Born in New York City (in Elmhurst), I lived in several different places there but have memories only of The Bronx (off Fordham Road). Then my family moved out "on The Island"—to Lynbrook, where we stayed till I graduated from Hofstra (then a College). Several years after my wife, Pat, and I married, we, plus our two children, settled in the Boston area and have remained there (except for my daughter, Kate, who has lived in Manhattan for quite a while). I have been writing poetry since I was twelve (many moons ago).

​

A Story I Tell

​
Eighty years old, of course I reminisce!
Rather than again add up
the latest sum of pills I take,
I'll tell of a time in World War Two
when my older brother came home
fresh out of boot camp at a naval base.

Trained to get up very early
and stand at attention—his posture
straighter than it ever was again— 
he on this morning ate a breakfast
happily served him by our mother,
then decided his kid brother should get up,
and I, barely awake, heard
his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs,
heard him already shouting,
"Time to rise and shine!" and I replied,
"I don't want to rise and shine,"
and he, "Time to hit the deck!"
and I, "I don't want to hit the deck,"
and he, darting toward my bed,
tugged at the blankets on top of me
and we wrestled and laughed
and our laughter echoed off the walls.

(previously published in REACH POETRY)



An Autumn Stillness


is nothing like the ones 
that lumber into a week
in July, squat—stolid
as an invisible tank— 

and weigh down the air with a heat
so heavy even the bees
linger on the nearest petals,
too exhausted to fly.

An autumn stillness comes
as a quick surprise. The breeze
suddenly turns quiet
while the trees' fluttering leaves

lock in place and the leaves
that floated down on lawns— 
as if on signal—stop tumbling
over the tops of the grass.

The stillness holds you, too,
although you know it soon
will break and re-enter time's flow,
forcing you to do the same.

(previously published in THE POETRY PORCH)