Monday, August 31, 2009

Flying Lesson

In 1992 I flew a plane and a helicopter. Actually had the controls in my hands. It was a gift from my wife at the time. This was my recollection after the event. Tomorrow, I will dig up my recollection of paragliding over the Alps.

FLYING LESSON

Jan. 22, 1992
Well, I did it. I flew. No, I didn’t go see Peter Pan and run down the center aisle yelling, “I’m flying, I’m flying!” No, I really did fly. I soared up into the sky and conversed with the clouds.
I climbed, with some difficulty, I must add, into the cockpit of a Cessna and settled into the pilot’s seat with a very brave instructor in the passenger seat.
After showing me all the instruments, dials, levers and whatevers, he handed me the keys and said, “Turn it on.”
I did and that began a half hour of an incredible experience — the simultaneous feelings of fear and exhilaration.
Then the plane began to taxi toward the runway.
Actually, my instructor — Bob — took the plane to the runway, demonstrated how to steer by using his feet, revved the engine up to its pre-flight foreplay and then positioned it on Our Runway — 34 something or other. He then told me how to increase speed and showed me what to look for on one of the dials and we started moving down the runway with both my hands on the wheel, watching until the speedometer reached that magic number and then I pulled back on the wheel and that sucker started to leave the comfortable confines of Earth, well, lower-cased earth. I mean, we’re not that advanced yet.
What a thrill to actually have that plane in my hands and the nose heading up into the sky. (Thank God for small favors, eh) and watching the altimeter climb.
I was satisfied at 1,000 feet, but Bob said we would level off at 2,000 so we kept climbing and I looked down and my stomach was talking to me, but only slightly because I was concentrating on everything Bob was telling me.
We finally hit 2,000 and Bob talked me through leveling and then we did some gentle banks and I saw the Blue Ridge Mountains in front of us and a setting sun through scattered clouds and I was really enjoying myself.
Well, I was really enjoying myself until, as I was doing a gentle bank to the left, we hit turbulence, the wings shot perpendicular to earth and I thought we were going belly-up and my stomach was in my feet while a million little needles shot through my entire body.
But WE got the plane settled in and level again and I was so glad Bob had great survival instincts.
We flew around in very large circles for a while and Bob talked me into climbing some more and I pulled back on the wheel and the nose went up and I couldn’t see the horizon anymore and there is something just a little scary about not seeing the earth anymore so I leveled again and then Bob said, OK, descend for a bit and I pushed the wheel in and we nosed down and picked up speed, which was exactly what Bob wanted me to experience. And that was a little scary.
And he showed me and I did steer the plane with the foot pedals to yaw instead of banking. And then he convinced me to take my right hand off the wheel, using my left hand to steer and my right hand to work the throttle and increase and decrease speed.
Now, I gotta tell ya, sitting up there with little houses 2,000 feet below me, with one hand on the wheel and one on the throttle and doing all those wonderful things can really do something to your psyche and it did. But not enough to get cocky because we still had that turbulence up there and it didn’t take any convincing at all to hug that wheel with both hands again.
Then we had to go home and, funny thing, I could not see the damn airport. Fortunately, Bob knew the area pretty well from up there and he guided me in as I banked and descended, but when it was time to really slow down for the landing, it was time to stop playing pilot and give that puppy back to Bob, who brought us in all the time showing me how to lower the flaps for the drag and come in for a perfect landing.
The first thing I thought when I got out of the plane? I want to go up again. Soon.

I haven't been up again. I did return for a lesson in a helicopter. Again, we went up 2,000 feet. Now, talk about scary. I was sitting in a seat surrounded by a glass bubble. It was as though there was nothing between me and the outside. Then there was the mechanics of it -- working both hands and both feet, the big blades over my head and the blades behind us and moving forward and stopping and hovering and turning. Bob had me bring the chopper down and then rise and hover about ten feet above the ground. Now, you can't do that in a plane.

I have been up in two hot air balloons and parasailing in the Bahamas, but never wrote about those experiences. In one ballooning trip, we were the only ones up. It is amazing to be up so high in a gondola that only comes up to your waist. When it was time to descend, the pilot thought he had a place to land, but it turned out to be a golf course and he had to bring it up quickly and the gondola brushed the top of a tree giving us a bit of a bounce. Then he brought us down near a road and when the follow truck arrived, he blasted the jet and lifted the balloon up into the bed of the truck. Now, that's piloting!
Tomorrow, sailing 3,000 feet over the Alps strapped to a sail.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

car talk

OK, I love Car Talk. But I also loved to watch CSPAN. Go figger. Today’s show had some terrible puns. That’s why I am going to share them. If you want to hear them yourselves:
http://www.cartalk.com/piplayer/cartalkplayer.html?play=07smil.xml

1. A guy had his entire left side cut off. He’s all right now
2. An invisible man married an invisible woman. Their kids are nothing to look at either
3. I had dinner with Kasparov, the international chess champion. The table had a checkered table cloth. It took him two hours to pass the salt
4. A kid was in the hospital after swallowing a bunch of coins. His grandmother called to check on him and the nurse said, “No change yet.”
5. I was wondering why a baseball was getting bigger. Then it hit me.
OK, that explains my conditioning.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

GOP scare tactics is their only game

AP story in today’s local newspaper, the Times-Standard here in Eureka, CA, says the Republicans now have a new scare tactic. They are saying that the Democrats would deny Republicans health care. According to the AP, the Republican Party has mailed a fund-raising appeal with a questionnaire that says the government could check voting registration records, "prompting fears that GOP voters might be discriminated against for medical treatment in a Democrat-imposed health care rationing system." Katie Wright, a spokeswoman for the Republican National Committee, said the question was "inartfully worded," but she said people should worry because government officials would have access to personal financial and medical data. She said the RNC “doesn't try to scare people. We're just trying to get the facts out on health care. And that's what we do every day."

Well, it isn't "inartfully worded;" it is flat-out wrong. Instead of trying to work up a health reform package that will benefit all Americans, these people spend all their time yelling, screaming, name-calling and throwing around totally misleading information. The scarier part is there are people out there who believe them.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Good Night

How many ways are there to express love? Fires are lit at the moment and years later you may want to smile or grimace, but there it is.

Good Night
By Henry David Rosso

It is cold and raining.
I even got the comforter out of the closet and put it on the bed.
It is time to go to bed.
But I don't want to even though I want to.
I want you here with me.
I want you under the comforter with me.
I want your body up against me.
I want to spoon you and feel your tight American ass up against me
and my arms around you and my hands cupping your breasts
and my lips on your neck.
I was watching television
-- the end of Law and Order, one of my favorites –
and the Olympics
and a real live ER docudrama
and a special on NASCAR
and the original British version of "Whose Line is it Anyway?"
Normally, any one of them would have kept my attention.
But nothing did tonight.
And now I am in front of the computer
our link to each other in times of separation
listening to Saint Saens organ symphony, one of my favorites.
I have the windows open in my room
so I can listen to the rain and the cool air will come into the room
and I can escape under the comforter.
I want you here to talk to -- with.
I heated up leftovers for dinner and had a salad.
I always ate salad when I was with you.
That's healthy.
You are healthy for me.
I'm really missing you
(as opposed to not really missing me or pretending to miss me?)
your ring is around my neck and I like it there.
It feels like it belongs there.
although I don't think I have ever worn anything around my neck
except for dog tags during Vietnam.
I like working and getting e-mails from you.
It's almost like you are here
with me and we are both doing our things
and looking over each other's shoulders
and saying hi to each other as we work.
I'd rather be in the same room at different computers,
looking up at each other occasionally.
Now we talk to each other from 4,100 miles apart.
And there is always the time difference.
I'm up for breakfast and you are going out for lunch;
I am taping Judge Judy and you are getting ready for bed.
I am wrapping up a day of work and you are having drinks
with an ex lover and a current would-be lover.
And I am wondering how the evening is going for you.
And then you get an e-mail from a wet-behind-the-ears whippersnapper
who wants to tell you he is having wet dreams over you.
And I am waiting for the time we are together again
and I can hold you very close and feel you hold me very close
and I love you and miss you
and wish you were here
and life is good with you even when I am without you.
Now maybe I will go to bed and sleep.
I love you,
Must I tell you everything?

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Autographs

I wrote this after flipping through my autograph book, wondering why I was flipping through it.

AUTOGRAPHS
By Henry David Rosso
Autographs.
They tell a story
A collection of friends
A collection of memories
As you pass through life,
Give thought always to the
Good friends you make along the way.
Cherish them,
Because they will always
Be your prized possessions
Daddy, Dec. 1954

Syracuse Nationals basketball team – 1954
To David my pal,
(Whom they have never met before tonight)
Can't read their writing this many years later.
Al Ceri? Bill Gabor?
Red Rocha? Paul Seymour?
Dick Farley, George Bing, John Kerr
Wally Ostroika, Dolph Schayes

Where are those school chums from so many years ago.

When your married and have twins,
Don't come running to me for bobby pins.
Al Cody.
Hi, Al. Where are you?

Best wishes to you, David
Can't read the first name, but remember the last
Turner. Father of my friend Gary.
Where's Gary? How are you, Gary?

Dear David: When evening draws the curtain back,
And pins it with a star,
Remember that you still have friends,
Although they may be far. Best of luck, David!
That was Marguerite Turner, Gary's mother.
Nothing from Gary.
How are you Gary?
Gary was not well, but he was my neighbor and friend.

To Dave, The best of everything, Sincerely, Bill Nelson.
I know I should remember Bill Nelson.
That's what these books are for -- memories,
Friends we'll never forget. Sorry, Bill. I've forgotten.

Dear David
Be true to your teeth
Or they'll be false to you,
Your dentist, Verdi F. Carets.

Dear David, Best of luck, David,
For a whole future filled with happiness.
Sincerely, V. Gene Clark.
I don't remember, but thanks.

To Dave,
All my best wishes for a useful
And worthwhile life.
Dewitt, our preacher.

We have had a lot of fun together
In Catalina, Pat Hanlon
My cousin's friend whom I had just met.
Thanks for the memories, Pat.

Never kiss by the garden gate,
Love is blind, but the neighbors ain't.
Good luck at Manlius,
Judy Friedenberg
Ahh, I loved Judy Friedenberg, I thought.
Why did she add:
2 good + 2 be = 4 gotten
2 young + 2 drink = 4 roses.

To David Rosso – 1954
Always remember that David
Was the greatest giant killer of all
Be good - Joe Cumminsky.

My teacher: Good luck always
Vida J. Lyke.
How many do they write in a year?
How many do they remember?

School chums
Have fun at Manlius-Dave Stillman
2 in a car + 2 little kisses = 4 days later
Mr. and Mrs. - Robert Kessler
When your in the kitchen sipping tea
Burn your guts and think of me
Only kidding - Steve Herr
Glad he was only kidding

To kiss a miss is very simple
To miss a kiss is simply awful
Kisses spread germs, so it’s stated
So kiss her kid, she's vaccinated.
That was Marlene
And she wasn't finished:
When you get old and live in a tree
Send me a coconut C.O.D.

To my pal, Dave Rosso
Best wishes always, Carmen Basilio
Just before the end for the fighter.
Go get 'em. You brutal tiger. I saw you at ringside.

And sitting so lonely on pages by themselves
No "best pal," no "best wishes,"
Just the names, scrawled in a hurry:
Roddy McDowell, Pat Boone, Leslie Caron
On another page is a picture of Jim Brown
The Syracuse University star - hero to us Pop Warner players
He came to our awards dinner in 1955
And his signature is above Otto Graham's

Scrawls on pages in books, slips of paper
High school yearbooks.
Great thought goes into some,
No thoughts in others.
They say, Remember me,
Or get out of my face and leave me alone.

Leslie Caron had no pen, neither did I
Her publicist said shove off.
She told him to give her a pen.
I'll always remember that.

I sat across the aisle from Andrew Lloyd Webber and didn't ask.
I sat at the next table from Martha Ray in Vietnam and didn't ask.
I sat at a cafeteria table across from Billie Jean King and didn't ask.
They need their privacy. I know I saw them. Don't need anything else.

William Golding signed my/his Lord of the Flies

My UPI colleagues Bill Mead, Arnie Sawislak and Helen Thomas
Signed their books.
One of them got my name wrong; thought I was somebody else.

I signed books - other people's yearbooks.
Will they remember me?
Parts of our lives are in those books
Best wishes for them, high hopes for us?
Something we can share in our later years.
Something we can use to prod our memory
Something we can use as justification
Something we can stick on a shelf, in a box, to be forgotten.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Ted Kennedy

Ted Kennedy is gone. He has joined his brothers -- Joe, John and Bobby -- in the history books. Joseph Kennedy died in a plane crash during World War II in 1944. I was one year old. John Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. I was 20 years old in Munich, Germany. Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in Los Angeles while campaigning for president in 1968. I was 25 years old serving my final year in the Air Force in Michigan. Now Edward M. Kennedy is dead. They were all in my lifespan and they all contributed in some way to my life as it is today.
Obviously, I was unaware of Joe Kennedy. John Kennedy was my awakening to politics and the world around me. I read Theodore White's Making of the President 1960. I visited the Berlin Wall where he made his Ich bin ein Berliner speech, I mourned his assassination while living in a foreign country and read Theodore Sorenson's Thousand Days about the all-too-short Kennedy presidency. I saw Bobby as the new JFK. I had such hopes for him as president. He was the last person I truly believed in as a potential president until Obama. I thought Ted Kennedy would have been a great president, but Chappaquiddick destroyed his chances.
But, while Ted Kennedy never made it to the White House, his stature and work in the Senate accomplished as much as if he had been president.
His absence in the Senate has been felt as Congress works on the health reform legislation. He truly knew how to reach across the aisle. He truly knew how to work for what was right for the country and average Americans. He knew how to pull all the forces together to reach the goal.
Now is the time for all Democrats and all Republicans who want to do right for this country to pull together and engage in intelligent, thoughtful, dedicated debate free of animosity, free of screaming, free of name-calling and scare tactics and draft and pass a meaningful health reform bill. Do it for America and do it because it is right.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

wars we don't need to fight

I wrote my poem Iraqnam a few years ago. We are still in Iraq and Americans are being killed in increasing numbers in Afghanistan. In today's New York Times, Bob Herbert questions the futility of these wars and especially of the one in Afghanistan, which is now in its ninth year.
In his column (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/25/opinion/25herbert.html?_r=1&ref=opinion&pagewanted=print) he makes a couple of points that should (must) awaken Americans.

He noted Obama told the Veterans of Foreign Wars that less than 1 percent of this country's 300 million citizens wear the uniform.

"If we had a draft — or merely the threat of a draft — we would not be in Iraq or Afghanistan. But we don’t have a draft so it’s safe for most of the nation to be mindless about waging war. Other people’s children are going to the slaughter."

Quoting President Obama as saying that the war in Afghanistan is "fundamental to the defense of our people," Herbert asks:
"Well, if this war, now approaching its ninth year, is so fundamental, we should all be pitching in. We shouldn’t be leaving the entire monumental burden to a tiny portion of the population, sending them into combat again, and again, and again, and again ..."

We really are slow learners.

Monday, August 24, 2009

A Tender Letter to an Unborn Child

This is a combination entry. Louis Cassels was the religion editor for United Press International for many years. He was also a wonderful man and a friend. When my wife and I were expecting our first child, I wrote my thoughts and showed them to Lou. He wrote the following. Unfortunately, his lead has one big error: Cyndy and I did not know each other until after I returned from Vietnam. I wrote me letter 39 years ago and Heather was my first born.

A Tender Letter To an Unborn Child
By Louis Cassels
WASHINGTON (UPI) – David is 27. Cyndy is 22.
They were married after David came home from his year in Vietnam—the longest year in Cyndy’s life.
They live in a one-bedroom apartment in Rosslyn, Va., just across the Potomac River from the downtown section of Washington.
As is often the case in today’s young marriages, both David and Cyndy work. But Cyndy will be retiring from business in a few months to take up another career. Her baby is due in January.
Because David and Cyndy are thoughtful and sensitive people, and David is a writer, it was natural for them to try to articulate the feelings they experienced when the doctor told Cyndy the big news.
So David composed “A Letter to My Unborn Child.” He did not think of it as something to be published, but simply as a private communication, which might or might not be shown some day to the addressee.
But his tenderly written letter expresses so perfectly the mixed emotions of a young couple about bringing a child into today’s world that a friend prevailed upon David to share it with a larger audience.
Here is David’s letter to his future son or daughter:
“Now, you are hardly discernible as a form of life as we on the outside know it. The doctor says you have formed some kind of a shape about 2 inches long. I’m 6-foot-1 now.
“According to the doctor, you should struggle from the womb next year during January. Your mother and I have reserved a place for you. I’m afraid you’ll have to share the same room with us for a while, but there is ample room. You won’t be too big for a while.
“I have spent and shall spend many more moments planning for you, at least until you are able to plan for yourself. What do we do between now and then? Now, don’t get me wrong. Your mother and I are looking forward to seeing you with a love that we have never had the opportunity to feel before. Your mother will do all the work and I’ll do all the worrying, but the three of us will get through it all and we’ll be mighty proud.
“But every once in a while, when I look out the window or walk down the street, I sense an apology in the recesses of my mind when I think of you.
“When I stand at a bus stop in a cloud of exhaust that lingers around me so I smell of the city when I go home or try to shield my eyes against the flying debris that litters the streets I wonder how your eyes and lungs will react to it. When I think of showing you this land of ours, I think of trash-lined highways, littered beaches and no-fishing signs warning of polluted waters. When I think of your mother taking you for a stroll n the fresh air, I wonder how far she will have to go to find that fresh air. How long will you be able to sleep with the jets overhead and the trucks below?
“And if you should survive the earth, sea and sky, will you survive your fellow man? I must apologize for what the past generation has left and what the present generation is creating.
“It is a selfish love that welcomes a newborn child into the world. We hope you don't suffer because of it.”

Friday, August 21, 2009

A Letter To No One In Particular

A Letter To No One In Particular

By Henry David Rosso

Dear in particular,
How are you?
I really don't care, but then that is how all letters are commenced. So answer me even though you don't care if I know.
Now I am supposed to tell you about my family.
You could care less about my family, but all letters are written that way.
So answer me even though you don't care and then you can tell me about your family.
I know you don't care if I know about your family, but letters are written that way.
So don't be square. Follow the pattern.
Now I am supposed to tell you what I have been doing all these months since I last wrote.
I haven't been doing a thing but I must write and tell you so.
You don't care what I have been doing and you don't care at all if I haven't been doing anything.
But then that is how letters are written so follow along and write me and tell me how little you have been doing.
Of course, we will now go on for almost two pages telling each other how much of nothing we have been doing.
This is great fun and we must do it more often.
Now the body of the letter is finished and we must close.
We find a handy excuse to end this nonsense.
You tell me you have to go back to class when I know you never went to school a day in your life.
No, you must go back to work although you never worked a day in your life.
The truth of the matter is that you have just come to the end of the page.
Actually, you just started writing larger to take up more room.
But then the letter is finished and you must add a salutation.
Love, sincerely yours, always, your friend, be good.
These are pretty good and always seem to serve the purpose of ending the letter so we choose one and attach it to the end of the letter.
But we aren't finished yet.
Now we have to have at least one p.s. to add to the letter.
These come in the form of attractive news items that are interesting to neither of us.
They also start another page and we must close the letter again.
Oh, yes, we must remind each other to write again although we don't care if we write again.
But then this is how letters are written.
Well, I must go now.
I have an appointment and must run.
Do write when you get the chance and tell me how your family is and say hello to them for me.
Sincerely,
No one in particular
P.S., I almost forgot.
I hate to write letters

Thursday, August 20, 2009

guns

This is common sense that needs to be spread far and wide

Leave The Guns At Home

By E.J. Dionne Jr.
Thursday, August 20, 2009

Try a thought experiment: What would conservatives have said if a group of loud, scruffy leftists had brought guns to the public events of Ronald Reagan or George W. Bush?

How would our friends on the right have reacted to someone at a Reagan or a Bush speech carrying a sign that read: "It is time to water the tree of liberty"? That would be a reference to Thomas Jefferson's declaration that the tree "must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants."

Pardon me, but I don't think conservatives would have spoken out in defense of the right of every American Marxist to bear arms or to shed the blood of tyrants.

In fact, the Bush folks didn't like any dissent at all. Recall the 2004 incident in which a distraught mother whose son was killed in Iraq was arrested for protesting at a rally in New Jersey for first lady Laura Bush. The detained woman wasn't even armed. Maybe if she had been carrying, the gun lobby would have defended her.

The Obama White House purports to be open to the idea of guns outside the president's appearances. "There are laws that govern firearms that are done state or locally," Robert Gibbs, the White House spokesman, said on Tuesday. "Those laws don't change when the president comes to your state or locality."

Gibbs made you think of the old line about the liberal who is so open-minded he can't even take his own side in an argument.

What needs to be addressed is not the legal question but the message that the gun-toters are sending.

This is not about the politics of populism. It's about the politics of the jackboot. It's not about an opposition that has every right to free expression. It's about an angry minority engaging in intimidation backed by the threat of violence.

There is a philosophical issue here that gets buried under the fear that so many politicians and media-types have of seeming to be out of touch with the so-called American heartland.

The simple fact is that an armed citizenry is not the basis for our freedoms. Our freedoms rest on a moral consensus, enshrined in law, that in a democratic republic we work out our differences through reasoned, and sometimes raucous, argument. Free elections and open debate are not rooted in violence or the threat of violence. They are precisely the alternative to violence, and guns have no place in them.

On the contrary, violence and the threat of violence have always been used by those who wanted to bypass democratic procedures and the rule of law. Lynching was the act of those who refused to let the legal system do its work. Guns were used on election days in the Deep South during and after Reconstruction to intimidate black voters and take control of state governments.

Yes, I have raised the racial issue, and it is profoundly troubling that firearms should begin to appear with some frequency at a president's public events only now, when the president is black. Race is not the only thing at stake here, and I have no knowledge of the personal motivations of those carrying the weapons. But our country has a tortured history on these questions, and we need to be honest about it. Those with the guns should know what memories they are stirring.

And will someone please tell the armed demonstrators how foolish and lawless they make our country look in the eyes of so much of the world? Are we not the country that urges other nations to see the merits of the ballot over the bullet?

All this is taking place as the country debates the president's health-care proposal. There is much that is disturbing in that discussion. Shouting down speakers is never a good thing, and many lies are being told about the contents of the health-care bills. The lies should be confronted, but freedom involves a lot of commotion and an open contest of ideas, even when some of the parties say things that aren't true and act in less than civil ways.

Yet if we can't draw the line at the threat of violence, democracy begins to disintegrate. Power, not reason, becomes the stuff of political life. Will some group of responsible conservatives, preferably life members of the NRA, have the decency to urge their followers to leave their guns at home when they go out to protest the president? Is that too much to ask?

ejdionne@washpost.com

Scraps

I wrote this one day after rummaging through a lot of pieces of paper sitting in a drawer. Now that I read it again, I think I am watching "60 Minutes" and listening to Andy Rooney. OMG!

Scraps

By Henry David Rosso

Her number's on a piece of paper
Somewhere
I know I wrote it down
Had her name on it too
Somewhere
Remember the lyrics to that song we liked?
I wrote them down
Somewhere
I had the address of that movie we wanted to see
I scribbled it on a piece of paper so I wouldn't forget
Somewhere
I finally got the whole family's birthdays so I'd always have them
I wrote them on a piece of paper
Somewhere
Maybe this is it
No, remember this?
It's the address we saw on TV for the 26 original '50's hits
There's a phone number here too.
No idea what it's for.
Wonder why I'm keeping it.
Wonder what would happen if I dialed it?
If a man answers, hang up.
Maybe someone has my phone number written on a piece of paper
Somewhere
Maybe they'll call me.
I'd get their number and
Write it on a piece of paper
Somewhere.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Beauty

This is the first poem I ever wrote. Some may think it should have been my last. I was a young teen at the time. Don't have a specific date.

Beauty

By Henry David Rosso

Shades of beauty
Beauty?
Beauty is life
Beauty is death
Beauty is.
Beauty
The elegance of the prow of a ship.
A full-rigged yacht in mid-ocean
A lone fishing boat at sea before dawn
Beauty
The Lincoln Memorial, silent in subdued light
Steel gracefully arched in a bridge
A lonely lighthouse on a fog-bound peninsula
Beauty
The melodic blends of violins of a symphony orchestra
The mellowness of a well-played viola
The combined efforts of an entire orchestra producing tranquility in sound
Beauty
Evening chimes piercing the silence of a small town
An undisturbed blanket of snow on a country field
Towering redwoods flirting with rays of sunshine
Beauty
A Catholic Church with its solemn peacefulness
The story of the crucifixion of Christ
The understanding in, "forgive them, father, for they know not what they do."
Beauty
Children telling their dreams,
Laughing, playing, singing, praying
A child hopelessly crushed by a car told that he would go to god, replying,
"I don't want to go dead and be with god, I want to play."
Beauty
The words of the dying Tiger Flowers, colored boxer,
As he said, "Now I lay me down to sleep."
The acceptance of death by elderly people --
Quiet, resigned surrendering of life
Beauty?
A state of mind

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

sharing my work

The other day I told my wife that I had posted my short story about military school boys learning to light farts. She was aghast, questioning my sensibilities and maturity. So far, I have posted 16 items, including the chapter from my three years at Manlius Military Academy outside of Syracuse, New York. All the others are poems I have written with two exceptions -- a piece that had been sent to me that I wanted to share and a chapter of my life that had tremendous effects on me. Putting out pieces of literature is always hazardous. I like what I have written -- some more than others. Some I think could still use more work and some I may always feel they need more work. I had fun wit the school bit. It actually happened. It was a Tom Brown's School Days, but personal. It was boys being boys in an all-boys environment. We were 12 to 17 or so and we had the new boys and the old boys and the uniforms and the shined shoes and the inspections and the cadet officers and getting away with things in our own very clever ways and marching in the snow and sneaking across the street to attend the fair. The poems have been sitting in folders and floppies and now on DVDs. The first was written when I was a teenager. They are about things I saw and heard and experienced. And they were/are my way of expressing myself, my feelings and my experiences. Are they good? Only the reader can tell. I enjoyed putting them on paper and now I am enjoying getting them out of hiding and putting them out for anybody to read. Can they all be read in my cousin's third grade class. Absolutely not. Some can. Others are for very select audiences. I do not censor. My Friendly Neighborhood Bar tries to capture the life and language that I observed in the bars. I don't think anybody there ever said, "Gee whiz!" So, here they are. And I have more to add. I'd love to hear from you -- whether you like them, were disgusted by them, thought they needed more work.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Bells, With Apologies to Ed Poe

I have many, many wonderful memories of Switzerland, one of which struck me very early during my experience there. It was bells. I lived in Morges, a small village between Geneva and Lausanne, and my first room was located across the street from the Catholic Church and down the street from the Presbyterian Church. They both tolled the hours -- and the quarter hours with bells 24 hours a day.

BELLS, WITH APOLOGIES TO ED POE
By Henry David Rosso
In the clear, crisp, cool air of a Swiss night
A church bell peals the hour
Four A.M.
Bong Bong Bong Bong

Bells in towns and villages nearby
Take up the tolling
Some overlapping
BoBong BoBong BoBongBoBong

The more distant churches
Squeeze into the night air
Their bells strong at home, but thinned by space
Bing Bing Bing Bing

In the center of Morges
Resting on the shores of Lac Leman
The bells of the Catholic and Presbyterian churches
Vie for attention, one followed quickly by the other.

The big city churches sound every quarter hour
Two quick peals — bongbong -- for each quarter
At 4 A.M. they announce bongbong bongbong bongbong bongbong
Bong Bong Bong Bong

Bells sing praises
Cry in mourning,
Dance with happiness
Ring in new years

Announce victories
Celebrate weddings
Count cadence at funerals
Signal naval watches

The same bells that lift spirits
Pain hearts
Signal alarms
Wear heavy on souls

A tiny bell on an altar
Tinkles through incensed smoke
Bringing parishioners to their knees
To pray for whatever purpose

Bells beckon servants to service
Signal classes to change
Open the stock market
Sound warnings at train crossings

A tall, thin woman dressed in black leans far over
She speaks to the young boy
He raises his hand to salute
While a grieving nation watches
Bong
Bong
Bong
Bong

And the caissons go rolling
Carrying the flag-draped coffin
As bells that cry for joy
Now stir a nation to tears

Ma Bell, Taco Bell, Carol of the Bells
Jingle Bells, Liberty Bell
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Saved by the Bell

Alexander Graham Bell
Catherine Bell
Tinker Bell
Christmas bells
Hells Bells

Thomas Paine didn’t like bells
In 1797 he condemned them as a public nuisance
The noise of bells, he said
Increase the distress of the sick

Cows, sheep and horses
Display no distress
Munching and lolling
Bells clanging around their necks

Cows don’t eat around the Salvation Army
Merry Christmas jinglejinglejingle
JinglejinglejingleQUIET
Jingle

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The Dart Game

This is the second of the bar poems. I spent many hours playing darts and hope I have captured some of the intensity. You need to know the language of the game

The Dart Game

By Henry David Rosso

Challenge the board!
You're on.
The slick, slim shaft, barrel and point are withdrawn
From the leather case with care.
The feather-light flights are attached.
The shaft is tightened against the barrel.
The point is sharpened with a small square of sandpaper.
The challenge is met.
Cricket?
Cricket.
Points?
Of course.
Cork.
The first shot of the game, to determine who goes first.
The silver steel and plastic tail head toward the center
Hoping for a dead center.
Close.
But not too close.
Nothing to do but watch your opponent.
She lets fly and hits dead center.
She can hit cork.
It's bad news.
She goes first.
Toe on the line
Eyeball the target
Cock the arm
Feel the balance
Adjust
Don't rush
Stroke toward the goal
Pull back
Stroke again
Fire
Twenty-four grams of steel and plastic
Fly silently and swiftly toward the board
The point finds its mark with a dull thunk.
Two more times the process is repeated.
Cold steel hitting compressed paper under the glare
For all to see
The point kisses the outer ring
Almost as a teaser
Each shot that misses its mark is like foreplay
It's your turn
She intimidated you with the first shot.
But she bolstered your confidence with the next two.
Now you get to stroke and probe
Hoping to reach the ultimate goal.
Anticipation.
Fingers close around the tiny steel shaft
Flights twirl in readiness
The steel flies.
Close. So close.
Adjust
Shoot
There, it's in
Do it again.
Cock
Aim
Shoot.
It's there again.
Back and forth the game progresses
Arms cocked
Eyes squint
Heart stops
Steel parts air and strikes with a thud
Concentration mounts
Careless shots
Followed by more disciplined shots
This time it will be true
This time it will hit the mark
This time you will go ahead
Hold the lead
Watch your opponent
She's staying close
Keen eye travels down the arm
The wrist
The fingers
Across the space to the target bathed in light
Arm back, cocked
Fingers tighten
Forward, let it fly
Steel flies through the air to the target
Thud.
It's there.
Make another mark.
A slash
An X
A circle
Spectators gather to watch
The match is close
A challenge to the board
Sides are chosen.
The steel splits the air again
A cry of ecstasy.
The mark has been made
Another turn
Spectators eye the players
Players eye the board
Steel flies.
Thud
Point
Good dart
Smile momentarily replaces frown of concentration
Steel flies
A gasp
The game is at its determining point
Smile fades
Replaced with frown of concentration
Arm cocks
Eye travels down arm
To wrist
To fingers
To target across the space
Dart arm rocks back and forth
Body leans across the line
Arm cocks back and lets go
Steel flies across the air
Thud.
Cork!
The game is won.
Smiles replace frowns
But only for a short while
The board has been challenged.
The game starts anew
The victory is a thing of the past
New game
Set the rules
Cricket?
Cricket
Points?
Of course
Shoot cork
The victory only counted for one game
It only mattered for a moment
Memory can never repeat the thrill of the moment
It is time for new thrills
New victories
New challenges
Steel flies through the air
Thud.
A miss.
Your turn.
We can only try.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

the friendly neighborhood bar

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Beginnings of Ends

This was written to someone special at 1:49 a.m., March 28, 2000.


Beginnings of Ends
By Henry David Rosso
You sent your last e-mail,
Saying you had to pull yourself together.
I stayed for a while longer, waiting to see if there was more from you.
There wasn't and the room closed in on me
The computer looked so meaningless.
Without you to banter with,
To talk serious with,
To joke with,
To exchange moments of the day with,
To just talk with,
This tube takes on a whole new meaning,
Not nearly what it was cranked up to be.
When you leave, it loses its life.
The light stays the same, the icons are still there,
But you are not there
And it just doesn't have any meaning,
Any purpose.
Yet, I don't want to turn it off,
Even knowing that, yes, you really have gone to sleep,
When it is on, I still feel connected to you.
Christ, I hope I don't start stroking it!
But when the computer is turned off,
Our connection is lost.
Except.
Except that connection that remains in our hearts.
There's no plug for that.
There's no wall switch.
That connection goes downstairs with me
And back upstairs
And to the store with me
And to bed with me
And wakes up with me.
That connection is always there.
It doesn't need an outside source of power.
It doesn't need a cord or an extension or sunlight or batteries.
It generates itself.
And it receives an extra burst of energy
When the woman I love is back on line
Or on the phone
Or with me in person.
Or when I am not connected to any of those things,
She is in my heart and in my memories
And she generates me
And warms me
And thrills me.
Love is so powerful.
It can build us up and tear us down.
It can make us powerful and it can make us wimps.
It can give us goose bumps and bring tears.
Smiles. Frowns. Concern.
It is so good when we are together.
And when we are apart we must make ways to be together.
If it is good, we must make it work.
If it is good, we must bring us together.
If it is good, we must keep it alive,
Nourish it,
Guide it,
Direct it,
Point it toward ourselves
And wrap it around us to protect us,
Warm us,
Comfort us.
And we must always think positive.
Think each day that we are going to "be with" each other,
One way or another.
When we get up and see the sun in the morning,
We don't get upset because we know it is going to set
And put us back into darkness.
When we have a great meal,
We don't get sad, because we know there will be a last bite.
When we sit by a big campfire and enjoy the flames,
We don't get upset because we know it is going to go out.
When we go to a great concert of our favorite music,
We don't get upset because we know it will end.
We enjoy the music and the dinner and the fire and the sunshine.
And that is what we are going to do with each other.
We are going to live and love and enjoy and be happy
And smile and laugh and feel and bring joy to each other
And make each other happy and share our life
And our words and our smiles and tingling feelings
And our moments of quiet togetherness.
Stay with me, Sweetheart.
Love me.
Feel me.
Share with me.
Live our lives in whatever togetherness we have at the moment.
You know, we all die. That's no reason not to live in the meantime.
I love you.

Monday, August 10, 2009

hell explained

A colleague just sent this to me and it has to be shared.
HELL EXPLAINED BY CHEMISTRY STUDENT

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry mid term.

The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, is why we now have the pleasure
of enjoying it as well:


Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle 's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.

One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.

Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle 's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities:

1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, 'It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,' and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over! The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct......leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting 'Oh my God.'

THIS STUDENT RECEIVED AN A+

lighting farts

I spent three years at the Manlius Military Academy outside Syracuse, New York, between the ages of 13 and 15. I have kept a journal of those days and thought I'd share this chapter.

Lighting Farts
I don’t know how or when it started. I don’t remember who brought up the idea or why. But sometime, somebody said, "Hey, it’s gas, isn’t it?" We had never thought about it quite in those terms. But, yes, it was gas. And gas burns, doesn’t it? Well, then the discussion was who was going to be first to try it. And how? Zippo lighters were very popular in those days, so lighting would be easy. But how? We decided that it only made sense to bend over, put the lighter up against our asses light the lighter and fart. Just let ‘er rip.

That sounded simple enough. Until someone asked, would we blow up? We gave that some serious thought. I mean it was gas, we agreed. And gas is combustible. Gas blows up. Gas lights the grill. Gas cooks dinner. Will it cook our asses? Or worse yet, would it cook anything attached close to our asses? We thought about this some more. Internal combustion was taking on a whole new meaning. We tossed around these theories, speculations and fears some more until Jim decided enough talk. It was time for action.
"Ok, brave guy, blast off."
"Hell, I’m not afraid. It’s not like I’m a walking gas pump."
"So, light up, man. Take off."
"Ok, I will."
And with that, Jim took Zippo in hand, bent his knees and bent in half until his head was between his legs and his Zippo hand reached up between his legs to his ass. He scrunched up his face and tightened for a fart. Maybe it was the position, but nothing happened. He grunted again.
"Hey, Jim’s gonna shit in his pants."
Everybody laughed, including Jim and that was all it took. A little fart, and a small blue jet escaped from Jim’s ass into the flickering flame of his Zippo.
Everybody laughed and cheered. Jim straightened up, showing no signs of harm from his experiment and announced, "Who’s next?"
It wasn’t a question as much as it was a challenge. A challenge that had to be met by every boy in the room.

Mike said, "OK, my turn." He grabbed the Zippo proffered by Jim, assumed the position and let out a long, loud fart that produced a fine blue jet of flame. Another cheer and the Zippo was passed to the next boy. This time there was no challenge. It was now an unspoken pact. Everybody was going to light a fart. Around the room the Zippo went until it came to Mark. Mark said, "I bet you will get a better blast without the filters." Everybody looked at him not quite understanding what he was suggesting. He didn’t give anybody time to think about it. He dropped his pants, sat on the bed and brought his legs up, reached down and positioned the Zippo at his underpants and let loose with a fart that produced a fine blue flame.
The undressing went no further. Nobody in the room was willing to risk singeing vital parts.
But that day a select group was formed. The others lighted whenever an uninitiated farted in the presence of the Blue Flame Gang a Zippo with knowing grins that spoke louder than the guffaws.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Dad on his 80th

I wrote this to commemorate my father's 80th birthday.


DAD ON HIS 80th
By Henry David Rosso
You were born in 1917,
And Buffalo Bill Cody died,
But you had nothing to do with that.
And the United States entered WWI,
Again, not your fault,
You were being saved for the next one.

1917 was a time of turmoil
But by the time you were 16
Amelia Earhardt had flown the Atlantic
And when you were 21 Douglas "Wrong Way" Corrigan
Flew from New York to Dublin,
But he didn't mean to.

When you were born, Wilson was president
You would see Harding, Coolidge, Hoover,
Roosevelt, Roosevelt, Roosevelt and Roosevelt,
Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon,
Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush and Clinton.
Two died in office, one was killed and one resigned.

You were born into the first World War,
The war to end all wars. But it didn't.
You fought in the second and brought some of it home.
And you lived through Korea and Vietnam
And that little skirmish in Grenada,
And America's own Blitzkrieg in the Persian Gulf.

But you lived to see The Wall go up,
And come down,
And Reagan's Evil Empire dissolve.
Map makers have been kept busy these past 80 years,
And your high school and college geography books
Would be unrecognizable now.

But, I digress and must backtrack,
Because this isn't about the world around us,
But the world of Henry August Rosso,
Who in his quiet, determined way created his own world
In such a way that others wanted to be part of it,
And all who knew it benefitted because of it.

The 1930s were years of growth.
In that decade the Empire State Building was erected.
But you interviewed survivors of the Hindenburg fire,
And surprised Albert Einstein with an interview
The year you graduated from Princeton High School.
And you put out the "Local Express," expressly for locals.


You ended the 30s at 22 and in the National Guard.
The Forties put you in uniform,
And you started to see the world.
Along the way, you married, got yourself wounded,
Became a father three times, all boys,
And graduated from Syracuse University with honors.

The Fifties added a daughter to the mix,
And life in Syracuse that I remember as always
Being filled with people who always appeared
To be having a good time in your company.
It was a growing time for all of us,
And you filled the years with rich memories.

As you grew, we grew and shared part of your growth.
I remember the stops at the newspaper as you --
And once I -- dropped off releases;
The Red Feather campaign and the Christmas tree sales.
I even lent my voice on those cold Syracuse nights,
Like a carnival hustler urging folks to buy a tree.

The Fifties were good years,
And they were good because you let them be,
And you helped them be.
They are memories of the New York State Fair,
Of you going on trips and coming home with gifts,
Almost always a book for me, such as "Death Be Not Proud."

There were the family trips,
To the Adirondacks and the Catskills,
To the New York countryside to gather limestone rocks
For the Lancaster Avenue front yard,
The cookouts in Syracuse parks with neighbors.
We were always packing into the car to go somewhere.

You were musical and you passed it on.
None of us was forced to fit the stereotype,
But all of us grew up loving music.
My first taste of opera was listening to
The live Met broadcasts in a barber chair in Syracuse.
I was five.

Susan tried the violin and organ,
Michael the trumpet, French horn and voice,
Jim the classical guitar.
I took up drum and played everything in sight but drums.
I felt equally comfortable with Elvis and Puccini.
And it all came about because it was there.

At the end of the Fifties, you packed us all up
And opened our lives to California.
One of my fondest memories is breakfast at dawn
In the grandeur of the Redwoods.

No cookbook can ever duplicate the taste
Of bacon on an open fire and Redwoods and sun streaks.

The Sixties were years of turmoil for the country,
And they were years of turmoil and separation for us.
We were all coming of age and straining at the binds,
But not quite ready to cut them.
Love entered the picture for us, as well as
Our own wheels, our freedom and lust for more.

One by one we spread our wings
And made our mistakes.
I remember when I thought I could beat you in a fight,
While knowing that I would never raise a hand against you.
The country was changing
And we were changing with it or wondering why not.

You were changing too,
From employee to being your own boss,
Your own company, your own future,
Your own destiny.
You spread your own wings,
And you affected people wherever you went.

You are genuinely liked and admired.
Your smile is infectious,
Your ability to listen is honest,
The wonderful thing
About what you have done with your life,
Is that you were and are the catalyst.

You are quite a man.
I have benefitted by you.
I have learned from you.
I love you.
I admire you.
I respect you.

Friday, August 7, 2009

The Good Ol' Days

OK, back to poetry. I tried to have fun with this one.

The Good Ol' Days
By Henry David Rosso
Why do people always remember the "good old days?"
What is it about todays that makes yesterdays better?
And if the good old days were so good
That the todays don't measure up,
What about the tomorrows?
Are we missing something?
Did we miss something?
Are we about to miss something?
Does our desire for the yesterdays
Mean we have no desires left?
Are we faking it?
And if we are faking it, whom are we faking for?
Are today's thrills only recapturing yesterday's moments?
Can you thrill for tomorrow?
Or must you always be condemned
To thrill only for the moment,
Captured, released and gone?
You only make a good first impression once.
Once it's made, it is yesterday.
Tomorrow's impressions don't count.
They are borrowed.
You are condemned to remember the good old days
Do something good today
So tomorrow it will be a good old day.
Did we know yesterday that all those todays
Would tomorrow be the good old days?
If we knew, would we have tried harder?
And if we had tried harder,
Would we have tried for today or tomorrow?
What if we think today
What we would like to remember tomorrow,
What would happen to yesterday?
Do good old days pile up behind us
While we ignore todays
And tomorrows don't count?
Tomorrows are for calendars.
Todays are for adding to yesterdays
And yesterdays become good old days
So we can forget todays.
Have a good day.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

this is my story

Today, I leave the world of poetry and get personal. Very personal. I have been writing this for a few years, rewording it, putting it away and bringing it out again. Why do I tell it? Because it happened and to get it off my chest.

This is my story.
By Henry David Rosso


This June I reach the 66 milestone – Medicare and truly a senior with almost six decades of memories behind and still much to look forward to. While some memories fade into oblivion, others stick around to either warm us and make us smile or haunt us.

My parents did something to me almost 60 years ago that continues to haunt me. And while I savor most of the memories of my childhood, the years between ages 7 and 9 still have a chilling effect on me.

I started my life surrounded by my Italian relatives in Princeton, New Jersey, and wonderful memories – the garden beside the house that gave us fresh peas, lima beans, corn, tomatoes and a small orchard of cherries, peaches and apples.
The garden had spin-offs: Aunt Mary shelling the peas, the fresh fruit from the trees that went into the home-made ice cream that we produced by cranking an oaken bucket with the ingredients, ice and rock salt.

The house had a two-car garage and a dirt floor and a root cellar with a dirt floor that stored Aunt Mary’s labors — canned vegetables, potatoes from the garden and lots of secrets.
I grew up with seasons, and summer and winter were my favorites: summer with the green life that surrounded us, and the winters for the snowy wonderlands.

When I was growing up in Princeton, The House had neighbors on one side. But on the garden side there was nothing between the house and the lake down Princeton-Kingston Road but trees. In the summer, we could watch regattas on the lake from our roof. On other summer days, my cousins and I would grab baskets and buckets and go into the fields to pick blackberries, raspberries and blueberries and then try to sell them door-to-door – our profits reflected the fact the neighbors had the same access to the fields we did, a basic business lesson learned too late.

Wintertime was just as wonderful in other ways, mostly white and peaceful. I loved waking up, looking out the window and seeing fields of unmolested snow. The birdbath in the backyard would have a six-inch cap of snow, under which was a miniature ice rink. Ice sickles hung menacingly from the roof, some reaching to the ground, long, thick, hard and sharp. I loved to snap them off and lick them, getting my tongue stuck to the frozen pop sickle.

My family moved to Syracuse, New York, when I was barely out of diapers, but we made almost annual visits to Princeton where I also spent many summers.

The most vivid memories during this time are of the cousins all gathered on the large stairway to the second floor. We were seated on the steps, while aunts and uncles would put up a screen or a sheet on the front door and set up the projector and show black and white silent movies of “T’was The Night Before Christmas,” and Felix the Cat and others. Then we would go to bed. When we went upstairs, our Christmas tree was a plain green tree standing in a stand. When we woke up in the morning, it was brilliantly decorated and loaded with presents.

Then things changed. My special life was disrupted.

Even now, 57 years later, the memory is so vivid I can still feel the apprehension I felt as I walked down the strange dark hallway lighted by bare light bulbs. I was 7 years old when my father drove me there in the night. When we arrived, my father held my hand. It was the last time I was ever to hold his hand except for a cursory handshake decades later.

We came to a room and were greeted by a woman dressed in white. My father and the woman talked. I don't know what they said, but I knew something was not right. I knew I didn't want to be where I was. I don't remember if my father hugged me. Maybe now -- or then -- it doesn't matter. I remember I cried. I felt a loss and then my father was gone and I was alone with the woman in white.

I was taken to a large room and directed to a metal-frame bed. It was along a wall and in a row of other beds, all occupied by other boys. I got in the strange bed, pulled the covers up over my head and wondered over and over: Where am I? Why am I here? Who are these people? There were no answers then.

When I left that place, I was nine. Those were years when a boy wants someone to look up to, to be hugged and loved, to be tucked in at night, to have someone to answer all those questions young minds have.

I had concrete floors and bars and confusion and anxiety and a curiosity that was answered with the most unimaginable measures. I was not an individual. I suddenly became part of a pack, a group. I did not know and never got to know any of the other boys in that dormitory.

Men dressed in white woke us up in the morning and directed us to showers and then to a dining hall for meals and then to classes. I saw these same men in white pick up children and throw them against radiators.

There was an outside world, which we usually saw through barred windows or from an inside play area from which we could look through the bars. I felt like an animal in a zoo. I saw people in straitjackets, adults spitting at us and yelling unintelligible sounds and pissing on the walls.

Alone, without parents and in strange surroundings, there was not much awareness. Learning was a daily experience and such experience was a fresh imprint on a ready brain. There was so much discovery.

And that was the setting one day as I sat in a classroom next to a girl. Until that day, a girl was just another person, another body whose hair was longer.
But this day there was to be a discovery and, as with most great discoveries, it was to be announced with pure innocence.
I looked down at this body next to me who had longer hair and was wearing a dress and to my amazement I could see her underpants. They were quite loose, loose enough, in fact, to allow this 7-year-old boy to make my great discovery.
"Look, she's not the same!" I shouted to no one in particular, but heard by everyone in the classroom, including the habit-frocked nuns who descended upon me immediately, their large crosses dangling from chains around their midriffs flailing the air and striking me in the head.
My exclamation created quite a stir among the students, who chattered excitedly and giggled at my misstep.
But the nuns, those bastions of Christian love and understanding and forgiveness, were not amused, were not forgiving, were not tolerant. They picked me up out of my seat and half dragged, half carried me out of the room to the delight of many of the students and shock of others.
Two nuns led me down the long, bureaucratically green hall to another room, where they stripped me down to my underpants. Then they grabbed a handful of clothes and I felt myself being dressed again. All this time, I had no idea what was happening to me until all the commotion had ceased, all the dust had settled. There was only one more bustle of activity before I was to be subjected to the cruellest lessons in my limited education.
The nuns grabbed my by my tiny shoulders. They had to bend at their black-draped waists to reach me. They turned me so I was facing a full-length mirror.
In the dim light from a bare overhead light bulb, I looked into the mirror. There, before my eyes, I stood flanked by the floor-length, ever-present black habits. The blackness of the clothing only emphasized my dilemma. What I saw shocked, scared, confused and dreadfully embarrassed me.
I saw myself. I was bareheaded. My neck and part of my chest was bare. My arms were bare from fingertips to shoulders. My legs poked out, white and skinny from just above the knees to my bare feet. The rest of me was covered in a girl's dress. And, yes, if I sat just right, other people would be able to look up my dress and at my underpants and if those underpants were loose, others would be able to see that I was different from girls. But now I was also different from boys. I was wearing a dress.
My immediate embarrassment was just a teaser. Those good Christian nuns, their crosses hanging from all those well-fingered beads at their waists, had only begun. My turmoil was to reach its climax not within the confines of that room in front of the other nuns.
I was now to endure the ultimate humiliation for having the audacity of making a youthful, innocent discovery. The nuns marched me out of the room, back to my classroom.
Every head turned as I entered the room. I kept my eyes on the floor. I felt the heat rise through my body and almost melt my face. My eyes met nobody. I was guided to my seat in the front of the class, across from the girl who had unintentionally showed me that boys and girls were different. I took my seat. I brought my hands up to my face and tried to hide. That is how I remained until the class was over.
There was no hiding. I was forced to endure an entire day of face-flaming humiliation. I moved from class to class up and down the sickly green hallway that kept making me sicker to look at. I had to stand in lines that moved inexorably slowly through the dining hall and then I had to sit at the long table to eat my meal with the other boys. But the boys were wearing what boys usually wear. I wore a dress.
My day of shame finally and mercifully ended at night when I was allowed to take the dress off and go to bed. With the dress off, safely surrounded by the sheets and the blankets, I was a boy again. I had what girls didn't have and I was no longer wearing what girls wear. At the age of seven, by myself, surrounded by people I didn't know, my parents nowhere in sight, abandoned, I had learned what many learn easily. It was to be a traumatic experience that was to remain with me for the rest of my life.

I remember times that I was allowed to go outside into a courtyard.

One day I walked from the confines of the courtyard to an adjacent field. I enjoyed the freedom without knowing it was freedom. It all seemed so natural to walk from the concrete through the grass to the knee-high weeds into the sunshine and a blue sky above. I and another boy spent what seemed like hours walking in the high grass, examining the flowers and the bugs and breathing the air in the sunshine.

And then, late in the day, the nuns came to take me away from my new, fantastic outdoor world. They let me know I had to be punished. I wasn’t sure what for.

They took me back inside, down the long green hallway past the dormitory where the boys slept and into a small room with a bed and a window that looked out on the fields I had just enjoyed.

I was told to take off all my clothes and get on the bed and they left me alone.

A short time passed and two men dressed in white returned carrying a large bucket, which they put on the floor next to the bed. One of them reached in and pulled out a sheet dripping water. He rung it out and laid it out on the bed next to where I lay, along the length of my body. He then began to wrap the cold, wet sheet tightly around my body. My arms were placed along my side and the sheet held them in place. Another sheet was used until I was wrapped tightly with cold wet sheets from my neck to my feet. The attendants then left the room, shutting the door behind them.

This was punishment. I fought off a slowly progressing panic. Fingers, toes and head were all that I could move. I did not know how long I had been there, but the light level in the room had diminished significantly by the time I was unwrapped and allowed to return to the dormitory. The memory of that incident has stayed with me all my life and I have retained the panic I felt being confined and helpless.

My parents never visited me during those two years. I had a couple of visits from aunts and uncles who picked me up and took me someplace to eat. I don’t remember where or what I ate. I know that I talked non-stop from the moment they picked me up and all during our visit. And I remember that I said nothing during the trip back; I just looked out the car window. I was afraid and confused and didn’t know why I had to go back.

About two years after the trauma of the nuns' version of sex education, I was once again united with my family. My father picked me up and returned me to my waiting family. It was a strange reunion. There was an awkward embrace between me and my mother and a distance between my brothers, now 5 and 3, and me. Now there was also a baby sister of 1 year. It is doubtful she experienced anything one way or the other over this reunion.

It was very much like the entry of the new boy on the block rather than the return of a brother after a long absence.

I, who had spent a traumatic two years not knowing where I was or who I was or why I was where I was or even who my family was, was suddenly back with my family, those who had delivered me to the jaws of the nuns. Should I now just feel safe with these people? How could I?
I was now 9, but there was no knowing if, under the circumstances, I had actually grown to nine. It was almost as if I had stood still in time. After all, what was there to mark the time? What is there besides the calendar? The physical age advanced, as it must. But the emotional age can die while alive, like a record playing with the sound off. When it is over the record is finished, the arm retracts but nothing was gained with the sound off. The needle picked up dust. The record grooves were carved a bit deeper. But everything that went into the record was lost. It was the tree falling in the forest without anybody to hear the sound. It was death in life.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

The March of Time

This one really needs to be heard, but since I have not figured out how to put audio on this blog, you will have to read it. C'mon, you have to read to the end.


The March of Time
By Henry David Rosso

Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

The clock begins
With the first gasp of air
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

We breach, we breath
We cry, we sleep
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

We grow, we learn
We search, we yearn
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

We run, we play
We win, we lose
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

We meet, we greet
We love, we hate
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

We feel, we probe
We kiss, we love
Tick tock, tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

We wed, we leave
We hide, we regret
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

We cry, we mourn
We forget, we flail
Tick tock tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

Time passes, parts fail
Lines blur, friends drift
Tick tock Tick tock
Tick tock tick tock

The mind wants more
The heart says no
Tick tock tick tock
Tic

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Ode To The FCC

Whenever I consider offering my collection of poems for publication I wonder who my audience would be. I immediately know that some wold not be for all, such as today's offering. I wrote this poem a couple of years ago to be read at the Dell'Arte adult Cabaret. I have always loved words and the play of words and have been a lifelong fan of George Carlin. This poem attempts to delve into the hypocrisy of censorship.

Ode to the FCC
By Henry David Rosso
Dedicated to George Stop This Shit Bush
And Dick Go Fuck Yourself Cheney
Who was it who said, words are a plaything for me?
A news anchor was fired for using niggardly.
If the leader of China has a weakness, is it a chink in his armor?
Can we have a gay time without having a gay time?
Queer used to be counterfeit money.
A female colleague said she would give us a bust in the mouth
We laughed, said OK
She changed it to a crack in the teeth.
We laughed again.
Can the guy named BJ smoke a cigar?
Can we really stroke our fellow employees?
Do we need to find another term for sperm whale?
Do we need to be careful when referring to someone as a thespian?
What about someone who is bilingual?
Do we need to explain when we say the soprano was flat?
Must we be careful when talking about getting off,
Getting lucky, getting some, going down?
Will we ever again be able to refer to barnyard animals as ass or cock?
My ass is in the barn with my cock
My dog is a bitch
And do you enjoy playing with your pussy?
Do we puncture a finger, rather than prick it?
(Sorry, George Carlin)
Must we arrive instead of come?
Do we number things 66, 67, 68, 70?
Must erections become structures?
Can we say someone is a cunning linguist?
I guess nobody refers to a cigarette as a fag anymore.
Do we need to find another word for rubbers?
"Galoshes" is really bad.
What about Virgin Air, Greek islands, Broadway?
Will we have to make a clean breast of the use of the word breast?
Breast stroke, breastwork, breast piece
(breast: to face or meet firmly)
The oral majority spawned Oral is Moral
If we can say in public BM, bowel movement, caca, doo doo and No. 2,
Why can’t we say shit?
It all comes from the same place.
We can say, it’s really gonna hit the fan.
Can farmers hire hoers for their fields?
So, can’t say shit
Can’t say piss
Can’t say fuck
Can’t say prick
Pull your honey to you
Look into her eyes
And whisper:
First, I have to doo doo and wee wee
Then I’ll put my member in your flappy lips

Monday, August 3, 2009

iraqnam

I wrote this a few years ago and actually stood on a stage and read it to a cabaret audience. It is a poem that may be unique in that unfortunately the bottom lines continue to need to be updated.

Iraqnam
By Henry David Rosso

Lies
Robert McNamara rattled sabers in ‘64
We were attacked in Gulf of Tonkin, he told Congress
Clueless Congress bites and passes resolution
Only two senators stand tall
But can’t stop Vietnam War
Lies
Colin Powell’s Gulf of Tonkin in ‘03
Shows UN pretty pictures and tubes of white stuff
It was a vial performance
Proves Saddam is evil
End of the world is at hand
Clueless Congress supports clueless president
Some say they didn’t
Too late to take it back
Ike, JFK, LBJ, Tricky Dicky
Bush, Clinton, Bush
Sent us to wars we didn’t need
Hell no, we won’t go!
But the Vietnam War was on
Millions marched before the Iraq War
Hell no, we didn’t want to go
But Bush wanted to go, so we went,
Heh heh
It was his post-strike pre-strike
We burned the villages/bombed the towns
In the name of democracy.
Napalmed the future of democracy
Shocked and awed future Christians
We have to do this
It’s for your own good
We stayed in Vietnam/staying in Iraq
Until their militaries could do the job themselves
Rubbing shoulders with natives/enemies
Walking as hero/enemy
You don’t know if they will blow you up
They don’t know if you will blow them up
Ao dais and burkas
In the streets of Saigon/Baghdad
We gave orphans candy after killing their parents
We’re all good guys/bad guys
They are all friends/terrorists
Greeting us with open arms did not come easy

We left behind Bui-Doi in Vietnam
The Amerasian children, our spoils of war.
Haven’t heard of AmerIraqis
No American-fathered left behind
Unknown, unwanted, outcasts
Maybe nobody gave a fuck
We paid for their services
GIs boom-boom in back streets
Not knowing what we would bring back
Not caring what we left behind
Mama san washed our laundry
While her daughter took our loads
Military lied about body counts in Vietnam
Not good for morale
We were winning the war
No pictures of flag-draped coffins from Iraq
Not good for morale
The mission is being accomplished
Lt. Calley gave us My Lai
Killed all those old men, women and children
In the name of democracy
Pfc. Lynndie England helped give us Abu Ghraib
Atrocities in the name of saving us from atrocities
Setting the example the American way
We saved the world from Uncle Ho
Stopped the dominoes from falling
Funny. They never fell after we left
We pull Saddam out of the rat hole
Forgot about Osama
He was traded for Al Qaida’s al-Zarqawi
Should I become president ... I will not risk American lives ... by permitting any other nation to drag us into the wrong war at the wrong place at the wrong time. John Kennedy, 1960.
We still seek no wider war. Lyndon Johnson, 1964.
We seem bent upon saving the Vietnamese from Ho Chi Minh, even if we have to kill them and demolish their country to do it. George McGovern, 1967.
It became necessary to destroy the town to save it. U.S. Army major in Vietnam, 1968.
It’s a slam-dunk case. CIA Director George Tenet, 2002

My answer is to bring ‘em on. George Bush, 2003

My belief is we will, in fact, be greeted as liberators. Dick Cheney, 2003

Major combat operations in Iraq have ended. In the battle of Iraq, the United States and our allies have prevailed. President George Bush, 2003
We found the weapons of mass destruction. George Bush, 2003

I think they're in the last throes, if you will, of the insurgency. Dick Cheney, 2005

June 2009 – to date
Tens of thousands of Iraqis killed.
June 2009 – to date
4,321 Americans killed.
And now, we bring you Afghanistan.
June 2009 – to date – 735 Americans killed

Sunday, August 2, 2009

linda ellerbee

I have always admired Linda Ellerbee, who will be 65 years old Aug. 15. I wrote this 21 years ago in advance of her 45th birthday.


An open letter to Linda Ellerbee
By Henry David Rosso


In the worst of times-best of times department,
1944 was not one of our better years.
It was the year of the monkey.
Maybe that says something. Maybe it doesn't.

It was a year when Facts on File noted the birth of quadruplets
To Abon Jaramillo, August 9, in Bogotá, Colombia.
It was noted not just to report the birth of quadruplets,
But to point out that Jaramillo, at 75, was already the father of 43 children.
We can point out now that Facts on File made no mention of the mother
Or mothers.

But things were like that the year you were born.
The New York Times had many job listings for "males" and "girls."
A "small-sized" girl could earn $35 for five days as a model.
Another ad looked for girls to model brassieres,
Size 34, average. Contact Peter Pan.
Another wanted girls, "white-colored, $26 start. 5 days."

Thank god for vegetable compound. At least if you believed newspaper ads
Women back then should have thanked god for vegetable compound.
"Women in your 40s," read one ad, "is your age betrayed by hot flashes?"
Vegetable compound would take care of the problem.
Another: "Do you suffer distress from monthly female weakness
With its nervous, tired feelings?"

While the vegetable compound was working its miracles,
Women and the rest of the population could turn to the comic pages
For comic relief from the hot war flashes
With Donald Duck, Superman, Joe Palooka,
Winnie Winkle, Dixie Dugan, Mickey Finn,
Terry and the Pirates, Mary Worth's family and Mr. and Mrs.

Perhaps the "girls" enjoyed curling up next to the radio
To listen to "Gossip for Girls,"
"War Journal," "The Breakfast Club,"
And "Salvation Army."
There also was "Texas Rangers," and "Lum 'n' Abner"
And a familiar name today -- "Martin Agronsky."

In 1944, The Washington Post sold for a nickel
The Saturday Evening Post cost a dime,
The same as a can
Of Red Heart dog food.
A copy of Somerset Maughan's "The Razor's Edge"
Sold for $2.75.

A headline on August 15, 1944:
"Joseph P. Kennedy killed in action."
The torch was passed on.
Inside the Post were Drew Pearson,
Marquis Childs
And Walter Lippmann.

It must have been hard
For the girls working as models for $35 a week
To save their wages.
Or the men to woo them.
The cost of living
Went up 30 percent in 1944.

A young man with his eye
On one of those girls could spend
$16.50 for an all-wool sports coat, $18.95 for alligator shoes,
$1.75 for dinner at New York’s Olney Inn,
$1.50 for a moonlight cruise up the Hudson River,
$2.58 for a pint of Four Roses whiskey.

If he was really serious,
He could spend $6 for a double room
In New York’s Hotel Chesterfield
With bath and radio
$36 would have bought an 18-carat gold wedding band.
Or, he could have blown 11 cents on a pint of ice cream.

For less ambitious entertainment,
The theaters offered Olivier in "Henry V"
And Hitchcock’s "Lifeboat."
At the annual Oscar orgy, "Going My Way" went away
With best picture.
Leo McCrary was best director.

Bing Crosby won best actor,
Barry Fitzgerald was honored with best supporting actor.
Ingrid Bergman shone as best actress
In "Gaslight"
Ethel Barrymore won best supporting actress
For "None But The Lonely Heart."

For a quiet evening at home
Under the reading light there was
Stephen Vincent Benet's "Western Star,"
John Hersey's "A Bell for Adano,"
Ernie Pyle’s "Brave Men,"
Tennessee Williams' "The Glass Menagerie."

Martha Graham danced to Aaron Copland’s
“Appalachian Spring" in Washington, D.C.
Leonard Bernstein gave us "On The Town,"
While in Moscow, Prokoviev presented
His "War and Peace"
At a time of more war than peace.

Americans danced to
"Don't Fence Me In,"
"Rum and Coca-Cola,"
"Swinging On A Star,"
"Sentimental Journey" and
"Accentuate The Positive."

In sports, Pensive won the Preakness and the Kentucky Derby,
Bounding Home bounded home first in the Belmont.
St. Louis had a double-header in the World Series
With the American League St.Louis
Beating the National League St. Louis.
Southern Cal trounced Washington in the Rose Bowl, 29-0.

In an event of dubious distinction,
Then as now,
A young lady named Venus Ramey
Of Washington, D.C.,
Was crowned
Miss America.

We know now that 1944 was a good year for births.
Making their initial appearances were
Jill Clayburgh, Joe Cocker and a guy named Michael Philip,
Aka Mick Jagger.
Gladys Knight was born without the Pips and
David Letterman made his debut keeping someone awake all night.

There also was Rita Coolidge,
Marvin Hamlish and Joey Heatherton.
Michael Anthony Orlando Cassavitis was born in 1944.
His parents must have been proud of his name,
But he changed it to
Tony Orlando.

And Bernadette Peters made her first entrance
Center stage.
You have still more great company:
Jacqueline Bisset, Lauren Hutton,
Diana Ross, Sly Stone, Johnny Winter
And Michael Tilson Thomas.

Tom Okker was little known when he was born
And after years on the international tennis circuit,
Still endures relative anonymity.
But, Tom Seaver, Rusty Staub
And Joe Frazier who entered the world in 1944
Fared better in the sports world.

Journalist William Allen White
Died in 1944.
Journalist Linda Ellerbee
Was born in 1944.
I’m glad you were, and are.
Happy birthday and many more to come.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Day Off

Day Off

By Henry David Rosso

Stayed in bed and listened to the rain

Wrote a friend

Told the dogs to get the hell off the couch

Had breakfast

Told the dogs to get the hell off the couch

Talked with a friend

Told the dogs to get the hell off the couch

Looked up airline schedules

Told the dogs to get the hell off the couch

E-mailed a friend

Organized material for work

Bought bird food

Cleaned bird feeder

Filled bird feeder after spilling most of it because I put the damn thing together wrong again

Dogs too busy watching me do the bird thing to get on the couch

Filled suet cage

Said nice things to the dogs because they weren’t on the couch

Paid bills

Got depressed

Told the dogs to get the hell off the couch