He read about some tender good-byes;
half-way through, he started to cry;
the good-byes
were tender enough for
it’s antecedent, “God be with you”
to come through;
and then he realized he had a really
hard time saying good-bye
to two of the most important people in his life,
because those two of the most
important people in his life
left this life
before he had the chance or
even the thought to say good-bye.
Now, all these years later, he still
doesn’t know how to say good-bye
while he says over and over and over
to them, “God be with you,” before he
is sleeping
and meets them with a greeting
before their dawn’s leaving.

*idea from a meditation by Frederick Buechner

Whenever I order anything in a restaurant,
the response is, “Perfect.”
When I check-out at a drug store and pay with a debit card,
the response is, “Perfect.”
When I check-out at a drug store and pay with a credit card,
the response is, “Perfect.”
When I check-out anywhere and pay with cash,
the response is, “Perfect.”
Whenever I call a vendor to inquire when the company might be arriving
and offer a suggested hour when I’m asked,
the response is, “Perfect.”
Whenever I stop at the one gas station with gas-jockeys and say, “Fill ‘er up,”
the response is, “Perfect.”
If I say, “Ten gallons, please,”
the response is, “Perfect.”
If I order a happy-hour pinot grigio,
the response is, “Perfect.”
If I order a happy-hour double, well bourbon neat with ice on the side,
the response is, “Perfect.”
If I order a happy-hour single, well vodka on the rocks,
the response is, “Perfect.”
Whatever I do or say,
the response is, “Perfect.”
Why wasn’t that word in common use as a response
when my kids were growing up —
as in any parental request, instruction or advice?
“Perfect, dad.”
Do you think I would have believed them —
even for one second?

It just started to rain, a needed rain,
Which under most circumstances would
Be more than enough for vivid images in
A dream, but my dream was musical
Featuring “Chances Are” by Johnny
Mathis and vague, ghost like images
Of life back in the day, which in the
Bright light of day, wasn’t very good
At all having attended a reunion which
Blew the myth to smithereens, so I
Wonder what the chances are that I
Would have a heart aching dream about
An old girlfriend who I was head over
Heels in love with and learned at that
Reunion that she had died a dreadful
Death of a horrible disease. Chances
Are.

Another gift from France —
now an Oak tree,
from where so many
Americans had
fallen to eternity,
then, the Statue of Liberty
with these poetic
words chiseled
for you and me:

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

This time to cross a desert border —
children yearning to meet
parents
and to be free.

In this now cruel country,
it is not to be.

He rode past his old home 
     and it looked quite nice 
with the postage stamp 
     front lawn and fenced in 
backyard. Then he 
     passed his old church,
gospel sing at six, 
     and saw his cousin 
fall on the front step
     breaking her arm. Just 
up the street was what
     was left of his grand-
parents home where 
     he and his folks spent 
every Sunday afternoon
     eating supper, playing 
Carrom and watching 
     Lawrence Welk. He 
drove “Up the Ave.” as 
     Michigan Ave. was 
called back in the day
     and maybe to this day.
It looked like a bombed 
     out street in Syria. He 
thought about crossing 
     Halsted Street to 
see his old grade school
     but he turned left and 
headed south just as 
     his parents had done
sixty-four years ago
     in what was known
as “White Flight,”
     as, perhaps, it still 
is.

*idea from the poem "Mercy, Mercy, Me"
by John Murillo

He awoke with fresh breath,
a sparkle on his bright,
white teeth, coiffed hair

and a gleam in his eye.
He went to do  stomach
exercises and realized his

abs were washboard hard.
After dressing, he quaffed
a glass of freshly squeez-

ed orange juice, drank an
extra smooth smoothie and
downed a cup of gourmet

coffee. As he opened the
door to take a ride in his
state of the art electric

sports car he encountered
an inferno. “Welcome home,”
stated the sinister voice.

“Wait a minute, if I’ve
died and I am thirty-five
and incredibly gorgeous,

isn’t this supposed to be
my just eternal reward?
“You are and this is.”

With that he awoke with a
start and headed to the
bathroom for relief. He

stared into the mirror
which reflected back his
bald, seventy-three-year-

old head and a face of
wrinkles and bags. He
breathed a sigh of relief.

While brushing his teeth
with foamy paste dripping
down his chin, he mumbled

and laughed, “Good morning,
handsome.” “Did you just
say something, dear?”

So we adopted a six-year-old female Chocolate Lab
Who had just given birth to a litter followed by being
Spayed and then journeyed from one foster home
To another in short order. Needless to say, she had
Emotional issues and then we learned quickly she
Wasn’t leash trained and she is very, very strong
And we got workouts just trying to walk her down
The street and then to our everlasting gratitude,
We learned that she is content to be on an extended
Leash in the backyard. Other dogs within eyesight
Go nuts just looking at this beauty, but she, full
Of her feminine wiles just sits and glances
From barking dog to barking dog and if we are
Correct, there is a bit of a smile on that pretty
Face with a come hither look. Fortunately, the
Boys were all on extended leashes, too.

Capitalism has become
what Marx
knew it would become —
the all-owning, all-consuming
monster
until nothing is left to be
owned
and what is owned
is owned
by a hand-full of
greedy, avaricious
individuals for whom
“it,” whatever commodity
“it” is, isn’t ever enough and
those hollowed-out
individuals hire
lobbyists to convince
legislators and the
executive
to vote and act
on their behalf
because the elected
officials will
get lots of money
to convince people
through half-truths
and all-out lies to
vote them back
into office so they
can continue to
pass legislation
in favor of the
hollowed-out
few who
consume
while people
sink in the
polluted soil
and suck
fouled air
and drink
contaminated
water and
who don’t
have enough
money to
buy the poison
foods and shabby
products and
they can’t get
the medical
treatment for
all their ills
and they die
and the monster
begins
to eat it’s own
product and
it consumes
itself,
is poisoned
and collapses
under its own
weight in
the Grand Canyon,
gurgling,
bubbling,
sizzling,
filling
the canyon
with toxins
and finally
dying
an excruciating
death.
Good-bye,
Capitalism
and everyone and
everything
and there isn’t
even a proletariat
to rise.

a bluejay charged a grackle;
it seemed almost too much to tackle;
the jay was protecting a nest;
while prettier than almost all the rest,
jays always play the backyard bully,
but against a thieving grackle,
the jay gets my backing fully.

Blog posts for me are
like my jogging three
to four miles a day,
five days a week,
forty-eight weeks a
year for forty-five
years — somewhere
around forty-thousand
miles jogging. That’s
a lot of miles and
moving toward a lot
of posts — no kudos,
no awards, just the
satisfaction of doing
it.