I
Everything fails—
The ability to count
Even five syllables.
II
One struggles to breathe
Evenly; to rise without
Stagger, knee pain wince.
The cruelest affliction?
Wounded lust, limpness and sag.
(6/30/11)
Down at the paddle tennis courts, Gino,
A daily presence softly manages.
He trains males and shapely girls, swift and slow—
Teaching, while minimizing damages.
The other day he pointed out to me,
With pride, his new court shoes, stunning blue, pure
(His sober features arch, suffused with glee)—
Not navy, teal—but blazing bright azure!
Festooned with scores of patterned holes, those sneaks,
Though heavenly, portend athletic threat—
Those holes, however cute, prevent foul reek
By venting fumes, evaporating sweat.
He flexed, he pranced, displayed uncommon stride,
And fashion’s pinnacle—laces untied!
(6/29/11)
What dark afflictions drive us—gifted, cursed
With what no other animals possess?
I used to think religion was the worst
Disease dementing us—pustular abscess!
But advertising proved a better bet.
We could not live, it seems, without that stuff—
The top tier cars, the fashion, mounting debt—
Stunned—unable to understand enough.
But now I know the source of all our grief,
The origin of humankind’s excess,
The root of greed, the sap of all belief—
Ambition—foul plague—virulent distress.
Sufficient warmth and sustenance, you’d think—
A bit of sex to propagate the race—
Would generate content, avoid the brink
Of murderous and melancholy fate.
Ambition won’t allow it, gives up peace,
Serenity, for strife without surcease.
(6/11/11)
“You are indeed an amazing person!” (L.F., 5/16/11)
With gratitude for Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73
I know, quite well, what the Bard meant when he
Evoked those stark images of age, death—
Those stripped, bare boughs, cold ash—diminished breath.
Time’s toll exacted from the life of me.
Nonetheless, I strive (sometimes with pure glee),
Determined to extract some sense—obsessed,
Despite bruised experience, with this quest
To force reason on staid authority.
Two adjectives reward my constant flings
I must admit, they fuel my spirit’s lust—
I’m dubbed “amazing” and “astonishing”—
My labors, therefore, not a total bust.
But which is best: trapped in a “maze,” alone—
Or stunned so hard you’re turned to gritty “stone”?
(5/26/11)
For A.H.
Something about the dog-walking widow
Passing, each morning, on Ocean Front Walk
Down at the paddle tennis courts—no quit
Shows. Chin high, scion of talented stock,
She glows with easy smiles (her features’ norm).
And though she strides with military spine,
Evidence reveals underlying warmth—
It’s the dogs, you see, scraggly, not divine.
Despite her fame and wealth, no stately Danes,
No coifed poodles here. Rescued mutts attest
A heart engaged, that’s always been the bane
Of bleak injustice—always, without rest!
Our heroine (frankly, we dwell on her),
Our local angel, our Anjelica
(5/14/11)
“Marv, my recent formula has been: Life is 90% boredom, stress, aches—9% terror, acute distress, agony—1% joy, pleasure, orgasms.” S.S. (5/6/2011)
Look Steve, your math has too few dimensions;
Basic string theory needs eleven,
While you complain about time’s tensions
(Using four). You need the other seven.
Ninety percent of waking life consumed
By boredom, stress, and aches? Certainly true
Within those four dimensions. But let’s zoom
Out a bit. Five, spews salary you’re due—
Six, that firm competence you radiate—
Seven through ten (while bored and stressed at four)
Project position, admiration, fate—
In short, the many golden goals you’ve scored.
As for those terrors, agonies, distress
That take up less than ten percent of time—
They’re seasonings that make your life fluoresce—
The nasty stuff that fertilize sublime.
Eleven intensifies orgasm
(Two dimensions prop that frumious glee)—
While you enjoy the magic of those spasms,
At eighty-one, my sole response? Envy!
(5/26/11)
