Marty

For M.W., on the occasion of this 75th birthday

I
Forty years ago, and freshly divorced,
I was brought to Wertlieb’s house. Inspection
Ensued. There, dangled before Eleanor,
Though plausible, fated for rejection

By that same Eleanor, but not by Jeanne,
Marty; not by Woodland Hills’ upper crust.
And when I brought the woman I was keen
To wed, they hosted the post marriage fuss.

Our kids were young, and so were we—pool side
Potlucks grew to more sturdy stuff. They left,
(Remember?) to help that brute Nixon ply
His wage and price controls, left us bereft!

But they returned! Together, soon, we flew
Through the world—aged, by time and what we knew.

[I wonder, sometimes, if Eleanor found happiness.]

II
How the devil do I condense forty
Years into a couple of thin sonnets?
All those trips, finishing with that sorry
Rain-soaked windy ride through France and Holland

(Finished for me—but not for you). Gamely
You just kept on! I thought we’d seen it all—
Turkey, Bali, India—even lame
Tunisia. But you kept barging, thrall

To the magnetic pull of new visions.
Untrammeled energy, at last, set free
By retirement, forged the giant who stunned
That forensic world—new celebrity

Not seen before! Comp’s one thing, I confess—
But forensics? And for the IRS!

[Jeez!]
(1/25/08)

Posted in Friends

On the Way to the Hospital

One day, driving on Western Avenue
To cheer my reconstructed wife,
A curbside, spastic gumby caught my eye.
One of those puffed-air waving figures
That insist: this store! this store!
We have what you’re looking for!

My cash, of course,
Is what that merchant’s
Looking for. Doubtless, he, too, needs
Warmth and sustenance.
And besides, the rent is due.

But what I most desire
Is not stocked in stores.

While stumbling toward
My own dark precipice,
I mock myself
And foolish folks
For all the stuff we felt
We could not live without.

A bed, a chair and table,
A pencil, some paper,
Some clay to shape.
Groceries, of course,
A few books—
A heated room against the wind.
Stuff enough!

Beyond this modest greed.
Again, I have to say:
What I most desire
Is not stocked in stores.
(1/25/08)

Posted in Family, Joan, Wisdom

Bliss

Bliss, like the ages of man, has stages.
The unremembered first, doubtless, the teat.
At ten I won a bike. Didn’t get laid
Until eighteen (memorably unsweet!)—

But incarnated that fierce, raw pleasure,
That genital discourse. What bliss to be
Wanted, seduced—warm, entropic treasure!
Marriage, children, a hard-won Ph.D.

Promotion—chosen as Outstanding Prof
(Albeit, one of five). Primed by good health,
Explorer, drunk on tart exotic quaffs—
Retirement secured with decent wealth.

Last stage of all—alas, it’s come to this—
Goose-down duvet—hot pad—my fondest bliss!
(1/6/08)

Posted in Aging, Death, Wisdom

Resolution

January first, two thousand seven,
Hard to face that New Year with not a thing
To do. So I yeasted Time with leaven—
Resolved to write one poem a week—to ring

In anxiety, devour hours—see
If I could energize my drifting fate.
Huzzah! I timely paid each week’s steep fee!
But how do I get through two thousand eight?
                                           (12/21/07)

Posted in Inspiration

Thanksgiving

Thanking is complex, reflecting, often,
What didn’t happen as much as what did.
Dad fled Poland, escaped Nazi coffins,
(But not to Somalia, dank, fetid

Dump!) Thankfully, I’m U. S. born, the sum
Of what he did and didn’t do. (Sweden
Might have been a better place—less fierce thrum
Of power—cool, socialistic Eden.)

Our choice of thinking over sweat worked out;
Our kids are talented, and not in jail;
Living at the beach in a paid-for house,
A fair reward in this disordered vale.

Our lucky genes bloomed free of gnarly twists,
And timely DOBs slipped us through wars.
We earned enough to happily subsist,
And travel spawned diverse, revealing lore.

What shall we thank? Our forebears’ energy!
Our wit and work! Not some mythology!
                          (12/25/07)

Posted in Illusion, Religion

Google It

      “The drive from Cowdenbeath to Lochgelly took Rebus through Lumphinnans.”
                          Ian Rankin, The Black Book, 1993

Lumphinnans? Lochgelly and Cowdenbeath?
C’mon, gimme a break! Imagination
Is one thing, but to label Scotland’s heaths
So fancifully? Truly stunning, fun

Places, these? Maybe for colonials—
But locals know such townships awfully well.
Google Cowdenbeath and get eight hundred
Sixty thousand hits—and if you still dwell

In Lochgelly and need to find a pub—
No problem, laddie, seventy one bars
Welcome you close to the train station hub.
As for worn out Lumphinnans’ dying star,

Despite decay and its abandoned mines,
Google hits it seventeen thousand times!
                                   (12/20/07)

Posted in Illusion