THE MYTH OF 5TH AVENUE

After living on 5^th Avenue,

Everywhere else is a dump.

Early winter mornings,

The air on the avenue

Is cement cold, biting the nose.

One feels alive,

The slumber gods forced

To vacate the mind.

Across the street,

Behind a cut stone wall,

Central Park refuses to yield.

The richness is overwhelming.

I’d give up all the gold

To still be living there,

But she, so slender, so skinny

With her shiny black hair

And ivory combs,

Released me.

I left loaded

With just a few regrets,

And a year’s worth of tasteful tokens

Stuffed into boxes that once held

Crystal wine goblets and

Tiffany lamps.

As January’s shadows grew longer

And the street air refused to warm,

The gods must have whispered in her ear,

Lost cause. She finally gave up.

She couldn’t tame the wild man

From a different street.

No good behavior rewards,

Custom dinner jackets, gold cufflinks,

Had made a difference with me.

Maybe I’d been her project.

It took her nearly a year to realize,

She had been mine.

A SAFE CHILDHOOD

 

I was never very young,  

But that doesn’t mean

I was never naïve.

I was foolish enough to think

My thinking was sound

Though in reality

It was simply prideful pomp.

My high school photo

Showed my banker’s stare,

It saved me much trouble,

No miniskirted girls

Looking for a good time

Ever passed me notes.

My youth

Was my chance

To make mini mistakes

With only small penalties to pay.

If I had been bolder,

My adventures would have been grander.

The costs would have been steeper.

I seek no second youth,

No chance to do it again,

To decide between mini and grand.

For me, living without lament

Is a satisfying grace.

Watercolor by Pat Morgan

BROTHERS

Brothers are like billiard balls

Banging against each other

Bing, bang no harm done,

Blood washes away,

Bones heal.

Insults and headlocks

Are common.

Mom, always there, ignores most,

But occasionally snaps, followed

By silence cold as artic ice.

Brotherly bonds grow strong,

Become woven steel.

Brothers cause

Little need for

Therapy.

I bruise easily,

Heal slowly,

Realize now

My loss -

No billiard brothers.

SING ME

Will you sing me a show tune,

Lighten my heart

As I sit front row

Waiting to die?

Sing me “You’ll Never Walk Alone”

Since I am so scared.

If I don’t comfort you, it’s because

I need comforting.

I may even turn away,

Ashamed I’m not stronger.

I used to be the one singing,

“You’ve Got to be Taught.”

Just don’t sing me,

“Climb Every Mountain.”

I’m so tired, there’ll be

No curtain call.

Sing me a show tune

So I can hum along

Until it’s over.

from  SEA GLASS SOUL – Invisible Colors (Book III)

REBUILD - LBI

 Ashley was four years old

The summer I went to war.

She was an architect,

Engineer, builder

Of grand sand castles.

Detail and proportion

Were her expertise.

The first morning her mother

Took her to the ocean’s edge,

Ashley, armed with bucket

And butter knife performed magic

Creating a castle built

For a prince and princess.

After dinner, her grandfather

Escorted her on a walk to the beach.

She pulled his arm hurrying him

Toward her creation.  She found

The spot where her castle

Once stood.  Little was left,

Only a wet round mound of sand.

  “Why, Grandpa? Why?”

He pulled her close and hugged her.

What good was explaining

Wind and tides, sun and moon,

The eternal turning of the spheres,

But he tried. 

     

She protested, “It’s not fair.”

He replied, “It’s not trying to be fair.

It’s just the way it is.” He paused.

“You can build it again tomorrow.”

She did. And again the tide took

Her castle.  All summer long

She never stopped building.

I returned home. I had survived

My year at war. I had lost buddies,

Buddies had lost arms and legs.

I had abandoned all hope of normal.

I watched as Ashley spent her

Summer building castles.

She never said it, but

She showed me:

Don’t let the

It’s-not-fair-it-doesn’t-care

Beat you. 

Slowly,

She rebuilt my faith.