Keep your eye on the brass ring
as carousel horses gallop
past it one more time
reaching for that cool metal
as it brushes the tip of your finger.
Under the striped canopy,
cirque du soleil spinning on silk.
Forget the ring. It’s only brass.
Get it together, girl, go for the gold
and slap a star on a photo finish.
A tree
With beautiful, green leaves
Swaying
In a warm summer breeze
Limbs outstretched
Reaching for the clear, blue sky
I’m happy
The breeze turns cooler
And my beautiful, green leaves
Show their true colors
Vibrant reds
Oranges and yellows
Paint the landscape
I’m proud
The breeze turns cold
My beautiful leaves turn brown
And fall one by one
To the cold ground
Bare limbs appear as a skeleton
Against blue sky
I’m sad
weeks of planning
drawing out a pot
with theoretical layers
of earth and gravel
took notes on
lightning and temperature
worried over the money spent
on a project that might fail
I pulled the trigger
brought home bulbs
in a mesh bag wrapped
on the gray-blue Walmart bags
with a large pot
my cat watched as I placed
thick squiggling earth worms
shiny things burrowing
into the earth
the next morning
I found the worms
as hard leathery curls
crisp, stiff, dead
sprouts broke through
rose upward
curved thick stalks
a single leaf began to unroll
my heart swelled
the cat waited minutes
after I turned my back
ate all the leaf
I created a mesh covering
that lasted two days
cost me another leaf
so I stood
the special pot
on a stool
and all was well
until she-the cat
brought the dog running
knocked over the pot
my wife
named her well
I always do this to myself
Get so close to someone
So close that commitment is within a hands reach
And then I shrink, I get small
I hide like a mouse just trying to stay warm
I dig my hole deep like a mole escaping the hot sun
I hide my secrets,
My feelings, my thoughts
In a tree like a squirrel stocking up for winter
And then I sit like a robin on a branch
While you fly off to another
I lay in the sun like a lioness on a rock
Sulking away, always aware of what’s around me
I won’t fight, I couldn’t have expected you to stay
Maybe I just wanted to be a labrador
And always be by your side
We may not have ended up as doves
But we could’ve always been wolves
It isn’t just noise,
but human noise.
Dirtying our ears,
our parks, our oceans,
every corner of our world.
A constant barrage of sound.
Listen. You hear the fan,
the air conditioner, cars passing by.
Then there’s music and
all the videos and reels
we’re addicted to.
When was the last time
you heard only the sounds
made by the earth;
insects humming,
birds chirping,
the trickle of a brook
or the roar of the ocean?
Stop. Hush. Be quiet.
Can you hear it
Past the noise we make?
if I fall where no one sees
and I fall where no one hears
and if when I fall all by myself
I don’t make a sound
don’t disturb the crickets and lightning bugs
don’t wake the neighbors
and if I fall and trip and break
and I’m all alone in my quiet
acceptance of the pain
how do I know it hurt?
Deadly Fiction kills
only through selective choice.
Care in craft is power.
Foods have the unique ability
to agitate half a population
and animate the other half
to fight as if that food were
their only nourishment
for the rest of their lives.
Although green tomatoes exist
throughout the year like other tomatoes,
these limed and bitter coins
reemerge with the summer
to claim a seat among
the other appetizers tired by their stay
as a staple of the American palate.
Although every morsel
is magnified multiply
through immersion in boiling oil,
green tomatoes release their taste best
when paired with other constrasting flavors.
No two finished fried products
ever taste the same,
so perhaps the disgust
these humble friends have earned
results from the wrong example.
Much like summer itself,
some days scorch while some only shine,
and some people reinforce
the goodness we know exists in our centers
as others remind us why
we each develop individual textures,
like we each develop unique tastes
that barely rationally motivate us.
And don’t get me started on the deliciousness of pimento cheese.
(Random Thoughts)
God could have made me with a shell
like a tortoise, I’ve been carrying
my home on my back since I was born
in Green Point, Brooklyn in 1938
By Acts of God
this old half-Jewish half-Dutch reptile
has been a navy man (of a certain type),
a noncombatant with a purple heart,
a nurse, an ignorant father,
grandfather, great grandfather,
and soon to be great great. It seems
titles are the only thing I’m great at.
My own grandfather, a rabbi, always
told me not to end my sentences
with a preposition. Thank You Papa
I think God is too non committal
to have a body, too curious
about the world to be tied to it.
And I’m too old to despair
over what God will squeeze
out of me at the end
Tonight, back in Temple Terrace,
I open my eyes and go on dreaming
sailing with Dr. Tom
on the High Seas
