A BOWERY TALE

 

                                                                  with nods to Robert W. Service and the Salvation Army 

When I reached age twenty and thought I knew plenty I moved to New York to find work 

Fresh from the U.P. and thrilled to be free the city was a mind-blowing perk 

For I longed to be a writer who would make the days brighter and I scoured the Big Apple for material 

Ten million stories full of heartbreak and glories and characters whose lives felt ethereal 

The Bowery was the best with its souls dispossessed who hoped they’d survive through the night 

So I started going down and just hanging around to gather strange tales to write 

There were lots of old drunks and a few mean-eyed punks but most chaps were docile and kind 

I’d pay for their beer which produced lots of cheer and they’d tell me dark secrets on their mind 

One day I drank a lot and didn’t feel so hot so I headed for the subway uptown 

The mission’s service was starting so instead of departing I decided I ought to stick around 

The room was jam-packed with no space at the back but the front row contained one last seat 

There were hundreds of men who were back once again and were desperate for something to eat 

The mission served dinners but their true aim was sinners so a sermon preceded the meal 

Major Cherney had zip and she shot from the hip, saying winos deserve a fair deal 

Major wound up her thing by insisting we sing, then invited non-diners to go 

Not planning to eat I got up from my seat and the crowd whispered, “This guy’s so slow” 

Major pointed to the rear and though wobbly from beer I finally stumbled to a door 

The hall was pitch black and I nearly turned back when a grasping hand shook me to the core 

It was Captain Olive Green in her uniform pristine whose intent was to save me from my fate 

She asked lots of stuff about life being rough and dissected my addled mental state 

I vowed to leave skid row, work to conquer my woe, and hopefully regain my lost pride 

Olive said that the Army ran a mission less smarmy way up on the Upper East Side 

I promised to attend although that was pretend and my only desire was escape 

Captain Olive wished me well, said I wasn’t bound for Hell, and prayed I would wind up shipshape 

So my last Bowery visit was less than exquisite and the time came to say my farewell 

And yet, nonetheless, I am happy to confess that I did find a story to tell

OUR U.P. ROAD TRIP: A VILLANELLE

 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

Passing Milwaukee the very first day 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P.  

Lunch break at Culvers in Wausaukee 

Butterburgers, custard, our diets now astray 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

The Interstate Bridge to Menominee 

Sheridan Road tracks the shore of Green Bay 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P. 

Our family is here, such hoopla and glee 

The kids at Farm do their artwork and play 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

Katja does the fudge store, the thrift shops for me 

My birthday at Berg’s Landing, the high point of our stay 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P. 

A time to share, be laid back and carefree 

It feeds one’s soul to travel so far away 

A grand adventure with our frisky CR-V 

We are back in the wild and wondrous U.P.

AT THE SYMPHONY

 

Schumann 

Wonder how long it will be? 

Should be pleasant 

These are really good seats 

Probably cost a fortune 

Katja should have asked me 

Balcony would have been fine 

Maybe even better 

That woman has pretty hair 

I wonder if it’s natural 

Unusual color 

Must be dyed 

I need a haircut so badly 

I hate going to the barber 

Hate having to make small talk 

It doesn’t matter 

I don’t need to look decent 

I don’t even need to shave 

A retirement perk 

I wonder how the department is doing? 

It’s amazing how quickly I forgot my career 

I never give it a thought 

They’ve probably forgotten me too 

I do still have all my books and papers 

What will happen to my stuff when I die?   

We don’t even have graves at Spring Grove 

I want to be cremated 

but I’ll probably die first 

and Katja will stick me in a casket 

Charles died last week 

I am running out of friends  

They either die or move away 

We’ll have to get along on our own I

hope we’re able to stay in our house 

Whoops, there’s the end 

(I stand and applaud enthusiastically)

EIGHTY-FIVE AND STILL CHIRPING

Though uninvited

and hardly welcome, 

my eighty-fifth birthday 

arrived today and settled in.    

Holy Mackerel, eighty-five.  

How did that happen?

According to gerontologists, I now belong  

to the “oldest old” category.

That’s annoying actually.  

It’s true that I am definitely older 

than I ever was before,

but I’ve quite a ways to go 

before I reach my “oldest”.  

These first eighty-five years have 

been full of surprises and pleasantries. 

Parents and siblings, school, marriage,

fatherhood, home, career, dogs, and 

now my leisurely retirement years 

filled with poetry writing

and contemplation.  

In some ways these years are the best. 

I have occasional regrets, of course, 

but that’s a built-in part of life.  

A while ago my doctor 

said I don’t look my age

and I don’t act my age

but I should keep in mind

that I am my age.    

At first that struck me as profound

but now I’m having second thoughts. 

Eighty-five is not a fixed thing 

like an iPad or a fire hydrant.     

There are as many different ways

of being eighty-five as there are 

grasshoppers in the meadow 

or tadpoles in the brook.  

My year ahead promises

to be comfortable and rewarding. 

We expected to celebrate my birthday 

by going to the Warren County Fair

but the heat advisory crimped our style

and we’ll do a seafood restaurant instead.  

All in all, I think I will  

embrace eight-five and  

try to outwit the prognosticators. 

That’s my birthday strategy,  

at least for the time being.      

JUNE WAS BURSTING WITH EXCITEMENT

 

So perplexing this weird month of June 

It’s been hotter than a Sierra wildfire 

I hope that I’ll see my sister soon 

In the meantime we’ll sit and perspire 

We’ve been watching the hearings on January Six 

The picture gets worse by the day 

Trump has been up to his most evil tricks 

I hope he's charged with nine counts of foul play 

French Open tennis, a most historic scene 

Nadal faced Norwegian Casper Ruud 

A straight set win, Rafa’s number fourteen 

Casper, outclassed, was a feckless dude 

Stephen Curry and pals played their finest hoops 

The Warriors won the entire shebang 

My sister Vicki cheered faithfully for the troops 

Now time to relax from the Sturm und Drang 

Our Improv class performed its last show 

A melodrama, “The Factory of Despair” 

We improv’d lines in the ongoing flow 

The teacher’s reaction, “Keen wit and fine flair” 

We attended a friend’s birthday party 

A boat trip along the Ohio 

The crowd was cool and arty 

So long Covid, Oh Me-O-Mio 

Katja’s purse disappeared one day 

We searched every inch of each room 

She called up Visa in utter dismay 

But there was her purse by the broom 

Each night I baited two traps with cheese 

Each morning two bodies of mice 

Murdering mice makes me feel like a sleaze 

One more smallish mouse might suffice 

Our attic air conditioner broke again 

The water poured right through the ceiling 

I first saw a pool on the rug in our den 

“Dog bladder mishap” was my feeling 

Our attic is home to a sizeable beast 

Perhaps an opossum, perhaps a raccoon 

Each night the bumping noises have increased 

We will call the trapper number pretty soon 

Our little dog Iko hates firecrackers 

He whines and crawls under the bed 

I get a bit peeved with the neighborhood slackers 

Though I know there are worse things to dread 

OLLI has started a new poetry group 

It meets every Thursday for eight weeks 

Just what I need to stay in the loop 

And fiddle with poetic techniques

WRITING POETRY

 

Writing a poem is harder 

than walking the dog or 

raking the lawn. 

It’s more akin to 

painting a watercolor 

or cooking a souffle. 

The start’s the worst,  

the foreboding blank page. 

My first few lines are 

trite, blah, so discouraging, 

but I talk myself into persisting. 

I get most inspired when 

writing tales of my childhood. 

In truth, I was an unhappy child 

but in my dotage I permit 

only positive memories. 

My poetic aim is to provide myself 

with a more enjoyable youth. 

My most intractable problem is that 

I’m not naturally poetic. 

I write more like a bookkeeper 

or perhaps an airline pilot. 

Nothing emotional or ambiguous. 

Just clear and to the point. 

I do like to rhyme 

though that’s not in vogue. 

I write more freely 

after a shot or two of Irish whiskey. 

A little buzz loosens me up 

and I can always rewrite another time. 

Every morning I brush my teeth, 

take my pills, and then compose a limerick 

about an event from the previous day. 

My pre-coffee limericks 

are quick and raggedy 

but they remind me that poetry 

is part of my daily existence 

and that I have produced 

something tangible that no one 

has ever thought of before 

(no matter how measly).

LEMON FLAKE

 

If I were to live my life over 

And could choose just five things to repeat 

My very first choice would be Lemon Flake 

Since age ten it’s my number one treat 

They made Lemon Flake at the Ideal Dairy 

They charged just two dips for a nickel 

All of their flavors were scrumptious 

Pineapple and Peach, not to mention Butter Brickle 

 On Sundays my dad brought us to the Ideal 

 Just up the road on Route Five-Seventy-Seven 

 He let us order all the dips that we wanted 

 For kids this was better than Heaven 

 Lemon Flake, of course, was always my choice 

 So creamy and tangy and rich 

 I’d drool at the very thought of it 

 One lick, my nose started to itch 

I’d stop after school, buy a six dip cone 

Ride home on my bike with one hand 

Six dips would last the entire mile 

Who could imagine anything more grand? 

The Ideal shut down after I moved away 

I’ve searched for Lemon Flake every year 

Not in Chicago, New York, or Green Bay 

Gone forever is my doleful fear