MATCHES

Too early for pretzels, chips, or peanuts.

Too early for Brown Ale or a pint of Bass.

This morning begins like every other day,

with a pot of coffee, demanding pets fed.

Remotes find the obscure cable channels.

A five hour difference makes us get up to

watch games broadcasted from England.

I yell to him, he’d planned to get up too.

It’s football now instead of our old sport.

Its stats and standings replace baseball.

Its star players have replaced basketball.

Boxing Day replaces Christmas morning.

Magpies, Reds, Blues, Black Cats and Spurs

promise to outshine the lights of the tree.

Holidays have become too much work and

enjoying the season starts on this morning.

One day we’ll go there, is what we say.

Doesn't matter who we see, we’ll sit at the

edge of the pitch, we’ll have pies and tea

at half with shivering pink faced supporters.

We’ll wrap team scarves around our necks,

lose our voices from singing and when we go-

Rooney, Bale, and Gerrard will be long gone.

The money keeps us from reaching our goals.

CHINANSKI, MISUNDERSTOOD

“What matters most is how well

you walk through the fire.”- Charles Bukowski

Mention your name and they smirk, grunt, or groan.

They say that all your poetry is about getting drunk,

getting naked, getting arrested or all of the above.

Dirty old man addicted to whores, whiskey, horse races.

But I know you better than that. I've read your books,

took the time to find out about you and when I heard you

explain how hateful your father was as you took the film crew

to your boyhood home, into the hallway by the bathroom,

I cried as you, in your sixties held back your tears describing

how he whipped  you with a strap, all his anger put on you.

What he left on your heart, what you felt your entire life.

To be degraded, belittled, insulted. It stays with you forever.

And when I picked up your book from the shelf one night,

I felt your pain, your suffering. I consumed your poems,

your books, the films. I wanted to find out everything

about you. Your work turned me to the poetry of others.

I wrote too, I never stopped and I walked through the fire.

ON THE RIGHT

-for my grandfather

College during the Great Depression,

married with children in World War II.

and a big fan of Eisenhower, of course.

As a young boy, I didn't know he was

a look alike for a famous Republican,

but I do remember the many times when

people approached my grandfather to ask

“Hey, are you Barry Goldwater?” and he’d

reply- “No I’m not, but I did vote for him”.

He believed in hard work, a good education,

loyalty to team, taking care of your family,

and the honor of serving the community.

Saddened by Nixon, disappointed in Ford,

and pleased by the inauguration of Reagan.

And if you asked him if he ever liked a

Democrat, he’d tell you without hesitation-

“Only one, Harry S Truman, because he told

the truth and did what he thought was right

and didn't care what people said about him”.

THE PROBLEM WITH POOLS

A pool does not have sandpipers or

plovers pecking the shore for a meal.

There aren't any ghost crabs popping

out of well fashioned tunnels or caves.

The pool does not have pelicans soaring

and dive bombing into a school of fish.

It doesn't have soft white burning sand,

or cool soothing sand at the water’s edge.

No shiny rocks, sand crabs, or minnows.

At the pool, I won’t find a shell with a tiny

hole to make a fine necklace out of with a

section of white twine from a bakery box.

A pool has babies with diapers and parents

making wee-ing sounds to make it seem fun.

It has cannon balling, Marco Polo, old ladies

in floral bathing caps, hairy men attempting

Olympic style laps, stinky bleach, noisy filters,

and Rules for those who lack common sense.

UNANSWERED TEXTS

    









-For Cassy, my wife

Did you miss me?

Are you on your way?

What do you want?

How about Thai food?

It’s Tuesday, they’re closed.

You don’t want pizza.

Wish you’d answer me.

Then I’d know what to bring.

One day I may be texting…

as I take my last breath.

Even then, you wouldn't answer.

Then you’d feel guilty forever.

Hope you’re on your way.

I’ll figure out the meal.

I’ll decide. Imagine that!

See you when I see you.

Answer when you get this.

But not if you’re driving down the road.

REMEMBRANCE DAY

                           -For those who served- family,friends, and neighbors.

I think it said, WW I, machine gunner

on the grave of an Uncle I never met.

A cousin of my grandfather was burned

and gassed in the trenches of France.

He never was quite right after that.

I got a picture somewhere of him.

Mr. Brooks still suffered from malaria

and Mr. Spalding spoke of his days as

a Fighting Sea Bee in the South Pacific.

Gail, a man at the beach, always smiled.

People said he must still feel lucky to

have survived the Bataan Death March.

As kids, we’d play patriotic songs from

old 78 records and our grandfather sang-

“Nothing can stop the Army Air Corps”.

He’d laugh after adding “But the women!”

He made Lieutenant Colonel and they gave

him a twenty one gun salute at his funeral.

My Dad’s brother, Walt was a marine,

a tunnel caved in and injured his back.

Jim Stewart was a medic in Vietnam,

he always seemed to have a scowl on

his face. Must’ve seen way too much,

is what people would say about him.

Eddie, a guy from work, used to tell us

about sneaking under the barbed wire

into the village to find a Mamasan who

had plenty of hot chicks for boom boom.

He’d be in the bed and have his rifle right

alongside him in case Charlie showed up.

Uncle Chuck was a Navy radio man but

he never really talked about it too much.

Art Martelli told me of his river boat,

Chieu Hoi and about trying to win the

loyalty of the locals by going up river

and handing out gifts of cooking oil.

Mr. Brown came back to Newark from

‘Nam and was still hooked on heroine

after twenty years. He’d always nod off.

John, another man at work, had a fifth

of White Label every day for breakfast,

he cursed in Polish, and cried sometimes.

Clayton sailed the world for decades

before coming back to his home with

faded green tattoos and stories to tell.

Cousin Joe was a recruiter who handed

out plastic combs and cheap Bic pens

labeled with  “Aim High- US Air Force”.

Kathy was on a ship in the Persian Gulf,

I think it was a sub tender. I remember

our father wearing  US Navy sweatpants.

Phillip, another cousin, went on three or

four tours of duty to Iraq and Afghanistan.

I think he's home now from our latest wars.

SCARED FOR YOU

 

-for Tracey,my sister

You used to call to talk about

what we went through as kids

way back in the 70’s and 80’s.

In our 40’s, closing in on 50 and

we’re still talking about what

some say, we should just forget.

While others say never forget,

but try to forgive, free your mind.

You text me now instead of calling

to tell me how you were standing

in line at the grocery store when

you remembered how she was

always standing in the background,  

and never once telling him to stop.

Finally she texts-

I was scared, scared for you. I was

always scared he would kill you.

I text her back-

I always knew I would get away.