Make every day a beautiful day.
Eye on Life Magazine is a Lifestyle and Literary Magazine. Enjoy articles on gardening, kitchen cooking, poetry, vintage decor, and more.
Old lady on a park bench
hunkered down
babushka and shawl
snow and wind
dancing everywhere
as she waves her cane
and says young man
you and I are in
the same checkout lane
our carts are heaped
with many good things
we can't take with us
I'm ahead of you
and can see a sign
on the register
that says "no cash,
no credit accepted
but everyone pays.
Have a nice day."
i stand to the side, or
toward the back
and make small sounds
at hopefully appropriate times
though i am loud
i am soft
blending, joining
strengthening
i want to make
my own sounds
have my own
voice
but the lesson is
that greater beauty
is in more so the combined
less so the solo
when the solo comes
i will stand beside
or behind
the listener
there will always
be someone
to whom
i can give
-- Tom Rubenoff
There was a day once
when I started to see it
dissect in slow motion:
that fraction of wind that
intertwines with allium
and hyacinth;
the fibers of spider silk
detaching from the upper
reach of the garden arbor
in the gaps between the
morning hours;
the inconstant yellow
of birch leaves suspended
in a certain angle of
October light.
I quarantine particles of
time. I pass microseconds
through a slurry of unhurried
moments, like the hazel that
bursts from your eyes across
the florescence of the hall,
the vapors of sadness
that rise in the space
between.
I couldn’t say anything
coherent to you.
At any time the right
words would
wander into a hive
on the verge of
colony collapse.
They’d ride to the city
on the 8:10 express,
stray with the embers
up the flue
on a dark search for
the month’s new moon.
I’d piece you a phrase
from leftover phonemes.
I’d echo an answer,
the uncut response
biding time until the
morning shower or
autumn equinox.
I stumble across a
list of phobias in a
book you left behind.
There’s a word for
fear of words,
of long terms and
small things.
Fear of stillness comes
closest, but I find no
name for the letdown
of tongue-tied quiet or
the dread of anticipation
threaded through
dangling participles
and vacant
tripping speech.
A kestrel hovers in sunlight
It calls to those
who can see it
I walk through the morning door
I return through the evening door
I walk through this morning’s door
and this evening I will not return.
days of rain
glide under the footbridge
an older me
whom failures relinquish
rain-fed acolyte
a follower of rivers
Constant celebrants of
a boundless Mardi Gras
Thrumming our melodies
within echoes of footfalls
from each and all of us
Well, imagine that!
Thrumming our melodies
within echoes of footfalls
from each and all of us!
Dead umbrellas’ dance of ribs
Exposed beneath torn colorful skin
Or collapsed in casual asymmetry
Of repose newly askew
Face down the rag dispensers
Weekly monthly black and white trash
Thrown down by wind and hosed down by sky
Wreckage of enterprise
Avian fly-by song greeting
Weather breaking new day
Washed of the homeless
Redraws its natives with sun
Memory of the storm recedes
With the flooded stream
Reflections winking blue sky
With the puddle’s open eye
Drying, litter unglues itself
In the breeze tumbling
Across the river of my life
I walk like rain
My footsteps like raindrops
Shattering on the surface
The gale of the real breaks
The ribs that frame
The fragile canopy of my hope
Falling from my hand
It lies broken
Unencumbered I walk free
-- Tom Rubenoff
I'd never steal a poem
or any of its shining facets
but I'd take the mood
a poem is born in
if the poem is smiling.
A lot of poems smile
but lately mine
can only scowl.
So when I read
a poem written
in the daylight by
a soul who's
painting clouds
against a brilliant sky
as if the clouds
were butterflies
too lovely to let go
and fly away,
that's the mood
I want with me
every midnight
in the basement
when I feed the ghosts
I can't allow upstairs.
On their 50th anniversary
Sammy gave Dolly a necklace
and told his darling wife that
if they lived long enough
one of them would wake
to find the other one had died.
"That's life," said Sammy.
And so it came to pass
Dolly rose one day
and found old Sammy
on the bathroom floor,
face blue, body cold,
arms outstretched,
an old man crucified.
This wasn't the first time
in 50 years Sammy had
ruined Dolly's day but now
free of fear, Dolly spoke:
"I never thought you'd die.
I'll have your ashes in an urn
and under dirt by end of day."
It's a fire hazard, really,
my wife keeps telling me,
the cauldron that I keep
bubbling in the basement
with its steaming stew of
nouns and verbs but no
adjectives or adverbs
because they'd destroy
the flavor, I remind her.
Whenever I go down
the basement I stoke
the embers roaring
underneath the cauldron
then strain the stew
until I find a noun
or verb tastier
than those I have
simmering upstairs.
Birdsong gathers into flocks
Perches on power lines
Speaks in hushed bird tones
Or group-swoops the air
A choreographed bird of birds
In synchronized aerobatics
That fold and unfold
Like a checkered flag
Sometimes a smaller group breaks away
A little revolution
Flying off at an angle
To destinations unknown
The bird-bird disassembles itself
And lands in fifty branches of a tree
There maybe they anticipate or discuss
Departure times or review routes and possible
Hazards they may Encounter as they journey
South to escape
The snow
Then the hush will fall
Birdsong will consist of only
The blare of the blue jay
Cawing of crows
And the subdued music of chickadees
Winter crows roost
In a narrow strip of trees
Hundreds of them
Each day before dawn
Singing their crow song
In waves from end to end
Of the flock
And no one sleeps
For blocks around
In the spring the birds return singly
Males do battle for nesting sites
The music of their desire
Loud in all the suitable trees
Females choose the most appealing
Male song
And so the pair is made
Softer music greets each summer morning
And changes in the evening
With sweet reluctance releasing
Each warm, sweet day
A song for the coming storm
A different song for rain
A song for hot sun
Until the sunsets sooner come
And the birds of change
Fly again as one
-- Tom Rubenoff
Bruised and alone, yet tall she reigns
Rising from the cornered chamber to balance her heavy crown
Her pride visible as banners caught high on a morning squall
With subjects of seclusion, regret, and hate eager to await her command
She obliges their hunger, cautious of the offering
It will not last. It will not hold sway
The borders must be sealed and the walls rebuilt
She will not stop short. She will not falter again
None will be spared once she holds dominion
The guards will destroy all who dare near
Such is vital for her succession
Long may she rule
Ten daydreams
& a dozen nightmares
from that area of nowhere
known as nothing
We took that leap and never looked up
only down
no bungee cord,
no mountain climbing rope tied between us
it wasn’t so much bravery or bravado
that made us do it, but rather, naiveté
& laundered haste
sometime when you’re bored and so am I
we should take out the old photo album
& try to find the ghosts, demons
& monsters in the subliminal fudge
-- Samuel Vargo
Charlie has a sick’s sense
Because he knows everything
And then some
He’s a regular cross between Jesus and Buddha
Throw in hunter t. and james dean,
Add some elvis flakes and stir gently
“God doesn’t drive a Bentley
Or even a Volvo,
But an old Dodge Dart
With over 345,000 miles
On its dusty odometer
With the same engine intact
As the day He built it
And clean as a fish fork – “
A Charlie quote
Etched on the wall.
Say the guys
At the garage,
About Charlie's philosophy:
He was a sparked plug of a guy.-
What a charmer, what a ladies' fella
- He foretold the Sox winning
The World Series ten years before
The Pirates won the big pennant
- And what’I’dliketooknow
Mr. Scribe on the half shell
Is just how Mr. Nostro-dumbass
Could eat something queasy
Liked oysters raw and bleeding
When he knew so much was going to happen
Bad and good and in between
That philosopher had more serpentine
Guts than most '71 muscle cars
"If James Dean was alive today,"
Charlie said right before the big
Gig heart attack that buried him,
"I’m sure he’d be a helluva
lot more green, phony and wide."
- So much for Philosophy class
101 and even add 112 to the list, fellas.
Charlie says. "whati’dliketoknow
Mr. Cool, is who cut the cucumbers so thin. So
Just grab me another cold one from the cooler."
-- Samuel Vargo
When I was young
I was given a model Sopwith Camel
In a cardboard box, brand new,
Just bits and pieces of plastic
To paint and glue together.
The glue got me higher than a flying ace.
That plane - about the size
Of a hamster- was a beauty.
I put it on my dresser
In front of the sailing ships,
Battleships and destroyers.
Years later I got drunk
And busted them all to smithereens.
How I hate to write free verse now.
-- Samuel Vargo
Ascending from the vestibule
The carpeted staircase
Though downtrodden maintains
Self esteem between
Bannister and wainscoting
Sandalwood in the hallway
A column of closed doors
Skylit by the skylight
Mysterious shoes
Newspapers
A plant trails down from
The top floor landing
Like a question
Or perhaps an invitation
To meditation of structure
Inferences and differences
The patch of blue beyond
Empty mullions
Accents the interior
Scented air with space
-- Tom Rubenoff
Things reach a certain age,
an age at which
things don't work
the way they once did.
The battery in your car,
the battery in your phone,
the battery in your laptop die
but these can be replaced.
Not so the battery in you.
But today your battery's en fuego
so you tell the wife tonight's the night.
Dinner and a movie first, of course.
Saturday afternoon.
He's watching the Olympics
and she calls to say
she's still at the store.
Would he like to go
to a movie this afternoon?
He says he's watching
the Olympics and the U.S.
is on the verge of winning
a gold medal against Russia,
which is no small feat,
he reminds her nicely.
He asks the name of the movie
and discovers it's a chick flick
two men in the world
might like to see.
In an Olympic gesture
he agrees to go with her
if they can sit in the balcony.
He's amazed when she agrees.
When they get to the theatre
it's practically empty.
Everyone's at home, he says,
watching the Olympics.
They sit in the balcony,
the last row.
After an hour she admits
she doesn't like the movie
so they kiss a little.
He nibbles her ear and
puts a hand on her thigh.
He kisses her again
and whispers he's going
for the gold.
She's still his bride,
beautiful and new,
after 34 years.
Marvin's a man who never
does anything he doesn't have to.
One day, however, to the delight
of Miriam, his wife, he became
useful around the house.
Marvin was a whirlwind,
making wonderful meals,
doing the dishes and laundry,
vacuuming carpets, performing
without complaint all the tasks
Miriam had done without help
for more than 40 years.
One evening, after a sumptuous dinner
and elegant dessert, Miriam decided
to compliment Marvin as he
stacked the dishwasher carefully
so as not to break her china.
"Marvin, I'm astounded at all
you are doing. I'm appreciative.
I thank you from deep in my heart."
Marvin scratched his head
and kept loading the dishwasher.
Finally he cleared his throat and said,
"Miriam, my energy is temporary.
If you hadn't lost your legs
in that car accident,
I wouldn't be doing any of this.
Once you're back on your feet,
I'm going back to my recliner forever.
And I don't want to be disturbed."
Miriam smiled. She was pleased
she would get her old Marvin back,
the churl she loved beyond belief,
once her prosthetics arrived.
She wanted to please him again.
"Your legs should be here
in time for Christmas.
Maybe we can go to church.
You can roast the turkey.
Wake me when it's ready.
I want everything back to normal."
Now Miriam knew for certain
her Marvin had not disappeared.
He was just doing his best to be nice,
something he hadn't done
since their courtship after World War II.
He had knelt in the snow
to propose, her ring in hand,
a day Miriam will never forget
and Marvin will never remember.
Here's the skinny on Fatty's Cafe,
a grubby diner on a snaky street
under the El in dark Chicago
where street lights flicker
and the hungry descend from
the flophouse above the store.
If you have a yen for a BLT
and Fatty is workin' the grill,
the hungry say don't go in,
be patient and wait outside
for Fatty's brother, Skinny,
to wield the spatula.
Skinny has a way with BLTs,
piling bacon and tomato high
on a triple decker, with a hint
of lettuce and a swipe of mayo
on all three slices of bread.
No extra charge to toast it
when Skinny's workin' the grill.
Ignore the rain, sleet or snow
and wait outside with the hungry
till Skinny starts flippin' the bacon.
He takes over at midnight when
Fatty flops into his Lincoln
and heads for his castle.
Then Skinny lays out the bacon
and the hungry outside march in.
You're standing on a window ledge
on the 50th floor of your building.
It's Valentine's Day in Manhattan,
clouds cruising, sun everywhere,
a nice breeze tossing your hair,
the taste of that woman always there.
Do you wonder what happens after
you jump or do you simply not care?
Does God meet you half way down
and say "What a foolish thing to do."
Or does Satan appear and shout
"Here's the Magnus Doofus of my day."
Do you begin to wonder when
you're a foot above the asphalt
whether you'll hear the splat or
do you jump and simply not care?
