When The Sky Fell, Love Remained

 A Poem of Remembrance, Hope, and Love

 

Twenty-five years ago,

the morning arrived

wearing its ordinary face.

 

Coffee.

Traffic.

Briefcases.

Elevators rising

through a blue September sky.

 

People hurried toward their futures

without knowing

the future had already changed.

 

And then—

 

the sky broke.

 

Not with thunder,

not with lightning,

but with fire.

 

Steel opened its mouth.

Glass became rain.

Smoke climbed upward

as though the earth itself

were grieving.

 

And for one terrible moment,

we watched the impossible

become real.

 

We watched towers fall

and felt something inside ourselves

fall with them.

 

What do you call

the moment innocence leaves?

 

What name do you give

the instant you understand

that the world you believed in

was partly an illusion?

 

Perhaps it was a veil—

 

thin as breath,

invisible as faith—

 

that had always hung

between us and the darkness.

 

We thought oceans were borders

strong enough to hold back terror.

 

We thought steel was permanence.

 

We thought certain places

could not be touched.

 

We thought tomorrow

was promised

simply because yesterday

had arrived.

 

Then September came

and taught us otherwise.

 

Far away in Hawaii,

the images seemed unreal—

a terrible film

without a beginning

and without an ending.

 

But beneath that distance

was the terrible knowledge:

 

New York was home

to people we knew.

 

Friends.

Family.

Familiar faces

whose names suddenly became

questions.

 

Were they there?

 

Were they safe?

 

Did they make it out?

 

And how small

the distance can be

between life and death—

 

a train arriving late,

an elevator taking longer,

a meeting moved

by fifteen minutes,

a morning altered

by the smallest turn of fate.

 

Lives balanced

on seconds.

 

Thousands of futures

erased between

one heartbeat

and the next.

 

And Washington—

 

another wound

in the heart of the nation.

 

The Pentagon burning.

 

Another plane

falling from the morning.

 

And somewhere above Pennsylvania,

ordinary people

looked into extraordinary darkness

and found within themselves

a courage greater than fear.

 

They rose.

 

They resisted.

 

They chose to fight

for the lives of strangers below.

 

Their courage

became part of the American sky.

 

And then—

 

the silence.

 

After the sirens.

 

After the screams.

 

After the towers

had become mountains of dust.

 

Silence filled with names.

 

Names whispered

into telephones.

 

Names spoken

at kitchen tables.

 

Names printed

beneath photographs

held by trembling hands.

 

Because every person lost

was someone's world.

 

Someone's first love.

 

Someone's child.

 

Someone's parent.

 

Someone's best friend.

 

Someone who had left home

that morning

believing they would return.

 

There are numbers

we remember.

 

But numbers cannot tell us

about the empty chair,

the unopened gift,

the birthday that came

without them.

 

They cannot tell us

about the child

who grew older

without a parent,

 

or the mother

who kept a bedroom

just as it was.

 

Grief is not a monument.

 

It is a room

we learn to live inside.

 

And that morning

an entire nation

entered that room.

 

We lost people.

 

We also lost

the illusion of invulnerability.

 

The belief that distance

meant safety.

 

That walls could protect us

from every darkness.

 

That history

happened somewhere else.

 

The veil fell.

 

And beneath it

was a world more fragile

than we had wanted to believe.

 

Afterward,

freedom wore a different face.

 

The sky became a place

we questioned.

 

Airports became thresholds.

 

Fear became

a quiet companion.

 

Yet freedom is not

the absence of danger.

 

It is the courage

to keep loving,

 

to keep living,

 

to keep reaching

for tomorrow

when tomorrow

is no longer guaranteed.

 

And still—

 

morning came.

 

The sun rose

over a wounded country.

 

Hands reached

through dust.

 

Firefighters climbed

toward danger.

 

Strangers carried strangers.

 

People gave blood.

 

People prayed.

 

People searched.

 

And people loved.

 

In the ashes,

the human heart

was still beating.

 

Twenty-five years have passed.

 

The towers are gone.

 

The smoke is gone.

 

But some mornings

still belong to September.

 

Some skies

still carry the memory.

 

Some silences

still have names.

 

So today,

as we remember those

whose lives were taken,

let us also remember

how precious life is—

 

how quickly everything

can change,

 

how fragile our days are,

 

and how much love

we still must give.

 

 

Golf Pondered

 Technique

I studied the swing

Its angles, its direction

Its refined physics.

Then I discovered the trees

had already studied me.

…

The Mental Game

Golf is mostly mental

The professionals say this

which is reassuring.

Because my physical game

has requested no comment.

…

The Lie

The ball lands on the green

According to the rules, it seems

This is called a lie.

A bizarre choice of language

given the circumstances.

…

The Nineteenth

After eighteen holes

you proceed to the clubhouse

to discuss the round

with those who saw none of it

and understand completely.

 

Back on the Rails

Enough of chasing sparks through a field of straw,
calling every flame a sunrise.
Enough of crowning noise as wisdom
and feeding every stray excuse.

The road is still there—
a black river under the dust,
its white lines like knuckles
pointing straight through the dark.
Put both hands on the wheel.
Let purpose be the engine,
let truth burn clean in the tank,
and drive.

Drop the foolishness like a rusted chain.
Leave it clattering at the crossroads.
You were not built to circle the drain;
you were built like a compass—
to tremble, to steady,
to find north again.

So rise.
Hammer your days into shape.
Lay each choice like iron track.
The past can howl behind you,
but it does not hold the reins.

Get back on track.
Not softly. Not someday.
Now—
with a spine like a bridge,
a heart like a drum,
and no more room
for the circus of excuses.

Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

 Down the Retail Rabbit Hole

A family-shopping satire

We packed up the children, the coupons, the car,
And ventured to shop—not especially far.
We entered for trousers, some socks, and a shirt;
We left with a headache, a leaflet, and hurt.

The sign said, “WELCOME!” in corporate cheer,
Then twelve smaller notices made nothing quite clear.
“For comfort and safety, please follow Rule Eight”—
But Rules One through Seven were “pending updates.”

We asked one young clerk, who consulted a screen;
The screen asked a chatbot what “family” might mean.
The chatbot said, “Thank you—your concern has been logged,”
Then froze with a smile while the whole system bogged.

The app needed passwords with symbols and flair,
A fingerprint, PIN, and a sample of hair.
It welcomed us warmly, then crashed at the till:
“For faster assistance, please reinstall.”

We queued by a doorway beneath a red light,
Where arrows pointed left while the floor pointed right.
A manager arrived with a binder of lore:
“The policy’s simple—except in this store.”

The children grew hungry; Dad studied the map;
Mom guarded the cart from a clearance-rack trap.
Each sensible question produced, by design,
A survey, a QR code, and “Terms” to decline.

“May families shop here?” we asked with restraint.
“We welcome all shoppers,” came back the complaint.
“But where should we go?” “That depends,” they replied,
“On which temporary sign has most recently dried.”

So downward we tumbled through jargon and spin,
Where nobody knows where the rules end or begin.
The rabbit wore khakis, a badge, and a tie,
And promised, “Your comfort is our highest priority.”

At last we escaped with one sock and a hat,
Three digital coupons, no clue where they’re at.
The receipt was six feet, the explanation thin—
And somehow, we’d signed up to shop there again.

So here’s to the household, still mostly intact,
Seeking plain common sense in a maze of fine fact.
If this is “progress,” then kindly take note:
The rabbit hole now has a loyalty code.

With daughters and sons in one family crew,
The fitting-room puzzle soon came into view.
Should Dad join the ladies while helping them dress?
“Consult Appendix Q,” said the clerk at the desk.

Mom needed one doorway, the boys needed more,
Dad stood like a bellhop outside every door.
One daughter cried, “Help!” while the youngest yelled, “When?”
And Dad checked the policy binder again.

“A family room, perhaps?” we politely proposed.
The clerk tapped a tablet; the tablet then froze.
“We had one last Tuesday, from ten until three,
But now it’s reserved for the store’s Wi-Fi tree.”

So husband and wife, with their boys and their girl,
Were routed through arrows that twisted and curled.
We came for new clothing; instead, we were schooled:
A family of six needs a flowchart—and rules.

Watch The Hands

 Watch The Hands

It began in the ’90s—

or maybe earlier,

but nobody remembers,

which is how you know

the shell game was working.

Poison the food supply.

Move the shell.

Disregard the weather.

Move the shell.

Destroy the coral reefs.

Move the shell.

Look—

look over here—

another crisis,

another war,

another miracle cure,

another billionaire

promising to save us

by leaving.

The plan was

to go to another planet,

but what they needed

to do first

was fail.

And fail they did.

Spectacularly.

The big, beautiful plan

lifted off

into the stratosphere,

burned through the sky,

and crashed—

again— and again—

and again—

into the ocean.

Everyone watched the rocket.

Nobody watched the hands.

Except for a few.

A few who stood

at the edge of the crowd

pointing at the table,

saying—

There. There is the trick.

There is the shell.

There are the hands.

But nobody listened.

The crowd was too busy

watching the spectacle,

arguing over the shells,

cheering the magician,

booing the magician,

buying another ticket.

That was the trick. Not the shell.

Not the pea.

The hands.

The uptown shuffle,

the slide,

the razz-ma-Taz,

the doo-Wop,

the Diddy,

the shitty-shitty

bang Bang.

Now you see it. Now you don't.

Where did it go?

Under this shell?

No.

This one?

No.

Surely this one.

Look closer.

Keep watching.

Keep guessing.

Meanwhile, behind the little velvet table,

the whole country

was being rearranged.

The map moved.

The money moved.

The truth moved.

Even the meaning

of the words

began to move.

And those few—

those inconvenient few— kept pointing.

Kept shouting.

Kept saying,

You're looking at the wrong hand.

But nobody paid attention.

That was how they succeeded

for so long.

Not because nobody saw.

Because almost nobody

who saw

was heard. And while we argued

over which shell

held the pea,

the table disappeared.

Then the room.

Then the house.

And still—

the few were standing there,

pointing at empty air,

saying:

Look.

Look at the hands.

Failing Systems

 Failing Systems

For every voice made to wait while the safety net frays

Listen—

They told us the system was built to catch us.

But when we fall,
it answers with a locked door.
A dead phone line.
A form stamped DENIED
because one box—
one box—
was left without a mark.

Come to the kitchen table.
Look.
The numbers are laid out like bones,
and still they refuse to stretch.

Rent.
Medicine.
Heat.

Three winter hands at the window,
knocking—
knocking—
through the glass
of one thin wallet.

A parent counts the meals,
turns an empty cupboard
into a bedtime story:
We already ate. We are not hungry tonight.

An elder halves a dose
and listens to the clock
between each careful breath.

But listen—
beneath that frozen ground,
roots are gripping the dark.

And the worker?
The worker clocks in before sunrise,
sleep hanging from their shoulders like wet wool,
one small ember cupped against the wind,
then clocks out
still owing the day.

The shift runs long.
The paycheck does not.

Say it again:
the shift runs long—
the paycheck does not.

Rent climbs.
Mortgages climb.

Hours vanish.
The schedule changes without warning,
and one sick morning
splits the whole month open,
spilling every careful plan across the floor.

These hands lift.
These hands sweep.
These hands stock, carry, clean, build.

Palms split beneath cardboard and steel.
Backs burn beneath fluorescent suns.

Still—
these hands rise every morning.
Weathered tools.
Mended tools.
Tools that were promised
work would build a steady life.

So they become their own bridge:
plank by trembling plank,
name beside name,
shoulder beside shoulder,
even while the floor moves underfoot.

And when the hours are cut—
when the factory gate goes quiet—
lunch pails gather dust by the door,
work boots wait like faithful dogs,
and silence punches in for the night shift.

Still, a neighbor knocks.
Still, a meal appears.
Still, we become a patchwork roof—
each small kindness another shingle
held against the storm.

Then the frayed system asks for proof.
Proof that the fall was real.
Proof that the bruise belongs to us.
Proof that breaking
was not our fault.

Meanwhile, comfort speaks of sacrifice
as if sacrifice were weightless.
As if hunger were homework.
As if dignity could take a number,
sit down,
and wait.

So hear me—

when my own hands tremble,
when the stairs become a mountain,
when the rooms go cold
and the days narrow
to one long, dim hallway,
remember this:

We were never burdens.

We were people.
Roots gripping the dark earth.
Embers refusing the wind.
Bridges built from one another.
Hearts beating behind closed doors.

We are still here.
Still here.

Not asking to be carried—
asking for the ground to stop giving way.
Not asking to be praised—
asking not to disappear.

We were never burdens.
We were people.
We are people.

And we will not
be abandoned
in silence.

Tiny Teapots, Big Adventures

Tiny Teapots, Big Adventures

Five Delightful Characters Filled with Courage, Kindness, Curiosity, Glitter, and Adventure

Ruby

Red captain puffs steam
“Full steam ahead!” she cries
Brave heart leads the way
Through clouds of warm, rising mist
She leads with courage each day.

Bluebell

Gentle Bluebell dreams
Quiet wishes steep in warmth
Calm tea warms all hearts
Soft dreams drift across the room
Warm kindness fills every heart.

Dot

Lids bounce; questions fly
Sleepy duck sounds fill the air
Her wonder now grows
Each small sound brings a question
Wonder keeps her wide awake.

Stripe

Glitter fills the room
Sneezes make grand theater
Sparkles everywhere
One bright sneeze sends glitter high
The whole room begins to shine.

Pip

Small silver teapot
A brave toot shakes the time train
Quiet hearts can soar
Though small, Pip finds strength within
And rides where adventures call.

Strike A Pose

 Strike a Pose

In my family,
we have degrees—
degrees in Shopping,
with honors in Bargain Hunting,
from Infant Training
all the way to Advanced Masters.

It’s a lifelong pursuit,
a glittering pilgrimage
down aisles paved with possibility,
and we are a dedicated bunch.
Thrifting or runway,
clearance rack or couture,
we treat every outfit
like a canvas waiting for its masterpiece.

Design is not merely clothing—
it is architecture for the body,
a little engineering of the soul,

a way of telling the world,
I have arrived,
and yes, I planned the entrance.

Designers like Susan Graver
and Kim Gravel
can turn a sale into an art form,
a clearance rack into a treasure chest,
a cardigan into a declaration of confidence.
They wave their fashion wands
and suddenly style is singing,
while self-esteem stands taller
in a perfectly chosen shade.

They rescue us
from fashion faux pas,
snatch us from the jaws
of questionable hemlines,
rearrange the stars,
straighten the planets,

and bring the universe
back into fashionable alignment.

Because without them,
what would we wear
when destiny comes calling?

A robe?

Absolutely not.

We must master
the magic of first impressions—
because, darling,
you never get a second chance
to sparkle at hello.

So come on, girls—
get your mani-pedi,

book that massage,
let your skin glow
like the morning sun
on a brand-new window display.

Then settle bottom-side-down
in your favorite chair,
queen of your own little kingdom,
and rest those hardworking feet.

Rest.
Refresh.
Recharge.

Because when you step out
into Spring,

you won’t simply enter the season—
you’ll arrive like a parade.

The flowers may bloom,
the birds may sing,
but the sun?

The sun won’t know
where to shine first.

So—

Spotlight on.
Chin up.
Colors bright.
Confidence blazing.

Let’s go shopping, girls.

Let’s turn the sidewalk
into our runway,
the mirror into our audience,
and every doorway
into a grand entrance.

Strike a pose.

And make the whole world
look twice.

 

Sadie and Pal, A Ballad

 Sadie and Pal, A Ballad

Sadie and Pal are dead now—
since November, more or less.
Which seems like a long time ago,
but grief has its own address.

Sad Cornelia.
Sad Connie.
No bears at Bear Mountain.
The Trailside Zoo is bear-less now,
which feels like poor accounting.

The heroes of my heart,
I like to think,
are not exactly gone.
They’ve slipped into another dimension
and carried the good stuff on.

Down some secret tunnel
beneath the mountain floor,
where bears have endless blueberries
and nobody asks for more.

Meanwhile, here I am,
with cholesterol,
with fat,
with the mysterious determination
of my body to attach it
to my belly and my hips.

But my heart is fine.

So, suck it up, Connie.

It’s not forever.

There will be bears again.

Eventually.

Once they upgrade the habitat
and presumably get the paperwork

and whatever else you need
to make a bear comfortable
in the modern world.

And then the names.

Oh, the names.

Sasquatch and Sam.
Palisade and Peek.
Sable and Spruce.
Hudson and Highlands.

Ramble and Ridge.
Picnic and Basket.

Actually—

Maybe the last two.

Picnic and Basket.

Tell me that isn't a pair of bears
who know exactly what they're doing.

But before we get there,
before the new bears arrive,
perhaps we could ask the visitors
to stop treating the park
like the landscape is indestructible.

Rest, people.

Let the mountain breathe.

Let the trails be trails.
Let the woods be woods.
Let the bears, when they return,
have something worth coming back to.

Sadie and Pal are gone.

The mountain remains.

And somewhere, I hope,
two enormous bears
are having an excellent afternoon
in another dimension—

probably eating berries,
probably ignoring us,

and absolutely
not worrying about their hips.

 

The Blue Wave

The Blue Wave
is coming—
not a whisper,
not a warning,
but a rising tide
that no wall can hold.

It will crash against the shoreline
of corruption and lies,
tear through the barricades
of privilege and power,
and leave the old machinery
of greed exposed
beneath the salt and sand.

We are done
with crumbs dressed up as feasts.
We are entitled to the whole table—
the bread,

the meal,
the dessert,
the cocktails,
the dignity of knowing
that what we build together
belongs to everyone.

And we are awake now.

Even the infants
seem to be asking:

What kind of world
are you leaving us?

You take our children,
our futures,
our trust—
turn them into experiments,
then send us the bill
and call it freedom.

Are you kidding us?

Do you care about anything
beyond power,
profit,
and the machinery
that keeps your name
at the center of everything?

We see you.

We see the cracks
beneath the polished speeches.
We see the games.
We see the rigged promises,
the distractions,
the endless spectacle.

And we are no longer hypnotized.

We are not children.
We are not props

in your theater.
We are not going to surrender
our streets,
our neighbors,
our schools,
our voices,
or our country
to fear.

You can shout.

You can lie.

You can rage at the microphone
until your voice is nothing
but static.

But the people
are still here.

And we are louder.

You are not a king.

You are not the country.
You are not the future.

You are a man
standing against a tide
that has finally learned
its own strength.

So go.

Go quietly or go shouting.
Go wrapped in slogans,
go buried beneath excuses,
go wherever yesterday's power
goes when tomorrow arrives.

But understand this:

We will not kowtow.
We will not disappear.
We will not be distracted.
We will not be afraid.

The Blue Wave is rising.

And this time,
we are the shore.

 

Greeting Golden Hour--Mid August

 Greeting the Golden Hour in Mid-August

 

Golden morning light
spills softly through the green woods,
warmth on every leaf.

…

Sunbeams lace the trees,
dappling branches, bark, and moss,
the forest aglow.

…

Full leaves breathe in light;
a few yellow leaves drift down,
gold across the lawn.

…

Morning calls softly:
wake, step outside, breathe the day,
greet the light with joy.

…

The forest is bright,
mid-August wrapped in golden
a new day begins.

…

I'd Rather Talk To Rocks

 How patient I am—

resting this and that

when I’d rather be scrambling the rocks

at Mohonk or Minnewaska.

Waiting to heal from another misstep:

a turned ankle, a sore knee,

a hip reattaching to bone—

or is the bone reattaching to the hip?

Meanwhile, Congress appears

to have misplaced its brain.

Can you count the stars?

List the things unfinished?

Draw pentagons out of thin air?

Question an atomic reactor

beside your favorite swimming hole?

Or question a president about his finances—

and whether he can name

three good things he’s done

without consulting a teleprompter.

We’re done waiting for one.

Must we keep repeating the past

as if nobody on this planet has a brain?

Perhaps they’re out there with the stars—

tiny brains awaiting harvest,

then a one-way ticket to Mars,

the billionaires’ favorite vacation plan.

Has Congress been bought and paid for?

Is the Big Dipper dripping tears?

Does mother’s milk enrich uranium?

Are children being issued longer bodies

and shorter attention spans?

Meanwhile, my older frame

keeps growing sideways and fluffing up.

Should I buy hippo clothes

and embrace the trend?

Shall we pray to the heavens,

then eat Ding Dongs and Devil Dogs

buried under ice cream, chocolate syrup,

and maraschino cherries?

But I digress.

I was out on the rocks,

spider-walking between two glacial erratics,

thinking I could do anything—

realizing, of course,

that someday it will all be over.

So I inhaled the clean air

and waited patiently for my turn

to dip my little hippo toes

into a cool, rushing brook.

And there, between the rocks,

everything seemed simple:

gravity, water, sky—

no spin, no scandals,

no billionaires headed for Mars.

For once,

the rocks made more sense

than Washington.

And frankly,

I’d rather talk to rocks.