The Prayer    

 

In simpler times

When people prayed they made more sense

 

For example:

The oldest prayer in the world goes something like this:

 

"Look to this Day for it is Life

The Very Life of Life

The Glory of Growth

The Rapture of Action

The Splendor of Beauty

For Yesterday is already a Dream

And Tomorrow has yet to Begin

Therefore this Day must be Well-Lived

For it will make all Yesterdays seem Dreams of Happiness

And all Tomorrows Visions of Hope

I have seen the Morning for the Last Time

Such is the Salutation of the Dawn" *

 

In those days long ago

Death was rejected each morning when people awakened

As long as their souls never left their bodies

And so they lived each day as though they had seen the dawn

For the last time

 

If only it was that simple for the rest of us

 

*from the Sanscrit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Day We Met Tallulah

 

There was a time very long ago – a sweet-time time

When cobbled streets were mostly level with the tar that held them in place

And smooth enough for pink-rubber spalding-balls to bounce accurately

And old paint-flaked broomsticks salvaged for bats        

And stick-ball games with the ‘catholics’ versus us ‘greeks’

 

It was great fun that one summer in the South Bronx in 1937 –

Irish Catholic kids from Cauldwell Avenue against us Greeks from Eagle

Until one day late in August when Harvey and Sam Roth moved into our block

To the empty apartment on the second floor of the old blind man’s house

They were Jews…

 

Their mother was a beautiful lady that ran a beauty parlor

Their father was shot in a hold-up in his hardware store the year before

They used to live above it but the mother sold it and they had to move

So there they were - sitting on their stoop watching us

With a kind-of sad look in their eyes as we played stick-ball on our street

 

Harvey was about 14...a tall good-looking kid, thin as one of our broomsticks

His brother was younger and short and kind of fat

Every couple of days a cab would show up in the afternoon and this rabbi

Would hustle them in and take them to the synagogue on Jackson

For Jewish lessons…

 

And then one day a few weeks later when the Irish kids came looking for a game

We didn’t have enough Greek guys for our side

So we broke down and asked Harvey and Sam to play the outfield for us

Boy… that Harvey could hit and field like a pro and we beat the micks bad

And so the next day we went down to the cops and got them both PAL* cards

                                                                                                                                                            

The Giants were in town that week so Harvey and Sam and me

We rode the 163^rdStreet trolley free over the Harlem River to the last stop

Where the Polo Grounds was and because it was a week-day

We got in free with our cards and climbed high up into the right-field stands

And sat with a few thousand other kids who also got in free to watch the game

 

If I remember right…it was the sixth inning when Mel Ott came up to bat

With two men on base and Johnny Vander-Meer pitching for the Cincinnati Reds

Mel lifted a high fly ball that would have been caught in any other ballpark…

It came down right where we were standing and Harvey caught it bare-handed

He was so tall he reached up and just grabbed it with both hands!

 

After the game we walked across to the club-house at the end of center field

To see if we could get Mel Ott (whose real name was Ottenberg) to sign it for us

This wild-looking lady was walking ahead of us and once in a while

She would take out a silver flask from her purse and take a swig

She was swaying a little by the time we got to the clubhouse door

 

Harvey was passing the ball around to the kids who were walking with us

The lady asked if she could see it too. She said she was good friends with Mel Ott

And she would get him to sign it for us if that was okay with us

She put her arm around Harvey and they walked into the club-house together

I think Harvey was kind of holding her up… I think that’s what she really wanted

 

Minutes later Harvey came out with Mel Ott, Johnny-Vander Meer and the lady!

She showed us the ball with Mel’s signature and also Johnny Vander-Meer’s!

Mel introduced her to us as one of the greatest fans the Giants would ever have

Her name was Tallulah Bankhead, one of the greatest actresses on Broadway... and

Her father was the Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States!

 

So there!...

 

 

 

The Polo Grounds was originally that… A field where polo was played… It was  oval-shaped and the left and right field foul poles

 were only about 250 feet from home plate while the center field line was over 500 feet away. To pull hitters like

 Mel Ott , Johnny Mize and Bobby Thompson, long fly balls would turn into home runs as Ralph Branca sadly found out in 1951…

 

Johnny Vander-Meer has the distinction of being the only pitcher in the history of baseball to pitch 2 No-Hit games back-to-back…

On June 11, 1938, he "No-Hit" the Boston Braves and 4 days later he did the same to the Brooklyn Dodgers...                                  

A feat that will never be repeated because someone would have to pitch 3 No-Hitters in a row to break his record...

 

*Police AthleticLeague

                                                                                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eris  

 

I've gone beyond remembrances of light and dark

Beyond the sense of child-kind

Into an alabastered world devoid of shadow-stark

The oven of the mind

 

Welded by this luminescence

Seared through fierce coils of radiant whorl

Molded by this dazzling incadescence

Gone is the heart - Left only the soul

 

Cast upon this River of Oblivion

Have I lost this senseless game?

Must I forget these meaningless epyllions

Memories without a name?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         Lament For A Fallen Son

 

O my Yianni my noble pallikar

So young and brave so tall and strong

Your footstep silent as the wolf

Your bearing lordly as the lion

O my cypress with roots so deep

O my drink of water  cold and pure

O my radiant cross atop our shining church

 

You were my moon and stars that brightened night

You were the sun that warmed my every day

Your fathomless eyes so blue so keen

Your eyebrows dark and arched and proud

Your curly hair so thick so strong

Where nightingales could make their nests

To sing your praises endlessly

 

You were my chandelier of trembling jewels

That made our nights brighter than fire

You were my marble church with dome so fine

That we shall never see completed

And when you walked

It was as if a leaf danced with the wind

And I still hear the silence of your song

 

And when you came to sit with us  

It was as if an eagle nestled down upon its crag

O my sweet child my shining crown

You fell defending our honor and our name

 

            And when you fell you broke our hearts

And plunged our home into an everlasting gloom

 

 

I kiss your eyes my son and close them now

 

 

With silver coins

 

 

(Maniot Mirologia translated and adapted from the Greek…

 

Usually recited by old women who spontaneously created

 

the dirges and chanted the words at gravesides. Recordings have

 

been made of some of these farewells for posterity…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Pleasure Domes    

 

The nuns waver inthe shimmer an hour before the afternoon rain

Devils dance in the streets

Bunker oil has not been laid as yet to still them

Across the strait -The skies above the mountains of Samaar

Slowly blacken with jungle moisture on its way to join our own

 

In the shallows -The masts of sunken ships lance skyward to mark their graves

Blown pillboxes rubbled on the beach

Mix with pristine sand to mark more graves

Occasionally a bloated corpse floats in to be degassed with a forty-five

If it is one of ours - or just left to be exploded by the sun

 

Sweat soaks us as we line up yet again in the merciless heat

Palm-shade not helping much as we await our turns

Outside the rounded metal hut

It was thrown up less than a week after the town had been secured

Tagalog notices distributed and the hiring of eager applicants begun

 

It’s been four months since the supreme generalissimo returned as promised

Splashing ashore more than once for army movie-cams to get it right

One of his first decrees - To build the pleasure domes

Staffed with his docs and medics who now short-arm us all

And also make sure the girls are clean

 

No blacks are seen in our protracted line

(It would be years before equality's affirmed)

Their own much smaller quonset near the strip is hidden in the bush

On the other side of town - It trembles slightly adding to the thrill

As the Billies and the 38's roar off on useless runs

 

The nuns? - They come and go oblivious of our long queue

(Embarrassed men and boys)

For there's a nunnery across the way and the nuns of Santa Cruz

Silently they come and go in darkness and in light

To minister to their debilitated flock at a hastily-rebuilt hospital on Red Beach

 

After the hills are stabilized and danger's past - Junketing congressmen

The U.S.O and press appear - and the pleasure domes are closed

Infections soar - Rum is poisoned and the economy caves in

The huts are then given to the nuns who have them torn apart

To roof both hospital and nunnery with corrugated sheets

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

Ode To Hillary

   

Cool

So cool for a sixty-year old

And you'll be really cool in January 2009

When you put your hand on the Holy Book

And smile your plastic smile at Judge Roberts

And then take charge... oh yes take charge...

Take charge of us all...

You've left it all behind... all behind...

You'll be washed clean because they forgave you

When they punched in your name in that booth...

Sure they read all about you on Googleland and still

They forgave you for all the scams and double-dealing...

Forgave you for "FilegateFBI"... and all those people on your hit list...

Forgave you for representing BOTH  sides in that Whitewater scam

And selling out your pals Jimmie and Susan McDougal...

(How did you manage that?...)

They forgave you for the"Secret Death" of your 'friend' Vincent Foster

Even though forensics suggested a more sinister outcome...

And they envied you when you managed to conjure $1000 into $100,000

In just a few weeks in a questionable commodity trade!...

(We didn't know you were such a great trader!...)

And they forgave you for that last-day pardon

For fugitive billionaire crook Marc Rich

Who renounced America for Israeli and Swiss passports

How much did his ex-wife REALLY contribute to Bill's library?...

They forgave you too for your friendship with that Arkansas hustler

Jackson Stephens and the billions vanished in that BCCI bank bust...

And what about your CIA pal drug lord Barry Seal?

Flying illegal munitions from the Mena Ark airport for the Contras in Nicaragua

And flying back with loads of illegal white powder?...

And how much are you REALLY paid as a Walmart board member?...

It's all there on Googleland!...

 

Oh we could go on and on...

But you were forgiven because you are so so cool...

And it's about time we had a woman president*...

 

God Save America!...

 

 

*Written during the 2008 campaign… I don’t know…

                               Maybe we might have been better off if she had won…

 

 

 

 

 

The Never-Beats

 

The Never-Beats were homeless transients that hung around the Automat on 57^thSt.

During the hopeless hours after midnight… They wandered around - men and women both

From table to table with a tray and empty plate and cup and picked up uneaten scraps

And abandoned coffee, milk or tea… enough for a haphazard meal for themselves

 

The manager never bothered with them because they cleaned up the tables after they ate

And stacked the cups and plates by the back door and if he was short a dishwasher or two

He’d slip them a couple of bucks off the books and they’d work it down all night

Loading the big washers and re-stacked dishes and cutlery on the roller carts to take inside

 

Automats were unique low-priced New York City Depression Era self-service eateries

The last one closed twenty years ago… The food was displayed in little glass boxes

Built into the walls of the large one-room dining area which held fifty or more tables

Four chairs to each… The glass boxes held a variety of food, buns, desserts, etc 

 

The price was displayed next to a slot into which the correct amount of coins were placed

The window then popped open as one retrieved the contents and a new portion was inserted

By a couple of workers or the manager behind the walls… There was a “change lady”

Stationed in a booth at the front door because paper money was useless… Only coins counted

 

Our Automat was down the street from the Art Students League where we studied until 10 PM

Then adjourned to its warmth and a couple of donuts and a coffee or two

And made everything last for a few hours while we solved the problems of the world

And wondered if Truman would let old Douglas MacArthur drop the bomb on North Korea

 

One snowy night we were arguing if Andy Weith was really a painter or just a good illustrator

When a black lady at one of the tables in the back fell out of her chair onto the floor

She was a Never-Beat holding a baby in her arms and they were both dead

The ambulance guy told us someone mixed poison in with the left-over mashed potatoes

And it wasn't the first time this happened

 

  

 

 

 

      

 

 

 

 

Dylan

 

There was a time before the tumultuous passages of our present existence

When hours were modified by gentler venues… less immediacy… more tempo between ticks

When softer more moderate ambience was searched out by the players among us -

And so it came to pass that a transient tavern for impoverished GI Billers

Was happily discovered at 15 East 7^th Street in lower Manhattan...

 

McSorley’s Old Ale House – Established 1854 -

Master brewers of the finest malt-gruit Ale ever produced

A proud mash secretly flavored by heather flowers from the bogs of Ireland

And juniper and ginger from obscure eastern sheikdoms

Concocted in the dank cellars of this pre-Civil War tenement with ultimate and loving care...

 

And we – being aware of the holiness of this venerable establishment...

Would make our way in the early evening hours - exhausted from our creative labors

To the dimly-lit saloon with its saw-dust covered floors

And its elaborate carved Gay-Nineties bar with its polished brass spittoons -

Depositing ourselves exhaustively with foaming mugs of regenerating nectar

Within that ample back room – round checker-covered tables – Near-rancid cheese

Platefuls of stale hard rye and plentiful slices of gone-soft onions -

To ease the poignant hunger built up in those pre-acrylic linseed and turps-odored studios

Of The Cooper Union School for the Advancement of Science and Art - just down the block...

 

And there in the smoke-filled foggy confines of that blessed room one hot summer night

After collecting a few coins from each of us to stand him another pint -

A drunken Welshman with a most glorious voice

Steadied himself against an ancient beam and recited his immortal medieval “villanelle"*

About his dying father...

 

“Do not go gentle into that good night

 Old age should burn and rave at close of day

 Rage, rage against the dying of the light

 

 Though wise men at their end know dark is right

 Because their words had forked no lightning they

 Do not go gentle into that good night

 

 Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

 Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay

 Rage, rage against the dying of the light

 

 Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight

 And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way

 Do not go gentle into that good night

 

 Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

 Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay

 Rage, rage against the dying of the light

 

 And you, my father, there on that sad height

 Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray

 Do not go gentle into that good night

 Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

 

 

 *The highly-structured "villanelle" is a nineteen-line format with two repeating

    rhymes and two refrains. The final stanza of four lines repeats the two refrains

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TheThief

 

You know… there are days in the winter of our lives

Piling on now and symptomatic of a weakening will

When those accidental atoms which make for a material existence

Convert within a wrinkled skin-inflated body

To an ocean of silent degradation of those circuitous spores

Those aquatic amoebas floating within us                                                                

That once long ago…spermed and spiralled themselves into an “us”

 

Within the turbulent caverns of our minds

Our drained brains still manage a spark of tumultuous thought

Of how to make it possible to greet another dawn

Of how not to submit…of how not to surrender…

Of how to cheat that stealthy thief of a few more ticks

That miserable bastard… that mandatory time-keeper

The enemy of us all

But there is no hope… one might salvage a few more tired tries

In the end though… the thief always wins

 

Still the cat sleeps… She could not care less

She has triumphed over that sly dilatory sneak

Because she is not afraid of him

Her courage sparkles… reaches out to us with gentle loving purrs

She is our dominie… the guide to our survival

Her eyes transmit her faith in us… she needs us

Like nuns and monks need their sanctuaries

She eats and drinks and stays warm in our bed

 

And when you come right down to it

Isn’t that all that matters?