Saturday, July 22, 2023



The fare was a Nickel,

each for Mother and me.

To ride the Fulton Street El.

It seems like ancient history.


On to Manhattan.

Flying over Brooklyn canopies.

A view, I wondered then,

Santa Claus would see.


To visit Aunt Laura.

Elizabeth Street, “Little Italy.”

Uncle Gus, an in-law,

and Cousin Mary.


Mary played a new

recording by Tony Bennet.

The first I ever knew,

and I will never forget it.

“I know I’d go from rags to riches …”

Ave atque vale.










Wednesday, May 17, 2023

The Girl With-in

The Wig is the Crown,

it completes the Coronation.

The Girl emerges from a

sub-conscious cocoon.

She slips into a dress,

that caress broad shoulders.

She slips into hi-heels,

not made for broad shoulders.

Make-believe breasts

transform Pecs to Teats.

Make-believe glows to real

with this make-over:

             Nip and tuck/

            Dab and pluck/

           A pocketbook/

          A great fresh look.

The girl with-in questions

the looking glass.

Alice, Dorothy or

Virginia Woolf?

To step outside

to display your inside?


Sit alone and reflect.



(For the cast of Casa Valentina)









Friday, April 28, 2023

The Ice Cream Parlor



The pie was Blueberry, warm

ala mode draping.


The Malted was Chocolate,

thick, and as malty as any

German Lager.


The Ice Cream Parlor with

chrome backed seats and

marble counter, catered to

connoisseurs and kids alike.


The Norwegian family

who owned the place were,

“I Remember Mamma”



The skinny kid who consumed

this repast, basked in the

calories, carbs and protein.


The Confectionary

 was concocted in the

Candy Room, milk chocolate

waft through the Parlor.


The Tiffany lamps hung low

over booths with lighting

softened by the colored glass.


The romance in the booths

were with teenagers,

Ice Cream Sodas after school.


The El stop is no longer.

The Parlor has left for that,

“undiscovered land.”


The senses remain.

The El train rumbles

The tastes of homemade.

The aroma of sweets.

The touching of hands.

The scene in my, “mind’s eye.”


I revisit, and they ask,

“Where have you been?”










Wednesday, April 26, 2023

Dizzy Dreamin'[


PFC Barone,

clutching an album.

In green Fatigues,

with a white ascot;

as is his wont.


Dizzy Gillespie,

“The Ebullient Mr. Gillespie.”

Bent horn and puffed cheeks,

“Swing Low, Sweet Cadillac.”


Nineteen Sixty,

returns in a dream.

Sub-conscious rendering.

Conscious remembering.


A sweet moment,

now melancholic.

A faded reminder;

I’d love to relive.




Tuesday, March 14, 2023

Joralemon Street


Brooklyn Heights.

A 12x16 Studio.

A walk-up 3 flights.

Where lived my love, ago.


Brooklyn Bridge.

Thru angled window,

stolid, stoic, solid,

yet, fluid, with autos,

trains and people

scurrying about

in and on its labyrinth.

Walt Whitman knew its spirit.


A Brooklyn Candy Store

where Dave-the-Bookie,

a fiduciary, in all sports

speculation, catered to

Heights fortune seekers.

The store flanked by a

French Patisserie and a

French Charcuterie.

Some Trifecta.

Only in Brooklyn(?)


Brooklyn Eagle.

Hometown newspaper.

Waiting, each afternoon

on the stoop.

Reporters and reports

with a Brooklyn accent.

Filling the gap of a

sophisticated city and a

working class borough.  

Brookly Navy Yard.

A short walk to this grimy,

labor intensive, lovable acreage.

Bars, outside the Yard, nick-

named, “Buckets of Blood.”

The oeuvre of Hart Crane.


The Promenade.

A scenic view of Manhattan.

A Gay gathering place for

cruising at sunset, an easy

romance in a romantic setting.

Each season, Fashionistas strut

their bespoke designs.



We spent a year in this scenario.

               Emotional people.

               Sentimental places.

               Affecting remembrances.


Au revoir mon amour.


















Saturday, January 14, 2023


 The Heart mourns.

The Eyes tear.

The Hands clasp.

The Knees weaken.

The Mind recalls.




Is 13 your lucky number?

As you relish TGIF.

OR, do you spend this day in slumber?

With Nightmares of the bereft


Is it a Black Cat?

A misplaced Ladder?

A conical Black Hat?

A Mirror shattered?


Nah, don’t fret,

Just another day in Clover.

Would you take that bet?

Oh, wake me when it’s over.