I Learned to Kill for You

Just 19, I was ferried through the desert
in a copter. We worried that the eternal sands
of this enemy’s land would choke the intakes.

I had prepared for this,
sharpened my shooting eye,
learned to clean, assemble and disassemble,
mastered the correct hold
to choke the air intake of the enemy, to bring death.

Honed my physique,
fine tuned my body to pain,
practiced war games on the video screens,
bonded with these comrades
with whom I would shortly alight.

Now as we step onto the battle field
I am taken aback by the immediacy
of the enemy’s onslaught.
I had worried about how it would feel
the first time -

But found there was no time to feel – or think.
Instinct and reflex governed.

I simply killed for you.


I Have His Letters Still

When I was young
they were kept in a shoebox.
Then, in late middle age,
in an old leather correspondence case,
found at a flea market,
kept in the bottom desk drawer.

Handwritten in flowing cursive script
by original Lewis Waterman pen
point dipped in a well
the fountain of personal essence
the blue flowed with emotion
like the waters of life.

Soul captured not by Lucifer
but by the fiber of the paper
crafted in Egypt along the Nile
history nested so deeply between the reeds
weaved invisibly
between the threads of papyrus.

The envelope, self-sealed in a meticulous way
with wax, monogrammed
engraved so beautifully on the back.
The Steamboat Savannah stamp
hand canceled – May 24, 1944
a distinctive ink which marked its journey
as would a traveler his journal
from South Carolina to Baptistown, NJ.

I treasure this letter, and its envelope.
When I pick it up and read
I feel him rising
through the warmth of his words,
grasping my hand…
this post saved in the attic of my memories.

While I have other poets today
their presence I see just fleetingly
on the computer screen,
my palm touch against the monitor
only makes work for me
with Windex.

Though a friend taught me about the “Save” button
I feel as if I have saved nothing, and lost much
each time I push/click -
their correspondence lost –
in impersonal set aside.

Why time took this treasured means of human discourse
there is no answer.
Does it have no sense of history -
permanency?
Upon my death, for what
will they use my leather satchel?

Thankfully -- I have his letters still.


Running with Scissors

I was tempted the other day,
to run with scissors,
just to prove to my mother
that I could do it safely.

Though I am 35 and she has been gone 10 years
I still cannot do it.

I fear that as she warned,
I would trip and pierce my heart
or gouge my eye out.
Worst yet, I could fall and drive it into the dirt
and dull its sharpened edges
much to my mother’s irritation.

A priest had warned me once
of being with a girl unless I was married.
When I made young love the first time
I thought for sure I would die.
I have made love many times since.

But I still cannot run with scissors.


A Window with the Sunshine

I want to sit in a window with the sunshine.

When I grow old, that’s all I want –
A restaurant window in the sunshine.

My friend, the cherished actor
had his choice of any seat his fame desired.
The maître d’ prepared a quiet table in the corner.
Privacy from peering eyes and boisterous strangers.

But for all his years in the limelight,
He sought only one thing –
A window in the sunshine.

More than fresh air –
the generous rays of warmth
envelope a personality, etch calm in body and soul.
Solace in elder years.

I harkened back to my younger days.
A quiet table in a dark corner, dim lights,
comforted and provided security for me
and the one I loved.

And then in middle years, a table twice removed, assuaged my ego.
Assured me of my importance.
Sheltered me from the very fame I sought.

And now….and now….

As the tide of life recedes,
I want to sit in a window with the sunshine.


How to Eat a Cannoli

Cannoli won second place
for the dessert with the worst eating design
second only to a hot dipped, thin-coated,
chocolate covered soft vanilla ice cream cone
on an August summer’s day.

I understand why
they have to see through both ends of the shell
when filling it up -
but why would anyone design a dessert
which, when you bite on one end,
you lose 25% of the equivalent of the dessert out the other?

Now a Hot Dog.
There’s a functional cylindrical type food.
The dog tucked cozily in the bun.
When you chew on one end you do not loose
mustard, relish and onions out the other.
Compare that to a Big Mac.
Bite at any one point and you have drippings drama
around all of the edges.

The cannoli’s problem would be almost tolerable
if you were losing just mayonnaise, ketchup or mustard
or that messy combination of goo that
soothes your hamburger taste buds.

But cannoli filling is Italian health food
the whole cow’s milk ricotta cheese
dark milk chocolate chips
(and whatever else is in there)
the sweet nectar of life.

I ate dinner once with an American
who thought he’d solve the problem with a knife and a fork
attempting to daintily cut through the shell
in order to pick up pieces.
Cutting through a cannoli shell!
“gat outa here”!

If they wanted you to break the shells apart
they would have crushed them up for you
and sprinkled them on top of the filling
and served them to you with a plastic spoon
in one of those paper cups for pansies.

There is only one way to eat cannoli.
Bite on one end
and as far as the other end goes -
“Fuhgeddaboudit…”