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.