The Joy of Lex II
Bronx Cheers: Life in the South Bronx in the '40s and '50s
Mostly Munch: Expansions on the Art of Edvard Munch
NASA Rocks: Poems on Space Exploration
Othering: Poems of Change
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The Joy of Lex II
MASTER OF THE HOUSE
Tho’ the family eased through the house that June
morning to let me grab a few extra winks,
I heard a sizzling thrombotic threesome –
bacon, egg, cheese – mayo’ed on a kaiser
roll – my favorite. I heard a gentle foof
at the bedside. Over on my shoulder
I rolled. Foof. And foof again. A bolder
one followed. Still another. Now a woof
came. Lex bolted – my front door adviser
was needed. Lexie’s nails in a gleesome
dance clicked the kitchen floor. His hyper jinks
meant one thing – John was here. Over the moon,
Lex raced to back me, eager to share his bliss
so he slathered my ear with a Father’s Day kiss.
(Originally published by Boston Literary Magazine, Summer 2008)
COLD CAT, COOL CAT
Our cat was named after Frank Sinatra
by his first owner. This Felis atra*
and Frank do have the same icy blue eyes,
and yes, they can both sing but therein lies
the rub. Ol’ Blue Eyes was a silver-tongued
smoothie while Frankie is a leather-lung’d
lout. Though he’ll croon for our daughter, Chris,
the family gets graced with that raspy hiss.
Frank, when he and Lex are in the same space,
Throws a hissy fit. But my Lexie’s face
doesn’t change; he doesn’t move. He’ll just stare
at Frank, through Frank – as if he isn’t there.
In spurning us, our Frankie plays the fool cat
while Lex, like Sinatra, is the super cool cat.
* Felis atra – a gloomy, dark cat
(Originally published by The Clockwise Cat, December 2007)
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Bronx Cheers:
Life on the South Bronx in the '40s and '50s
BRINGING HOME THE BACON
For my father, Thomas Clark
Today, we’re quite conscious of what we eat
and given what’s found in much of our meat,
cured viands have become suspect. Bacon,
with its nitrates and nitrites, has taken
heavy hits. But as I hear it sizzle
in the pan, its aroma is the swizzle
of heady memories. As a young boy
living in the Bronx, it was my great joy
on Saturdays when my father would wake
me early. With bat, ball and glove, he’d take
me across the street to St Mary’s Park
and on the return from our morning lark
he’d serve bacon, eggs and memories afoam;
bacon is good for me – it brings me back home.
(Originally published by Atlanta Review, May 2008)
PILLOW TALK
When my Bronxtime, long ago, far away
invites me for a visit, my thoughts stray
to Cypress Avenue. Memories wash
over me as I stop in for some nosh
halfway up the hill. In Rock’s deli,
savories surround me as I belly
up to the counter. Aromas billow –
juicy corned beef, sour pickles; it’s pillow-
shaped comfort food I want. Hot dogs, mustard-
lathered, with potato salad clustered
atop the soft bun? Not this trip. With fluffed
corners, egg-coated coverings and stuffed
with potatoes, herbs and spices so delicious
this fondest food flashback’s cushioned by knishes.
(Originally published by Halfway Down the Stairs, 2008)
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Mostly Munch: Expansions on the Art of Edvard Munch
KRISTIAN SCHREINER, LYING DOWN
Meant to be printed on white, cream or beige
wove paper in yellow or brown or green-
black ink, the woodcut of “Kristian Schreiner,
Standing” shows far more in its unvarnished
state. A hunched man, walled, stands in silhouette,
slumps his head – resigned to the nearing scarved,
cloaked wraith. Like the woodblock, the man was carved
from oak. His limbs, trunk form an oubliette
of him today. When this woodcut is garnished
with a quarter turn it reveals some finer
points. On his back, the man’s feet, legs, arms, seen
shrouded, have been dimmed by his neurophage.
All that remains of his glow is his head
and it rises to scream at the coming dead.
This poem is an expansion of Edvard Munch’s “Kristian Schreiner, Standing.”
(Originally published by The Barefoot Muse, May 2008)
BETSIDE MANNER
In my open tunic off to the side
Clutching its flaps and the last of my pride,
I watched a slippered man wheel his trident –
Bottled and tubed – down the corridor. Strident
Calls roused gladiators in vee-necked shirts
And soft green paper shoes. Code Blue alerts
Blared. My name shrilled. The coliseum stage,
White-toga’d hordes to probe my neurophage,
Waited. Through their empirical paces,
I searched, probed their imperial faces
For some kind of thumbs-up. From this forum,
I’d hoped for a mere medical quorum –
Instead, all I was told, as I left my spot,
Was "We're all making bets on what you've got."
The atmosphere in this poem parallels the scene depicted in Edvard Munch’s “The Roulette Table.”
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NASA Rocks: Poems on Space Exploration
ANGEL, LOOK HOMEWARD
While Diogenes searched for an honest man,
I'll settle for one who's more tactical,
who’ll eschew the abominable snowman
for a quest that is far more practical.
In order to find aliens in space
NASA, in its wisdom, founded SETI*
to scan the skies for the faintest trace
of a far-off, far-out alien yeti.
The monies of this moondoggle probe
are wasted on the radio telescope -
aliens aplenty right here on this globe
await discovery with the microscope.
As scientists strain for a galactic voice,
there is a more heroic, prophylactic choice.
* SETI- Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence
(Originally published in Cynic, September 2007)
WANTED: SPIN DOCTOR
September twenty-third, two thousand six
Ellington Field welcomed home Atlantis
astronaut Heide*. When, at the pulpit,
as she spoke about her flight, weariness
set in. Light-headed, she tumbled floorward,
revived, slumped again from being weightless
for twelve days. She’s okay now. But, gaitless
at twelve years, all Jimmy can look forward
to is NASA fly-bys. Sheer dreariness
sets in shuttling doctors for the culprit
that makes him stumble along on mantis
legs faulted, here, on his double helix.
As Heide spiraled from too long a spacewalk,
Jimmy spirals down and can no longer bracewalk.
*Heide – Heide Stephanyshyn-Piper
(Originally published in Right Hand Pointing, 2007)
SIGNS OF LIFE
Three point five billion years ago this globe
supported life – so says some science probe
of South Africa. The light of this strobe,
shining on exposed rock, shows a microbe
lived in the sea and ate hardened lava
having no plants, animals to eat. Brava!
that’s rock, water, life – Break out the kava*
no more Martian or moon probes; we have a
winner! So, maybe now, we can explore
some other worlds right here on the earth floor -
real, live kids whose daily survival chore
is to confront the mite-like omnivore
that stews and devours each rock-hard muscle,
corpuscle by red, white and blue corpuscle.
*kava – an intoxicating beverage of Polynesia
(Originally published by Lablit, October 5, 2008)
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Othering: Poems of Change
MAN OVERBOARD
In the beginning, you lose your balance, trip,
fall floorward, not knowing why. Buttons slip
from your grasp. So does the small paper clip,
shoelaces too. Next, your steering wheel grip
goes. You lose your patience because you’re hip
to doctors who simply dispense mere lip
service when your job’s lost to this iceberg tip;
you’re Titanicked. Adrift. Lifeboats of flip
comments surface; captains’ voices adrip
with cold truths flow. An ocean of icy rip
tides foams, froths up to swamp your life raft, strip
you of your dignity, your faith. You flip
out, lose awareness, whirlpool off. You slip
away, an emptied vessel, an abandoned ship.
(Originally published by Wordgathering, December 2007)
US AND THEM
What’s it about them that catches the eye
on their double-cupped ski poles hobbling by –
is it the steepled legs, or the dragging gait
that prompts obsequies? But for fortune, fate,
there we are. As we sigh a thankful prayer
they feel diminished by the thoughtless stare
of others. Each look’s a sling, an arrow
that penetrates down to the marrow
of their miles. A furtive momentary glance,
at their aeon-long curse of cosmic chance,
makes each plod they take in their wayworn tread,
that much more labored. In my downturned head,
as I place one foot, before the other,
oh, how I envy my able-bodied brother.
(Originally published by The Chimaera, May 2008)
NO BED OF ROSES
I do not go gently into any night,
whether I am tired or wide awake,
when it is time for bed. Even the sight
of the bed is enough to have me shake
inside. As I approach the bed, I right
each leg in turn, settle it, lest I take
a fall. I maneuver my calves tight
against the bed, let go. The bed will brake
my drop. Though safe under the covers, fright
reigns within me for there is more at stake,
still. I lie there, think what the morning might
bring. I wonder if these two legs will make
it through to one more day or will the disease sweep
away, tonight, the last of their strength as I sleep.
(Originally published by The Centrifugal Eye, November, 2008)
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