Thursday, May 18, 2017

A couple poems - Happy Birthday John P Creveling - Eating at Subway

Image result for john p creveling  When I received an email from John P Creveling, I knew I must write a poem about him.


We'll never forget when you ran a seminar
on Finding a Job at the Willow Grove Giant
practically in my own back yard

Everyone turned out! The saucy redhead,
of course, Christina Robinson, your
lifetime companion, best friend and

Bob Rovine was there, dropped dead on
the sidewalk while walking Abbey,
his bloodhound.

Adversity fell upon you, but like
Joe DiMaggio, you struck back better
than ever. Your paintings - such
strokes, such color -
belong in the Louvre.

Some people evolve with age
Others give up
You, my friend, JPC, only
get better, like the sturdy
peach tree arching toward
the sun, each tiny green
peach waiting to burst open.


Blistering hot today. Awoke at the ridiculous hour of 5 am and forced myself to walk around the block before it got real hot. No one was about and I took the high hill in stride

Then I ate at my fave Hatboro restaurant - The TNT Diner.


Coffee, no cream, please
and a big glass of cold water
I sipped hungrily as I tried
not to stare at the tube
hung low over the cash register

Lock him up! Lock him up!
You can't have a child
running our country!
Lou plopped down my
plate: three eggs,
American cheese, and
hashed browns riddled
with green pepper, onion
and taters the size of

Delicious, I said to the
boys up front: Tim, the owner, Bob
the cook, and Lou. "Never in all my
years," said the owner, "have
I seen a man like that."

It was impossible to disagree
as I squirted ketchup across
the eggs, a pattern Jackson
Pollock would have liked, or
his widow, Lee Krasner.

The air in the diner was
rife with the president, his croneys,
his firings, his arrogance, stupidity, and
crazier-than-shit hairdo, so I ran for the door.

As I walked to my car I smelled lilacs
then drove on home to the sanctity
of my home. Not so for immigrants,
Muslims, FBI agents, and the Trump
family waiting like Jews for the
Nazis to arrest them.


Image result for red umbrella    Spent much of the afternoon at Eileen's, my next ds oor neighbor. We sipped ice water on her back porch under the red umbrella.

What a great name for a play or short story. Actually I began watching Roz Russell in Mourning Becomes Elektra but I fell asleep and never returned.

Then Eileen and I had cheese omelets with bagels and cream cheese.

When I went home I turned on the AC for the first time this year.

Yes, I am cheap, but as Hillel said, If not now, when?

Is there anudder poem waiting in the wings wanting to be heard? Speak up!


Look, Daddy! says Max.
Am ambulance!
But his siren isn't on.

Daddy, would you get
my water bottle in
the car, I don't wanna
drink Bubby's water.

Look, Daddy, says Grace,
the packet of apples have
mostly green ones with a
red one stuck in.

Ditto by Max, whose fingers
turned orange from the Doritos.

Max, eat your sandwich, says Dad.
Max takes a bite from the middle,
then says, "I'm done," while reaching
for another Dorito.

Cherish these days I say to
my son. These are the best
days of your life.

I know, nods my blue-eyed boy.

Long-legged Grace does a dance
on the linoleum when the crowd
clears out. We walk to the parking lot
together, they to their van,
me to my car.

They buckle up and I hear their
cries of Bye Bubby Bye Bubby as I back out
and head home.

Image result for oceans rising  Am watching this 2 hour film on Netflix. Fairly good. The husband and wife team have a dreadful relationship.

Steady, Ruthie, I say. Steady. You can live thru their horrid dialogue to see what happens in the end.

At 9 pm there's a documentary on PBS about Anxiety. Perhaps you wanna watch with me? I'll be
sipping on my Licorice Tea, as I watch upstairs.

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