Fog

A charcoal gray cloud sits on the water,

As both the shoreline and the sun

Press down on the receding fog

To create another reality.

Buildings and people emerge

From the land-hugging cloud,

Their transformation to yesterday’s shape

Still incomplete.

Is the half-revealed man invalid

Because I recall another morning

When there was no ambiguity, 

No undefined limitation?

If a last reconfiguration 

Of the dispersing mist,

Momentarily erases his existence,

How convincing is his image?

When the sun  prevails,

And I can assert that the man is complete,

Should I not allow for further changes that

My mind and eye may create?

Is not all understanding a matter

Of the moment,

That demands of the brain a permanence

Which will surely prove incandescent, but transitory? 

New York Joy

It doesn’t always play that well.

Sometimes the cacophony overwhelms,

And the pace drives you past the brain’s “alert”.

That and the girls in 6 inch platforms, ouch.

The midtown street level

Home to ubiquitous cellphone,

Insistently reaffirms your singularity,

Shouting into a world monumentally indifferent.

There is a morning symphony

Of jack-hammers

Tearing at the flesh of a building

Too small to meet the competition.

Did I mention the poor, the drugs,

Or the garish facade the city presents?

If all the imperfections do not dissuade...

Welcome to New York!

Below the bullshit level runs the subway.

There is no first class seating. 

Here outrages take the form

Of preforming artists and the crippled.

Not many folks race down the train cars,

And the dress code is whatever you’re wearing.

If you’re old and tired, someone may give you their seat.

A $25,000 watch will elicit suspicion or anger.

If you’re brave, conversation is possible:

Smile and ask directions to the Village.

Even money,  you’ll get an answer.

Odds are 2 to 1 the directions will be wrong.

Central Park is as incongruous 

As a chance trip with Alice through the Looking Glass.

The wonder in a young boy’s eyes at his first Yankee game

Fails when compared to the impossibility of the Park.

Strolling the Poets’ Walk

A lone saxophone plays a sexy lament.

Yards away a road, empty of cars,

Serves bikers, runners, dogs and horse-drawn coaches.

Hot-dog vendors, orthodox Jews,

And a contingent of tourists from Lapland,

Observe the acrobatics of a break-dancer,

Who hopes to make $50.00 before his noon audition.

Ball fields, playgrounds, lakes, gardens,

And the trees tell of the seasons

While keeping the surrounding avarice 

Beyond the Park’s borders.

It is in the order of water walking

That both the free Park

And the not so free Subway work.

They’re the best civilization has to offer.

Family

No one here is wanted by the police.

Everyone appears healthy,

And almost all can discuss

Movies and off-channel TV networks.

I walk the pier at Imperial Beach,

Where fishermen line both railings and

Occasionally land small sardines.

Only then can I imagine eternal sufferance.

Evan, my emaciated grandson, 

Eats fries at the grill, protecting his paper plate 

With an encircling arm.

At four foot ten, he best protect his food.

I’m the only current resident that thought

Harry Potter and “The Deathly Hallows”

Was a dreadful movie;

Two hours of water pistol fights.

All nine family visitors leave this week.

I shan’t make predictions for the next generation.

Look what a lousy job we’ve done.

Did I tell you, all had a very good time.