Friday, February 3, 2017

Mirror Image





He wasn’t lonely.

The room had a stand-alone mirror, catty-cornered where
two walls converged, like a metaphor for his two worlds
as he spoke to and into the mirror and addressed both.

The world outside this catty-cornered realm and here-and-now,
just him and his alter-ego, great listener, the Image.

A light in the room reflected onto his face and accentuated
his lines and features and furrows, like those photographs
of Abraham Lincoln, where a biography can be surmised
between forehead and chin.

He never asked that existential question:
“Who am I?”
That was for teen-agers.
No, it was small-talk, the talk of neighbors and acquaintances
and sometimes, even friends.

Although, he once cried, early-on, and the image cried along,
but gave no solace, and he came to understand its limitations
and insensitivity. Angry, at first, and later realizing that the
image had its own personality and character, its own wants
and needs.

So, as in any relationship, that thrives, he compromised
and tried to understand the image and be content with
the fact that the image, through all its short-comings,
was always there for him.

And he rationalized this relationship:
How many people could say,
“I have someone, always.”

The Image always found his floppy Christmas cap
amusing, hated the Raglan-Tweedy smoking jacket,
loved those New York Giants P.J.’s.

He once practiced a speech to the image, and swore
he heard an echo, his own voice as if in a hollow
chamber and questioned, for the first time, his sanity,
but only for a moment.

He knew the image was unreal.
He knew the image was real.
The unreality gave him a certain freedom of expression.
Reality of the image gave him comfort and a sense of being.

You see, he stood in the center of the Universe.
Behind the image was infinity, possibly eternity,
maybe himself.

End.






Thursday, December 22, 2016

Memento id



We live in the now
and dissect a second.
Where memories kowtow
when life’s chores beckon.

But, memories dismembered
come back reborn.
Now, December
with each new morn.

Mementos abound
to smile and reflect.
Those who are around
and those we neglect.

So, here I’m seeing
my Christmas tree aglow.
As memories flood my being
of all the yesterdays, I know.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

©TPuma/Xmas/XXVI.




Ode to Humpeys



Nary a slice in town
on the Manor’s strip,
olde Humpys is put-down,
I’ll have to jump ship.

Voyage to another venue
where LGBTQ is rare,
just to see a menu,
like Humpys to compare.

Now, my pepperoni is bereft
and my mozzarella dry.
I miss that slice so heft
that I would devour on the fly.

Don’t ask; cupcakes
chocolate/vanilla/peanut butter,
my mouth slakes;
No More, I stutter.

My future is a blah
when Humpys went away,
I’ll probably get agida
at my next pizza soiree.

Ave atque vale.

©TP/MMXVI


Saturday, December 3, 2016

Coragyps atratus




The Black Vultures descend
on this dead Pekin Duck
who quacked his last “Aflac”
several hours ago.

Violent and vociferous
they feast on this victual
with gusto, as hunger and
instinct animates their actions
of wings and talons and beaks,
carrying-on, with no table-manners
and with rooming-house -reach
onto this carrion.

Two dozen or so at this feast
as I stare in wonder of fellow
animals whose instinct is all
and hunger a shared trait.

They leave,
I leave.
Nothing is left.

©TPuma/MMXVI

Jake's Bar Mitzvah 11/26/16



As we all partake
on this day-of-days,
of boy-man Jake
on whom we all gaze.

The babe in the cradle
on the day of his Bris,
the boy with the Dreidel
memories not to miss.

On to 13, via Mercury’s wings
years pass by apace,
today we gather and sing
to Jacob, under God’s grace.

Fulfill the tradition
proclaimed in Hebrew,
of an ancient civilization
that survives anew.

This boy-man is your Mitzvah
blessed on this Sabbath,
by the sacred Torah
of kindness, not wrath.

So, Jacob Aaron Ferris
turns this page of life,
noted as the merriest
and faces days of happiness and strife.

To you, the best of everything,
our Bar Mitzvah Boy, from above
on high I sing;

MAHZELTOV !!





Monday, July 25, 2016

Sangre fria


Cardinal colors that bend
through a prism of dew,
post-diluvium, that omen
of joy and hidden treasure
and cute little people and
a gay ambience,
as flags and bunting and
streamers and balloons
reflect off crystal ball
spin a dizzy array of
brilliant polka-dots
as patrons stand and
converse and hold each other
and dance and yell and
greet each other in this
communal place of
convivial peace
of mind and spirit
as physical gyrations
beg for a cold beer
or a Cosmo or a
frozen Margherita.

The joys of a gay bar
on an early Sunday morning,
the crowd that awakens at
mid-night to “partee”,
live and love this life-style
of sexual bends and blends
and brands, of those who
share a gentle love of same
and seek this love, in this place.

Cardinal colors awash in crimson,
as this boisterous serenity
is shattered by chaotic sounds
of a weapon fired by hatred and
cold blood.

© TPuma/MMXVI



On the 183


“homeless vet hungry
help God bless.”

So read the 6x12 inch
greasy, creasy cardboard sign
held by this slight and
slightly disheveled baby-boomer
post-trauma Viet Vet,
or so he wants to portray
and have you believe,
pacing on a median
he waits for the light to turn RED,
and like a bull charges
with limpy, gimpy legs
to car windows
that are tinted and closed
obscuring those inside
who sit in AC comfort
on a hot South Florida
afternoon,
on occasion a window
glides open and an
offering is made,
an alm to this
Man-of-the-Median,
a coin, a bill, a cigarette,
accepted with profuse
inaudible sounds
aping thank-you
and blessings bestowed
on the benefactors,
whose values compel them
to donate, maybe despite
their misgivings of the venue
and the scene that is so
common on south Florida byways,
as cars speed away on GREEN,
to their private destinations
that blows dust and whatever
onto and into the beggar’s being,
the alms merchant returns
to the median; lost in his thoughts?
and awaits the next RED light and
donors of the highway designated
813.

©Tony Puma/MMXVI