CHILDHOOD AT THE SHORE

There’s a boy at the water’s edge,

laughing and splashing, wet sand

smeared on his face, chest, arms

having the time of his life, no doubt-

is what we always used to say.

I want to tell him to keep it up,

don’t stop jumping into the waves,

swim under the water, stay here,

never leave and soak it all in.

You’ll look back on this as a man,

as a father and husband- you will

need this when you have a bad day,

a particular challenge, or hardship.

You’ll think about the smell of salt air,

the breeze in your face, the coolness of

the rising tide on your ankles and shins,

your eyes darting across the ocean floor.

as you point at minnows, sand crabs, shells.

These memories will keep you afloat

is what I want to shout, because I think

someone should explain this to all of you.

But the children of the beach wouldn’t listen.

So instead I just grin and nod. And the boy?

He runs away. I turn to look to the horizon,

the Atlantic, nothing has really changed

it’s the same view from forty years ago,

only the children at the shoreline are new.

VIN SCULLY

Mind you, I’ve never been

west of the Mississippi

but each night this summer

in my bed I’m listening to

a strange bedtime story-

thanks to modern technology.

There’s a light blue glow

on the ceiling of my room

as I lay still and soak in the

lullaby of each Dodgers game

especially if it is his voice-

the sound of seasons past.

I imagine drinking Coronitas

in the parking lot while radios

blast the songs of Sublime.

I wonder if there are statues

to honor the great Sandy Koufax,

Jackie Robinson, or Kirk Gibson.

I dream of sitting in the bleachers

in Chavez Ravine without a jacket

or hat knowing the chance of rain

is just small talk, a bit of rumor.

I’d eat a Dodger Dog as the sun set

over the infamous Freeway traffic.

Without fail, after a few innings

I begin to fade away to sleep.

My wife come up to yell at me,

“Turn that off, you’re sleeping,”

she says and I roll over knowing

I’ll check the score in the morning.

Tennessee Education, 1992

To think that I could forget windrows,

why it’s important to put hay up dry,

where to hook a chain on the truck

when you’re pulling it out of the mud.

To think that I could forget tobacco barns,

how to sort the brights, the lugs, and tips.

The sweet smell of it hanging in the rafters,

a need for moisture and the foggy mornings.

To think that I could forget black coffee,

the taste of JFG brand, no milk, no sugar,

Family seated on tall chairs at the counter,

when they got up, they’d say stay with us.

To think that I could forget winter evenings,

the heat of the fire from a Franklin stove,

the laughter of Papaw in his big chair telling

stories about logging camps and driving trucks.

To think I could forget how biscuits are made,

soup beans, slab of onion, chunks of cornbread,

the squint in Granny’s eye when she spoke of

the one’s she despised or told of their stupidity.

To think I could forget how crops and seeds

must be planted during the full moon or as he

used to say, “when the sign is in the head”

Sixty eight days from planting to picking.

To think I could forget about cows in the field,

Black Angus, Charolais, classic red and whites.

riding the fence line, doctoring a sick heifer,

gathering young bulls in the barn on the hill.

To think I could forget about the hunting,

how running rabbits made the old guys

lament a pack of beagles and basset hounds,

how sadly men spoke of the long gone dogs.

To think I could forget which exit to take,

how odd roads run north to south and even

run east to west or the names of the rivers to

cross over, the Pigeon, Nolichucky, or Holsten.

To think that I could forget those words,

when you come here you get that dirt in your shoes.

No matter how far away you go or how long you leave,

you can always come back home to these mountains.

HOSPITAL CURTAINS

Another trip to the hospital

she coughed too much,

moaned in pain, didn’t know

she was fighting to stay on Earth.

Didn’t know her or her story,

her diagnosis or her name.

We feel guilty now, for hearing

her take her last breath as she

passed from this world.

We sat nearby, as the nurse tells

the husband how she has died.

I shouldn’t have seen his face as

he stared blankly the silent body-

his wife for more than fifty years.

Can I call your children for you?

We never had any.

Does she have a brother or sister?

They’re all gone.

Is there anyone you’d like me to call?

I don’t think so.

You let me know. Are you ok?

I just don’t know how I’m going to tell the dog.

He loves her so much and she loved him.

PROPERTIES OF MATTER

It stunk like somebody dying dozens of eggs,

the children shrieked when the baking soda

plopped into vinegar and the balloons inflated.

He stacked weights on bridge models made of

notebook paper, cardboard and drinking straws,

they cheered loudly as it collapsed and crashed.

“Will it sink, will it float?” with an old fish tank,

“Waves in a Bottle” with cooking oil and water,

amazed at how it always goes back to the top.

They laughed at riddles about the elements,

glued Fruit Loops, Cheerios, and Apple Jacks

on neon colored poster boards to show atoms.

After a week, the water was gone, salt left behind

and it was time for them to put away the books.

The materials and mess are what really mattered.

THANK YOU RED ANT

for the sting on the top

of my sunburned foot.

You sent me to the water,

made me get up and

leave my beach chair.

After all I heard that

sitting is the new smoking.

Thank you waves

for sending me these shells

to gather and take home

as a reminder of my trip.

A strange custom, yet

no one seems to find peculiar.

Imagine strolling a trail,

gathering the bones

of woodland creatures-

a white tailed deer’s femur,

a jawbone of a raccoon,

strolling a trail,

picking up those tiny fingers

of a gray squirrels.

See what I mean?

FIRST FRIENDS

After a while, it will happen- swing a lot, drag your feet,

puddles form below swings, but only if you use it a lot.

There’s a photo somewhere of me and the girl next door.

A snapshot from 1969, bundled up babies, a chilly spring.

We’re staring with beady eyes, no smiles, serious faces,

small hands clutching cold chains, no idea of the future.

Flip it over, all the white bordered photographs of the time,

have names, dates, places, and sometimes little sayings.

Words written in blue ink, a mother’s perfect cursive writing.

SeaWorld, South River

There’s a commotion down at the bridge tonight,

the one by the plumber’s and old comic book shop.

Yellow and black crime scene tape drapes the trees,

a part time cop sets up plenty of orange safety cones.

There’s a dolphin swimming near the bridge tonight,

he took a wrong turn, went up into the Raritan Bay,

continued up the creeks and waterways to this place.

And all of the experts don’t know what they can do.

There’s a lot of people standing at the bridge today,

entire families, all with cameras, iphones, and ipads.

The poor creature surfaces for air, they take snapshots

and videos of him jumping like the football team’s logo.

There’s an ABC-TV news van on the bridge tonight,

capturing shrieks, squeals, and wows of the onlookers.

They tell a reporter it’s awesome, quite amazing to see.

I saved a ton of money, didn’t have to travel to Florida.

There’s a dead dolphin down by the bridge this morning.

he washed up on the shoreline, confused and exhausted.

This was no place for him, too many cameras, no way out.

This week’s casualty, the ongoing story of Man vs Nature.

JUST PASSING THROUGH

Tonight I sit inside a noodle restaurant

it used to be a Mexican burrito place and

before that, in the 90’s it was a Wendy’s.

It gives me the same feeling I have when

I sit in my living room in my big brown chair

a place I’ve lived for about a dozen years.

Others lived there before, sat in the same spot

watching TV, arguing about paying the bills,

raising kids, putting up Christmas trees,

painting the walls their favorite colors,

rolling out carpet to make it warm and cozy.

In another twenty years, someone else will

call this place their home and they’ll paint

the walls their favorite color and buy a new rug.

They’ll be out front watering the hydrangeas

that I planted along the driveway and raking

up all the leaves the way we used to each fall.

One day, when I’m gone, the postman will deliver

a piece of mail with my name on it, somebody will

glance at it, read my name, toss it in the trash

and say, “must be the guy who lived here before”.

Forgotten Muscle Car

thunders by on Route 18 South,

neurons fire, my 50 year old brain

searches for the word on the car.

Look close, a metallic logo confirms.

Drive on, beside him, behind him

remembering an old guy’s lament-

back in the days before computers,

street legal, slant sixes, big blocks,

4 barrel carburetors, a story always

laced with numbers, V8, 383, 426,

street legal, slant sixes, big blocks.

Secret codes for those who lived it.

Never saw these, even in the 70’s,

Chargers, Firebirds, Mustangs, sure.

Something ugly about this one, long

in front, squared off grill like a mouth

of the fish a Detroit guy named it after.

This one’s dull gray with a white roof.

I’d paint it purple, make the roof black.

Must be headed down the shore with

Historic QQ Jersey plates. Bet he plays

that old “Heart” song as kids walk along

the rows of cars with parents and say-

It’s kind of cool, what’s the name of that?

The Wait

Ropes and stanchions keep the lines in order

as if the people are going out on a Friday night

to see the latest blockbuster at the Regal Cinema.

Women at the front desk sit in their little windows

like the workers at Motor Vehicles, only they smile,

speak in quiet, calm voices to ask if you need help.

Dozens of people fill the expertly arranged chairs

like an airport terminal but no one has baggage.

They wait patiently to hear their names called by

sweet voiced young women in pastel scrubs who

remind me of the hostesses down at Olive Garden.

In the back, the machines await, its 21^st Century

medicine at its best- sonograms and mammograms,

CAT scans, MRIs, your basic x-rays machines too.

By this time next week, the waiting room people

will know if it’s a boy or a girl, if a lump is dangerous,

why they have frequent headaches and blurred vision,

what kind of operation will their knee require next,

or how bad is the blockage in the coronary arteries.

For now, all they know is that they must wait for

their names to be called, wait and fill out the forms,

wait for the technicians, wait some more, and worry.

SHE DIDN’T WRITE ABOUT

how pink smells like pretty flowers,

how it feels like butterfly wings or

that it tastes like cotton candy and

it doesn’t remind her of Barbie’s car.

Instead she writes hers about a ham.

It is pink, cooked with yummy pineapples,

honey and sugar stuck all over the top.

I tell her she kind of missed the point.

Later, as I collect papers from the class

she tells me why her poem is about ham.

No one ever made a meal that I asked for.

This Sunday, my grandmother is making

ham because I told her I like it so much.

I don’t see my mother much anymore.

My parents are really my grandparents.

The others all have moms and dads, so

I never told them. I tell her it was the same

for me growing up, but it was my father

who I never saw. Smiling now, she tells me-

“And I always thought I was the only one”.

Shake the Salt on When She’s Not Looking

to avoid her high blood pressure lecture.

If she sees his red eyes, she’ll say it’s a sign

of a health condition. She’ll insist on making

an appointment for him, he’ll say he’s fine-

Those doctors always find something wrong

and I’m not ready to hear bad news just yet.

He thinks they’d try to give him a prescription

and he’s afraid he’d have to go back every few

weeks to piss in a cup or get stuck by a needle.

Lately, he’s had tingling in his toes, now and then

there’s been those sharp jabs in his right side and

sometimes it’s like there’s a weight on his chest.

He’d agree to go in for a physical but knows

they’d tell him how he needs to lose weight.

Maybe he’ll go this summer, he’d consider it

if she makes sure the appointment is with the

big heavy doctor, you know the one who’s always

in the parking lot smoking cigarettes by his car.

LESSONS LEARNED

(AT AN EARLY AGE WHILE LIVING IN LOW INCOME HOUSING, 1974)

Sometimes in life

it’s a good idea to hide in the corner behind a red naugahyde chair.

Sometimes in life

you have to pound on the steering wheel and shout, “you know I wanted ice cream”!

Sometimes life tastes like

Swanson pot pies, Campbell’s soup, Quisp cereal, a packet of Wyler’s juice

Sometimes life feels like

the shot gun blast that killed the old guy who was the apartment manager.

Sometimes it’s like

an across the hall neighbor out of her mind on acid running in with a butcher knife.

Sometimes in life

you have to push the furniture in front of the door before going to bed.

Sometimes life is about

lawyers in the living room and toys you’re forbidden to play with.

Sometimes it’s

your cat having kittens in the closet, but you can’t keep one of them.

Sometimes life

burns like shampoo in the eyes or it cuts like a broken water glass.

Sometimes it sounds like

a Carpenters album, a Gilligan’s Island laugh track, the Banana Splits theme song.

Sometimes in life

you want Mrs. Beasley with her polka dot dress, not the red heart shaped pillow.

Sometimes life is like

pulling GI Joe’s string and the only thing he ever says is, “I've got a tough assignment for you”.

OLD GUY WITH THE NICE POOL

“I want you to be concerned about your next door neighbor.

Do you know your next door neighbor?”- Mother Teresa

Red lights splashed into all of our back yards,

guessed it was the old guy with the nice pool,

but it was his wife, a loud lady I talked to once.

She suffered a heart attack and died. He’s been

alone for ten or twelve years now and for hours

he sits watching TV on the back porch, I’d hear

MASH, CNN, John Wayne westerns, war movies.

His pool always crystal clear, open Memorial Day,

closed on Labor Day, check the calendar and see

the trampoline-like green cover perfectly placed.

He moved slower, didn’t swim, watched more TV.

Had less pool parties with his family and last winter

a sign went up on his lawn, the house sold quick,

luckier than most who have been trying to leave.

Another neighbor says, “His kids got him to sell and

moved him to assisted living, on his first night there,

he got out of bed, tripped on the rug, broke his leg.

Doctors find he’s filled with cancer. Three weeks later

around Christmas, he’s gone. Dead. Jack was his name”.

JETTY GEORGE

hooked a bluefish, so did Tommy, his busboy.

Pop and I caught weakfish on the Fishin’ Fool.

Worth missing a day at the beach. I remember

how the Royal Flush party boat blasted by and

put us in a wake, rocked us, made us struggle to

bring in our catch of the day, but we reeled it in.

Two slabs under the broiler with lemon and butter,

and a Kodak moment above my desk for eternity.

WE BOUGHT HOCKEY STICKS IN 1974

at Riley’s Sporting Goods on Laurel Street,

sawed them off if they seemed too long.

South Jersey side streets, makeshift games

whacking a plastic ball at the one boy with

a mask, pads, and goalie stick. He’d block

them all and kids chanted like fans at the

Spectrum- Bernie! Bernie! Bernie! Bernie!

We pretended to be Broad Street Bullies-

Bobby Clarke, Bill Barber, Dave Schultz.

In school, we drew pictures of them with

clenched fists, black eyes, teeth missing,

orange sweaters with the famous flying P.

Saturday nights we’d put on Channel 29

in the back room, a fire always burned and

Pop smoked El Productos in his easy chair.

Kate Smith’s God Bless America, the voice

of Gene Hart delivered play by play of battles

with Blackhawks, Redwings, and Canadians.

At Christmas, we asked for black and orange

coats, hats, everyone wanted to be a big fan.

Before bed we’d drink milk in glasses with the

unforgettable saying- Lord Stanley Lives in Philly! 

FINDING MYSELF

Sometimes I go days without looking in the mirror.

I get a good look when I decide it’s time to shave.

In front of the sink, shake the can of Edge, lather up-

I wonder when the wrinkles start, been lucky so far.

My left eye, no- right eye is bloodshot again, stress?

Notice more white hairs than dark, there’s a blemish.

A few spots here and there, never had them before.

My wife insists I should go and get them checked out.

I look tired after a full night of sleep and why does hair

grow faster in my nose, ears, on the back of my neck?

Somewhere between the last razor stroke and splashing

on the cold water, I remember the friend from college

who always joked about having a Talking Heads moment

while shaving. All of a sudden you stop, stare at the mirror

and say “You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”

VIRAL

spreading like a disease, with over 800,000 hits, still going

they’re fighting in the streets, kicking each other in the ribs,

dragging women by their hair, beating each other down in

school yards, restaurants, on city buses, put it on You Tube.

Bystanders, no longer stand by, they hold their phones up high.

Commenting on the action, laughing at the poundings, gasping

at the beatings, shocked by the blood flow, but still recording.

No one tries to break it up, avert the crisis, diffuse the conflict,

or call the cops, happy to push record,  glad the beating is not

on them, while others sit at home- clicking, watching, sharing.

BACK WITH THE SIXERS

Black jersey and a Phillies cap, we drove down

early in the morning with him belted in the backseat.

He read the directions printed out from the internet,

we found the Philadelphia zoo, I called him My Navigator.

I remember being amazed at how the Monkey House hadn't

changed since my kindergarten class field trip back in ’72.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.

We rode on to Independence Mall and took photos

with the Liberty Bell, people in Colonial costumes and

stopped to hear songs played with a hammered dulcimer.

Dinner was Tony Luke’s, a small steel structure surrounded

by chain link fence, wedged under the Walt Whitman Bridge

Cheesesteaks with onions and wiz never tasted so good.

We kicked a soccer ball in the empty parking lot at the new

basketball stadium named after a bank, not the old Spectrum.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.

In the game, the Sixers and Wizards dueled it out on the court.

It was April, both teams had no chance of seeing the playoffs.

We sat in the cheaper seats, marveling at the three pointers of

Arenas, gasping at Iverson’s crossover dribble magic, high fiving

strangers and the old black guy next to us who shouted loudly-

C’mon now AI don’t let Gilbert show you up, not in your house.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.