For Tommy

Hey boyo!
Look at you
staring up at me
with that twinkle
in your eye
and the cherub smile.

You’ve got it made
and you know it;
sneakin’ in the back door
of two families
who haven’t seen
the likes of a newborn
in three generations;
filling their lives
with light,
and joy,
and hope,
and love.

Ain’t you somethin’?
And won’t you just be
spoiled rotten!

And you’re thinkin’
“Who’s this grizzled
old guy givin’ me
the “chicken eye”?”

Well boyo,
on this beautiful day
with snow fallin’
light and pretty
on the church lawn,
you and I
have been joined together
for life
by a silver cord of light,
and all you need to know
is that
if ever the world
starts lookin’ dark,
I’ve got your back.

Love
Phillip

December 2, 2007

The Dixie Chicks Take On The Administration

This video is the Dixie Chicks great response to the hysteria that ran rampant several years ago when they commented that they were embarrassed George Bush was a Texan. The conservative right wing reaction almost resulted in the destruction of their careers. All country music radio stations banned the playing of their music. Instead of sitting around brooding or begging for forgiveness, they created one of the best albums ever, "Taking The Long Road" and it deals truthfully and honestly with their feelings on the whole "Shut Up And Sing" response they got from the red states and the Bush administration. Freedom of speech and respect for the constitution guaranteed rights seems inconsistent with Bush administration policy, goals, and objectives and the Chicks aren't afraid to push back.I hope you enjoy the video as much as I do.

Faded Snapshots

Both of my parents worked, so I was a “latch-key” kid from first grade on. I spent winters in Philadelphia and when school was finished, my sister and I were shipped to my grandmother's bungalow in rural New Jersey for the summer.
We raised and killed chickens, tended cows, chased goats, collected tadpoles, rode horses, and picked and ate fresh fruit and vegetables from my grandfather’s garden. We had an ice box, a cesspool, and no hot water. We bathed on Saturday evenings with hot water from the stove in order by age. It seemed like living in heaven to city kid like me.

I contracted polio during the summer of 1944 and was in quarantined isolation for three months in a New Jersey hospital. My mother rode a “trolley car” to the hospital after work each day from Philadelphia to visit me. I remember most the sadness of watching my mother leave each night and the fresh smell of soap and starch on the nurses crisp white uniforms. I learned early to be skeptical of doctors who where always quick to say, “this won’t hurt much”, or “it’ll only sting a little…………..yea, sure… spinal taps and muscular electric shock treatments are still a very vivid memory.

My first professional public appearance was as a Polio survivor in 1948. I made both the TV news and the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer along with a group of other kids taken on an outing to an estate where I was photographed holding hands in the pool with an attractive Rita Hayworth looking redhead………….I was eight years old and smitten.


I watched the very first Howdy Doody show on my grandmother’s nine inch screen TV. I saw Atom & Hydrogen bomb tests live on TV. I studiously watched all of the Kefauver Crime Committee Hearings and many years later would watch the entire Watergate Hearings in anger and awe.

I saw Joe Lewis fight on live TV. I met Rocky Marciano and other Italian American boxers at our neighborhood gym.

My 4th grade teacher Miss Porter, normally very stern and grumpy, told my parents that she felt I had the potential to become the first Italian American president of the United States……..That train left a loooooooong time ago.

My 5th grade teacher Mr. Schwartz gave me a book called “Valley of The Kings” and imbued me with a love of archeology and a curiosity for science that lasts to this day.

I was an Altar Boy and “served” the 8:30am funeral mass every morning for two years.

I was both a Cub Scout and a Boy Scout.

In 7th grade I wrote an “autobiography” that won an English prize.


At thirteen I started listening to Jean Shepherd every night on WOR radio from New York. He had a profound influence on my mind, my spirit, my sense of humor, and my outlook on life. He’s the reason I decided to leave home at seventeen and eventually work my way to New York.

I started smoking and drinking alcohol when I was fourteen years old.

At sixteen years old my father had me listed by the police as a “chronic runaway” for unauthorized hitch-hiking and motorcycle trips to Civil War battlefields on the East Coast. I was a history buff and liked to travel.

I left Catholic High School in 10th grade for disciplinary reasons related to religious rebellion. I published an anti-Catholic newsletter, organized a strike against the school bookstore, and staged a school walkout. I have no regrets and have never considered myself a Catholic since.

A key lesson I learned early “on the street” in South Philly was that in order to be respected and accepted, you had to be a “stand-up guy” and you were expected to “do the right thing.” We grew up understanding what that meant and it bonded us and shaped our lives forever.

At seventeen my best friend and I were arrested and punished for a crime committed by my sister’s boyfriend. He thought it was funny and never thanked us. We spent a night in jail, got a beating from our parents, and had probation and loss of driver’s licenses for a year.

I went to South Philadelphia High school with Chubby Checker and Fabian. After school, Chubby Checker plucked chickens at Al’s Meat Market in my neighborhood. He soon would become a millionaire.

My 11th grade English teacher, Mr. Paravicini suggested I consider writing as a career.

As a teenager, I was an exceptionally good “fast dancer”, and for four years I entered dance contests throughout the Philadelphia area. I always won.

I worked for free in a Photography Studio after school to learn photography.

I mostly stopped eating meat and fowl in 1959. It’s nothing religious, I just don’t care for the taste.

I am “qualified on submarines” and entitled to wear the Submariner’s “Dolphins”

I was a Sonarman on one of the first Fleet Ballistic Missle nuclear subsmarines.

I crossed the Arctic Circle four times and was initiated into “The Royal Order of The Bluenose”

I was a daily contributing writer to the “Silent Service Breakfast News”, my ship’s newspaper.

In spite of an intense “fear of flying”, I crossed the Atlantic Ocean eight times in propeller driven planes with multiple “mishaps” and “close calls”. I also flew cross country and over the Pacific Ocean to Hawaii with a crying baby behind me for most of the trip.

I studied Stock Transfer Procedures and Commercial Law and briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a lawyer…………….no regrets about letting that one go.

I was elected Chief Shop Steward in a south Jersey local of the I.B.E.W. partially because I had a big mouth but mostly because I spoke English.

At twenty-four and after ten years of pretty serious drinking, I was well on my way to becoming a depressed, mean alcoholic. I quit my job and returned to school. It was the beginning of my new life.

I was writer/editor of my drama school newspaper.

I attended School Of Visual Arts for three years when it was “unaccredited”

I studied acting with Stella Adler for a brief time.

I am a member Actor’s Equity Union

I am a member of The Screen Actor’s Guild

I toured for two years with a movie star in the twilight of her career as her personal assistant, Stage Manager, and "Go-Fer". Sporting a pony tail and parts of used military uniforms, I attended dinners and ceremonies with politicians and movie stars. I doubt that I impressed them much.

I was Editor/Writer for the Saint Marks Block Association Newsletter and on occasion” I did inhale”.

I participated in the successful struggle to save and landmark the Emlen Physick Estate in Cape May, NJ (now the The Mid-Atlantic Center for The Arts) and Lucy The Elephant Hotel in Margate, NJ.

I didn’t marry until I was thirty-seven. I met my wife on a blind date……………..I was the blind date and the one they were being nice to.

There were twenty-one Methadone Clinics, a Men’s Shelter, a Woman’s Shelter, the Hell’s Angels, and countless homeless Hippies and Vietnam Veterans in the East Village when I moved there in 1971. I lived across the street from The Electric Circus and there was a twenty-four hour a day party on our block. The crime rate was also astronomical. I became a civic activist and our block association representative to the NYC Police Dept. at monthly community meetings. I helped acquire free “burglary gates” for our community and assisted in procuring twenty-seven flowering pear trees for our block during the Bicentennial Celebration. We held three very large and successful fundraising block parties to help fund our neighborhood projects.

I am a certified Scuba Diver

I’m an ordained minister in St. Alban’s Church of the Way

I’m a licensed Master Barber

I have written “fictional histories” for some rural towns that didn't have any real history to speak of.

I host a web site full of my pseudo-poetic ramblings

My wife and I have been doing genealogical research as a hobby for the past thirty years.

I’ve been an “amateur photographer” for fifty years

I have always wanted to sing, play guitar, and “honky-tonk” piano but seem to posses no ability or talent whatsoever in the musical arena other than a “good ear” and appreciation for others with musical gifts. It certainly helped with my work as a Recording Engineer

I’m a life member of both the Veterans of Foreign Wars in Jacksonville, Ohio and the NY City Base of US Submarine Veterans.

From my very earliest memories, all I ever really wanted to be was a COWBOY! It never occurred to me that an Italian-American kid from South Philadelphia didn’t stand much of a real chance to become a cowboy. As an adult, I rode horses for several years in upstate New York. I also took English Jumping classes with rich ladies driving Jaguars every Sunday morning in Briarcliff Manor in the area where Bill and Hilary now reside. I was a decent Western rider but a lousy English jumper. The “Jaguar Ladies” were even worse. In my heart, I will always be a Cowboy!.

Picking At Old Scabs

What the hell is love?

At eight I knew I loved my mother.
At twelve knew I loved Jesus.
At fourteen I knew I loved Maureen,
but she loved my best friend.
At sixteen I knew I loved Cass,
but I was dating her best friend.

At eighteen I was angry,
felt the no one loved me,
and I hated everyone.

At twenty one Rosie loved me.
I was too drunk to notice
that she was a whore
and too drunk to care
that I didn’t love her.

At twenty four I knew I loved Carol,
but she dumped me at twenty six
when I confessed I wanted to be an actor
instead of the middle class banker,
we were both working toward.
I was very selfish but still heartbroken.

At twenty six I really loved Sharon
but she tortured me with flirtations
and tests to prove my love.
After three years of anxiety
and exhaustion, I quit loving her.
It was then she chose to be the woman
I fell in love with, but it was too late.
She asked if we could at least
be “fuck buddies”.
I, of course, said “yes”!

At thirty I was really in love with Eileen
but it was the onset of “Women’s Lib”
and she weighed our relationship
in terms of what her “Woman’s Group”
felt was appropriate.
She dumped me because I was too “sexist”
and not the “sensitive” man she needed.
She did say that, "I helped her grow”.

I knew I loved Susan
but she was a free spirit
and felt an open sexual relationship
was necessary to fulfill herself
as a “woman”.
She left her needy sister behind
until I worked up the courage
to ask her to leave.

I slept with a lot of women
during the summers of “Free Love”.
I had “The Clap” three times
and not much fun.
A friend offered a telling observation:
“All the women you fall in love with
are the same person,
they just look different”.

Wow!
A moment of clarity!
She offered a blind date
to prove her point.
I felt real love
for the first time.

Twenty six years later
I once again question
“what love really is”
and realize that
I may never know.
The feeling seems now
to be more an abstraction
than a tangible sensation.

At sixty four, I feel I know
as little about love
as when I started.
I’m very grateful
for the love I’ve been given,
but have no clear feeling
for how much
I’ve ever honestly returned.
July 3, 2005


To Generation NEXT
This is not your world,
you are only a visitor.

You have no birthright,
other than the opportunity
to be.

There is order in the universe.
There are laws of physics.
There are irrefutable rules
that govern
how things function
beyond what religion dictates
and beyond
what your shallow ego demands.

Everything is entitled to exist
regardless of your personal wishes.
Everyone is not for sale.
Everything is not negotiable.
Everyone has responsibilities
beyond their own ego needs.

You are not entitled to respect
you must earn it.
You are not entitled to a good job
you must earn it.
Your are not entitled to a life partner
you must earn one.

Try living in the real world!
Everyone doesn’t get a BMW.
Everyone doesn’t get a big bonus.
Everyone doesn’t get to fuck a movie star.
Everyone doesn’t get to do the Letterman Show.

Grow up!
It’s your life and your choice.
There is no free ride.
Mommy and daddy can’t fix
your whole life.

Wake up!
You really are God, you don’t have to fake it! August 12, 1997



Cheap Shots
I dreamwalk
through a life
that is a graveyard

Skeleton voices
from the many bars
I’ve lived in
beckon me
to return home.

I know
I belong with them,
there;
yet I struggle to exist
in
the “real world”.

I’ve spent a lifetime
“faking it”
and do
what I have to do
to keep it together.
I’m really good at it,
but……
still they beckon.

In a dark corner of my soul
I know
I was born to be there,
destined to sit alone
forever
on a stool
at the far end
of a sleazy bar.

I somehow escaped.
and managed
to have a real life
for a time……….
thanks to a woman
who cares enough
to love me
in spite of myself……..

but they’re waiting out there………
waiting for me to come back.

I wish I could escape
for good
but I know
it’s my real home,
the only place
I’ve really ever belonged
and am totally accepted.

I’m doomed for eternity
to a broken down
bus station bar
in a shit hole city
drinking bottom shelf
shots and coke,
feeling lonely and sad,
and wishing for the life
I already have.
May 16, 2006

Trying To Get It Right

Meatball
I grew up in South Philly in the forties and fifties
with no awareness of race.
Save for a few exceptions, my world was Italian.
There were however, “flavors” of Italian.
Everyone needed someone to “look down on”
and in our neighborhood the second generation Italians
looked down on new immigrants.
We called them “grease balls”.
My family was Sicilian and other Italians
looked down on us in cliché immigrant terms.
It was thought that Sicilian men wore shoes polished with olive oil,
greased back hair, and swaggered with empty pockets,
except for the “stiletto” that we supposedly used
to coerce money from non-Sicilians.
The women were all dark, sultry, had mustaches, and were "available".

We had to have someone to “look down on”
but pickings were pretty lean in our neighborhood
There were only three families in our area
that weren’t Italian; One Jewish, one Slavic, and one black.

The Jewish family owned the local malt shop
where everyone went for ice cream, fountain sodas, and magazines.
The owner was Jew Eddie.
There was never awareness of any racial connotation
associated with the name at all
until I was in my teens.
That was just what everyone called him……

”Go to Jew Eddie’s
and get a chocolate milk shake and pretzel sticks for me”.
Eddie was friendly and very nice to all of his customers,
wore a vest and bow tie behind the counter,
and was a really benign and benevolent person.
I’m sure that he knew what everyone called him
and I feel guilty about that now.
He and his family were worthy of our respect,
yet we managed to somehow “look down on them”.

The Slavic family was exempt from criticism
because the head of the household was a career Navy enlisted man
who was always “at sea”
and following WWII they got a free pass to live in the neighborhood.
The blond haired kid Harry was a conspicuous stand out
in an elementary school of dark haired children.

The black family had lived in the neighborhood
longer than anyone could remember
and were always considered part of the community
in spite of the fact that “niggers” lived just north of our neighborhood.
Their children freely attended our schools without fear
in the midst of the highly charged racial atmosphere of that time.
The only racial incident I recall
occurred when I was in elementary school.

My friend Ronny read a magazine story about the KKK.
He told us all what the KKK did to “niggers”
and suggested that we dress up in white sheets for Halloween
and beat up the young kids in the neighborhood black family.
There was no conscious hatred involved at all
on any of our parts;
merely an acting out of a play the Ronny directed.
We trapped the young son,
dragged him in an alley
and pretended to beat him up
because none of us actually had any reason or desire
to hurt him “for real”.

My awareness of racism came years later
when my family moved to the suburbs
and as a teenager I experienced it on a personal level.
I unfortunately, happened to be on the receiving end this time.
Newly enrolled in a mostly Irish American Catholic high school,
I was derisively greeted with the nickname “meatball”.
It actually took me a few days to figure out
what exactly was going on.
My survival rate at that institution
began a downward spiral from that day onward.
When I left the school prematurely,
I joined the race of man
and never looked back.
I've been subjected to many ethnic slurs over the years
but "meatball" was my wakeup call.
June 5, 2005


Zach
How did we end up here
at this place,
together,
today?

It’s been a strange trip
for both of us
so far,
huh?

It took Jesus
33 years
to experience
the pain
you’ve suffered
in your infant life
and yet,
you smile.

I fancy myself
a seeker
of truth
but
your journey has been
for me
a lesson
in real truth.

I think you’ve been sent
as a gift of revelation
to your family and I:
a “wake-up call”
for the lazy of spirit.

Your joy through pain
shames me
for my imagined
sufferings
and imbues me
with joy
for life’s
real blessings.

I look at you
and see the man
I hoped to be;
pure of spirit,
uncorrupted,
and strong.

Like a smiling Superman
you are able to:
leap past life’s terrors
with a smile,
pass through physical pain
with a smile,
bring joy to a dispirited family
with a smile,
and rekindle love in all of us
with a smile.

I know
whatever challenges
life brings to you
will be met
with this same strength,
inbred from deep within
the Morse mines of New York,
fired in the furnace
of Tyler determination and grit
and forged on the anvil
of Turner willpower.

You were woven
from strong cloth.
You don’t tear
and you won’t break!

I promise
to watch over you,
and I know
you’ll be watching me:
this strange Godfather
from “The City”.

Perhaps together
we will learn
about life.

January 28, 1999


A Seamstress Story
I don’t think anyone grows up knowing they’re poor. They just open up to the world in which they’re born and accept it as what life is supposed to be. Any environment, no matter how desperate, can be accepted as normal by a young child

My mom and dad married in their late teens when he was in treatment for TB. He wasn’t expected to live past twenty and no one could understand why mom wanted to marry him; but marry they did. He told me just before his death at seventy that he didn’t really love her at the time. All his friends said she was beautiful and that he should marry her because no one else would marry a “dead man”. He figured, why not. He would come to love her much later in their marriage. He spent many years in and out of “TB Sanitariums” during my childhood.

Mom quit school at seventeen and started working as a “seamstress” in a clothing factory. Looking back at the terrible working conditions, it seems now that the only difference between a “clothing factory” and a “sweatshop” was that one was a legal business with “union representation” and the other wasn’t. Conditions were appalling in both environments, although agreeably worse in the sweatshops. To me it was just mom’s job and seemed perfectly normal.

Workers were paid “piece work”; that is for each piece of clothing they completed their portion of the job on. Mistakes were costly because they had to be corrected and cut your production time for the day. Following WWII mom worked at the Philadelphia Quarter Masters Depot sewing army coats. Dad picked her up after work in the cab he was driving for a living and they loaded “mistakes” in the car. We spent family evenings unstitching the mistakes so mom wouldn’t lose the time at work. She would redo them the following day and get the “piece rate”. She quickly became sharper and faster. Over many years she progressed up the food chain to a coveted position as Braid Stitcher. Braid Stitchers sewed the shiny satin stripes on the side of men’s tuxedo pants. It was a four part operation (sewing two sides of two braids) and considered one of the better positions in the factories because it paid a higher rate per piece than most other jobs. Mom gained in speed and skills and became known in the industry as “Bea the Braid Stitcher”. She was sought after by all tuxdeo manufacturers. She and my aunt Jenny were the queen masters of Braid Stiching. They commanded the highest rates and if they really busted ass they could make a sustenance living. Mom was a workhorse and she flourished. Competing factory owners were always trying to “draft” mom and Aunt Jenny to work for them.

The Amalgamated Garment Workers in actuality only acknowledged “tailors”, as viable union members. They were exclusively men and women were relegated to “machine work” for the length of their “careers”. Union stewards told all members who they were to vote for in elections from union locals up to presidential races. You voted the union ticket or suffered the consequences. Mom, along with most women, went along with the program, kept her head down, and pushed pants through the machine. Violence was common during elections in the shops but it was relegated mostly to the men. Women kept their mouths shut and their heads down. A young man could start out as a “bundle boy” carrying bundles of clothing to the machine operators. If he was sharp and/or had “connections” he could become an apprentice tailor in a few years and if he was stamped “okay” by the union and other tailors, his career was made. Women had only one option; push clothes through the sewing machines until they quit or died. Mom quit at fifty-five and never collected a penny in benefits because the union required that you work until sixty-two to be eligible for a union pension no matter how many years you had worked. Thirty eight years of indentured servitude with no benefits whatsoever…….Screw you Amalgamated Garment Worker’s Union. Your alligator shoes and sharkskin suits were purchased by the arthritic fingers of my mother and the millions of other union women you sucked the life blood from. June 5, 2005

Me & Mom
I never really thought of mom as a real person
until dad died.
‘til then she was just “mom”.
Having to deal with her as a person
opened up a whole new can of worms.
Now I’m forced to look at her
in relation to me, as an individual.
In the past,
she did all the relationship work
and I was just “the kid” who got the “bennys.
Now I have to become engaged
and deal with her, and for her.
Damn……..

Had I been forced
to hang around dad without mom,
I might have reached similar conclusions
with very different consequences.
Dad was the brains of the operation
and mom was the worker bee and caregiver.
It is very late in the game
to discover that mom is a person
with a very unique and distinct personality.
That’s good news and bad news.
The good news is
she’s a very tough, resilient, resourceful person
with a heretofore unnoticed sense of humor.
The bad news is
that she’s stubborn to a fault
listens to no one but herself,
and has a temper like a junk yard dog.

As I observe her strengths and weaknesses,
I discover that I am more like her
than I ever could have imagined.
For better of for worse,
I’m my mother’s son.
Damn….
June 2005

For Doris

Its been a long trip
in different directions
for both of us,
since that day
we glued our noses
to the living room wall
on Camac Street
with Dupont Cement Glue.

In that moment,
we were closer
than we’ve managed
to be
ever again.

Joined in adventure,
partners in danger,
embracing pain,
male and female:
children of
the “next generation”.
We waited in fear,
crying together,
for someone,
to make it all better,
to free us
until finally
Mommy arrived
and rescued us
from our children's
mischievous invention.

We were punished,
for ruining the wallpaper,
but in that moment
our hearts were
bonded together
forever.

You were
my partner
in secret adventure,
my partner
in shared pain,
in shared memory.

We broke the rules.
of man
and god
and mom and dad.

Our lives
have taken separate
and different paths
that have led us
to this moment
in time;
mine has been
a rebellion
against the past,
while yours easily accepted
traditional values.

More than distance
has separated us
through the years,
and, though a bit crusty,
that cement glue
has held strong.

I remember most
the Mamie Eisenhower bangs
on the pretty teen
in the Dance School picture,
who laughed
so easily.

My heart
is still stuck
to the girl in pigtails
who dared
to glue her nose
to the wall,
knowing it was wrong.

My hope
Is that this birthday
will bring you
the joy and happiness
you deserve.
December 23, 1999


Cory
Cory came to Tri-Valley
from upstate,
the slow way,
via Omaha.
It wasn’t the best way,
or the fastest way,
but it was good enough for him.

His folks couldn’t get
that log home
they dreamed of,
so they settled in
where they could,
on the far fringe of town.
It was the best they could do.
It was good enough for them
and that was good enough for him.

Cory never did seem
too interested
in school and such,
but he worked hard at it,
got good enough grades,
and that was good enough for him.

He never offended anyone,
never looked to stand out in a crowd,
and never tried to be
one of the “in” people.
He loved his family,
honored his grandparents,
respected his teachers,
and deferred to his peers.

Cory worked after school
to earn his own money,
helped mom & dad,
loved his sister,
and that was good enough for him.

Somewhere on that slow road
girls discovered Cory,
and the FBLA discovered Cory
and his teachers discovered Cory
and the soccer team discovered Cory.
Cory seemed to not notice much.
He just kept his head down,
kept working hard,
and that was good enough for him.

He worked hard
on math and science,
washed dishes after school,
did housework, and farmwork,
“shot hoops” with friends,
and never displayed much interest
in fast cars,
late night drinking parties,
or prom night necking.
He seemed to enjoy
nights spent with family,
movies with friends,
and helping neighbors,
and that was good enough for him.

Looking back,
some might ‘a thought
that Cory
hadn’t ever really done much,
but . . . . . . . . . . .

Nike shuffling
along that nonchalant,
meandering road,
Cory managed to grab
a lot of brass rings
without anyone much noticing:

A couple of honors awarded,
then college credits accumulate,
a scholarship sneaks in,
accolades from educators,
the admiration of his friends,
and slowly but surely
Cory kinda’ snuck up on us all.
He seems as surprised
by the fuss as anyone.

Cory looks real hard
in the mirror one day,
and realizes that
“good enough”
just might not be
good enough,
anymore.

From the boy,
a man has emerged,
who is everything
his mom and dad
ever dreamed he’d be,
and the person
he’d secretly wished
he could be:
big
and strong,
and handsome,
and smart,
still good,
and by God. . . . .
there’s even a trace
of a beard.

Comfortable lazy nights
with Rufus nestled tight by his leg,
“Leisure Suit Larry” dreams of
“Air Jordans,” and Kathy Ireland,
and junk food, and Chicago Bulls,
and Dodge Charger muscle cars -
the ole’ “Gen’ral Lee”

Out of nowhere. . . . . Kaaaboooom!
Nature senses
when fruit
is ripe for picking. . . . .
along comes Allison,
“the Baker Of Pies,”
fruit pies.
The yeast begins to bubble;
It’s time for love!

Both shy,
they are slowly drawn together
like “Scotty Dog magnets.”
Love comes to Cory’s life
and nothing will ever again
be the same.
June 27, 1997

Smoke Dancers
(On a death in Columbia)
The earth journey ends
in a farmer's open field,
their passage marked only
by a salute of gunfire.

Like signal smoke,
the spirits
rise from the field
to dance on the wind,
embracing and comforting
ten thousand hearts
broken
by the bullets.

March 8, 1999

On Your 50th Birthday
I lived life before you
with a hole in my heart
where love belonged.

There was no wound, no pain,
just a hole through which
tears sparkled like distant stars
and time, like dry air
rushed through
with a hollow lonely sound.

Awareness of that hole
was only an old, dull aching
deep in the chamber of my breast,
a longing for someone to love me
and for me to love in return.

A laughing black angel
brought us together
on St. Marks Place,
our “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”.
We came to that place
from other lives
bearing our baggage
of disappointments,
sadness, anger, and loss.

We could never
have found each other
in any other place or time,
for we were searchers
with shrouded eyes,
unsure of what we wanted,
and running from what we needed.

From deep within you
a silent sleeping cocoon
stirred to life
and surrendered
a beautiful butterfly
that spread it’s wings
and covered the hole in my heart.

A long silent sigh
was released from my soul,
a relief long awaited
and hard come by,
for by then I believed
that happiness of the heart
belonged only to others.

At the midpoint of my life
a hole in my heart was filled
with more love than I imagined,
more love than I expected
and more love than I deserve.

You are timeless in my eyes
and each birthday means only
that we have been blessed
with another year of sharing
happiness, love, and life together.

I would choose growing old
with you at my side
rather than eternal youth
without you.

On your 50th birthday
know that you are loved
by me.

June 2, 1997

Snow
A mongrel dog showed up
at Rob and Kathy’s farm one day.
He looked nervous and tired
so they watered and fed him,
then tied him to a rope
so he wouldn’t run away.

Being good neighbors,
they drove him around to several towns,
posted notices, and called the local radio station.
A few days later an elderly couple showed up
from the other side of the mountain,
looked at the dog and said it was theirs.
“The dog was ‘kinda’ dumped on them by the kids” they said
and they “really didn’t care much for him,
especially since he was a runner”.
He looked for any opportunity to run away;
he broke ropes, chewed through leashes,
and busted chain leads……
They said they’d “had enough of him
and didn’t really want him back”.
Before leaving, they said his name was Snow.
No comment on where or when that name came.

Rob and Kathy kept Snow
tied to a rope outside the house for a bit
but they showered him with attention, food, and love.
They ran him daily in large farm fields on a lead
and protected him from danger………..
He stayed.

A year later:
Snow has put on a good bit of weight,
is a house dog
and no longer requires a leash
to keep him from running off.

Seems like Snow wasn’t running from anything;
he was running to Rob & Kathy.
No need to run anymore; he’s home.

June 5, 2005

For Ann
Loss,
like Tsunami,
appears
suddenly,
without warning,
dark,
and threatening
to overwhelm
and engulf.

Know
in your heart
that those of us
who love you
will buoy you up
and help
direct your gaze
once again
to the sun.

April 21, 1999

The Rock
Her parents
must have had a premonition;
for of seven children,
they choose to name this child
Pietralina,“little rock”.

Antonio and Santa marry young
and sail
from the desolate poverty
of Sicily
to
“The Sanctuary Of The Hopeless,"
America.

They struggle desperately
to build a new life
as the Great Depression
slowly gnaws away the remnants
of their American Dream.

Poverty and illness visit
and are warmed at their hearth.
Influenza, Measles, Tuberculosis,
Heart Attack, and Cancer;
each take their toll.
Pietralina, the little rock,
somehow survives.

By the nineteen-fifties,
only three remain
of this luckless clan
to bear the family children
but not the family name:
Margaret, Angelina and Pietralina,
the little rock.

A decade later
there are but two,
who appear so alike
in look and spirit
that God seems to have
blessed their beauty twice:
Angelina and
Pietralina, the little rock.

As we cross into the millennium,
only one remains.
She alone walks through
the fresh cut grass
of Holy Cross
and honors the graves
of her kin
with a solitary flower.
At each headstone
She offers a silent prayer,
and locks their memories
and dreams in her heart.
Pietralina, the little rock.

II
She appears to me always
as a wall
of warmth and strength,
solid and permanent,
like a rock.
Pietralina, the little rock.

Propelling her life forward
by sheer stubbornness and will
she meets each adversity with
the power of faith and
the protection of the "red ribbon".
The "malocchio"
can not penetrate
Pietralina, the little rock

She chooses to marry a boy
Tuberculosis has marked
for early death.
Against all objections,
she forges a new family and home
from the broken dreams
of both their lives.
Pietralina, the little rock.

Long sweatshop days
followed by lonely
trolley ride hospital nights.
An eternity of bedside vigils
to first the husband,
then the son.
She remains
Pietralina, the little rock.

Plowing through each adversity
like a demon train,
she determines not to be stopped
in pursuit of her family's dream.

III
Now wife and husband together
pushing their lives upward
and delivering their children
into the Eisenhower hands of
a 1950's suburban America:

Pinafore dresses, prom dreams
Chevy Impala, mink stole,
lawn mower, catholic school,
diamond ring, air conditioner,
Miami winters, and graduations!
She remains steady
and labors tirelessly
through it all.
Pietralina, the little rock.

IV
Overnight it seems,
things change.
It's back to the city.
Gone is the house in the "burbs".
Gone next, the children,
and finally her faithful Coco
who loved her unconditionally.
Pietralina, the little rock
shudders a little
but doesn't know why.

The boy marked for death
survives
his own prediction of death
by more than 50 years.
She nurtures him, bewilders him,
cares for him, torments him,
and has enough love
for both of them.
Pietralina, the little rock

She is his cross to bear
and she is his crutch.
She wills him not to die,
for she needs him to care for
and she needs him to care for her.
Pietralina, the little rock.

When he is gone,
a long silence remains. . . . .
A final whisper speaks
the unspeakable fear:
“For the first time in your life
you are alone”.
Pietralina, the little rock.

Ozzie and Harriet dreams
of family, arriving
for Walton Mountain Christmas',
turn to long nights alone.
Hurt, she feels that the family door
has been slammed hard in her face.
Pietralina, the little rock,
feels the cold of night
alone
for the first time in her life.

She has no weapons in her bag
for the fight with "alone".
The rock weakens
and requires support
but family is "busy".

Emotional storms seem to erode
her footing and a slow slide begins
for Pietralina, the little rock.

When family fails,
she confronts her demons
alone
and finds that God is there,
waiting to embrace her
and reveal her truth.

She is shown the strength
she has always provided
in the struggle
for others.
Now it is her struggle
she will fight
for her life,
Pietralina, the little rock.

Time passes, strength returns
and she is reborn.
The dormant volcano stirs again
and lets flow a wall of fire,
with new will and new wonder;.
a new beginning. . . a new life . .
this one,
her life.
Pietralina, the little Rock

The love she receives this day
is her only reward
for a lifetime
of selfless giving .
She survives us all
by lending age
such beauty and grace.
Pietralina, the little rock.
.
I am chided
for being stubborn to a fault,
for grabbing on
and refusing to let go.
For me it is a badge of honor
that I wear with pride,
for it was passed on to me by
my mother,
Pietralina, the little rock.
June 18, 1997


When is Zen?
When is Zen?
When is Zen?
When is Zen?
When is Zen!
April 1972


Yingchao
The words drift out
in a whisper,
eyes downcast
in what seems
a traditional
Eastern deference:
My name is Yinchao Zhang.

Yingchao Zhang!
To my Western ear
it is the sound
of a dissonant bluesy chord
bent
and blasted through
the amp of a brightly polished
1968 Fender Strato-Caster,
then released to a set of
giant
AR7 “Voice Of The Theatre”
rock speakers.

He works silently,
alone at his desk,
fingers constantly in motion,
scanning the keyboard
for answers from
the gods of Unix.
Only the incessant clicking
marks his presence.

The mind
daily attacks
the universe
with
machine gun bursts
of numbers,
demanding
truth and resolution

The cool, quiet,
controlled demeanor
consistently betrayed by
bursts of brilliant exuberance;
the flowers of discovery.

In daydreams,
his hands lovingly
grasp the handles
of the bright, new,
twins stroller,
as he proudly propels
his new creations
through smiling
New York streets.

In the quiet of his heart,
those same hands
smoothly slide along
the highly polished neck
of a classic rock guitar,
forming chords that speak
his soul.

In a Friday night
smoke filled ,
purple haze,
“Village joint,”
looking “real cool”
behind those
John Lennon
pin spot sunglasses,
bent into the guitar
like a question mark
Keith Richards.

Yingchao Zhang
I wish you well.
1998


55 to 56
A Transition Year
55
Fifty-five
was a good one.
My body
passes the speed limit
without killing me,
my back survives
another failure,
and I outlive
the curse
of the Magazzu men
by ten years.

My wife
makes 50 this year,
she’s healthy again,
we’re still in love,
and
after twenty-four years
we feel like
we’re really makin’ it.

Fifty-five
was especially nice. . . .
considering
the alternative!

So. . . I'm grateful
for all the love,
the poems,
my wife,
my life,
my family,
and my friends.
Work
Birthday lunch
with friends at work,
two of them,
my bosses.
It scares me a little
sometimes,
‘cause I know
they think I’m crazy
(I’m like a land mine
that can “get ya’”
if you ain’t
payin’ attention
all the time.),
but I sure do like ‘em
anyway.

As usual,
I’m the only one
using chopsticks
and drinking
Singha beer.
No business talk,
just lots’ of electricity
and fun energy.

Vinny gives me
a great opera tape
and suffers Tai food
for my birthday.

Vinny and Dennis
get the check;
Peter coasts
‘cause we’re doing
his birthday too.

I never expected
to be working
so hard at this age
but I get
more fulfillment
than should be allowed
by a job
and . . . . .
they pay me for it!

I hope they don't
find out
how much fun
I'm having.
Don
This past year
the Internet
resurrected
a writing mentor
lost to me,
for thirty five years.
He’s still writing!

On a wave
of joyous emotion,
I start
writing again.....
stuff.......
just pouring out.
56
My 56th birthday
holds nice surprises. . .

Cards arrive early
from mom and sister
and mother-in-law.

Sweet, sloppy,
sentimental cards
dripping and oozing
real love
and "moolah"...
yeah, the check was
in the mail.
I dial up
Land’s End
and
it’s a Shirt Order
Party!
The Coven
Birthday evening:
special dinner
with Curly, Kristen,
John, and Andrew.

Our little witches coven
once again attempts
to divine the real
meaning of life
from the great Oracle
at the Sea Grille.

On this occasion,
the Oracle sounds
remarkably like me. . .
teehee, teehee!

Curly surprises me
with a poem
she wrote for me.
She calls it
a “hokey” poem,
but it's filled with love,
and fun,
and honesty,
and
she even made it rhyme.

Kristen and John
offer up a card
with a great photo
of a sinking horse
and a sinking car;
I take the tag line
as a spiritual
nod of thanks.

My ego soars,
so I guess
I haven’t quite
reached Nirvana
yet.

There’s also
an audio tape
made by them,
and
ominously
accompanied by
a sealed envelope,
which I’m instructed
to not open
until I play the tape.

Like a kid
with a mail order
“secret decoder ring”
I can’t wait to get home
and open the envelope.

The message
discloses the script
of the tape.
I play the tape
and find
that
somehow,
they’ve crept into
a corner of my soul,
where no one’s been
for many years,
held up a mirror,
and revealed
a refection of me
that I see
as the person
I want to be.

I am
a work in progress
and
it restores my spirit,
that someone
finds and understands
that deep part of me.
Friday
We leave Manhattan
for the mountains
and the world shows up
at our kitchen door
this evening:
Peggy and Dewayne bring
Tico, and Briana,
Heidi, and James,
and delicious, home made,
Black Forest Brownie cake
( accompanied by
a can of Redi Whip)
and delicious
fresh brewed beer
from Saratoga,
and delicious books
of poetry;
the kind I really love:
old, sticky sweet,
traditional,
American poems
that we all read
in grade school;
Robert W. Service . . .
The Spell Of The Yukon. . . .
Geez, I still get goose bumps!

Heidi and James
give me
The Daily Book Of Poems.
It was their second choice
and not the gift
they really wanted
to get for me;
but,
now I have a poem
for every day of the year.
NEATO!
The right choice
after all.

Accepting their gift,
I inquire
when James first realized
that he was in love
with Heidi. . . . .

I’ve caught him
off guard
and he actually
blurts out an answer,
before quickly recovering,
and retorting that
he thinks I’ve had too much beer.
Gottcha’, James!
August 12,1997

The Victor Cafe

Hi Don;
I was in South Philly last weekend after visiting my mom at her nursing home and I invited my cousin Julia out for dinner (her husband recently died). I thought we’d go to a nice Italian restaurant near my mom’s old house but when I got to Julia’s, she suggested we choose one of the many restaurants in her neighborhood. Being an opera lover, her first suggestion was The Victor Café (she calls it Victor’s Café). I hadn’t realized that it is just two short blocks from her house. Needless to say, we strolled right over there and proceeded in with no reservations. In spite of the fact the place was packed and groups were waiting outside, the lady at the door kindly asked us to wait a moment while she checked. While we were waiting by the door, I told Julia how we had recently corresponded about the café and how you included the history in you working novel. Unbeknownst to us, the chef/owner was standing behind us sipping a glass of wine and listening. He mentioned that the restaurant is very popular worldwide but not very supported by the folks in the neighborhood. He continued to chat and mentioned that Sylvester Stallone and crew had just finished filming there this past week for the new Rocky movie and how the entire staff was enlisted in the scene. He also mentioned that he was coming to Lincoln Center in NYC next weekend to attend the opera and had booked dinner reservations at Nobu (the hottest restaurant in NY and owned by Robert DiNero). He chatted until we were offered a miniscule table by the door and bar, and of course we accepted. We sat and he headed off to the kitchen.
Everyone was extraordinarily friendly and kept coming by to chat with us about the filming, opera, and the food. Perhaps they thought we were friends of the owner. To make a long story short, the food was excellent, the music was grand, and the singing waiters were all fantastic. Just before we left, the owner again came by and inquired how we liked the meal. He mentioned that when he saw our table number come in with the order, he threw in a bit “extra”. He also mentioned that he was never a big fan of Tera Mesu (sic) but recently decided to make his own version from scratch. He suggested we try it on our next visit and we agreed. He gave Julia a warm hug and we were off with a “doggie bag” of remaining sauce.
What a wonderful night. It was even more surprising following our discussion and the fact it was all “spur of the moment”. I will be mailing you the business card, the empty doggie bag, the check (so you can pretend you enjoyed the meal along with us), and a card from a newer restaurant just a block from Victor that also has fine food and good opera. It’s called Franco & Luigi’s and I think I’ll try that one next. They have a website: http://francoandluigis.com/pastariarestaurant1/

Rantings of a Veteran, Tree Hugger, NRA, ACLU, Doctors Without Borders, Druid, Political Deserter whose turning 65 and feeling the tremor!

October 12, 2006

Hi Friends & Family;

Yesterday a small plane carrying a NY Yankees pitcher crashed into the building that I work in. I was working on the second floor and the plane hit around the 30th. floor (I'm sure you've all heard about it endlessly on the news by now). We felt and heard the plane hit but were unaware of what exactly had happened. We knew it was something serious from the frightening sounds and the air pressure changes in the building.
It turns out that the flaming debris from the plane landed at the doorstep of the entrance to our area (see photo) and our security guys
very quickly ordered everyone out of the building.

After everyone in my crew was accounted for, we set up a command post in a building a block away to monitor the status of our computer network and await orders from our disaster control group at the hospital. We called our families and let them know we were okay...............We waited............!

The world outside was another story completely. It was raining like hell and the neighborhood was overrun with law enforcement at all levels from local to federal and military (including SWAT Teams) along with a circus of news trucks and reporters questioning everyone about anything and everything.

We were allowed back in the building after about four hours. The return trip to our Data Center in the crash site building turned into yet another adventure. We were ordered to cross the street, go through a sanitation department truck depot, walk West two blocks, walk South three blocks, and walk East two blocks in pouring rain and very high winds while dodging news hawks, law enforcement, and multiple checkpoints. Aside from the smell of wet burned debris, everything was normal in our computer complex and we gorged on a stash of leftover Christmas chocolates. Again we phoned our families and assured them we were all okay while they watched continuing replays of the burning building that in reality only burned for about 20 minutes thanks to a heroic fire department effort.

We secured the area around 7:30 and left for home in very heavy rain and wind amidst a sea of law and news. I gratefully mooched a large golf umbrella from a coworker and a ride from another. I arrived home late to a martini and a wonderful dinner that my wife had placed patiently on hold and retired early with a full belly and a bit of anxiety.

Thursday morning found our workplace a military/law/news compound. After filtering through the multiple checkpoints and repeatedly identifying myself, I entered my office for an eerily normal day except for a lunch excursion and day's end when we were again engulfed by the sea of media hype and law enforcement. We no longer have any idea what the milling hoards of media are waiting for. There's noting left to see or do except interview each other. Are they waiting to see body parts or airplane parts? Who knows.....but it sure seems like they're overdoing the coverage to the extreme.....LET IT
GO! ……………………. It's not 9/11, it's an accident. Everyone go home, please.



The Sun Also Rises
I've been in possession of a Japanese flag for more than fifty years. It was "war booty" traded for baseball cards when I was a kid. It was artistically framed by me and has hung above my desk for the past thirty years. I read a recent article in a NJ newspaper about a guy who returned a WWII Japanese personal battle flag to the family of the soldier who had carried it in WWII. The flag bore a bullet hole in it and looked eerily like mine. I decided to see if I could gain some insight into the origin of "my" flag and possibly return it to the family of the soldier who carried it. I contacted a charitable organization that is trying to return WWII relics to the families of soldiers.

I sent them extensive photos of the flag. They were unable to identify the original owner or family but did provide a translation of the writing on the flag. I was immediately struck and saddened by the similarity of the writing on the flag and the type of "sloganism" and extreme religious/nationalist jingoism we hear now from suicide bombers and extremist organizations/religions in the Middle East and Asia. I guess we really haven't advanced or learned as much in the past sixty years as I'd like to believe.

Having served in the military, I feel great sadness for the families on all sides of these current stupid world conflicts and in particular, empathize with the poor grunts who carry the flags in their uniforms for whatever cause they have chosen to lay down their lives. Their choice of sacrifice somehow seems to me merely a strange variation of the same nationalism and loyalty to flag and country we all feel. I guess this shit's gonna' continue until we either destroy ourselves or get an "earth flag" that we all can salute. ………….For me, at sixty-five, I'm tired of marching for everything/anything. I'm gonna' sit on my porch, drink beer, and look at the mountains.

A friend of mine once commented that he felt we could end all wars by getting the top generals of all the world armies in one room and have them try on each other's uniforms………..Not a bad idea at all……….or maybe it's time we try dancing again. My wife certainly thinks that might work.

I know this posting is gonna' piss off most of my military buddies but for some unfathomable reason, this old war flag thing is gnawing at my innards. I'm still all American, so you'll just have to deal with my opinion or hunt me down and kill me………..…….it's the American WAY!

I guess I'll be buying my own beers at the next SubVets and VFW reunions………………. :)