string quartet #4

 String quartet No. 4

 

I sit on my patio

listening to Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 4 in C minor

as the sun melds into the ionosphere,

dusk brushing the treetops

 

Unseen starlings chirp in counterpoint

to the morose movements,

violins evocatively weeping and celebrating

the composer’s vision

 

Lightning bugs spark in lockstep to the meter,

their jittery flight outlined in the gasping light.

Crickets, hunkered down in the shrubbery like insurgents,

provide the choral flourish that encapsulates

the flawless collaboration between Beethoven

and mid-summer dusk.

BRANDED AND CURSED

 

I am a marked man

          branded at birth

          with an indelible scar

 

Less a blemish

more of a curse

the way Hitler branded

          the Jews

 

I am the ogre

who brings despair

upon all I see

 

Who disparages all

that I touch

 

Who desecrates all

that is holy to tribes

not my own

 

For I have been born with

          Original Sin

 

It is as if this scourge

has been carved across

my brow for all to see

in three shameful scarlet letters

          OWG

 

Yes, I am

          OLD WHITE GUY

HOW MANY MORE SUMMERS?

 Another summer has past,

evaporated like warm breath

on cold glass

 

And I ask myself:

How many more summers await me?

Because the painful truth

is that I am drawing down

to that final one

 

We are finite players

in an infinite universe

 

For children,

there is no end.

Just a series of beginnings

finality merely an obscure blemish

in the distance, insignificant

to youthful eyes

 

But to those of us

who are labelled “seniors,”

the supply of tomorrows

is rapidly dwindling, like

the daylight in early autumn

 

 

So you take them one at a time,

reveling in each sun-splashed day,

hoping another summer looms ahead,

and maybe,

just maybe

you can find away

to keep that dwindling light

from going dark

CORONA, CORONA (WHERE YOU BEEN SO LONG?)

They say this plague

is a culling of the herd

to cleanse us of impurities



That this circus of death

blanketing the earth

is our punishment for sins

against Nature



That our pain and loss

is repayment for what

we have stolen

from earth’s bounty



And so we lift our heads skyward

to seek relief and forgiveness

from unseen forces



only to discover the sky is vacant

and that we are simply poker chips

in a game of chance

for Nature’s amusement,

a cosmic roll of the dice,

a spin of the roulette wheel



Corona is just the bookie
collecting the bets

UNDERCURRENTS

We skim along the deserted beach

like a pair of carefree kittens

absorbed in our private world,



a flawless sun massaging our skin

as the waves tease our feet

and the sand caresses our toes.



I grasp your hips and raise you skyward,

your back arched like a guileless swan,

your arms outstretched as if to clutch

the puffs of ivory clouds drifting lazily overhead.



I carry you into the water and gently let you down,

the waves slapping our thighs,

luring us forward like an oceanic temptress.



We hold hands and embrace the warm salty sea

that beckons to us like a mother’s plea,

and as the waters envelop us,



we kiss a kiss of immeasurable passion,    

the relentless undertow leading us
to our own magical hideaway

THE BIG LIE

HE SHALL RETURN

HE SHALL RETURN

We argued like two hyenas

Fighting over decaying carrion

On the Serengetti Plains



I said he was not returning

Not today, not tomorrow, not ever



She said she had a vision

That reaffirmed her faith



And I countered that faith

Was wishful thinking

And mindless adherence to myths



His words live on to this day

She insisted

They will live forever



I told her I pitied her

Childlike naivety



Then she went to her backpack

And withdrew a pair of tickets



See for yourself, ye of little faith

She admonished, as she flashed

A pair of tickets for a

Bob Dylan concert



He is returning in September
For a thirty city tour