on Hudson Street on the eighth floor

of a building housing Oakite Products,

an old-line company that produced soaps

and metal-finishing chemicals,

my first and only job in New York.

The Hudson River was one block west,

and often at lunchtime I’d grab a sandwich

at a deli and walk over to see the ships

just in from or, more entertaining, getting

ready to cast off for European destinations.

I’d board some of those ships, unabashedly,

make my way into state rooms and join in

lavish parties, consuming canapes and

bubbly drinks, join in merriment with

the well-heeled travelers and their guests,

me an interloper who didn’t have enough

gumption or wherewithal to stay aboard,

visit far-off lands, extend my liberal education.

Instead, I heeded the warning bell that

sounded for us landlubbers to go ashore,

back to work, continue our humdrum lives.

That was in the early Sixties when Ethel

Merman was on Broadway in “Gypsy”

and the astounding “Threepenny Opera”

played nightly at Theatre de Lys in the Village.

Never would I have imagined an airplane

landing on the scabrous Hudson River to save

the lives of all aboard from disaster – the water

was for boats, not commercial airliners.

Thank goodness for the Hudson – it provided

me many noontime pleasures.  And it

saved the lives of a hundred and fifty folks

who hadn’t signed on for a river cruise.

(Published in the 2009 issue of MOBIUS:  The Poetry Magazine and nominated for a 2009 Pushcart Prize)

Note:  This is a true story, from beginning to end.  We, Irene and I, moved to New York from D.C. after a visit in 1959 when we saw both “Gypsy” and the incredible “Threepenny Opera,” the latter perhaps the best musical event of my life – magic!  We transferred ourselves in the fall of 1960, living in a lovely brownstone house (the equivalent of two rooms) at 68 Perry Street in the Village, a great place to live.  Too expensive, so we packed up and moved to a rent-controlled apartment on the eighth floor of another great building at 35 Pierrepont Street in Brooklyn Heights.  Our view was of the lower Manhattan skyline and further north, the great city right out our windows.  And all the ships coming and going, mainly sleek cruise liners but also enormous battleships and aircraft carriers, seemingly right below our windows.  A thrilling time to be in New York, but after three years we decided to move to Colorado.  Another of our smart choices in life.

Are barely settled,

But once she roamed

This diminished planet,

Eating its veggies

And fruits and nuts

And the occasional cheeseburger,

Singing its praises

To the sky,

From peak to peak,

Shore to shore,

This talented

And now extinct Dinahshore,

So perfect God made only one.

It’s been tough going

Since you left, Dinalshore,

But, if it pleases you,

I’m still seeing the U.S.A.

In my Chevrolet….

Though it leaks oil badly.

(Published in the Summer 2001 issue, Issue No. 15, Vol. 7, No. 1, of Rattle:  Poetry for the 21st Century)

Note:  Dinah.  Was there anyone finah?  I’ve just come back from Palm Desert where I studied an old photo on the wall of a 5-star hotel, a picture of Dinah Shore in her golf finery, swinging a driver much like she could swing onstage.  What a beauty.  And what a great representative of this great country of ours – scolding us to see the U.S.A. in a Chevrolet.  Had one once.  It didn’t get me very far before it started leaking oil, chugged a death rattle, and stopped in the middle of M Street in D.C., zillions of motorists all about me screaming to get the hell out of their way – they still had plenty to see in the U.S. of A.

you realize just how demanding it is for a fellow

entertainer to get up there, heavily made-up,

perhaps in a hot wig, a cumbersome costume,

open his mouth wide and sing with gusto.

To do this flawlessly, not missing a cue, a note,

a glance at his leading lady, and pull it all off

to near perfection deserves a heart-felt Bravo!

and standing ovation, well-deserved accolades

that you yourself probably never once received.

It’s okay, you say.  I understand.  And you do.

You were not trained for opera – if only you had

the gift of a fine tenor or baritone, how sweet

it would have been to be Alfredo in Traviata or

the Duke of Nantua or Siegfried for Wagner.

So when you witness an inspired performance

by one so highly trained and yet so deftly

restrained in a difficult role, stand on your feet

and applaud till your hands hurt, allowing tears

to stream freely down your cheeks.

Yell Bravo! to the brave fellow so overcome

with emotion from his role that he reels as he bows,

pats his heart, throws kisses to one and all of us,

suggesting perhaps that he sang only for us

and never before to such an adoring audience.

(Published in the inaugural issue, Winter 2004, of Lalitamba)

Note:  Here I’ve revealed my love of opera.  Have gotten to speak to and know several operatic practitioners and learned how much talent and training it takes to become a singer.  They make it look easy, up there in front of critical audiences -  singing beautifully, moving gracefully, acting believably, all in time with extremely difficult-to-master music.  Can I hear enough opera?  Never.  Oh, to have been gifted with a voice.  Well, I was given a voice, just not the one I wanted.  And so, alas, it goes.