As a boy, I would go to Temple with my family on this day.
Today marks the day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. On this day, my father closed his shop and he would put on his suit. He wore an unmistakable brand of cologne with an aroma that can never be forgotten. My mother would wear a dress, and she smelled from her perfume of choice.
My brother and I wore Continue reading
5 short verses
1)
A man’s love for woman
is the same as his need for food and survival.
And truly, it is incredible what man will do to survive.
It is amazing how limitless he can be when hungry
. . . . . and she becomes his only meal.
2)
My yesterday left as soon as I walked away.
Everything was gone,
except for the strands of hair you left on my pillow Continue reading
The Great American Pastime
Before I continue, I think it would help if you could imagine the sounds at a little league baseball game. Imagine a baseball field with aluminum bleachers behind either of the fenced-in dugouts.
The bleachers are not overwhelmingly tall, or overly crowded, but this is where the parents sit and cheer for their kids.
Picture, if you can, other parents and family scattered at the fences of either sideline. They sit in lawn chairs from their home with perhaps, a sweater or sweatshirt draped over the back of the chair, and all of them gather or group in their usual cliques.
Envision an average suburban town with a main road bordering the ballpark. A white billboard sign welcomes at the front entrance. Upon it is the town’s Continue reading
The Angry Pillow
Many years ago, I sat in my Aunt Sondra’s house and she introduced me to a big pillow.
She called this pillow, “The Angry pillow,” and said, “You can do whatever you want to that pillow. You can pick it up and slam it down. You can kick it, punch it, choke it and shake it. You can yell at it too. And yelling is good! You can do anything you want to The Angry Pillow because that’s what it’s there for.”
But I was hesitant.
The pillow was multicolored and stood nearly Continue reading
age
Somewhere in the world, enclosed in a decorated silvery metal case, and packed in a cardboard box with all of my other memories is a video tape of my 13th birthday.
This was the day I became a man in the eyes of the Jewish faith. This was also the day I stood before the Continue reading
stream of consciousness poetry
Spillage
It is too late for me to change anything with words.
So if I am to change, then I can only change by action.
Otherwise, I will remain still,
and everything around me will stay the same
or unchallenged.
By definition, freedom is the exemption from outside control.
However, my freedom is limited so long as I hold myself captive. Continue reading
Remembering
What I remember most are the days afterward. I remember the worry and prayers for those who went missing, and the hopes that they would turn up alive instead of found in the rubble.
On September 12, I returned to the Continue reading
wish list
Rain falls and the small town of East Meadow is quiet. The view from my living room window is peaceful and the gray sky has given me the prefect reason to be lazy.
My friend The Old Tree stands across the street from my home and I celebrate another year of its endurance. Looking though my front window, I can see a distant water tower poking the belly of the sky above the rooftops.
This has been my view for close to eight years; a view which I thought I would lose on a few occasions. But much like my friend The Old Tree from across the street; I have roots here. I belong exactly where I am. I am a part of this town’s history, and with hope, I plan to be a part of its future. Continue reading
working man’s ramble
The Old Man was not always easy to relate to. He grew up in a much different time than I did. He grew up in a different household, in a different town, and in a different world.
He was older than the usual dad with children my age. He was hard-handed and stuck in his own ways. The Old Man was born out of The Great Depression, so his views on money, discipline, and waste were very strict.
The Old Man hated waste. He used to tell stories about Continue reading
why I stay sober
I was under the influence of something more than just a mild chemical reaction. Someone, and I was never sure who, suggested I try a bag.
“It will help you come down,” they said. “It’ll stop the fiend [or urge] from getting to you.” But what no one explained was the trade of one evil for another.
The weather was warm and the sweat beaded down the bridge of my nose. The long strands of my hair were clumped together with sweat and blood sped throughout my Continue reading
The Written Addiction 