Pentimento

From time to time you run across a word
That yearns to be enpoemed; a lyric chime,
Its force enhanced (although it’s rarely heard)
By bouncing rhythm and internal rhyme.

Sometimes a painter errs, repairs with strokes
That cover his mistakes. A century flies—
And scoundrel Time mischievously invokes
What lies beneath deceitful surface dyes.

In short, you can’t forever hide your sins
Your foolish errors, misdirections, quirks.
No matter how you shape and tan your skin,
Beneath, life’s detritus, unseemly, lurks.

Both art and life reveal the debts they owe
To age’s creditor: pentimento.
(12/11/12)

Posted in Aging, Beauty, Vanity, Wisdom

Weather

That axis is responsible, that tilt,
Creating seasons, the fluctuations—
Day and night, warmth and chill, melodious lilt
That sings an anthem to all Earth’s nations.

Twenty-three point four degrees fixes fate,
Sets the bound’ries for our beasts, planted seeds,
Sea-deep denizens—chalks the empty slate—
Orders accoutrements to meet our needs.

We’ve learned the consequences of that tilt—
We build and plant and weave in awe of it—
Learned to deal with winter’s ice, summer’s wilt—
Learned to expect—sometimes even profit.

But never learned to brace against the doom
That tilt creates: tsunamis and simooms.
(11/30/12)

Posted in Seasons

At The Paddle Tennis Courts: Tanja

For T.S. who, alas, has gone to Germany

Face it! Humanity’s a deck of cards,
And Life determined by the game it deals.
Consider: Solitaire, War, Hold’em, Hearts,
Blackjack, Gin—all reflect disordered wheels

Of fortune. The rank and colors, jokers,
Rules, define our daily dispositions—
Those broken by this harsh world, the brokers’
Dollars that determine our conditions.

It’s clear and urgent that we find new games
To animate the shuffle we endure,
Which brings to mind our Tanja (who inflames
Our wits). She’s blonde, and not at all demure.

Her presence at the paddle tennis courts
Creates fresh rules: Empathy, Warmth, Aura—
New games for us. She touches, smiles, cavorts—
We wonder, watch, and, of course, adore her.
(11/29/12)

Posted in Beauty, Luck, Wisdom

Eileen

For E.P.E. and her surgeon

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)

Posted in Aging, Death, Family, Pain, Poetry (What is it?), Words

Storm Limericks

Not one thing amusing about Hurricane Sandy, but still . . .

A furious storm surnamed Sandy
Whipped water and winds to a frenzy.
It struck here and there,
Laid cities all bare—
This happens when weather grows randy.

Electricity, young, rules the day
Its presence become a cliché.
It powers the phones,
Computers and drones—
Without it we’re uncooked fillets.

Consequence, often, is vaster
Than cities of staunch alabaster.
When wind, rain, and tide,
Together allied,
First crush, then create our disaster.

This country—rich in technology—
Developed dependent psychology.
But then came the storm,
Left the country deformed,
Returned us to paleontology.
(11/5/12)

Posted in Pain, Seasons, Today's News

Autobiography

A middle-aged mistake
Born to New York Jews—
Driven to a Ph.D.,
I taught literature in five countries,
Retired, and, to weave time,
Write warped verse
Featuring fractured neighborhoods
And a frayed bipolar world.
(10/29/12)

Posted in Aging, Family, Wisdom