Tuesday, February 8, 2022

Foghorns

 

I cannot see one foot past my front door.

The fog that floated on “little cat feet”

swamps me.

Wet like sweat, not cooling, but chilling.

Have I died?

 

Did I die a “Noir” death?

Have I walked onto a Hollywood set?

A 1947 Frisco waterfront?

Where Foghorns sound the way.

Am I lost?

 

Passion is the poet’s eye.

The gray fog ignites grey matter.

Emotions overwhelm.

I wander through the mist.

 

Where are the Foghorns?

 

©TPuma/MMXXII

 

 

Thursday, December 30, 2021

20/21/22

  

Good-bye 2021

You Wile E. Coyote you.

My inner Road Runner flees

Those spiked Covid balls you threw.


 I thought I’d never see:

A 2020 redux?

I tried to remain calm

But, I got Acid Reflux.


 We made the most of the year

We masked, vaxxed, and boosted too.

We also had some good times

So, ’22 let’s renew.


 We’ll ring in the New Year

And shout through our masks.

For all our friends to have,

“A New Year back to normal tasks.”

       HAPPY NEW YEAR!

 

©TPuma/MMXXI

 

 

Tuesday, December 28, 2021

12/26/2021

 


 T’was the day after Christmas

A gift of two Turtle Doves.

A holiday earworm

I prefer leather gloves.

 Tis’ Boxing Day in England

They have two holidays.

But, in America

We search for double AA’s.

 T’was the day after Christmas

My bar bereft of Cordials.

My mailbox bereft of cards

My accounts bereft of numerals.

 Red, green, and white garments

In rainbow laundry room.

A day of rest and unrest

Clearing wrapping paper strewn.

 For a Kwanza beginning

We light a black candle.

A day of Umoji

To brighten our mantel.

 T’was the day after Christmas

The Feast of Saint Stephen.

A Martyrs death he

Stoned by the heathen.

 We wait on a Holy Bris

On Octave Day of His birth.

A gift of eight Beatitudes

To quench a faithful thirst.

 T’was the day after Christmas

A time to remember.

A time for reflexion

This end of December.

 Another year in the life

Memories of Best and Least.

A personal Renaissance

We’ll celebrate a New Year’s feast.

 HAPPY NEW YEAR.

 ©TPuma/12/26/2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, December 24, 2021

Xmas Eve (12/24/21

 

 

 

 

 

Have a happy Christmas Eve

With gifts all wrapp’d under the tree.

 A traditional fish feast

A Christmas Carol on T.V.

 The Tannenbaum all aglow

With cherished dated ornaments.

 Memories of Christmas past

To reflect on these moments.

 O.K., Santa we’re ready

All and all we’ve been nice.

 The Midnight Mass for homage

To the baby Jesus Christ.

 So drink-in the Season

With deep breaths of glee.

 Boun Natale Nanna and Nonno.

Have a Merry from David and me.

 

©TPuma/12/24/21

 

 

 

 

Thursday, November 25, 2021

AN AMERICAN TRADITION

 


 

Scent of a roasted Turkey/

Is that a Yam or Sweet Potato?

 The tart taste of Cranberry/

No Ketchup or Mayo.

 Making a wish on a bone/

Debating white or dark meat?

 This day in a sub-tropic zone/

Giving thanks for this treat.

 Pumpkin pie for dessert/

A dollop of whipped cream.

 Riesling for your thirst/

No, this is not a dream.

 Macy’s parade down Broadway/

Detroit Lions on T.V.

 In silence you pray/

Thanking your deity.

 For all that you share/

Be it meager or plenty.

 For all that you care/

With your friends and family.

 Happy Thanksgiving.

 ©TPuma/MMXXI

 

Friday, November 5, 2021

RAIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A steady downpour.

A melody of water.

A glow of lightning.

A mellow thunder.

 

The waterfowl huddle.

The lake ripples.

The hawk is delayed.

The sun is still east.

 

You sit and contemplate.

You shelter from Nature.

You been here before.

You’ll be hereafter.

 

©TPuma/MMXXI

 

 

 

Sunday, September 12, 2021

August, Kings County 1955


 

The doors of the Kinema theatre were open.

Cold air was sucked outside onto the sidewalk.

The August heat acting as a vacuum.

 

The only respite for apartment residents

of rooms where open windows and

fans gave no respite.

 

Pitkin Avenue, Brooklyn, working-class.

white-ethnic, and (as the New York Times

described it) “provincial.”

 

The bunting hanging from the marquee

proclaimed, “Air Conditioned Inside.”

The sign was superfluous.

 

The manager of the theatre was a young

blond guy:

GAY as could be, a bespoke Dandy.

                       The toughs in the neighborhood

labeled him a “Flaming Faggot”

but he was well liked as an anomaly.

 

                        A blooming flower in a garden

in need of weeding.

 

A main feature, a second “B” movie, cartoons,

coming attractions, and a newsreel.

A pleasant way to spend 2-plus hours dreaming

of adventure and/or romance.

 

The cool-darkened theatre gave us a break from

the egg-frying sidewalks.

 

Like Summer, this escape was temporary.

reality was past the open doors as we were

sucked onto the sidewalk with the cold air.

 

©TPuma/MMXXI