CROWNED WITH LAURELS

CIGARETTES FOR BREAKFAST

2012-01-29T16:05:00.002-05:00

Temperatures in the teens this morning.

The scent of smoke travels quicker in cold

winter air, there must be a reason for this?

A fifth grade science fact long forgotten.

No one smokes inside their homes anymore.

Peek through the blinds, on my way down

and I see him banging a pack of Marlboros

on the heel of his hand, a custom of many.

Younger ones smack longer, twice as hard

before removing the cellophane wrapper.

Next door, the lady with all the dogs yells

because they’re barking and growling again.

I hear her coughing and know that she must

be fumbling in the pockets of her bathrobe

for the lighter that will start her busy day.

From my kitchen window, I see a big man

in his pajamas, winter coat, and a wool cap.

He puffs away on his Newport, shuffling from

side to side, attempting to keep himself warm.

Days like this must make them think of quitting.

52 POETRY... #52poetry A Complete List

2011-12-28T09:03:00.004-05:00

My New Year's Resolution for 2011 was to read 52 books of poetry. One book for each of the 52 weeks! I am pleased to say I have completed my goal! I wanted to share the list of all the poetry books I read for this personal (and public,Twitter updates) reading challenge. There are some great books on this list and some amazing poets that I was unfamiliar with. I will analyze the list later. For now, I'll just enjoy the satisfaction of fulfilling a New Year's Resolution. Usually they have perished by the third week in January. Perhaps this year's goal of losing twenty pounds is possible after all ?

Addonizio, Kim	Tell Me
Addonizio, Kim	Linger at the Starlite
Armantrout, Rae	Versed
Berry, Wendell	Farming, A Handbook
Brown, Jericho	Please
Brown, Ray	I Have His Letters Still
Bukowski, Charles	War All the Time
Carty, Jessie	Paper House
Collins, Billy	Horoscopes for the Dead
Cushman, Stephen	Riffraff
Dargan, Kyle	Logorrhea Dementia
Dawes, Kwame	Hope's Hospice
deNiord, Chard	The Double Truth
Dickman, Matthew	All- American Poem
Eady, Cornelius	Hardheaded Weather
Fairchild, B.H.	Usher
Finney, Nikky	Head Off & Split
Gay, Ross	Bringing Down the Shovel
Griffiths, Rachel Eliza	Miracle Arrhythmia
Hayes, Terrance	Lighthead
Hicok, Bob	Words for Empty and Words for Full
Hodgen, John	Heaven & Earth Holding Company
Jackson, Gary	Missing You, Metropolis
Jackson, Major	Hoops
Jackson, Major	Holding Company
Johnson, Douglas P. (editor)	Broken Circles
Kistulentz, Steve	The Luckless Age
Komunyakaa, Yusef	Warhorses
Laux, Dorianne	Facts About the Moon
Limon, Ada	Sharks in the Rivers
Mali, Marie-Elizabeth	Steady, My Gaze
Mali, Taylor	What Learning Leaves
Manning, Maurice	The Common Man
Medina, Tony	My Old Man Was Always On The Lam
Meitner, Erika	Ideal Cities
Murphy, Peter E.	Stubborn Child
Nezhukumatathil, Aimee	Lucky Fish
Olds, Sharon	The Gold Cell
Padgett, Ron	How Long
Pastan, Linda	Queen of a Rainy Country
Paul, Bradley	The Animals Are Gathering
Pollock, Iain Haley	Spit Back A Boy
Powell, D.A.	Cocktails
Sayers Ellis, Thomas	The Maverick Room
Schultz, Philip	The God of Loneliness
Suarez, Virgil	90 Miles
Szymborska, Wistawa	Here
Trethewey, Natasha	Domestic Work
Turner, Brian	Here, Bullet
Turner, Brian	Phantom Noise
Wojahn, David	World Tree
Wood, Susan	The Book of Ten

LIFE WAS A BEACH

2011-12-04T22:48:00.004-05:00

It was the days before SPF 30 and worries about cancer.

Summers meant swimming, wave riding, sand castles.

Catching blue claws by the pilings with two paper cups.

Handball with a pinky ball, Frisbee artistry with a Whamo,

watching old guys play quoits, Canadians playing bocce,

college kids from Maryland with their lacrosse sticks,

or Natives practiced pitching shells into holes in the sand.

Some wore cut off jeans with thick leather belts, others

insisted on wearing Birdwell’s or Ocean Pacific trunks.

Gorgar pinball, Galaga, and air hockey in Frank’s Playland.

Pennsylvania Dutch root beer, crinkle cut fries in little red

checked paper boats with flat wooden two prong forks,

fifty cent hot dogs, frozen Cokes from Clark’s, then on to

miniature golf at the foot of Jackson Street with windmills,

statues of seals, keeping score with stubby green pencils.

Hole in one on the last hole got you another game free.

Next door was Sid’s Place, later it was called Carney’s,where

music blasted, people drank and laughed loudly all day long.

No need for shoes or flip flops, we walked bare foot and used

painted white lines to avoid the burn of Beach Drive’s asphalt.

We’d lie on the jetty’s hot black rocks to dry off and daydream

out loud, wondering how we could keep this up for the rest of

our lives. But we knew it’d end, because summers always do.

DAYS ENDED ON THE FRONT PORCH

2011-12-04T13:04:00.001-05:00

waiting for the nightly call of “Supper’s ready”.

November meant gray hooded sweatshirts and

cups of black coffee. Talking with you on the phone

you told me how dark it was already at home and I

realized how far west I was with daylight hanging on.

Some days the sky turned orange or purple, a few

hours later stars shined brighter than ever, the night

so dark you really can’t see your hand in front of you.

Some nights made me think about how I got there and

I’d tell you I didn’t know how good life was back then.

But that’s not true. Sadly I was like the so many others,

worrying about how things always have to end instead of

enjoying the moments. Twenty years later, I’m on my own

porch with a cup of coffee looking up at the sky, thankful

for where I am, all that I have, and for moments like this.

THE FARMER'S STORY

2011-12-03T18:38:00.001-05:00

The greenhouses are gone now and

I see many new buildings, but the shed

next to his parents’ house still stands.

Boards are busted, some rotten, all of

them have changed to shades of gray.

A flickering shop light was always on and

there never was a door to you could close.

For years, an engine block caked in oil sat

in the corner. Pick axes, tractor tires, hoses,

disc plates, pipe fittings, welding tanks, boxes

of fertilizer mix, buckets of bolts, nuts, screws,

and nails littered the shed’s grease stained floor.

He told me many times about the move back

to Tennessee with flat bed trucks loaded down

by rhododendrons, nursery supplies, azaleas.

He’d talk about that first season of farming,

fifty acres and a mule, and how at the end of

harvest- the mule died. Then he’d laugh loudly.

The tomatoes were packed by hand, wrapped

in newspapers. They thought about quitting.

I asked if they’d ever knock down the old shed

and he said he couldn’t do that, because we

all need to be reminded of how we got started.

PASSPORT

2011-11-27T15:26:00.001-05:00

They say it takes at least six months,

it’s too late for me to get a passport.

I won’t be flying to Belfast, renting a car

or driving to the countryside of Armagh.

It’s too late to marvel at rustic cottages,

old stone churches and wooly sheep

grazing on the famous green hillsides.

It’s too late to stop at the pub for a pint

and ask directions to the road where his

home is found nestled among the trees.

In the movies, I would’ve driven up and

found him in the front yard raking, playing

with his border collie, wearing a sweater

like the men in Irish Spring commercials.

It’s too late to hear his jovial voice or how

he greeted us all - “Good to see you Lad!”

NO SUCH THING AS FREE FRUIT

2011-11-26T21:12:00.002-05:00

It’s August in Jersey, the peaches in A&P are

piled sky high in a pyramid and I have to laugh

when I see the boxes, me and the fruit are from

the same hometown and I’m reminded of summer

driving down Fayette Street, past old fairgrounds

onto Cubby Hollow Road into the flattest part of

the state where you’re surrounded by orchards.

Past Trench Road, I’m tempted like Adam and Eve in

the story from Mrs. Garrison’s Sunday School class.

I pull my little green Mustang over to the shoulder,

take a few steps towards the sagging branches and

know that the fruit will never taste better than this,

the second week in August. Lucky for me, there’s

no sign of workers, all I hear is a bobwhite’s call.

Suddenly an angry man descends a wooden ladder

propped against a tree twenty yards off the road.

I don’t know what he’s yelling, I’m guilty, I run away

fearing an axe handle, a shot gun, or the biting dogs.

If you ever think about helping yourself on some back

road, remember it always seems like no one’s there

in the trees, but they’re working and watching you.

CONSUMED BY WORK

2011-11-26T19:59:00.002-05:00

It was the summer of working night and day,

eighty hour weeks, for banking paychecks to

pay tuition, being on call, always ready to go.

It was the summer of Genesis, Van Halen and

Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again, TDK blank tapes,

high top sneakers, hair gel, my first CD player.

It was the summer of learning to be a supervisor

of a crew, being responsible, firing of men for

lateness, leaning on shovels, and reckless driving.

It was the summer of 7-11 hot dogs, quarts of milk,

softball sized peaches, Lowenbrau nips, and Fridays

meant cheeseburger subs from Gallee’s Market.

It was the summer of not going to baseball games,

not going to the boardwalk, swimming in the ocean,

and for not spending time with high school friends.

It was the last summer of living in my hometown,

driving my first car, cutting someone else’s lawn,

dealing with other people’s anger, and being alone.

WHAT THEIR FATHERS SAID ABOUT LOVE

2011-11-24T13:40:00.001-05:00

Don’t rush into anything.

Don’t worry about being alone.

Don’t get locked in for the long haul.

Don’t talk yourself into being in love.

Don’t give her too many gifts, at first.

Don’t look back if you already walked out.

Don’t worry about breaking up or her leaving.

Don’t make her lie to her parents to be with you.

Don’t forget- if you can’t be good, then be careful.

Don’t stay with her if she always talks about money.

Don’t worry about her being a good cook, that’s very overrated.

Don’t forgive her if she cheats on you. Once a cheater, always a cheater.

Don’t waste your time with her if she is not into school, books, or education.

Don’t say you’ll never date girls with a certain hair color, race, religion, or size.

Don’t watch porn, it’s just like all movies. What you see rarely happens in real life.

Don’t yell at her, belittle her, or lay a hand on her no matter how angry she makes you.

Don’t worry about girls in high school. Get to college and then you can worry about women.

Don’t ask her out if you always hear her badmouthing her parents and other family members.

Don’t stay with her if she is overly critical about your friends, family, and all that is important to you.

Don’t think that you may be marrying her one day. More than likely, (99% sure)- she won’t be your wife.

Don’t tell your friends or buddies what you did with her, what you talked about with her or how you feel about her.

Don’t stay with her if she always tells you what to wear, how to cut your hair, or makes comments about your weight.

Don’t expect to find one that looks like a supermodel. Sometimes the sweetest fruit doesn’t come from a perfect tree.

Don’t stay with her if she asks you to quit something you like and don’t start doing up something you don’t like in order to make her happy.

Don’t get to friendly with a girl, call her your best friend, and share too many secrets with her. She’ll never see you as a possible lover, partner, or mate.

Don’t let her know all your insecurities, hang-ups or issues. She’ll use them against you later. Besides, if she’s around you long enough she’ll figure them out anyway.

Don’t ask her out if she posts cell phone and mirror photos on Facebook of herself puckering her lips, sticking her butt and chest out and pretending to make a “gang sign” with two fingers.

Don’t ask me what you should do, ask your mother about that. I’m not really sure.

Don’t talk yourself into being in love. Wait, I think I said that.

KINDNESS UNLIMITED

2011-11-22T21:01:00.004-05:00

Right out of high school, the impressionable years.

I got a job, saved my paychecks to pay for college.

Ate 7-11’s two for a dollar hot dogs for every meal.

Drank a quart of milk in the morning, a quart at night.

Gave my summers to the place, heavy labor in the sun,

in the rain, humidity, strawberry flies and greenheads.

All hours of the night, delivering to the shore towns

of Margate, Ventnor, Longport and Atlantic City.

Other days we went to Philly, Medford, Cherry Hill.

He always bought lunch. I was always ready to go.

On weekends we’d fish all day in Bay and drink

Stroh’s beer with clients to line up more business.

His wife worked alongside us prepping equipment,

loading trucks, staging the orders and wearing the

same uniform- brown pants, tan shirts, work boots.

She taught me to drive stick shift in a 20 foot truck.

She showed me how to change the oil in the vans.

She gave me a few lessons on how to change a flat.

On my last day, she arranged a ride for me back to

college in a truck delivering an order to the Hyatt.

I remember crying as I said goodbye to them and

when the van pulled away, I never saw them again.

Years later, he told me they’d gotten divorced.

He’s got a new business, she lives with her girlfriend.

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

2011-11-21T20:15:00.002-05:00

School ends, the car is packed, we’re always ready

for summer and never worried about falling asleep

at the wheel, breaking down, big rigs, or weather.

But tonight there’s a big storm, making it hard to

gain the miles, to make good time, to travel safely.

I feel better after making it down the NJ Turnpike.

Across the PA Turnpike, just south of Harrisburg

we find the Pike, stop at the Flying J Travel Plaza

for Tastycakes, a Diet Mountain Dew, Starbursts.

Sand stings our ankles as it blows across the lot.

Back out on 81, wind whips us back and forth.

In my rearview mirror there’s a truck towing

a muscle car, a Chevelle or GTO, not sure which.

When I look ahead, I notice a mini van parked on

the interstate, I’m lucky to have my wits about me.

I cut to the right, ride the shoulder- knowing cars

going this fast can’t stop on wet pavement. I see

their dopey faces staring at a truck tire in the road.

In my mirror the trailer jackknifes, the antique car

flips into a ditch, trucks and cars roll, I step on the gas.

My hands grip the wheel, the rain keeps falling,

and when I twist my mirror I see how lucky we are.

I notice my son working his thumbs on his Gameboy.

I hear cars racing around the track, tires squealing,

and in the background a strange circus music plays on.

ONCE UPON A FARM

2011-11-17T18:55:00.005-05:00

He stared into the eyes of stuffed black bears,

fell asleep to the sounds of cattle in the yard

and wrote about it all in his Tennessee Moon.

He gathered barn kittens, chased Corrientes

into livestock trailers, worked a remote to the

head gate for the cowboys, got bucked off that

wild and crazy Pistol, came up covered in gravel,

black and blue, embarrassed, then shed some tears.

Burned his fingers making ‘smores on a bonfire,

strummed his guitar on the porch as we sat in

rocking chairs behind him with big proud grins.

We all watched hours of classic Western films.

Said good morning and good night to Buckskin,

rode the pastures on a four wheeler, drove a Gator

through the rows of a tomato field and parked on

a hillside to gaze at the smoke on the mountains.

When the horses gathered around, it felt like

he had that special power to talk to the animals,

but realized the feed bucket was on the tailgate.

He listened to his grandfather’s stories, hugged him

one last time and heard the promise about putting

the shiny new bass boat into the water- next year.

When he reads this he’ll laugh a little or smile a bit.

In the end he’ll be sad, knowing that it’s over now.

THE CLOCK COLLECTOR

2011-11-12T22:43:00.003-05:00

I think of how he lays in his bed all day

long listening to the ticks from more than

a hundred clocks of all shapes and sizes.

Does someone still wind them each week?

Did some get sold when times got tough?

I wonder if he remembers the auctions,

antique shops and fine furniture galleries.

I think about them chiming on the hour,

half hour, at a quarter of and fifteen after.

All were off a minute or two, never in sync

a good thing for the neighbors and anyone

visiting during the holidays or special dinners.

Strange, his obsession with clocks and time

now holds him prisoner. And after all that

happened, I truly hope he’s at peace when

he hears those sixteen notes and strike for

each hour from his prized Grandfather clock.

http://www.clocksnmore.com/midi/westminster.mp3

NUMBERS IN THE ATTIC

2011-11-12T18:23:00.003-05:00

The flashlight goes dim, I smack it on my palm.

Too dark in the attic for shuffling through bins

to switch out our summer and winter clothes.

I find a box of ornaments and there’s the tree.

When I open the last bin, I take a knee for a

moment to pull out my son’s soccer jerseys

I find the lemon yellow 47, a strange number-

guess they don’t think much about it at four.

They’re all in here, I wouldn’t throw them out.

Each new team named after a soccer nation-

Team Chile, Team Poland, and Team Austria.

There’s a white 11, a couple of 10’s, a few 13’s.

He switched to 25 when travel team began.

A number 17 for middle school and now 7 for

the last few years, a “real soccer number” we say.

It’s sad to think about a day that’s coming soon.

We’ll remember the hours of practice each week,

bitter cold nights, hot summer days, weekends.

I wonder what we’ll do when I put the last jersey

in this bin and push it into the darkness of the attic.

A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE

2011-11-11T10:53:00.001-05:00

Like an awkward visit back to first grade

with its tiny chairs and puny desks, a trip

home reminds me of how long it’s been.

I’m confused when I drive by past places,

through neighborhoods with no one left.

I’m amazed by the growth of maple trees,

something has managed to thrive in town.

Businesses are closed on Commerce Street,

no signs of victory on the corner of Laurel.

Broad Street isn’t as wide as it used to be

and Pearl Street, no longer a precious gem.

A friend wrote in his yearbook, “Get out of

town it’s a dusty road to nowhere” and from

here, it seems like everyone took his advice.

DREAM HOME

2011-11-10T09:25:00.004-05:00

They gave up on moving. They weren’t underwater

but they waded knee deep in the waters of debt.

Five houses on the block were up for sale back then.

The prices fell before the Century 21 sign had fallen.

And like so many, not selling meant staying and fixing.

He sat at the kitchen table with a guy from Sears.

Fascinated by the salesman’s Powerbook and how

you could drop it, hammer it or stomp on it and

it would still work. He listened to stories of how

you used to be able to order an entire home from

the catalogue, have it delivered and assembled.

They played with the software, with a few clicks

of a mouse he transformed the old house into his

dream home- red door, black shutters, white siding.

If only it was that easy he thought and told the man

to write him up for a new roof, on payments of course.

SOUTHERN GHOST STORY

2011-11-08T19:00:00.003-05:00

Stay away from that old graveyard

planted in the center of the ‘mater fields,

he warned from the top of a Ford tractor

as he finished another sup of black coffee.

No one walked into the cluster of trees to

read faded names or even thought about

moving the ol’ timey headstones. No one

came by to leave flowers or to pay respects.

Crops got planted around the little island of

a dozen graves, walnut trees, angry weeds.

Some said, the plants closest to the graves

yield the smallest fruit, while others said it’s

because workers don’t spend as much time

cultivating or tying the plants. He advised me,

Don’t mess with spooks, boogers, and haints.

A FEW MORE HOURS

2011-11-08T10:48:00.004-05:00

Mothers seem to know, even new ones can tell

when a cry is different, the forehead a bit warmer,

complexion not quite the same, a changed appetite.

She knew when to stay home, when to insist, when

to give in. Her voice and descriptions of the baby

made the doctor tell her, “Take him to the hospital”.

A few more hours would’ve been too late, he said.

Tonight, I’m walking home, just three blocks

to the little rented house on Compton Avenue.

I’ll sleep alone, it’s my wife’s turn to spend the

night in a chair next to our son’s hospital bed.

It’s a colder than usual January with temperatures

in the teens, I shiver under my too thin winter coat,

I clench my fists in my gloves, wrap my scarf tighter.

I wonder if tears can freeze as I think of losing him.

MOTH ON A PORCHLIGHT

2011-11-07T09:03:00.004-05:00

He was the guy at work who could fix anything,

but he couldn’t fix himself. We found him crying

and belligerent in The Towne Tavern only days

after his brother passed from a heroin overdose.

Your weakness is what’s going to kill you, he said

as we drove him to the brick row house apartments.

He insisted I come in to see his new guitar, to hear

a song he’d learned. Hendrix and Santana posters

covered the walls and with each riff, tears rolled down

his cheek, a neighbor’s dog barked, his mother yelled.

After that summer, he almost got clean and sober.

Now twenty five years later, I came across his picture

in the paper, he’s on the run, evasion of child support.

Secretly, I pray he gets far away, I wonder if he's got his

guitar with him and hope one day he finds a way to kick it.

FRAGMENTS OF THE BROKEN PEOPLE

2011-11-05T18:55:00.002-04:00

traded a saddle for a front porch rocking chair,

crippled hands no longer grip oil paint brushes,

old fullback stops every few yards to sit and rest,

waiting for an oxygen tank delivery each week,

fold up walker needed to get into the restaurants,

watching birds from a hospital bed near the window,

lost sight, can’t read the Bible or write his sermons,

White Label for breakfast and a liver full of holes,

silenced by stroke, no more anger or hateful words,

fallen on pavement, can’t lead students into school,

Intensive Care, too young for spinal taps, IVs, antibiotics,

lost a limb and the will to continue with a new fight,

advanced degrees, all those books, can’t remember us.

FIND YOUR WAY BACK

2011-11-05T14:04:00.002-04:00

They head out onto the highway at 3am,

an early start on the miles, to beat the traffic

of Baltimore, the heat of the hot summer sun.

He thinks of days before MapQuest or Internet.

How he’d sit up the night before with a huge

Rand McNally Road Atlas and a yellow legal pad

finding the turns, short cuts, and scenic route.

“A bundle of nerves, jumpy as a cat”, 700 miles

alone for the first time, so his father explained it

in his signature, matter of fact, practical way.

Not many people know it, but truck drivers do-

Take odd roads north and south, like 81, 77, and 95.

Take even roads east and west, like 70, 76, and 40.

Read the Interstate signs, you’ll find your way back.

SORT OF KNEW

2011-11-03T21:09:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I didn’t hear from him for a year.

There’d always be a Christmas card, sometimes

it’d arrive a week late, overseas postmark,

scrawled handwriting, difficult to read a return

address, there was no mistaking who’d sent it.

Nothing came up in my search of obituaries

from his rural county in Northern Ireland.

Last time we spoke on the phone, I found him

in his usual excited manner, explaining his illness,

how it’d spread. He snuck in the word, “terminal”.

Brushing off my grief, he told me not to make

too much of it, It’d been a good life, to be sure.

Lad, I’ve figured it out, it’s only really about the

moments spent with loved ones and friends.

Your call today is proof of how great it’s been.

In the end, I found out from a mutual friend-

Your suspicions regarding Myles’ health are confirmed;

Myles has passed on, bless his soul. His Aunt was kind enough

to send a note highlighting what we already knew about the man.

Cheerful, positive and more concerned about everyone else.

DAY OF THE DEAD

2011-11-02T19:43:00.003-04:00

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

- Hurt, Johnny Cash (written by Trent Reznor)

Lately, every day feels like it’s the Day of the Dead.

I always wonder what it’d be like to drink one more

cup of black coffee with him from a chipped mug on the

porch as the sun goes down. I find myself thinking about

nights before supper, listening to her stories as she makes

biscuits or I imagine riding with him in his white pickup truck

around the fence line of his cattle fields, looking for calves.

Some days it feels like I’m watching a movie called, My Life

and each time it’s shot with different camera angles or lighting.

My favorite scene is when I’m seated with her on the boardwalk,

eating a sugar cone. Then there’s the one where I’m covered with

an itchy stadium blanket and he’s making a fire as we get ready

to watch the Saturday night hockey games in the “back room”.

Another great episode is set on the highways of New Jersey

and New York, we’re laughing about the 100 degree heat,

the hard work, our basketball games and getting easily lost.

Some days the regrets start up, I think you know what I mean?

It’s usually the unanswered invitations, the wasted moments

or the simply because the list is getting longer and the dead

are accumulating as I get older and I don’t like feeling this way.

Lately I’ve been thinking of others too, and this worries me.

Some days I stop to recall the old lady on the beach who

used to give us all candy, or a girl from elementary school

who was found dead, floating naked in our town’s river.

My Sunday School teacher’s granddaughter, she had a hole

in her heart or a high school classmate who feel asleep at

the wheel and never made it home from the third shift.

I wonder if others are haunted by the memories too.

I wonder if they’d confess too or if there are days when

nothing triggers thoughts of the ones who have left us.

Will there be a day when I won’t think of them or will I

keep shaking it off with a sigh, a laugh,or will I always cry?

TOMORROW'S PHONE CALL

2011-11-01T19:59:00.002-04:00

Usually it’s the flowers that remind him-

grape hyacinths, lily of the valley, forsythia.

He meant to, but too much time had passed.

How awkward it’d be for them to speak now.

At a funeral, she didn’t recognize him, seated

in a corner away from the crying and hugging.

A slide show with self selected soundtrack

playing “it’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday”.

His wife found it odd when he came home and

told her how his mother hadn’t recognized him.

Must’ve been the white hair, my beard, or all the

years without a single word spoken between us.

They say, even animals know their young

when they see them after years of being apart.

He didn’t blame her and planned to call,

once he found the time to talk about it.

Tomorrow I’ll call her, before the next

funeral, which could be hers, or his, or mine.

UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

2011-10-25T22:50:00.001-04:00

A new sign at the Sunoco is lighting up a message,

splitting it in an odd way, “Wel-come, we now have tires!”

Orange and yellow marigolds in planters by the pumps,

still hanging in there, it’s been a warm October so far.

I am the only car at the station, no attendant in sight.

Times like these are when the people of Jersey wish

they’d be able to fill up on their own, pay at the pump.

Most would hate to get out and deal with cold, the rain.

A man who must be the new owner comes out from the

empty bay doors in a plaid flannel jacket, Red Wing boots,

gray Dickies work pants, looks like he ordered the costume

of “gas station worker” from a Route 18 Halloween store.

Smiling, he’s polite as he takes my debit card, my keys for

the gas cap. It’s drizzling now, but he grabs a squeegee.

He washes the front and side windows. I wonder what’s

taking so long and when I look in the rearview mirror I see

he’s got an iphone, trying to take a picture of himself.

The pump handle clicks, he removes it, puts the cap on,

hands me the card, the keys, the receipt. Then he asks in

a soft voice- “Please sir, if you would take just one picture”.

He positions himself at an angle in the parking lot, chest out.

Behind him a red, white, and blue Grand Opening banner flaps

in the breeze as I push the touch screen, I capture an image

in my mind, and one for him to send half way around the world.

THE GOOD MEN PROJECT

2011-09-14T06:25:00.002-04:00

Honored to be referred to as a "Good Man" and to be interviewed by Cameron Conaway for The Good Men Project. Follow the link http://goodmenproject.com/man-to-man-interviews/an-interview-with-a-good-man-larry-lawrence-theamericanpoet/

INVITE TO ALL - OCTOBER 2 IN NEW YORK CITY

2011-09-07T22:17:00.002-04:00

Please join us for an evening of poems against hunger as we raise food donations for the Food Bank for New York City. One in five New Yorkers relies on the Food Bank’s Programs and Services. This event is one of a series of nationwide gatherings intended to alleviate hunger in the United States by encouraging donations of nonperishable items to local food banks.

This October, help us take a stand against hunger and enjoy poems by:

Carol Alexander

Rosalind Brenner

Ruth Danon

Sally Dawidoff

Elisabeth Frost

Larry Lawrence

Stephen Massimilla

Hermine Meinhard

Suzanne Parker

Lisa Romeo

Daniel Schwartz

Odarka Polanskyi Stockert,

Help make our celebration of poetry and community a success.

· Come and bring two cans or unopened boxes of nonperishable food items.

· Cash donations or checks to the Food Bank of New York City will also be accepted.

· Please pass on this invitation to friends and family.

Event Information:

Date: Sunday October 2^nd, 2011

Time: 7-9 pm

Place: Bluestockings bookstore and café

172 Allen Street

New York, N.Y.

(212) 777-6028

To order additional copies of the anthology, go to Amazon.com or to http://www.cavemoonpress.org

For further information, contact Carol Alexander, 212-472-8559 or Lee Naught at bluestockings.com

http://bluestockings.com/events/

WEATHER CHANNEL DELUGE

2011-08-30T17:10:00.003-04:00

“We’ve been through worse, I’m sure,” I said

remembering the days before computer models,

24 hours of coverage and thinking of how no one

would believe "the weather" having its own channel.

Twitter, Facebook, handheld baby computers, and

cell phones all keep us up to date, well informed.

All day we watched green, yellow, red splotches swirl

counterclockwise on a 52 inch screen and listened to

predictions more accurate than airport arrival times.

Years ago experts didn’t have to tell us what to buy.

We understood the dangers of a storm at the shore.

We knew what to do when the lights went out.

We’d light candles and sit listening to the downpours

knowing we’d be alright, it was just water and wind.

We’d hear the stories of past destructive hurricanes.

We’d head inland if we expected it to be real bad to

a friend’s house or to a cousin’s home in the country.

No mandatory evacuations- just plain common sense.

In the morning, like now, we’d get up to the sunshine,

mumble of prayer, comment about the cool breezes,

frown at kids wading in dirty water or the ones paddling

rowboats in the street without worrying about broken glass,

boards, power lines. It reminds me how my grandmother

always used to say,“ I bet old Frog Hollow is flooded”.

ODE TO HIGHWAY 13

2011-08-28T16:54:00.005-04:00

“Sometimes they ask him what he’s thinking about when he’s driving”

I know we’re going the right way when

in the middle of the night we cross the lit up

bridge, it’s a miniature version of the one in

Boston, strange masts, cables in the center.

Johnny Janosik Furniture and The Monster Mile

tell me I’m on vacation and on the right road.

Pickup trucks loaded down with watermelons,

vegetable stands with tomatoes and peaches.

Brick churches from another century are planted

on the highway alongside rows of crepe myrtles.

There’s Machipongo Seafood, plenty of Wawas,

and Mason Dixon for cheap cigarettes and hams.

Farmers on tractors, a different kind of traffic jam.

Rundown school buses filled with migrant workers

ready to work in Eastern Shore tomato packing sheds.

We’ll smell the chickens of Perdue and Mountainaire.

I’ll accelerate past eighteen wheeled bird cages with

feathers flying, lots of clucking, it’ll be their last ride.

I’ll laugh at the Dreamland Mobile Home Park sign and

know that my sleeping family wouldn’t find the same

irony in the big billboard or its slogan, A Touch of Class.

Speed traps in towns with Native American names-

Accomack, Pocomoke, Nassawadox and in counties

with fancy English names- Kent, Sussex, and Worcester.

We’ll see High school car washes, plenty of yard sales,

and a church group selling “authentic Carolina BBQ”.

There’ll be at least one accident, asleep at the wheel?

We’ll see roadside shrines to whole families who died.

Signs for beaches we’ve never been to before make us

wonder why not go to Rehoboth, Dewey, or Ocean City?

We drive on to the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel Bridge,

looking for the blue signs with the white seagull logo.

Fleets of mini vans with luggage racks, bikes, fishing rods

slide south from New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania.

The Jersey Shore is just a memory now, a pile of snapshots.

Been cheating on her for years and they’ll never go back.

Tourists trade places each Saturday on Highway 13 as they

head in two different directions with two different moods.

Perhaps I just drove by a guy from Pittsburgh and his family

that stayed in the very same house that I’ll stay in with mine.

I’ll use the same bathroom, lay my head on the same pillows,

take the same photo of the sun rising above dunes and waves.

PROUD TO BE A PART OF THIS AMAZING PROJECT

2011-08-25T21:49:00.004-04:00

Two of my poems, Big John's Pizza and Vee's Sub Shop are publised with many other fine poems in this book from Cave Moon Press. Proceeds from sales of the book benefit Feeding America and food banks throughout the United States. Follow the link to Amazon.com to purchase a great collection of poetry and help the hungry. https://www.createspace.com/3668679

READING ON THE ROAD

2011-07-21T16:38:00.003-04:00

“All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land.”- Jack Kerouac

He’s on Chapter 10 now of Kerouac’s classic.

The idea came to him one day while waiting

for his wife in a bookstore when he noticed a

hardcover copy of it on sale for just $7.99.

He thought about buying it since he’d heard

so many references and mentions of the novel.

Instead he came up with a better way to read

it and put the plan into place as he drove across

the country he planned to visit bookstores

not far off the interstates, roads and highways.

In each store, he’d find the low to the ground

fake leather chairs and ordered a large iced tea.

When the chapter was finished, he placed the

book back on the shelf, used the men’s room,

returned to the highway, and drove for another

200 miles or so before finding the next bookstore,

another drink, and where he’d left off in the story.

Maybe he’d be finished by August, near Delaware.

IN THE MAIL

2011-07-21T12:18:00.003-04:00

This will be the last letter she’ll write

is what it says in the opening sentence.

She has more free time in the summer

and thought of how she’d sit down and

take a moment to write some letters on

stationery, it’s been in the bottom of her

closet for a decade now in an old shoe box.

It’s the pretty little cards with kittens in

baskets and soft pastel colored envelopes.

She bought her last sheet of Forever stamps

remembering what it was like to send a note

to a friend or loved one and how they felt

finding it when they opened their mailboxes.

The news said the Post Office is going broke

thanks to computers and cell phones they’ll

fade away like clothes pins, records, and tops.

SHUFFLE

2011-07-21T10:37:00.002-04:00

He’s got a cheap iPod, it plays random songs,

they loaded it for him with his favorite music.

It’s ironic, You’ll Never Walk Alone is playing

as he begins to take his morning walk alone.

His kids are away, his wife- in a different world.

He’s trying to live a more healthy life now.

On early Wednesdays the park belongs to him.

There are no cyclists, dog walkers, or baby strollers.

When he notices how alone he really is, a bluebird

lands on a lamp post to sing his song and in the

distance, scrubby pines sway in the light breeze.

High above him, jets streak across a cloudless sky.

He imagines blood coursing through his veins,

into his four chambers, on to the arteries like the

lessons he taught to his students many years ago.

With the sun on his back and sweat on his cap band

he feels stronger when a Willie Nelson song begins-

Well hello there, my it’s been a long, long time

How am I doin’? Oh I guess that I’m doin’ fine.

MY MIND WANDERS

2011-07-20T21:29:00.006-04:00

to the past when I walk all alone in the park

and I begin to think of the strangest things.

Today, I began to recall my reading list from

ninth grade and thought about rereading the

books for a third time. I’d like to see how

different it would be after thirty years to read

James Joyce, George Elliot, and Eugene O’Neill.

I’m sure I must’ve missed something the first time.

Will I find new meaning in the words, will I enjoy

the books more or will I see them differently like

the way I look at the pines, cat birds, and crickets.

It all very odd, the older I get the more I want to

revisit what I knew from my days as a young man.

I want to walk alone some days and I find myself

thinking about how buds are forming on branches.

I talk to myself. I wonder about God again.

I remember the days of my youth in church and

parables from Mrs. Garrison’s Sunday school class.

I think of how we’d eat pork roast on Sundays with

mashed potatoes and sauerkraut for dinner and how

we’d drink Tang for breakfast, make ice cream by

turning a crank, and go to pick your own strawberries.

I have to laugh as I turn the corner and remember how

the needle used to get stuck on a scratched record.

I wish I could hear my grandfather sing one more time

the chorus of his favorite song, Minnie the Mermaid.

DC TAXI CAB CONFESSIONS

2011-07-17T10:11:00.003-04:00

Oppressive heat, high humidity, sweat soaks

my shirt, a triangle of perspiration forms in front.

July makes us call a cab. The doorman hears our

destination and says, Get the chili cheese fries,

milkshakes are awesome, half smokes, real good.

The cab driver is full of suggestions too, a tour guide

on our way to U Street he points out the party zone,

a Presidential mural, Adams Morgan’s best place to

have dinner, but he’s the most amused by a building

with a two story painted cartoon, a red headed lady.

He grows impatient with a construction crew waving

an orange flag to tell him to go, but the light is red.

He tells us he didn’t sleep much last night and when

another cab cuts him off, he mouths- Don’t make me

get out, I will fight- especially if you flip me the bird.

He notices a fine looking woman, a short linen dress,

a general lack of clothing, confesses he likes winter boots

but ladies never look better in this city than in the summer.

He says we’re brave for wanting to eat at Ben’s Chili Bowl,

admitting he’s gastronomically challenged now at his age.

ROSEBUD SYNDROME

2011-07-15T18:54:00.002-04:00

Somebody might say I have too much time on my hands,

searching E-Bay for more than three hours one evening.

I found a rodeo belt buckle like the one my Dad won in Vegas.

I found Bukowski’s typewriter, (same model) a 30’s Underwood.

I even placed a bid on a purple Tonka jeep like the one I got on

a Saturday morning in the living room with the divorce lawyers.

I found a 1972 Gunsmoke lunchbox with a thermos, like mine.

I took it to kindergarten at Cherry Street School. I bid $85, hoping

I would not get it since my wife would consider it a waste of money.

Of course it went a lot higher, not as much as the Scooby Doo one

I’d begged my mother for as a replacement. I knew not to bother.

I found my Evel Knievel doll, Action Jackson, my Joe Namath figure,

and Captain Maddox, an eleven inch figure complete with three

different hats, canteen, branding iron, weapons, a little coffee pot.

I was tempted to bid on them all, the toys I spent so much time with

all alone as a child. I wanted Star Wars cards, a Viewmaster, a prop

from Sanford & Son, Olivia Walton’s blue tea kettle, a set of glasses

used by the Brady Bunch. I’ve got a MasterCard and a Pay Pal too!

I thought of the joy each of these would bring as I remembered

my past, realizing it really wasn’t such a rotten childhood after all.

But being conservative and sensible, I bought post cards instead.

Places I loved as a boy and I thought of how I’d buy some frames

to hang them above my desk, knowing one day I’d get my lunchbox.

LAST NIGHT ON PLANET EARTH

2011-05-22T12:29:00.004-04:00

“in case of rapture this car will be unmanned”

- bumper sticker from the 70’s

Instead of going to the family’s New Year’s Eve party

they laid in bed, under the covers watching fireworks

on TV as the Millennium arrived across the time zones.

He waited for confused computers to cause malfunctions,

havoc, mass destruction- maybe the end of the world.

Number two was about to appear in the thousands place,

catchy slogans, media hype, a wave of fear, but in the end,

there was no end. Just a basement filled with generators,

flashlights, firearms, fuel, rolls of duct tape, cases of water,

cans of tuna, and boxes of granola bars bought from Costco.

This time, roadside billboards quoting scripture went up,

messages swirled across the internet, people at work felt

a need to talk about it, radio shows called in the experts.

Somehow, he began to consider, maybe the end is near?

Last night, he was all alone, but took himself out to dinner.

Feeling like a death row inmate from the movies, he ordered

a Philly cheese steak with fried onions that filled his plate and

he had no worries of cholesterol levels or high blood pressure.

As he shook on the salt, he admired the difference in the flavor.

He sipped his Diet Coke and said a prayer for all he’d been given.

IN THE SCHEME OF THINGS

2011-04-30T15:25:00.003-04:00

His little cave of an office was made darker

by oak paneling from the Seventies, flickering

fluorescent lights framed in water damaged

ceiling panels and battleship gray carpeting.

Papers, catalogues, manuals sat on top of

the refrigerator, shelves, cabinets, and in piles

on hit beat up old brown desk. A tired man,

he sighs deeply when he looks around his place.

And people wonder why I don’t take vacations,

is what he says as I stare at a dusty stuffed marlin.

When I tell him about how my father passed away

just a few years ago, he becomes silent and must’ve

wondered if it really mattered if his body shop was

open next week or if he was in the Florida Keys.

A WORLD WITHOUT TUITION

2011-04-28T22:55:00.005-04:00

I hope one day to turn on my television and

hear on CNN that Congress passed a new law,

but I’m still waiting for it to happen. I mentioned

it a time or two, I even wrote a poem about it.

I imagined what it’d be like to make education free

to those who wanted to study, to learn, to achieve.

What if they thought of a way to reward those

who want to work, who want to apply themselves?

Wouldn’t it be easy enough for a Senator to say-

Hey, let’s find a way to make going to college free?

And then they could compromise, argue, and debate

before most of them agreed to let the people reach

their full potential. Allow them? No, empower them

to take care of themselves, their children, and families.

Of course, there'd be a catch, a hitch, a pact, a prerequisite.

In exchange for tuition free advanced college degrees,

scholars must make a promise, must sign an exemption.

Upon graduation they must vow to not look for, expect,

ask, or demand Food Stamps, Medicare, Social Security,

subsidized healthcare, low income housing or free cheese.

Instead they'd have to be on their own and live their lives

as independent thinkers, responsible law abiding citizens, and

contributors to our society-socially, emotionally,economically.

IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS

2011-04-27T22:35:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I wake up and hear the birds singing.

I wonder if others know how early they begin.

After checking the clock, I try to go back to sleep.

I know my two alarms will go off soon and the dog

will start his whining, the sounds mean “time to eat”.

The cat will begin poking at me and walking on me.

A strange little creature that seems to understand

how to apply pressure in order to get me out of bed.

But before my feet hit the floor, I pause each day and

say -“What day is it today?” and “Where am I going?”

I stop by the window at the top of the stairs.

I part the blinds to see if it’s raining or if it is windy.

A strange routine for me and the two pets, I think as I go

to the bathroom, as I open the back door, as I make coffee.

I reach for the purple containers; I pour pet food into bowls.

My son is still in bed for a little while longer and when I

check on him, he looks the way he did when he was a baby.

It seems the days pass by quickly and I end up at this point

each morning, leaning against the wall, waiting for the coffee

to finish, for the last drop, thinking how I'm doing alright now.

STILL FALLING

2011-04-26T23:03:00.004-04:00

We laugh about it now, remembering the time-

hiking in the Smoky Mountains to the little falls

tucked away on a ridge behind rhododendrons,

laurels, moss covered rocks, and crooked pines.

It’s the trail where we saw the salamanders, snails,

and where a nervous black bear saw the two of us.

You needed to get back to the parking lot, to use

the restroom on a hill at the edge of the parking lot.

You insisted on running, you were warned to stop.

I called out to you, but you kept going, feeling it

worth the risk, you looked fleet of foot on the path,

a mini Davy Crockett, a modern day Daniel Boone.

It was all good until your toe stubbed one of the roots

or jagged rocks and it sent you flying for a moment

before you landed on all fours and began to cry pitifully.

Scraped palms and knees, not the last time, for sure.

“It could have been worse”, is what my father said.

And it was enough to make you listen, to slow you down.

IT'S THE SAME OLD SONG

2011-04-26T22:34:00.002-04:00

We yell now and then, when the music

from his room is too loud, too obnoxious,

too offensive- strong language and themes.

I ask him the question asked by all fathers

to their sons and daughters about the music-

Do you actually like listening to those songs?

I ask him what happened to the rock music.

Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Queen, Ac-Dc, U2.

We’d listen together as went on our road trips

He tells me, “That was your music, this is mine.

I listened to it because I was a follower then.”

Now he’s his own person, with his own choices.

A CHANGE IN PRAYERS

2011-04-26T21:49:00.003-04:00

I used to ask for things when I prayed.

I prayed for the Eagles to win the Super Bowl.

I prayed for first place in the Spelling Bee.

I prayed for fame and fortune in Hollywood.

I prayed to marry some hot chick from TV.

I prayed to be able to travel to the great cities

of the world- London, Paris, Tokyo, Rome.

I prayed for the bright lights of Broadway.

I prayed for a big mansion with a swimming pool.

I prayed for more things, like a black Corvette.

My prayers have changed so much since I was a boy.

Decades later, I stopped asking for things in my prayers.

Instead I pray to thank God for my health, my job,

my little house, my education, and a car that works.

I thank him for my loving wife, an exceptional son,

and for never having to go without a meal or drink.

I thank him for a couple of weeks at the beach,

so that I may sit for a while and look at the ocean.

I thank him for a week in the mountains with my boy,

for the moments when we stop take a deep breath.

I thank him for my big brown chair, gray sweatshirts,

books that come in the mail and Willie Nelson songs.

I thank the Lord for sunny days and baseball games

with cold beers and cheese steaks with fried onions.

And now that I think about it, there is one thing

that I do ask for when I pray-I ask for time, more time

to be here with my family to enjoy all I’ve been given.

A STRAY

2011-04-26T20:52:00.001-04:00

When I found you in the woods

it was obvious you’d be taught

to beg for food, to chase rabbits,

to fear the rolled up newspaper,

to cower and shrink from a broom.

You did not think of going inside,

that was the deal made in order

for you to stay with us for 10 years.

I didn’t know I’d be burying you

here, behind the tan shed on the

day before I was to leave for college.

BASEBALL UNDER GLASS

2011-04-25T13:22:00.003-04:00

On any given day, in my backyard

you’ll find three or four basketballs,

a couple of soccer balls and in the

bottom of the closet you’ll find many

tennis, lacrosse, and baseballs too.

I know he hates it when I begin the

stories with- “when I was young, I…”

but I had only one ball for each sport.

It was expected that you’d take care

of your things, to put them away and

make sure you didn’t lose them because

you knew you wouldn’t get another one.

And that’s why, years later, on a visit

to my grandmother’s assisted living home

I watched as she limped and braced herself

as she opened the bottom dresser drawer.

Without saying a word she handed me

my old baseball, the only baseball I ever had.

She kept it safe for me, hid it when they had

the yard sales and the 40 yard dumpsters.

She put it away and presented it to me when

I came to visit with my three year old son.

Now it sits on my shelf, in a special case made

for an autographed World Series home run ball.

NONE OF MY BUSINESS- notes from Commerce Street

2011-04-25T10:24:00.003-04:00

The names of the streets seem so ironic now-

Commerce, Laurel, Pearl and Broad Streets.

Plastic soda bottles closed the Glass Factories.

No smell of tomatoes cooking into ketchup,

no smell of dye boiling at the fabric company.

Workers and their families, are all long gone too.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

Department Stores, Woolworth’s, Beacon Auto,

The Enterprise Men’s Store, Morton’s Jewelers,

Riley’s Sporting Goods, Smashey’s Shoe Store,

even the Farmers and Merchants Bank is missing.

Tourism and Victorian architecture were suppose

to boost the economy and stop the city’s decline.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

When tourism failed, a bid for a new State prison

made the folks say, some will build it, some will

work as guards in it, many will end up living in it.

Victorian homes got divided and rented to multiple

families, you can tell by the dozen mailboxes on the

front porches put up by some landlord’s handyman.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

Stores are open-signs for calling cards, Ranchero music,

Santeria candles, Quinceañera party supplies, taco stands,

whatever else new citizens need to feel at home, at ease.

Men work all day in the fields of thriving nurseries while

young pregnant wives walk the streets with children in tow,

and older children wear maroon and khaki school uniforms.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

In the last few moments of my visit, I see Big John’s Pizza,

The Towne Tavern, and Terrigno’s Bakery-all still here.

And when I step into Weber’s Candy Store I go back in time

to the heyday of a Glass Town, when the downtown was

a showplace of commerce, industry, and community pride.

It’s all the same, same shelves, same candy, same signs.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

Maybe I’m exaggerating, but every building looks like

it needs a couple of coats of paint, a new roof, and

new windows. I start to wonder how it all got this way.

I hold back my tears when I see my grandparent’s home

with its faded, dented aluminum siding, dirty windows

and the back door swinging and slamming in the breeze.

It’s none of my business, but it was my hometown.

MAYBE SOME THINGS DIDN’T CHANGE

2011-04-24T12:05:00.003-04:00

After many years I drive on this old highway,

past the carpet store’s giant Viking, still there.

Flat wide open fields where the green beans,

asparagus and potatoes grew for the factory

up ahead, to the right. I can’t tell if it’s open.

Instead, I drive by big sod farms and nurseries.

Glad to see businesses thriving here once again.

Workers are no longer the Hillbillies of the past,

no longer Puerto Ricans, Jamaicans, Japanese

and of course you won’t see Estonians either.

Time wrote about a global farming community.

Now they are from the far reaches of Mexico,

so far away a few claim they don’t even speak

Spanish, some only know Zapoteco or Nahuatl.

Maybe they sound like those actors who played

the parts in the subtitled movie, Apocalypto.

I wonder when I see the young men in the field

if they are hollering to one another in these

languages as they wrap burlap around balls of

dirt and roots of the tiny azalea bushes, the same

way I did 40 years ago at my grandfather’s nursery.

WHAT IF HE WERE STILL HERE

2011-04-23T22:07:00.001-04:00

If my father was alive, he’d know what to do.

He always knew what to say, how to phrase it.

Maybe I’d send my son there for the summer

to spend time with him on his southern farm.

He would’ve taught the boy how to work hard,

to take pride in your work. He would’ve shown

him the importance of rising early in the morning

and not worrying about when it’s quitting time.

Of course tractor driving lessons would take place,

along with how to be strong willed, respectful,

while not to caring what others think about you.

All lessons would be given with a certain firmness,

yet he would’ve caved in now and then, a sparkle

in his eyes, a mild grin, an exhale before speaking.

All signs to let you know it was for your own good.

Only if he were here, he’d make it all look so easy.

SET YOUR ALARM

2011-04-23T20:09:00.002-04:00

and get up when it goes off is what he says.

But I roll over to go back to sleep every time.

I promise to get up; I even say that I am up.

I pull the covers over my head. I get up finally.

We argue because I don’t have my bag packed

and I need to print an assignment for school.

I stay in the bathroom too long, fixing my hair.

He announces the time to me every five minutes.

I can’t figure out what to wear, I change my shirt.

He yells when I pause to select a song on my iPod.

I forget my keys. My cell phone is uncharged.

I forget to bring the note I need to give a teacher.

I miss the bus and don’t have time to eat breakfast.

I eat a cold pop tart and drink an iced tea drink box

while he drives me to school, he doesn’t talk to me

but says, “the Breakfast of Losers, not champions”.

I sit silently when he tells me all I have to do is

get up ten minutes earlier to fix all these things.

I look out the window when he says to me-

“No telling how many planes and trains you’ll miss.”

I reply with, “Yeah, I know” but we both know

how tomorrow will probably be more of the same.

Most times, I say “Love you Dad” when I get out.

Most times, he says “Love you too, have a good day”.

MEET THE AMERICAN POET

2011-04-18T11:49:00.001-04:00

A boy called Fish, son of a cowboy, son of the beach.

Grown at the real Jersey Shore, found in the mountains.

Changed to Lawrence, “crowned with laurels”, raised

by Bewicks, emphasis on Be, in England, Buick-like the car.

L.L. Cool or Larry squared, double L like Llama they said.

Dreamt of drama, plays, scripts, a call from Hollywood.

In school since 1972, ‘cause he likes a place called school.

Honored to be working with the gifted and talented ones.

Works all year, thinking of his escape for a few weeks to

coastal Carolina, the hills of Tennessee, the streets of DC.

The Jeep knows the highways and all points South, just as

it finds the soccer fields on the weekends with his son.

One morning, crossing The Victory Bridge, he figured out

finally what it’s all about- family, good meals, good drinks,

great books, quiet times. Now he works toward his dream

of finding his book of poetry on the bookshelves of all the

bookstores across the country, before the books disappear,

before stores close, before the words all float in cyberspace.

THE STROLLER

2011-04-13T14:43:00.001-04:00

Those first few summers meant not so many

days at the beach for us, we just started out.

Sundays meant long walks with a baby stroller

on the streets of a small city, always in the 90’s,

always high humidity, always a chance of rain.

Up the street we’d go with a bottle and a diaper.

On the corner was the Eighth Day Lounge with

a pinstriped Yankees car parked by the back door.

Further down, Daisy’s Carniceria with it’s strange

smell of dead animal, we’d buy cans of Inca Kola,

loaves of Manteca bread, or bags of plantain chips.

Down the hill, into the tunnel with the train tracks

above us, the walls dripped and the sidewalk was

painted with pigeon poop, littered with broken glass.

I pushed you up long streets lined with multi-family

homes ,once owned by the richest of folks in Jersey.

Shut down stores, closed restaurants, and factories

now gave way to the Prima Vera bakery where rolls

called conchas piled high on glass display counters.

Sometimes I’d stop and get a Cuban sandwich or a

cup of espresso, but mostly we headed to the place

called Five Corners with a bagel and apple juice boxes.

We’d park on a bench by a sign that said how it was the

capital where colonists and settlers came to market with

their goods here, before it was called the United States.

We’d stop to listen to seagulls screech by the Armory and

look out at sailboats moored in the gray waters of the bay.

I’d speak to the baby, he’d listen, not knowing how to talk,

but he knew how to laugh and he knew how to smile when

I told him how someday; maybe we’d have a boat like those.

SOMEBODY'S DAD

2011-04-12T18:49:00.004-04:00

Surprised at what you say lately, what we now do.

I find myself asking, how did it come to this?

and so this is what it’s like to be somebody’s Dad.

Worrying about our son, hope he follows through.

That sweet little loving boy is what we both miss.

Surprised at what you say lately, what we now do.

Do as you’re told, don’t like it, then too bad.

It’s different now; he thinks we know nothing.

I find myself asking, how did it come to this?

His mind is somewhere else, not worried about us.

Be patient, love him a lot, they say- it’s just a stage,

and so this is what it’s like to be somebody’s Dad.

3:14 PM, DISMISSAL BELL

2011-04-11T22:54:00.002-04:00

It is it any wonder the baby boy

born to two teachers waited all day

to decide and come into the world?

Around the time when the book bags

are packed, anxious walkers get let out,

buses get called over the loudspeakers.

Today his parents both had substitutes,

maybe the best reason to be absent.

Finally the doctor pulled him out, after

much pushing by a dehydrated mother

and after much cheering like a football fan

by his father, a man in a green jersey.

Looking at the clock on the hospital wall,

the couple smiled about the time of his birth.

GROWN UP

2011-04-11T21:33:00.002-04:00

Never again will you fall asleep across my chest on a Sunday afternoon.

Never again will I break off pieces of a bagel and feed you in the park.

Never again will I run bath water for you or wrap you in a towel.

Never again will you hide at the end of the sofa and shout, “Here I are!”

Never again will I carry you inside the house from the backseat of the car,

Never again will we stand in the store deciding which Hot Wheels to buy.

Never again will you want a kiss on your forehead as you fall off to sleep.

Never again will you call out in the night because you’re afraid of Orcs.

Never again will you choose the left hand or right hand for a piece of candy.

Never again will we walk to our table in the diner with my arm around you.

Never again will we drive to the farm to look at baby pigs and little lambs.

Never again will you ask me the name of flowers, birds, and other animals.

Never again will we listen to the same songs or share the same music.

Never again will you dress up as a pirate, a cowboy, or a warrior.

Never again will you sing Go Tell It on the Mountain at the top of your lungs.

Never again will I buy you plastic ninja swords from the Dollar Store.

Never again will we play army men on the floor or Lego Racers.

Never again will we share Cracker Jack and cotton candy at the circus.

Never again will you ask for a glass of water before going to bed.

Never again will you choose a new Pez dispenser at the grocery store.

Never again will we lie alongside each other and take turns reading.

Never again will I draw a happy face or a soccer ball on your lunch bag.

Never again will I put your clothes out for you on the edge of your bed.

Never again will you say to me, “Hey Dad, hold me like a baby”.

DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE MONEY

2011-04-09T21:05:00.002-04:00

I think of where you will go in four years.

I can see you opening up fancy envelopes

in the kitchen with your nervous hands.

I will tell you not to settle, go where you want

and don’t worry about the money, you’ll have

a whole lifetime to deal with these concerns.

I imagine us walking with you across the

campus of the school you dreamed about.

We’ll go to the college bookstore to buy a new

sweatshirt, a hat for me, a coffee mug for Mom.

WATCH OUR EAGLES FLY

2011-04-09T20:11:00.003-04:00

He wore his Eagles ties, played the fight song

on the computer, sang loudly, danced around

wearing a plastic bald eagle Halloween mask.

His students laughed, clapped, jumped out of

their seats, strange to see a teacher being just

as foolish as a kid about his favorite football team.

Out of breath, a promise was made to the class-

if they win on Sunday, no homework on Monday.

Instantly the Eagles gained 23 diehard fans, even

the little Giants and Cowboys kids rooted for Philly.

Watching every game, cheering on the outcome.

They bought green folders, notebooks and t-shirts.

A season to remember as they kept winning and

made it to the playoffs, then onto the Super Bowl.

If they win the whole thing, he promised to bring in

a Carvel ice cream cake to celebrate. On Monday,

the children did not look him in the eye as they knew

he must be hurting because of their team’s defeat.

Silently they ate the cake, brought in by the boy,

from the back, who wore his Patriots jersey on Monday.

Like a wake for an old uncle, they remembered the fun

of winning and took away the pain with each spoonful.

THE ART TEACHER

2011-04-05T16:07:00.003-04:00

Today, it’s snowing outside his classroom window,

it all feels like some kind of April Fool’s Day joke.

He thinks of those comparisons to Andrew Wyeth,

his use of light and shadows to illuminate the canvas.

All of that, hidden now in the back of the closet behind

bins of old cassette tapes and Christmas decorations.

It bothers him most when he sits in this place all alone,

without his noisy students, his few friends, or his family.

He dreamed of studying in London, Paris, Barcelona,

but ended up back here, where he started 25 years ago.

Surrounded by Mr. Sketch scented markers, crayons,

paper mache, watercolor projects, green modeling clay.

Posters of the Great Ones hang around the room to

provide background on Dali, Cassatt, Kahlo, and Escher.

As a young man, he’d point at them and tell his teacher-

One day you can hang my picture on the wall with them.

PHOTO ALBUM

2011-04-04T21:22:00.003-04:00

“The present contains nothing more than the past,

and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.”

-Henri Bergson

How pitiful and scared they both looked.

Two teenagers cutting a wedding cake,

staring into a camera surrounded by gifts.

Him- tall, wiry, baby faced. Her- with a fancy

60’s hairstyle, belly the size of a basketball.

And with the flashcube’s blast, a complicated

chain reaction overwhelmed the three of them.

Nobody could have told them how cruel it would

be once the dominoes begin to fall or how they

continue on, faster and in so many directions.

Sometimes he thinks of what it’d be like, if-

he never happened, if- he’d never been born.

“They must’ve loved you enough to go through

with it, many girls back then didn’t follow through,

if you know what I mean”, a lady at work said once.

POSTCARD TO AN OLD FRIEND

2011-04-03T18:01:00.006-04:00

Myles,
Drove by the old place the other day,
looks like somebody finally bought it.
Wonder if they know about flooding?
Life "on the banks of the Ol’ Raritan"!
Thought of you on St. Patrick’s Day,
realized it’s been a while since we spoke.
Worried about your health, let us know you’re ok.
Wish we were there! All the best, your friend- L.L.

SAFE CORNER

2011-04-02T00:27:00.005-04:00

How did I get here? and

I went to college for this?
is what came to mind today
as we crouched in the corner,
lights out, windows closed,
shades drawn, sign on floor, door locked.
This is a drill required by the State,
because of what happened in other places.
You saw the news, Columbine, Virginia Tech.

We’ll get creative in coming months,
making code words, what if plans for
rabid dogs, a gas leak, a wandering black bear,
a disgruntled employee, an irate parent-
practicing for the worst of all case scenarios,
the active shooter.

It was much easier when I was growing up,
all we worried about was nuclear annihilation.
Not much you could do about that.
We joked about evacuations, the absurdity of
crouching under a desk and covering your head.

My kids don’t say they’re nervous or scared.
But they ask me-
“What would happen if it were real?
What would happen if some
crazy guy with a gun came into
our room and tried to get us all?”

Well, I suppose I’d beat him senseless with a little green chair.
And because we can laugh together, we know we’ll be all right.

(Photo taken from-
http://www.retroland.com)

SAFE FOLLOWING DISTANCE

2011-03-13T16:55:00.004-04:00

is important when driving on any road,
like when the NJ Turnpike goes down to
three lanes- semis, cars, and buses flow
together at 65 miles per hour all at once.

In Driver’s Ed, they said something about
counting telephone poles to find out how
many feet you need to stop the car and
how braking on rain slicked roads was worse.

And when you don’t see the bumper or plates
of the guy behind you, then he’s way too close.
Mr. Wuzzardo wasn’t their instructor but surely
the lessons should be the same and kept simple.

Aggressive drivers cut in front of him, weaving,
taking away his optimum following distance.
Is it any wonder why people get killed here is
what he tells his wife, who insists he stops cursing.

He imagines having laser blasters on the hood
like Star Wars or a machine gun mounted on the back
like Jeeps from the old show, Rat Patrol or like the
biplanes they saw in the Air and Space Museum.

His son thinks lasers would cause too much of
an explosion, a gun would spray bullets all over,
possibly hitting innocent people who are safe drivers.
They agree it should be a disintegration ray, one that
would attack the atoms of an SUV and driver making them
disappear into thin air, no mess, no fire, no guilty feeling.

SOME PEOPLE

2011-03-13T13:30:00.003-04:00

are eating lasagna today or black eyed peas,
roast pork with kraut and mashed potatoes.
Others eat last night’s party leftovers while
watching the Rose Bowl parade or Mummers.
Little snack trays, TV tables we used to call them
are erected in living rooms, dens across America.
A day devoted to resting, eating, and watching
College football, a Honeymooners marathon, or
movies still in plastic wrap in a stack under the tree.
Soon they’ll think of Monday, going back to work
or school and once again he’ll laugh as he says-
“You know, somebody has to pay for all this stuff.”

RESOLUTIONS

2011-03-13T11:04:00.003-04:00

Another year gone too fast,
for the new year, I make no
resolutions, since I make them
each day of my life anyways.

I don’t have a calendar, most days
I can’t tell you the date, the number.
When I get old, I won’t know the day
of the week, I’ll feel lucky to be free.

Today I may ride the exercise bike.
I may read a few pages in my book.
I may decide to clean up around here.
I may take a walk in my neighborhood.

I will be thankful for sunshine, rain,
snow melt, blue jays on the branches,
a warm living room, a big brown chair,
my little house where I feel at home.

MOMENTS OF SILENCE

2011-02-23T19:10:00.003-05:00

Something about the moment, the exact
brightness of the sun’s rays, a delicate degree
of the slightest breeze through broken limbs of
the pine trees-the slightest scent of their sap,
just enough to make me remember my father.
It’s happening a lot these days, you know.

Sometimes it’s a cardinal on a chain link fence,
the scent of fresh brewed coffee after dinner,
slow moving smoke from a neighbor’s chimney,
a shiny white pickup truck in the parking lot, or
a few words strung together, a certain phrase,
a song playing over speakers in a grocery store.

Lately it’s the little things, maybe it’s a stage
of the grieving process, ministers speak of this
at funerals, psychologists write about it in books.
It stops me in my tracks, I think about my father
and the others who are long gone- the old ones,
aunts, uncles, grandmothers, and grandfathers.

I go to a lonely place, for a bit, but snap back quickly.
Please don’t worry about me; I keep going on and on.
These times are messages, little taps on my shoulder,
faint whispers saying, it’s alright, alright to miss them.

ABDUCTION SCENARIO

2011-02-13T13:52:00.004-05:00

They imagined a break in, an abduction,
figured a young woman had been snatched
while loading her groceries and thrown into
an old pervert’s panel van to be a sex slave.
They’d called the police and waited for him.
Two Shop-Rite grocery store workers, serving as
crime stoppers, neighborhood watch, good citizens.
Looks of disappointment feel on their faces as
I walked to my Jeep with its passenger door open.
They commented on the fact that I was a guy.
I told them how I loaded up my groceries but
must’ve forgotten to close a door when I ran into
the Pet Store. Last week I’d done the same thing
at work, but without so much uproar or drama.
They explained how they’re prepared for this,
what they thought happened, how they got cameras,
how I couldn’t leave, I’d have to prove it was my car.
When the cop rolled up, he didn’t want to see papers,
he knew it was just a case of an absent minded guy
who didn’t close a car door and a couple of grocery store
workers who'd watched too much Law and Order or CSI
hoping to be part of something big this Saturday morning.

ONE MORE CALL

2011-02-13T10:01:00.003-05:00

Sometimes we’d call each other on holidays.
Most of the time we meant to, but didn’t.
We never sent each other birthday cards and
probably never took notice when looking at
a calendar that it was a day to call each other.
A couple times a year, we spoke on the phone
when he had a spare moment or when my wife
reminded me that staying in touch is important.

Now, these days while driving and looking out
across an open field, I think about how much
I want to tell him, how much I would say,
if I could have just one more conversation.
We’d talk about the weather, old times,
relatives, his grandson doing well in school.
Each day, I say to myself, like so many others now-
If only he was still alive. I’d call him again, and again.

THIRD WEEK IN JANUARY

2011-01-27T20:43:00.002-05:00

Today they came to pick up the dead in a shiny
white Mack trash truck from our municipal complex.
Some of these trees have been on the curb for weeks.
Once the center of attention, focus of the celebrations
with its special corner of the living room, decorated with
ornaments, some family heirlooms, souvenirs of past trips,
a child’s project from first grade, lights that blink sometimes.
Captured in holiday photos we never print, but take anyways.
Always in the background when we post to social network pages
and send as email attachments to the scattered and distant.

The driver and his young helper take turns getting out of the cab.
Carhartt jackets, fluorescent green caps, waterproof work boots.
Trying hard to look cool, not wanting to look like they’re working.
But it’s hard to look dignified when you’re tugging at the trunk of
somebody’s old tree covered over and frozen in a foot of snow.
I can’t resist rolling down my window when the truck drives by,
even though temps are in the single digits this Monday morning.
I want to smell the garbage truck, full of mashed up evergreens
going down my street leaving a scented trail like they’ve got a million
miniature pine tree air fresheners hanging from its rearview mirror.

MOST WINTER NIGHTS

2011-01-22T23:09:00.004-05:00

I go upstairs before my wife, she always
has so much work to do and when I’m tired
I just go to bed. Before I climb the wooden stairs
I check the doors to make sure they’re locked.
I turn the porch lights off. I put the thermostats
down to sixty four. I peek in at my sleeping son,
say- “Catch you in the morning. Have a good sleep”.
Each night I like to open the blinds so that I can lie
on my pillow and look out and see the street light.
Sometimes I even crack the window a little bit to
listen to the cars glide by now and then across the
slick pavement from the melting piles of snow.
I close my eyes and pay tribute to my grandfather
each night by saying his simple bedtime prayer of
thanks-“Good ol’ bed.” Then I flip over my pillow
to the cooler side, feel at peace and drift off to sleep.

TEAR DROP

2011-01-21T23:44:00.004-05:00

for Baldemar Garza Huerta

I knew he was sick for a while, but it
still comes as a shock to hear of someone’s
passing when they’d been in your life so long.
Like a friend from your childhood or a classmate.
No, more like an old Uncle that you watched age
before your eyes, getting gray, heavy, moving slow.
And of course I won’t forget that day in Sam Goody,
a wise ass salesman couldn’t resist saying-
You want what? Nobody still listens to that!
And when I sat in my living room that afternoon
blasting Wasted Days and Wasted Nights, I sang along
and raised my fist in remembrance of the good times.
But you know I couldn’t help crying when I heard the
first few twangy notes, the nasal sounding syllables-
“and I’ll be there before the next tear drop falls”.

ENOUGH

2010-11-30T20:15:00.004-05:00

Did he ever say,"that’s enough poetry
about the birds and the oceans"?
Did she tell herself “I’m done writing
about the animals of the forest”?
Did the others ever just give up writing
about lost loves, death and regret?

More than once I sat to write and
found myself writing about all that
happened, all that didn’t happen.
More than once I stopped myself,
clicking the red X, and the No when
the computer prompted me to save.

More than once, I put down the pen,
closed the notebook, tore out the page,
tossed the paper to the side, looked away.
I wondered why I had this feeling, now.
Does it mean that all is forgiven or
does it mean I feel like it’s all been said?

BUS STOP EPIPHANY

2010-11-29T20:44:00.003-05:00

Sometimes when I see you, you look so grown up.
While on other days, like this morning, you smiled
that same smile from when you were a little baby.
Maybe I noticed it because your face was framed
perfectly by the window of the bright orange bus.

At fourteen, our years are numbered now- four.
Next year, I’ll wait at this same bus stop as you head
to high school, somehow your mother and I’ll get
you through it. But today I thinking too far ahead to
the day when I’ll drove off and look back to see you
standing at the curb, waving in my rear view mirror.

Or I imagine the three of us standing on a platform
at the train station, the Amtrak pulls into Metropark,
to take you south to D.C. or north to Boston. And when
I see you in the window; I’ll see a man with my baby’s smile.

I NEVER SAW DR. J

2010-11-28T15:03:00.002-05:00

We wore mesh basketball shorts,
tank tops with our numbers on them,
Barkley jerseys, Moses Malone t-shirts,
black high top sneakers and we always
had basketballs stuffed behind the seats,
as we rode around Middlesex county
making deliveries in our Hino box trucks.

We’d pull over, take a few jump shots or
play one on one between stops. Sometimes
we’d play pick-up games against other
guys who’d be hanging out on the courts.
Anthony was a Sixers fan too and he’d like
to tell the story of how he met Doc, after
a game, even shook his massive hand and
how he was a classy guy, a true gentleman.

I’d tell him how I felt lucky to have gone to
the Spectrum with my teacher and the rest
of the sixth grade from Irving Avenue School
to watch the 76ers take on the L.A. Lakers.
But the truth of the story is that I only
watched Dr. J on TV, I never saw him play
in person that night, because my mother
wouldn’t give me the money for the ticket.
And I didn’t dare ask my stepfather for a ride.

BLAME THE TECHNOLOGY

2010-11-28T11:06:00.005-05:00

Her son throws tantrums when she calls him
to eat, since he must turn off his Playstation 3.
He can’t pay attention in class and finds
everything boring, especially teachers talking.
He hates to read books and tells everyone
how he doesn’t like to write or go to school.

His nephew walks around the house blasting
his iPod, wears it at the dinner table, on the bus,
in the halls, and all he wants to do is listen to
his music. His Algebra teacher writes and
performs rap lyrics to teach him the math,
but he does no homework and fails all the tests.

Her neighbor’s kids watch Disney movies on the
back of the car’s headrests as they drive down
the road and don’t talk to each other,and don’t
look out the window when the parents are driving.
The kids don’t know where their grandparents live,
the name of their dentist or what town they are in.

Her grandchildren sit at the restaurant table and play
Nintendo DS instead of interacting with the family.
They can’t sit in a chair, hold their heads up, order meals,
eat with manners and barely touch their plates.
They complain how the food sucks and how full they are.
They order big desserts and take a few bites before going
back to watch more YouTube videos on their iPod Touch.

Her friend’s daughter copies full passages from
Wikipedia and Google, but denies plagiarizing.
She also has been sending inappropriate photos to
her boyfriend, who then sent them to his buddies.
A group of her friends team up to humiliate the new
girl on Facebook, MySpace, and Instant Messaging.

Your friend’s son never leaves the basement and
no longer has an interest in sports or going outside.
Instead he plays Call of Duty and interacts via his
character in the game and a headset to talk to
some guys that he’s met through X-Box Live.
He doesn’t clean his own room, make his bed,
take out the trash, rake leaves, or mow the lawn.

Her cousin was let go from his part time job for
sexting with a female employee, who liked it
at first, but got angry when she found out
how he was doing it with all the girls at work.
She told the supervisor and he was terminated
immediately in order to avoid a harassment lawsuit.

Each night their daughter was on the computer
chatting with a strange man in Missouri, who
forced her to take her clothes off and participate
in sex acts while using the video camera and Skype.
She told her parents when they found her packing
her suitcase on the way to meet the man who told
her she had to buy a bus ticket to meet up with him.

EAT AND RUN

2010-11-27T08:49:00.003-05:00

Untwisting the wrapper he grabbed a stack
of bread, dealt slices like cards onto napkins
laid across the dash of his truck. We pulled packets
of ketchup, mustard, relish, mayonnaise from our
pockets, mounded them up by the windshield.

Each man reached into the pile, ripped them open
with their teeth, squeezed, spread, threw empties
in one motion saturating the bread with free
condiments he told us to load up on from the 7-11.

He slapped a thick slice of baloney onto the bread,
told us to eat up, we acted shy, because we hadn’t paid.
"I know you ain’t got no money, but we got lots of work
to get done, you boys’ll be worthless on empty stomachs.
I’m planning to get plenty of work out of the both of yous".

He splashed generic lemonade into courtesy cups,
gulped one down, asked us how's it tasting, and shared one
of his many Viet Nam sayings as he disengaged the brake-
“everyday’s a holiday and every lunch meal is a banquet”

He pushed the engine button, switched on the radio,
we still stuffed our faces full of white bread and ketchup
as he turned the big truck wheel and drove onto 295 North
and put it in the wind. I can still hear him singing along
with the refrain of an old Guess Who song as he shifted gears-

“on my way to better things- got myself some wings- distant roads are calling me”

BIRDWATCHING ON THE OUTER BANKS

2010-11-25T23:55:00.003-05:00

I enjoy watching you crows hop around
with your slick little bodies, shining feathers.
Black, iridescent like oil spots in a parking lot.
It seems you all like to work in groups as
you try to sneak up on the tourist’s garbage.
I want to ask you why you all have feathers
missing in a ring around your scrawny necks.

But it's the sandpipers who work the best
together on the shoreline, moving swiftly to
avoid getting your feet wet. Acting like you aren’t
part of a team, pecking, poking the wet sand
with precision, stopping to run each other off.
And then back to work, even though you don’t
find much at the water’s edge, it’s your spot.

Pelican, you stop me each morning at sunrise with a
rapid crash into the ocean, ugly as the beak you use.
You look bulky and strange, you don’t move sharp or
swift like the jets of today. More like World War Two
fighter planes with your direct paths and staggered
patterns that make me notice your numbers; I count
every time this week and the magic number is six.

Gulls, you are all over, screaming like someone’s
done something wrong or trying to murder you.
Somebody told me to look for you to find the wind’s
direction, since you always put your beak to where
it’s coming from. You don’t like ruffled feathers.
I keep an eye on you if I’m eating food because
I’ve seen your sneaky ways at the Jersey Shore.

Osprey, when you fly, there’s no need to count the
number in your flock, you don’t have any partners.
You go it alone, like your famous cousins, the Eagles.
Sometimes people call you seahawk when they
see you glide on currents of air above the waves.
The flight, the dive, the grab with your talons, barely
getting your feet wet. A few flaps and you are gone.

IT MUST'VE BEEN APOLLO 14

2010-11-25T11:36:00.002-05:00

when Pop yelled across the house for my mother
to sit me down in front of his coveted color television.
Back then, the “sets” looked like furniture, solid oak,
woven fabric, mini brass eagles handles, knobs to twist,
a button to pull on, a stiff noisy dial with 13 numbers.
No cable boxes or remote controls, children served as
TV Guide finders, channel changers and beer runners.

"He needs to see this. You have to realize, this is history
and he’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life",
I remember vividly, my grandfather saying that. But barely
recall the little men in white suits hopping up and down,
gigantic Pillsbury doughboys with shiny fish bowl helmets,
backpacks the size of sofa cushions, one trying to swing
a golf club at a tiny white ball on the surface of the moon.

And now it all feels like its "miles and miles and miles" away.

POETRY WITH THE KIDS

2010-11-23T20:03:00.004-05:00

(memories of moments,strung together in Tankas)

what’s up with all the
poetry? is what a boy
in the back row said.
Makes you choose precise words and
finish in less time. That’s true.

rhyming is Old School
a fourth grade girl announces
as I introduced
limericks, quatrains, couplets.
Man, free verse is where it’s at.

rappers and rock stars
sit at kitchen tables with their
own rhyming dictionaries
forcing themselves to find words
that rhyme with cheese and mustard

Kilmer, poet from nearby
wrote Trees, killed on World War I
battlefield in France.
A young student says plainly-
Should’ve stuck to poetry.

HER LAST STAND

2010-11-22T22:56:00.002-05:00

Halloween is over, so she’ll pull
down the Rubbermaid bins
marked Thanksgiving and get ready
to teach a lesson like its 1977.
She’ll wear a headband with a feather;
a Pocahontas costume from the Party Store,
and put her hair up in braids.
She’ll stand at the classroom door
greet the kids with a raised hand
and say, Ugh, How, Kemo Sabe and
call them all her little braves.

She’s make vests out of paper bags,
War bonnets out of construction paper,
Tom toms out of coffee cans that she saved,
and wampum necklaces out of uncooked ziti.
Room mothers will prepare a snack and paint
streaks of paint on the children’s little cheeks.
They’ll all trace their hands; put beaks on the
thumb’s outline to make a Tom Turkey.
She’ll call them to the rug for a Pow Wow
and tell them to sit “Native American style”.

PERMISSION

2010-11-21T18:58:00.002-05:00

As a boy, he had to ask for
something to eat or drink.
Open the fridge or cabinets,
they acted like he was stealing.
And if he asked, it didn’t mean he
was getting it. Many times he’d hear-

Don’t drink that Pepsi, its mine.
Don’t take those cookies; those are for your sister.
Don’t touch the Slim Jims, they belong to Dad.
Don’t eat those pretzels; I bought ’em for your brother.

One day after school he ate two of his
stepfather’s Tastykake French apple pies,
the kind with white icing, little bitty raisins.
His mother humiliated him for being selfish
and asked, “Just who do you think you are?”
He was reminded of how much his father
loved his pies and what he’d do when he got
home from work and found them missing.

He gathered his change from his Snoopy bank
and took off running for the path, a shortcut
through the fields, out to the road, past the brook
and onto the avenue to the corner store.
After buying the pies, he ran back quickly to
replace what he’d taken without permission.

POSITIVITY

2010-11-20T21:56:00.003-05:00

When I drive down Highway 77
to my old hometown
I usually dwell on how
it all went wrong
for the city and my family too.
But I still make the trip to see
empty houses, shut down factories
boarded up stores on Laurel Street.

This time, I rehearse conversations
in my head hoping to see someone I know
or who may vaguely remember me.
I’ll say, “Hey, how’s it going?
“It’s been a while” or
“Glad to see you’re doing fine.”

I’ll drive by Quarter Mile Lane School,
and walk through the kick ball fields.
I go past the projects where I lived,
Big John’s Pizza, Weber’s Candy Store,
a friend’s family home on East Avenue,
and park by the edge of Sunset Lake.

I’ll drive past my grandparent’s house and
stand by a big maple I used to climb out front.
I want to see that someone’s painted it and
that the grape hyacinths and daffodils still bloom.
I want to see the new people hanging their sheets
on the line and piling Autumn leaves by the curb.

I'll eat an Italian sub and go to the custard stand.
I’ll drink a free cup of apple cider from Sunny Slope.
I want to smell the fireplaces in the dead of winter
and the ketchup factory in the dog days of summer.
I want to feel it wasn’t so bad or I need to know
something went right during that time, in this place.

FULL OF HOLES

2010-11-19T22:15:00.002-05:00

He told us all he was a truck driver and a damn good one,
but he’d often come back off the road with tickets and dents.

He liked to tell the story of how he was a hero at his old job,
(even made the news) but was laid off the following week.

He’d ask to take certain guys with him to be helpers for the day,
then say “he was as worthless as a bucket with a hole in it”.

He was angry about the racism he faced growing up in Carolina,
but always made fun of his Haitian and Ecuadorian coworkers.

He talked about how he had to take care of his sick wife,
but he’d go out on Friday nights with his young girlfriend.

He’d say he couldn’t stand working with dope heads and druggies,
but he’d hurry his runs to get them on time to the methadone clinic.

He always said he couldn’t work for someone he didn’t have no respect for,
yet when his boss let himself be bullied, he brought his 38 to protect him.

He’d complain about the high cost of pills and prescriptions,
then buy forty to fifty dollars worth of lottery tickets each day.

He’d say he’s never late and if he was, then he wasn’t coming in,
but on most days he always had a reason why he needed to leave early.

LOST AND FOUND ON THE A.C. EXPRESSWAY

2010-11-18T20:59:00.002-05:00

A few weeks earlier he learned to drive stick shift
in a 24 foot box truck on the back country roads.
Now they sent him alone to make deliveries on Sunday.
He felt good riding in that Mercedes Benz party truck.

Ten stops to find first, then deliver, and collect money.
It was easy at first, finding houses in Margate whose
streets are names of the States in alphabetical order.
He thought all towns should be laid out this way.

Driving past Lucy the Elephant and into Atlantic City
to his biggest stop, a shopping mall on the beach.
He knew things were starting to go wrong when a
motorcycle cop walked up to him with a ticket book.

He was parked on a ramp to the Boardwalk in order
to unload tables, chairs, linens, dishes, and silverware.
He tried extreme politeness, “Yes sirs” and apologies
but still got a ticket that he’d pay for with his day’s wages.

Next stop was a fancy racing boat in Trump’s Marina
where he was forced to double park as he loaded a dolly
with tulip champagne glasses and silver wine buckets.
The policeman pulled up on a motorcycle to scold him.

“Son, move quick, I don’t want to write another ticket”.
Back out onto the Atlantic City Expressway, shifting gears,
feeling like a real truck driver from those Seventies movies.
In his mind he sang “Convoy” and “East Bound and Down”.

All this happiness came to a screeching halt as he looked
down at the seat and realized his clipboard was missing
with all the invoices, directions and customer’s checks.
In a panic he pulled off to the side of the road and got out.

His heart pounding, sweat pouring from his forehead,
tears welling up in his eyes, he looked at the truck’s bumper
and there it was, the clipboard with all his important papers.
After doing 55 on 10 miles of rough road, nothing was lost.

TELL ME WHY

2010-11-17T19:55:00.001-05:00

That old guy stands near this busy highway
in his layers of shabby unmatched clothes.
Always on the small little sidewalk staring
at televisions hanging high above the bar
in this happening place with a trendy name.
It’s a bar where cool people go after work to
take advantage of Happy Hour Drink Specials.
Think there’s something wrong with him?
We see him here many afternoons in the rain,
the blazing hot sun, for almost a year now.
Sometimes he’s scratching his unruly beard,
or rubbing his jacked up hair with his ashy hands
while watching a football or basketball game.
After hearing me wonder, my son says so sincerely-
“Tell me why they just don’t ask him to come in.”

STACKED UP

2010-11-16T16:45:00.002-05:00

A plastic water bottle,
a weekly pill organizer,
an old glass lamp covered
over in a layer of dust,
and the clock radio can
barely fit on her bedside table.
This year’s goal is fifty
and that’s why books
are stacked in piles like
Oreo cookies on a child’s plate.
She devours pages, savors words
each night instead of sleeping,
because she knows there won’t
be any crumbs on the pillow
in the morning.

Panic On Highway 81 or Nothin' But the Taillights

2010-11-15T22:52:00.002-05:00

Back then, it felt like the truck drove itself.
Young enough, to go to classes, then head out
on a 700 mile road trip at three in the afternoon.
No need to rest, or stop to eat or drink. Just drive.
No need for a road atlas, just shift the gears to fifth,
my little red Ford Ranger pickup knew the routine.

Climb hard, coast down; hit the gas at the bottom
to get back up the next mountain that’d be coming.
Make it out of Tennessee, start thinking how big
Virginia really is since you’re sliding diagonal up 81.
Check the clock, check the odometer. Mark the trip
by the cities-Wytheville, Blacksburg, Roanoke, Lexington.
Get to Harrisonburg; feel like you’re making progress?

Sun goes down, air grows colder, radio always fades.
Marvel at Autumn trees, showing off this weekend.
Think about seeing my wife after being away six weeks,
you smile. Hearing Ozzy’s Mama I’m Coming Home,
you laugh. Notice a car in your rearview mirror.
you panic. A tailgater on this road, no reason to be
so close, acceleration lane clear, he stays behind
making you nervous, frustrated, a bit angry.
Slow down to let him pass, speed up to lose him.
Wonder, if you cut him off, is he the police, a convict?

Twilight now, plan to exit at Stephens City,
before Winchester onto a road called Route 7,
340, US 15? You don’t remember it’s name.
If he follows, you know he’s after you. Sure enough,
he follows. Heart pounds with anxiety, you go past
the familiar line of fence posts of a Black Angus farm,
the curvy road in front of Patsy Cline’s Rainbow Room,
Dinosaurland, the little dinky post office in Berryville.

Still he follows you. You’re almost into Charles Town.
You’ll pull over into Tastee Freeze, they’ll call the police.
For a brief moment you wish he’d just get it over with.
You jump out of the truck, close your eyes, say a prayer,
come to terms with the fact that you’re about to be dead.

A simple man in his early thirties gets out of his car,
walks over to you, smiles and says in a calm southern voice-
I’ve been trying to get your attention. You see, I been following
you for about fifteen miles now. I wanted you to know that
you ain’t got no taillights. Not safe riding up the Interstate
with no taillights. Man could wind up getting himself killed.

You nod, take a deep breath and tell him you appreciate it.
You mention he didn’t have to do that. You say he’s too kind.
After he leaves, you walk to the window and order the biggest
chocolate malt shake you’ve ever had. You change the fuses.
You calm yourself down, consider yourself lucky and drive on.

THE SERIAL READER

2010-11-15T22:48:00.001-05:00

The play’s the thing is what you could say about
my early reading habits, Sam Shepard, O’Neill, Mamet,
Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, August Wilson,
Neil La Bute lined his shelves, filled his book bags.
Ten years of nothing but scripts, screenplays,
one act plays, American Theatre arrived monthly.
I dreamed of writing a play, seeing it produced,
finding my script on a shelf at the book store.

One day I picked up a Civil War book, Killer Angels.
I turned away from the plays for three years.
I moved on to the American Revolution, World War I
and II. Finally he read the Vietnam War. Five years passed,
captivated by war books, buying the all the best-
A Rumor of War, Dispatches, The Things that They Carried.
I lost track of time, but knew when my mission was over.

It happened to me again, a change of reading habits
when I stopped near the Drama shelves, reached out
and pulled a book from the shelf. I was drawn
in by poetry, a name I’d never heard before-Bukowski.
Words flowed from the page; the book had a different feel-
What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire.
Line by line I read, relating to the poet’s words.
I got suckered in by poetry. I told everyone how
my life had become poetry, writing, workshops, classes,
festivals, readings, a blog, published in a dozen places.

Each night I park myself in my big brown chair to
crack open the latest find from the internet or bookstore.
Now I joke that I’ve got to be careful not to pick up
another kind of book, it may lead me astray and test
my loyalty to my loved ones. I read nothing but poetry.

WHY DO WE HAVE TO RAKE LEAVES?

2010-11-13T23:32:00.003-05:00

I understand the whole process of the leaves
changing colors and somebody said they aren’t
really green anyway, but chlorophyll made by
long hours of sunshine makes them go green.
Their true colors are red, yellow, and orange.
I think what it’d be like if they stayed that way.

Somebody said when leaves fall, trees are making
a blanket to protect their roots through the winter
and when they rot it makes a fertilizer for the tree!
Makes me wonder who came to the conclusion that
the leaves should be raked, bagged, hauled away.

Why don’t we let them keep their warm blankets?
Why do we deny them their midwinter meals?
Because it’d kill the front lawn if we left it down.
Kill it more? It’s been dead since June, when it
burned up in the hot sun. Droughts and being away
on vacation has a way of destroying it every year.

FORGET WHAT PREVENTION MAGAZINE SAYS

2010-11-12T19:31:00.004-05:00

Eat lots of fish, its brain food, and the healthiest of the meats!
It’s lean, easy to digest, and will help you live long too.
Be careful though, the tuna and salmon you’ve been eating
has been determined to contain high doses of mercury.

Buy plenty of strawberries, blueberries, great antioxidants!
Make sure you wash them real good before you eat them.
You’d be better off buying organic, the ones grown without
pesticides and fertilizers, chemicals needed to make a profit.

Be sure to eat plenty of nuts and seeds, you will improve your
energy levels, immunity and they’re a great source of protein!
Be aware that you stand a chance of developing diverticulitis
a painful disease that causes blockage in your large intestine.

Red wine is great for your blood vessels and heart. Drink up!
Men can have 7 cups a week, but don’t have it all at once.
Later on tonight you may awaken from your sleep with a
burning in your esophagus and taste throw up in your mouth.

You’re going to want to watch your cholesterol, no more butter!
Suddenly you hear people saying, “Don’t eat man made food,
anything synthetic or engineered in a laboratory can’t be good for
you, only eat the foods that God made.” Go ahead have some butter.

Diet sodas, a great alternative to all the sugar laden colas being
sold and it’ll help you to prevent cavities and save your teeth!
Ever seen what happens when you pour it on a car’s hood?
Avoid juice drinks; they’re full of corn syrups and artificial coloring.

You can’t get enough water! The only side effect frequent urination.
About every thirty minutes you need to find a restroom or bathroom.
Be sure to buy bottled water. Purified water is best, not spring water.
Try to avoid tap water. Each glass is full of harmful metals and chlorine.

Remember, scientists and nutritionists are constantly researching and
developing new theories on proper nutrition. It is important to keep up
to date on all the latest discoveries in order to live a happy healthy life.
By the way,now and then,drink some tap water. Bottled water lacks fluoride!

NO ONE WANTS TO BUY MY HOUSE

2010-11-11T21:38:00.002-05:00

or "sometimes I feel like a dog chasing its tail"

In February, a sign went up on the lawn,
papers signed, the process put in motion.
The little house was kept clean at all times.
Realtors brought young couples to walk
through in search of a starter home,
something modest, something to fix up.

Business cards piled up on the table,
weeks and months passed without
anyone wanting, inquiring, or offering.
The price was lowered again, and again.
All hope seemed lost, but an offer came.

Meanwhile, it was hitting the fan in DC.
The President read from his magic teleprompter
throwing around clichés about Wall Street
to Main Street, and talking about at the end
of the day and sitting at the kitchen table.

This was the summer when reality struck.
The American Dream became The American Myth.
Record foreclosures, savings and loans failed,
the prices fell, values went down, taxes went up,
the mortgage remained the same, and all
the people came to terms with staying put.

No approval for the buyers, no sale for the sellers,
and no sale for the next guy couldn’t sell his house
to us and he couldn’t buy the house he wanted
to purchase and that guy couldn’t move either.

THE LOVERS

2010-11-10T21:36:00.005-05:00

Would I think of them as lovers
if I didn’t see the title? I am a watcher,
an observer, and a storyteller of sorts.
I look for the story behind the picture,
the way I look at two people and wonder
how they ended up being together.

I look at artwork and relate it to a moment
in my life. I remember at twenty, how the two

of us found each other in the greeting card aisle

of the college bookstore. Two acquaintances

from class who had spoken many times, but this
moment, on that day, changed everything for us.

Would I have seen it differently without
About the Painting on the bottom?
Would I have stopped to take a closer look
at the clothes, to interpret the time period
as the age close to Romeo and Juliet?

Would I notice how he was holding
her hand, the gray tones of their skin,
the use of only six colors, rubbed on.
If I had not read the notes, would I have
seen the “strong silent bond between them”?

Would I have thought it a masterpiece
by one of the world’s greatest artists,
if I had not seen his familiar face in a close up?
Black and white gripping his bald head,
staring like a madman at the camera.
Could I have known it was Picasso without
the About the Artist? Nothing clued me in to
his handiwork, nothing political, no images of
death, geometrically disfigured faces,
distorted bodies made of cubes.

Instead, I may have asked,
Is there news of a baby on the way?
Is she about to tell him goodbye?
Is he looking for forgiveness?
Does it really matter if there’s a story
behind this simple painting?
Just two peaceful young people in love.
Does it matter who painted it

if I find it pleasing to look at?

DREAM VACATION

2010-11-09T22:02:00.002-05:00

One day, is how the story always began,
a description of fly fishing in Alaskan waters,
a pontoon plane for hire, landing right on the lake.
A week’s worth of catching rainbow trout,
sockeye salmon, northern pike on the shores of
Echo Lake, Cottonwood Lake, and Coyote Lake.
Eagles flying above icy waters, the greenest trees.

Now when I stop to think about him,
it’s hard to remember him speaking of a
trip or vacation in his life of labor and work.
Maybe he considered the days of driving a
General’s Jeep in Japan a type of trip.
Working in logging camps of North Carolina,
living in the woods, movable cabins on sleds
dragged to where the timber was logged.
Driving his tractor for a huge factory farm in
New Jersey must’ve been a type of adventure.

Perhaps he felt he’d already seen the country,
truckloads of Christmas trees, delivering shrubs
to the White House, those days as a nurseryman.
In the end, his greatest trip, back to the foothills
of Tennessee with his sons, where they grew baccer,
thousands of acres of maters, and raised cattle.

Each day, content to walk out his front door
to work in his fields, his greenhouses, his garage.
His wife traveled with her sisters to Myrtle Beach,
Florida, river boat cruises, but he stayed behind.
Content to sit in a slow moving rocker on the porch,
enjoying strong black coffee in a old chipped cup,
smoking, telling his plans of one day going on a trip.

SECURITY DEPOSIT SUMMER

2010-11-08T19:41:00.004-05:00

I don’t remember how my wife and I
found our second apartment. The first,
just a studio, was too small, too fast.
Noisy neighbors, no place to park,
a shower that abruptly turned cold.

Maybe we found it in the Star Ledger,
it was valuable then, everybody read it,
everybody bought it, everybody needed it.
A colorful brochure, a floor plan layout of
a one bedroom, ground floor apartment.

Close to the Parkway, Turnpike, Route 1.
It would make it easier to get to work
is what I told Marty, as I approached him
for a loan for the hefty security deposit.
He was my boss, but a different kind of boss.

It always felt like talking to an uncle, a brother,
a friend. After a year he looked after me and
cared for me, treated me like I was important
to business, included me in the many plans for
the company he started with his cousin, Alan.

Don’t pay me back; I want you to work it off
on Saturdays through the summer months.
A handshake, a pile of hundreds stacked neatly
in a blue and white United Jersey Bank envelope
and one of the company’s box trucks got us moved.

Weeks passed, we worked side by side in the heat.
Unloading trucks, loading trucks, preparing orders.
Each afternoon around three, an orange soda break.
In September, we agreed- the debt was done, settled,
paid back the old fashioned way, with time and sweat.

PRO-EDUCATION

2010-11-07T19:14:00.003-05:00

I planned to include a quote from Montessori
but wondered how many people knew her or even cared
what she said about children and their full potential.
I won’t begin with the old “teach a man to fish” proverb
or the slogan “A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste”.
I’ll start with what some of my grandfather’s words,
They can take your house, your car, even your wife
can leave and take the kids, but the one thing that
can’t ever be taken away from you is your education.

I want to tell the lawmakers and politicians,
Keep your healthcare bills, food stamps, welfare,
unemployment, Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security.
Give us all the opportunity to get a free education
from preschool through college, technical and
trade schools, Nursing Schools, Master’s Degrees, PhDs.
Open it up to anyone who wants to go, to learn, to achieve,
to gain knowledge, to prepare, to realize their full potential.

Total free tuition, no charge for everyone, just give it away!
You’d see a society of strong, proud, independent individuals
who’d take care of themselves, their families, their communities.
If they don’t make it, they'd have nothing to cry about. No one to blame.

LOOKING FOR IMPROVEMENT

2010-11-06T21:25:00.002-04:00

at the Home Depot on Route 9
trying to fix up his little home,
it’s not worth what it used to be.
Finally a decision was made, since
The Economy is rough now, just stay.
“If we stay, we fix it up”, said his wife.
In each aisle he thought about what to get.
A Rustic Iron Hampton Bay fan and light,
glazed porcelain tile in soothing Earth tones,
some easy install Resilient Interlocking Planks?
The 12 x 12 Catalina Canyon Tile is awesome.
Oak Artisan Laminate floors- even better and
like the sign says, Your ideas become reality.
Carpet stair treads with double stick tape,
Roughneck Totes to store summer clothes,
rod and finial sets for living room curtains.
Purple violets for 2.99, but they look sickly.
Anderson Windows would look great, that sign
says, They’re the Windows that More Builders Buy.
Pink Fiberglass rolled out in the attic saves heat.
New numbers, a nine and a one in simulated pewter.
A new porch light has been needed for a while.
Caulk for the tub, since it’s always mildewed.
He walked through the lumber section even though
he didn’t need wood, the smell reminded him
of Junior High wood shop class with Mr. Kelly
where he made bookends and a napkin holder.
The possibilities are endless, alls you need is money.

GETTING OLDER EVERY DAY

2010-11-06T00:02:00.003-04:00

I get up as soon as the sun comes up without an alarm.
I put on slippers before coming downstairs.
I go straight to the bathroom to pee when I get up.
I have a bottle of Extra Strength Tums on my night table.
I sit on the toilet for longer periods of time.
I understand the value of Icy Hot, Visine, Pepto-Bismol, Preparation H, and Advil.
I take my glasses off to read and put them on to watch TV.
I have trouble hearing what people say in a crowded noisy room and nod sometimes when I don’t know what they say.
I turn The Weather Channel on three or four times a day to check the forecast.
I get tired around six o’clock, (right after dinner) and I fall asleep in my chair.
I have at least a dozen sweaters and do not hesitate to dress in layers once fall begins.
I enjoy wearing brown, navy blue, gray, and black.
I believe it is important to wear a necktie to work.
I wear a hat when it rains.
I carry a handkerchief in my pocket almost every day, but I don’t blow my nose on it yet.
I wear a sweatshirt that is about twenty years old.
I plan to buy white Chuck Taylor high tops and black cowboy boots. I want the two kinds of shoes that I was forbidden from getting as a child.
I prefer wearing shoes to sneakers.
I don’t wear my newly purchased shoes home from the shoe store and I don’t run through the aisles with my new sneakers on.
I wear a watch every day and I feel strange if I don’t.
I know what time it is within 10 to 15 minutes without looking at a watch or clock.
I don’t like to be late and feel that it's important to be early.
I hate to wait for anyone when I plan to go someplace.
I check the thermostats whenever I walk by them. I adjust them often.
I turn out the lights throughout the house and at work too.
I offer coworkers advice about retirement savings and tax sheltered annuities.
I am proud of myself for purchasing extra life insurance and often joke about how I am worth more dead than alive.
I tell my son not to get caught up with all these young girls. There will be time for women later and they’ll be much better. Your studies are more important.
I tell him that the sweetest fruit doesn’t always fall from the most beautiful of trees.
I enjoy watching my son play soccer and can't think of very few things I’d rather do instead.
I remind him how important it is to do well in school and get into a reputable college.
I worry every time I leave him somewhere that it’ll be the last time that I see him.
I purchase DVDs and introduce my son to old movies and classic television shows.
I don’t get upset the way I used to when my wife doesn’t feel like having sex.
I argue with my wife but we are usually not angry with each other after 20-30 minutes.
I vote straight down the line at elections because I know my wife votes straight down the line for the otherside.
I forget to tell my wife what she means to me and fail to give her the respect she deserves.
I sometimes call my wife, Mom. I called her Mother once and we both felt really weird.
I remember the prices of old food products and articles of clothing and I share these memories with younger people.
I don’t have to buy German beer in glass bottles anymore. I drink American beer in brown bottles.
I know the difference between a merlot, a malbec, and a cabernet sauvignon.
I watch my salt intake and try to avoid fatty foods.
I get food on my moustache and chin when eating soup and salad.
I quote old commercials and talk about characters from old TV shows like they're old friends.
I can sing the Lowenbrau, Miller, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and Piel’s songs from the Seventies.
I enjoy grocery shopping.
I like to do the laundry.
I buy bird seed and fill up bird feeders in my yard.
I know what sounds a cardinal, blue jay, and catbird make.
I find joy in watching the annual blooming sequence of flowers in my backyard in spring.
I like to stand and look at the yard when all the leaves have been raked.
I get excited when someone brings me a cold drink while I’m mowing the lawn and a hot drink while I’m shoveling the snow. I get angry when they forget.
I can sit and stare at the ocean for hours without swimming or doing anything else on the beach.
I check the oil and fluids in my car before long trips.
I walk around the car to check for damage before I get in to drive.
I take secondary roads and always look for an alternate route while driving. I don’t care if it takes longer, I like to keep moving.
I fill up my gas tank before the warning light comes on.
I read the prices of gas on the signs as I drive by and begin thinking about how much it used to cost.
I curse out all the stupid people who endanger my life on the roadways of New Jersey.
I talk about where I was and what I was doing when historical events took place in my lifetime.
I don’t remember people’s names but I do remember where they are from.
I am disgusted by poor service in a store or restaurant.
I enact personal boycotts of stores, businesses, and restaurants with poor service and rude help.
I check the labels to see where things were manufactured. I have given up on exclusively buying American made.
I don’t care what other people think about me and get annoyed when others suggest that I should care. I often say things like “they don’t pay my bills”, “they don’t know me”, and “I could care less if I ever saw them again”.
I let the phone ring and only pick it up after the person begins leaving a message on my answering machine. This only happens if I need to talk to them, or feel like talking to them, or if I actually like them.
I often think about my hometown and talk about making a trip to visit there. But I never do.
I see cousins and comment on how old they look.
I miss my sisters but never call them and I don’t let them know I’m thinking about them.
I think about my grandparents and wish they were still alive.
I think about my father and all the things I wish that I would’ve said to him and all the things I wish that I had done with him.
I sometimes recall kind things that my mother did for me and think about how she wasn’t so bad after all.
I don’t watch television every night. I don’t have a favorite weekly program. I don’t know what’s on.
I rarely watch the entire football or baseball game. I don’t know the standings of the leagues and divisions.
I barely follow basketball and hockey anymore.
I don’t know what times my college teams are playing or what channel they are on.
I began listening to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra lately. I am also quite fond of Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson and Bluegrass music.
I look forward to reading a good book and don’t hesitate to go to bed early.
I don’t wear an earring anymore and I don’t spike up my hair with gel anymore either.
I started combing my hair the way I did when I was a boy.
I look in the mirror and see more white hairs in my beard and head than dark ones.
I noticed that my eyes have black circles under them and have been looking a little puffy.
I see a picture of myself and say, “Wow, I look like somebody’s Dad!”