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

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 !!

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

Cobblestone

Clydesdales on cobblestone,
beer barrel laden wagon,
iron rim wheels and
iron shod hooves
beat a forlorn rhythm
of percussion on pavement,
as this ensemble
lumbers toward
Antonino’s speak-easy.

So long ago . . .


©TP/MMXVI

Myth

Paul Bunyan was a friend of mine
and Johnny Appleseed too.
I knew them well when I was nine,
also that little train that “can do.”

I was so optimistic
with Crockett, Boone and Bowie.
They were so macho and mythic,
and they were always with me.

Jesse James, Wyatt Earp and The Kid
they too filled my day-dreams.
My sub-conscious Ego and Id,
my inner-cowboy and silent screams.

Do we still have these heroes?
Are they all flawed?
“Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio . . .?”
This Sicilian boy was in awe.

“I grow old, I grow old”
TSE made me aware.
My boyhood heroes have been sold
and dreams morphed to nightmares.

NOT SO FAST,
to those of you at nine.
Heroes are heroes and they last,
you see,
they’re yours and mine.


©TP/MMXIV

Seder 2016-5776

I was invited to a Seder,
“at sundown, no later,”
by Cindy and Steve
on this Sabbath eve.

The bread will have no yeast,
cuisine ala mid-east.
To nosh on sweets and bitters
and no cloven critters.

I delight in dishes
memories of New York knishes.
I go into a spell over
a square of Kugel.

At the fading light
on this special night,
Hebrew and candles,
Old Testament swords and sandals.

Next year, they pray, “in Jerusalem.”
I think I will join them.
A dream from Torah,
thru a diaspora.

So, it came to pass
this traditional repast,
and me as a guest
to partake in their quest.

As a born Gentile
this night I will file.
As a gift of ages
writ in my life of pages.


Mazeltov!

V E (32016)

I sprang into spring
this morning.

Thinking, “out-of-the-box”
this Vernal Equinox.

With energy anew
out to Nature, I flew.

The flora I smell
me-thinks, “all-is-well.”

To fauna I sing
at adorable off-spring.

I celebrate both day and night
equality of dark and light.

This one day, with hope renew,
I smile at life, as I pass thru.


TP/MMXVI

Wailin' Walls

"Mr. Gorbachav, tear down this wall."
R. Reagan

"Mexico will pay for this wall."
D. Trump

"I fell off a wall."
H. Dumpty

31716

The Ides of March are gone
Spring is yet anon.
Tis a day between
that we garb in green.

As Irish Pipes play,
in their unique way.
I wish to you,
in my Emerald hue;

“Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.”


TP/MMXVI

FOG

The fog embraces me
with a wet kiss,
lamp lights glow
as iconic halos.

Black pavement shines
like an Astaire ballroom,
the sound of the fog
is a whisper in my ear.

All scents are filtered
through damp nostrils,
London Fog trench coat
channels Bogart.

My foray into the fog
is the solitude I seek,
like a teenager by a mirror:
“Who am I?”

©TP/MMXVI