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.