THE BIRD BATH, a poem

The water is a joy

To splash and thrash

Sprinkling the patio

The Robin Red Breast

Bathes in pleasure

Refilling the bowl

Atop the pedestal

Depends on the whim

Or daily habits

Of the voyeur

Like the king of old

Spying on Bathsheba

The voyeur relishes

The beauty of the Robin

Innocently enjoying life

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CRISIS POINT, a poem

         We took separate paths,

          trekking an arid land

          in sight of one another,

          otherwise unconnected

          Our expressions blank.

our tongues parched,

          pressing on without joy

          toward our crisis point

         

          At the crossroad, I asked,

Continue alone or together

She smiled, eyes sparkling,

holding hands, we walked

           into a verdant future

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HERMAN BENSON, UNION DEMOCRACY HERO

Herman Benson spent most of his long life on an endless quest: to make unions better through democracy. He died last week at age 104 still working to fulfill that noble goal.

          Five decades ago, Benson founded the Association for Union Democracy, a small but potent organization that has played a huge role in helping and inspiring reformers in the unending struggle to oust passive or crooked union officials.

          Benson’s crowning achievement came in 1991 when along with labor lawyer Susan Jennik, then AUD’s executive director, convinced a judge to direct a court-appointed elections officer to oversee every aspect of the first rank and file election for the top officers of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters.

Reformers were convinced that without outside supervision the union hierarchy and their local union allies would have rigged the election to keep the old guard in power. Instead, a clearly-honest election resulted in the late Ron Carey becoming international president of the IBT.

Local unions should be building blocks of democracy with Herman Benson remembered as the visionary of that ideal.

  

         

         

         

HEAVEN on EARTH

What is heaven?

Here on earth

heaven is a good breakfast

where the taste lingers

on your tongue

and sates your appetite,

Heaven is in a glass

of cold water,

in a sunset,

in a good roll in bed,

in a look between

a man and a woman,

in a good book,

in walking free

through fields of wheat,

in a work of art

that reaches inside you;

Heaven is in a moment.

MY RESERVOIR, a poem

My reservoir of words

of English with smatterings

of French, German, Italian,

and Spanish with bits

of Farsi and Arabic

available at my call

throughout my life

were collected from parents

from school, from books, from films

from conversations, from theater

from dictionaries and thesauruses

          The right word, the right phrase

          flowed at will

          into my novels, poems, articles

and conversations

then old age struck

The wanted words

slow in coming

or even blocked

by feeble recall

My reservoir remains full

but difficult to access

INFATUATION, a poem

         The rivulet flowed

          from within them

          widening into a brook

          tumbling comfortably

          into a stream swelling

          with a growing power

          into a river roaring

          violently to the sea

          and it was over

TIME'S UP, a poem

Donald, your dream fulfilled:

your name sadly is on

every cable news show

in tribute or dismay

So, time to leave

Donald, you have spent

your presidency

in ugly twittering

shrinking the USA

So, time to leave

Prior presidents spent

all their time in office

dealing with grave problems,

not spellbound by cable

so, time to leave