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

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