Morning On The Serengeti

So come ona my house
My house
My house
So come ona my house
And I’m a gonna give you candy
(Rosemary Clooney)

I am so close
To the finish line now
That I can almost
Taste it
I am not the same person
That I was when
I began this marathon run
To the finish line
In my memory
It seems that
I have been running
All of my life
For the past 64 years
Since birth
Run Forrest! Run!

Running the marathon
Has been all that I can ever
Remember doing
There is an African Proverb
That says that
Whether you are the lion
The jackal
Or the hare
Once the sun comes up
On the Serengeti
You had better be off and running
Running from danger
Running to avoid becoming
Someone else’s dinner
Running to put some food
On your family’s dinner table

After all
Everyone alive
Every living thing
Has a right to eat
A right to having a decent meal
To ward off starvation
Sickness and disease

The universal law of the universe
Is that all must eat or die
All must either kill
Or be killed
In order to eat

If we are too squeamish
To do the needed killing ourselves
We hire surrogates, others
To do the killing for us
In the name of the father
The son
And the Holy Ghost
Either that
Or we all end up as
French toast

So we all have to get up
And out
And we all have to run
Life’s little marathon
And we all have to put up
With the many ironies and obstacles
That block our way

Or not

There are always some
Who may fall by the wayside
Through no fault of their own
Some who are
Either too tired or too weak
Or too sick
Or too physically handicapped
To continue to make the
Enormous effort that is required
To survive this epidemic called
Life
Where the universal law
Seems to be
That all who are born
Must also eventually die

This is a law from which
There is no reprieve
No commutation
No postponement

One may protest
One may attempt to
File an appeal
Asking for
Begging for
An extension or
A continuation

But such an outcome
Is not to be
So it is better to begin life
Without
Delusions
Run Forrest! Run!

Of course
It goes without saying that
Many of the marathoners
Do drop out of the race
For as many reasons
As there are runners

Some drop out because
They just quit
Or because they are simply
Too tired to go on any farther
Or because
They have lost heart!
Some drop out because
They no longer have the strength
Of body or spirit to continue

They are the ones
That society calls
The dropouts
The losers
The expendable ones
The poor
The sick
The halt
The lame
The blind
The ill
The homeless
The mentally ill
The mentally incompetent
The undesirables
The quitters
The hopeless
The addicted
The conflicted

Now it is Midnight on the Serengeti
For many the protective darkness
Provides a much needed chance to rest
For others the cover of night
provides yet another opportunity
To hunt and kill their prey
For others the darkness offers
One last chance to dream

But soon enough
The early morning light returns
And the long night at last
Begins to fade

And already the multitudinous
Flocks of every specie of bird
Of geese
Of duck
Along with scores of flocks of
Long necked pink flamingoes
Numbering in their tens of thousands
Have broken and taken flight

At the first stirrings
Of newly renewed life
The lioness
Hiding in the tall grass
Calls in low bellows
To the bevy of sister cats
And their new born cubs
That make up her pride

She is not yet ready to run
She pants and licks her paws
While her royal mate
Regally lifts his magnificent head
To half yawn
Half roar
To acknowledge
That it is once again morning
On the plains of the Serengeti
Reminding one and all
That the chase for survival
Must begin again

The lionesse watches keenly
As a flock of game hens
Break from cover
And head straight
For the water
Where the hippos and
Water buffalo
And crocodiles
Are waiting to greet them

Some of the wilderbeast
And spotted gazelle
Have already gathered to drink

It is morning on the Serengeti once again
And all of the great marathoners
Of every species
Must again
Get ready
To run
Whether they want to
or not

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2011

Pals

When me and Stevie were kids
In Junior High School
We were the best of friends
Buddies
Pals
No matter that one of us
Was richer than the other
Or that one of us
Was so much poorer
Than the other
No matter that one of us
Lived in a private
Gated community
Called Sea Gate
And no matter
That one of us
Lived in a
Public housing project
Called Gravesend houses
We were the best of friends
Buddies
Pals
Even though I envied him
For having both a mother and a father
Me and my mom lived alone
And even though my dad
Came home alive
From being a soldier
In the First World War
He was given a disability discharge
Due to his service connected
War wounds
So to make a long story
Shorter
I always told people
Who wanted to know
That my father
Was killed
In the First World War
I was a little going away present
That dad gave to mom
Just before he died
When I was only ten months old

My mother never complained
At the hand that life had dealt her
She just played out her hand
And bet her chips
And kept her poker face on
As she stared down
Life’s many adversities

I’ll give her credit for this much
She knew when to hold em
And when to fold em
And I often watched her in awe
As she bluffed her way
Out of more than one
Sticky situation after another
Without having even so much
As a pair of deuces in her hand

One afternoon
After school
Stevie and I were goofing off
As usual
Not really sure
What we wanted to do
When out of the blue
Stevie asks me to tackle him
On the concrete pavement
In front of his house
You crazy or what I said
That’s concrete you’re standing on
We would both get skinned
Tackle me he repeated
In a way that was both
A challenge and a dare
Don’t be a pussy he said
Getting personal about the matter
I ain’t no pussy I said
Getting a little testy
About his tone and manner
So tackle me then
What are you afraid of
Nothing I said
Although I thought that
The whole idea was more than dumb
I understood that I was being challenged
But what was this challenge to be
A test of our friendship
A test of loyalty
A test of guts and courage
Over brains and good judgment
All of the above

I guess Stevie finally got tired of waiting
For me to make up my mind
He waved me off with a dismissive
Gesture
Forget you he said
I should have known better than to ask

And with that I laid into him
Going full tilt
Knocking us both to the pavement
Until I could feel the stones
And bits of cut glass
Stinging my now damaged and badly scrapped
Elbows and knees
I could feel trickles of blood
Beginning to ooze out of
Various new bruises

Stevie laughed like crazy
Sonofabitch he said
Pushing me off his hurting body
Not caring that he had been hurt
Or damaged
Or that his clothes got torn

Why should he care after all
He was a rich kid
And he could always buy new clothes
Any time he wanted

Despite the fact that
The palm of my right hand
Was now cut and bleeding
I helped Stevie up
As bits of glass and dirt
Pushed deeper into the skin
As we pulled at each other
Until we were both
Once more fully erect
And standing on our own two feet

Stevie brushed himself off
Still shaking his head
And then he looked at me
Straight in the eye

You know he said
You are one crazy
Sonofabitch he said
While shaking my now
Possibly broken hand

Yeah I said
Disregarding the pain
So what does that make you?

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2011

At The Hop

Well, you can swing it you can groove it,
You can really start to move it, at the hop.
Where the jockey is the smoothest,
And the music is the coolest, at the hop.
All the cats and chicks can get their kicks at the hop.
Let's go!
(Eddie and the Dreamers)

I finally did get to go
To the fifth grade school dance
The closest thing to a “Hop”
Fifties style jamboree
That I ever did actually
Get to attend

By the time
The scheduled dance
Rolled around
I was able to scrape up
A borrowed suit
From my next door neighbor
Friend/enemy/nemesis
Melvin Zeldin

The suit was about
Two sizes too big for me
And the trousers had to be folded
And refolded at the cuffs
To make them short enough
For me to wear

I had a recent buzz cut haircut
That made me look like
A refugee from some
Concentration camp
All that was missing
To complete the picture
Was a set of tattooed numbers
On my forearm

My prom date was to be
Judy Frasier
A red haired
Freckle faced
Little bit of Long Island crumpet
Whose face was scrubbed so clean
That her skin actually shined
Like our kitchen linoleum tiled floor

She was all white lace
And starch
I had to buy her a corsage
For her wrist that
Looked exactly like the ones
That all the other girls were wearing

I remember the two of us
Sitting side by side
In the back seat
Of my older brother’s
Oldsmobile
Our feet not yet able
To touch the floor

We didn’t dare speak to each other
Let alone look at one another
My hands were sweating and clammy cold
I guessed that Judy’s hands were the same
It really didn’t matter
As the very idea of actually holding hands
Was entirely out of the question
I suppose Judy suspected me of having cooties
And I had my suspicions about her
Cootie status as well

I had been given a few
Rudimentary dance lessons
At a local dance school
Just so that I would not make
A complete ass of myself
On the dance floor

We were taught the rudiments of
The fox trot and the box step waltz
On my own I had picked up
The basics of the cha cha cha
By watching American Band Stand on TV
Hosted by the legendary Dick Clark
I had no idea how Judy had learned to dance
And I wasn’t about to ask her

I had no idea why it was so important
To go the fifth grade dance hop
In the first place
I suppose it was meant
To socialize us kids
So that we did not become
Juvenile delinquents

My chances of becoming a juvenile delinquent
Were zero to none
As closely watched and supervised
As we kids were by
Mr. and Mrs. Admiral Bull Halsey
As I had come to refer to my
Foster parents
Who were my brother and sister in law
In real life

Judy Frasier was the daughter
Of the man who was rewiring our house
I suppose he just wanted to be sure
That his daughter would have a date
To the fifth grade hop
So that she would not have to be
A wall flower as the unpopular girls
Were called back then
Back then there was nothing worse
Than to be called a wallflower by your peers
It usually meant that you were a loser
And so socially inept
That no one
Would ever want to dance with you
There was no equivalent epithet
For lonely and homely looking boys

So Judy and I did our duty
To God and country
And to the fifth grade hop
By valiantly dancing the fox trop
And the box step waltz
While I waited to perform
My version of the cha cha cha
But my big chance never came
As the adult chaperones
Were not big fans
Of the cha cha cha
Considering it to be too
Risqué for fifth graders
And maybe they were right

Seems like anything
That we kids could think of
That in any way smacked of fun
Was considered by the grown ups
To be too risqué
For us fifth graders
Or for anyone else for that matter
Smoking was frowned upon
As was drinking
As was cussing
As was not going to church
If you were born a Christian
Or not going to synagogue
If you were born a Jew
And married couples
Very often slept in separate beds
Just like the make believe
Married couples on TV
Like Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore

All the school age boys had crew cuts
And all the school age girls had curls and long hair
That they brushed endlessly
For hours at a time as
Every one agreed that
Having well groomed hair
Was a social must


Both Judy and I were eternally grateful
When the fifth grade hop came to an end
And we could go back to our respective homes
And change into our pajamas
And have some chocolate milk and cookies
Before going to bed
Though I was very upset
That I had to miss
My favorite TV show Bonanza that night

I later heard that Judy
Was equally upset because she did not
Receive her expected good night kiss
That was entirely my fault
As I was so glad to be getting a reprieve from
Having to wear Melvin Zeldin’s borrowed
Itchy wool suit
That all thoughts
Of having to give Judy Frasier
Her good night kiss had
Completely skipped my mind

And I never did get another chance
To make it up to her

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2011

Beat The Clock

There used to be
A black and white
TV show on
CBS
Back in the early 1950’s
Called
Beat The Clock
Hosted by a non-descript
TV pitchman named
Bud Collyer

The gist of the show
Was to have several
Non-descript guests
Representative of the totally
Conformist TV viewing public
Perform several dumb people tricks
On a large stage
While the ever present
Clock loudly ticked off the time

Usually the given task
Had to be accomplished
In sixty seconds or less

The assigned tasks
Were as mindless
As they were inane
Stuff like having
To stack a set of plates
Without using hands
Other stunts involved
Getting the contestants
As sloppy dirty as possible
So that they would
Slip and slide
And do prate falls
And be as humiliated
As the show hosts were
Able to do
Within the confines
Of the so-called
1950’s ethics code
Of acceptable behavior

Which was to pretend
That all this
Public humiliation was really
Being done in the name
Of good clean fun

Who would have thought
That such mindless mischief
Would become the template
For the rest of our
Working lives?

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2011

Soon There Will Be Pumpkins

Today it was reported
That the stock market
Has crashed
Once again
For the umpteenth time

Me worry?
Nah
Why not?
The short answer is
Because
Soon
There will be
Pumpkins

And soon there will
Be bumper crops
Of ripe ears of corn
To be picked
In the corn fields
And buckets of blueberries
And fresh peaches
And apples
And tomatoes

And soon there will be
Children shouting
Trick or treat
And hay rides
And falling leaves
In all the colors
Of the rainbow

And soon there will be
Chilly mornings
With a light frost
Coating the last
Summer leaves of grass
And the air will turn cold
And our breaths
Will form clouds
Of steam
With every step
As we walk through
The hiking paths at
Washington State Park
Marveling at nature’s
Manifold gifts

In the distance
Chimneys will send
Plumes of fragrant smoke
Into the pristine blue and white sky
And the smell of
Burning fireplace logs
Will mix with the cinnamon
Of mulled hot cider

And very soon
It will be time for
Thanksgiving
And time
To decorate the halls
With boughs of holly
A time to exchange
Gifts with those
We love the most

And a time too
To remember
All those
Less fortunate
Victims of a broken economy
Who lay curled up
Sleeping in the alley ways
And in the shadows of
Highway underpasses

They who have the least
Of everything
That all of us hold
Most dear
A home
A roof
A bed
Clean clothes
Hot and cold
Running water
A hot bowl of soup
A piece of
Fresh baked bread

And yet
When the night terrors
Do suddenly come
And when it becomes
Our turn
To hear
The hungry wolves
Howling and
Scratching their paws
At our front door
Will we be able to find
A comforting hand
To soothe away
Our fears

Will there be
Someone near and dear
Who can provide
Those comforting words
To melt the icy fingers
That may have taken
Hold of our hearts
When our courage has fled
And all that is left
Is the all prevailing fear

Fear of the unknown
And fear of all
That is known
Fear of the dark side
Of the force

We can only hope so
And pray so
For in the end
It is really
Up to our own efforts
To provide
The necessities
And to prepare
As best we can
For the vicissitudes
Of life

After all is said and done
In the final analysis
After all of the crops
Have been harvested
And after all of
The silos have been filled
Are we not
The same people
that we have always been
When times were hard
Before?

No matter how many bridges
We may have burned
In the past
Hopefully
Most of us
Will still
Be lucky enough
To discover
That no matter
How hard ahead
The row may be to hoe
We are not as
Totally alone
As we may
have previously
feared

And that
My friend
Is what
Grace
Is all about

And thankfully
There is usually
More than one way
To ford a
Raging river

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2011

All Of My Life

All of my life
Growing up in Brooklyn
I have always
Loved to promenade
Along the Ocean Parkway
Which stretches from
The Atlantic Ocean
To the Grand Army Plaza
This was my Athens
This was my gateway
To literature
To art
To natural beauty
Across the street
From the main branch
Of the Brooklyn Public Library
Was the entrance to
Prospect Park
Further down the street
Along Eastern Parkway
Could be found the
Brooklyn Art Museum
And the
Brooklyn Botanic Gardens
Here was where
I spent endless hours
Viewing the art exhibits
Strolling the wonders
Of the Botanic Gardens
Feeling safe and protected
From the vicissitudes of
Everyday life in the
Big city
I would go to the library
To study
To do my homework
And research assignments
And I would never fail
To be amazed at the number
Of books
And newspapers from all around
The world
And the number of magazines
And periodicals covering
Every interest and topic
Under the sun
I loved the lighting
And the way the sunlight
Would stream in
Through the floor to ceiling
Windows
My proudest possession was my
Library card
My gateway to the knowledge
Of the ages
The Brooklyn Museum of Art
Was my other great love and haunt
I reveled in the exhibits of exotic cultures
Of Eskimos and African tribesmen
Of pre Columbian works of art
And of the artifacts left behind
By primitive cultures from all
Around the world
I loved the great totem poles
The world famous collection
Of Egyptian artifacts and mummies
This was my own personal Shangri-La
I loved the gallery spaces
Almost as much as the exhibits
So majestical
So expansive
I was liberated from the narrow
Confines of city apartment building living
Here was space
And open expanse
Where great thoughts could find expression
In sculptures and paintings
By famous masters
How many future painters and sculptors
Found their inspiration in these halls
It was a place where one’s soul
Could take flight and sing
Where one could shake off the shabbiness
And dreariness
Or everyday mundane concerns
To find safety, peace, inspiration
And, yes, solitude
To be able to stop time
And revel in the moment
Of discovery
To be able to feel
One’s soul able to take flight
Before the inevitable return
To the grayness of the outside world
And to the dreary pursuits
Of everyday life
But I always managed to leave
These sacred and holy places
Feeling enriched
And touched by the nobility
Of the artists, painters, sculptors and writers
Who took the time
To dream
To create
To aspire to things noble and beautiful
Despite the brutes and savages
And the barbarian hordes
Waiting outside the gates
Who would
If they only could
Burn to the ground
All that is noble and good
All that is true and beautiful
Without ever
Knowing or realizing
The value of what it is
That they have destroyed
Until it is too late
I am no longer young
And I have all the fragilities
Of advancing old age
But I would give all that
I have left
To defend these things
That I have loved so well
Since childhood
By whatever means that I can
So long as I can summon up
The strength to do so
If all that is required
To satiate the demon gods
Is the broken body
Of a very tired
Yet ever so grateful
Old man
And though my body
May fall
It falls with a heart
That is full to the brim
With the knowledge
Gathered over many years
Spurred on
By the wanderings
Of a curious
And inquiring soul

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2011

All Things Considered

The day started out okay
But that was before
I opened my mail
And received
A strong dose of
Hatred
From PGW
The local gas company
Letting me know
That they want
To place a lien
On my house
If I do not cough up
What I owe them
Within the next
Eleven days

To take my mind
Off of my financial troubles
I turned on my computer
And I surfed the web
I managed to Google
Some useful
Information
About how to better
Manage
My type 2 diabetes

Seems I am
In good company
There must be millions
Of us type 2 diabetics
All over the earth
Some diagnosed
Some not
Some getting good treatment
Some not
Some getting no treatment
At all
Mores the pity

I was doing okay
Until my doctor
Laid the type 2
Diagnosis on me
Now I am on
Insulin and half a dozen
Other pills
For
High blood pressure
And high cholesterol

In addition to
All of the above
I also take
A daily vitamin pill
A daily fish oil supplement
And a daily aspirin regimen
In the hope of warding off
A heart attack
And/or stroke
Hope springs eternal

Also
I am supposed to exercise
Every day
Every day?
Fat chance of that
Ever happening
Also
I am supposed to eat
More fruits and vegetables
And high fiber foods
Too bad I live
In a food desert
And I buy most
Of my groceries
At the corner bodega
For twice the price
Of everything

And too bad I do not
Have an ACCESS card
Or food stamps
I earn too much cash
To be so poor
Only the poor
Are rich enough
To get the best welfare
Benefits

No wonder the
Tea Party patriots
Hate the poor so much
Calling them
Moochers
The moocher class
They call them

I haven’t heard
Propaganda like that
Since the early sixties
When the wealthy
Were all in a knot
Over welfare queens
And poverty pimps

The Tea Party pimps
Are working on a
Grand manifesto
A final solution
If you will
To deal with the problem
Of the multitudinous poor
Who are breeding
Like rabbits
Breeding like cockroaches

Not to mention
Giving a free pass
To the millions
Of illegal immigrants
Who are taking away
All the good jobs
From real, decent
And above all else
Law abiding citizens

And please
Whatever you do
Don’t get them
Started talking
About the ongoing
Problem of how
To break the Jewish
Strangle hold
On the economy

Forget Joe DiMaggio!
The Tea Partiers
Are pining for the
Good old days of
David Duke!

Please save us
Jerry Farwell
A nation of lonely
Tea Partiers
Turn their lonely
Eyes to you!

So this is what
Depression era America
Circa 2008 - 2011
Looks, feels and smells like?

As W.C. Fields
Was alleged to
Have written
On his tombstone:

All things considered
I’d rather be in
Philadelphia

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2011