PSALM FOR FLIGHT 93: IN VERDANT PASTURES

He gives them repose; a long journey ended
and all who had risen to the occasion knew
their rest was well earned. Not how they would
have wanted, but God never asked them
what they wanted. He gave them what He knew
they could handle. And so, brave and stoic,
extremely heroic they were at peace with
the decision that was made. Honor in their way;
on their terms. A rest well earned
and on that day they learned their limitations.
Strong enough to defend their nation.
In control on the command, “Let’s Roll”.
In verdant pastures, the Shepherd
snatched them up to rest peacefully.
They needed and wanted nothing more.

CONCRETE TOWERS: THE SHADOW OF MEMORY

                             I
                             t
                            w
                             a
                             s
                Late summer in                  NY. A day like
                any other;  New                  Yorkers   loved
                days such as th                    ese.  The   sky
                was clear; the air                was crisp  and
                life went on as it                 usually did.Taxi
                cabs jammed in                  traffic, and some
                commuters were                too. Pedestrians
                on the pavement                heading to  their
                nine-to-5 enslave               ment. A sense of
                urgency had gone              unnoticed but that
                was business  as                  it usually was. Men
                and Women head               ed to work, or to
                drop the children               off at daycare. Today
                is September 11th              2001 and all is right
                with the world. The            sun rises, casting
                the Statue of Liberty          in  seductive  and
                glorious silhouette;             a shadowed sentinel
                set in the harbor to              greet all travelers to
                the “Land of the Free”.       Like those folks on
                that inbound jet and         others like it. It holds
  the hopes and dreams of all aboard, as it does for all below. The airplane’s
 shadow is cast ominously across the expanse of concrete, metal and glass;
a close pass to the constructed mountains above. Most unusual on this usual
day. Nothing changes on usual days. Usually, but not today late summer in NY.

7HR0U6H 7H3 M157 8Y 7H3 NUM83R5

 

MY 3Y35 M157 W17H M3M0R135,
5W47CH35 0F M0M3N75 H3LD D34R.
1 C4N H34R 7H3 V01C35 WH053
L1V35 W3R3 F1LL3D W17H CH01C35,
600D 0R 84D, 7H3Y H4V3 L177L3 834R1N6
0N 7H353 F33L1N65 N0W.
L0V3 M34N5 1 C4RRY 7H3M W17H M3
F0R N0 07H3R R3450N 7H4N 7H47.
F41N7LY, V1510N 83C0M35 CL34R3D.
1 F33L N34R3R 70 Y0U W17H 71M3.

REMEMBERING THE TWINS

Tall and proud they stood,
brothers from the same design.
One taller than the other;
he wore his hat to distinguish them.
Side-by-side, they kept watch
over the multitudes with attitudes,
near the harbor, they held no ill will
standing still while liberty had shown the way.
Until that day, their futures bright together,
their fates tied to their function.
But their compunction was well founded
when they were grounded.  Encouraging to the last,
until the fast descent caused by one’s great fall.
The other followed shortly, two swept clear.
Ten years older if they were still here. 
Tall and proud they stood,
brothers from the same design,
holding lives and dreams for all
concerned in the balance.
Under a valance of dust and rubble
there remains no trouble remembering the twins.

CARTOON BALOONS AND PARENTHETICAL PARODY

(Thoughts Escaping)

Random phrases float effortlessly in my mind.
Thoughts and ideas left from other mad fits of genius.
(Or not). But, I’ve got all these things to say
that in a way gives life to my minutia.
I run each one up the flagpole and salute you
for being interested enough to read my mind and worry.
(Wouldn’t life be easier if spoken in cloud-like bubbles;
all your troubles and emotions suspended
in an unending tirade or titillation?) There is no greater
frustration in speaking your mind only to find
yourself looking like an ink drawing (in a four panel spread).
I would dread the moment my eye wanders and
the onlookers can read my lascivious letching.
So, I’m left fetching my gum eraser and removing
any trace of thoughts (in an effort to save face).
But if you float it out there, your muse ever-hangs in mid-air.
An animated existence in this surreal deal called life (punch line not included!)

BEDFORD FALLS

 

There’s no escaping this life.
Despite the strife that this life will provide,
you can’t hide the fact that
the lives you touch, touch so many others.
You’ll have enough sisters and brothers
to populate this burg, and any urge you have
to roam from your roots will have you
shaking in your boots. You carry home with you,
and it carries you in its heart. When we start
in this life we are required one thing:
bring joy and comfort to your fellow man.
And if you can, you will never falter.
You may go far on dollars and cents,
but your recompense comes from the sense
of community; an eternal unity that is clear
in the end. No man fails who has friends.
Welcome home, George Bailey.
You own this town!

STILLBORN: FEBRUARY 3, 1956

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wojtanik”.
Words of comfort meant to heal,
only to steal the lasting memories
that now will never come.

“I’m so sorry”. Words to stab at
the heart and rendered her broken.
Twice in four years, toxemia her venom;
a powerful poison to suck her soul

from within. A boy. Another Handsome boy.
He was to be named Walter Joseph,
a tribute to her husband’s father, Walter,
and her own immigrant patriarch, Jozef.

Her first born; her first stillborn,
Joseph Walter’s life ended before it began
as well. A living hell for young parents
of promise and love; she almost went with him.

But after two successful live births,
another would-be child held hope,
but no one could have imagined the private
pain would reoccur. It was two days shy of her

own birthday. She felt the emptiness.
She felt the loss. And she felt more.
In nine months of anticipation, she had a sense;
an immense feeling of wonder this boy

provided. Potential and promise.
Her heart ached so. Words could not describe it.
Words were taken from her. Or maybe,
she had given her words for her son to use.

A chance to express what she could not say;
he would have shared with the world. An orator?
No, a composer. A poet. Yes. She had a sense.
He would have given his heart in metered rhyme.

His life would have been a living poem.
A poem of love for the mother that bore him,
and the father that could have taught him the beauty
of the art in which he could have excelled.

Now, people will never know, or grow in the
warmth of his heartfelt hearth of words.
They could never miss what they never had,
but she always will. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wojtanik”

“I’m so sorry”.

(Poetic Asides prompt for Day 3 of the Poem-a-Day Challenge: Envision a life without you in it.)