The Disappearance

There were no kids, the dogs are dead, and we’re
completely out of touch. Old friends lived near,
and now or then I’d get a call and hear
that one had seen her, sitting in the rear
at some designer’s show, or sipping kir
with groups of those young men who just appear
at every function, slim and cavalier,
and that she still looked good – but slightly queer,
and was not aging well – and I would fear
that she had asked for me. But year by year
my thoughts and interests moved from there to here.
The friends are gone – no longer volunteer
small updates on her sightings. Would a tear
or two in private now be real – or insincere?

Outstanding, Michael Cantor.

Not quite what I had in mind, Michael, but a far better poem than any of my doggerel. You’re classing up the thread!

The Great Man at the 92nd Street Y

Following the reading at the Y,
I shook his hand, surprised he seemed so spry,
if liver-spotted; so I joked that I
liked whiskey, men and my Salvages dry;
and stood a bit too close, and brushed his thigh.
He leaned towards me, intoned a soft reply,
“Let us go then,” and I thought I’d die!

He proved as rich, yet modest, as his tie;
and loved to tease, to offer and deny,
to use his clever tongue to crucify
me, pinned and wriggling like a butterfly,
until I’d shake and cry. How I miss my sly
old Possum-puss; my secret love; my wry,
dry, ragged clause; my Sweeney-pie; my guy!

These are cool, Michael! Up with monorhymes!

Carl - you're going to regret encouraging me. That was part (the best part) of a triolet. Here's the entire thing:

Poetry at the 92nd Street Y: A Triptych

Founded in 1939, the Unterberg Poetry Center at New York’s 92nd Street Y is widely recognized for both its famed Reading Series, featuring writers in every genre as well as dramatic productions and celebrations of classic literature; and the Writing Program, which offers a wide range of literary seminars, lectures and writing workshops.

The Relationship

When I first heard him, uptown, at the Y
on Ninety-Second Street, I wasn’t shy.
He had an angry elegance that I
envisioned bared; plus poetry to die
for, and that jet black hair. I used my
look, the one that tends to terrify
most men, and he looked back. We sent for Thai

and pizza all that weekend, got so high,
we never left the bed. Who’d prophesy
that almost thirty years have now gone by
and I would still be here? Sad butterfly,
I know that when his hand half-strokes my thigh
he’s picturing his students – so I cry,
and all I think is, “Why, you moron, why?”


The Workshop

When he first joined our workshop at the Y,
I saw the open shirt, the golden chai
that nested in his hairy chest, and all my
instincts were that he would occupy
the balance of my days; that he and I -
poetic pairing, twinned for life - would vie
for prizes and each other’s love, defy
the odds and publish, thrive and multiply.

He took a stack of sheets a half-inch high,
began, ’Tween dawn and dusk, my heart is nigh
to sweetly ask if thee wouldst with me lie,
and as we laughed we noticed that his fly
was open. “Zip it!” the cool Jamaican guy
called out, and I cried, “Yes!”, and caught his eye.


The Great Man

Following the reading at the Y,
I shook his hand, surprised he seemed so spry,
if liver-spotted; so I joked that I
liked whiskey, men and my Salvages dry;
and stood a bit too close, and brushed his thigh.
He leaned towards me, intoned a soft reply,
“Let us go then,” and I thought I’d die!

He proved as rich, yet modest, as his tie;
and loved to tease, to offer and deny,
to use his clever tongue to crucify
me, pinned and wriggling like a butterfly,
until I’d shake and cry. How I miss my sly
old Possum-puss; my secret love; my wry,
dry, ragged clause; my Sweeney-pie; my guy!

No regrets. In fact, I needed the rest for full appreciation. “Thee” should be “thou,” of course, but maybe that’s some of the silliness you were laughing about. Thoroughly enjoyable, Michael.

And then I wrote...

Above Fat Papa's Bar in Casablanca

Café on the veranda: Ilsa sleek,
her hair now set off by a silver streak,
as beautiful as ever, still a chic
and polished avatar of high-boned cheek.

The room appeared as if we’d spent a week
in bed instead of just one night – the reek
of sex and flat champagne, two flutes, all shriek
of carnal, sweat-drenched, sweet reunion; pique
my appetite for more.
................................. But she seems bleak:
“It won't work, Rick. You've lost the old mystique,
and turned into an aging film-crazed geek –
a droning and obsessive one-note freak.”

She turns to leave, but not before I speak,
“We'll still have Paris, kid, and that was magnifique!”

Not to mention.... (as you may have somehow guessed, I have a thing about monorhymes - it makes life simpler).

The Gallery Opening

“I really like the subtle use of negative,
um, space, you know, in contrast with the positive,
so that it all begins to seem so relative
and consequently, if I may, evocative –
which is precisely why it’s so informative –
provocative, and at the same time tentative;
not in the least judgmental, not competitive,
but kind of, sort of like, almost illustrative.

“Collector? That sounds so accusative!
I’m just – you know – a bored executive
who sometimes buys some art. Conservative,
of course, and nothing too prohibitive.
And you? I see that you’re not talkative.
I love that in a woman. Sensitive!”

If we're doing monorhymes now, here's one of mine that was published in Highlights for Children (and will be in my book, The Red Ear Blows Its Nose, early next year):

THANK YOU, NOSE

It rumbles loudly when I doze.
It sometimes strikes a snooty pose.
And when I catch a cold, it flows.
Yet when I stop to smell a rose,
life’s frantic hustle-bustle slows
and such a joy inside me grows
that from my head down to my toes
my favorite thing on earth’s my nose.