My family — to a one —
has been taciturn,
but still much fun.
Wives ( I’m widowed
and married again in turn)
daughter, son and
one step-son.
They love small
gatherings,
rather intimate
social things,
where they can
tell some jokes
and have a lot of fun.
When we are at
the shore,
I gather bathers
and chat up a storm;
they gather shells
that have
washed ashore.
They say that is
my norm.
I say I am happy
that they are
themselves.
I guess it’s
true that opposites
attract;
introverts and
extroverts
can make a
happy pack.
Until, I talk
too much
and they —
to a one —
say, “Give us
some peace.
Please hush.
Enough with the fun.”
It is then, in
jogging shoes, I’ll
slip out the door
and find a
few people more.
“A top of the day,”
I say, “Want to
have some fun
and go for a run?”
They usually just
look and frown
and wonder if
I’m some kind of clown.
I say, “I’m just an
extroverted jogger
jogging around town.”
More often than not,
I wind up jogging alone
— yes, a lot. But I know
after my run,
my family — to a one —
will be happy to see me
back home.
Maybe.

While watching
Masterpiece
on Sunday evening,
he was overcome with
a deep sense of wellbeing —
such quality programming —
the music, the images,
the drama — Masterpiece
only on PBS.
This calls for a toast.
Masterpiece, a friend —
the host
with the most
sophistication,
friendly persuasion.
Can a person love
a television station?

He had a rictal response
to so much video venery
he actually got bleery
and had a hard time
putting his plimsolls
on his soles
so he could run
through the coppice
and past
the borstal
with young offenders all.
A harridan
yelled at him
and every other man —
one of whom
was a lapidary
taking a break from
polishing the gems
for a fun run
with his friends.

*italicized words I had to
look up from A Legacy of Spies
by John le Carré.

.

The mob mentality is just under the surface;
Ready to emerge and wreak havoc. It did

That in the most sophisticated society in
The world in the twentieth century. Why

Would it not happen in the United States?
It is trying to happen, but the United States

Is a society of immigrants who, over the
Years, has learned to live together. This

Diversity, these years of learning to live
Together will serve us well during these

Years of fascist emergence and race baiting
And tribal hating. I trust, I pray, we will

Emerge stronger, more diversified with pride
And a desire to make amends for our sins of

The past — slavery and the attempted, thwarted
Ethnic cleansing of Native Americans. I trust

That our experiment in democracy will endure
And persevere and emerge wiser, more mature,

More compassionate and a witness to the world —
The experiment in representative democracy

Survives, thrives and, gloriously, remains
Alive.

Thugism: he incites the base
to violence against women,
blacks, browns, Democrats —
inciting the base: “Lock her up,
string them up, cut them up,
slam them down,” “Rope, Tree,
Journalist.” But the thugs own
the whole government — three
branches. What are they afraid
of? Why are they raging? Why
are they stirring up hate? Why
are they being thugs? Because
they are angry, old, white men
who know it is just a matter
of time before they die…off?
Bingo! Lord, is it too much
to ask that you hurry along a
cheeseburger chomping, diet
Coke swilling, money-grubbing
angry, old, white thug to his
heavenly conversion in your
eternal grace and gift us with
the absence of one, angry, old,
white man with many, many more
angry, old, white men to follow?
Wait, I’m an old, white man.
Will I have to be there with
them? Oh, you are going to gift
them all with compassionate,
heavenly hearts? Really? I was
just kind of kidding about the
conversion thing. You can do
that? Even Trump? McConnell?
Seriously? Promise? Please?
Oh, you mean in heaven. Right.

I sat at my desk
closed eyes,
wondering
who was the
most important
person I might surmise.
I’ve always thought
it was I
since birth,
but lately,
in my head,
I
have been wondering
if it might be
someone else
instead.
Well, I heard
the noise of a truck
so I opened my
eyes
and I was
immediately struck
seeing the
most important
person on earth.
Of course, how
did I not understand?
It was he
giving my
garbage a chuck
into his garbage truck.
Of course,
it is Rick,
the garbage man.

Did these people have histories
of corruption before being ap-
pointed and confirmed as mem-

bers of the 
(p)-resident’s cabinet
or was it the post-confirmation
proverbial cookie jar in the

kitchen that caused them to
jump on the stool, pop the lid
and inject fingers eager for the

cookies of private jet rides,
super expensive office decor-
ations, vacations at tax payer

expense, etc., etc., etc.? Does
before even matter? You’d like
to think that core values are

significant for such important
positions. But it’s like asking
if the (p)-resident ever engaged

in corruption before becoming
the President of the United
States. What’s that about the

pope…? Of course he did and
that should have been a dis-
qualifying history, but that’s

what it is — history and he was
elected and we can only deal
with what he does as president.

The important thing is what
they all do — now. Maybe
temptation and the assumption

of power and the thought of
untouchability are just too
great to resist. Birds of a

feather, you know and now
some of those closest to the
(p)-resident are soon to be

jail birds. Perhaps, one day
even the orange-headed thrush
flitting around the White House

and flying around the country
will be caught and rushed off
to a federal bird-cage.

Emily cut her own path,
danced to her own time.
She could write in
the preferred meter of the day
and add classic rhyme,
but she went away
from the poetry of her day.
Proper looking — the portraits portray,
she had a rebel’s spirit
— broke the rules,
went her own way.
Cloistered
with a fantasy life,
her head and heart rife
with slant rhymes
and broken lines
and meter gone astray
and poetry that
was here to stay.
Thank goodness her
sister found all the
unpublished pages
so Emily could live
as one of the poetic sages.

My mother loved listening to
“Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered”
on a 33 and a third rpm
along which she would hum
and with a longing look
sing the last verse of “I Could
Write a Book”:
And the simple secret of the plot
Is just to tell them that I love you, a lot
Then the world discovers as my book ends
How to make two lovers of friends.
I think she was at her wit’s end.
She would look a bit sad.
I think she was thinking about my dad.
They passed like ships in the night.
She wished to be on an anniversary cruse
or a vacation flight.
She was a romantic who loved musicals.
He fashioned himself a realist
who only wanted facts provable.
I was just a kid listening to the record
but, in time, knew I took after my mom
loving love-type musicals in any chord.
From Pal Joey to The King and I
I would just sit, listen, watch, laugh and cry,
while my dad downstairs watched
Dragnet and liked it when
Jack Webb said, “Just
give me the facts, ma’am,”
and saluted the detective
with his nightcap.
A prosaic man,
my dad was a big fan.
Years later, my father
watched c-span
while my mother,
in the next room,
shadow danced with
the King of Siam.
They are now both gone
having missed out on a fun, romantic run.
I sit with my wife
watching musicals on TCM
looking lovingly at each other and singing,
“…how to make two lovers of friends.”

He took misogynistic aim
And tried to shame
Ms. Daniels
By calling her face an animal name.
The grammar school, school yard bully
Has stooped to a new low.
He thinks he is wholly bully
But he is no substance, all show.
The (p)-resident should line dance the Hully Gully
(the original Wholly Bully as an old guy might know)
Right out-of-town; please, please just go.