Tag Archive: personal

My Parents Goodbye’s



It was a surprise attack

No, it was a sneak attack

Damn those heart attacks

I never said goodbye


I was a teenager

Father was a salesman

His last day he worried about the numbers

The next day he was and worried no more

I never said goodbye


I remember him in bits and pieces

Like a box of popcorn

The only memories are the bits and pieces left on your shirt

I never said goodbye



Her way to exit

Was no surprise attack


Cancer, like a cat, plays with you

The game had several rounds

Lasted years


We said goodbye

In that final hour I stroked her leg

I felt like a seven year old

Holding on to her dress

Don’t lose me Mom

We said goodbye


Father and Mother

Mother’s long goodbye

Father’s quick exit

I realize now

Life is one long goodbye

Final words

Are in the living





At times

Most times

I long

To be alone

At times

Most times

I’m insulted

By a knock on the door

At times

Some times

I enjoy

The company of friends

But understand this

All times

Every day

I crave my solitude

The clock and I

Have a relationship

We do not like to share

Time is a very jealous friend

Being alone is time absorbed

Absorbed alone with my universe

It’s how I share this galaxy

So say it again

And again

At times

Most times

I long

To be alone

To be alone

Is the sum

Of me

Of me

Missing you



What young man doesn’t like to roam the desert

Hot and sultry

So many hills and curves to hide in

Territory constantly being searched.

The search for the oasis

is exhausting

But it hardens most men

Shrubs hide the well

The well of pleasure and life

Old men also roam the desert

The hills and curves are oh so familiar

It offers comfort

A place of rest

A place of restoration

The softness of the well

Compliments his own softness

The well of pleasure and life



My grandmother died of pneumonia.

In nineteen fifty three

I was seven

I hardly remember her.

So long ago


I still feel her love.

Victor Jara

Untittled by Lilly Fenichel

Victor Jara

Positioned in front of an abstract.

An empty museum full of artists.

The treasure  before me has a story.

The abstract lines ask me,

ask me, for interpretation.

Soiled yellow covers the canvas.

Lines and spatters of black.

Gobs of paint still sit where the artist placed them.

Rifts of red like flashing lights of lunacy.

Disturbing wretchedness gallops at me.


The young man who created this is gone.

Now I stand where he stood.

I am in the place where he held a brush and made a touch.

In a past decade, these oils developed a declaration.

Abstract forms are revealing a struggle.

I sense tears dripping on the painters palette.

Fear jerks my hand, I want to escape.


The decade of the 60’s was not all love and not all free.

That decade gave us 10 years of

– war, a senseless one.

10 years of

– American leaders gunned  down.

10 years of

– so many deaths of our own black kin.

10 years of

– cities burning with bomb shelters to hide from our own man made sins.


How can abstract lines relay thought, struggle and pain?

I am aware of the artist’s arousing aversion.

It was just those emotions that guided his brush.

The yellow of war

The black of death and despair

The red, a call for all to react.


The canvas now shows a torso – mutilated by minds of madness.

Reminding us of  Victor Jara

Singing his song with shattered hands and splintered ribs.

Murdered by his own government, let me add, all supported by the CIA.

His death now in full display through other onus hands holding a brush

This colorful canvas coaxes us to continue.


Broken guitar strings make an appearance.

Twisted and curled incapable of producing sound.

Phil Ochs, like other troubadours, also silenced, his songs no longer sought to be sung.

Prophets of the present world show deeds that are a nations weeds.


Yes this display is a declaration of danger,

in company with other conceptions of art.

If you stand up for your conscience then beware.

Entire governments may be mobilized.

Your body and mind broken beyond repair


I touch the painting trembling as I sense the past

The rough rope reeks around my neck – this is how the artist left his spot in life.

My feet sense the floor but that painting has no door.

I understand why his tears wet my soul.

He was trapped in his term of truth.

Artists today exude similar emotions.

Emotions we all live with in our moment in time. 1

O U & Phil

Ohio University 

I attended OU for one year.

That was an excellent education money did not buy.

Yet I failed to thank someone for it,

That is,

“outside of a small circle of friends”.

Thank you Phil Ochs.



So often melancholy visits.

Like a dear friend unannounced,

we talk, yearning of the past.

Please leave now I must ask,

“Why” she says, “there’s more”.

It can not be.

Do you see,

There is




There will be a time when all will end

That’s far away, how bout your friend?

Care for him do what you can

Aids is his companion

Now is the instance

what will you do

Will you touch?

Do you


My parents, Pieter and Ada Pastoor 1939

The Choice of a Nazi


My parents were Dutch,

now that by itself, doesn’t mean much.

They lived in Holland miles from the strand.

During the war, like many, they took a stand.


My parents hid Jews in that little house,

Jews that ate and were quiet as a mouse.

Nazis searching for Jews under all sorts of covers,

even hunted for those Jew lovers.


Can you imaging the fright by all,

as the Nazis marched by so tall.

Complete power and authority,

to put you out of misery


The Nazis knocked on their door one day,

took my father in a brutal way.

Mother and grandmother cried at the door,

one soldier said “go back to your whores”.


That one Nazi gave me a life.

Without his deed I would not have this strife.

This happened a year before I was born,

so now you understand why I’m so torn.


Is this this devil’s one kind deed,

or simply another horrible weed.

I ponder this young man’s thinking,

does he look from above winking.


Oh, that young soldier was not an idol,

my guess is he became suicidal.

The real heroes of that hour,

those two women who changed the act of power.


I’m not sure what they cried or did yell,

but whatever, it rung like a bell.

Maybe it was said with their eyes,

yes, it made one soldier see the lies.



Lipstick was the taste in my mouth.

Tasting it before I woke, sweet with thought,

then got up with my friend,  headache.

She was gone.

Truth is she was gone before I met her.

Aches will return, she will not.

Years ago our lives circled the same sun

Her body, is the only object circling in my head

We dreamed, we loved, we fought, we made up, we made love.

Two dream moons circling the future.

Our orbits shifted over the years

Now I’m empty as the bottles in my room.

A chance encounter last night

Through music loud like a sonic boom

Her sight pulled me, as black holes do

No need to tell

No job

No goal

Just revolving around a sun

Last night she understood, she knew.

I reminded her of my potential left undone.

She reminded me of everything I did not become.

Our orbits now are wider.

Our only future, a possible eclipse

Our night.

Our encounter.

Our orbital collision.

Shook me like no other bang.