Gone Fishin': 3 Poems Until September

August is the month I take a break from posting on social media... much to the relief of my family 🙂

I'll spend time taking photos, writing poems, and rooting for the Mets -- and, most importantly, creating memories with family and friends. I'll get back to other projects and social media posts after Labor Day.

Until then, I'm posting three poems here because so far in 2025 I've been inspired by writing friends, new and old. I love what they've shared, so in return let me share what I love... beginning with a poem written today, based on a "hotter than a matchhead" prompt from the Gotham Writers Workshop, a New York-based group you should check out, offering free Zoom write-ins every Friday.

Here's a snapshot of "Why Devils in Jersey Are So Overfed":

Here's a second poem I recently revised after a photo from five years ago at an immersive VanGogh exhibit randomly popped up on my iPhone's home screen:

Finally, here's an experiment in ekphrastic poetry -- that is, a poem inspired by a work of art in another medium. I recently applied for... and won... a "residency" at the Madison NJ Community Arts Center. (Check out their events calendar!) The center chose 12 poets to participate in The Writing LAB Fall Residency, which this year will focus on writing new work inspired by music.

The length of the residency? A single Sunday afternoon in September. I'm excited about the opportunity, but I'll be sure to pack light!

During a recent open mic at the Puffin Cultural Forum (another group you should check out) in Teaneck NJ, I was captivated by an exhibit of photos and poems presented by ALTE: Getting Old Together. I took a photo of a print on display by Judith Sokoloff, who captured someone in a King Kong suit in Times Square, circa 2023. The leader of the forum's open mic that night, the great Toney Jackson, suggested I write a poem about it.

So I did. And, funny thing, the poem's theme is about getting older too.

King Gone

Once upon a time

I brushed airplanes from my eyes.

I terrorized ordinary men,

protected fair-haired women,

captured the imagination of the young,

while framed in Technicolor:

like the Northern Lights,

the harbor of Rio de Janeiro,

the Grand Canyon,

Mount Everest,

the Great Barrier Reef,

volcanic Paricutin in Mexico,

Victoria Falls.

I was the 8th wonder of the world.

Beyond male,

beyond female,

the link between man and beast,

adult and child,

good and bad,

primitive and civilized,

black and white.

Am I not immortal?

Or is it my fate

day-by-day, year-after-year

to recede into the crowd,

to roam Times Square

as an Instagram curiosity.

A diminishing freak.

Hear my defiant roar.

New York City may try

to swallow me whole,

a miniature version

of my former self.

Yet I refuse to disappear.

Let this poem be a warning:

These words are my transcendence.

I am still to be feared.

Poem: 'Holes' (on the Feast Day of St. Michael Moros)

I didn’t know my wife had a two-drink minimum.

I mean, I should have realized by now. I never remember having only one drink with her. And there we were, early in July at Blackjack Mulligan's bar in Garfield, NJ, where the waitresses wear “I love BJs” t-shirts and they serve authentic pirogies from Piast’s down the street.

I had wolfed down my portion and was ready to leave, when my wife said she would like another glass of wine. So I stared out the window at St. Peter’s Greek Catholic Cemetery, in disrepair, across the street. My friends in the NJ Poetry Circle at The Sanctuary community center in Butler provided a prompt for our writing that week: one word, "holes."

I kept thinking about the prompt. Later, I took my wife by the hand to wander in the cemetery. Still later, I wrote a poem:

Holes 

Across the street from BJ’s Bar, next to Walmart,

on the Feast Day of St. Michael Moros,

the 98th anniversary of his death and entrance into Heaven,

I pass through rusted iron gates on a sweltering day in Garfield, NJ.

A sign reads, “No Dogs Allowed.”

This is St. Peter’s Cemetery, perpetually open since 1895,

where I wander among 2,600 holes in the ground,

2,600 bodies in decay, and not a single soul to be found.

I gather and dispose the litter in my path, 

then brush matted grass from stone to reveal the names of the dead.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

It has been 20 years since my last Confession,

the day my earthly father died.

My sin is this: I lost my faith that day.

I am here to reclaim it among the toppled crosses,

the stone angels worn with age,

the paper flowers blown into haphazard piles.

I linger along the back edges of the grounds,

bounded by the remains of the Saddle River,

with a stained and matted teddy bear on its banks,

before it empties into the Passaic.

For this and all my past sins, I am heartily sorry.

I seek forgiveness from Steven and Mary Seelagy,

a married couple in their late 80s,

who died a month apart in 1989.

I seek forgiveness from Carlos Samuel Cruz,

who died in 2012 at age 65,

“Always in Our Hearts,” but no obituary to be found.

I seek forgiveness from Fernando Gonzalez Sr.,

dead in 1999 soon after his 67th birthday.

I seek forgiveness from Jesse M. Rivera, “Saintly Scholar,”

who died in 2008 at age 18.

A guitar fretboard is impaled next to his grave;

he died in prison, a suicide.

I found Joan Zavinsky’s portrait face down on a trampled path

and returned it to where she was buried in 2001.

She lived to 85; her photo showing her forever young.

Her husband, Joseph, died in 1977. His portrait is fixed and stern.

Then there are more young: Charles Mancuso, age 19, who died in 1932,

Anna Marynak, 3 years old, who died in 1920,

neighboring 1931 graves of Marie Cupo and Anna Kulik, both 1 year old,

near the pristine stone of Michael Moros, 1 day old, July 2-July 3, 1927.

I finger another bead in the pocket of my jeans.

You don’t need to linger at each grave.

I will count the dead for you:

59 names, including generations of entire families…

11 Barnas, 9 Babyaks, 8 Balints,

6 Miskes, 5 Ditinicks,

including all 3 sons who died young,

4 Gburs and 4 Dutkeviches.

All buried here, where my father was born.

I summon these foresaken dead,

with a prayer for each soul

on the 59 raven-black beads of my father’s rosary.

I stay until I stand forgiven before the Lord.

Now I implore Michael Moros, infant saint:

“Restore my faith!

Raise my father to life for just one day,

and I will doubt God’s grace nevermore.”

Poem: 'Teaneck Blues' (for Ulysses Kay)

At the Puffin Cultural Forum's poetry series in Teaneck last month, the township's poet laureate, Scott Pleasants, had just arrived from reading an original poem at a street renaming.

Alicia Avenue between Evergreen Place and Pinewood Place has been temporarily (for 90 days, starting May 23) renamed "Ulysses Kay Way," honoring where Ulysses Kay lived for the last 21 years of his life, "in recognition of his significant contributions and accomplishments in the advancement of 20th century music and musicians."

As Mark Trautman, director of music and administrator at St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Essex Fells, wrote on Facebook: "Ulysses Kay was a well know, prize-winning composer of the 20th century. His wife Barbara was a Freedom Rider and led the fight to integrate Englewood Schools in the 1960s. Their remains are buried in the columbarium at St. Paul's Church, 113 Engle St., Englewood."

Inspired by this, I wrote and read a poem at last Friday at June's S.P.E.A.K. (Sharing Poetic Expressions, Art & Knowledge) event hosted by MC and poet Toney Jackson. Toney leads an evening of intimacy, creativity, and positivity, open to aspiring poets and listeners. The next event is July 25.

Here's a recording of me reading this poem.

 Teaneck Blues

(Music: “Tender Thought” on Damien Sneed's album, “Classically Harlem”)

 

This is the summer of composer Ulysses Kay

where there’s a street named in his honor,

for 90 days.

Away from the heart of town,

the double-parked cars on Cedar Lane,

and Bischoff’s closed ice cream shop,

where bow-tied ghosts wear paper hats.

 

This is a mile and a half away,

amid haunted sounds:

rustling trees,

occasional birds,

gravel crunched by tires

in the lot facing his plain house

on Ulysses Kay Way.

 

This is Teaneck, NJ,

in the shadow of New York:

discordant, hesitant, forlorn,

a syncopated bass,

a trace of harmony,

a counter-melody of sadness,

defended by tanks on the lawn of the Armory.

 

This is his spectrum of sound:

a diversity of voices,

reflected in a single tender thought

rendered on a lone piano.

Come, hear the legacy of Ulysses Kay

in the summer of 2025,

where there’s a street named in his honor...

for 90 days.

Poem: 'Burlington County, 1984'

My friend (and wonderful poet), Jared (aka @the_babyfaced_poet) has started a video series on IG -- "The Best Words Show" -- featuring writers reading one of their works.

He kindly featured me this week, reciting a poem that was recently selected to be included in a new anthology, "New Jersey Bards Poetry Review 2025" -- available this month, with thanks to editor James P. Walker.

This particular poem was inspired by a workshop (to edit down something I've formerly written) from teacher/poet Michael Paul Thomas, and a prompt (about devils) from The NJ Poetry Circle, a supportive group that meets every Tuesday evening at The Sanctuary community space in Butler, NJ.

Below is Jared's video of me, after I had recited "Dover Beach" for his sound check and nervously laughed about how I used to recite it to my daughters as a lullaby when they were young -- followed by the text.

Thank you, Jared, James, Michael, and Sofia and all at the Poetry Circle (and thank you, Jordan, for letting me know about this place)...

Burlington County, 1984

Driving up the Jersey Turnpike,

skirting a million acres of acidic, sandy soil.

It’s almost dawn.

 

In the passenger’s seat

Hester closes her eyes, adjusts the halo

embroidered atop her California Angels cap,

and burrows under my letter jacket for warmth.

 

Bright Venus and the rising sun accent

the needles of the pines lining the highway,

casting shadows that flicker and tremble

like my desire.

 

I wish I may, I wish I might, now,

make the sun stand still below that distant horizon...

 

Af if my car were a Mason jar.

As if I could punch air holes in the top

and examine this curiosity named Hester

 

lazily stretching her butterfly limbs.

I would take my car in my hand

and hold the both of us up

to that faint and heavenly light.

 

This tiny version of myself I try to preserve

is me at my best, oblivious in young love,

blissfully teased by the Hand of Fate,

warm, palm up, resting on my thigh.

 

As if, in its lines, I could divine our future together.

As if I weren’t the Jersey Devil in disguise.

About That Poem: 'Byzantium in Jersey'

My grandfather, 1969, Budd Lake

This is the poem I read at the S.P.E.A.K. open mic in March at the Puffin Cultural Forum in Teaneck, NJ.

I began my reading by reciting from memory the first part of a favorite poem, "Sailing to Byzantium" by Yeats. The workshop before the open mic was about structure in poetry, and I have always appreciated the subtle structure of Yeats' masterpiece -- 10 beats per line with an ab/ab/ab/cc rhyme in each of its stanzas.

I was also pleased to read in Robert Pinsky's autobiography "Jersey Breaks" that "Sailing to Byzantium" was a favorite of his too.

So, with apologies to those two great poets, here's the full text of my homage:

Byzantium in Jersey

 

This, my grandfather, in his Sunday best:

a cigarette dangling from its holder,

a tattered suit, a worn Italian vest,

with me at his side, decades less older.

He does not hold my hand. There is no rest.

He lectures as we walk, points my shoulders

to Monarch butterflies in flight toward me

along the shores of Budd Lake, New Jersey.

 

This, a back country road, is my classroom:

milkweed, honeysuckle, red columbine,

hummingbirds, spotted touch-me-nots in bloom,

blue robins’ eggs, goldenrod, dandelions.

My grandfather names them for me, assumes

I will remember that sparrow, that vine,

the chicory, those edible lilies,

the mew of mimicking catbirds we see.

 

Like the sage I loved, these vanished from me.

 

I live in the suburbs, reminisce now

about ancestors. One Sunday, I walk

the Hackensack riverbank in a drought.

A murder of crows chase a gyring hawk,

then roost in the sun on a golden bough.

Hearing their echoing caws, I pause, stalked.

This, I know, is my father’s father’s song

of what is past, or passing, or to come.

---------

Here's a video of my reading: