I’ve donned my
Hannukah Hat/
to light Menorah
candles that/
will glow for
eight nights/
that tradition says/
is how we celebrate/
with lights.
Blue and White,
Blue and White/
Menorah echoes
the Heavens/
at night.
In sotto voce /
a chanted prayer.
When all eight are bright/
my Hannukah Hat/
til’ next year will alight.
©TPuma/MMXXIV/5785
A BOUQUET FOR DAVID
ON HIS 80th (11/28/2024)
I’ll pick 80 Baby Breaths:
for our Everlasting Love.
I’ll pick 80 Roses:
for our Passion.
I’ll pick 80 Sweet Peas:
for our Time Together.
I’ll pick 80 Tulips:
for Our Happiness.
I’ll pick 80 Apple Blossoms:
for Our Good Fortune.
I will also pick 80
Forget-Me-Nots:
for all Our Memories.
Cent’ anni.
Tony
©TPuma/MMXXIV
The light of day is with me now.
I awaken to this new morn.
The ray’s splay thru the Palm bough.
As I forget dreams forlorn.
I live each day in passion’s pleasure.
The past, I do reflect.
The future, each day will treasure.
The Now, is all, I genuflect.
I am a thing of Nature born.
To take my place in her realm.
I will return to Her, my aura shorn.
As my hands fall from the helm.
©TP/MMXVI
Thru a frosted window view,
an apparition I know.
“2024, is that you?”
With dubious gifts to bestow?
Are you
Chaos or a Bore?
You will
keep us all guessing.
In this
yearly riddle ’24.
Could I
receive a blessing?
Where is
fickle ’23?
The Fates
gave me the year.
Overall,
they let me be.
Wasn’t
that queer!
As time
moves forward:
My memory
hosts the past.
My dreams
are numbered.
2024, “The
die is cast.”
©TPuma/123123
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.
©TPuma/7/21/23
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?
Or...
Sit alone and reflect.
©TPuma/MMXXIII
(For the cast of Casa Valentina)
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”
lookalikes.
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?”
©TPuma/MMXXXIII
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.
©TPuma/MMXXIII
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.
Lovers.
We
spent a year in this scenario.
Emotional people.
Sentimental places.
Affecting remembrances.
Au
revoir mon amour.
©TPuma/MMXXIII
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.
TP/2023
The
last I saw her was 1955.
An
Eminence in ebony.
My
Great grandmother.
At
100 or so (Cent’ anni.)
An
Alma mater.
A
Madonna.
Out-living
half of her 14 children.
An
18th century culture.
A
19th century persona.
In
20th century America,
A
land of gritty tenements/
A
life of true grit.
Leaving
the Kingdom of Italy to history.
Bridging
“Cavalera Rusticana”
to
“Rock Around the Clock.”
Pietro
Mascagni meets Bill Haley.
Italo-Americans.
Begetting
a generation of
aunts
and uncles and cousins.
Musicians interpret Notes
Actors interpret Characters.
Painters interpret Visions
Poets interpret Life.
#####
You live in a Duplex/
Looking out to the Sea.
Searching the Shore to check/
For Subs of the enemy.
You scan the sand for Things/
And pocket a buck or two.
Listening to the Surf sing/
While sipping a cold brew.
You meet same each day begun/
Who measure their wealth in
ease.
The Ocean ripples the Sun/
As it rises in the breeze.
You walk the cool Lo-tide/
Into the gentle Surf.
To Neptune’s Law complied/
And with the god converse.
You spy a Nautilus shell/
Lift it to your ear.
A seaborne Fortune-cookie to foretell:
“We wait for you my dear.”
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
Good-bye 2021
You Wile E. Coyote you.
My inner Road Runner flees
Those spiked Covid balls
you threw.
A 2020 redux?
I tried to remain calm
But, I got Acid Reflux.
We masked, vaxxed, and boosted
too.
We also had some good times
So, ’22 let’s renew.
And shout through our masks.
For all our friends to have,
“A New Year back to normal tasks.”
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
©TPuma/MMXXI
A
gift of two Turtle Doves.
A
holiday earworm
I
prefer leather gloves.
They
have two holidays.
But,
in America
We
search for double AA’s.
My
bar bereft of Cordials.
My
mailbox bereft of cards
My
accounts bereft of numerals.
In
rainbow laundry room.
A
day of rest and unrest
Clearing
wrapping paper strewn.
We
light a black candle.
A
day of Umoji
To
brighten our mantel.
The
Feast of Saint Stephen.
A
Martyrs death he
Stoned
by the heathen.
On
Octave Day of His birth.
A
gift of eight Beatitudes
To
quench a faithful thirst.
A
time to remember.
A
time for reflexion
This
end of December.
Memories
of Best and Least.
A
personal Renaissance
We’ll
celebrate a New Year’s feast.
Have a happy Christmas Eve
With gifts all wrapp’d under the tree.
A Christmas Carol on
T.V.
With cherished dated ornaments.
To reflect on these moments.
All and all we’ve been nice.
To the baby Jesus Christ.
With deep breaths of glee.
Have a Merry from David and me.
©TPuma/12/24/21
Scent of a roasted Turkey/
Is that a Yam or Sweet Potato?
No Ketchup or Mayo.
Debating white or dark meat?
Giving thanks for this treat.
A dollop of whipped cream.
No, this is not a dream.
Detroit Lions on T.V.
Thanking your deity.
Be it meager or plenty.
With your friends and family.
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
