In Some Alternate Universe

In some alternate universe
I hear the laughter of my grand kids
as they climb all over my head and
hang on to my legs and back as
I struggle to cross
the living room goal line
before my daughter
their mother
calls the family
to a sit down dinner of
turkey with all the trimmings
this being Thanksgiving after all

In some alternate universe
I feel the warm body
of my wife of many years as
she crawls in beside me
exhausted but happy
from a day of doing
a pile of household chores and
a thousand small
favors for her loved ones
and that would include me

In some alternate univrerse
the daily news reports
would not bring word
of elementary school children
being shot dead by
a psychotic teen
whose mother apparently
gave him access to
battlefield fire power
but who could not
be bothered to take
the time to notice
that her beloved son had
become a menace to society

In some alternate universe

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2013

My Uncle Morris

The older I get
the more I become like
my venerable uncle Morris
he who loved to sing
on the board walk in
Brighton Beach
to all the
multi-ethnic
crowds of
Jews and Pollacks
Greeks and Russians
while his audience
sunned themselves and
spread the latest gossip about
their families and neighbors

Uncle Morris was the neighborhood
Frank Sinatra with a Yiddish accent
He would often serenade the
divorced and widowed matrons of
Brighton Beach
Sea Gate and
Coney Island
in five languages
competing with the
chorus of seagulls
who were on the constant
lookout for a free meal
and scraps from
Nathan's famous

My uncle morris
was something
of a hotshot
a local casanova of sorts
although his alley cat days
were long behind him
still he could get
babushka covered heads
filled with romantic fantasies
that reminded them
of earlier times
when they were young women
in the full blush of their youth
back in places like
Ukraine
Brest Litovsk and
Bucharest
long before coming to
Brighton Beach
(America's Little Odessa
by the sea)

And the gathered fan club
would shout out requests
Morris!
Sing Tumbalalaika!
Sing Hava Nagila!
Morris! Sing!
My Yiddishe Momma!
And he would oblige them
singing out his heart
until he was so hoarse
he could barely speak
let alone sing another note

And after a long afternoon of
performing for his devoted public
my uncle Morris would take me to
Brighton Beach Avenue
to eat hot freshly baked knishes at
Shatzkin's World Famous Knishes
and to shop for delicacies from the
dozen or so delicatessans that
dotted the shopping district.
I loved the smell of the pickles and
the hot pastrami
I loved the display of every variety of
salami known to mankind
that hung above the counters and
in the display windows;
I loved the feel of the fresh sawdust
under my feet and
the cornucopia of
dried fruits and candies and sweets that
filled the counters to overflowing

Every kid in America
deserves to have
his very own
Uncle Morris

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2013

Why No Medals?

How odd it is
that we do not give
medals of honor
to all of our
fallen and wounded
fellow citizens
gunshot victims
and wounded martyrs
who have all died as
hero victims
in the face of
enemy fire
in places like
Columbine, Colorado
Aurora, Illinois
Newtown, Conn
Tucson, Arizona
Wash, DC
Chicago, Illinois
Detroit, Michigan and
Philadelphia, Pa
and to all of our
fallen and wounded martyrs and
gunshot victims who
have all died in
a hail of bullets at the hands
of half-crazed
U.S.born and bred assassins
mass murderers
who now feel free to
commit their atrocities
on almost a daily basis
taking out their hatreds and
exorcising their demons
on the most
innocent and vulnerable of
their fellow Americans
with weapons that are meant
for use on the distant battlefields
where US troops
face determined enemies
fighting for this or that cause?

Surely we can afford to provide
purple hearts and
silver stars and
congressional medals of honor
for conspicuous bravery
in the face of
withering enemy fire
above and beyond
the call of duty
for all of our thousands of
fallen and maimed
innocent victims and martyrs
on the many bloody battlefieds
and main streets of
hometown, USA?

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2013

She Tires Of Me

She no longer laughs
at my jokes
for she tires of me
she pulls back
from each offered caress
from each attempt at
a show of affection
for she tires of me
and even though
we have brought a child
into this besotted world of woe
and have exchanged vows
to love each other
to honor each other
in sickness and
in health
until death
would do us part
she tires of me

Had I but known
how soon sweet love
would curdle
and turn to sour milk
I would have chosen
to forego the
farce of our
church based
wedding ritual
in favor of a
more primitive
forest bachanal
chasing after many
cloven hooved maidens
who would no doubt
have required less of me
for the one
I did choose
to love exclusively

well, you see,
she tires of me

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2013

Our Hidebound World

When I think of all
the hideous hidebound rules
and regulations
that control the lives
of all the hidebound workers
who slave away the work day
caged in bee hive like cubicles
staring into the empty cyber space
of their computer screens
feeding and absorbing
digitalized factoids
that come streaming at them
at the speed of digitalized light
I can only shake my head sadly
at the waste of human life and
human potential

Once I offered a suggestion
to the digitalized suggestion box
that our agency do away with
the whole concept of cubicles
in favor of a more open
and flexible work space
in favor of more human inter-action
and shared work assignments
with less time spent
staring at computer screens
and more time spent
sharing our hopes
and thoughts
and dreams

The digitalized suggestion box
thanked me for my digitalized suggestion
and said that my ideas would receive
the appropriate review by
all the appropriate people at
all levels of the agency
chain of command

Days turned into weeks
and weeks turned into months
and months turned into years
but I never again head from
the digitalized suggestion box
concerning my digitalized concerns

I briefly considered resubmitting
my suggestions
but I quickly reconsidered
fearing that the powers that be
would think that I was a
trouble maker
or even worse
a whistle blower
or even worse
a traitor to
the American way of life

I did not want to be
thought of as a traitor
to the American way of life
for after-all:
treason never prospers
for if it prospers
none dare call it
treason

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2013

Getting Started

I just can't seem
to get my day started...

Perhaps if I farted...

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2013

It's All About The Curves

 Salvador Dali
  once told a tale
about how he was
  absolutely transfixed
during a motor trip
through Andalusia
(some of the most beautiful
countryside in Spain)
not by the passing scenery
(which he had painted into
scores of canvases)
but by the phenomenon
of reflected sunlight
bouncing off the shiny chrome
of his car's bumper

I had a similar experience
standing at the Ryers Train Station
waiting for my daily
commute into center city
where I happened to see
a beautiful, curvy
red haired lady
whom I had gotten to know
as a casual acquaintance

The staggering simplicity
and eloquence of the
line of her back
as it ran down
the slight indent of her spine
and around the perfect curve
of her shapely derriere
absolutely had me transfixed and
filled me with a painter's desire
to put that perfect line
on canvas

And I wold have too
if I were a Dali
or if Dali were me

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2013