Tannenbaum

I. “Puma, report to Sergeant Bradley
for an assignment.”

Great;
another shitty detail on a cold day.

This was different.
This was way-different.

The Assignment:
cut down a tree for the base Christmas tree.

A G.I. in Germany,
Froelich Weinachten.


II. As each December,
a deluge of memories
descend on me.

Green trees in the Black Forest.
Photos of Werhmacht soldiers, faded.
A fairy tale hunter’s cabin (Jaeger stubel).
Hot spiced wine.
Christmas carols sung by
Elvis and Johnny Mathis.

An Army that served one of the best
meals of the year, on Christmas day.

Drinking to oblivion in the barracks.


III. I spent 3 Christmases in Germany.
I volunteered for this detail each year.

3 Christmases away from home.
Home-sick.

But, oh how I cherish those Christmases.

©TPuma/Xmas-2013

Poetic Visions

2 children walking to school
sucking on icicles.

I want to feel the winter
enjoy the season
see the world
through their eyes.

TP.

Memo:Modern American Move

FR:Exit 25/I80 NJ
TO:Exit 27/I95 FL

Clouds

I can see Cumulonimbus
rise to excessive heights
as Cirrostratus.

What I can’t see
is the cotton candy,
marshmallow, quilted coveralls,
that I used to marvel at.

Cumulus floats by lazily,
or as quick-paced
as animals
racing across the sky.

I pay them no-mind.

Wispy Cirrus
as my lovers’ hair
blows in the breeze,
as lovers whisper.

I see no wisps now.

Oh, Nimbostratus ,
dark and ominous,
a wrathful presence
or a soothing gray rain,
holding us hostage.

Oh, how you screw-up
my weekend.

Can I lie here
and view the sky, once more,
as a child,
and personify
these dewy phenomena?

Have I the discipline
to view such things
with the eye of a child?

To wax childlike about
the silent going-ons
way above my head,
way above my comprehension.

Way above my poetic prowess?

©TPuma/MMXIII

There

Oh, my Moroni Angel,
now that you drifted back
into my space
and filled a void
that did not seem so,

and now that silly unreality
becomes real and conscious

so I must confront, torn,
between remembrance
and a need to forget

as apparitions that appear
and disappear
and maybe
were never there . . .

©TPuma/MMXII

Spirits

I know some Witches
and a cute Warlock.
The latter, in tight britches
the former, in flowing frocks.

Spirits work your magic,
cast your spell on me.
I want to be ecstatic
that is my wanton plea.

In my Orange and Black
I conjure up ghosts.
Easy at Easton with no lack,
of spirits who host.

Oh, apparition, as you drift-by,
be brief in your wisdom.
As prostrate I lie
and hear of your fiefdom.

A boiling cauldron of Witches-Brew
a bon-fire to warm the night.
Cuddling with my Warlock new,
at peace, holding tight.

©TPuma/Easton Mtn.
Halloween/13

Sprinkles

So’s, I go into this ice cream joint
and order a vanilla (soft)
ice cream cone,
with chocolate sprinkles
(jimmies?)

The young lady
behind the counter
gives me the cone
with rainbow sprinkles.

So’s , there I am
walking down the streets
of Rutherford
for all to see,
with my rainbow sprinkled cone,
melting in the heat,
and I,
licking furiously,
to keep from being
splattered with sprinkles.

Neurotic as I am,
I suddenly have the urge
to swivel my hips and
tell all who see me:
“Yes, these rainbow sprinkles
was not a mistake.
They are a statement.”

©TPuma/MMXIII

FIRE!

The number “5” fire truck was there,
just as WCW had imagined.*

All fire-engine RED
as its “gong clangs”
and “siren howls” and
rumbles to a stop,
and lurches
like a marathon runner
after a race.

Chaotic scene of firemen
in BLACK and neon-YELLOW,
burdened with back-pack
as they run into the (burning?) building.

Linda,
in apartment 309,
burnt her toast,
again.


©TPuma/MMXIII


*William Carlos Williams, “The Great Figure.”

Senryu-10-09-13

Monongahela/
Pittsburgh a shot and beer town/
morphed to wine and cheese.

Enter

That gay bar I never entered
so I fooled myself about myself
and all those inside and me outside
by inside myself alone and afraid
unsure and closeted (as they say)
to step outside myself
to step inside the gay bar
to admit to myself and be OUT
and true to my inside feelings
that those outside
will see and say
you are gay;
When did this happen?
When did you know?
When did you come-out?
How do you feel now,
I mean, inside. . .

©TPuma/MMXIII

Ex stasis

I am a merry Post-Modernist
dwelling in the Unreality of
Reality where the Real is
unimaginative and the
Unreal is imaginable
where I encounter the
Real I am disappointed
and long for the Unreal
with all its colors
and heroes
and horrors
that excite and
give life to my
living being
forsaking any and all
beings that dwell
in their own
Unreality.



©TPuma/MMXIII

Easton Mountain (a gay spirit camp)

I.

The Fairies blew in from the east.
Aquarius and Rose Bud and Tiger Lilly.

Androgynous in appearance
and fluid in movement,
at peace with the flora
and fauna around them.

Passively challenging those
who did not understand
nor do not meld with the
spirit of the Earth.

II.

Bill and I blew in from the south.
Confident and comfortable in our
Gay masculinity.

Donning sarongs and multi-colored
volunteer hats, magic marked,
‘Emily Dickinson’ for me
and ‘Macklemore’, for Bill.

Assuming faux identities to
beg the question of music
and poetry.

Becoming outside ourselves
to view the scene via a poets eye.


III.

Those who questioned, came.
Those who sought, came.
Those who hurt, came.

The Wizard was waiting for us all
on this magic mountain.

The questions, answered.
The seekers, found.
The hurt, healed.

An ecstatic self-awareness
via community.

IV.

The spirit yields to the flesh
in the form of a New York State
Department of Health van.

H.I.V. testing for the community.

The lab technician,
who was about to draw my blood,
had one final question:
“Are you Male or Female?”

©TPuma/MMXIII

Mothers Cousin I

Jimmy gosha-longo was a cousin.
(Jimmy long legs.)
He came to mind when I buried my mother.

Jimmy would run from his house
to catch the Pitkin Avenue bus.
(Do not inquire of me as to his destination.)

Anyways, he must have had a bus time-table.
You see, he would stop into Henny’s Candy Store
and order an Egg Cream.

As Henny made the creamy cocktail,
inevitably the bus would arrive,
and Jimmy would run-out,
leaving Henny with the Egg Cream.

Sounds like a head-game, right (?)
I think so.
How fast could Henny make the Egg Cream?
How fast could Jimmy drink and pay for it?

It probably all worked out well, but,
the sweet-street story was that Jimmy
got the best of Henny everytime.

Maybe.

Because,
Henny always called Jimmy,
“A Schmuck.”

©TPuma/MMXIII

Mothers Cousin II

Johnny Bath Beach was a cousin.
He came to mind when I buried my mother.

Johnny was part of the family on
Elizabeth Street in Little Italy.
Then one day he mysteriously
moved out to Bath Beach
in Brooklyn.

Now, Johnny always seemed like a nice guy,
and I always figured he was some sort
of relative.

Anyway, we did not see much of him,
but we heard a lot about him.

You see, Johnny was a made-guy.

As a kid, I always boasted of having
a made-guy as a relative.
It was a Sicilian thing.

At a family gathering,
someone inquired about Johnny,
not having heard from him in awhile.
Then someone says, that they have not
seen Johnny for awhile.
All nodded.

That too, was a Sicilian thing.

©TPuma/MMXIII

PS159/I

The Spanking Machine was in that room
behind the big oak door
with the shiny brass knob.

The Principal’s and Vice Principal’s offices
are next to the Spanking Machine room

I sit on a wooden bench in the hallway
facing those rooms.

I watch my fellow-students
and teachers drift by.

I try to avoid eye contact.

Anthony ,” Class Clown”: in trouble again.

Gifted student, advanced student,
“D” conduct student.

4th grade disturbance, anxious,
craving attention.

Gonna’ get spanked.

©TPuma/MMXIII

PS159/II

The Spanking Machine was a myth.

It was replaced by another dread:
Calling my parents to school.

My mother was beside herself as to
what to do with a clever son with
too much energy seemingly mis-directed.
Why couldn’t he be like his older sister,
smart and well-behaved?

My father was somewhat perplexed
as to having 2 clever children.

He was a gambler, an entrepreneur,
a risk taker, who somehow understood
a son who could be smart and
test boundaries and limits.

Make no mistake about it
my parents did not like coming to school.

Nothing much changed,
amid all this tumult.


©TPuma/MMXIII

THE SICILIAN ASPHALT PAVING COMPANY

descended on Euclid Avenue
in a section of Brooklyn
that the New York Times
described as “provincial.”

These latter-day Roman road builders
attended to their task and mission
with zeal, as if decreed by an Emperor.

At night, they would leave kerosene lamps
that looked like black bowling balls
with lit wicks.

Votives
to some god of road building?

When they finished their task,
we felt we were no longer
provincial.
At least those of us
who lived on Euclid Avenue.

TP.

THE NATIONAL PASTIME

“Take me out to the ball game”

Please stand for the National Anthem.

The Home Team takes the field: PLAY BALL!

Bottom of third, man on base,
pitch low and inside, count 3&2.
Fastball, strike 3, Batter out.
Man left on base.

The Mick, Duke, Willie, Jackie, Pee Wee,
The Scooter, Yogi, Joe D., Dizzy and Daffy,
Charlie Hustle.

Who’s on first. Abbott & Costello.

Red Sox and White Sox.

“take me out with the crowd”

Twi-light double header:
Cardinals and Orioles.

Da’ Reds/Dem Bums/ The Gas House Gang
Murderers Row/ The Bronx Bombers.

Reliever: South Paw ,Knuckleballer, 2.52 ERA.

The Sultan of Swat/The Splendid Splinter.

The Iron Man.
Lou Gehrig’s disease.

“buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack”

Bottom of 7th, nothing-nothing.
Seventh inning stretch.

Padres and Angels.

A No-Hitter/A Perfect Game.
Holy Cow!

The Bleachers.
Ebbets/Wrigley/Fenway.


“I don’t care if I never get back”

Designated Hitter/Pinch Hitter.
Foul ball/Double play.
Catcher gives the sign.
Tying run at the Plate.

The Yankees win the World Series!
Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants:
NOT.

The Metropolitans.
The Nationals.

Topps Baseball cards.

Indians and Braves.

Can’t anyone here play this game?
Casey Stengel.

“let me root, root, root for the home team”

Rain delay/Box scores/Extra innings/K’s/RBI’s.

Negro League:
Only the ball was white.

Where have you gone Joe Dimaggio . . .
Paul Simon.

Devil Rays and Marlins.

Frozen Rope/Texas Leaguer.
Bull Pen/Home Plate/Batter’s Box.
Cooperstown.
Old-Timers Day/All Star Game.

I GOT IT!

“if they don’t win, it’s a shame”

Tagged out/Stolen base.
A swing and a miss.
Pitcher’s mound/Rosin bag/The Rubber.

Red Bird/Phillie Phanatic.

Cubs and Tigers.

A Sinker, down-and-out.
Bunt/Sacrifice/Pitch-out
Popped-up/Loaded bases.

“for it’s one, two , three strikes you’re out

I watch a group of kids playing
baseball in a cow pasture.

“at the old Ball Game.”


©TPuma/MMXIII

LIKE

I like you;
Maybe that will change in the future.
You don't like me;
Maybe that will change in the future.

CICADA 2013

Cicadas wail and riff
a trumpet section
in a major key,
incognito under
a verdant canopy.

I stop.
I listen.
I cherish.

All along the path
Spring sings.

© TPuma/2013

HAIKU/RAIN

Wayward aural rain/
umbrella as conductor/
Nature's sonata.

BROADWAY LEAGUE

Playing softball in Central Park
with chorus dancers traipsing
around bases and pirouetting
to snag fly-balls and I in
tight gold and green MGM
Lions uniform, as-twinky-as
could be, enjoying the sights,
sounds, and après drinks
and egos and all that comes
with thespians in
baseball costumes.


©TPuma/MMXIII

SPRUCE

Precarious seeds/
pine cones dangle on blue branches/
Nature's silent chimes.

J

Recognize the glee/
in the heat of the moment/
poet Muse unites.

ZEN AND THE ART OF POETRY

(“What I write today has no past or
future for my Self. I can only write
what is visceral at the moment and
when that moment is gone,
so is that Self that wrote the verse,
and is now a stranger to my new Self.”)


I cultivate the art of poetry by letting-go
of real senses to create a second-natured
consciousness of thoughts unto/into words—
a limbo of Self and no Self
that voices
first-natured emotions—
to write a poem
that is a poem
because
I call it a poem.

ODE to the NRA

I shot a rifle in the air
the bullet landed in my hair.

Well, you know the ending:
I'm in a box descending.

PINE

As I pour into bed
and you paw over me
in a pop rendition of passion,
I am left pondering our plight
as a pair – that pundits and
poets write of – characters
who pine and yearn and
search for that which is
present.

©TPuma/MMXIII

READ A POEM

Moon, June, soon, new broom, zoom
abstract, obtuse, obscure
streaming, conscious
(un, pre and sub)
classic, neo-something
modern, post-something
friends, lovers, death and
the whole human condition
love me, hate me, read me
make me your slave,
make me your master.
Find yourself.

(c)TPuma/Poeetry month '13

RAWHIDE/RAMROD-REMEMBER'D

Oh, leather straps and belts
I did procure,
and, with prodigious welts,
through Pleasures' Door

I was emboldened
in black cowhide,
to either bow or bend
as masters' bride

this pleasured pain,
this give-and-take
from those who reign
until I'd slaked.

APRIL'S FOOL

To be or not to be, fooled today
that is the fear.
My foolish friends, str8 or gay
today, question what you hear.

(yours in poetic buffonery, Tony.)

A SPRING-TIME MEET

As if the season that brings on
renewal of dormant nature
awakened the feelings of warmth
that 2 people
seeking out each other
had forgotten and
may have thought
these feelings
were out of reach.
The joy of such a meeeting.
The meeting was a joy.

(c)TPuma/MMXIII

MARRIAGE SUPREME

I get my pizza supreme
and enjoy it so.
But a marriage supreme?
What do I have to know?

My lover and I have no qualms
about the state of our union.
No legality will enhance our charms
or affect our communion.

OK, legal, let it be
I'm worn-out by your semantics.
"Marriage", will be for me;
Isn't it romantic.

B'KLYN

We were dodgers
of vehicles electric or gas.
Fanatics of Snider and Hodges
of Brooklyn's working class.

It all seemed so simple then
in or on bus or trolley.
Now memories spilled via pen
nostalgic for all that folly.

(c)TPuma/MMXIII

WINTER STROLL

My lips are chapped and split
as if hit by the fist
of an icy pugilist,
this Arctic apparition
that approaches on a
winter wind-chill
where gloves, hat and boots
render nil.

My mind meanders to a
mystical, mythical
Saint Bernard
brandishing brandy,
in a canister collar
to warm my innards.

I stroll in this solstice
sun-slung-low day.
My séance with Nature
as ancestral sounds play.

©TPuma/Winter ’13.

SUNDAES AT THE BAR

Incongruous as it seems
like teenagers at a malt-shop.
We indulge in ice creams
that brings the night to a stop.

Vanilla and Chocolate and all
with silent eyes bound.
In a bar serving alcohol
not noticing all around.

A table for two, just met
a dessert with varied flavors.
Tempus fugit and yet
a memory to savor.

Good Karma I feel
for my new friend.
My emotions, I cannot conceal
and wait once again:
Sundaes at the bar.

TPuma/MMXIII

MAYBE

Come to think of it.

Do you really like me?

Am I reading too much into this?

Will you write my Eulogy?

I want you to get to know me.

Write me a poem.

Yes, I am too emotional.

Do you think so?

I want to hang-out with you.

Yes, I’ll write a poem about you.

Will you sleep with me?

See, that wasn’t so bad.

What's that?/bastard.

I never want to see you again.

I think.

Maybe.

NO.

Come back.

I love you.

©TPuma/MMXIII

A SHAKESPEAREAN TYPO

Oh, gourmand fingers that doth mar my words
with ill-formed twins of consonants and vowels.

To discourage and disparage my inner-thoughts
rendered in script ,where I do proclaim to all
my humours and scowls.

Where-for such script is read and dwelt upon
as writ by one whose mind did outpace dexterity.

To they that know me too- well
I will correct these rude letters, and so
espouse my heart merrily.

©TPuma/MMXIII

JUMBLE

17-4-80-GSP.
A blur of signs and vehicles
and logo big-box stores
dredging up memories of
‘70’s subway signature graffiti
with Lucy in the Sky
as I drive-by
alert to fight or flight instinct
of side and front and rear views
vying for attention in
stress-street-wise maneuvers
where the reality of the moment
is rendered
in split-second
reactions
where my journey is meaningless
in this jumble of architecture and
machines and unseen humanity
destination is all;
My only respite
Blue-Law Sunday
you see;
I go to church in Paramus.


©TPuma/MMXIII

NEMO-2/9/13

Oh Snow Fairie Nemo
how you do sequester me.
For what am I to know
about this reverie.

The dawn that broke
in quiet solitude.
In what it did bespoke
of a landscape nude.

So, I squint in snow-white-sun
and marvel Nature’s way.
I count another blizzard done
and just enjoy the day.

©TPuma

ENTER

That gay bar I never entered,
so I fooled myself about myself
and all those inside and me outside
by inside myself alone and afraid
unsure and closeted (as they say)
to step outside myself
to step inside the gay bar
to admit to myself and be OUT
and true to my inside feelings
that those outside
will see and say
you are gay --
When did this happen?
When did you know?
When did you come out?
How do you feel now,
I mean, inside. . .

©TPuma

YEAR OF THE SNAKE

ssh,ssh, snow for Tet.
Tit for Tat and all that.

Slither-in Year of Snake
quiet as a Wake.
With snow and ice as factors
with wet firecrackers.

Dragon I, who will fear (?)
This (unctuous) serpentine year (?)

Oh, Buddha:
What do you impart
for this inauspicious start (?)

Confucius say:
“Just face the day.”

Oh my Oriental friends
who by PC disdains that trend.
Who must be Asian by all means.
Of course this is easy for me,
I am a Rice Queen.

© TPuma/4711

XMAS

Santa Claus, sanity clause
North Pole, myth told
Happy Holidays, culture rage
2 turtle doves, msg. from above
Winter Solstice, baby’s first Xmas
bah hum-bug, Auntie’s hug
a pine tree, Jacob Marley
fruit cake, cookies bake
Advent, good tidings sent
mistletoe, swaddling clothes
snow.

No room at the inn,
Jesus conceived sans sin.
JMJ, where they lay.

Pagan lore, eve of pescatore
twas’ the night before.

Mass @ midnight
mess of white light.

3 wise men
Caesar Roman.

star of east, hope to least
men of good will
in search of still.


©TPuma/122512

HAPPY NEW YEAR-2013

2013 is hard upon us
ushering in the adolescent
years of the 21st century,
having lived through the
senior years of the 20th
century and the birth
of the 21st., I wonder about
the angst, donder und blitzen
of my teenager as he/she goes
through centennial puberty.

Will she be haughty and snide
and pouting (?)
Will he be too smart all skinny
biceps ready to prove his
masculinity like his father 1913 (?)
or his grand-father 1813 (?)
inauspicious antecedents.

My annual off-spring
will you be the harbinger
of a post post-modern world
or will teenage-spite give us
7 lean years ?

Oh, all this poetic pondering
unless I am dead by 12/31/12
(I do not anticipate that)
I will relish all that is to pass
and maybe, in my old age wisdom,
to my teenager so advise,
“a word to the wise.”


©TPuma/MMXIII

MY LIGHT

If poetry be the bright
lights of Broadway,
my poems would be
the 25 watt incandescent
bulb in the outer lobby
of a theatre.