The ocean pulls and pushes,

Depositing it’s treasure of crabs and seaweed.

Ready for human footprints which it will wash away like our sins.

Seagulls ponder the better treat, shells or popcorn thrown into the air.

Humans shop for fudge, t-shirts, and postcards.
​
Take your time, says the ocean, I’ll be here for a while.

(A limerick, haiku, epigram, and ode wrapped in a sonnet)
 
There once was a young man from Sewell

Who thought being a poet would rule
A haiku I’ll write

Late thru this thunderous night

Pen and pulp shall dual.

So, he scribbled and wrote

And changed, then steted

Till his hand was numb and his fingers bented.

A poet I’ll be, he thought, evermore.

He looked at his pen

Oh, mightier than the sword

Laying waste to evil with the written word.

Then switching to love and flying like a bird.
​
Now, I’ll end the sonnet, the final jewel.

During the eighties and early nineties, I would frequently travel to Munich to integrate my programming changes with our Siemens counterparts. Sometimes, on evenings and weekends, I walked the city and surrounding burgs, taking in the atmosphere, beer, and fatty meats.

I had instruction in German, and could speak well enough in restaurants, church, department stores, and beer halls. My German counterparts even suspected that I knew more of the language than I really did.

Common sense prevailed when faced with situations calling for lingual clarity. One later winter evening, I put on my worn coat and OJ-like woolen cap, and took a midnight stroll.

All was well until I wandered a little too far from my hotel. I was in a dark, uninhabited section of town when stopped by the Polizei. Two officers emerged from a van, which was empty except for a derelict in the back. Great, I thought, they’re rounding up suspicious characters tonight. Just my luck, since I look homeless.

The first officer asked me for my papers (in German) while the second stood guard. I immediately went into clueless visitor mode and told them (in German) that I only spoke English.

The first officer asked for my passport (in English), I produced the document and hoped for a quick dismissal. The officer leafed through the booklet. “Why don’t you have permission to stay? You’ve been here for six months.”

I explained that I had only been there a month, but that passport control hadn’t stamped my document when I had returned to the U.S. last year.

The officer seemed sympathetic. “Stay there,” he said, then returned to the van and climbed back to talk to the derelict and show him my passport. Apparently, this was an undercover detective. After some give and take, the officer returned and told me I had to go with them to the police station until I proved that I was only there for a month.

“How can I prove at midnight, in a police station, that I’ve only been here for a month.”

The officer pondered this. “Stay there,” he said and returned to discuss this with his superior (i.e. the derelict).

I remembered my boss telling me once that if I was ever stopped and questioned on my length of stay, I could show them my plane ticket. He was in town then and staying in the same hotel.

The office returned. “You have to go with us.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “ My plane ticket is in my hotel room. I can show it to you to prove I’ve only been here a month.”

“Stay there.” Another visit with the brains of the operation. He returned. “You have to come with us to the station.”

The derelict was driven away in another van. They loaded me into the back and took off. The two officers chatted. The one who had spoken to me turned and said, “We’ll take you to your hotel. If you can prove you’ve only been here a month, we’ll let you go.”

So there I was being lead into the hotel, an officer on both sides. Would my boss see me? What would he say? He wasn’t in sight. Thank God.

The officers talked to the front-desk clerk, who knew me. He vouched for my story and the officers let me go. I returned to my room, but couldn’t sleep, convinced every time the elevator door opened, that it was the police, who had changed their mind and were ready to batter down the door and lead me away.

I finally slept for about a half hour, dressed, and went to the lobby to have breakfast with my boss and the site rep who was also staying in the hotel. I told my story, which they thought was hilarious.

“We’re you wearing that goofy hat,” asked the rep. I nodded.

“I knew it,” he said laughing.
​
Moral of the story: Dress better for midnight strolls in Europe, and don’t expect a sympathetic ear from your peers.

George froze as his nose fell off, landed on the ground, and was carried away by a squirrel.

Martha gasped, causing a tooth to dislodge and avalanche down her torso. It hit her belly button, and both rolled to her feet.

Georgie chuckled at his parent’s misfortune, but then cried when his arm was bitten off by a dog.

A projectile smacked George on the forehead knocking off his hat. “Darn neighborhood kids,” George mumbled.

Martha nodded, and lost another tooth. The wind picked up and her scarf blew away, landing in an Azalea.
​
The sun came out and warmed the chill from the air. Then it got hot.

“Daddy, I don’t like this,” said Georgie.

“Don’t worry, son. Lean closer to your Mom and me. We’ll protect each other.”

George, Martha, and Georgie melted into each other’s arms and awaited the peaceful completion of their time together.

“The people are disappearing, Dad,” said the little girl. “That’s so sad.”
​
“I know, Honey. But, it will snow again tomorrow and we’ll build a new family.”
  

L is for licorice, the red ones, if you please

O is for Oreos, double-stuffed weakens the knees

V is for Valentines, let’s all raise our A1Cs

E is for every day, the best time to hug your squeeze.

Put them all together, they spell Mother. No, wait a minute, ‘tis Love for which we hark
​
This poetry isn’t easy. Better to check with Hallmark

Every time in entered my house through the front storm door, I was reminded of the paint ripped free due to a taped-on placard left by a plumbing inspector.

The underlying base paint was white and not far off in tone from what I applied to the door initially. Still, it mocked me, this careless bureaucratic gesture, as I continued to ignore the defaced entranceway.

During the imposed lockdown, I was looking for some task that I hadn’t planned on, to point to as my effort at staying engaged with household life. The door seemed a good candidate.

I have lousy luck matching paint to existing work. My grand plan of maintaining a spreadsheet of used paints never materialized. So, I rummaged through my vast store of half-empty paint cans, hoping to remember which I had used for the door.

The paint closest to my reach was Antique White. Could this be the matching color? The door looked more beige. Still, I swiped this paint on the damaged section to see how close it came. Then I saw other sections needing a touch up and covered those also. I stepped back to judge. No match, and now it looked like Zorro had decided to mark my house as his.

Checking paint hues at the hardware store, I found a color card containing both Sundance and Banana tones. I ordered a quart of Sundance, clearly stating that I didn’t want Banana. I added a coat of the concoction to my door and stood back to admire my work. Rats! A Banana door.

I opened the Antique White again, and decided on a solution. Adding a white coat to the Banana might give me a match. Close, but the Banana bled through. I added another white coat. Somewhat better, but still not quite there. The next day, I added a third cover. Much closer now.

Still, four coats of paint to cover a complete door to fix a section maybe two inches by six, seemed like overkill.

But the beast had been unleashed. What else could I paint? I remembered that when the attic stairs were installed years ago, the wood section, which sat flush to the ceiling, was unpainted. At that time, I ignored advice from the handyman to paint it to match the ceiling. Now was my chance. A few minutes of labor and this task would also fall by the wayside.
​
Armed with the white, and planning to leave more paint on the door than my pants or sneakers, I studied the section. Painting it directly overhead like Michelangelo at the Sistine Chapel, was quickly ruled out. Instead, I pulled the door open to a 45-degree angle and painted while insuring that it didn’t spring back.

Funny thing about unpainted wood. I sucks in paint like an Eagles fan does beer on a Fall Sunday. It took me about three coats, and an hour of twisting and turning, before the door was more white than wood. Still, I had finished and conquered one more delayed task.

After collecting the newspapers used as a drop cloth, I carefully went outside making sure not to trip and spill the remaining paint.

I stood in the fresh air, proud of my accomplishments. There was still a little Antique White left. I pondered what I should paint next? Wait a minute, where was that damn cat that keeps walking over my car?

In the past, a well-developed need for procrastination held me back from meeting my goals. What I thought was measured caution was really uncertainty as to my chances of success. This affected my working career as well as writing and my personal life, leading me to approach tasks trying to not fail rather than to succeed.

Realizing this, I attempted to resist such a destructive tendency and plow into goals with at least a certainty that I would ‘leave it all on the field’ as they say. This lead to a professional career that had some successes, but more importantly involved errors of commission rather than those of omission. Since we learn from our mistakes, it’s easier to have examples of specific failure, rather than specific inaction.

I’m not sure where I first heard of ‘In for a Penny, In for a Pound.’ It shows up in English literature, first in Edward Ravenscroft’s Canterbury Guests,  and later in Dickens. It originally referenced debt, indicating that the usury rates were so extreme, that a debt for a British pound wasn’t much worse than for a penny.

Later, it was used to reference plunging into a task whole-heartedly rather than with trepidation. I’ve used this term in a few of my works to reference this latest definition and try to use it as a guidepost to personal tasks.
​
Life is a lot like gambling with house money. Might as well go for it since we’re all going to leave the table someday. Better to go bust rather than watching the guy next to you hit blackjack.
 

​The Light Above
 
Christmas Star shining
Two planets join hands in peace
Making darkness fade
 
The Light Below
 
A nurse nods smiling
Liquid pours into the arm
Another life saved
 
The Light Fantastic
 
We await the day
When the light of peace returns
And we dance again
 

We received a call Sunday night. Susan, a friend of my daughter, died last Thursday. Forty-five years old, she contracted Covid and died after passing out in the bathroom, her oxygen levels depleted.

Kate, my daughter, knew Susan from high school. Both were in Special Education at Camden Catholic. They had a small circle of friends, all with some physical or emotional shortcoming which required special attention from a caring adult community.

Susan and her friends also sometimes suffered a separation from their high school peers, those teenagers unsure how to feel empathy while they navigate their own course through adolescence.

This group of friends bore their difficulties and relied on each other for support in a world unprepared for the issues they faced.

The circle shrank as the years went on, but Kate and Susan kept in touch. Susan lived in a group home, her issues requiring the close monitoring of trained therapists. On holidays, when Susan came home for brief periods, Kate would visit her and watch movies, mostly Harry Potter films that Kate had seen a dozen times already.

But they gave each other gifts of time and companionship. Not much conversation, just presence and normal human interaction. They both benefited from this and were prepared to keep up their friendship for life until the virus took Susan.

There are many gifts that can be given: money, the latest electronics, crazy socks, alcohol. Yet, when it all comes to a bottom line companionship, compassion, and the gift of time spent together, outlasts the material objects that distracts us.

Kate and Susan figured that out many years ago.

“They want you to say Grace,,, the Bless-sing,” Uncle Lewis shouts to the hearing-impaired Aunt Bethany.

Bethany bows her head. The others at table do the same.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…”

Cousin Eddie stands, hand over his heart, as he and the others join in.

“Amen,” says Clark, exasperated, when the prayer finishes.
 
Maybe not the typical holiday gathering as portrayed in Christmas Vacation, but not too far off. Each year, in non-pandemic times, families gather to celebrate their common identities, quirks and all.

Aunt Bethany wraps up her cat as a present.

“Honey, have we checked the shitter?”
​
Eddie drives off in the tenement on wheels to kidnap Clark’s boss.
 
And yet, we gather the next year and laugh about the past, as we search the Christmas tree for that odd noise.

Blessings come in all shapes and sizes. We may hope to never again be entered into the fruit-of-the-month club, “The Gift that keeps on giving.” But we know that our friends and family define and magnify us as surely as if we were in a lab under a microscope.

Human interaction, consistently reenacted, define us as a species, and is a gift from the Almighty, though sometimes it seems like a gag gift.

Did the Wooly Mammoth connect thousands of Christmas lights and bring down the power grid?

Did the Tyrannosaurus Rex ride a sled into a port-a-potty?

Did the big-eared hopping mouse fall through the attic floorboards onto his son’s bed.

No, no, and no. And yet they’re extinct and we’re not. We are blessed to survive and thrive because of our oddities and commonalities.
​
“The little lights aren’t blinking, Clark?”