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Wednesday, February 29, 2012

FANTASY FOOTBALL: 1950'S VERSION*

It was easier, then, to have heroes.
Take, for example, Steve Van Buren,
who lugged the pigskin
(that's how sportswriters wrote
back in the fifties) for the Philadelphia
Eagles. There were no pre or
post game interviews to expose
the ignorance of the
inarticulate. For all I knew
Steve Van Buren was a paragon
of wisdom and virtue. If you
had asked me, I'd have told
you he was, of course he was.

I never saw him play. It never
occurred to me to ask my father
to take me to a game. I do not
recall ever seeing a photograph
of Steve Van Buren. But when
the radio announcer screamed
that he was dashing down the side
line like he had a Roman candle
on his tail, I could see it as
truly as if I had a seat
on the fifty yard line. If you
had asked me: what, exactly, is
a Roman candle? I would have told
you I had no idea.

*Some time after writing this poem, I learned that Mr. Van Buren is a resident at the retirement community where my brother lives. We visited him and I gave him a copy of the poem. He thanked me and told me he liked what I had written.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

DINAH'S DARING DIP

Old dogs, even the ones
with a generous dousing from
the Labrador Retriever gene pool,
are not likely, on a cold, early
April hike in the woods, to hurl
themselves into a lake like some
impetuous puppy. At least you
wouldn't think so. Not with
the kind of arthritic bones
the vet diagnosed on the last visit.

Age compensates with Wisdom.
It's as true for canines as for
their owners. Wisdom and Caution.

Which was what we tried to explain
to Dinah when, post-plunge,
she emerged, shook herself,
looked at us and laughed.
Or at least seemed to.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

STORY TIME -- II

Trip Trap
    Trip Trap
        Trip Trap

It's the three Billy Goats Gruff
trotting once again
over that plank bridge
that is roof to the home
of that wicked, wicked troll.

And it is my father's voice
roaring once again:
"Who's that trip-trapping
across my bridge?"

And it is one of the three
Billys who answer:
"It is I, the first
Billy Goat Gruff" (or the second
or the third).

And it is I, the four-year-old
who, shivering with dread and
delight, sits perched on my father's
lap on the big chair next
to the front door.

And thirty years later,
that four-year-old is the father,
telling to his daughter,
the once-again tale of
goats gruff and
wicked, wicked troll.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

STORY TIME -- I

My mother taught me to love stories
by telling me stories. In them
she played a starring role, like

the time the gypsies came and pitched
their tents in a nearby field
and she, at home alone with her

younger sisters, gathered them, like
a hen tucking her chicks under
her wings,and herded them all

to an upstairs closet where they
sat in shivery silence till their
parents came home. She said

they laughed when she
tried to tell them, through tears
of relief, how afraid she had been.

I thought they should have praised
her for being so brave, so clever.
I think she thought so too.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

FREEDOM FIGHTERS

Little David
    play on your harp
        on your harp
        on your harp
Little David
    play on your harp
Allelu


Little Rosa
    sit on your bus
        on your bus
        on your bus
Little Rosa
    sit on your bus
Allelu