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.
A twenty-four year difference
In the ages
at the match
Means the
older of the players
Has some
wisdom to dispatch.
After all,
she is a champion,
With many
trophies won,
Her opponent
at a point
Where her
career has just begun.
Yet a twenty
year old body
Still has
spring that hasn’t sprung
And an arm
or two that hasn’t
At a million
forehands swung.
So at
Wimbledon today, Serena,
Though she
tried her best,
Got the
crowds to cheer her on
But ultimately,
failed the test.
They say age
is just a number,
Which sounds
nice, but truth be told,
It’s too
hard to be competing
With somebody
half as old.
Writing letters, now passe,
Was once the
only sure-fire way
To keep in
touch with those in camp,
Enough to
give one writer’s cramp.
And when in
Europe, years ago,
On
aerogrammes I’d say hello
To keep my
family up-to-date
And tell
them things were going great.
Of course,
there was no email then;
You wrote on
paper with a pen.
That way
still works, for we just sent
A letter
with the sole intent
To let our
grandchild have a hint
That she is
missed (right there in print!).
She may
write back and she may not,
But we’ll
persist, no matter what.
