The days drift by at summer’s pace,
Too insubstantial
to embrace.
Without a
goal that I can chase,
In neutral I
am stuck.
Though I am
home, most any place
Would seem
the same, with just a trace
Of novelty
to help me face
A way out of
the muck.
No matter
what, in any case,
The passing time
might grant some grace,
My lethargy
conceding space
To welcome
back some pluck.
At Wimbledon, on Centre Court,
The players,
dressed in white,
Run back and
forth across the grass,
To spectators’
delight.
Of course,
in the United States,
The court
called Arthur Ashe,
In honor of
a tennis great,
Is where
opponents clash.
If it did
not have Ashe’s name,
It might be
Center Court,
But note the
“e” and “r” reversed,
Which U.S. guides
support.
The U.S. Open
doesn’t mind
What color
players wear,
Unlike
Britain’s rules of “colour”
With a “u”
that’s stuck in there.
I realize
(yes, I use a “z,”
Not “s,” as
do the Brits)
That language
often changes after
Factions
call it quits.
It’s
fascinating, really,
How our
long-ago “divorce”
Somehow took
the centre of the land
And moved it
off its course.
Whenever I see someone
Sprawled on
a bench,
Exposed to
the elements,
Hands in a
clench,
I wonder if
long ago,
Curled in
his crib
Or perched
in his high chair,
With drips
on his bib,
A mom or a dad,
With the
tenderest gaze,
Saw their hopes
for their son
Mapped in
various ways.
They certainly
never
Imagined him
stuck
On a bench
in a city park,
Down on his
luck.
Few
passersby stop,
(And yes,
that includes me)
Rarely
thinking about
How such
things come to be.
On this date, in the U.S. of A.
People celebrate
in their own way.
There are
hot dogs on grills
And the
fireworks’ thrills
With the
stars and stripes out on display.
Yet for many
who feel as I do,
There’s no
point to this hullabaloo,
For instead
of delight
At the flag’s
red and white,
All I see
and I feel is the blue.
I didn’t get married at Madison Square
And only
immediate family was there.
We needed no
permits nor one single guard,
For our
wedding was held in my parents’ back yard.
There wasn’t
a limo to ferry each guest
And a cousin
took photographs at our request.
The food was
whatever my mother did choose
And no, it
did not make it into the news.
It’s been
fifty years, though, so, begging your pardon,
The wedding
you’ve heard of today, at the Garden,
May have all
the world and the paparazzi
Pay
attention, but what is important to me
Is that
keeping it simple worked fine way back when
And if I had
to do it all over again,
There’s just
one little change I’d be certain to make –
Not a
holiday weekend, a common mistake.
It’s early July and what’s happening is
The weather’s
so hot it will make your hair frizz
And perhaps
even ruin that cold champagne fizz
At Taylor
and Kelce’s “I do’s.”
Abe Lincoln
sits gazing at water, now green,
With algae
the worst anybody had seen
And
you-know-who claiming his conscience is clean –
It’s vandals
that one should accuse.
The National
Mall has a Giant State Fair
But somehow
the crowds aren’t showing up there.
Performers
pulled out, for they’d rather be where
They’re not
forced to air you-know-who’s views.
Though the
temps may be broiling, an obvious fact,
And the
wedding at Madison Square will distract,
The sad
truth is the soon-to-be 4th has been stacked
With so much
that it’s hard to enthuse.
For our
country’s divided on every stage,
Which will
make it a challenge for us to engage
And beneath
all the fireworks, sorrow and rage
Will infuse
all the red, white, and blues.
In the midst of the night
I might hear
the refrain
Of the thoughts
that disturb
Oozing out
from my brain.
And then
once they take hold,
I can’t get
back to sleep,
As reflections
begin
That will
pull me down deep.
Scenarios
beckon
Beyond my
control
While anxiety
threatens
To swallow
me whole.
As I struggle
to sink
Into slumber
again,
I write
rhymes in my head
Without
paper or pen.
In the
morning, they’re gone,
Yet I’m left
with the curse
Of
remembered emotions,
But none of
the verse.
