Faces of the Fallen

Each day in The New York Times,
I read a certain list.
It names the names of soldiers
Who’ve been more than just dismissed.

They’re servicemen and women
Who have sacrificed their lives.
I think of them each day
As well as each one who survives.

And once a year or so
The Times will match their names to faces.
The pictures make them real enough
To dream of their embraces.

Some stare at the camera
Looking sober, stern and strong.
Did they have an inkling
They would not survive too long?

Others grin and boy, those hurt;
They’re filled with life and verve.
Sadly, none of them received
The ending they deserve.

I grieve for all their relatives.
I’m sure nobody’s plan
Was finding out their loved one
Perished in Afghanistan.

I gaze at all their faces
While reflecting on war’s dangers,
And wonder if these soldiers knew
That they’d be mourned by strangers.

For each of us, so safe at home,
Should pause and take a breath,
And honor all our soldiers
Who have traded life for death.

It’s too late for these servicemen.
I wish that I could show them
That they are missed by friends and kin
And some who didn’t know them.

The Shore

Summers in the country,
Far from ocean, bay, or sea,
Meant that going to the beach
Was alien to me.

I didn’t understand at all
Its magic, its allure.
I’d often heard it said, “For stress,
The beach is just the cure.”

But since my youth, I’ve spent some time
On many sandy stretches,
And now it’s clear that being there
Can quiet all your kvetches.

The salty tang of ocean,
The screeching of the gulls,
The souvenir and ice cream shops
Transport us into lulls.

It’s relaxation to the max
And add in some good friends,
The end result’s the kind of day
That totally transcends.

A Little Taste

Memorial weekend, when I was a kid,
Was a time that we more than embraced;
For the summer, like simmering soup on a stove,
Let us sip just the tiniest taste.

We spent all our summers on grassy green fields
In a bungalow far from the city;
And in May, when the holiday time rolled around,
We piled into the car, feeling giddy.

The journey felt long and we could not contain
All that bubbling anticipation.
When we finally tumbled out free from the car,
We were frantic with exhilaration.

We flung the door open, our breathing on hold,
And quick ‘round the room glances ranged;
And then we’d relax with a sigh of relief,
Because nothing, of course, had been changed.

We ran out to search for our summertime pals,
Made note of the ways each had grown;
Then returned to our bungalow, snuggling down
To the best sleep I ever have known.

For the nights were quite cold, so we bundled ourselves,
Oh, how long ago all of it seems!
And we drifted to sleep, feeling more than content,
Into look-ahead summertime dreams.

The rest of the weekend I can’t quite recall.
So many things time has erased;
But I’ll never forget those Memorial Days
And the joy of the summer’s first taste.

Boots

Here’s an observation
I am sure no one refutes,
No matter what the weather’s like,
Some gals are wearing boots!

I cannot understand it;
There’s something I’m not getting,
‘Cause every time I wear my boots,
My feet cannot stop sweating.

Only when it’s freezing cold
Will I slip on a pair,
Yet these women strut like
They’re completely unaware.

Today I saw a lady clad
In shorts and thigh-high leather;
Boots like those do not belong
In muggy late-spring weather.

It really is bewildering
How such a style grows,
But as for me, I’m glad it’s time
To flaunt my painted toes!

Ideas

It isn’t enough just to have an idea,
Whether formed by fact or intuition,
Unless you’re intending to nurse it along
And follow it to its fruition.

Ideas can be had, dime a dozen, it’s said;
Just thinking of one’s no big deal.
But not everybody has got what it takes
To turn one into something real.

Though each tiny seed that goes into the soil
May be filled with potential and power,
Only the few that are tended with care
Will reward us by sprouting a flower.

Souvenirs

Am I the sole New Yorker
Who, when visiting Times Square,
Stops to kill time in a souvenir shop
And wants to buy things that are there?

I love the salt and pepper set
That resembles taxi cabs;
And a pair of socks with a city scene
Has me making wallet grabs.

Place mats decorated with
Each colored subway line
Make me want to buy a few –
I love that cool design!

Picture frames and coffee cups
With famous New York sites
Must appeal to those of us
With New York appetites.

“I Love N.Y.” imprinted on
A t-shirt, all a-glitter,
Isn’t really something
A New Yorker should consider.

Thus, I have to stop myself
From giving in and splurging;
My tourist instincts have to be
Prevented from emerging.

For I’m a real New Yorker,
Native born and native-bred;
I’ll wait until I travel
And buy foreign junk instead!

Barefoot Man

It’s nice to be barefoot when walking the beach;
You can dig your toes deep in the sand.
And kicking your shoes off in luscious green grass
I something I can understand.

But today, in the park, on the reservoir track,
I encountered a shirtless athlete,
And to my surprise, he was striding along
With no sneakers or socks on his feet.

The path’s made of dirt and it seems pretty smooth
But for bare feet, it’s not too appealing;
For under its seeming innocuous mask,
Who knows what it can be concealing?

Perhaps there are pebbles or really sharp rocks,
And possibly spiders or bugs;
But even if nothing unpleasant is there,
The mention of it causes Ughs!

The man looked content and relaxed and quite fit
And his face revealed no kinds of clues
As to why he decided, on Central Park turf,
To exercise wearing no shoes.