LEAVING HOME

More than you can imagine,

the red of all those attic years

still stains my memory, a lethal

make-over that colors recall

to shades of blue Saturdays,

crimson Sundays, white-eggshell 

weekdays when laughter –– out of 

character –– hid itself behind a long 

mute face. I remember the others, 

but where were you then, you with 

the last of summer green turning your head,

where are you now in your escape?

in what safe house barred to family

do you still sit colorblind in the musty dark,

remembrances creaking like 

old men's bones? Once when we 

were boys you curved your arms 

into a human rainbow high above

your head. You swore you'd never 

share your secret but in your bed

one night you sleep-talked it away

about the colors curving towards

treasures buried for you far away in time.

THAT OL' TIME POETRY 

  

I miss the days when poems were poems     

when poets wrote just for the rhyme     

and did not feel the need to share    

their every waking sentiment     

or hang in openair display their underwear     

for folks to see and touch.     

What's with poets nowadays?    

I dare say, they're much too much.

Back then Byron, Keats, and Shelly,

Arnold, Browning, Longfellow –– 

Hey, those versifiers kept mellow,

wrote of love and longing –– nothing heavy.

Don't you think scandals happened back then too?

Kings had mistresses... Hello!!

And for sure those mighty kings enjoyed tricks,

and ministers of state were into more than

matters of state, but did poets back then

grab their quills  and spill poetic telltale verse?

Perish that! They had common decency back then.

Let the king have his fling. His job is rough.

     

Poets did not overstep themselves. Instead, they wrote 

of clouds, immortality, daffodils and rosebuds.

Those poets of yesterday wrote of noble things:

a walk in Westminster Abbey, the sunlight, the way

trees bent and rustled in the October air,

not about the flesh, the white limbs of Miss Pretty.

They wrote of knighthood, not of nightgood. 

What royal flush was their concern?

     

Nor did they write about the Big Black Plague 

that sucked the life out of Europe. 

We never read a poem entitled "The Big Black Plague" 

or "An Ode to Armpit Boils Resulting 

from the Big Black Bubonic Plague That Plagued Europe"?

Plague Shmague! "Give me a flower, a grassy slope 

of yellow daisies. Give me a blue sky,” poets said,

“Stars at night lighting up the heavens. 

Give me the moon and stars the universe."

I miss that ol' time poetry 

when a guy, after a hard day's work,

sat in his favorite parlor chair, stretch out his legs,

smoke a good pipe bowl of whatever burned sweet, and read 

the latest sonnet or maybe a ballad or two or if luck would have it, a poem about how love is eternal and line after line

how two lovers hold hands and stare into the blue of each 

other's eyes while outside there blew a soft wind that touched

the soft petals and a happy yellow sun watched it all like 

a benevolent father. Now that was a love poem, ok?

Pure and sweet and something to delight the soul.

You could lose yourself in the lines. It didn't matter 

what was going on in the royal palace. 

Poets did not care about wars and long breadlines 

or about some princess who lost her seventh infant 

in childbirth. Or somewhere another king got beheaded. 

I miss the days when poems were poems

and poets could give a rat's ass about politics and crime.

They wrote to keep themselves alive,every word, every rhyme

a heartbeat, a poet's breath, a metered dance through time.      

PICTURE SHOW

Brooklyn was childhood in the 40’s.  

It was the mystery of the third rail

even punks deep in subways feared.

It was the Cook Street Market

(now an indoor multi-level garage)

but don't tell me the market sounds

are gone now.

When the wind is right

the child in me hears the Yiddish 

of peddlers, smells the cheeses,

feels Mama’s warm hand

tugging me away from the temptation

of just one Greek olive, one grape,

one token from the marketplace.

Blocks away on Graham Avenue

At the Lindy and The Rainbow Theaters

Johnny Mack Brown and Bob Steele 

were screen giants of the wildest West

and my Papa loved them, too,

both of us like kids before the screen

those Saturday matinees.

Now, decades later, I stand with a tripod

set up for the camera inside my head,

reeling off film like there’s no tomorrow, 

I want to get it all down ––

colors, movements, shapes, smells ––

reminders that I am fast becoming 

someone else's old memories.

I want it all catalogued,

recallable at a fraction's notice.

I want to see Mama’s soft hands,

Papa’s black, wavy hair,

their dreams in living color,

their son who jumped the trolley's

last car and rode one day for free.

I want to see that little boy

confess made-up sins to Father Baretta

at Most Holy Trinity Church 

after Saturday movies.

I need to sit the little boy down

and tell him stories about himself

as a grown man,

how the subway's third rail

still fascinates him,

how the sound of trains never changes,

only the passengers staring out at 

The backward blur of passing time.

In those early days did I see the man

I finally grew to be?

Did I see this man lurking on Brooklyn streets,

nodding like some film director proud of his work?

Did the two of us meet in my childhood

and spend some time together

or did I learn my father's lessons well

and fear the stranger on dark, unfriendly streets?

Can I blame the young boy now for refusing

to turn around in my memory 

long enough to spend some time with me?

We are not so different, he and I.

I still make up sins and hold foolishly to dreams.

When the wind is right I find the moment

to tilt my head and see the boy 

collecting bottle caps, marbles, 

comics, baseball picture cards

or favorite photos for a later time.