to find fresh flowers

in a nice vase in their room

when they arrive, settle in.

Depending on the guest,

or guests, my wife chooses

which seems best suited

for the invasion, er, occasion.

Rosebuds seem to last longest,

for when a close relative lands.

Roses in bloom usually wither

in just a few days, for casuals.

Whoever the guests may be,

they’d better heed my wife’s

message via flowers:  they start

wilting, you start packing.

(Published online in Wilderness House Literary Review on July 4, 2011)

Note:  Not exactly the truth, but not a bad idea, don’t you agree?  Guests are always welcome at our humble abode….as long as they travel light, pack a small suitcase.

dark rooms in a low adobe home

tucked away in the hills of

northern New Mexico.  Charming.

Easy to stumble over the pottery

if you’re not careful, miss

a black-and-white sketch if

your eyes don’t attune to dimness.

We’re in no hurry, meander to

and fro, studying Alvaro’s many

creations, all of them attractive,

but we meet finally at one.

A lithograph of mesquite-dotted

hills, a lone leafless tree, the very

essence of New Mexico outside

Alvaro’s home in deep winter.

As so often happens, we’re not sure.

Look about again, meet again at

the lithograph, and still can’t

make up our minds.  So we decide.

We tell Alvaro we like his lithograph

and probably will be back Friday,

three days hence, and make our

final decision then.  Okay?

Alvaro shrugs, in no hurry himself.

We drive off into the rambling hills,

feel the magic of New Mexico.

After twenty-some miles, we stop.

I turn the car around, drive back.

A tiny bell tinkles as we re-enter

Alvaro’s studio, he turning, asking,

“Oh, is it Friday already?”

(Published in the October 2010 online and print issues of Flutter Poetry Journal)

Note:  This piece about New Mexico and its magical enchantment was told to me by dear ex-New York friends, Joan and Jack Salb, so I dedicate the poem to them.  The Salbs now live in San Diego where Jack has become a prized photographer.  Check out his amazing photos from all over the world at jacksalb.com.

as I write, between my

beloved wife and our dear

expatriate New York friends

now living the suntan life

in San Diego, e-mails flying

back and forth to choose

exactly the right cooking

course at exactly the right

place, Tuscany, of course

at precisely the right time, spring

so we can meet as a foursome

to learn how to cook spaghetti

and lasagna and pizza and

ravioli and cannelloni and cannoli

washed down with the right

wine, Italian, of course

studed and lovingly prepared

in Tuscany on tomato-spattered

stoves, sweat dropping into

the mix of whatever’ll be mixed

all ours for the price of $3995

a head, when I’d just as soon

go out and get, and I’d better

get to getting A-sap, an Italian

cookbook, one of the fancy ones

with a recipe for everything

Italian we’d ever want to eat

cook and eat, I should say

at the bargain-table price

of $50, marked down from $75

by the very same gal who’ll teach us

Italian cooking in Tuscany.

(Published in the Spring 2003 issue of Nanny Fanny Poetry Magazine)

Note:  I didn’t buy the cookbook, we took the more expensive means of learning instead.  Did we love Tuscany?  Yum-yum, how could you ask such a silly question.  Irene and friend Joanie literally looked at over 500 potential courses we might have participated in in Tuscany, finally chose the best one, offered by a young lady who lives just miles from us in Boulder – Peggy Markel, “Corso di Cucina al Focolare,” 17 miles NW of Florence.  Again, yum-yum.

said Enrique, our nimble tour guide,

and who would argue with him, telling us

Spanish olive oil ranked Number One too,

much of it carted to Italy so Italianos

can slap their red-white-and-green label on it.

The Spanish speak four different languages,

each incomprehensible from the other,

making it burdensome for a tour leader

to move around easily and convey knowledge.

But it’s easy to see why the Spaniard lives

so long – he and she walk!  Walk briskly,

everywhere, striding like marathoners,

thinking while ambulatory, only good thoughts,

for frowns are rare, perhaps even forbidden.

The Catholic Church finally gave up

its Inquisitional ways long ago, and cathedrals

are everywhere, offering mass every hour

some days, the godly on strudy bent knees,

defying the church’s supplication to give it

more children, the godly more interested in

the fun part of sex rather than the reproductive.

We did see one rather young fellow in a

mechanized wheelchair, though he seemed

more interested in speed rather than recovery,

probably one of Spain’s many NASCAR nuts.

There is little fault about Spain and the Spanish -

the streets are pristine clean, the highways

uncrowded, maneuverable, the food in great

variety and tasty, the women slim and

fashionable, the men….who gives a shit?

But one fault:  few, very few, speak English.

Imagine that:  we go all the way over there,

toss our dollars at them, and they don’t speak

our language.  Makes you wonder, eh?

Note:  Irene and I are recently back from Spain – Madrid, Toledo, Avila, Salamanca, Zaragoza, Laguardia, Bilbao, and Barcelona – loving every minute of it.  Spain is clean, underpopulated, proud, polite, p0lished, and healthy, both in mind and body.  Immigrants are welcome, to do the unpleasant jobs the natives prefer to hire out.  Think about that a minute.  Their life expectancy is something like 88 years.  So, what’s wrong with us?  Nothing really, and it’s always good to return home, even after a two quick weeks.  We stayed abroad nearly ten weeks once, and I came home, kissed the ground at the airport, immediately went off for a juicy cheeseburger.  Did about the same this time, too.

and when it did, we went in search

of Hemingway at his local haunts.

We started early, after exploring

one another’s body one more time,

with a drop-in at Harry’s Bar.

The only waiter awake at that hour

said, after pouring Coke on top of our

rum eye-openers, that Hem had disappeared.

The early lunch at Zargonana, a full bottle

of fino sherry blended with snapper turtle

soup, left us groggy and still clueless.

We took a nap in the afternoon, as Cubanos

do, and decided our next inquiry would be

at the Partagas Cigar Factory nearby.

The sweating, shirtless guys rolling those

splendid, perfect cigars told us, yeah,

Ernesto was in last month – or was it last year?

The fragrant rum distillery was peopled with

several shady characters from his novels, none

willing to talk about the Old Man or the sea.

We finally caught a glimpse of him one evening

at the Tropicana, where Nat King Cole was

playing, but the suspicious host shrugged,

opened up only after I slipped him a fin, seated us

next to Nat’s piano, and whispered that the pug

we saw was just a Hemingway impersonator.

Re-reading Hem killed the rest of our honeymoon.

(Published online in the December 2007 issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  Our diversionary search for Ernest Hemingway took place in February 1958 on our honeymoon to Havana, seeking him out at all of his known bars and hideaways.  Havana in 1958 – exotic, erotic, scary, with soon-to-be-deposed Ferdinand Batista guarding most street corners with high-piled sandbags, behind which were khaki-uniformed men carrying sub-machine guns ready to fire.  In the nearby hills, Fidel Castro and his small but loyal and growing band fired off occasional shots to remind Batista he’d soon be coming.  And he did, taking over the city less than a year after we returned to our lives in D.C. – me finishing my senior year at A.U. (plus working part-time at the National Bureau of Standards), Irene in her new security-related job at the Library of Congress.  So much to write about Havana.  ‘Twould be nice to return someday, see it again.  Friends who’ve been there recently say the decay is palpable.  In ’58 it was evident the underclass of poor residents weren’t going to tolerate mighty Batista’s thieving shenanigans much longer.  They welcomed Fidel with open arms.  And so history is written.

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.

of the nickel falling

through the slot

the tug of the steel arm

as she pulled down

with deliberation

the dizzying whirr

of the three drums

rotating so madly

the chink, chink, chink

as they suddenly

bounced to a stop

then the silence

that followed

for she’d closed her eyes

waiting for the rattle

of coins falling

into the winner’s tray

or more often

the longer silence following

the immediate silence.

Note:  Mom usually played the nickel slots at broken-down North Beach, Maryland, where we’d vacation one week every summer, its water as nasty as the decayed town itself.  But there was magic of a sort.  What was it?  Well, for us kids it was the adventure of just getting away from home, driving all those miles (40 maybe), and camping in another person’s rooming house.  A whole week away!  Mom never brought any money back from the slots, but she did well at other gambling investments.  Her dime-a-day habit of playing the numbers (3-1-4 her favorite combo) about once a year netted her three hundred dollars in cash from Whitey, the old one-eyed numbers runner for the local mob.  About $13 to make $300 is a pretty fair return.  Too bad she didn’t have a dollar a day to play.  But so it goes.

Where Jesus was born,

At least where they say

He was born,

Those three wise fellows

There outside the ancient church

Standing against the low wall,

Their machine guns

Slouching lazily

Against their thighs,

A hallowed picture of innocence

Which, had I been brave enough

To take it,

Would have been perfect,

Without words,

As this year’s

Greeting to family and friends

At Christmas.

(Published with the title, “Bethlehem,” in the Piedmont Literary Review, Vol. XXII, No. 3, 1999)

Note:  What a photo that would have made, but I chickened out, certain those guns were loaded.  One of the most moving experiences of my life, visiting the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, then the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Bethlehem.  You don’t need to belong to a religion to feel the magnetism of the spirit in the presence of such sacred shrines and hallowed ground.  How far we’ve come since the birth of Christ.  Alas, how little it often seems we’ve learned along the way.  May Peace always be the goal, whether or not we reach it.

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.

some of the conductors

who courageously maneuvered

those old rattletraps I loved

so much along the tracks

in otherwise quiet, war-time D.C.

You could hear them coming

they made so much clatter.

When one of the streetcar drivers

regognized me, alone at a stop,

he’d often chime his bell

a few times in welcome.

I had no special destination,

though we’d go either to Union

Station downtown or way out

to Glen Echo’s amusement park.

The bumpy ride was the thing,

as well as the view, going or coming.

The stiff seats were covered with

crosshatched cane strips, often

worn through, stuffing coming out.

When we reached the end of the line,

we were supposed to push the back

forward, face the opposite direction.

If the cars weren’t crowded, those

friendly old drivers would let me

keep my seat back in place, so I’d

be able to watch where we’d been

rathter than where we were headed.

Not a bad idea, come to think of it.

(Published in the Fall 2008 issue of Bellowing Ark)

Note:  Thank goodness for publications like Bellowing Ark that appreciate nostalgia, the way things used to be.  Maybe more small press publications should be so appreciative, though consider what happens when you mention the initials JFK, LBJ or MM to a kid, not to mention AARP!  – total lack of understanding.  But I remember as a kid going with a parent to the open-air market right near Washington Circle in D.C., someone telling me, Abe Lincoln used to shop here too, not all that long ago. Abe Lincoln?  Who’s he?  So, dumb is as old as you are.  But, gosh, those streetcars were fun to ride, clicketty-clacking along.  For those of you who only know buses and/or subways, you missed a great thrill.  So did Abe Lincoln, whoever he was.