CHILDHOOD AT THE SHORE

There’s a boy at the water’s edge,

laughing and splashing, wet sand

smeared on his face, chest, arms

having the time of his life, no doubt-

is what we always used to say.

I want to tell him to keep it up,

don’t stop jumping into the waves,

swim under the water, stay here,

never leave and soak it all in.

You’ll look back on this as a man,

as a father and husband- you will

need this when you have a bad day,

a particular challenge, or hardship.

You’ll think about the smell of salt air,

the breeze in your face, the coolness of

the rising tide on your ankles and shins,

your eyes darting across the ocean floor.

as you point at minnows, sand crabs, shells.

These memories will keep you afloat

is what I want to shout, because I think

someone should explain this to all of you.

But the children of the beach wouldn’t listen.

So instead I just grin and nod. And the boy?

He runs away. I turn to look to the horizon,

the Atlantic, nothing has really changed

it’s the same view from forty years ago,

only the children at the shoreline are new.

VIN SCULLY

Mind you, I’ve never been

west of the Mississippi

but each night this summer

in my bed I’m listening to

a strange bedtime story-

thanks to modern technology.

There’s a light blue glow

on the ceiling of my room

as I lay still and soak in the

lullaby of each Dodgers game

especially if it is his voice-

the sound of seasons past.

I imagine drinking Coronitas

in the parking lot while radios

blast the songs of Sublime.

I wonder if there are statues

to honor the great Sandy Koufax,

Jackie Robinson, or Kirk Gibson.

I dream of sitting in the bleachers

in Chavez Ravine without a jacket

or hat knowing the chance of rain

is just small talk, a bit of rumor.

I’d eat a Dodger Dog as the sun set

over the infamous Freeway traffic.

Without fail, after a few innings

I begin to fade away to sleep.

My wife come up to yell at me,

“Turn that off, you’re sleeping,”

she says and I roll over knowing

I’ll check the score in the morning.

HOSPITAL CURTAINS

Another trip to the hospital

she coughed too much,

moaned in pain, didn’t know

she was fighting to stay on Earth.

Didn’t know her or her story,

her diagnosis or her name.

We feel guilty now, for hearing

her take her last breath as she

passed from this world.

We sat nearby, as the nurse tells

the husband how she has died.

I shouldn’t have seen his face as

he stared blankly the silent body-

his wife for more than fifty years.

Can I call your children for you?

We never had any.

Does she have a brother or sister?

They’re all gone.

Is there anyone you’d like me to call?

I don’t think so.

You let me know. Are you ok?

I just don’t know how I’m going to tell the dog.

He loves her so much and she loved him.

THANK YOU RED ANT

for the sting on the top

of my sunburned foot.

You sent me to the water,

made me get up and

leave my beach chair.

After all I heard that

sitting is the new smoking.

Thank you waves

for sending me these shells

to gather and take home

as a reminder of my trip.

A strange custom, yet

no one seems to find peculiar.

Imagine strolling a trail,

gathering the bones

of woodland creatures-

a white tailed deer’s femur,

a jawbone of a raccoon,

strolling a trail,

picking up those tiny fingers

of a gray squirrels.

See what I mean?

SeaWorld, South River

There’s a commotion down at the bridge tonight,

the one by the plumber’s and old comic book shop.

Yellow and black crime scene tape drapes the trees,

a part time cop sets up plenty of orange safety cones.

There’s a dolphin swimming near the bridge tonight,

he took a wrong turn, went up into the Raritan Bay,

continued up the creeks and waterways to this place.

And all of the experts don’t know what they can do.

There’s a lot of people standing at the bridge today,

entire families, all with cameras, iphones, and ipads.

The poor creature surfaces for air, they take snapshots

and videos of him jumping like the football team’s logo.

There’s an ABC-TV news van on the bridge tonight,

capturing shrieks, squeals, and wows of the onlookers.

They tell a reporter it’s awesome, quite amazing to see.

I saved a ton of money, didn’t have to travel to Florida.

There’s a dead dolphin down by the bridge this morning.

he washed up on the shoreline, confused and exhausted.

This was no place for him, too many cameras, no way out.

This week’s casualty, the ongoing story of Man vs Nature.

JETTY GEORGE

hooked a bluefish, so did Tommy, his busboy.

Pop and I caught weakfish on the Fishin’ Fool.

Worth missing a day at the beach. I remember

how the Royal Flush party boat blasted by and

put us in a wake, rocked us, made us struggle to

bring in our catch of the day, but we reeled it in.

Two slabs under the broiler with lemon and butter,

and a Kodak moment above my desk for eternity.

MINIMUM WAGE

I didn't find it in the help wanted pages,

a friend who’d worked there gave me a tip.

Call them up, they need workers for a crew,

hired on, ready to work, we started in June.

Painting tables and poles in the hot sun,

3.35 an hour, I remember the first check.

At 18, I was strong, never wanted to quit,

saving for college, tuition was due soon.

We loaded trucks with tents, chairs and stages

hit the road with the men on my very first run.

Excited to be in Delaware, Philadelphia, A.C.

long hours, time and a half made it opportune.

The education it gave me was one for the ages,

don’t stop, you’re finished when the work is done.

CONFLUENCE

“When you're travelling, the best advice is

 likely to come from a local person.”-F.Mawer

In Pittsburgh, even the bridges are yellow.

Should’ve painted a few green or blue.

If you end up getting on the wrong bridge,

you’ll probably end up being lost for hours.

In Pittsburgh, they roll with the black and gold.

And things come in threes like Pitt’s flag with

three castles, three rivers, that I always misspell,

and three stars on one side of a Steelers helmet.

In Pittsburgh, be sure to ride the inclines,

they’ll take you up to another neighborhood

make you think how beautiful it must look

at night- the city, the bridges, the confluence.

In Pittsburgh, you must have Iron City beer,

get a Primanti Brothers sandwich, hamburger

drenched in Heinz ketchup on thick, soft bread.

They put the cole slaw and fries on the inside.

In Pittsburgh, you should try to visit Oakland,

stop at the Cathedral of Learning, get a key

to see the classrooms from around the world.

Take a picture with a statue of the panther.

In Pittburgh, you have to go to a ball game,

monuments for Clemente, Stargell, Mazerawski.

The old fans still sing, “We Are Family” and they’ll

tell you all about living in the City of Champions.

In Pittsburgh, get to the Southside, tattoo parlors

and bars line Carson Street- but don’t stay too long

or have too many beers, or you’ll begin to think of

how perfect a yellow P would look on your forearm.

HOLD ON, SUMMER'S COMING

Mornings I shuffle to the thermostat

to bump it up a few degrees and think

I’ll be opening windows in a few weeks.

I’ll be soaking up rays of sunshine as

I rake leftover leaves from fall and sow

grass seed in an attempt to have a lawn.

We’ll put begonias in the flower boxes

with orange marigolds, blue ageratums,

and get excited buying tomato plants.

We’ll straighten the rocks around the

bed where the perennials come up and

we’ll pull weeds from the patio’s cracks.

I’ll cook hot dogs and burgers on the grill,

drink a few beers after cutting the grass.

I’ll listen to a baseball game on the radio,

sit in a plastic Adirondack chair,look up

at the stars in the sky and be thankful for

all I have and glad that winter is long gone.

THE PROBLEM WITH POOLS

A pool does not have sandpipers or

plovers pecking the shore for a meal.

There aren't any ghost crabs popping

out of well fashioned tunnels or caves.

The pool does not have pelicans soaring

and dive bombing into a school of fish.

It doesn't have soft white burning sand,

or cool soothing sand at the water’s edge.

No shiny rocks, sand crabs, or minnows.

At the pool, I won’t find a shell with a tiny

hole to make a fine necklace out of with a

section of white twine from a bakery box.

A pool has babies with diapers and parents

making wee-ing sounds to make it seem fun.

It has cannon balling, Marco Polo, old ladies

in floral bathing caps, hairy men attempting

Olympic style laps, stinky bleach, noisy filters,

and Rules for those who lack common sense.

AN ELVIS SIGHTING ON MY WAY TO THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE

“Can you believe it’s been thirty five years?”

says the DJ as the song Suspicious Minds ends.

He wants us all to call the station and answer-

“Where were you back on August 16, 1977?”

Driving along Route 18, I think back to that day.

I was with my cousin. I hardly ever see him now.

He’s bald. I’m gray. We’re old. Last time I saw

him was at a funeral, we stood and talked a bit

and he asked if I remembered the day Elvis died.

It was hot,a humid day,like today,it was back

in the days before so much air conditioning,

We slept shirtless and shook on baby powder.

It was back in the days before we had cable,

DVDs, video games, i-phones and the internet.

We had cards- Old Maid, Crazy 8’s and Go Fish.

We played with flashlights and told scary stories.

We made forts out of sofa cushions and sheets.

We stayed up all night listening to Elvis music

on a beat up General Electric radio. In between

the songs crying fans called in heartfelt eulogies.

I stop at a red light. Love Me Tender is playing.

I look to my left and there he is driving a hot pink

ice cream truck-Elvis at the wheel,big sunglasses,

rings, wristbands and his black hair,now receding.

I ‘m shaken, out of breath and overwhelmed.

I try to figure it out; he cuts me off, he exits.

I read his menu of banana splits, milk shakes,  

and a big slogan- King of Rock n’ Roll Treats.

There’s a photo of fat, old Las Vegas style Elvis,

a cartoon character in a red jump suit and cape.

And a bumper sticker that says-Thank you very much. 

THE SIGNS

Another hot August is about to an end.

It’s been 3 years since I hung up the phone.

I cried beside my car in Target’s parking lot

after speaking with her that Friday afternoon.

Each day there’s reminders, as if we’d forget.

But I don’t see rainbows above the meadows.

A monarch butterfly didn’t land on a yellow rose.

No red tailed hawks sat on the electric lines.

A white Escalade passed me on the highway.

In a diner, a cell phone played his old ringtone.

Bright red tomatoes on my sub tasted extra sweet.

A boy walked in wearing a burnt orange Texas cap.

I heard Shameless on a country music station.

I noticed my wallet gave off a strong scent of leather.

It all made me ask the cashier- “What date is it today?” 

ATLANTIS, MANSION BY THE SEA

Past a flower shaped swimming pool

with its unique jade green tile work

is a gate leading to a boardwalk path.

It takes you through stalks of sea oats

waving in the breeze above the dunes.

We look out over the Atlantic Ocean

where jagged bolts of lightning strike.

A display to rival any fireworks show.

For one week we’ll live in this place

with its vaulted ceilings, 20 foot walls

of plate glass facing out to the beach.

King size beds, Jacuzzis, flat screen TVs,

and a dining room table for fourteen.

A pool table, double headed showers,

multi-leveled decks, a modern kitchen,

artwork of sea creatures and lighthouses.

My wife is quiet, taking it all in until she

discovers the walk-in closet, brightly lit

with shelves, organizers, compartments,

two smooth opening bi-fold louver doors

and separate rods to hang all of our clothes.

Then she says what I’ve been thinking since

early in the day when we got to this place-

“How come we can’t live like this all the time?”

A WEEK ON THE OUTER BANKS

They run to the shoreline holding hands-

a man, a woman, and their two children.

Each one can’t wait to get their feet wet.

It’s the first day on the beach in Carolina.

They’ll stay out past dark with flashlights

as the ghost crabs scurry across the sand.

They’ll swim past midnight in illuminated

pools and drink too many ice cold Coronas.

They’ll get up early for coffee on the beach.

They’ll stare at the sunrise and hunt for shells.

They’ll get down on their knees to build fancy

sand castles with plastic buckets and shovels.

They’ll stare at the ocean, judge the waves,

strap colorful boogie boards to their wrists.

They’ll attempt to have a game of paddle ball.

They’ll throw cheese doodles to the seagulls.

By the third or fourth day, things will change,

less people get up early and less stay out late.

They’ll dress in white shirts and khaki shorts to

take family photos for their Christmas cards.

They’ll feel rich, blessed, and lucky to be here.

Some will start to think of the long ride home.

Some will say stupid things to each other, like-

“I wonder what the poor folks are doing today?”

STAR MAPS

It never seemed possible to me to locate

Orion, the North Star, or the Big Dipper.

It made no sense to me, how 5 shining dots

in the deepest regions of space some how

formed a woman pouring a pitcher of water

or how a cluster of 7 stars is called Hercules.

But tonight I’m sitting on the edge of the world,

or at least the edge of a continent, it’s a place

away from it all, where the “light pollution” is low.

I point my smartphone to the sky and try to learn

what I could never figure out from a textbook or

Mr. Wright, my eight grade Earth Science teacher.

And for a moment, I remember the commercial’s

clever catchall phrase, “There’s an app for that”.

ESCAPE TO WALTON'S MOUNTAIN

a sudden storm put the power out in Charlottesville

sent us on our way, no UVA and no Monticello either.

We left town for another famous American’s home,

winding roads, backwoods, the Blue Ridge Mountains,

we planned this trip as we watched “Season One”.

Won’t be what you seen as a boy on Thursday nights.

You’ll come upon a factory, never heard about that.

You’ll find the house close to the road, only a few yards

from the church, it’s real small and makes you wonder-

How’d they all fit and get along in such a tiny place?

There’s a gift shop modeled after John-Boy’s shed.

The man who bought the family home spends days

shipping books and DVDs to his online customers.

Told us about Earl Hamner’s last visit and how Audrey

stops by now and then. $10 will get you a quick tour.

Down the road is a school, nothing like the one on TV.

A spacious brick building, high ceilings and tall windows

turned into a museum, run by locals to honor the show

and the family who lived here during the Depression.

Each room recreates a scene with props and furniture.

And when I saw it all, I wanted to sneak past

the red velvet ropes and chrome stanchions.

I wanted to hear the Fireside Chat on the radio.

I wanted to sit at the long dining room table and

have black coffee and Olivia’s applesauce cake.

I wanted to write a journal entry at John- Boy’s desk.

I wanted to smell the sawdust from Daddy’s sawmill.

I wanted to go fishing with Jim Bob, Ben and Jason.

I wanted to help Elizabeth feed Reckless and Chance.

I wanted to listen to Grandpa’s stories on the porch.

I wanted to go to swimming with Mary Ellen and Erin.

But they weren’t there and never were. Yes, finally I

understood- it was just a show, based on a writer’s family.

Even the names were different, James, Paul, and Nancy.  

It was then that I realized how the family I knew and loved

were characters played by actors in California in the 1970’s.

A short drive brings you to a new store built on the site of

Ike Godsey’s place that had burned down. And of course-

he’s not there, just two ladies organizing packs of cigarettes.

They made us hot dogs on the grill. We ate at a picnic table

and compared the real family story with the fictional family.

And at the age of Forty two it gave me the same feeling as I’d

had when I found out about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

We took 64 West to 81 South and after a few hours we stopped

for the night to rest and as the lights went out, we both knew

we just had to say it to each other- “Goodnight  John-Boy”.

HORSE SHOW, 1989

Crowds of people who all seemed to know him,

mingled and exchanged strong handshakes with

each other as they entered the fairground gates.

Riders strutted in fancy hats, ties and dress suits,

a mixture of old England and early plantation times.

They weaved through a lot filled with horse trailers,

Big Chevy Crew Cabs, and waxed and shiny Dualies.

Farmers, merchants, horse lovers, and their families

rushed to the bleachers at the edge of the grass field.

We headed to the concession sheds to find dinner.

Great northern and navy beans in their own sauce,

a thick white gravy from slow cooking all day long,

heaped in deep round styrofoam bowls, a huge slab

of Vidalia onion on top, a block of cornbread for a lid.

“Dry and gritty, it’ll scratch the throat as it goes down”.

He pointed out Master and we cheered as Mike rode

the shiny black stallion with its chain ankle bracelets.

Head up, throwing legs high, showing off, “the big lick”.

In those stands that night I discovered Southern culture,

Tennessee Walking Horses and my father, the horseman.

APPALACHIAN WINTERS

The smell of barbecues crept over backyard fences.

Kids found their baseball gloves, played in the street.

Mothers threw open windows to air out the houses.

Families flocked to parks, ball fields and boardwalks.

Others drove with tops down, turned the music up.

After a few days of flip flops and sleeveless shirts,

the sunshine and warm weather began to fade away.

Cold weather returned, bring in the plants, find your

wool caps, sweaters, sweatshirts, maybe even a coat.

“What’s going on?”  “What happened to the weather?”

And when I looked out the window and saw the tree

loaded with blossoms, I remembered what he said about

Dogwood Winter, Blackberry Winter, Whippoorwill Winter,

moments in spring time that remind you it can still be cold,

don’t try to rush the seasons, it’ll be summer soon enough.

RED WINE AND CACHO

Under sprawling branches of their sycamore with its

peeling bark, a dozen birdhouses hung like ornaments,

but served a purpose, shelters for those little tiny finches.

We drank the red wine, rolled the dice, spoke of the future,

planned to travel to places that made him the strongest.

Looking back on that day, I’d have to say it was just right.

The right amount of sunshine, laughter, warm breezes, mixed

with the cup’s rattle and slam on the table with its woven cloth

of green, red and blue threads. A second bottle was opened from

“the cellars of the devil”, and with charango music on a boom box,

he stopped to say once more-These Chileans seem to have the idea,

but I still can’t forgive them for taking away our pathway to the sea.

NO SUCH THING AS FREE FRUIT

It’s August in Jersey, the peaches in A&P are

piled sky high in a pyramid and I have to laugh

when I see the boxes, me and the fruit are from

the same hometown and I’m reminded of summer

driving down Fayette Street, past old fairgrounds

onto Cubby Hollow Road into the flattest part of

the state where you’re surrounded by orchards.

Past Trench Road, I’m tempted like Adam and Eve in

the story from Mrs. Garrison’s Sunday School class.

I pull my little green Mustang over to the shoulder,

take a few steps towards the sagging branches and

know that the fruit will never taste better than this,

the second week in August. Lucky for me, there’s

no sign of workers, all I hear is a bobwhite’s call.

Suddenly an angry man descends a wooden ladder

propped against a tree twenty yards off the road.

I don’t know what he’s yelling, I’m guilty, I run away

fearing an axe handle, a shot gun, or the biting dogs.

If you ever think about helping yourself on some back

road, remember it always seems like no one’s there

in the trees, but they’re working and watching you.