Can’t See Clearly

 

Vision  limited by old eyes

cataracts, dryness, presbyopia,

hyperopia, compounded by

increasing inattention.

The blurring, halos, tearing, blinking, itching,

switching glasses, smudged lens,

all a crystal clear reminder of

better times past.

 

 

When does a cut need stitches?

 

When the people speak

dissonance masks the message.

Polarizing issues predominate

and the media can become the message.

Regional differences accentuate

agonizing contradictions in the message.

The American people, the will of the people,

the people have spoken is not the message.  

 

On one side of almost any issue,

half the people think

opposite of the other half.

Governing requires compromise, but

there is little give on almost anything.

 

Opinions fly, facts are ignored,

science is denigrated,

people are rude,

all America suffers.

 

 

You didn’t ask for it

 

No hair, don’t care

sip the magic elixir

bald is beautiful.

 

Fresh and resilient,

inspiration to all but

please, enough.

 

Taking care of kids

soul  always at risk

never underestimate

never be cynical

tears can be a blessing.

 

 

 

  What would Freud say?

 

Trying to see something of the future

reveals stale scenes from the past meaning

stuck on memories–visions

fine but fleeting

with ever changing insight.

Day dreaming is another look involving magical

thinking about how to shape a future

which doesn’t and may never exist but

day dreaming allows becoming temporarily

different, better, stronger, smarter or

a thousand other things.

The future future is clouded in a series of

steps or skips or hops governed by

chance, luck, effort or if you believe, prayer.

Or more like Russian roulette; you pay

your money and take your chance.

Random events dictate so much—the bullet’s

trajectory, an engine fan blade cracking,

a lighting strike—one in a large number means

nothing if it’s your turn. And everyone does get

the ultimate ticket to see deep.

What if the future were accessible now?

Rich or poor, sickness or health, the day of

death and events preceding and the big one–

what happens afterward.

If heaven or hell, people might be willing

to be kinder and gentler.

If just a big nothing, then people might want

to change their ways to foster chaos.

Our nature dictates a new structure would arise based

on whatever to keep a semblance of order to

promote interactions not solely based on jungle law.

Given choices, most people would opt for not

knowing; the mystery lost and anxiety gained by

actually revealing the future would be

too much.

 

 

RIP

 

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After death has stopped the ears.

A.E. Housman

 

 

what happens when I

die

and experience the

climax

life’s shutter from life

 

it is the big question

with clichés offering

no insight but only

fatalism, faith, or fantasy

 

pick one or more to bring solace

to some while others

blanch, maybe snicker as they

prepare to lie down for the duration

 

i don’t think there is fear so much as

sadness at missing

important milestones and

the wonder of times march

 

memory will be fleeting, even for those

close while accomplishments have

little value past the moment questioning

the striving and driving

 

cemeteries are full of important

indispensable people who may get

a visit now and then but probably

not for long begging the question

why so many felt so privileged

 

 give up the ghost

buy the farm

bite the big one

cash in your chips

it’s a mystery with a

trick ending revealed only

to the chosen few who

know the secret handshake

 

 

 

   We Should Talk

 

 

My father’s death was easy

on him.

Shortly after coming home from a restaurant,

he had one of his root beer drop treats,

got into bed

and died.

No struggle, no mess, no fuss,

no suffering.

 

There was no

premonition.

My mother was stunned,

hysterical at first,

then angry—

there was no good-by

or  I love you,

only empty loneliness—

she felt  abandoned.

This eventually softened to

it wasn’t great for us, but ideal for him

or was it—

he didn’t get his chance to tell loved ones

special things for them

to cherish

or at least remember.

 

 

II.

 

Maybe there is a middle ground for dying.

If so, my mother never knew that soil.

Not that she suffered physically,

but she felt her mind

disintegrating.

 

She slowly became demented,

knew it, hated it,

cried bitterly.

Her loss of dignity, friends, independence

required care givers.

First part,

then full-time.

 

Then a nursing home

when the burden was too much

for those caregivers

and my sister who lived nearby.

My sister was the rock;

I lived far away; was it a

hard place?

Eventually my sister could no longer cut

through the fog

of sights and sounds that become

the altered reality

of a mind dissolving.

 

 

Our mother completely forgot our father,

thought I was her older brother

and my wife one of her sisters.

Time-distorted events best

remembered were from her youth.

She wanted us

to help with her homework.

When my sister said

I love you,

the answer was

I love you too

even though it was never clear

she knew the meaning.

 

 

III.

 

My parent’s deaths were

personal tragedies.

There was no last chance for me

to talk with either about our relationships.

 

There are always things to say.

I blew it.

I could have been more available

but I wasn’t.

 

When there is something to say,

say it now.

Don’t wait, there isn’t a better time,

a less charged moment.

 

Time is fleeting.

It doesn’t wait for courage or nerve,

it doesn’t respect distance.

The timeline of life is the decay to

death.

There is no escape.

Everyone gets a chance;

make the time to

leave nothing

unsaid.

Pieces of my Father

 

I.

 

A friend can remember conversations

from fifty years ago.

I have trouble with last week.

My memory is shaky,

bad to an extreme.

When I try to reconstruct scenes with my father,

I have only snatches.

 

The time in Forest Park

dad encouraging me to catch

a pigeon by putting salt on its tail.

Running after it shaker in hand,

hearing his encouragement.

I was probably three.

 

My first two-wheeler—

a little yellow number I jumped on

at age five, and could ride straight away.

Dad was cheering.

 

Only a bit older when

dad had to rescue me

from Rader’s pharmacy at the end of our street.

I tried to walk out with a comic book.

The owner nabbed me.

I don’t remember a punishment.

 

I do have a clear memory of running

around the dining room table with my dad in pursuit,

belt in hand. I was never hit with the belt.

The threat was ever present

if mother demanded discipline.

 

I remember my father’s drug store

in a poor section of St. Louis.

I was maybe eight or nine.

I loved to help him make

ice cream— black walnut

was everyone’s favorite.

 

 

 

II.

 

I also remember he had a pistol that he kept in the

safe.

Although he never talked about it,

dad was part of a gun-running caravan

in the middle and late 1940’s.

He drove the stash from St. Louis to

Chicago, ultimate destination Israel.

I don’t know anything else about the pistol.

He said it was for protection if

someone tried to rob the store.

 

 

III.

 

Much later, I learned dad had been busted

for being part of a numbers game during the time he

owned that drug store. It amounted to what

our lotteries are today, but at that time, illegal.

He never spoke about it.

 

In fact, he rarely spoke about anything personal,

especially anything dealing with his early life. His

middle initial was “J”, but he would never tell us what it

stood for. Turns out that “Joseph” was the name of a

sibling who died as an infant. My dad and his older

and younger brothers all took “J” as their middle

initial—only discovered by my wife through genealogy

records many years later.

 

My father would not talk about his relatives

but my wife discovered letters

to a cousin he never spoke of

and we never pursued.

 

 

IV.

 

Dad had only one man to man discussion

with me which consisted entirely of if you ever

get into trouble, tell me, not your mother.

    That was it.

When I was away at college, he sent me food care packages.

So sweet.

 

 

At some point, he gave me a money clip,

a silver dollar with his name engraved.

I kept it for many years, even used it,

then gave it to our oldest son.

I suspect he will give it to his son.

 

 

 

V.

 

I do remember an episode in 1965,

my mother called to say

dad wasn’t feeling well,

didn’t look good.

I was a third year medical student

feeling pretty confident.

I went to our house to see him.

He was pale, sweating, had a weak pulse and

difficulty breathing.

 

One of his doctor cronies (dad was a pharmacist)

had done an electrocardiogram the day before.

He told him it was normal—it wasn’t.

It showed an acute myocardial infarction

which was pretty evident from his symptoms. An

ambulance took him to hospital.

I told him his doctor friend

was not trustworthy.

 

 

VI.

 

I intervened one other time in his medical care.

It happened years later. He was admitted to

hospital for acute congestive heart failure.

My parents had just returned home from

the Bar Mitzvoth of our two youngest

identical twin boys.

 

Dad loved lox,

had his fill at the reception then

decided to stop taking

his diuretic on the trip home

so he wouldn’t have to

urinate on the flight.

 

Lots of salt from the lox,

no diuretic, fluid in the

lungs (congestive heart failure),

admitted to hospital.

 

 

The doctors did not take much of a

history, missed the diuretic story

embarking on a myriad of tests.

Speaking with my dad,

I found out what happened,

called his cardiologist and told him to

back off.

He wasn’t happy with me.

I was even less happy with him.

Dad did fine.

 

 

VII.

 

After he died and events had time to settle, I

wanted to have some of his clothes which my mother

was happy to part with. A couple of sweaters, some

socks, bathrobes, and sport coats came home with me.

The socks and sweaters just didn’t work. I tried the

bathrobes for a time, but they weren’t right either. The

sport coats were too big and dated, but I wanted

a lasting reminder, so a tailor worked on them but to

no avail; they didn’t look right, didn’t fit, and

were out of style.

I gave up on the clothes.

 

 

VIII.

 

But I do have pictures and some good memories.

I do have a sense of his gentleness and generosity.

He cherished his wife and children.

He was loyal to his friends and

always ready to help his family.

He was never mean-spirited.

He believed in God and supported his synagogue.

 

I know my memories are sketchy and incomplete, but

I have a very strong feeling

my life and character were shaped

in significant ways and

to a great degree

by my father.

Not so much by what he said

but by the life he led.

It is a good feeling, a warm feeling,

something I will always have.

 

I hope my children feel the same way about me.

The Candidate

 

Having to answer the

inquiries

from each

interviewer

in every city

is exhausting and

can be intimidating.

The relentless sniffing,

prying,

posing,

posturing,

pestering,

can create doubt and erode

confidence.

 

Is the process easier for those who try

to choose between souls without ever

knowing them?

A perfect process,

no–but better than–no

face.

Committees read vitas,

letters,

telephone colleagues and friends,

argue with each other about reliability, potential, virtue,

but rarely

do they ask directly of their

prey,

pray tell us, who are you;

what do you love?

                                               The Pharos/Summer 2010

 

 

 

Reno Casino

 

 

Take a walk through a

typical Reno casino, a town where public smoking

is banned in all places except—

casinos.

 

Subdued lighting highlighting the restaurants,

both high end and all you can eat–all sabotaged

by the stale smell of cigarettes

overwhelming the air filters

and the universally-helpful employees

ready to teach how to play craps or keno.

 

And of course the slots are everywhere, at any

ante and any motif—you like Star Wars, they got it,

your favorite TV program, they got it—and if they don’t got it,

they got something close.

 

Players mechanically pushing buttons

for another spin;

bored, pale,

hooked-up to oxygen,

still smoking,

canes and walkers nearby.

 

Where are the beautiful people in the ads?

the laughter and gaiety?

maybe another night

another season

another casino

maybe a different town.

Maybe a different life.

 

 

 

Rock and Roll

 

I get off balance and

teeter like a tot not

fully myelinated

blaming this on weak leg muscles

after my hip replacement–

it is more than that—a balance

bogey residual from middle ear canal rocks

resulting in vertigo, more precisely,

Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo—

BPPV

treated by some weird head movements

moving (rolling) the rocks (otoliths) to a better place

 

the vertigo permanently  goes away (I hope)

leaving a cautious reluctance to

make rapid head movements

 

bending forward is one of my off balance triggers

got to be careful flushing or bending down

to tie shoes—the business of everyday

is not benign.

 

 

Roll Them Bones

 

 

That comfort of remembering old times,

past places, quirky stuff— requires

trust and sharing as a basic

grubstake.

 

Later the confluence of

remembered images,

scraps of comments,

evolving faces,

changing shapes,

legacy challenge to misty echoes.

 

The catch-up,

work, spouse, kids, grandkids, house,

pension, health—do you exercise, diet, care?

 

Reconnecting is easy,

but reconciling aging

with aging memories,

maybe not.

We move in many directions;

change is constant,

its direction not so.

 

 

What are the odds of remembering accurately

when our brains

process and reprocess

old memories?

What was real?

Is it possible to know?

Maybe chance, just a roll of the dice

becomes reality.

 

If patience and understanding

were joyful underpinnings,

and laughter survives,

that is eight the easy way.

 

Unfortunately, connections can be

short circuited by

the cruel, tangled mess

of plaques and protein

clouding our odds of comprehension.

 

Even best friends with best

intensions,

and every advantage

become strangers and behavior

becomes stranger

when the dice go cold.

 

Random events, a crap shoot.

When the easy eight becomes

seven,

we have crapped out.

 

 

 

 

 

Road Rudeness

 

Aggressive drivers really

piss me off.

Who do they think they are

messing with me?

Tailgate jockeys, jerks but the

speeding weavers really scare me.

Appearing suddenly as they chicane

across lanes almost clipping your butt.

Could chase, but can’t race while

ticker is racing with sympathetic fibers hot.

So you shout fucker, alarm your

passengers, grip the wheel tighter,

stay in your lane, glare, quiet down the

anger and stupid behavior that leads to

road rage.

 

 

You Do What?

 

You take care of kids with cancer;

that must be totally depressing.

 

Like the refrain,

only the good die young.

Maybe we secretly like to debunk

the perceived horror.

Most kids with cancer do well,

a great improvement over the

last fifty years.

Of course, late complications are

someone else’s problem.

It was always easy to garner support.

No one likes to see bald, pale kids.

 

 

WEATHER

 

 

when a low meets a high

no matter the sky,

it rotates and sucks upwards

counter-clockwise.

 

the action-reaction

is up and down drafts

rain, sleet and turbulence

a mix to the max.

 

thunder and lightening

produce a great show

if the temperature’s low

there will also be snow.

 

put down your golf clubs

stay away from tall trees

else lightening will find you

and charred you will be.

 

common sense dictates

a pattern of caution

when thunderstorms rumble

and threaten destruction.

 

 

 

VERITAS

 

What I believe changes

often since I am not always

sure what I believe and

what I think I know changes

often as I learn more, so truth can be

confusing and contradictory in

equal parts.

Well not really equal parts, since

what I don’t know or I am confused

about greatly exceeds what I do know.

I am not giving up.

 

 

Vaccines

 

What do you do

with people

clueless, opinionated,

wrong facts,

wrongheaded,

resistant to reason,

anti-science

yet totally confident

and assured of

salvation?

 

Smile, be gracious,

change the subject

or tell them to

fuck-off.

 

 

 

Trying to keep it real

 

I use to be somebody

maybe I still am

to me

if I could be an island

no issue

being greyer, slower, wrinkled

means invisible

getting trampled could still happen

always keep my head up

letters and emails

don’t get answered

I try to be relevant

contribute in a meaningful way

proud to be involved

but power is inversely related

to age

if no benefit is perceived and

no downside is evident

fu-k-off bud