Pangramian

Let us just go, you and I,
on this quiet Sunday morn
and trek the Tappan Zee;
to view the golden sunrise
upon Hudson’s blue waters:
exceptional freedom.

©TPuma/MMXVII

Contemplation (9/10/17)

I awaken to pelting rains
a cacophonous pitter-patter.
Droplets streak across panes
winds versus windows [shatter?]

Palm trees throw off fronds
branches whiz-by like arrows.
Golf course sand-traps now ponds
home lighting by tallows.

T.V. sits as a mute gent
its weather voices still.
Hurricane howls its intent
Mother Nature can be shrill.

My house is a Cloister
a retreat from the tumult outside.
NO, the world is not my Oyster,
I’m just here for the ride.

Well, that’s it for now,
not such a bad fix.
No rescue in a scow,
my boat is on the river Styx.

©TPuma/MMXVII

Irma (TP/MMXVII)

Waiting on Irma
clearing my lanai.
I’m getting a hernia,
Rush says “it’s a lie.”

Will my windows last?
A category 4.
a non-impact blast
glass strewn on the floor.

It’s just a murmur
but not a rumor.
This condition Irma
(we’ve been there)
this aging Boomer.

So, I sit and let this pass
as I notch this event.
In line for gas
my disposable income spent.

This season of angst und sturm
with life sad and funny.
This too shall turn
and leave my Eden sunny.

I watch the horizon
and ocean too.
Signs of Armageddon
water churned grey, not blue.

I will sit-and-stay
and ride this out.
count each day
until we shout:

Irma, bye-bye
your likes have been here before.
I’ll take a deep breath and sigh;
“Is this it?” Al Gore.
*************************

I Belong

I heard them croon, “I belong”
when I was all alone.
A haunting melody of one song.
How could I have known?

I kept my wits about me
as a closet shut-in.
No one really knew me,
neither kith or kin.

So, by a simple phrase,
proclaimed melodic’ly.
I can face new days,
in my new family.

For you see, “I belong”
is a mantra not a plea.
I too will sing one song,
as “I” becomes “We.”

(dedicated to the GMCSF)

©TPuma/MMXVII

Easter/2017

Rainbow Eggs/Hidden
Honey Ham/Basted
Chocolate Bunny/Eaten
Easter Parade/Watched
Pastel Bonnet/Wore
Purple Shroud/Lifted
Hallelujah/Sang
J.Christ/Risen.

TP.

Erin's Hope Pub/03/17/63

Thin ties and thick friendships.
A shamrock lilting in the neon.
Jameson spilled on mahogany and Burberry.
Danny Boys in tenor voices and adorable brogues.

Closeted with Ireland's twinkiest
and IRA wannabees.
Natural Gingers, play against a field of green.

Those Leprechauns, who “come-out”
after copious green beers and Irish cheers,
secretly go-out to the East Side Bath House,
to sober-up and cavort.

March 18th, would be a day to contemplate
March 17th, and rejoice in the memory
of liberation.

May you have the same.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day.

©TPuma/MMXVII

Mirror Image

He wasn’t lonely.

The room had a stand-alone mirror, catty-cornered where
two walls converged, like a metaphor for his two worlds
as he spoke to and into the mirror and addressed both.

The world outside this catty-cornered realm and here-and-now,
just him and his alter-ego, great listener, the Image.

A light in the room reflected onto his face and accentuated
his lines and features and furrows, like those photographs
of Abraham Lincoln, where a biography can be surmised
between forehead and chin.

He never asked that existential question:
“Who am I?”
That was for teen-agers.
No, it was small-talk, the talk of neighbors and acquaintances
and sometimes, even friends.

Although, he once cried, early-on, and the image cried along,
but gave no solace, and he came to understand its limitations
and insensitivity. Angry, at first, and later realizing that the
image had its own personality and character, its own wants
and needs.

So, as in any relationship, that thrives, he compromised
and tried to understand the image and be content with
the fact that the image, through all its short-comings,
was always there for him.

And he rationalized this relationship:
How many people could say,
“I have someone, always.”

The Image always found his floppy Christmas cap
amusing, hated the Raglan-Tweedy smoking jacket,
loved those New York Giants P.J.’s.

He once practiced a speech to the image, and swore
he heard an echo, his own voice as if in a hollow
chamber and questioned, for the first time, his sanity,
but only for a moment.

He knew the image was unreal.
He knew the image was real.
The unreality gave him a certain freedom of expression.
Reality of the image gave him comfort and a sense of being.

You see, he stood in the center of the Universe.
Behind the image was infinity, possibly eternity,
maybe himself.

End.