVs
Packed with luxurious high tech accessories
To shuttle around town with their families.

The solution proposed seems a little bit funny -
It's based on appropriating money
to banks and corporations in need of fast cash
before they go bankrupt and crash -
But as has anyone even bothered to ask -
Whatever happened to their own private stash?

And where are all these dollars coming from?
It's not hard to guess -
Do they think we're that dumb?
They're hot off the Treasury's printing press -
They may as well be counterfeit -the ink is still wet.

And when the economic bubble abruptly burst
the outgoing President could have been the first
to help all of those who were hurt the worst:
All the employees who got it up the ass!
Instead of the CEOs with their hands in the cash -

Yes, the world's in a knot...
And by any one's guess
It will take years and years
to untangle this mess
and who knows what
if anything will change
For human nature being what it is –
Good intentions are short lived
and the more things change
the more they stay the same

So when that 401k statement comes in the mail
And you look at the remaining bottom line
And turn a ghostly shade of pale
Just join in and sing a song from another time:
"Buddy can you spare a dime?:
or "Life can be so sweet on the sunny side of the street."
And everything will be fine!

And I'm sure it won't be too long
Till someone sings that old Depression song -
Buddy Can You Spare A Dime?
And you see millions of the unemployed
standing in long soup kitchen lines -
Their hopes and futures suddenly destroyed.

Memories

by jr paruolo
__________________________________________________________________________
Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us. ~Oscar Wilde, "The Importance of Being Earnest"
__________________________________________________________________________

Some wash out to sea
into the fathomless abyss
of the unconscious

Some sleep
in the chrysalis
of the churning tides

Some wash ashore
fragmented and
tattered by time

Some float
in the off-shore shallows
invisibly like jellyfish

Waiting to cling to us
ready to sting us
with their painful tentacles

Should we attempt
to wade out
and reclaim them

cummings

(1

The
page
was
a pot
into
which
he
threw
his
in
gred
ients

a
pinch
of
this
a
pinch
of
that

and
he
never
stirred
his
words
which
is
why
they
stuck
to
the
sides
like
crust

2)

like
Rapunzel
in
the
fairy
tale
who
hung
her hair
down
from
a
high
tower
window

cummings
hung
his
poems
down
and
let
us
climb
up
into
his
mind

Marion 1

My Aunt Marion,
a petite woman with blond hair,
was the matriarch of the Wildes family
a clan of 16 brothers and sisters

she achieved that role not through power
but by simply being a natural catalyst
around which everyone else seemed to gravitate -
of all the siblings she was physically the frailest
but possessed the greatest emotional strength

she always reminded me of Doris Day
a famous actress of that time
perhaps because she styled her hair in a similar way
or because she liked singing "Que Sera Sera"
(Whatever Will Be Will Be)

Marion had infinite patience
was extremely creative,
but a terrible cook - which was unfortunate
because she hosted most of the holiday gatherings

the family relegated her to desserts and beverages
under the guise that her creativity
was better spent there than in the kitchen cooking

jello must have been the sensation of the '50s
because she always made several large trays of it -
including some with banana slices suspended inside

Growing up she always teased me about living in the country
"Farmingdale", she would say, "What kind of name is that for a town?"
(little did she suspect it was originally called Hardscrabble)
"I'd rather live in Hicksville."

and her scientific facts were always a little off the mark
she insisted that the ocean was bottomless
and that the rockets we launched into into space
were responsible for all of the weather changes
because they poked holes in the atmosphere

we had our best conversations
in the backs of cabs on the way to Chinatown
where my aunt frequently took me
for lunch whenever i visited her

after eating our meal, if we had time,
we would walk among the sidewalk vendors
and I would buy a souvenir with the money she gave me

once I bought a fake snake with a segmented body
that slithered in the air when you held it by its tail
i quickly discovered that my aunt was deathly afraid of snakes
so it rode home in the trunk of the cab - just to be safe

it's hard to say which is my fondest memory of her
but i think it was the week i spent in Brooklyn
helping her strip wall paper from the plaster walls
in the upstairs rooms of the two family house she had just purchased

it was the summer of 1969 - I was 16
the radio was playing John Lennon's Give Peace a Chance
the Viet Nam war hadn't touched me yet

and as i climbed up and down the ladder
for the thousandth time
ready to press the steamer against the wall
ready to scrape the wall paper off in strips
ready to nudge the occasional patch
that needed an extra shot of steam
and a little more encouragement
from the scraper

my aunt said - "let's break for lunch -
how about some Chinese?"
and off we went with bits and pieces
of wall paper stuck to our clothes
looking like paper mache mannequins
that had just exploded

and on the way to the restaurant
i asked her if she really thought
the ocean was bottomless...

she just looked at me and smiled

So Many Joes

by jr paruolo
___________________________________________________________
there were so many Joes
in our family of uncles, aunts, and cousins
in order to keep things straight
we were all given nicknames

there was
Big Joe, my uncle - married to Dolly
Little Joe, my cousin
Baby Joe - (Me)
Ginny's Joe - married to the youngest sister
Pat's Joe - my father

and if someone called out Joe
and neglected to use
the appropriate nickname
they were usually met with a collective chorus of - "Which one?"

and if all of the joes were in a humorous mood
they would make a classic three-stooges entrance
wedging themselves in the doorway
as they tried to pass through all at once

back in those days
all of the joes loved the 3 stooges
all of the joes had great senses of humor
all the joes were good old joes

where have those day's gone?
where are those joes?

One Step Behind

as you
grow
older

glance over
your
shoulder

and you
will see
death

lagging
closely
behind

and
for every
step
you take

it takes
one
step less

knowing
it can
catch up

at
anytime

Parallax

Look through the dark
infinity of deep space

Look with your heart
and you will see a place

that cannot be seen
with a telescope -

a place full of dreams
a place full of hope

a parallel universe
bursting with stars

and an alternate earth
identical to ours -

A pristine world
Completely unspoiled

But don't look too hard
its just a mirage

A Utopian vision
of what could have been

Imagination

by jr paruolo
____________________________________________________________
The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.- Albert Einstein
____________________________________________________________

As a child they always talked of my potential
But I kept it locked away in my temple
In a place that existed in neither space nor time
A place no one but I could find -
Way back in the labyrinth of my mind.

And when they tapped on my skull and said -
"Let us in...let us into that place in your head -
It's time that you told us where it is hidden -
Just give us the key to unlock the door
Our tests show you have an exceedingly high score."

I could hear them outside probing around
But I sat there silently not making a sound
Hoping that they would just go away
And then I heard one of them say:

"We hesitate to operate for that will leave a scar
So please cooperate and leave the door ajar -
Just give us what we're looking for
And we won't bother you any more."

They persisted and pursued for quite a few years
but never gained access to my cognitive gears
Or tampered with my unborn ideas -
And finally one day they gave up and went away
Convinced I had nothing profound to say

And when they were gone I opened the door
to the world they had been looking for
the one where imagination runs through the streets
the one where ideas turn cartwheels and land on their feet
the one where dreams never sleep
all of this and much, much more...

Hospital Stay - Patient in Room 349

"You always feel trapped biologically" - Ernest Hemingway: A Farewell to Arms

I - The Notification

Friday night just a routine blood test
And next day there's a cop at the door:
"Your doctor sent me - please get dressed
I'm here to take you to the hospital ER" -
Nervously I ask - "Did he say what for?"
"No, I'll be outside waiting in my car'"

II - At the ER

I check into the ER and slip into a gown.
An EKG shows nothing wrong with the heart
But my doctor is wearing a serious frown
And says I'm anemic - three pints down -
And orders blood transfusions to start -
Something is making me fall apart.

And on that note the process begins
As they call all of the specialists in
And transport me by elevator from floor to floor
For testing - but not yet knowing what they're looking for

Blood work - once, twice, three times a day
Endoscopy - colonoscopy
Bone marrow - kidney biopsy
Stomach MRI, - chest X-Ray
Tethered to and tangled in an web of IV tubes
Making it almost impossible to move

A series of questions: Do you smoke?
Drink? Or, ever have gout?
To which I reply: "No, no, no...
Just tell me - When will I get out?
I'd really like to go."

III - Life in room 349

Most of the time I sit in my room
Spending endlessly long afternoons
mindlessly flipping through the TV stations
Showing courtroom trash and Disney cartoons

So it's particularly nice when a visitor
unexpectedly walks through the door -
Friends from work who stay for a while
to see how you are and make you smile -
Especially when they come bearing gifts
Like Hershey bars and Orange Sunkist
(I know Dr. Cap - They're not on my list.)

As the days progress I make the best
Of the passing time by surfing the Net,
And eating my meals and taking my meds
And talking to the staff as they make up the beds
With nice clean white sheets and a pillow for my head.

I continue my stay in room 349
With the other bed vacant most of the time -
Then I get a new roommate who's somewhat remiss -
84 year old Frank - who's here to get both knees fixed,
But who's just been told - it will have to come later
For recent tests showed he needs a defibrillator

But in spite of his setback we hit it off great -
for it turns out we both like the Sara Lee cake
that the courtesy cart serves for dessert -
(After all we've been through - a little cake can't hurt.)
So we sit there each night and anxiously wait
For the cart to appear -hoping it won't be late!

And as for the meals that were served -
Hats off to the chef! - They were absolutely superb!
The only thing missing was a cocktail hour with hors d'oeuvres.
(And it certainly broke from the normal tradition
where the hospital food tastes like it was cooked by morticians.)

And when it's time to turn in for the night -
I jokingly say: "Goodnight Frank, isn't this the life!"
But Frank's already out like a light
Probably dreaming of his favorite show -
The Price Is Right
Where he's just been told to "Come on down to contestant's row"
As Drew Carey says -"Place your bids, please -
On this magnificent pair of wonderful new knees."

IV -The Diagnosis and Prognosis

Finally, after analyzing the test results,
And reviewing their pages and pages of notes
The diagnosis is in and I hope for the best
As the doctor explains the disease in detail -

I sit their quietly holding my breath
Seriously thinking about life and death
And hear what I have is extremely rare,
(Microscopic Polyangitis)
But the prognosis is good with the proper care
(And a little help from the man upstairs)

V - Hospital Release

When my doctor finally prepares my release -
And I'm able to stand back up on my feet -
I'm handed a list of several prescriptions
that will become a part of my daily regimen:
Cytoxen, Bactrim, Prednisone and Levemir insulin -
and hopefully put my disease into remission.

VI - Recognition

Now as for my occasional joking and poking in jest -
In all seriousness - Thank God for the nurses and doctors -
They were really the best!
I couldn't have asked for anything more
from the entire staff at Glen Cove North Shore!

PS

Well, maybe one little thing -
Can someone come up with a better design
An easier way to reach behind
And tie up those darn, hospital gown strings
So they securely cover up everything!

A strand of Haiku

I

like a rusted gate
a stuborn mind will not budge
will never open

II

a synaptic crack
a chemical lightning strike
a cerebral storm

III

unspoken haiku -
words askew - image broken
so many lost thoughts

IV

sunlight streaming through
air as clear as spring water
casting no shadows

V

time to meditate
to discard the mind's debris -
clear inner vision

VI

a single thin thread
floating on the morning wind
breaks free from the web

VII

the windy river
of autumn washes away
all the falling leaves

VIII

a green uprising
of grass, weaving the sunlight
sings in the meadow

IX

a handful of coins
forgotten in a pocket
a small fortune found

X

inside the doorway
a pair of muddy shoes
on the welcome mat

XI

a woolen mitten
spacious and luxurios
next to a gove

XII

The Running Man with No Hands or Feet

the day will come
when you'll hear them say
there's no pill
no cure
there's nothing
left to do
but hope and pray

and at that point
you don't ask –
are you sure?
you just walk quietly away
while death holds open
the door

and when you come
to the corner of Hope and Pray
you stop and obey
the sign across the street
the one with the running man
with no hands and no feet
frozen in mid-air

and you wait

when you become impatient
and try to press the walk button
death slaps your hand away
and says: wait - more are coming

so you impatiently wait

and suddenly
a mass of pedestrians
descends upon the intersection
and in one great crossing it is over
and no one is left on the corner
of Hope and Pray
Death has swept them all away

except for the running man
with no hands and no feet
frozen in mid-air

A Sweet Fairytale

(1)

One day the Boy declared that pennies were “worthless”
To which his father replied:
“Nevertheless, hold on to that last penny.
You may need it someday”

“But it’s only a penny –
And it’s just as worthless as the others” – the boy quipped.

But the Father continued:
“Maybe someday you will need to buy a train ticket
To travel some where…
but when you go to pay you’re a penny short
And they won’t sell you the ticket.”

“I don’t believe that” – the boy laughed.

“It’s true” – the father said.

Years later when the Boy became a Man
He still thought pennies were worthless –
But, ironically, it was usually the last coin he fished out
Of his pocket and put down on the counter
Whenever he paid for something.

(2)

One day just to make a point, the Father said:
“Nothing is free. You pay for everything.
Everything has a price.”

“Everything” - the boy asked?
“Yes” the father repeated “Everything has a price.”

The boy said nothing because knew his father was wrong
He thought of the slice of ham or cheese
The butcher gave him when he went shopping with his mother;
He thought of the cookie the bakery girl handed down to him
From behind the clean crystal clear display cases
Full of cakes and the pastries

And then he remembered the baker
Emerging from the backroom,
carrying trays of freshly baked goods from the oven –
And when the boy Grew up wrote a story about it all

(3)

In his story, the Baker was really a Troll
And was always covered from head to toe
in what everyone thought was fine powdered flour,
But which was really magic dust thrown on him by the Wizard
To partially hide his ugly, misshapen features,
And, also, to ensure he would behave and not try to escape


The Wizard was evil and very crafty.
He knew that the numbered tickets
His customers’ plucked from the
Take-One Ticket Machine were really
Magical spell breakers
Designed to break the curse
He had put on the Troll -
Who really wasn’t a troll,
But a Prince that had fallen prey
To the Evil Wizard in his youth
And who had been held captive
In the back of the shop ever since

And the poor Prince had been a Troll
For so long he had almost forgotten
That he had once been a Prince

Now, you may be wondering why the Troll
Just didn’t bolt out the front door

It all had to do with the tiny bell
The Evil Wizard had hung above the front door

Every time it sounded,
It neutralized all of the contra-spells cast
When ever a customer plucked a ticket
From the Take-A-Ticket Machine

And because anyone who entered the shop
Also had to leave the shop through the same door
The bell always rang twice,
Ensuring there was absolutely no chance
Any of the Take-A-Ticket Machine contra- spells would work

Now, the reason I took over the story from the Boy
Was because he played a very key role in helping
The Troll to escape but never knew this

How did it happen?
Well, one day the Boy and his mother
visited the bakery to purchase some loaves of bread

As they entered the shop, the little bell rang.

The mother took a ticket from the Take-A-Ticket Machine
As she usually did and when it was here turn to place her order,
she and the Boy stepped up to the glass counter.

One of the Bakery Fairies reached over the counter and
Handed the boy a cookie
and just as he took the cookie
The Troll came out of the back room.

The Boy had never been this close to the troll.
He looked into the Troll’s eyes.
They were tired and sad.

The Boy look at the cookie he was holding and said to the Troll:
“Here, take this cookie.”
And when he did, the troll turned back into the Prince again
(but not a young Prince – even magic has its limitations.)
The spell had been broken.

And once the spell was broken,
the evil Wizard lost all his powers and left in a huff
but the fairies captured him at the train station
where he had tried to buy a train ticket out of town
but couldn't because he was a penny short

The Prince, who actually enjoyed baking,
continued to run the Bakery,
making sure that all the little boys and girls who visited
His shop always got a free cookie.

(But he didn't remove the Take-A-Ticket machine
because it helped him to serve the customers in an orderly manner
or the bell over the door for no reason other than he had always
liked the sound it made.)

Why the Wind is Invisible

by jr paruolo

______________________________________________________________

One day, the Wind, feeling a little frisky and mischievous, decided to have a little fun with his friend the River, so he swooped down and paid him a visit.

Wind: "River, look at you, so slow and so lazy! You have no vitality. You're no match for me. I'm much too zippy for you."

River: "Yes, I travel slowly across these flat lands. But if you look high in the mountains at my source you will see how much energy I have – how swiftly I flow with the help of my friend Gravity. But, since I have a long journey to make from the mountains to the sea I must use my energy wisely. And besides you cannot win a race against my cousin Time.

Wind: "How boring – traveling the same route, year after year, century after century. Not me, I'm free to go anywhere I want – see anything I want to see. If I don't travel swiftly, I cease to exist. And as for a race against Time, I'd win hands down."

River: "Boring? No! I have seen many changes in the world – and during that time many faces have looked into me, many hands have dipped into me for a sip of water. I am slow and accommodating because I enjoy it. The younger part of me is always rushing and has few memories – but me; I'm older and savor every memory of every day."

Wind: "Well, I don't have all day to chat- when you set up that race between me and your cousin Time let me know and I will be there."

Now, it's important to know that back in the beginning – the Wind was not invisible like it is today. It was kind of like the River – clear - but not a liquid.

When the contest day finally arrived, Time and the Wind established the ground rules.

Time: "We will each present alternating challenges and the one who fails two first loses."

Wind: "Agreed. Let's start."

Time: "The first challenge: Go backwards."

Wind: "Impossible. I can't blow backwards! I can only go in one direction – forward. But what the heck, you can't either – so I guess we tie on this one."

Time: "Not so fast. I can and will."

And within an instant he took the Wind back in the time to when he was just a little breeze (actually, he came to life when one of the Celestial gods sneezed as the world was being created.) And just as the wind started to enjoy the memory, Time transported them back to the present.

Wind: "I concede. But you tricked me. Now it's my turn. Let's see you move the leaves in that old tree over there."

Time: "I can't – you win that challenge."

Feeling a bit cocky and thinking he had just humiliated Time, the Wind proposed that they have one super challenge, with the winner deciding the loser's fate. The Wind further stipulated that he be allowed to present the challenge. Time agreed.

Time: "Please state the challenge."

Wind: "The first one who goes around the world and returns to this spot first wins." (Thinking no one could ever be quicker than himself – thinking he could never loose.)

Time: "Agreed."

Wind: "We'll start by that big boulder by the River."

So, they both lined up and the River said – GO! Almost immediately, the Wind left and returned. "I win! I win! Exclaimed the Wind excitedly.

Time just laughed.

Wind: "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you. You just lost the race – in fact you never even left the starting line -and I'm about to decide your fate."

Time: "Quite the contrary. It was you who lost the race. Time is everywhere – it doesn't move in one direction like you or at your speed. Nothing is faster than Time because Time must be able to be in the future before everyone or else there would be no future. I had already won the race before you said 'Go".

Wind: "You cheated. I withdraw."

Time: "Too late – I have already told the Celestial gods to impose your punishment."

Wind: "Please don't take away my speed."

Time: "No, nothing that harsh – but from now on you will be invisible. It's bad enough having to listen to you let alone look at you. Additionally, you will be divided into four separate winds: the northern, southern, western and eastern; and, in addition, it will be your job to push the clouds around in the sky at the direction of the Seasons. This should be enough to keep you busy and out of trouble.

And with that said, the Celestial gods enacted the punishment.

From that day forward, the wind has remained invisible and busily at work moving the clouds about through the sky during the seasons - but even with his new tasks he still was able to find a little time for some occasional mischief like blowing hats off heads or holding his breath and stopping sail boats in their tracks.

Locked Hearts

Do not carry your love
Around like a key
Expecting
To find the locked heart
It was meant to open

Locked hearts
Are dead bolted from the inside
And those who live
Inside locked hearts
Hide in self-imposed exile

Look instead for open hearts
For they are the portals
That connect our souls
They are the conduits
through which all love flows

Moth

How is it that a small moth

flying around my desk lamp
Can be so distracting
one moment

that when I push it of course

And how is it
that when it is finally gone
I feel a small loss

but still a loss

Poem of War

jr paruolo
_______________________________________________

Only the dead have seen the end of the war. - Plato
_______________________________________________

It was a poem
of war

A dead zone
of words

twisted like strands
of barbed wire

across
no man's land

It was a poem
of war

with the shrapnel
of shattered sentences

embedded
into every page

It was a poem
of war

printed in blood
instead of ink

It was a poem
of war

A place from which
No one came home

It was a poem
of war

Written
by the dead

It was a poem
of war

a poem the living
never read

You Wrote One Perfect Poem

You wrote one perfect poem
Using rain instead of words
To ensure that your voice
would always be heard

You wrote one perfect poem
In a place hard as stone
So it would never decay
So I would never be alone

The Old Man in the Attic

The old man in the attic
is a little eccentric -
The clock in his mind
Doesn't keep the right time

And when seen out in public
He seems perfectly fine
But he's lost half his wits
And his memory's declined

To the point where the light
in his head has gone dim
That it almost feels like
Someone else has moved in

And you'll hear him say -
It gets harder each day -
To remember that today
Is today and not yesterday

And as for Tomorrow -
It's just a dark shadow
that sits on the horizon
and blocks out the sun.

The One Eared Race

There’s a town close to here
where everyone’s born
with only one ear -
And everyone hears
Only Half of what's said
(especially if directed
To the earless side of the head)

It's a problem, indeed.
The mayor declared
Ears should come in pairs
As he spoke to the folks
that filled the town square:
And those that heard him agreed;
And those that didn't just stared.

So he formed a committee
That met for two weeks,
That drank gallons of coffee
And went without sleep
but in spite of their efforts
had nothing new to report

So when the Mayor spoke
To the gathered town folk
He apologetically said:
We're sorry to say
We still have no idea -
We could find no way
To resolve the lack ears
on both sides of our heads.

And with nothing more to to say
They watched the Mayor
trudge wearily away
With the Committee in tow
To their awaiting pillows
And soft feather beds
To enjoy a good snore.
For the rest of the day.

"Wait, there is one solution,"
Quipped a small boy of ten,
"Simply turn your head,
The side with the ear,
In the speaker's direction
And you'll hear loud and clear
Every word that is said."

So they gave it a try
and were pleasantly surprised -
And all now agree, or mostly all do,
That this simple technique
Of just turning one's cheek
Makes one ear as useful as two.

For in good conversation
Is not only how well you speak
But it’s also how well you listen
(So, just turn your cheek)

Hope

What floated by
Invisible to the eye

Was hope -

Hope on its way
To cure poverty

Hope on its way
To cure misery

Hope on its way
To feed the hungry

Hope on its way
To disband armies

Hope on its way
To destroy tyranny

Hope on its way
To heal humanity

Hate

A finger
Pointing,
An eye
Glaring
back

The Mythical Sharpening Man

He came some summers
But not others -

Emerging from
the wavering mirage
of late afternoon heat

Driving up and down
The suburban streets
In his beat up
workshop truck

Ringing his distinctive bell -
Announcing his arrival
in a casual zen like way
as though calling monks
to temple

Ping-ping
Ping–ping

Ping-ping
Ping-Ping

To a curious boy of ten
this mystery truck
needed a closer look

And that summer
I summoned up the nerve
And asked my mother
to give me something
that needed sharpening
anything -
And hurry -he's coming

she fumbled around in the junk drawer
for what seemed like an eternity
and finally handed me a pair
of her old sewing scissors

I ran to the truck
And made my offering
barely tall enough
to see over the side opening

Without saying a word
the sharpening man
turned on the grinding wheel

And the increasing RPMs
of the wheel spinning
produce a pleasant humming

until he put the scissors
against the stone wheel
and they began to squeal

Sparks flew everywhere -
I remember one
that flew up into his smoky gray hair

And in less than a minute
He was done
and I handed him a dollar

"No charge kid," he said-
"this ones on me"
Pointing to a sign that read -

No job too large or too small -
but if it's too small it's free

and he gave the dollar
back to me

Fifty years later
I can still see the sparks
Flying off his grinding wheel

I can still remember
sitting in the shade
of the old oak tree
sequestered from the
hot August sun

Eating the ice cream
with the dollar I had made

Apocalypse

They still maintain the mausoleum
Where the names of the First Fallen
Are chiseled in granite to remind them of the night

He resurrected the dead from their crypts,
Holding the stolen Chalice to their lips
Nourishing his dark army back to life;

He willed the moon into a perpetual eclipse
Turning it into a cauldron of scalding black light -
Into a portal that flooded the world with death;

His conscripted army of Demons
Almost beat the Angels into submission
Using thorny whips that tore apart their flesh;

But the Angels fought back-
Pushing his Evil inquisition
Into total remission;

Restoring the Path of Light;
Providing safe passage
into the next life.

A Kerouac Dream

I dreamed I saw the ghost of Jack Kerouac
Under the magnolia tree in my front yard -
He was lying on his back
resting his head on his rucksack.

He said he had just come from the Coast,
That he was too old to still be on the road,
But it beat living a lifetime in Lowell.

He said he was glad it was finally spring -
That the past winter had been
particularly hard on his old bones.

He said he wanted to go home,
But the only home he knew was the road,
That stretched between the horizons -

And then the wind whispered softly -
Each man is his own compass
Every road begins and ends as a path
A wandering man is never lost

I knew he loved baseball,
So we talked baseball for a while.
And when he rattled off a list of immortal names -

Ruth, Fox, Cobb, Young -
It brought sparkle back into his eyes
And made him smile.

He was amazed at how much the game had changed -
At how much money the modern day players were paid.
He was visibly disturbed about how steroids

Had tarnished the sacred home run
How it was no longer a game played by men
With the souls of innocent children

Sadly, I agreed things would never be the same -
And then I suggested a good greasy spoon -
Where we could grab some bacon and a couple of fried -

Another time, he sighed – I'm due back to the road.
And as I watched him go, I called out:
Jack, wait, you forgot your rucksack...

Keep it - he said – I don’t need it anymore.

And as I stood alone under the magnolia tree -
I heard the wind whisper softly -
Each man is his own compass
Every road begins and ends as a path
A wandering man is never lost

And then everything went silent
Like someone had closed a door
To some other part of the universe.

Saving the Sparrows

It's spring
and
the sparrows
are back
again

I can
hear them
refurbishing
the nests
they made
under my
AC units

I've lost track
of the generations
that have been born
and raised
by these perennial
squatters

All I know
is that
this will be
another year
I will go
without AC

It is my
small sacrifice
to save
an ailing planet

Someone else
will have to save
the polar bears

I'm too busy
with
these sparrows

Hopefully,
it will be
a cool summer

TUVA Turtle

My turn to drive
In the marathon
Trip from NY
To Michigan

To attend
My brother’s
Graduation
From MSU

Settling in
behind the wheel

I'm listening
To the Tuva song
of the highway:

Humming tires
Mixed with the
rhythmic

thud/thud
thud/thud

they make
passing
over the expansion
Joints -

Up ahead
a small spec

At the edge
Of the roadway's
shoulder -

a box turtle -
Neck stretched out
As far as it can go -

Contemplating
Crossing
The four lane highway

Or just listening
To the Tuva
Of the passing cars

An important
Decision

unfinished poem

I made the mistake
Of visiting
An old, unfinished poem:

“Just lend me a few words -
I only need a few words to get through this…”

“I can’t” – i said -
“You know it’s not a matter of a few words…”
“I have to go…”

“…Just a few words…that’s all I need…”

”I’m sorry..no…”

“why the hell do you keep coming back then…
...get out…”

Back on the street, I think:

“Why do I keep going back?"

"Why is it so hard to let go
of unfinished poems?"

Why?

Ever Fresh Farms

The black & white photo
I found on the internet
shows it from the air -
a long narrow building
surrounded by farmland -

A time when the Island
Was a blank landscape,
A canvas of crops,
Before the caravans
of suburban pioneers
made the eastward journey
from the city
in search of a better life

I remember the crackling sound
our car tires made
pulling off the smooth
main highway
onto the gravel parking lot
that surrounded it

Going there
always meant coming home
with some toy or novelty item:
a bag of green plastic army men
a packet of Mexican jumping beans
a real rabbit's foot key chain
a pair of black and white repelling dogs

They tore it down in the early '60s
to build a Wetson's
and a miniature golf course

But there are days
When I close my eyes
And pull off the main road
in memory

Just to hear
The crackling sound
of tires
on the gravel parking lot
of Ever Fresh Farms

The Marionette

At that certain young age
They are never sure
Stating one moment- He’s fake
And then in the next
Asking hesitantly - Is he real?

And it makes no difference
That they can see
The thin strings
Connected to his hands
And head and feet

But once he awakens
From his tangled sleep
And leaps into the air
To perform his little dance
All doubt disappears

And all they see
Is a little magic
Marionette man
Who is real

like the solitude
of an empty pair of shoes
waiting by the door

The Map Master

I imagine somewhere
deep in a chamber of the mind
there is a memory map
covered in myriad lines
laid down over time
representing
journeys planned
or taken

And I imagine
an ancient Map Master
waiting with his sextant -

Looking for a new
and rising star
To appear on the horizon -

Your signal
To plot a new course

Self Sculpture

The headless snowman
Standing frozen
in the moonlight
Is a self-sculpture of sorts

A half finished example
Of what I have become
Someone who starts
and leaves things half done

The list is long and growing
But we all have our moments
of procrastination
Our periods when we let things slide

Right now while it is snowing
It is too cold to go outside
But tomorrow -
Yes, maybe tomorrow
I will give him a head
And maybe a face

In the Background

The sadness is always there
Like the sound
of rain, beating
against a window pane

Like the sound
of water drowning
In a drain

Like the sound of feet
treading up and down
stairs

the rhythm of sadness
the sound of sadness
never ending, never
ending

Summer Boardom

Summer is here
and I hate to admit
I’m already board
and starting to wish

I could be something else
instead of just me
like an old warty frog
asleep in the bog

Or, a big water turtle
afloat on a log
Or, a fat grizzly bear
out looking for honey

Or, a wild jungle monkey
At the top of a tree –
Or, a tiny black ant
(with the strength of a giant)

Or, a bird -Or, a bee,
Or even a chameleon -
Having such abilities
Would be so much fun

But choosing just one
is a dificult decision -
So, I think I’ll just stay
in the shape of a human

The Girl on Stilts

You lived
In the corner house
And your name
Was Carol

You gave me
My first kiss
Behind the forsythia bush
When we were six

A kid’s kiss
But still - a real kiss
Right on the lips

There may have been
A second one
But I don’t remember
Because the other kids
Found us and you ran
From our hidden Eden
Crying

And when you told your father
What had happened
He said we could never play
Together again -
Seemingly harsh punishment
For a promiscuous child's crime

But you served your time -
A week of confinement
to your backyard -
Parading clumsily around
on the stilts he made you -
Probably hoping they would purge
your mind of foolish temptations
and accelerate your rehabilitation

But they didn't -
And a month later
You got caught
Kissing another boy

Where Silence Falls on Silence

I gave you
my face

but I was
somewhere
else -

A place
Deep
in memory

Where silence
Falls
on silence

Like snow
On top
Of snow

The Shoe Story

You were surprised
i remembered
the story you told
about the time
your mother
lost her shoe
when she
and her sister
ran into
the rice fields
and hid
under blankets
to escape
the bombs
dropped
on their
Japanese village
one night
during WWII

It is not
something
one
easily
forgets
waiting
for the
8 AM
Monday
morning
section
meeting
to start

Ever Fresh Farms (Farmingdale)

Rememberance - In no chronological order

I am looking at the only photograph
I have of my grandmother and grandfather
taken during the 1920s or early '30s

They are both young
My grandfather is wearing a three piece suit and a straw hat
My grandmother a pair of delicate leather boots
and a coat with a fur collar

They are standing somewhere in Brooklyn
It might have been a special occassion
or Sunday or maybe they just dressed that way

I never met my grandfather
He died in the late 1930s
My grandmother lived into her eighties
but my memories of her,
at this point in my life
are nothing more than small eclectic sketches

II

She lived through the Depression
And for the rest of her life
She saved and reused
Scraps of aluminum foil
Paper bags, rubber bands
Rags, and even the string
From the bakery boxes
Long before recycling
came into fashion

She used torn pieces
of brown bag paper
Instead of band aides
To stop the bleeding
If she accidentally
Cut herself
while pealing potatoes
or dicing onions

She used naphtha soap
And ammonia and bleach
And plenty of hot water
And elbow grease
When she cleaned

She had her own way
of doing things -
Like sharpening pencils
With a razor blade
Instead of a pencil sharpener
And I could never use them
Because the points always broke off
As soon as they touched the paper

She had a big glass jar full of buttons
That we used instead of money
When we played a card game
Called Steal the Old Man’s Pack
And a dice game called Put and Take

She used the term “dear”
Whenever she thought
Something was too expensive
Which was just about all the time

She taught me how make
Ravioli from scratch
Rolling out the dough
Cutting the shapes
With the rim of a glass
Filling them
With ricotta cheese
Tightly crimping the edges
Putting them int0
the boilng water of the "big pot"
Watching them sink to the bottom
and parachuting to the top when they were done

She put supper
On the table every night
For us after my mother died
And by then she was in her late sixties

She sang quietly
To herself
At the kitchen sink
While she washed
The supper dishes -
But stopped if she caught
Anyone listening

She watched wrestling
And loved Andre the Giant
And Gorgorius George
And never knew that what
They did in the ring wasn't real

She married twice -
Her first husband died
And she divorced the second one
Because he was too stingy with
His money

She went to mass
Almost every Sunday
And to Bingo
Once or twice during the week
And when she won
She always gave money
To all her grand children

She worked in the garment district
And sat at the kitchen table
Every Sunday night
and counted out
The piece-work tickets
form the previous week,
Wrapping a thick rubber band
Around each neat little stack

She lived into her eighties
and I thought she'd be around forever

She used to call me Joey
and then one day
time rewired all her memories
and the Joey that she knew
wasn't me

Chippy

My aunt Chippy
Whose real name was Lillian
Wore her hair short
Like a tomboy
And had been in love
With the Brooklyn Dodgers
Throughout the 1950's
And when they left
The East Coast for California
It broke her heart
And she purged them from her life forever
By giving me all the Dodger memorabilia
She had spent a decade collecting

There were newspaper articles
About Sandy Amaros
The Cuban left fielder
And a photograph of him
Flashing the leather at the last moment
Stealing a sure double from Yogi Berra
Making his famous sliding catch
Down the left field line
In game seven of the '55 World Series

And although she hated the Yankees
There was an article and photograph
Of Mickey Mantle’s mammoth
565 foot home run
That cleared the Griffith Stadium roof
And became the first tape measure home run

Chippy also liked telling stories
About the stick ball games
She played In Catholic School -
The girls against the nuns
Or, as she called them – the Sisters

And when she finally decided
To spend a weekend with us
At our Long Island house
I bragged to all my friends
That she was greatest stick ball player
To ever have played in Brooklyn
Throwing in that she was capable of delivering
Home runs on the scale of Ruth and Mangle
Because none of them really knew
Where Brooklyn was
Or had ever played stick ball
but they all knew Mantle and Ruth

The moment she arrived
I dragged her out to the street
And handed her the stick ball bat
I had made from my mother's broom
And proudly pulled out a Spaldeen
And tossed it to her

She laughed and said
She hadn’t played in years
And couldn't promise anything

She whiffed the first five times
She tossed the ball in the air
And tried to hit it

And I could see
the look of doubt
Creeping into my friends' faces
and all I could say was -
“She’s rusty, that’s all.”

But then on the sixth try
She connected
And sent the bubble gum colored
ball in a high, far arc
Out of the cul-de-sac
And down the length of the block
With everyone scrambling
To retrieve it

Turning to me
She smiled
And said – "Not bad, kid.
Now you try."

One Long and One Short

My mother never learned how to drive
And If she needed to go anywhere
During the day she always called a cab

And within 10 or 15 minutes
A yellow cab would arrive at our house
Ready to take us on our excursion

Pulling out of our cul-de-sac
The cabbie would call into the dispatcher
And say – “I just picked up one short and one long.
What is the fare?”

And a few moments later,
The dispatcher's voice would come back
through the crackle of the two way radio
And ask – "What is the destination."

-"Local...just into town."

“That'll be a buck twenty five.”
And off we would go.

I always imagined that the dispatcher
was like someone from mission control
who controlled all of the cabbies and their taxis
from some remote and secret place

But once, when we were in town,
and my mother didn't have change
to call a cab from the pay phone at the supermarket
And we had to walk to the taxi dispatch building
I got to see the building

It turned out to be nothing more than a small shack
Attached to the Aero Tavern -a haven for afternoon bar flies

And the dispatcher -a chain smoking,
grossly overweight woman with graying
Medusa-like hair and huge arms
with undersides that hung down
and jiggled like curdled sacks of fat
whenever she reached for her cigarette

Eyeing us peripherally,
she grabbed the dispatch microphone
and said in a gravely voice:
"I have two walk-ins for pickup. Someone come and get 'em."
And then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke
that exploded against the nicotine stained plate glass window

As we sat and waited for the cab
I thought of the few occasions
When my father tried to teach
My mother how to drive
Our big, yellow Buick convertible,
with the manual transmission,

The lessons started with promise
But always ended badly

My mother couldn't operate the clutch
And put the car through a series of seizures
Which made her laugh
And my father rapidly lose his patients -
Until he couldn't take the lurching anymore
And finally blurted out - "That's enough. I'll drive."
And they would switch places.

As a result, she never learned to drive.
And in the end,
probably decided that it was easier
To simply call a cab -
And so we remained -"One long and one short"

Marion

The forsythia
With their willowy
branches
of flaming
yellow flowers
Flailing about
In the cool
Spring breeze
Always remind me
Of my Aunt Marion

Who came
Out to the Island
- or the country
as she called it -
From Brooklyn
Every Spring
Just to walk through
the neighborhood
To enjoy them

II

Marion
had a boyfriend
Named Nick

And during the summer
She and Nick
And my cousins
Joe and Barbara
And my Aunt Chippy
Would all pile into
Nick’s black Chevy Impala
with the bullet fins
and big chrome fenders
And drive out to our house
On the Island
Either alone
or as the lead car
in a caravan
of cars
containing
my other
aunts, uncles
and cousins

And no matter
how many times
They made the trip
From Brooklyn
Out to the Island
They always missed Exit 31
And got lost
And had to call from a pay phone
For directions

And when the big, black Chevy
Pulled up in front of our house
It was the signal to breakout
The cold cuts, soda, beer,
Macaroni salad, potato salad,
Hot dogs – and have lunch

And everyone
sat around the
Big kitchen table eating
And “catching up”
And smoking...

Everyone smoked -
Mostly Pall Mall, Camel,
Lucky Strike or Chesterfield
Except my father
Who smoke Raleigh Cigarettes
Because they came with coupons
That were redeemable
For gifts in a catalog
That he let me help him
Pick out
Whenever he had
Accumulated enough
To send away
For something

And as they ate
Someone would start
To tell a story
about what silly thing
one of them said
or done the previous week

And then
someone else would
Jump in an add to it

And slowly
the story would build
In bits and pieces
until it ended
In a eruption of laughter
As they poked fun
At one another


On Saturday nights
Everyone crowded
around the TV
into the living room
to watch Sea Hunt
starring Lloyd Bridges

And as it got later and later
Someone would eventually yawn
and say -
“Well, we’d better be going soon.
It’s a long drive.”

To which my mother to say:
“No, it’s too late to leave now.
You’ll Never find the Parkway in the dark.
Stay over and leave in the morning.”

And then someone would call out-
“OK, but put on another pot.” (of coffee)
Or, “Put on the tea kettle.”
Or,“None for me. I’m turning in.”

And some would stay up -
And some would go to bed -
And as the night dwindled
The last two left at the table
Were always my mother
And Marion -
The two closest sisters

And decades later
Time has stitched
Those moments together
In my mind
like a Crazy Quilt
Made up of many small pieces
That add up
to tell a larger story
That could never be completely unfolded