Little Tua

Tua was a baby
When I rescued him
From the villagers.
His parents
Had been killed
By hunters
There in the jungles
Of Southern Thailand,
And he was very sick,
More dead than alive.
One of his eyes
Was badly infected,
So I treated him with
Human eye medicine,
And to my surprise,
It worked.
Tua, the name I gave him,
Which means animal
In the Thai language,
Was a chamort,
Otherwise known as
A mortsang.
He was a nocturnal creature
With a reputation
For ferocity somewhat akin
To the wolverine
Back in North America,
And was supposed to be
Virtually untamable,
But he became
The best pet I ever had.
He was similar,
In body type,
To a mongoose,
Except they can grow
Up to four feet long,
Stand about two feet high,
And are natural experts
At climbing trees
In their jungle habitat.
He probably would have perished
Had I not discovered
His favorite delicacy by accident.
In moving a box
To make way
For my new guest,
I scattered a bunch
Of cockroaches,
And he immediately
Came to life,
And pounced on them
For a feast
Fit for a jungle king.
The poor thing
Must have been starving,
For I spent half the night,
Dislodging my
Unwelcome quests
So my new predator
Could dine.
From that night forward,
We were inseparable.
He would sleep
In the rafters
During the day,
And as soon as
Late evening came,
Down he would come,
Looking for food.
If I had already
Gone to bed,
He would come up
And grab my little finger
And give it a tug.
If I didn’t respond
Fast enough,
He would chomp down
A little harder
Until he was sure
I was awake,
So I could scare out
Some dinner for him.
Tua was a very smart
Little animal.
I suppose by the process
Of natural selection,
They have to be intelligent
To survive in the jungle.
I never had to toilet train him.
He saw me using
The toilet just once,
And got the idea immediately.
From then on,
He used the toilet,
Just like a real person.
I have had many dogs
Over the years,
But not a single one of them
Was anywhere near
As sharp as Tua.
He used to ride on my shoulder
Everywhere I went,
And when I was riding
My motorcycle,
He would come along too.
He seemed to love
The wind rushing through
And combing his hair.
He would travel up
To the headlight,
Then cross overtop of me,
And head down
The other side
To the tail light’
Then back again.
When I stopped
Near a tree,
He would jump off
And scurry to the top,
Catching a frog or two
On the way up,
And as soon as I
Got back on the motorcycle,
Down he would come,
And jump back up
On my shoulder.
The only trouble
I ever had with Tua
Was when I got a parrot.
I quickly discovered
That parrots were another
Delicacy in his eyes.
I would hear the parrot
Squawking late at night,
There would be Tua
On top of the cage
Trying desperately
To get to the bird.
I would grab his tail
And stick it in the cage
And let the parrot
Chomp down on it,
But it was a lesson
That had to be repeated
Over and over again
Every second or third night.
I would have loved
To have taken him back
To the United States with me,
But he would never
Have been allowed in.
Fortunately I found
Someone else who had one,
So I turned him over
To them before I left.
That was a good thing too,
Because he got so big
That he became
A burden to carry.
Just imagine
A forty pound animal
Expecting to ride
On my shoulder while
I motored down the street.
He was no longer
My little Tua.

Without Pretense

She came across
As strikingly beautiful
And elegantly sweet,
With words that flowed
With tranquil ease.
She impressed me
By not trying to impress me,
Or sell me on
Who she wanted me
To think she was.
She simply was,
And made no pretense
To be anything else
Than who she was,
And for me
That was like
A breath of fresh air,
Refreshingly clean
And fragrant
With possibility.

My Phony Detector

My radar
Is finely tuned
To ferret out
Phonies hiding
Amongst the people
I encounter.
I have little patience
For putting up with
Anyone who pretends
To be something
They obviously aren’t,
And I imagine
The same hold true
For almost anyone
Else out there as well.
Why then,
Would anyone bother
Trying to fake
Feelings or emotions?
Most of us
Just aren’t that good
Of actors
Or actresses
To pull it off.
Just be yourself,
And be honest,
Is the best advise
I can give.

Rafting the Kern

White water rafting
Has always been
A passion of mine,
So when a good friend
Invited Becky and I,
For a weekend
Father-daughter adventure,
Rafting the Kern River,
I had no reservations.
A group of girls,
Ages twelve to sixteen,
From the local
Mormon Church
Wanted to go
Because the boys
Had gone before,
And their experience
Sounded exciting.
Becky, however,
Was less than thrilled
With the idea.
Her apprehension
That Papa was crazy
And would do
Almost anything
For a thrill
Turned to stark terror
On the way there,
And I was treated to
A running commentary
Of the most comical sort.
Our first sighting
Of the Lower Kern
Catapulted Becky’s fear
Into orbit
And even got
My adrenaline running.
I watched in stunned silence
As the waters
Fought their way
Down the mountain
Through a deep
Boulder strewn gorge.
There was hardly
A section anywhere
That was calm
And tranquil.
It was a roiling,
Tumultuous flood
Cascading down
The mountain,
And Becky questioned
How a fish could
Even survive that.
The signs along the way
Certainly didn’t help
Ease her concerns,
Especially the one
That announced,
“Danger, 279 People Killed
So Far On This River!”
Even I had doubts
As we looked down
On the river
With all its raging fury.
We asked
A Forest Ranger
About that sign,
And he assured us
Most of those
Were drunken fishermen
Who fell off the rocks.
They had to be
Rescued constantly.
I reassured myself
That the church
Would never take
The girls anywhere
Really dangerous,
But Becky
Had less confidence in them
Than I did.
As we traveled farther up
Into the mountains,
We passed another sign
That said
“Now Entering the
Los Padres
National Forest,”
And Becky pointed out
How ludicrous that was
For there wasn’t
A tree in sight,
Only jagged boulders
And an angry river.
The road meandered
Around steep rocky slopes
On its way up,
And Becky considered
The possibility
Of jumping out
And running back home.
She maintained
Her conversation of terror
Until we got to the camp
Just below Lake Isabella.
There were twenty girls there
With seven adults
And everyone was excited.
That next morning,
As we set up our gear
And prepared to get going
At the jump off spot
For the Lower Kern,
A river guide came along
And observed the girls
And studied the adults
In our party
And flat out
Told us we were crazy.
That lower river was wild,
He said,
And only the most
Experienced rafters
Should consider trying it,
And certainly not
With a bunch of young girls!
He strongly recommended
We try the Upper Kern instead.
“It would be
A whole lot safer
And a lot more fun
For everyone,”
He told us.
Someone prayed for a sign
And that one
Was loud and clear,
So we picked up our gear
And headed up river.
That turn out to be
A wise and fortunate decision.
The Upper Kern
Is a much tamer river,
One suitable
To a fun loving,
But inexperienced
Group like us.
We could relax
And enjoy the trip
Without much concern
For our safety.
We formed a group
Of five rafts
Going down river together
Splashing each other
And playing around
As we went.
Everyone, adults included
Wore a life jacket,
Not that we thought
We would need them.
We soon discovered
Even the lowly Upper Kern
Had a few tricks
Up its sleeves.
We found ourselves
Careening down rapids
Totally out of control.
Our coordination and teamwork
Left something to be desired
And most of the girls lacked
The skill, strength
And determination to row.
Nonetheless,
It was a race to be first
Around the rocks
And through the rapids.
One set of rapids
Wreaked havoc
With our group,
Dumping most of us
Into the water.
One mother
Who came along
Ended up
Breaking her tailbone
In that incident.
When we finally made it
To Lake Isabella,
We all were thankful
For that river guide’s advice.
Heck, we were challenged
Even by the mild mannered
Sister of the Lower Kern.
It is doubtful any of us
Would have made it through
The other route.

Lake Casitas

Each August
When Ruby’s birthday
Rolled around,
We would invite
A bunch of our friends
Out to Lake Casitas
For a summertime picnic.
We traditionally
Rented a pontoon boat
So that groups of us
Could putter
Around the lake.
We loved to meander
Along the shore
And work our way
Back into some
Of the narrow canyons
Looking for deer
As well as
Aquatic wildlife.
It’s usually very hot
That time of year,
But no matter how inviting
The water might look,
Swimming wasn’t allowed
Because it’s
A municipal reservoir.
That didn’t prevent us
From getting wet,
However.
As we crisscrossed
Lake Casitas,
We maneuvered
To soak the passengers
With each passing wave.
That was half the fun
Of piloting the boat.
My oldest daughter,
Becky,
Was the champion.
She was able
To catch one wave
That drenched
Everyone on the boat
From bow to stern.
Though those boats
Have a rated capacity
Of just twelve people,
We managed to load
Eighteen on one.
It wouldn’t have been so bad
If seventeen of them
Hadn’t decided
To position themselves
At the front end
Of the boat.
I wasn’t even remotely close
To sufficient weight
To counter all of them,
And the bow dug in
The first wave we hit
Almost tipping us over,
And nearly dumping
Everyone in the lake.
Fortunately,
We were able
To redistribute
Our load
And offload
A few people
For a safer ride,
And no park rangers
Were around
To witness
Our attempted
Mass dunking.
The girls relished
The opportunity
To motor off
With their friends
Away from the weight
Of parental supervision.
We figured
They were old enough
To handle the boat
By themselves,
And it gave them each
The opportunity
To play skipper.
On one such venture,
Ruby was in control
When one of the girls
Needed to use
The restroom,
So they beelined
For a couple
Floating toilets
At an island
In the lake.
The problem was
Ruby forgot
To slow down
And rammed the dock
At full speed.
It turned out
Some poor girl
Was inside
At the time,
And I can just imagine
Her being knocked
Off her seat
And all that stuff
Sloshing around.
No wonder the girl
Came out in a huff!
While the kids
Were having their fun,
There were plenty
For us to do
On shore.
There was lots
Of food to eat
And games to play,
And most of all,
The simple camaraderie
Of a group of friends
Relaxing on a lazy
Summer afternoon.
As evening approached,
We enjoyed
Listening to the kids
Recant the adventures
Of the day.
The tale about
Ruby and the toilet
Became a family classic,
A story that brings laughter
Every time it is told.

Boy Germs

As my daughters
Were growing up,
They amused me
With their evolving
Distinctions and comments
On the subject
Of boys and men.
By age four or five
They had developed
A phobia of something
They called boy germs.
To hear them talk
They were a peril
Akin to the plague.
As they entered their teens,
Guys suddenly became
“The masculine subspecies,”
A subtle but comical shift
In interpretation
Of the differences
Between the sexes.
That phase subsided
Almost as quickly
As it appeared,
And a more ominous phase
Took hold.
All of a sudden
They were talking
About the possibility
Of someday
Getting married
And having kids
Of their own.
Deep down,
I knew where
That conversation
Was heading.
When Becky,
My oldest daughter,
Met a guy she liked,
I knew immediately.
She didn’t have to
Say a thing.
It was written
All over her face.
She was on top
Of the world,
Practically
Dancing on air,
And boy germs
Were the least
Of her concerns.
I watched as
Becky’s and Sal’s
Love for each other
Grew and matured,
And I envied
Both their youth
And their passion.
It was Ruby’s turn next,
To overcome her fear
Of those treacherous
Boy germs.
She chose Alfred
To be her husband.
Nothing gives me
More peace of mind
Than knowing
My children are happy
And well taken care of.
No other success
I have had in my life
Comes remotely close
In value.

Acceptance

I instinctively knew
My acceptance
Of the man she chose
Meant the world
To my daughter, Becky,
But it still awed me
When she later told me
Had I not liked Sal,
She would probably
Have looked for
Someone else.
I had no inkling
I had that kind
Of power.
Fortunately,
I used it wisely.

Times Have Changed

I sat there listening incredulously,
Not believing my ears,
While two grown men,
Truck driver types,
Discussed in infinite detail
The art of dieting
And the quality
Of the food they ate.
They each were acutely aware
Of their calorie intake
As well as the fat
And the salt content
Of the food they ate.
They weren’t your
Run-of-the-mill
Health food fanatics
Or the youthful athletic
Types either.
They were two
Middle-of-the-road
Salt-of-the-earth types,
And such a conversation
Would have been unimaginable
Just a few short years ago.
Grown men just didn’t
Bother themselves
With such things.
The simple act of eating
Had become a complex ordeal.
Times have changed!

The Ultimate Compliment

I always enjoy being appreciated
For the work I do,
And perhaps the greatest compliment
That anyone could pay me
As an aspiring writer,
Is to read and obviously enjoy
The narratives I have written.
At a New Years Party
Of an old friend,
I met a sharp old fellow
In his seventies
Who expressed an interest
In seeing some of my work.
He sat there in rapt attention
Reading that book
Cover to cover
Practically all night long.
I found myself checking in regularly
Seeing which piece he was on
And catching his reminisces
About some of our common experiences.
It is incidences like that
That provide the encouragement
I need to keep going,
To keep writing,
To believe in myself
When I begin to doubt,
To know that someday
My work will be enormously popular.
All I want is for people
To enjoy the things I have written.
There is no finer compliment!

The Treasure Chest

The old sea chest
Was a relic
Of my grandfather’s reign,
But he had passed away
Long before my time.
The chest was always locked
When I was a kid,
And the mystery
Of what was inside
Kept me intrigued.
My mind ran wild
Imagining the treasures it held,
But I never got
To see what it contained
Until after my grandmother
Passed away,
And she lived
To the ripe old age
Of ninety-eight.
My grandfather
Had been a naval captain
At the turn of the century
And reportedly spent years
Sailing back and forth
To the various ports
Of Southeast Asia
And throughout the South Pacific.
I had always fanaticized
It to be a treasure chest
Full of gold coins,
Emeralds, diamonds
And other jewels
Plundered from
Asia and East India.
I was right
And I was wrong.
It turned out to be
Over thirty years
Worth of letters
Between my grandfather
And my grandmother,
Letters written
While he was at sea.
At the time,
I was profoundly disappointed,
But today,
I wish I had some
Of those letters to read.
What a treasure it would be
To see how
My grandfather thought,
And how the world
Appeared then.
Perhaps he
Was just like me,
Documenting today
For a world
I may never see.

The Silent Martyr

She had silenced
And subverted
All hers desires
To those of others,
And made their wishes
Her command.
Though she never
Articulated
What she wanted,
At least not
So others could hear,
She suffered
And raged inwardly
That none
Of her longings
Were ever fulfilled.

The Scorned Lover

The fact was
That she had found
Someone else,
And the relationship
Was now over,
But he couldn’t
Deal with that.
He tore himself apart,
Abusing himself relentlessly
For ever having trusted,
Raging that she
Was in the arms
Of someone else.
He cursed
The day he met her,
Mentally destroying
The value of everything
They had together.
His misery knew no bounds
And he dreamed
Of punishing her
For her alleged wrongs.
He wished her great harm
And fanaticized
About strangling her himself.
In every story he told,
He was the innocent victim.
He wallowed in the trough
Of those wretched feelings
For months on end
Punishing no one but himself.
He wondered why
She refused to come back
When what he really wanted
Was to make her to beg
So that he could turn her away.
Besides, everything about him
That she had once loved
Had been destroyed,
The victim of his anger,
But he could not see
Who he had become
Or his part
In the way things were.

The Recruiter's Words

I sat there
At the restaurant counter
In amused attention,
Listening to two guys
Trading stories
About the lies
They were told
By the military recruiters
Years ago.
They weren’t angry or bitter,
Just kind of laughing
About the promises made
And their own gullibility
To such deception.
They actually believed
The stories they were told.
Both men had enlisted
To avoid the draft,
And to have
A semblance of choice
About their assignments.
The military recruiters,
Who had quotas to fill,
Promised them the moon,
Then sent them
Wherever they were needed,
Not where they wanted to go.
One guy’s recruiter
Had shown him
Pictures of heavy equipment,
And told him
That he would be trained
To operate those things
As a combat engineer,
A useful skill out in the world.
He did get to see combat,
But never got to run
Any of the equipment promised.
He was also told
That he had to
Leave in four days
Or he wouldn’t get time off
For Christmas.
He discovered afterwards
That recruits with as few
A three days in the service
Still got the holiday.
The other guy
Was interested in
Signing up for the Air Force,
But was told
That they were full
And didn’t need
Any more people.
When he didn’t buy that,
His recruiter,
A girl with an engaging smile,
Painted a vivid picture
Of the fringe benefits
Of being in the army,
Especially about the women
He would meet
And the travel he would do.
He thought about that a lot
Over there in Vietnam.
They had a laugh or two
About lies they were told
And the innocence
And naiveté of their youth.

Choosing the Parents I Got

I was given
The parents I got
Through a lottery
I didn’t choose.
All I saw were
Their failures
And shortcomings.
My judgement
That they shouldn’t
Have been
The way they were
Left me in battle
With reality,
And the futility
Of that war
Never occurred to me.
I fought them
Tooth and nail,
More by subterfuge
Than by open warfare.
We had occasional battles
Of epic proportions,
But it was mostly
Minor skirmishes
In a protracted war
Of endurance,
A contest of wills
With no victor possible.
Resisting the fact
That they were my parents
Didn’t make them
Any less my parents.
Like it or not,
They were my parents
And I wasn’t going to
Change that fact.
I needed to choose them
Just as they were,
For better or worse,
But it took me
Almost a lifetime
To make that choice.

The Painter in My Family Tree

Woman of my grandmother,
Dana’s, generation
Generally weren’t allowed
To work outside the home
Back in the late 1800s,
So they often
Busied themselves
During their leisure
Painting or sewing.
Dana took up oil painting,
But lacking any formal
Art education,
She had no cognizance
Of perspective,
And her paintings
Always seemed
Somewhat askew,
And relatively primitive.
She basically had
Grandma Moses’ style
Long before
Grandma Moses did.
She mostly painted landscapes
And pictures
Of the family house at Dover.
There are still
A number of her paintings
Floating around
Somewhere out there
Within our family
Nearly forty years
After she passed away.
Who knows,
It could be genetics
That has me skew
The perspective of
The verbal pictures
I paint as well!

The Misfortune Machine

The three of us
Were on our way
Up to a project site
In Yosemite Valley.
There was the draftsman
Who was producing
CAD drawings for the project,
My oldest daughter,
Who was then fourteen years old,
And myself
Who was the project engineer.
We stopped at a restaurant
At the base of a steep grade
On US 5 North
Know as The Grapevine.
It was there
That we spotted
A biorhythm machine
That supposedly would predict
Our fortune based on
Our date of birth.
My daughter got hers first,
And although it was not
A particularly bad prediction,
It certainly wasn’t good either.
The draftsperson came next.
His was particularly bad
Especially in the area of
Endurance and sexual prowess.
I had a lot of fun teasing him
Until it came to my turn.
Mine was so bad
That I might as well have
Called it quits
Right then and there
If I believed in such things.
According to my prediction
I shouldn’t have bothered
Getting out of bed that day.
There was a negative twist
To each of the predictions
That got worse and worse
Each time a fortune was read.
It obviously had a bias for youth
And I was the oldest one there.
We laughed so hard
Over our predicted misfortunes.
I hate to think
What might happen
If someone without
A sense of humor,
Who actually believed
In such things,
Tried to use that machine.

The Key to Life

None of us started off life
With an owner’s manual,
And for the most part,
We had no road map
To guide us along the way.
We had to learn
The principles of life
Largely by trial and error,
And by the examples
Of those around us.
We may have had
One book or another
To give us a sense of direction,
But we had to discover
Our own unique style,
Taking account of,
And trying not to stumble over,
Our individual
Strengths and weaknesses.
We had to come
To our own conclusions
About the purpose
Of our trials and tribulations,
And define our own
Reasons for being.
We each had to examine
The events of our lives,
And make sense of it all.
From our experiences,
We develop a perspective
That largely determines
Whether the fact
Of our being human
Is viewed more as
A curse or a blessing,
And sometimes
Our point of view
Changes over time.
In essence we are each
Left to explore
What it is to be human,
To get a sense of
The things that control our life
And our attitude.
Life is more than just
Destiny and fate.
We don’t have to
Careen so blindly
Around the corners of life,
For we have options.
There is machinery involved,
Gears and levers
That allow us a sense of
Control over our life.
Examining that machinery
Could give us the key
To opening the door
To the possibilities of life.
It is that key
For which we struggle.

The Joy of Parenthood

Part of the joy
Of parenthood
Was listening to
All the funny things
The kids came up with
While growing up,
And the other part
Is reminding them
Of their comments
Now they are older.
They just don’t
Seem to appreciate
My photographic memory
For some reason,
But some of those memories
Are priceless.

The House of Games

Ours was a house of games.
My next younger brother,
Lee, and I,
Were both weaned
On interfamilial rivalry.
We honed our skills
Through years
Of hearty competition.
We learned to play
Chess and checkers,
Risk and Diplomacy,
Monopoly and Life,
Scrabble and numerous
Other board games
At a very early age.
We also played
Canasta and Cribbage
Fish, Draw, Hearts
And other card games.
If that wasn’t enough
To keep us entertained,
There was usually
A large picture puzzle
Partially put together
Somewhere in the house
To work on.

The Hike Down

Overlooking Oberammergau
In Southern Germany
Is a lofty peak
That summoned us skyward.
We rode the cable car
To the top of the mountain,
The same lift
That would be ferrying
Vast numbers of skiers
During the winter.
From the summit,
The town was a mere speck
Off in the distance.
The mountain afforded us
A magnificent
360 degree panorama
Of the surrounding hills
And farmlands.
We noticed
A few hearty pilgrims
Had decided to hike
Back down the mountain,
So we followed suit.
The slope down was
Steep and damp,
And led through
An alpine cattle ranch.
At one point I started to slip
And put my hand out
To catch myself
Only to land
Smack in the middle
Of a very liquid
Cow paddie.
That was the highlight
Of our entire vacation
For my daughter, Ruby,
Who was coming down
Right behind me
And had a front row seat
For the whole fiasco.
She was beside herself
Laughing hysterically.
To make matters worse,
When I approached
A small lake nearby
To wash my hands off,
I was chased off
By a rather possessive bull.

The Gypsy Strongman

He challenged anyone
Among the crowd
To try to lift
The lead weights
He carried.
As best I can figure,
He toted somewhere
In the neighborhood
Of six hundred pounds,
And he hoisted that load,
Many times a day,
Day in and day out.
Though he tried
To bait the brawniest
Among us,
There were no takers.
No one was willing
To be made the fool.
I shutter to think
Of how hard to toiled
For such precious little reward,
For he was a exhibitionist
Putting on a show
On the streets of Munich,
And begging for change.
What must he have thought
When his day was through?
Did he have mouths to feed
Other than his own?
Was that his lot in life,
To break his back
And wear himself out
For such a paltry sum?
Could there be
Any more pathetic
A brute than he?
I was again reminded
To count my blessings.

The Great Pretender

He put on
Quite a show
For the world,
Pretending to
Have it all together,
Perpetrating
The illusion
That he had it made.
He feigned abundance,
As if there was
No limit to his resources
But he secretly lived
In a world of scarcity,
And only acted as if
He didn’t have
A care in the world.

The Funeral Procession

You would have thought
That it was someone famous,
Certainly not a nephew of mine.
The procession of cars
Following the Hurst
Stretched as far as
The eye could see,
With headlights on
And flashers flashing,
Snaking their way
Through the streets
Of Vancouver.
The motorcycle police
Who escorted us
Had their hands full
Routing us through red lights
And across major intersections
On the drive from the mortuary
To the graveyard site.
Traffic was held up
In all directions
Until every single vehicle
Of the procession
Had made its way through.

The Food Revolution

A revolution has occurred
Almost overnight
Right under our noses
Here in this country.
It is a culinary revolution,
The likes of which
The world has never seen.
The types of food
Commonly available
Were extremely limited
In all but the major cities
Back in the fifties,
Not that I was a connoisseur
Of variety back then.
America pigged out during
The fast food revolution
That started with hamburgers
And later included
Pizza, chicken and tacos.
Fast food joints
Began to show up on
Every street corner
In almost every town
In America.
Salad joints were added
To the skirmish
For our dollar
And in answer to
Our battle of the bulge.
Wave after wave
Of ethnic restaurants
Established a toe hold,
Then stormed inner America
Capitalizing on
Our ethnic diversity
And on our insatiable
Demand for variety.
Among the earliest
Were Chinese and Italian eateries,
And these were followed by
Mexican, Japanese, Greek
Indian and Thai restaurants.
Seafood restaurants also became popular
Throughout America.
Sub shops, spaghetti houses
Barbecue and rib joints,
As well as the traditional
Steak and potatoes establishments
Joined the fray.
Breakfast and coffee houses
Became extremely popular.
The traditional fast food
Hamburger joints
Were forced to evolve
In order to keep up
With the competition.
Meanwhile our tastes
And appetites changed
As the country became
More health conscious.
It became common
For people to count calories
And cut down on
The fat content of their food.
Vegetarian fare
Became a common addition
To the menus
Of many restaurants
For the reformed carnivores
Among us.
Now it is becoming
Very common to see
Diverse restaurants
Grouped together
In a food court
Or in a single building
To cater to the varied
Whims and tastes
Of the general population.
No single restaurant
Can possibly fulfill
Everyone’s needs.
With the advent of
The food revolution,
Restaurant hopping
Has developed
Into an art form,
And I am a devotee
Of that art.

The Father He Never Knew

His father was
A hard man to figure!
He had worked hard
All his life,
And earned and kept
Every penny he ever made,
But he seldom smiled
And never seemed to enjoy
The fruits of his labor.
About all that could be said
Was that he kept his family
Fed and housed.
There were no extravagances though.
He chose to live
A simple and austere life
And always did so
In a loveless fashion.
He was usually away on business
And was seldom if ever
There for his family,
And certainly not for his son
Who grew up resenting
His father’s absence
Almost as much
As he detested
His occasional presence.
There was a distance
Between father and son
That was never bridged
By even a single conversation.
The son left
To make it on his own
As soon as he could.
Many years later
The son was notified
That his father
Had passed away,
And he suddenly realized
That he didn’t even know
Who his father was
Or what he did in life.
His father was
A virtual mystery to him.
He felt very odd
Attending the funeral
Of a man he never knew,
And was amazed to discover
Who he was.
His father had amassed a fortune,
Built a local empire
Of businesses and real estate,
And even had a major hospital
Built in his name.
He had become the champion
Of numerous public causes,
Funded a public library,
Supported the local boy scouts,
Given funds for medical research,
Built a home for unwed mothers
And done countless other deeds.
There was a long list of people
And organizations
Citing the charity he had done,
And his son was curious to find
What had been left for him.
The wealth was largely dissipated
Between the charities
His father supported
And only a token amount was left
For his son to manage
And that didn’t come
As much of a surprise.
Besides, the son had already become
Successful in his own right
And didn’t need to depend
On his fathers generosity.
What did astound the son, though,
Was when he discovered
That his father had carried
A picture of him
In his wallet for all those years.
He had kept track
Of his son’s development
And taken pride in the son’s efforts
To make it on his own.
Someone told him how his father
Had privately bragged about his son,
About how he would someday
Be a great citizen
And make a difference in the world
Even without the
Influence and wealth of his father.
That prophesy had already come true.
Somehow the fact that his father
Actually loved and admired him
Made all the difference in the world.
His son could finally accept
That part of himself
That he had constantly battled
And kept buried
For all those years,
The part of him
That was exactly like his father.

The Desert Rat

I tended to spend
Every waking moment
That I wasn’t at school
Traipsing through
The surrounding desert
And local mountains
There in Las Vegas.
I would set out walking
And go for miles.
I was so conditioned
To desert survival
That I never needed
To take water with me.
I could walk all day long
In 120 degree heat
And suffer no ill effects.
I knew the desert
Like the back of my hand.
I knew the old Indian trails
And watering holes.
I knew where I could find
Chuckwallas and desert turtles,
Scorpions and centipedes.
I knew the all the old mines,
And had explored many
Of their abandoned shafts.
I had climbed
The stark barren rocks
Of Sunrise Mountain
Numerous times
And had encountered
Some of the desert hermits
Who lived amongst
The piles of refuse discarded
At the edge of civilization.
The desert was home to me,
And it was there
That I found peace
And solace for my spirit
As a teenager.

The Burden of My Incompletions

It’s all the little things
That I failed
To complete
That come back
To daunt me
And cloud my mind.
One by one
They pile up,
Robbing me of
Of clarity
Of thought and action,
Creating a burden
That I must carry
And an inordinate complexity
To the life I live.
This ridiculous
Pile of incompletions
I have built
Are the muck
That has me mired
In the circumstances
Of my life.
Life would be
Infinitely simpler
If I just
Got things done,
And never put off
Until tomorrow
What I could
Be done today.

The Cliffs of Palace Verdes

This is California at its finest,
Sitting here at the edge
Of the Palace Verdes cliffs,
Soaking up the sun
And the scenery before me.
I watch the waves
Wash over the rocks
Far down below
Leaving their foamy trail behind
While the surfers
Ply their trade
On the very same waves
Off in the distance.
I can see the kelp beds
Hugging the water surface
Adjacent to the shore,
And numerous pelicans, seals
And weekend fishermen
Hunting for the fish
Hiding beneath the surface.
I watch as the pelicans
Dive bomb their prey
While seagulls squabble
Amongst themselves.
There are sailboats
Crisscrossing the bay
And I gaze in wonder
As a large yacht,
Perhaps 200 foot long,
Cruises by.
The view is spectacular
From this vantage point,
And while I write
Describing what I see,
Others meander by
Absorbed in the view.
It is a day
For family outings
And dogs taking
Their masters
For a walk.
A young couple
Settles down
With blankets
And picnic basket
Not far away.
A local artist patiently
Paints the scene
Thankful that
The sun is warm
And that the wind
Doesn’t try
To steal her work.
Yes, this is definitely
California living
At its best
On a gorgeous day
In February
While much of the rest
Of the country
Lies bound in snow.

The Boy at the Bow

Being blessed with
Internal fortitude,
I never had to worry
About getting seasick.
Consequently,
As a young boy
Of six or seven
On my first
Deep sea fishing trip,
I stationed myself
At the bow
Where the boat’s motion
Was the most dramatic.
There I was
Perpetually gazing outward,
Relishing the taste
Of the wet, salty air,
With the sea wind
Blowing in my face,
Excitedly watching
And experiencing
The boat’s battle
With the ocean swells.
I can imagine
The silly look of ecstasy
I must have had
Plastered on my face
As I dreamed
Of someday sailing
Those waters.

The Battle

All told,
In the six years
She battled cancer,
Cecilia was admitted
To the hospital
No fewer than
Seventy-five times.
She fought valiantly,
With every sinew
And muscle she had
To stay alive,
And endured years
Of alternating regimens
Of radiation
And chemotherapy
Until all hope vanished.
Maybe sometime
In the not-to-distant-future,
Such torturous
Medical procedures
Will become
A thing of the past,
But until then,
Surgery, radiation
And chemotherapy
Are the most effective
Weapons we have
In the war against cancer.
Sometimes,
As in Cecilia’s case,
The cancer wins
No matter how potent,
Or extensive
The countermeasures taken.

The Aged Boxer

She was an elderly dog,
Well past her prime,
Huffing and puffing,
Out for a morning walk.
The old boxer had
Clearly seen better days.
It was obviously
A struggle for her
To keep up
With her master’s
Leisurely pace.
She no longer got excited
By the other dogs
She encountered,
Or pulled at the leash
To get her master moving,
Yet she insisted on going.
She didn’t want
To be left out
No matter how difficult
It was for her.
She was still
A proud member
Of the family.

Tapestry

Behold the tapestry
That is my life.
There are parts of it
Worn threadbare
From repetitious tale,
And other areas
Scarcely remembered,
But no less
Important to the quality
Of the rug.
It’s a complex story
Of interwoven events,
Strange coincidences,
Shear luck,
And simple patterns
That I call my past.
The threads from which
The mesh is made
Varies from coarse
To the finest silk.
It’s a picture
Of infinite detail
That changes color
In accordance with
The angle looked.
Ultimately it may not say
Anything of who I am,
Or it may say everything.
It may show me unique
Or it may show
How I am no different
From anyone else.
It’s the essence
Of my humanity.

Suspended Animation

Now imagine if you can,
A whole bunch of us
Sleep walking through life,
Indifferent to outcome,
Apathetic about the future
Unconcerned for purpose,
Disengaged from each other,
Spiritually uninspired,
Emotionally unattached,
Going through the motions,
And pretending to be alive.
If you were to suddenly awaken
And discover a world like that,
Would you even try
To resurrect the apparent dead?
Could real people
Actually live like that?
What if such a state
Of suspended animation
Was the norm
Rather than the exception,
Would you bother
Trying to wake people up?
Would you even care?
Would you be as indifferent to them
As they are to you?
How fully awake
Is the world in which you live?
Hopefully, you count yourself
Among the living!

Summer Time Friend

Call it a summer fling
If you will,
But what we had
Was extraordinary.
We were both young
And so alive,
Fully expressed,
And passionately free
Without a care
In the world.
Each of us was
Momentarily escaping
The rigors
Of collegiate studies,
You from your world
And me from mine.
I first saw you
Walking alone
Along the sands
Of the beach
Enjoying the wind
Blowing through your hair,
And the feel of the waves
Tickling your feet.
It was so blissfully easy
Falling in step with you
Matching you pace for pace.
Your smile said it all
And nothing else
Needed to be said
As we walked together
Wordlessly down the beach.
We never left
Each other’s side
That entire summer.
We melted into each other,
And let the warmth
Of the summer sun
Stoke the fires of our passion.
We walked that beach
Countless times,
Sometimes
In the early morning,
And sometimes
Late at night
By the light of the moon.
We played in the surf
And hunted seashells together.
We chased crabs
As they scurried
Along the beach
And built castles
In the sand.
Then almost as quickly
As it began,
It ended
With you going off
To your world
And me to mine
So that we each
Could continue our studies.
I wanted to hold
Onto what we had,
To never let it go,
To have you forever,
But that was not to be.
We each got involved
In our studies
And never communicated
After that
Until a couple years later
When I received the note
That you were
Getting married.
I hope the kids
You someday have
Will capture your
Serenity of spirit,
Peaceful easy going ways
And angelic good looks.
Take them to play
On that beach
Where we met
And remember me
As I remember you.
Thanks for the memories.

Subterranean Candy Store

From my daughters’ perspective,
One of the most
Memorable events
Of our Munich stay
Was the time they discovered
The subterranean candy store.
I had worn my self out
Wandering the streets,
Taking in the sights
And sounds of the city,
But they still had
Energy to burn.
I went up to rest
While they went down.
It turned out there was
A subway station
Across from the guest house
Where we were staying,
And two floors down
They found their Mecca.
The shop was a cornucopia
Of colorful candies,
Many varieties of which
They had never seen before.
The two of them
Bought what they figured
Was a week’s supply
Of candied treats,
But their treasure
Only lasted them
Halfway back to the lodge,
And I ended up with
Two hyper young girls
On a profound sugar high.

The Search

I have never quite
Given up hope
Of finding you.
I know you are
Out there somewhere
Waiting just as
Impatiently as I am
For us to find
Each other.
There is a
Mystical image
Indelibly imprinted
On my mind,
Of who you are,
How you will look,
And the way
We will be together,
That keeps me
Forever hunting
And continually guessing
Who you might
End up being.

Solitaire

If we couldn’t compete
Against each other,
We competed
Against ourselves,
Playing variations
Of solitaire.
We whiled away
Countless hours
Pitting ourselves against
The fortunes
Of the deck.
These days,
Most desktop
Or laptop computers
Have some of the same
Insidious games
For killing time
I abused as a kid.

So That We Might Live

Cecilia’s passing
Was a turning point
For my daughters
And me.
We each struggled
To deal with grief
In our own way.
Mostly we
Turned inward
To sort through
The minefields
Of our feelings
And emotions.
Sometimes
We tormented ourselves
Speculating
What else
We could have
Said or done
That would have
Made a difference.
One thing was clear,
Cecilia had
A will to live
More than anyone else
We knew,
And she wasn’t
Taken easily.
Her death taught us
We could no longer
Take life for granted.
It gave us
A sense of urgency.
Our values changed.
Things that once
Seemed important
Suddenly had
No relevance to us.
Recovery took time,
Much more
Than we could possibly
Have imagined.
Each of us
Eventually emerged
Stronger and more resilient,
Having profited by
What we went through.
In a certain sense,
Cecilia died so that
Each of us might live.

Slow Children at Play

Whenever I spot
The street sign
That says,
“Caution,
Slow Children
At Play.”
I have to wonder
About the
City official
Who diagnosed
Their problem.
I always
Look around
Half expecting
To see some
Obvious idiots
Running about,
But as far as
I can tell,
They are just
Normal kids doing
The stupid things
Kids sometimes do.
Imagine the stigma
Of being labeled slow,
And having the whole
Community know.
No wonder
They tend to
Dart out into
The middle
Of the street!
They have to prove
How fast they are.

Sidewalk Artist

She drew pastel renditions
Of great masterpieces
On paper she had taped
To the Munich sidewalk.
While crowds of people
Milled about watching
And others wound their way
Around her makeshift studio,
She swiftly blended in
Flurries of color,
Creating works as beautiful
And as stylishly intricate
As the original paintings.
As soon as a drawing
Was completed
And the colors
Were fixed with spray,
It was rolled up
And sold to one of
The waiting spectators.
Her artwork is probably
Framed and on display
In hundreds of households
Around the world,
Yet like the stereotypical artist,
While contributing
To the ambience of the city,
She barely scrapes by.

Sibling Rivalry

It was the instinctual rivalry
Between my two daughters
That began turning my hair gray,
And at the root of each gray hair
Lies a story!

Becky, my oldest daughter,
Thrived on being the only child
And didn’t abdicate her throne easily.
She became a holy terror
When Ruby was born a year later.

Becky didn’t like
Ruby’s competition one bit,
And would try to scratch
Or bite the new baby
Every chance she got.

She had a vicious jealous streak
That had us very concerned.
It wasn’t safe to leave here
Anywhere near
Her baby sister!

When Ruby was three months old,
We left her with a neighbor
And took Becky with us on a cruise.
Those few days seemed to help
Becky accepted being stuck with her sister.

Accepting being stuck with
And accepting a sister
Are two distinctly different things,
And those two would battle
Like cats and dogs for years to come.

It wasn’t long, however
Before Ruby caught up in size
And could hold her own
Against Becky
So it became a battle of wits!

The rivalry could flare up into open warfare
Virtually any time or place.
Once coming back from school,
Becky made it home first
And tried to lock Ruby out.

Those two combatants,
Then only seven and eight,
Tore the front door
Completely off its hinges
In the fury of the encounter!

Those two nearly drove us nuts
With their constant bickering
We couldn’t sit them
Anywhere near each other
For fear of a fight.

For a while I drove a pickup truck
And I couldn’t have them both
In the cab with me.
What I needed was a set of cages
At opposite ends of the hold.

A few years later
While driving Becky to school
After one of their encounters,
I told her “Someday Ruby and you
Will be best of friends!”

Her instantaneous come back was
“Not in this lifetime!”
She was so adamant about that,
And I can’t resist
Teasing her about now!

It was interesting how
Their rivalry played out.
They tried so hard to emphasize
Their differences
And deny their similarities.

Becky shined in school
While Ruby struggled,
But Ruby became a master
On the computer
And Becky didn’t want to
Touch the thing.

They were both naturally artistic.
Becky took up drawing and painting
While Ruby got into graphic design,
But each one strove to ensure
Their individual styles were unique.

They wouldn’t dare
Wear the same kind of clothes,
And wouldn’t even
Eat the same foods.
Neither one wanted to be like her sister.

The funny thing was how much
They had in common
In spite of
All their exaggerated efforts
At being unique.

Both girls are musically inclined.
Becky took piano lessons
And learned how to read music
But to spite her sister,
Ruby taught herself how to play by sound.

They both were voracious readers,
But seldom read the same books.
They both took typing in grade school.
Becky was clocked at 75 words a minute
But Ruby got up to 95 wpm.

It wasn’t too many years later
When another lifetime occurred ,
And Becky declared that Ruby and her
Were then best friends,
And I struggled not to laugh!

When looking through
Some of her old school essays,
Becky was somewhat ashamed
Of the blatant hostility
She exhibited toward her sister.

Initially their truces were transient things,
Seldom lasting long,
But they provided moments of respite
That we sorely needed
After the years of refereeing their battles.

Gradually they began to do things together
And actually enjoy each other’s company
Or maybe it happened when Becky discovered
That boys were more interesting
Than locking horns with her sister!

There were plenty of times
When I just had to hold my breath
To stop from strangling one or the other
And for parents facing a similar challenge
Just know that those battles will someday pass.

Seven Years Hard Labor

The father of her child
Left before the child was born,
And she spent seven long years
Fighting to survive
And care for that child.
She was proud
That she was able to get by
But it had never been easy
And she had paid a terrible price
For their survival.
She had done it alone,
Not out of desire,
But simply because
There didn’t seem to be
Any other way.
She didn’t believe
That any man
Would be interested
In taking on a mother and child
So she didn’t bother looking.
The loneliness ate at her
Heart and soul,
And some days she wanted to quit
But that was not possible either.
It was seven years hard labor.
Often she was angry
At the world
And her lot in life.
She didn’t feel that it was wrong
To have loved and lost,
But she was being punished
All the same,
Or so she thought.
Look at the beautiful child
She had produced.
The love for her child
Was what sustained her
Through the years of struggle.
Left up to her own devices,
It probably never
Would have changed,
But her daughter sensed
The loneliness of her mother in others,
And naturally befriended them.
One of them was a man
With a child of his own
In much the same situation.
It was difficult at first
For either to trust the other,
But in time
They each came to believe
That they were made
For each other
And decided that the world
Wasn’t such a bad place after all.
You should see them now.
Never was there
A happier lot than them.
Love and a little coaxing
From her daughter
Was all it took.

Searching for Mama

His only memory
From when he was five
Was the hurt he felt
After his mother left.
He was one of five children,
And his mother
Was the only glue
That held them together.
After she was gone,
They were each sent
To separate foster homes
To fend for themselves.
He could not comprehend why
She had abandoned them
And blamed himself
As much as her.
At times he harbored
Anger beyond measure,
And cursed that he
Had ever been born.
He tortured himself thinking
That if he had been better
Or if she had really loved him
In the first place,
Then she would have stayed.
He spent thirteen years
Looking for her,
Trying to come to terms
With his rage
And seeking answers
For the questions he had,
But he never found her.
Instead, he found
The ability to make up
Answers to his questions.
He might never know
The real reason why
Things happened
The way they did,
But he could surmise
How it must have been.
It could not have been
Easy for his mother.
She was not very lucky
When it came to men.
None of them
Stayed long enough
To harvest
What they had sown.
Most probably never knew
They had fathered a child
Before they drifted on,
And no two of her children
Had the same father.
She was a single mother
Doing the best she knew how,
Working when she could,
Scrounging to make ends meet,
Trying to put
Food on the table
And keep a roof
Over their heads,
But it was obviously
More than she could handle.
In all probability,
She couldn’t afford
To feed them
And couldn’t bare
To see them suffer.
At least in foster care,
They wouldn’t starve.
Maybe his mother
Loved him after all.
Somehow that reasoning
Gave him the peace he sought.

Sacrificing Our Word

In a certain sense,
We are born with
A pot of gold
That few of us
Seem willing
To carry.
It’s our word,
And we dispense
It so freely,
Not noticing
How much
It costs us
Each time
We fail to honor
What we say
We will do.
Eventually,
Our word
Loses all value,
Until we are bankrupt,
And no one
Believes anything
We say.

The Way Life Sometimes Works

I fell in love with you,
The first time I saw you,
For you had the radiance
Of an angel,
Absolutely glowing
With contentment,
At peace with the world
And in harmony with life.
You had the most perfect
Youthful complexion,
And that dazzling smile
That spoke to my soul.
How could I not fall
For such stunning beauty?
I didn’t have to be told
What was going on,
Even though it had not yet
Begun to show,
Except on you face,
But I have seen that look
A time or two before,
And I knew without a doubt
That you were expecting
To be a mother soon.
Now a couple weeks later,
I hear you lost the child.
I understand your anguish,
And I sense your pain,
As you beseech the God
That allowed this to happen.
At times like this,
I’m not sure whether
It’s easier to believe in God
Or to be an atheist.
It may be difficult,
But try not to blame
Either God, your husband,
Or yourself.
This too is part of life,
And given time
Your spirit will heel,
And you will find
Other reasons to smile,
However tinged it may be
With the sadness
You now feel.

Ruby's Presence

Ruby had the uncanny ability
To be with her mother
During Cecilia’s final months
In a way
None of the rest of us could.
Ruby’s simple presence
Comforted Cecilia
During her darkest hours,
And somehow seemed
To soothe her pain
More effectively
Than the morphine drip
Ever could.

Ruby's Prayers

Ruby refused
To give up hope,
And kept praying
For a miracle,
That somehow
Her mother
Would rally
And triumph
Over the cancer.
No one could have
Prayed more fervently
Than she did,
And she was
Utterly devastated
That her prayers
Went unanswered.
I was in awe
Of her simple,
But elemental faith,
For I had none.

Ruby Quips

Our youngest daughter,
Ruby,
Was a source for
Of numerous
Memorable quips
When she was young.
I remember her whining
“I feel good!”
With a contorted face
Diametrically opposed
To her words.
One time
She came home
From first grade,
And blurted out
“How come I don’t have
A stepdad
Like everyone else
In school?”
She appeared to think
She had somehow
Been cheated
Because Cecilia and I
Were still together.
Was that ever
A statement of the times!
On another occasion,
On the banks
Of a river in Arizona,
Ruby initiated
A conversation
With a hobos
Who was fishing there.
On returning
She proclaimed
“Mama, he’d make
A good Papa!”
To which my wife
Laughingly responded,
“Just what do you
Have in mind?”
Yes, I do enjoy
Regurgitating
Those memories,
Even if my daughters
Might sometimes prefer
I develop a case of
Alzheimer's instead.

Roses for Emily

She was fifty-five
But had already
Given up on life,
Having deciding that
It had nothing else
To offer her
Except more pain
And suffering.
She figured she was
Just biding her time
Until the day she died,
Hoping it was sooner
Rather than later.
She spent her days
Complaining about
Her aches and pains,
And life in general,
And reeking of despair.
It might have
Gone on that way
A long, long time,
Had she not awaken
And began to smell
The roses.
All it took was
The persistent prodding
Of an inquisitive
Three-year old grandson
Who wanted to know
What life was like
Back in the age
Of the dinosaurs,
And rightfully assumed
That she would know!

Romantic Interlude

I had been cruising
Through life
Locked in automatic
Mesmerized by
Inconsequential circumstances
And the effort it took
Just to get by.
I hardly even noticed
How flat and tasteless
My world had become.
Somehow the magnetism
The normally draws
Opposites together
Had vanished.
I was ready for a change
Just hoping for
Something to happen
When she popped in.
I don’t know where
She had been hiding,
But the moment
She entered my life,
My world began to spin
Just a little bit faster.
I checked her out
From head to toe
In a heartbeat
And liked what I saw.
It was as if
I suddenly awakened
And came out of the trance
That I had been in.
My mind flipped into gear
The moment she appeared,
Alert to possibilities,
Imagining all sorts of things
Contemplating her every move.
It was her eyes
That did me in
As I gazed
Into their fathomless depths,
And took in
The essence of her soul.
I sensed a playfulness there,
A peaceful spirit
Fully engaged in life.
In that instant I knew
All I needed to know,
All that was important
Except for her name,
And that would come later.

Rascals in Paradise

Almost immediately after
The invasion of Iraq,
The United States began
Funneling massive
Amounts of money
In a frantic effort
To rebuild the country.
Iraq had been devastated
By two gulf wars with
An embargo in between,
And decades of neglect
And mismanagement
Under the Saddam
Hussein regime.
This precipitated
A modern day Gold Rush
As people from
Around the globe
Tried to cash in
On the bounty.
First in line were
The American contractors,
Followed closely behind
By a horde
Of Turkish contractors
Feeding off the majors.
Almost anyone who could
Call themselves a contractor
Quickly did so,
And many a mini-fortune
Was made almost overnight.
Most of the new millionaires
Partied as if there was
No tomorrow,
And acted as if they were
Rascals in paradise.
They were just in for the money,
Trying to do as little
As they possibly could
For as much as
They possibly could,
And they pretty much
Got away with murder,
For a while anyway.
The problem is
That shoddy workmanship
Has a way of catching up
With the perpetrators,
And quite a number of them
Ended up being blacklisted
From any future
US government contracts.
Not having saved
Any of their ill gotten gains,
Most of those contractors
Are in dire straights today,
And have little chance
Of securing additional work
Since they have been spoiled
By the ridiculous profitability
And lax control
Of the work they did in Iraq.
The really good contractors
Generally had steady work
Back in Turkey,
And largely avoided
Succumbing to the rush.
It was mainly the ones
Who had no work
In the first place,
Who seized the opportunity.
Unfortunately,
They are the ones the world
Now tends to identify
With Turkish construction.
The same may be said
Of many of the US Contractors
As well.
The work done was,
In most cases,
Extremely short sighted.

Roller Skates

Roller skates
Were primitive
Steel contraptions
Which fastened onto
The soles of our shoes
When I was a kid.
This was ages before
The advent of
Polyurethane wheels
And skate boards.
We were lucky
If our wheels
Spun at all
With the crude bearings
We had back then.
We needed
Those steep
Point Loma hills
In order to achieve
Any speed at all,
And speed was king then
Just as it is today.

Resurrection

Traveling through Europe
As we were doing
Turned out to be
A lot more expensive
Than I originally figured
It would be.
I think food alone
Ran close to
$150 per day
For the three of us.
We definitely weren’t
Trying to do Europe
On the $10 a day plan,
But we weren’t
Being extravagant either.
I had taken along
What I reasoned
Would be enough
Money for our expenses,
But by the time
We reached Rome,
We had spent it all.
When I tried to get
A cash advance
Against the credit card
I took with me,
It was refused.
When I contacted
The credit card company
To find out why,
I was told that I had deceased
So my account
Had been canceled.
What followed was
A very weird conversation
With me arguing
That I was alive and kicking,
And them telling me
That I was officially dead.
What had happened
Was that I sent them
A copy of my wife’s
Death certificate,
And some diligent
Backroom clerk
Dutifully recorded
The death as being mine,
And not Cecilia’s.
It took three days
Of exasperatingly comical
But determined effort
To have me
Officially resurrected,
And Cecilia
Properly buried
So that I could get
The advance I needed.

Picture Puzzles

I learned to relish
The challenge
Of matching wits with
Multi-thousand piece
Picture puzzles
As a child.
I developed the ability
To pick out
Edge pieces at a glance,
And to spot
The slightest similarity
Of color, pattern
Or shape
Between pieces.
Some of my
Happiest recollections
Are of the hours I spent
Quietly solving
Those puzzles
As a child,
And I still enjoy them
Even to this day.

Purchasing a Car

I have bought quite a few cars
Over the years
Yet I don’t suppose
That buying one
Will ever become
A routine experience.
Certainly no car purchase
Will ever come up to
The emotional charge
Of the very first one,
But each one is unique.
I have bought new cars
And I have bought used cars,
I have bought cars from a dealer
And cars from private parties,
I have bought cars that worked
And cars that didn’t,
Yet each car I bought
Reflected something of me.
I know there are
A lot of cars out there
That would never find an owner
If everyone thought like me.
There are certain colors
That I won’t even consider,
And there are certain styles
That have no appeal
To me at all.
Fortunately or unfortunately
For the car manufacturers,
There is a type person
For almost every car ever made.
Reliability and safety
Are major issues with me.
Comfort is also a consideration.
I like a smooth ride
With the power to get up and move.
I like to have a lot of variety
To choose from,
But I don’t like
Pushy sales people.
I am not much of a bargain shopper
So I probably pay more than I have to,
But I sure like the feeling
Of driving that new car.
Purchasing a car
Is still an adventure for me.

Psychology

Victims of abuse
Often become
What I call
“The Walking Wounded!”
They may function
Reasonably well
On the outside,
But they are
Usually far from
At peace within.
They frequently
Turn to psychology
For relief of
Their anxieties.
Their therapy
May go on for years
With only marginal benefit,
While the person
Continues to
Limp through life.
Any treatment
Which does not
Distinguish between
What really happened
And someone’s interpretation
Of the events
Is bound to fail.
It is not the abuse
Which carries the venom.
The abuse
Probably ended ages ago,
But the torment
Will go on
Until the person
Adapts a point of view
Which gives them
The power to confront
And deal with
What happened
Effectively.
Sympathy does not cure
The emotional wound
No matter
How well intentioned.
The person needs
To stop
Being the victim
To live a healthy life.
The poison lies within
A person’s
Internal explanation system,
And psychology
May not be
The most expedient
Or efficient way
Of addressing the problem.

Powerlessness

So often
In the case
Of abuse,
It is our
Sense of
Powerlessness
Over the situation
Which is so
Devastating.
It robs us
Of any security
We might have
Thought we had.
It leaves us
Feeling violated,
Vulnerable,
And ill at ease.
Worst of all,
It can take
Almost forever
For us to regain
Our sense of
Equilibrium.

Poor Man's Caviar

Neither my father
Nor Uncle George
Could have imagined
Returning empty-handed
From one of their
Deep-sea fishing trips
Without a yellowtail or two
For us to eat,
But it wasn’t just the fish
We loved.
The eggs of the yellowtail
Were a special treat
Which my father
Fried like sausage.
Not knowing what
They were missing,
Most fisherman
Just threw them away
When they cleaned
The fish.
It has been
Over forty years
Since I last enjoyed
That delicacy,
But I still savor
That taste.

Pompeii

The ruins of Pompeii fascinate me.
It was obviously
A very prosperous,
Upscale community
When Mt. Vesuvius erupted
In 79 AD,
And it remained
An untouched
Volcanically entombed
Time capsule
For nearly 1700 years.
I can just imagine
The excitement
Of the archeologists
Who participated in unearthing
That ancient city.
They have been working
On that excavation
For close to 250 years now.
As I walked along
The streets of the city,
I saw deep groves
Warn into the stones
From chariots
And ox carts
Nearly 2000 years before.
I gazed in awe
At the wall murals
And intricate floor tiles
On many of the buildings,
And I wondered
What ancient secrets
Remain to be uncovered.
It’s easy to picture
The city as it must have been
Before it was destroyed.
It was magnificent
And teeming with people,
Rich and influential merchants,
Seamen and travelers,
Aristocrats and commoners,
Then in one terrible
Volcanic eruption,
All was destroyed.

Pocketknife Curiosity

It was one of those
Swiss Army Knives,
The kind with
An assortment
Of foldout blades.
If there was ever
An attractive nuisance
For a five year old boy,
That certainly was it.
It was on open display
At the store,
And the temptation
To check it out
Was far more than
I could resist.
I fiddled with
Those blades
Trying to open them
And in my struggle,
Nearly amputated
The end of my thumb.
I have a rather
Prominent scar
To show for
My juvenile efforts.
I can just imagine
The disruption
That must have caused,
And I suppose
That might have had
Something to do with
Why my parents
Were so reluctant
To take me shopping
Ever after.
When I had
Kids of my own,
You can bet
I was vigilant
About such hazards,
Fearing the possible
Genetics of my curiosity.

Pizza and Quiet

Once our daughters
Learned to talk,
We couldn’t seem to
Shut them up.
When their chatter
Started to get
On her nerves,
Cecilia would
Plead with them,
“Give me some
Peace and quiet!”
That obviously
Wasn’t what Ruby,
Our youngest daughter,
Heard, however.
In response
To being scolded
For one trangression,
Or another,
She indignately
Came out with
“Give me some
Pizza and quiet!”
In an almost perfect
Imitation of Cecilia.
She had no idea
Why both Cecilia
And myself
Broke out
Laughing hysterically.
Obviously that wasn't
Quite the response
Ruby was expecting.

Pestering Pelican

It was not
What I would call
A beautiful bird,
And probably not
All that smart either,
But it sure knew
A fish when it saw it
And it wanted that fish.
Now I don’t know
If the guy and the bird
Understood each other or not,
But he sure came up with
A bird brained idea
That reminded me
Of some stunts
I have pulled
A time or two.
He took a fish
And pretended to
Put it into the pocket
Of the girl he was with.
That stupid bird
Fell for the bait
And chased her
All over the pier.
It didn't help matters
That the bird was
Practically 3/4 her size.
I imagine she had
A few choice words
To say to him
After it was over!

Persian Lady

She is a classic beauty
Statuesque and tall
With a gorgeous smile
Whenever she lets it
Out of hiding.
She carries herself well
With dignity and grace
And an obvious touch of class
Honoring her Persian roots.
She has a natural charm
And a warmth with others
Making them feel at home,
Yet as much as she enjoys
The company of others,
There is a sadness there,
A loneliness deep
And a underlying discontent
With the life she leads.
There is a fire
Burning in her heart
That reflects in her eyes
When she talks
Of things that really matter.
She has a passion for
And a vision of
The life she wants
Which lies beyond
The legal world
In which she dwells.
She has a dream
Of a little furniture shop
Of her own
That hold pieces of quality
From all over the world.
She has even gone back to school
And studied interior design
But the dream still seems
So far away.
Her restless soul
Won’t let her sleep
Until it makes the vision real.
She will be happy then,
She thinks,
As if the circumstances
Will make a difference.
In truth she knows
That she will not be happy
Until she decides to be.
It doesn’t suit her
To maintain that elegant front
While hiding the fire within.
Sooner or later
She will decide
To let her passions show,
And when she does,
Look out,
She’ll be on her way,
As provocatively beautiful
On the inside
As she is on the surface,
A force of one
Making her mark on the world.

Paper Witch

Aunt Dofeen had
Her share
Of eccentricities
And then some.
She had a thing
About conserving
Wrapping paper
That drove the rest
Of us nuts.
She valued the paper
Far more than
The gift it enclosed.
Opening a present
In her presence
Required the skill
Of a surgeon
And the patience
Of a saint,
None of which we could
Pretend to have.
Many years later
I was to find
A treasure trove
Of used wrapping paper
She had meticulously saved,
Neatly folded but ruined
By the elements
There in Hawaii.

Palates Entertained

Cecilia liked to cook
Almost as much
As I like to eat,
And was damn
Good at it too.
Being Filipina,
She managed to have rice,
In one form or another
Almost every meal,
But the meals
Were never boring.
She was able
To concoct hundreds
Of flavorful combinations
To complement the rice.
By incorporating
Elements of Filipino,
Thai, Chinese
Malay, Indian, Spanish
And American cuisine,
She kept our palates
Fully entertained.
Ever since then,
It has been a dream of mine
To someday open
An international restaurant
That specializes in rice dishes.
There will be rice
Of every type imaginable,
Noodles and casseroles
Sauces from every corner of the planet,
Rice cereals and deserts
And even wine
Made from rice.
The finest recipes
Collected from
All over the world
Will be offered.
I haven’t gone totally crazy,
Because I know how much
Work operating a restaurant is,
And the kind of hours involved,
Besides, I am a lousy cook.
But when I do open
That restaurant,
I’ll have somebody else
Manage all those things.
I’ll just go there
To let my taste buds
Do the traveling.

Our Willingness to Fail

We learned to walk
As a young child,
And it didn’t matter
How many times
We fell down
In the process,
We just kept trying
Until we got it mastered.
Our parents encouraged us.
They didn’t tell us
After a couple falls
To give up
And never try again,
And even if they did,
We didn’t listen.
Now that we are older
Something has changed.
Some of our flexibility
Has been lost,
Our capacity to fail
And keep on trying
Has largely disappeared.
We tend to take on
Only those tasks
Where interim failure
Can be avoided.
We have become
More concerned
With the risk of failure
Than the possibility of success.
For most of us,
We are lucky
That we learned to walk
As a child
Because as an adult
We would give up
After a few tries.

Ornamental Iron Work

Ornamental iron work is
A decorative art form
Which often graces the gates
Of expensive homes.
It’s characterized by
Intricate detail,
Graceful curves
And artistic patterns,
But in certain parts
Of the City of Los Angeles,
It has become
The first line of defense
Against intruders.
The are sections of town
Were iron work covers
Every window and door,
House after house,
Business after business,
Locking people in
And the world out.
Why would anyone voluntarily
Choose to live a life
Behind bars like that?
What happens if
There is a fire?
People could be trapped inside
With no way out.
That has to violate
Every fire code every written,
A fact the residents all ignore.

Not the Angel

I was not nearly
As angelic
As I thought I was
When I was
Growing up.
I was just
A regular kid,
Doing what kids do,
And suffering
The consequences.
If intelligence
Was guiding my life,
It definitely
Wasn’t my own.
Someone somewhere
Must have been
Looking after me,
Making sure
I didn’t get myself
In more trouble
Than I could handle.
If there was
An angel involved,
It wasn’t me.

Neptune's Daughter

It was a romance
That began
Late one night
Aboard a fishing boat
Headed out to sea.
The seeds
May have been
Planted earlier,
But it wasn’t until then
That we were
Formally introduced.
I was mesmerized
By her dark beauty,
And tantalized
By the fragrance
Of her breath
As I was baptized
By her salty spray.
She enticed me on,
Seducing me
With her mystery
And her charm.
I wanted to know
Her intimately,
To ply her swells,
To dive into
The depths of her world,
And to walk
The sands of distant shores
Where she played.
She was Neptune’s daughter
And I would spend
The rest of my life
In her pursuit.

Munich

Munich is an easy city
To fall in love with.
The central cobblestone streets
Are a pedestrians dream.
People from every corner
Of the world
Stroll along the roads,
And meander
From shop to shop.
World class eateries
Stand at every corner.
Artisans and gypsies
Ply their trade
And try to make a Mark.
Multitudes of musicians
Play their instruments
In the archways
Of the buildings
Along the streets at night.
You can feel
The energy in the air,
Taste it in the food,
Hear it in the sounds
And feel it in your bones.

Miraculous Transformations

I am not against psychology.
It has its uses,
And has benefited multitudes.
The simple act
Of sharing what is
Going on with us
Can have enormous value.
The internal monologues
We tend to dwell in
Probably won’t give us
Much understanding
Of our problems,
But authentic communication
With those around us
Can give us subtle clues
Which may prove invaluable.
Where I have witnessed
Spectacular results
Bordering on
Miraculous transformation
Was in group situations,
Orchestrated in such a way
That we could easily recognize
Aspects of ourselves in others.
A little bit of insight
Into how we think and act
As human beings
Can revolutionize our perspective
And profoundly alter
The course of our life.

Hammer Head

I have no idea why
Best friends fight,
Or what insignificant
Disagreement
Joey and I
Might have had
That particular day
That had us
In a standoff,
On opposite sides
Of his yard,
Each of us
With a hammer
In our hand.
Joey threw his at me
And missed,
I then sent mine
Back at him,
And didn’t.
In that mindless
Moment of retaliation,
I came close
To killing Joey.
Luckily he survived
With only a dent
In his head.
We both are graduates
Of the school
Of hard knocks.
I’m not sure
What he gained,
From the incident,
But I learned
Not to act
Before I think
My action through.

Merry-Go-Round

She had concluded
That she wasn’t any good at
Maintaining a relationship with men.
After three failed marriages,
She had ample evidence
To support that claim.
She had all but given up
On ever being able to have
A relationship that lasted.
Men just couldn’t be trusted
Or else she had
Exceptionally poor taste
In the men she chose.
Either way,
With all her experience,
She still didn’t have a clue
About how to make a man stay
Or how to keep him happy.
She had tried everything
That she could think of,
But nothing seemed to work.
She could never understand
How men thought.
It was as if men and women
Spoke entirely different languages.
Just when she thought
She was getting her ideas across,
Something would invariably happen
That would convince her
That the guy hadn’t understood
A single word she said.
She wasn’t the only one either.
Most of her girl friends
Had come to the same conclusion.
After each relationship
She would solemnly vow
Never to do that again,
But never, never lasted too long.
She knew how to get a guy.
That wasn’t her problem.
She just couldn’t figure out
What to do with them
Once she had them.
Her life was a viscous circle
And she had no idea
Why it occurred that way
Or how to get off
The merry-go-round
That she had been riding.
Her life was just something
That seemed to happen to her
Over and over again
And she was
The innocent victim of it all,
At least in her mind.
She wallowed for ages
In the mire of self-pity,
Powerless to have it be
Any other way than
The way it seemed.
Commiserating with her friends
Didn’t help either.
Few of them had any better luck
Than she did.
It wasn’t until she accepted
Responsibility
For the life she lived,
That she had a chance
Of deviating from
That cycle of misfortune.

Emperors of the Road

A Mercedes is far more
Than just a car.
It’s a masterpiece of
German engineering,
Precision and design.
Due to their
Rugged durability,
They often are found
Working as taxis
Over the back roads
And highways of many
Third world nations.
I have ridden in
A number of them
With over half a million miles
On the odometer,
And they still
Keep chugging away.
On the Autobahn,
They easily purr along
At 160 kilometers per hour
Or more,
And can do that
Virtually all day long.
They also have
Exceptional high speed
Handling characteristics
Which make them
A pleasure to drive.
No matter where you are,
Or where you drive,
They are cars
Of elegant beauty
And practical distinction.
They are truly
Emperors of the Road.

Mental Elixer

I believe all games
We played,
And the many puzzles
We worked on,
As kids
Helped stimulate
And sharpen
Our minds.
I’m not trying to claim
Our games of Solitaire
Were all that
Mind expanding,
But a game of chess
Can be one of the best
Mental elixirs
Known to man!
To this day
I still play regularly
To maintain
My mental agility.

Mental Archeology

Memoies

I write about things
I remember,
Events which were
Etched in my mind
As part of the fabric
Of my life,
But what I am noticing
As I write
Is how much gentler
And more colorful
Those situations
Now seem
Than when they
Actually occurred.
Perhaps the wisdom
And insight
I have gained
Through the course
Of my life
Now enables me
To perceive those events
In a different light.
I can now savor
Their flavor
And appreciate
Their beauty
More than
I ever could before.

Meltdown

We all have a tendency
To lose our cool
Every now and then.
We get tense
And the pressures build up
To the point
Where the slightest thing
Can set us off.
When it happens,
We react explosively,
Way out of proportion
To whatever it was
That initiated our outburst.
In that moment
Of automatic meltdown,
Violent rage takes hold
And we become capable
Of great harm,
Not only to ourselves,
But to anyone around us.
For those who don’t learn
To control that tendency,
The consequences
Can be catastrophic.

Mawd

He just showed up one day
Coming from
Who knows where,
Looking kind of ragged,
Tired and dirty.
Mawd took him in,
Gave him a roof
Over his head
And food to eat.
He stayed for a while,
But must have had
Someplace else to go
Because one day
He just up and left,
Heading west
Off into the sunset
Never to be heard from again.
Mawd must have had
A soft spot for drifters like him
Because over the years
She maintained such a
Steady stream of them,
Here today and gone tomorrow.
That was the way she was,
A big hearted lady
And a sucker for every
Stray dog or tomcat
That came along.

Managing Our Conversations

It only takes
A single errant thought
To psyche ourselves out
Or to create
An obstacle course
That we must run.
Our attitude
Is the summation
Of all our thoughts,
Either positive
Or negative,
That are running around
There inside our heads,
And the game of life
Can be easily won or lost
Depending on our attitude.
It was discovered long ago
That we can manage
The background communication
That affects our attitude,
And in so doing,
Can dramatically
Alter the course and character
Of our lives.

Luggage Panic

We had arrive in Naples
By train
And needed to board
The local commuter train
To get over to
Marzano de Nola
Where my sister-in-law lives.
I tried to ask
One of the locals
Which way to go,
And he proceeded to grab
Our biggest piece
Of luggage
And started
Running with it.
Fortunately he took us
Where we needed to go,
And I only had to pay
A small ransom
To get my luggage back.
I had been warned in advance
About the pickpockets
And thieves in Naples,
And my initial reaction
To my runaway luggage
Was pure panic.