Nash

On a sabbatical stroll
seeking solace
in the serenity of
sawgrass swaying
in a soft breeze

I spot a skittish squirrel
scamper up an
acorn-swollen tree,
seeking sustenance
on this summer solstice.

Southerners seeking sustenance
shoot squirrels,
not for the squeamish,
serving same as a
supper specialty.

Someday, someone, somewhere,
may sense my desire
for sautéed squirrel and
save a seat at their soiree
to sip cider and savor
a slice of Sciuridae.


TP/MMXV.

Snow Balls

As an 8th grade student
I watch snow land on
school window panes
turning hard right angles
into soft white decals of
crescent moons.

Anxious, I await 3 P.M.
Will I be able to make a decent snow ball?

This snow, this gentle, quiet snow
is ammo in a snow ball fight.
Teenage boys play war-games
and nascent testosterone
fuels their efforts.

The school doors become
portals where victims exit
with bulls-eyes on their winter coats.
Boys, girls, school teachers,
all are targets.

The snow is pliable
and can be packed into firm ovals,
thrown fast, straight-armed
or side-armed.

This war is short-lived.
We are chastened and chased,
warriors on neutral ground,
where we, once allies,
turn on each other.

Teenage snows are the snows
remembered for the
reckless joy they gave.

TP/MMXV.

Sunrise Pond

I. Solitude:

My unnatural pond
in my man-made commune
reflects and refracts
the morning sun
as it brightens the new day.

Viewing south-west,
the dawn above
my left shoulder,
its silent motion
seals my solitude.

II. Solitude +1:

An unnamed water fowl
unfolds wings
to greet this star,
as if to pay homage
to some avian god.

Alone,
but not lonely
I raise my arms
to ape an
unknown water fowl.


TP/MMXV.

Cruisin'

In my 1967 powder blue
Pontiac Le Mans,
I drive Central Park West,
top down,
on hot humid New York nights,
the “strip” dubbed “Vaseline Alley”
by the Queen of West 72nd street,
whose knights hold sway nightly
under dim street lights,
on benches and in bushes,
awaiting this errant prince
to sweep them away
in his V8 steed.

This car, this cock-magnet, this twink;
Entices those lonely, lovely, homosexuals
to join and joust with me somewhere,
so secret desires are explored and exploded
in anonymous and experimental
MSM lust.

As pistons propel the Pontiac,
in my driver’s seat,
I am safe and OUT
and free from questions
of what propels my pursuit
for masculine companionship
of the most intimate.

Eye contact @23 MPH
dissolves all discussion
in my head,
of these queer desires,
my physical being sparked
as my quest for this
holy encounter
is fulfilled.

TP/MMXV

Jim Klein (poet/painter/mentor)

Your toes curl in the blue-green tepid waters
of the South sea where Chevy Novas and super-novas
vie for attention in the abstract pastels of
water-colors dripped over palettes of pristine white.
Where painters and poets dwell
to bark at wheels and skies and surf.
You live and die in humorless verse of
hardened paint brushes and broken pencils
and twisted tubes of paste.
Whatever colors and thoughts
you put on canvas or paper,
opposite lobes compete with each other,
and you give a name to this thing:
this painting, this poem, this creation . . .

©TP/MMXV

Lake

The light of the building
acts like a full moon,
as its lumens
reflect on the lake.

The lake shimmers
and sparkles in that glow,
like phosphorescent plankton
that gleam in the Gulf Stream.

A gentle shower
gives voice to the lake,
as the rain-drops
bounce on-and-off.

A gentle breeze
moves the lake as one,
where fish punctuate
the tableau by leaps.

The quiet of early morning
gives you pause,
for the day to begin,
and not begin.


TP/MMXV

Evelyn's Cafe

Travel Route One past Bogart’s Key Largo,
roads that wind, about and above,
the blue sea.
Scenic, single lane, at sea level, through
Islamorada and tall ships,
to Ducks Key.

Evelyn’s, where Southern hospitality,
and Sonoran hacienda
marry.
Cold drink to cool-off, no A.C., no matter,
atmospheric appetizer makes you
tarry.

Eggs Benito, Grits and Jalapenos,
sate your hunger and adventure and
curiosity.
Café caliente and sweet Southern Comfort,
sharpen your senses about
this odyssey.

Via con dios and “see y’alls” all around,
back on road, focus on flora and fauna,
I drift by.
Dolphins, like a number 2 pencil sketch,
arc grey against green sea
and blue sky.

I arrive.

TP/MMXV.

Stonewall

1968.
I walk bastard West 10th Street
bypassing boys and bitches and
queens and queers.

Saint Christopher is my guide.

The revolution to begin.
The liberation at hand.

The “ins” yearning to be “Out.”
The “outs” yearning to be “In.”

Non-descript and uninviting,
I move on.

2008.
I walk gentrified West 10th Street,
past LGBT tourists,
gawking at site of Pride.

I am Out and walk in.

Outside,
brazen and blazin’ neon:
STONEWALL as back-drop.
Girl poses for photo . . . by parents?


“If your friends see that photo,
they will think you are Gay.”

“I am.”

©TP/MMXV.

Bower

A raucous rain
pelts the bower,
where petals strain
to guard the flowers.

A wind-blown Palm
bows to green sod,
offers a frond
for an unseen god.

The pond bubbles
in tiny cores,
water troubles
at the grassy shore.

A gator peers
a smile so sad,
with ancient leer
amid Lilly pads.

The ducks drift by
with no concern,
quack and cry, and,
moon the shore in turns.

Bower petals
feed the flora,
as kept kettles
release sweet water.

I view the scene
this shower show,
through sprinkled screen
an old dream, I know.

TP/MMXV

Erato

I lounge on the lanai
and listen to a tattoo
of rain drops,
on screens and ledges
and storm shutters.

Streaks of lightning leap across
a flat Florida landscape
in nano-second bursts,
silent as my goldfish.

As I momentarily
drift off in the silence,
contemplating, "whatever."

I am jolted into the reality
of a long afternoon by
thunder
that I swear, has to be,
a special Florida
thunder.

A sound that is decibels
above,
that which I have heard up-north.

So's I take my journal and
jot down notes of poetic
significance and …

Wait,
I've already written
pieces on rain
and thunder
and lightning.

My muse Erato, in the form of a Force Majeure.

Write a poem about a Frank Sinatra Centennial.
Be a Romeo or Paagliacci.
A Medal of Honor recipient or a Goldbrick.

Something. Anything.

I awaken
from my hiatus
in the humid heat.

My pen found
on the lanai floor.

I write nothing.
©TP/MMXV

Josephine

We play Monopoly
under the Apple tree.

Mid-20th Century,
on the cusp of revolution,
on the verge of denying
Revolutionaries their own.

Josephine,
runs into the cellar,
to the back yard,
to the Fig tree.

She harvests four figs,
one for each Monopolist.

As we pass “GO”
and “Collect”,
sweet memories.

TP.

Richie/183

Dead at thirty.

The RR tank-car is a marvel
of engineering with steel
configured in shapes that
mesh like Legos.

The sides of the car
are steel canvasses
to the artists who leave
imprints, larger than life,
in Comic Sans font,
six feet high.

Richie/183,
is writ large on this car.

Jack Kerouac would have
urged the artist to,
“ride the rails” himself.

But,
the artist is dead,
and how he travelled in life
is how he travels in death:

Riding the rails, vicariously,
and like death, eternally.

TP/2015
(For my nephew Richard/RIP.)

David

David/3x6

David’s rhythmic breathing/
My ten PM night-cap/
My sunrise wake-up call.

******************************

David/5x12

I am enchanted by the rhythm of your Being.
Walking, I know you by the rhythm of your gait.
I awaken and out of the fog I feel the
rhythm of your heart beat as we embrace spoon-like.

When you are gone, the metronome comes to a stop.


TP/4/11/15

Fireworks

Driving on Route 1 north;
Nine-PM, Fourth-of-July.
Silent sky lights flash
in my rear-view mirror.

Booms ahead and beside me,
as towns light-up America.
Roads and parking lots empty.

Exceptional America,
defying Zeus with
artificial thunder and lightning.

America where are you?

TP

Walkin' thoughts

Walkin’ is a joy.

Guilty as all get-out,
if I don’t get out.

A stranger smells like coffee
as he glides by on his bike.

I keep pace on my walk by chanting;

“The Fort Dix Boogie.”

“Yer left/yer right/yer left,right,left!
Yer had a good home but you left,
yer right,
Joanie was there when yer left,
yer right, sound off . . .”

I would substitute Jonnie
for Joanie.
“In the Army, in the Closet.”

Sweet Gatorade morphs
into salty sweat.

Soaked in the Florida morning
heat and humidity.
Goin’ home to a power-wash,
hot, tepid, cold.

Washin’ dirt and grime and sweat away,
but not my thoughts.

I dissect my walk:
Light/light/RR tracks/light.
Light/RR tracks/light/light.

Walkin’ is a bore.


TP.

Eulogy

I miss a man
I never met.

You see,
I did not know Tom senior.
I know his son Tommy.
I love Tommy.

So if Tommy is a
“chip-off-the-old-block”,
I would have liked Tom senior.

We would have played poker,
swooshed down a couple of Coors,
smoked a half-way decent cigar,
swapped stories about the
“buckets-of-blood”,
those bars that surrounded the
Brooklyn Navy Yard.

We would have enjoyed
each others’ company

So for those of you who loved him
and miss him terribly and
relive memories;
So I, miss him,
not for what was,
but for what could have been.

The Romans had a phrase
for most occasions,
these two fit here:

Resquiescat in pace
(Rest in Peace)

Ave atque vale.
(Hail and Farewell)

TP.

Depot

(n., phon. de’ po)

This depot was a nondescript
almost decrepit affair
of wood and shingles
and dingy windows,
as uninviting as any structure
you could devise,
like a State Penitentiary
in miniature,
and yet,

and yet,
I entered this place
as if falling into a Black Hole,
that would transport me
to Worlds unknown
to a new Universe,
unafraid and unaware
the allure of the new
beckoned me,
I craved adventure and romance,

o’ depot, deliver me
from my dreary life,
of no-where,
to a new place to dwell,
that would give me:

Wisdom and Wonderment and Rainbows.

Or so I thought . . .

TP.

The Woods Campground-Morning

The frictional sound of zippers
is like a morning bray, as flaps of
tents are opened to a new day.

I emerge from my nylon cocoon,
with pre-slumber memories of
stars and a crescent-moon.

The dew on the grass
bathes my bare feet,
in a cool, comforting grasp.

Hares scamper on silent paws.
Birds of the day zip through the air.
Crows belt-out morning caws.
A Woodpecker, keeps the beat,
as is his flair.

I can only marvel at these
natural blends,
that I only experience
on weekends.

I should be as a
human being,
to join in this
eternal spring

But:
I am a stranger,
a visitor,
an auslander.

Enjoy, do not touch,
do not adhere,
and then leave as if
you were never here.

TP.

Gregory: An Impression of the Artist

Brush strokes that glide
like an ice skater in a triple axel.

Colors splash across a canvas
evocative of joys past and present.

An edible still-life,
an escapist landscape.

A portrait that captures your essence.

An abstract that reveals
as much as conceals.

An artist that strives for
the perfect color, the perfect line.

The Gallery holds your art.
The gallery does not hold you.

TP.

Scent Memory

A candle burns
slowly.

Its scent fills the
room.

I lie in bed ready for
sleep.

I must snuff the candle
out.

Thoughts revolve around a
scent.

I do not want to lose that
memory.

I close my eyes and
dream.


I awaken alive,
to a candle that has
died.

TP.

"W" (for Harry's kids)

Mister Woolf
is a wolf,
you know.
He roams the forest
in fancy clothes.

He travels solo
through hill and glen,
this dashing lobo,
hither and yon,
now and again.

Are you afraid
of Mister Woolf’s mood?
With your curious mind,
like the Three Pigs and
Red Riding Hood.
Don’t be, he’s not that kind.

The Wraith that
whispers in his ears,
he tries to ignore.
Reminding him of instincts
of thousands of years.
He wants a life
that gives him more.

Is Mister Woolf like you?
Somewhat different.
Somewhat new.
Sometimes confident.
Sometimes blue.

So follow this tale,
to its end,
and its moral , regale,
to your favorite friend; YOU!

(for Harry Burnett’s novel: Mr. Woolf)

Rose Calabria

“Rose Calabria”, the voice in my head
woke me up, scared the hell-out-of-me.
I had not heard that name mentioned
in decades.

You see, I never knew Rose Calabria.

My mother and aunt would sometimes
mention her name in somewhat hushed
tones.

Usually people spoken-of, in sotto voce,
were either male femina or Santa Marias.
Which one was Rose Calabria;
I never knew.

Maybe a relative or in-law, and her last name,
could have just been a place name,
like Joe Napoli or Tony Roma.
Either way, it haunted me that Rose Calabria
and all of those family members were all
gone too quickly.

Maybe Rose Calabria spoke her name,
for me to remember those times,
that evaporated like steam,
gone before I even noticed.


TP

10/11/12

“Do I dare disturb the Universe?….”
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufock
TS Eliot

10/11/12

Do I dare declare?
“I am Gay”
on this
National Coming-out Day.

Do I dare re-set?
to join my crowd,
OUT of the closet,
“for-cryin’-out-loud.”

Or.

Do I live the legacy?
of all those silent souls,
in the shadow of hypocrisy,
by acting in two roles.

TP.

The Umbrellas of Bleeker Street

Raining on
Our Lady of Pompeii feast day,
bunting of cardinal colors
muted by dull gray afternoon.

Umbrellas,
bobbing up and down,
like waves above my head,
veering from side to side
to avoid collision
with others so armed.

Black umbrellas,
add a somber tone,
an Ingmar Bergman scene,
an ebony tumult.

Multi-colored umbrellas,
add a Fellini touch,
jetsam and flotsam,
on an undulating sea.

Buona Festa!

©TPuma/MMIX

Night Visions

Have you seen the Milky Way
this morning?
Did you count the stars,
wake-up yawning,
and follow Mars?

See the Comet as it streaks across the sky?
A momentary blur.
See it through a poets’ eye?
Did it give you pause to ponder?

Where are you now (?)
in this realm,
will you , to-the-gods bow
or not be overwhelmed.

Are you a “Star” in this dark night
or is this Universe a fright.
Do you exist in Nothingness;
or shout at the stars;

“I am part of this!”


TP.

Love, yes, love.

A cute guy

well endowed

fucks you

till your prostate

is bumped, squeezed and massaged

so that the sensation of fullness

overwhelms you
,
you cum,

reaching an emotional high

for the one who brought you

to this time and place,

that you want to kiss

and love,

yes, love.

TP.

Crying Out . . .

I helped him cry.
Too sad to cry alone
this lonely guy
with nowhere home.

I helped him cry.
And clasped his knee,
for the Grace of God go I,
no loneliness in you and me.

I helped him cry.
To let emotions flow,
left inside; suicide,
for those feelings, I know.

I helped him cry.
And cried along,
emotions, let them fly!
This is not a solo song.

©TPuma/MMXIII
(over heard phrase/Ft. Lauderdale FL.)

Beach Speech

Sounds softly heard
in seconds,
as surf pauses,
nouns and verbs and
grammar rendered
foreign, yet familiar,
in bursts of Minor
and Major keys.

Water waves and words
of various wave-length
wash over me,
it lulls me into
a trance of white-noise
amid white-caps,
a staccato vocal,
a sonnet turned sonata.

"Open"

This rectangular sign
in a square window
on a corner block,
blinks and flickers
its neon red
in irregular beats,
entices you to
come-in-and-see
the wonders inside,
as patrons slink-in
and gay-buzz wafts out.

It’s a place of freedom
for the price of a pilsner,
with like-minded men
with men on their mind,
loose ties and loose libidos,
where men embrace and
have pent-up excitement show
in this private/public place
as they could not display
in public, emotions so, private.

The Birth of a Poet

3rd grade class
PS 159 Brooklyn
vocabulary quiz.

Anthony, use ‘ample’
in a sentence.

I have ‘ample’ apples.

All the kids laughed.

Hail and Farewell

“Because I could not stop for Death
he kindly stopped for me.”
Emily Dickinson.
--------------------

I am dead.
Dead.

Gary, Gary,
I call-out to my lover,
Can you hear me?
All I get is a blank stare.

But, hold-on-there-you,
if I am dead
how can I,
think/see/hear/feel?

AH, you will never know;
Wait,
you will know one day.

Of course, Days won’t matter.

OH NO, what if I have been dead for years?

This Image,
What if it was the last I saw
before I died?

Gary, my eternal love:
Ave atque vale.

TP.

Gays of Yore

Once upon a time,
there was a Gay Culture.

Where outlaws roamed
the west side of cities.
Where towel-clad patrons
roamed dark corridors.
Where closets held more
than suits and skeletons.

Where Marriage was your parents.

Queer was a pejorative pronoun.
Broadway tunes were laced
with gay double-entendres.
Queens came out after mid-night.
Bears hid in dark corners.

Drag was Camp.
Leather was a statement.

Bespoke Dandies were ridiculed.

Gay bars announced themselves with one word “OPEN.”

9 to 5 was Straight.
6 to 12 was Gay.
12 to 4 was Trick.

We sashayed only on gay avenues.
We slinked into gay venues.
We were alone in the crowd.

We led double-lives,
afraid of being double-crossed.

TP.

Lifeguard (YMCA-1999)

At the pool
trunks and Tee.
In the pool
Speedo.

You move with
feminine grace, with a masculine physique.
You swim so effortlessly, powerfully,
strokes to laps.

With ecru skin and a boyish face,
peaches-and-cream,
you cross gender boundaries.

I get restless watching you,
forbidden fruit, eye candy.
You are more than meets my eye,
you are youth and masculine beauty,
as near perfect as Nature intended.

I only know you from afar, outward glances.
I hope you also possess an inner beauty.
Oh, Mother Nature, could you be so kind,
to form that more perfect union.

As you mature,
and leave your boyish charms poolside,
to reflect:

On days that will never return,
to dwell on a moment in time,
when Nature blessed you.

I also
will have a memory
of that moment.


TP.

A Poet's Nightmare

I was asleep or dead (you see.)
T’was night and bright
and quiet and quite
crowded with people
mouthing non sequiturs.

Bach and Rock
oozed from tube
like tooth-paste
candy cane striped mint
bland on brush,
Brandenburg and Beatles
between bated breaths.

Hazard Hawk perched
peering through leafy shadows
swaying in the silent bower.

Waiting for: What?
My command, to take wing
and shriek sounds
that I interpret
as sentences?

My Muse in feathery flight?

I write furiously
all that has transpired
for meaning and rhythm.

I have it all.

I awaken.

I forgot.

TP/MMXIV

Kings County (Brooklyn 1959)

Zip Gun on hip.
Black-Jack in jacket.
Switch blade in slacks.
Car antenna as whip.

Cops were avoided.
Silence a virtue.
Family was all.
Pain tolerated.

Pubescent Wise-guys;
punished by Precincts,
penanced by Priests,
picked-on by Punks.

Street-smarts kept you alive.
We survived.
Some of us,
anyway.



TP/MMXV

Wedding Belles

Florida, Sunshine State
we placed our marriage Banns.
Goodbye to crummy wait
on the beach getting tans.


This year of fifteen
in my Tux of white.
I will make the scene
and squeal in delight.

My lover will be,
husband, wife or spouse.
I promised, on my knee,
to make a home of house.

To all, family, friends,
please wish us well.
As the Sunshine State bends,
to ring our wedding bell.

TP/2015