I read a poem by a black woman who wrote that a guy told her she looked like Michelle Obama. She wrote that it was an all-black-people look-alike-moment. I Googled her and saw the images and she does, sort of. She referred to her biceps.She has nice biceps like Michelle Obama.

There’s a black guy who works as a bar-tender at a local restaurant. He looks like Eddie Murphy. I told him so. I wonder if the bartender was thinking that that was an all-black-people-look alike-moment? Since reading the poem, I’m feeling like a dumb, white guy, but the bartender doesn’t look like Bill Cosby or James Earl Jones or
Spike Lee or Samuel L. Jackson, who actually does get confused with Laurence Fishburne, much to Mr. Jackson’s chagrin, I am given to understand. I think Mr. Jackson actually said it was an all-black-people-look-alike-moment.

People used to tell me I looked like Andy Williams and years later, Paul Newman. Maybe I should have thought those were all-white-people-look-alike-moments, but I wanted to look like a young Rick Nelson and a young Robert Redford, but there is no way — kind of like the bartender doesn’t look like any of those celebrities except Eddie Murphy.

All the bartender said in response was, “I wish I had his money.” I still wonder what he was thinking. I’m really sorry we whites have caused blacks to experience the all-blacks-look-alike put-down and dismissal. Such ugly racism. The poet is beautiful all on her own. The bartender is handsome all on his own. I hope we are getting better at all this.

And I never will look like a young Robert Redford, much to my chagrin. I guess I should be glad someone thought I looked like Paul Newman.

Actually, I think I look more like his brother who is bald.

He’s been told for all of his life
to live in the reality of all the strife.
The problem is that for all that advice,
after all the years, he still finds it nice
to live in Shangri-La and Brigadoon
places he would choose to live so soon
but they are only places of which to swoon —
as far away as the lonely call of the loon.
They may be metaphors for eternal bliss,
but without those metaphors he would miss
those who had gone onto eternal bliss
and so, he watches TCM and cries with the old hits.

A man so often thinks he knows it all;
he views his stature as ten stories tall.
Some put their names on buildings and giant towers;
don’t they know they’ll be pushing up flowers?
“Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,” wrote Koheleth;
still, silly men think they can fool death.
Perhaps, they just wish to pack it all in
before the Grim Reaper draws them in.
Gain wisdom and know how short life is;
let those who come later,
brag on the good deeds that were his.
All a man has is his legacy —
his pomp and ceremony — a false fantasy.
Stop staring at the shadow on the wall;
get up and leave the cave once and for all.
Walk in the sun; see all of creation;
Join brothers and sisters in joyful, humble elation.

I sit and wonder at the tomato on the vine.
Shall I leave it there or make it mine?
If I leave it there, it shall wither and spoil;
I shall cut it in slices, toss in mozzarella and oil;
a bit of sea salt and coarse pepper I will add
and, Voila, I will have a delicious salad
to sate my hunger and make me glad.
And so the tomato named Fourth of July I salute
giving thanks for the abundant, delicious juice of the fruit.

A poet wrote a poem
using the idea of the
element palladium
to consider life in the
universe and beyond
and the experience of
safety. In his explan-
ation he wrote about
experiencing that safety
(he used images of
clouds and reflections
in a river) before it
(life?) recedes. Nice
metaphors as clouds
and reflections certain-
ly do recede — come
and go continually. All
the reader knows is
that palladium is used
in catalytic converters
to clean the emissions,
which help keep his
asthmatic lungs clean
and for that the reader
is eternally (which
doesn’t recede except
in the sense of there
is past, present and
future in the notion
of the eternal) grate-
ful. While that may
not sound very poetic
(prosaic even), being
grateful actually seems
quite poetic not to
mention the notion
of eternal as poetry.
Putting those together
as in “eternally grate-
ful” and it seems like
a two-word poem, which
perhaps is what the poet
was getting at in an
ironic kind of way;
you can never be too
sure with poets.
If you could,
it wouldn’t be too good.

Lawn mowers whirr, whirl and roar;
leaf blowers cause cut grass to soar;
hedge trimmers bushes do score;
Beemers, Porches and Audis from on high
down the hill do bore,
and even through an open window
can be heard the neighbor’s snore;
of this quiet, serene beach community,
I’m not sure I can take much more.

What’s that about one person’s treasure
when it comes to beautiful flowers so wild?
Just ask a young child.
See her stopping, admiring and then
running from the many bees?
Hear her plead to pick just one
beautiful, tiny flower, “Please?”
The neighbors treasure sculpted, manicured yards,
mown grass, flower beds so neat,
and see wild flowers as weeds that go to seeds
and must be extricated and
discarded in garbage cans. “Oh, please.”
And such is the contrast of life lived
along the shore in the neighborhood.
There are those who seek control
imposing their will, living neat lives of “should.”
Then there are those who revel in the natural,
seeing life as it is in woods and shore —
near and far,
“coulds” and “woulds,”
and better yet,
simply “is” and “are,”
and “understood.”

Coming up on twenty-three,
bad dreams every night has he,
before they do flee.

Thankfully to, Thee,
for the bad dreams to relieve
the day she did leave.

He is the folk hero
to those who were
taught they could
have the moon but
wound-up with a
Limburger burger,
the whites who
thought they could
glide by without
jumping through
the society’s
hoops and follow
in their parents’
footsteps of
thirty-five years
on the same
assembly line
only to find they
fell flat on
their faces and
they saw black and
brown and yellow
feet on the rungs
of the ladders of life
climbing up and
out of sight,
and those whites
saw the Hooded
Robin as their
hero, the self-
made billionaire,
given millions
by his daddy,
he doesn’t ride
where the elite
coincide in New
York society so high.
He’s high in his
own tower gaining
millions of dis-
gruntled followers.
He’s the king from
Queens and he’s
going to teach them
a few things so they,
too, have a
righteous coz
except the
Hooded Robin is
really just the
Wizard of Oz.

The kids ran by,
high school boys
training for the
cross-country
team. They ran
past the cottage,
up the paved street
of the steep dune,
around and down —
the dune separating
the more gifted
runners from the
others. He thought
about his high
school cross-country
experience — a
numbered
tongue depressor
handed over at
last for last
place. Forty-
thousand miles
in forty years
later and he
sits and reaches
and scratches
as far under the
shell as he
can reach.
He watches a
skinny kid
flopping by
with flat feet.
Hang in there
kid, he thinks.