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unpublished pages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.

Fifty-years ago today, when I was twenty-three,
I watched Carlos and Smith,
John and Tommie —
sprinters, tall, slim, swift
who could run like the wind.
They stood, strong men,
on the Olympic podium
medals around their necks,
black gloved fists held high,
systematic, endemic racism to defy,
faces looking down to the ground
as if to say,
“We’re ashamed of the US of A.”
They were roundly condemned,
but I admired those men
(and still do, to this day)
and their prowess and might.
I, a young man of white,
knew that they were right.

leaves fall into net;
waterfall tumbles to pond;
fifteen goldfish swim content.

After morning exercises — stretch
bands for his aging upper body
and rolls for his stomach like

Suzanne Somers did in the com-
mercial many moons ago, he sat
at his closed computer, looked out

the window at the blowing wind
and overcast sky, clicked his timer,
closed his eyes and let time roll

by, over him, under him and
around as he counted his breaths,
deeper and deeper, rolled his head

left and right and left and right
and hung his head while sitting
very upright breathing deeply.

The alarm on his watch went
off. He didn’t want it to end.
He breathed as deeply as he

could for a minute more and
opened his eyes to a bright,
sunny sky and soft, swaying

branches of the trees. Yes, he,
his wife and their Chocolate Lab
would go for a jog later. He

opened his computer and clicked
mail. It was time for him to read
the three meditations and three

poems that greeted him and then the
e-mails that came into his in-box
during the night and awaited his

attention. Oops, he could smell
the soup on the stove. That meant
it was boiling away. He rushed

to the kitchen, turned down the
heat under the pot and grabbed
a cup of coffee mumbling to

himself on his way back to the
study, welcome to reality. Might
as well let the news intrude.

Braces clamped on newly stem-celled knees;
hiking sticks in hand; stop watch set. His

wife and Chocolate Lab took off toward the
woods. He started his slow jog behind.

“See you back in 30 minutes,” he called.
The cold wind out of the northwest hit

him in the face. He felt invigorated and
full of gratitude. His knees felt good.

In a paraphrase of the Paul Simon song,
he called down to his knees, “Still faith-

ful after all these years.” The wind whip-
ped against the tear tearing it from his

face. He breathed deeply and basked in the
heart warming grace as he increased his

pace, cold northwest wind in his face.

Half-way through the summer
he ran out of steam to make
any more soup, but the temp-
erature plunged and the leaves

started to turn and well…this
morning he took out of the
refrigerator the big pot with
the remains of the homemade

chili, the plate with the remains
of the baked squash with pork
sausage from last evening’s
dinner; scraped the squash into

the large pot added one chopped
link of summer sausage and pro-
ceeded to clean out the vegetable
crisper of squash, green onions,

Romain lettuce, a sweet potato,
red beets, and several Brussel
Sprouts, saving all that he could.
He’d add some carrots and celery

later. Next came tomatoes, chopped
garlic, a super chili, sans seeds
hotter than a Habanero, filtered
lard, olive oil. He poured in the

chicken stock, dropped in two beef
bouillon cubes, Italian seasoning,
sea salt, pepper, added some grated
Parmesan cheese and stirred. The

heat on the stove went from four,
to three to two to simmer to low.
Before even dipping the ladle for
a taste test, he felt contentment

wash over him and that really was
his purpose for making the first
pot of Stone Soup of the fall. Oh,
his wife, who did sample the soup,

told him it simply was delicious
— especially the broth, which made
the whole morning’s effort worth-
while. Contentment, appreciation.

What a combination! Now for a nap,
and then a jog followed by a tête-
à-tête with John le Carré and finally
a bowl of Stone Soup du Jour.

Yes, it’s true;
It’s contextual
Thru and thru.
In conservative
Circles, I’m
Liberal, and
In liberal circles
I’m fairly
Conservative;
It’s true.
It’s hard
to admit.
I don’t want
To be thought
A twit
Or nit-wit
Or hypocritical
Pseudo wit,
Or without
A core value,
But
It’s contextual
Thru and thru.
It’s who I am
And, probably,
If you are
Honest,
It’s
You, too.