Cobblestone

Clydesdales on cobblestone,
beer barrel laden wagon,
iron rim wheels and
iron shod hooves
beat a forlorn rhythm
of percussion on pavement,
as this ensemble
lumbers toward
Antonino’s speak-easy.

So long ago . . .


©TP/MMXVI

Myth

Paul Bunyan was a friend of mine
and Johnny Appleseed too.
I knew them well when I was nine,
also that little train that “can do.”

I was so optimistic
with Crockett, Boone and Bowie.
They were so macho and mythic,
and they were always with me.

Jesse James, Wyatt Earp and The Kid
they too filled my day-dreams.
My sub-conscious Ego and Id,
my inner-cowboy and silent screams.

Do we still have these heroes?
Are they all flawed?
“Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio . . .?”
This Sicilian boy was in awe.

“I grow old, I grow old”
TSE made me aware.
My boyhood heroes have been sold
and dreams morphed to nightmares.

NOT SO FAST,
to those of you at nine.
Heroes are heroes and they last,
you see,
they’re yours and mine.


©TP/MMXIV

Seder 2016-5776

I was invited to a Seder,
“at sundown, no later,”
by Cindy and Steve
on this Sabbath eve.

The bread will have no yeast,
cuisine ala mid-east.
To nosh on sweets and bitters
and no cloven critters.

I delight in dishes
memories of New York knishes.
I go into a spell over
a square of Kugel.

At the fading light
on this special night,
Hebrew and candles,
Old Testament swords and sandals.

Next year, they pray, “in Jerusalem.”
I think I will join them.
A dream from Torah,
thru a diaspora.

So, it came to pass
this traditional repast,
and me as a guest
to partake in their quest.

As a born Gentile
this night I will file.
As a gift of ages
writ in my life of pages.


Mazeltov!

V E (32016)

I sprang into spring
this morning.

Thinking, “out-of-the-box”
this Vernal Equinox.

With energy anew
out to Nature, I flew.

The flora I smell
me-thinks, “all-is-well.”

To fauna I sing
at adorable off-spring.

I celebrate both day and night
equality of dark and light.

This one day, with hope renew,
I smile at life, as I pass thru.


TP/MMXVI

Wailin' Walls

"Mr. Gorbachav, tear down this wall."
R. Reagan

"Mexico will pay for this wall."
D. Trump

"I fell off a wall."
H. Dumpty

31716

The Ides of March are gone
Spring is yet anon.
Tis a day between
that we garb in green.

As Irish Pipes play,
in their unique way.
I wish to you,
in my Emerald hue;

“Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.”


TP/MMXVI

FOG

The fog embraces me
with a wet kiss,
lamp lights glow
as iconic halos.

Black pavement shines
like an Astaire ballroom,
the sound of the fog
is a whisper in my ear.

All scents are filtered
through damp nostrils,
London Fog trench coat
channels Bogart.

My foray into the fog
is the solitude I seek,
like a teenager by a mirror:
“Who am I?”

©TP/MMXVI