For REID, ONE and GROWING

It's still quite early in your morning,
right around starting to recognize
faces, toys, animals,
different foods besides milk
and squashed banana,

things that move like magic,
that bright red and white something
rocking in the water when
Mommy says 'boat' or Dad says 'bath'
(please don't ask me what
'in the wa-wa' meant),
I really can't remember!

But I do know the little colored ball
that rolls around in a delightful rainbow,
we can just call it 'that' and leave it at that.

What do you not know about your 'Lo-Lo',
your ever loving Me,
I am writing in a large book, a ledger,
in numbers even you should be able to see

Every together moment I owe you
beginning with a week, day, hour, minute
and teeny-weeny second
that I cannot be near,

my ledger will hear about it, big time
to be sent climbing and miming and
giggling and squiggling, bring the cat in on it
unborrow moments well spent
up throttle the Wollen Unlimited, away
on a fun loving spree!

ASTRAY

Strong in my Faith, I face the undeniable,

In the unusual event that
faces change magically from
people hearing the first part
of an uninterrupted thought, amazingly
to white gowned others hearing the end,

Or I lean toward a friend I call Sweetheart,
seated near on the bus going home,
(we who shared many a tear),
and watch her whisper to a stranger, who asks me
politely quite clear, "Can I help you?"

When describing an incident yesterday
to the folks at a family foray,
and hear a plea from cousins and friends alike
to give then a break, get off the bike
with that same old story-book play,

But when the driver announces last stop
on the bus I am riding,
and I know full well
I have to get off (count them again)
three stops more,

Then I had better take a pill
long past due taking
and ask anyone wearing
brightly blinking buttons,
a uniform, a shiny badge of any kind,
help find a way back to
a dusty window sill, still remembered as home

Once upon another time.

THE CONFESSIONAL

Growing up,
I well remember frequent visits
to a special Confessional,
that not-so-private sanctuary,
neither religious,
nor to admit perversity or self humiliation,

Rather a place to enhance station of
My Mom, in a world wide sorority,
The "Order of the Yenta",
societal standard bearers of
Mothers International, (all rights protected),

And there within to recite
recent honors earned in our plight
to elevate importance
of our mother superior,
Or else confess, with annotated guilt,
"Forgive me, O my Mama,
for I have not yet brought,
or enough bought, to ennoble the family tree",

At the apex of Mother's stride, all of us aging,
My perfect brother was able to present
The gold medal of honor, privilege and pride,
as Mom announced, with us on display,
"I now have a son, a doctor!"
And, so that I not be left out of play,
"and another who makes a good living too!"

Exactly then, when
I knew future contributions
to the Confessional
would be limited thin,
I vowed to bring greater fame, a very least
the first Jewish President of the USA,
Now that might be win-win, wouldn't you say?

Well, the Confessional in mind,
I gently remind my Mom,
wherever her comfort in Yenta heaven,

The younger, who made a good living too,
Along with a beautiful bride,
and plenty of leaven,
has sewn two spectacular grandchildren
in the pocket-book of your heart,

and then two more!
Angels, without equal shown,
and be proudly boasted
my very own.

ME AND CHRISTINA

I took this night job at the museum,
not really needing the money,
But a chance to be next to great artists,
Like Delacroix and Tintoretto and Monet, and all,
All alone.

No bustling crowd of flirting females,
no sweat, not a cough in absentia.
Picture just me pocketing seven fifty per
slow motion hour, simply
watching shadows as they run and hide from
my four 'D' cell powered flashlight.

Watching the Masters, at night, is a gas!
Wacky maybe, nut I'm not at all spooked,
When Vermeer's smiling model and
Manet's straw-hatted picnicker ask politely for
directions to the can, I may for spite say "Forget it!
until the end of my shift".
It's a gift, a spree, if possible until
forced retirement at ripe old age seventy.

There is one problem needs thinking...
On the grass, next to Andrew Wyeth's Christina,
while at lunch one midnight,

well,

I fell in love, and I want to lunch next to her
every night after day, If I may, for the rest of my stay.
Last night, during my Jello, I notice
how she is sitting, I think I can screw with my Christina,
bet she'd enjoy it, too, change her whole outlook!
We might even consider sweet matrimony, she and me.

Not sure we could get a license, nor would Wyeth OK
changing the title to, "Christina's World, Next to Hot,
Off-Duty Guard, Planning Marriage After Age Required Retirement".

As I think of it, No, the new title may be just a little bit
too long.

Notes, the Family

For a limited time,
I'll admit resenting my natural mother,
by-the-waying the exact date of our trip
Without so much as even a kiss good bye,
Mom Nature scrambled off to work

And left me to wonder
about what my kids will do
when I tell them about
that final Vacation.

Not to worry?
that the big kid
Will again become little,
and the little one bigger than
all the usual restraints
known to quiet wails of grief,
all quite normal.

Must remember to leave word
That the simple container
Be sealed ever from view,
especially from
any remaining dreams
demanding re-entry
Because of non-completion.

Wear that one suit
kept over the years.
It will surely fit OK,
I mean, do I really need
To keep warm or act formal
inside the forever box?

No time
to call everybody who
Might want to come say good bye,
Just immediate family and close friends,
Which I guess means those
Very few still breathing.

I like the idea about
The whole deal over
Within twenty four hours,
Except let's bargain
For twenty five,
And make it
a real going away party.
I'm in no hurry!

Buy more than enough food from the deli
For big time eating after the ceremony.
I can hear my brother
grouching through sobs
About the family being cheap,

OK, get him to tip the limo
on the ride back.

Well,
Other than wishing me
'bon voyage'and safe home
That about wraps it up,

Anything else you need to know
Just ask me,
I'll be there on time,
I promise.

Sunbeams, for Lance

Mister Sun is getting ready to say
Good Night,
He is heading far, far away, to the horizon,
taking the day and all its light along with him,
Now almost setting,

A while ago, he was like
a strange savage child,
running free around the house,
peeking in everywhere, touching every thing,
Chasing shadows down the hall,
throwing dust high up on sunbeams,
fiercely hugging the child's colored ball,

Much cooler now, night comes to fall,

With one last twinkle
through a corner window sill,
Mister Sun still invites
the little colored ball
and all other toys,
come with me, ride for free to

tomorrow,
Clouds willing, we will play
once again, brightest light
warming your every color,
Little ball, however, smiles, hear it say

thank you,

I want to play in the shade today,
Enjoy your fun, but
not with my color,
I don't mind if I fade, please
Keep your heat and your unforgiving light,
Mister Sun, good night, You may, (yawn) now
go away...

YELLOW!

Don't let the snow you see falling
mislead you into imagining
that everythng is the same as was yesterday,
It is not.

The snow is miserly,
and will not leave
even a slight patch of white promise
To match an idle minute of nostalgia

But, look! A clandestine army approaches
With not a single sound,
and if you take a walk with me
Just 'round the rise,
Where one tree
challenges the swirl of the wind,
We will see the first signs
of imminent, inescapable color,

Yellow!

Worry not, rejoice rather
that soon the world of Drab
Will have been overwhelmed by a vast armada,
commanding that we surrender
Frost reddened eyes to the
Brightest of the primaries, yellow!

Forsythia have conquered!
and joining to watch the expanding view,
we need not feel threatened, nor bow to restraint,
Instead, eyes and hearts coming together,
We dance to the yellow of Springtime taint,
The beginning of life anew.

BELIEVING

Just take my word for it,
If you will lean a little more to the left as you search upward,
And look as far to the right as your eyesight might,
In the white clouds you will see Him,

Maybe not exactly as you expected,
Unlike anything you thought, or been taught,
but He is there,

Watching, and listening to
Each little bit of it,
What ever you might imagine happening
At the particular moment it happens,
He knows about it,

What does He do with all that He sees and hears?
Oh, well I guess He files them all into the most enormous
Computer you could think of,
Maybe to wonder about later

When there is a little more while.

And if you would like to speak with Him about something that happened?
Do as I showed you, leaning and looking and all,
And simply speak,
Ask Him anything about anything,
You will definitely hear His answer,
I myself guarantee it,

You may even get to see Him smile.

On Seeing My Doctor

Think twice, doc, before telling me the whole story
Of what's going on in my body,
Or how much time I have left.

Since I chanced upon a tiny spring
long hidden, cloistered in the
middle of unchallenged weeds
on a field of dreams.
And the water I drink from is snowy pure
and full of healing magic, I drank my fill, and

I brought you some,
along with my urine sample.
You laugh with mischief, and ask
which you may drink?

Now I laugh,

and promise that one will carry you
to a place in life where
you most want to be,
far from cold, dark clouds of doubt
and disappointment,
providing one with
Unlimited well being...

So, try them both.

Racing to the Grave

It's okay if you never forget what's his name,
or don't recall sleeping with what's her face.
You may think that memory lapse
is a normal ingredient of the race
toward the grave,
It is not.

Your memory bank, like the old beer refinery in Brooklyn
Is simply discarding much of the excesses
And impurities from the bottom of the barrel,
to savor the finely brewed flavor of the past.

You might want instead to remember
the forget-me-not flower that always
Accompanied your lapel whenever you
wore that old suit in the closet,
Both are still befitting.

Don't be over-concerned about the boatload of
ordinary words that have shipped out,
leaving you stranded in the middle
of a silly stanza you didn't want
To memorize, anyway.

If you can't find anything about
the forget-me-not, work on recalling
which appointment you have
in an hour with Doctor Whomever
at number ten bus-to-the-end-of-the-line Hospital.

And, if that doesn't come up,
you can surely tell the nice
policeman trying to get you home
what name you had when you boarded the bus,

I'm sorry, officer, I can only remember something about
a flower...

VIRAL POEXIA

You'd best not laugh, not out, nor aloud,
as I nominate
The female mosquito, QUEEN MONARCH of world bestiary!
Dimensions small, not very over all,
But fierce is she with the strength of Hercules
to order my demise, strictly her call.

unlike her delicately dancing male lover,
she has perfected the sinister craft of the vampire,
challenging all species, defiantly announcing her
intentions along with a discordant hum,
(somewhere between a threatening A
to an ominous B flat), and then with chutzpah
pierces any armor,
to suck her fill of vital essence...leisurely, unstoppably!!

One such sucker recently beguiled the guards at checkpoint
of otherwise infallible screens,
And convinced them
She simply wanted to kiss me goodnight,
Everybody knowing her family
had been with mine since childhood,

Then, promising to sing her own way
back to the swamp, coyly, "oh,
You-needn't-show-me-out, thank you,"...
she disappeared.

SOME BLOODY KISS!
And as I hissed and cursed and scratched,
I felt amiss, sensing a virus
more potent in style than any blown
East of the Nile,

I worsen rapidly, now mourning
the theft of my calendar, with regret
I disown peaceful dreams, in fear seeing borne
Poexic nightmares,
metaphors mugged, similes trampled,
until I am forlorn with slow death from word fever.

Farewell then, O my silver unicorn,
Or whatever they may now call you
Don't kid me with costume,
too late for any play,
Best get us going, no waning nor wax,
alas and alax,
our mosquito returns in the thousands, bearing spear,
apron, siphons and take-home array,
UP! hooves clacking without horseshit or whey,
hi-yo, Silver,(deleriously familiar?)and
....Away!

For Rima

Not many of us have been to the Brazilian rain forest,
but once there, some might
have luckily caught a brief glimpse of a beautiful female butterfly,
As rare as a jeweled unicorn,
Wearing colors beyond the range of the rainbow,
And elusive to all but the swiftest eye.

You might not know that for her measure, she has vast, mythical power,
Herds of rowdy uncontrollable children are known
To cower at the sight of her brilliant wings,
Otherwise fearsome trolls and ogres keep camouflage near
As she dispenses justice without fear,
In the land of the hillside grape.

Her name derives from the beautiful Rima of the
Amazon Valley, who long years ago, dwelt in the forest,
and successfully won the battle against invasion by
smelly Rodents of the Urban Sprawl.
That original Rima faced incredible odds,
Yet she prevailed, and in the process, according to the film,
Won the heart and future of a young Tony Perkins.

Of course, if our own Rima were around,
The choice of Jo-Jo rather than Perkins
might well have defied the script,
And if I'd been younger, and available,
Who might foretell what fate befell the whole production?

Let us salute, then, the beautiful queen monarch,
By lighting colored candles to wassail her date of birth,
Eat freely sweet creams of confection,
And may unending joy be chocolate sprinkled for her
With loving affection.