The weather, unimpressed,
Has been grim gray,
Chilled and rainy
From sunrise on—
Which, of course,
Imposes the usual debit
On these old and weary bones.

Eighty-four is no joke.
Those years a tough,
Silent and unresponsive audience,
While I try,
I really do,
To rejoice
And have some fun,
Exhibit a bit of gratitude
Despite the wind,
And rain,
And the diseased world
All of us
Inhabit.
(2/6/14)

One of the regulars down at the courts,
Larry, is eighty now famous for coifed
Hair, and immune to our mild, teasing snorts.
Educated children, grandchildren, waft

About his soul. He and his family
Have shared both mazel and tsouris enough—
Proud emotion, piqued by the awesome glee
Of birth and joy, darkened by the rebuff

Of illness and bone crushing accident.
Yet, through it all, he has remained unique—
Quietly dependable, provident,
He watches over us, cares for the bleak,

Helps even the drunk thieves who hang about,
Picks up the tab. We watch him from our bench—
He represents (we know and want to shout)
The very definition of a mensch.
(10/20/13)
Mazel = luck; Tsouris = trouble; Mensch = human in the highest sense.

I’ve never quite understood what “soul” means.
There, tumultuous, underneath the skin,
Empathy and ego ebb, flow, careen
Through consciousness like unleashed yang and yin.

Just where does gratification abide—
In hot sex, wealth, nourishing our egos,
Or in empathic warmth that feeds our pride
When we diminish others’ painful throes?

Remember infantile paralysis?
At eleven, it took Len’s legs away
While in summer camp. Later, on that day,
His mom stared at the iron lung and hissed!

Judge! Which spoke—her ego or empathy,
When she wailed “How could you do this to me”?
(7/27/13)

I harbor no unfilled desire
Except, perhaps, a peaceful world.
I sometimes sense that I’m admired
But mostly feel that I am foiled.

My wife is kind and substantive,
Good humored, talented and bright.
I’ve everything a life can give
So why my morbid psychic night?

I query: why my splintered heart,
And why my spirit drowns in blight?
My unresponsive human spark
Flickers, but casts no useful light.

Perhaps it’s simple—my splenetics?
The product of bizarre genetics!
(5/22/13)

And then the kids had kids. Grandchild magic
Overwhelmed, and trips up north plain multiplied
Today, extolling culinary tricks
His ex-wife performed, rapt, he confided

Details of a pot of soup she made, soup!
Leftovers of a well roasted chicken
Were simmered, seethed overnight, and then groups
Of raw veggies, chopped, added to quicken

The mellow broth—his eyes teared as he spoke;
I’d never seen his spirit so invoked!
(2/28/12)

Twenty-six people were murdered last week
By a bright, but awkward sociopath.
Twenty young children, were killed by a geek
Who added himself to his brute bloodbath.

None of us could figure it out except
That Christian evangelic Huckabee.
He knows why: “God was not present.” Inept
God-damned excuse! Then where the fuck was He!

Worse yet, that “interfaith” divine service—
Moslems, Jews, and Christians displayed their tools—
Some teary-eyed, some pompous, all nervous;
They’re probably not hypocrites, just fools.

No need to grieve, angelic spirits roam,
They gather up those tots, and bring them home—
Heal up your severed, blasted, splintered, hearts;
Your children rest with mythologic gods.
Trust us! Lords care for innocents who die
Believe! Believe! There is no need to cry.
So spoke those empty priests: “Believe, you’ll see!”—
Oblivious to their own irony.
(12/18/12)

What, one reasonably asks, are poems for?
The answer’s not so simple. They must bloom
With color, fragrance, substance at the core—
With words that swim, reverberate, and croon.

Those words must dance, duel, parry, stroke your mind,
Inflame your latent senses, all of them—
Provoke your spirit, forcing you to find
The stuff to love, the evil to condemn.

I know someone who’s suffered much of late.
She lost her husband, watched her brother die,
Relieved a grandchild from abuse, and saved
Her errant son before he went awry.

Most would have drowned, whelmed by a sea of pain,
But not Eileen—her beauty, strength, and grace
Keep her afloat; her empathy—the chain
That anchors her—commander of her space!

And, though her body’s turned on her—alas!
We—who know her well—know, this too, will pass!
(11/14/12)

Her arm around his back,
Affectionate, but firm—

She murmured in his ear:
“OK?” “Absolutely!”

She flashed a universal sign
(Three fingers and an O).

Which one, I wondered, called the play,
And which one just obeyed?
(2/19/12)

Sternly focussed thought (though short of panic).
A mild chest pain on the right side—muscle
Perhaps, not artery—then cyclonic
Drain of breath, like a toilet flushed, tussle,

Until the air returned (the bowl refilled),
Sett’ling that dreadful whirl of dizziness.
I knew these symptoms well—I saw them spilled
Before by one near, dear to me, in great distress.

An EKG might show a heart defiled—
My first (or last) thought: get our tax forms filed!
(4/3/11)

II

I think I’m dying, though I may be wrong.
That’s the grim part—here’s the strange part, quite weird:
I find I’m not depressed, nor do I long
For more years on evil Earth, so shit-smeared.

Why, then, am I whelmed with anxiety?
Not, I assure you, by contemplation
Of hell or heaven! It’s sobriety,
That denies a peaceful culmination.

I have responsibilities you see—
Others, innocent, unjustly suffer
Consequences of my demise, pay fees
In spirit, cash, that chip their lives rougher.

Yet I’m OK with death, though still quite tense,
Regretting my death’s inconvenience.
(4/16/11)