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