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.

 

Lovers.

We spent a year in this scenario.

               Emotional people.

               Sentimental places.

               Affecting remembrances.

 

Au revoir mon amour.

 

©TPuma/MMXXIII

 

                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CONDOLENCES

 The Heart mourns.

The Eyes tear.

The Hands clasp.

The Knees weaken.

The Mind recalls.

           +

FRIDAY 13

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BISNONNA

 

 

The last I saw her was 1955.

An Eminence in ebony.

My Great grandmother.

At 100 or so (Cent’ anni.)

 A Matriarch.

An Alma mater.

A Madonna.

Out-living half of her 14 children.

 A child of the Mezzo Giorno.

An 18^th century culture.

A 19^th century persona.

In 20^th century America,

 Ah, America:

A land of gritty tenements/

A life of true grit.

Leaving the Kingdom of Italy to history.

 A historical presence.

Bridging “Cavalera Rusticana”

to “Rock Around the Clock.”

Pietro Mascagni meets Bill Haley.

 Her children being 20^th century

Italo-Americans.

Begetting a generation of

aunts and uncles and cousins.

 The last I saw her was 1955.

 Requiescat in Pace.

 ©TPuma/MMXXII

 

 

 

 

INTERPRETATION

 Musicians interpret Notes

Actors interpret Characters.

Painters interpret Visions

Poets interpret Life.

         #####

TWO

  

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.”

 ©TPuma/MMXXII

 

 

 

Foghorns

 

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