It Was a Good Year

It was a good year —

just a few broken dreams,

no broken bones,

no famine,

no nuclear war.

It was a good year!

My new friends are fun,

my old friends are alive.

I’m a year older

but 365 ways wiser.

I've replaced a few broken dreams

with a dozen new and whole.

I can do it because

I have no broken bones,

I am not starving,

nuclear war didn’t destroy me.

I can dream big again!

It was a good year —

just a few broken dreams,

no broken bones,

no famine,

no nuclear war.

It was a good year!

© Helen Kanevsky, 2018

New Year train on the Circle line of Moscow Metro
Photo by government of Moscow
from Wikimedia Commons

Christmas Eve on a New York Subway

It was long ago, living in New York,

thrift store shopping on the Upper East Side

on a snowy Christmas Eve.

My best friend and me,

my first year back from Hawaii,

traipsing from store to store,

plundering the exquisite cast-aways

of the rich and famous,

laughing as we paid Wal-Mart prices

for Bloomingdale’s goods.

Walking the streets of Madison Avenue

we were the poor relatives from Brooklyn,

living in a broken-down building on the edge of Bed-Stuy,

paying $80 for rent,

setting roach traps every night before bed,

living on mac and cheese and tuna casserole.

The subway, our magic carpet ride,

transported us Uptown, to indulge our pleasure of “thrifting,”

our friendship deepened by the love of the hunt,

the clicking of the hangers as we pushed through

dresses, sweaters, pants, shirts, trying on shoes 

and hats and scarves, so joyful to find a bargain

that matched our desire for that very thing,

and smug, thinking we looked like a million bucks.

We walked miles in that pure snow,

on those safe streets,

welcoming shops full of abundance

and the good cheer of Christmas in the City,

softened, everything softened

by snow, Christmas lights, happy people.

It was night as we neared the subway

to go home.  Gathering our bags

around us, we sat down on the long bench

that ran the length of the train car.

We lurched toward the next stop.

The doors opened and a drunk man got on.

He looked around, and seeing the bench empty,

staggered forward, sat down beside me,

put his head in my lap,

and fell asleep. 

© Evie Safran, 2018

Snow in New York, by Robert Henri
in the collection of the National Gallery of Art
from Wikimedia Commons

Palooka

The ex-wife always hated my fights, said that boxing’s a barbaric sport.

And since my only talent was channeling rage, I never had any retort.

While it’s true that my peers had considerable skills, athletes with timing and grace,

Ruled by fierce dedication to their craft, honing technique, precision, and pace,

As opposed to a brawler who just longed for a chance to punch someone else in the face,

Perhaps that’s why I’d spent so much time sprawled out on the mat.

The people would jeer and they’d call me a bum; a mountain of lumbering mass.

I’d fling wild blows at my pugilist foe and he’d promptly knock me on my ass.

It’s hard to say if more practice and grit would have made a difference in the ring.

Every time I passed through those parallel ropes, my mind fixated on one thing—

An image of pop with that damn leather belt.  I swear I could still feel the sting.

Once I was old enough to hit back, he switched to a bat.

A career based on trying to punch my way through time was not favorable to success,

And to treat weekly trauma to body and mind, I began drinking to great excess.

Those last couple bouts I was swatting at air; a display that had grown tired and sad.

Greeting jabs and left hooks with a frenzy of howls, I clutched onto the corner pad.

Then a straight right hit me square in the jaw, thrown by a man with the face of my dad.

With a slow count and loud bell, the farce had come to an end.

Lucky for me there is always a place for the spiteful to bloody their fists.

At mixed martial arts fights on amateur night, I’ve been working my way up the lists.

No exhibitions of fluidic form, here brutality is what earns respect.

Every man who steps onto to that octagonal floor has some wrong they’re trying to correct.

Nothing to gain but a merciless clash with a thug like my dad, I suspect.

And if that’s not exactly true, I can always pretend.

© Ben Siegan, 2018

Roman Hardok knocks out Jakob Jakobi in round 2
Photo by Henning Snater
from Wikimedia Commons

Trombone

Slip and slide, that's how he plays it;

wrist and ride, he really slays it.

Ride and guide that shiny brass trombone.

Lazy notes, like sunset clouds 

drifting high above the crowd, 

a shroud of blues

fills the room 

with sweet sadness,

and they like it that way. 

Play on, shiny brass trombone.

© George Phillips, 2018

Sonny Rollins at the Stockholm Jazz Fest
Photo by Bent Nyman
from Wikimedia Commons