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Monolithic slabs of rose-colored granite,

cram the coastline,

like passengers waiting for the A train,

skins etched like Russian peasants,

crushed and thrusting upward,

ancient survivors of tectonic collisions,

stoic prizefighters of seismic proportions,

stone monuments worn smooth from exhaustion,

surrendering to an unrelenting,

triumphant blue sea.


Glaciers, imprisoned in mountainous bowls,

serving time,

warmed by the relentless creep of time,

dissolved into translucent basins of water,

whose shadowy, rippled veils caress,

a geography of sleeping stones,

silent hostages from retreating ice flows

guardians of the unseen world.


The sweat of pine

slices through the smoky blue haze,

the scent of ancient warriors,

jagged giants from another era,

clothe the mountain sides in deep viridian,

hiding secrets beneath their gnarly feet,

that grip tenaciously to cliffs of stone.

Uncle Vinnie


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For those he left behind, Uncle Vinnie’s passing was like a thunderous glacial slide into the sea. The waves and swells of his long and rich life travelled in all directions, touching many lives.

Vincent was the last of the hardy Leonard clan. As the youngest surviving brother in my mother’s family of seven children, he enjoyed a special place in the hearts and minds of his siblings and the generation that followed. Uncle Vinnie was an undisputed family legend, since there was no one left to dispute his stories. And there were many stories.

Vinnie used to talk about how he learned to fight by sparing with his oldest brother who was a semi-professional boxer. Dignity was often won or lost on the streets and playgrounds of the neighborhoods where they lived. His nose had been flattened a number of times and in his later years the topography of his face was the map of wins and losses softened only by his sparkling blue eyes. Even though he was a fighter, he managed to stay stateside as a First Lieutenant in the US Army during World War II because, as he said with a twinkle in his eye, “he had a desk job”. Vincent’s shallow laughter seemed to come from the upper third of his chest and joyfully hijack the flow of his conversation. He had a wonderful sense of humor that he used disarmingly. He credited his longevity to a healthy lifestyle. Not unlike a reformed smoker, he constantly needled his friends about staying fit through regular exercise and a moderation. He told a story of being out to dinner with a bunch of guys who ordered large slices of cheesecake for dessert. He proceeded to tell them that as a cop in New York City he used to patrol the docks. He told them that decomposed bodies would often come floating up and their insides would fall out when they attempted to pull them out of the water. He chuckled as his friends moved away from their plates in disgust.

Uncle Vinnie didn’t talk much about his age until he was well into his 90’s and only then did he enjoy the attention that came along with it, especially from the ladies. Vincent could be very charming. He enjoyed many female attendants who looked out for him as his independence declined. Those included his niece, who lived the closest to him and oversaw many of his daily needs and his two daughters who took care of logistics remotely from New York City and Florida. Vinnie’s love life was kept burning with Gladys, a long-time friend who lived in Arizona, and at 90, was 5 years his junior. Gladys and Vincent spoke with each other on the phone 4 or 5 times a day. Vincent was very hard of hearing but she and he remained undeterred. Gladys advised him on the latest vitamin supplements, listen politely to his pre Vatican II religious convictions and his rantings in support of Rush Limbaugh. He adored his great, grandnephews and he willingly took part in their playgroups when they were little. The infatuation is and was mutual.

Vinnie credited his long life to jogging, his daily workouts at the “Y”, and from staying away from the “sauce”, as he put it. Many of the cousins, however, remember a much younger Uncle Vinnie willingly taking part in convivial family drinking, smoking and sing-alongs that often led to arguments and, at times, fisticuffs. I recall one such incident when my father was wrestling with my uncle Willy on the living room floor. When his pant leg rolled up I was horrified to see a service revolver strapped to Willy’s ankle. My Uncle Willy was a detective on the New York City Police Force. There were many late night rides home to New Jersey from family get-togethers where providence was the only co-pilot.

Leaving New York City for Vineland was like a healing balm in Vinnie’s life. He traded in the city grit for a garden that he turned into a small farm. When his second wife Ellie asked him what they would do with the bumper crop of cucumbers he suggested they make cucumber pie, only half in jest. With the help of his oldest brother Leo, who encouraged him to move to South Jersey, he managed to create a second career in the packaged food industry as a personnel manager where he earned a reputation as a tough union negotiator. After retiring from that job he pursued another career as a school custodian where he became the oldest and most popular kid in school. He made a hobby of watching birds in the backyard and devising creative ways to keep rabbits out of his vegetable garden. Vinnie would travel great distances for special birdseed because, as he said, “the stuff you get at Walmart isn’t fit for pigeons”. He was famous for re-gifting unwanted presents (size didn’t matter). It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. He would simply say, “What would I do with that?”

Uncle Vinnie guarded his independence through a meticulous system of subterfuge. He cultivated a devoted network of helpers but insisted on keeping them on a need-to-know basis to protect his security. When his daughter Dot took away his laxatives for fear he was getting too dependent on them he called up his niece to take him to the pharmacy. Unembarrassed and oblivious, he had her read the suppository directions loudly in the store because not only had macular degeneration robbed him of his vision but he was also hard of hearing. Vinnie had someone cut his lawn; others would take him shopping, bring in his mail, clean his house or call him on the phone just to check in with him. He had fallen several times, was known to light the gas range with a match when the pilot light didn’t work, he once crawled in from the mailbox on all fours when he stumbled and fell outside and he experienced other mishaps that would have landed someone else in a nursing home. But by maintaining a puzzle of discreet pieces in his declining years he was able to cobble together the illusion of independence that those closest to him knowingly respected. He managed to remain in his home in Vineland, New Jersey through a combination of deception, crafty resourcefulness and the heroic efforts of his niece, daughters and later, his live-in caretaker.

Vinnie held stubbornly to his convictions that bridged the gap between Archie Bunker and Rush Limbaugh. Yet he grew to grudgingly accept and love his loyal African American caretaker, who was at his bedside when he died. Although I don’t believe he ever discussed his daughter’s sexual preference, Vinnie cared deeply for her spouse, Amy, who lovingly doted over his every need. Dot and Amy, lived in NYC and would make monthly visits negotiating the tender nuances of love, surveillance, companionship and concern. His other daughter, Kathie, took on the challenge of his driving past the age when visual impairment made it unsafe. When negotiation failed, he never forgave her for taking away his keys. Uncle Vinnie refused to accept offers of daily rides to the “Y” because, as he said, “He wasn’t a charity case”. Even after the point when memory eluded him, he knew he was angry with Kathie, he just didn’t always remember why. Uncle Vinnie took that one to his grave saying “If she doesn’t apologize why should I?” Kathie continued to send him cards and flowers right up to the end.

Even in his last hours Vinnie was a fighter. He actually attempted to do some last minute pull-ups on the traction bar that hung above his bed prior to the surgery to piece together his hip. As cancer had eaten away most of his pelvis he managed to marshal his last bit of energy struggling to free himself from the plastic tethers and restraints of the intensive care unit. On the day before he died he pleaded with his best friend and YMCA buddy “to get him the hell outta here.” Although mortally weakened, he fought with the same degree of intensity that allowed him to live stubbornly independent for most of his life. But truth be told, his niece and daughters were the real guardians of his independence. They worked stealthily to penetrate the Blue Code of Silence of the former NYC cop, much to his chagrin.

Vincent was capable of being arrogant and abusive on the phone, short tempered in person, frequently unapologetic, but he could also be warm-hearted and caring under his tough veneer. In later years, a somewhat compromised impulse control made caring for him a constant challenge. One incident illustrates this multifarious nature. He had been regularly giving his next-door neighbor money to buy liquor because he felt sorry for her addiction. One day her sons came over and started to kick his door down because he had no money to give her at the time. He called his daughter in NYC frightened to death. She didn’t know what to do so she called our cousin Irene who lived nearby and who, in turn, called the state police. Since Vincent is a former cop, all sorts of help arrived in short order and the two boys were hauled away. One of the cops that was at the scene and who I later met at a wedding said that the “brotherhood” would never let anything happen to Vincent.

Vincent had many angels in his life. Most of them are with him now. I remember one conversation I had with Vincent many years ago when my own father was actively dying. Vincent had made the long trip up from Vineland to Central New Jersey to see my dad, knowing that he would not be doing it again. He took my daughter and I out to lunch afterward and he reminisced about growing up with my mother. As the oldest sister in a single parent home, my mother had the impossible job of keeping her recalcitrant brothers in line. Their mother, my grandmother, worked as a domestic trying to keep the family together and was away from home much of the time. Vincent expressed a great empathy for Evelyn’s thankless role in helping all but one of the brothers survive. Warren, the youngest fell down an airshaft to his death in their walkup tenement apartment in Hell’s Kitchen section of New York. Although my mother never talked about it, I suspect she felt deeply responsible. I believe that is why she insisted that my middle name be Warren. Vincent spoke passionately about the bond of blood and the importance of loyalty. Family was very important to him. He made many mistakes along the way, as we all do. We love and forgive him for all of it.

I don’t think Vinnie was afraid of death as much as he was afraid of losing everything else. He certainly didn’t want anyone telling him what to do or to be in a position of vulnerability. Not unlike Uncle Vinnie, I’m deeply concerned with the messiness of getting older and the losses associated with it. It’s not the inevitable pain I fear as much as the personal indignities that come along with illness. He saw a lot of people, including a son and daughter, go before him – a loss that seems unfathomable and an assault on the natural order of things. Those losses ticking off in time get to me too. As he aged he struggled with physical losses and his world got smaller and smaller. It requires a special kind of courage and humility to accept the aging and disease process with any kind of grace. I saw this with my wife. She suffered for close to 10 years fighting a losing battle with breast cancer. She never gave up hope on the grueling course of treatments but at the same time her ability at the end to surrender and peacefully let go has left me in a perpetual state of awe and admiration. I often think that it would be nice if we could just turn out the lights one day when things got too rough. There was a minister of our church who developed Parkinson’s disease at a relatively early age and was forced to give up his ministry. He was a vibrant man with a great mind who helped many people and was very open about his own demons. Not that soon after he left the church I read that he was found dead in his apartment. I often wondered if he turned out the lights. He often spoke about the Hemlock Society, which gives end of life advice to terminally ill people. I’ve looked into that myself. I even held on to my wife’s prescription medications for a time until I figured that they would probably expire by the time I needed them, although shelf-life probably wouldn’t have been an issue. But this all seems cowardly to me now. I accept my own mortality. I just have a problem with the road that gets you there. I’ve been extremely fortunate. I’ve been blessed with good health up to this point but lady luck isn’t always going to be faithful. In fact, I notice her wandering eyes whenever I feel an ache or pain that seems to hang on longer than I feel it should. So it’s really just a matter of time. Unlike my father who spent his every last cell and sinew, I try to take care of myself by eating right and exercising in hopes of maintaining a reasonable quality of life as I travel down that road. I’m working on a spiritual practice of meditation and mindfulness that certainly helps me appreciate what I have at the moment. Intellectually I realize that disease and dissolution are all part of this human journey. I just haven’t taken it out for a test drive. I’m not sure you really can until you are faced with it. After years and years of deep and intensive spiritual practice even Ram Dass admitted to being in spiritual crisis following a stroke that left him unable to maintain many of the activities he once took for granted. I believe that illness can open locked doors. I can only hope that I’ll be prepared to walk through, let go and surrender to what must be. In the meantime I’ll just continue my practice and hope I can rise to the unfathomable.

Silver Bowl


It may have been a proud trophy,

but now it sits meekly, tarnished and stained;

a fallen victim to indifference and neglect.

The fluted rim flares outward

as if reaching vainly for some ghost of recognition

beyond engraved initials trapped within its blackened metal.

Sunlight skates along the icy surface

hinting of a glorious past now lost to a smoky, dull reflection.




Funny how everything looks so organized from up here.

Who knew?


Patchwork parcels of deep sienna and dark green

recede like childhood memories

against a dreamy backdrop of

house-lined cul-de-sacs and ruler straight streets

resembling a zippered tooth tapestry

bejeweled and electrified by glittering light.


Sinuous rivers reflecting an ethereal sun

sneak past board game obstacles

to cut deep surgical swaths in the

other-wised manicured landscape below. 

Swift moving cars race

like newly discovered ants

frantically scrambling for cover

in the noon day heat.


Filmy veils of smoky white fabric

yield to a heavenly cerulean sky,

more cerulean than cerulean itself,

while the precision of urban topography

reluctantly dissolves

into undulating fissures and folds

of mountainous bedclothes -

tectonic remnants of the restless and

torrid love affair with Mother Earth,

eons and eons ago.


On Marriage


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I saw a movie the other day about two people who wanted to have a child but preferred to skip the messiness of marriage. Their circle of friends were all married and consumed with varying stages of work and childrearing while trying tenuously to hold their relationship together. What they saw was not a pretty picture. The bliss of early romance was stolen by petty arguments, exhaustion and the daily grind of trying to survive a very stressful situation. The two hypothesized that it often seemed to take a divorce to put all this ugly stuff behind people so that they could venture into healthier relationships. They go ahead and conceive a baby but live separately and date other people while raising the child. All goes well for a while until they realize that getting through the messiness of marriage and coming out the other side is the heart and soul of a meaningful relationship. Of course, it is all done through the tinted shades of Hollywood sex, humor and social trappings but the takeaway is quite simple and compelling: no pain, no gain.

So why is that so hard to understand when we are going through it? Why do we wish for things we don’t have? Why is it that we appreciate things more when they are gone? Why can relationships be so madding? It kind of makes me want to do things all over again. First off, I’d forget everything my parents taught me. I’d go into marriage counseling right after the honeymoon. I’d cut through all the games. I’d learn to communicate more effectively. I’d express my feelings more openly. I’d try my darnest to be less stubborn. I would not bury my mind in work, numbing activities and childrearing absorption. I wouldn’t look with envy at others. I’d listen more intensely. I’d be more thankful. I’d touch more. I’d learn to love recklessly and with wild abandon. At least I would try more. And I would do all this with a sense of urgency as if the hourglass was nearly empty; because, of course it is. I would do it all over again if I could. I would just do it better.


Four O’Clock Visitor


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We are gathered around the bed,

filled with weary anticipation.

Soft music is woven

through muffled kitchen conversation.

The acrid smell of coffee,

standing like a weary lone commuter,

cuts through the thick and heavy air.

Escaping to the corner,

lies a cap from rosewood oil,

once used to caress her now still feet.

Coal black reflections of sleepless faces,

stare from windows guarding against the winter’s chill.

While the rhythmic patter of the clock,

takes on an authoritative tone,

that no one seeks to challenge.

The rapid rise and fall of bedclothes,

reduced to just a whisper.

The long night’s vigil,

dissolves in a single, sweet breath,

passing through lips which have tenderly kissed us all.




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The space between

notes & rests,

words & actions,

talking & listening,

I mean really listening.

Listening ’til it hurts.

Until every living pore

screams in vain for attention,

to expostulate, to defend, to condemn.

Because, of course, you know best.

Or at least you think you do.

Until you really listen,

with intent & unknowing,

to the silence & wisdom connecting her words.




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I am imagining myself getting on a plane a couple of days from now to return home. I am reflecting back on my stay in Paris during my long ride home. What could one say about Paris that has not already been said? The pigeons are very healthy looking but I think that can be more attributed to the tourists than the Parisians (and the fact that they are still probably working on a creative way to prepare them). The tourists greatly outnumber the Parisians, especially in the summer. It is the most visited city in the world. That speaks for itself. All those bars, restaurants and bistros would not survive without tourists. Paris is not known for its weather (it rained for two weeks before we arrived) but we were fortunate to have chosen the right week. Like most European cities, Paris is filled with ghosts of our past and much of which has happened here has shaped our lives in one way or another. I guess it is called history. Paris has a lot of history.

The city itself is in perpetual restoration. They actually have a tree nearby the Church of St. Julien le Pauve (my 12 year old nephew, who goes by the same name, has been my guardian angel with his eloquent French) that is being propped up with wood and concrete posts. It dates back to the 1600’s. Paris is a city of big windows. It could have something to do with the poor weather and the need to grab the sun when it shines. Right now I am looking across the narrow street watching a woman prepare breakfast -unconcerned that she is sharing her morning with me.

Paris is Lyon on amphetamines. The city is bold. It lacks even a shred of humility or self-conscientiousness. It comes from the way the Parisians walk, hold their cigarette (they all smoke) or nurse their drinks at an outdoor café. They do it confidently, unapologetically and with a certain degree of aplomb. It is a city of contrasts. Although Parisians are very protective of their past, they seem existential about the present (they can sit hours at a sidewalk café) and open to the future. They actually have an institute to protect the purity of their language against the invasion of “le bits” and “le bites” words that the English language churns out all the time. There is no Spanglish here. Yet it is evident that they are able to embrace the future too. There is no way to explain the grossly modernistic and utilitarian looking Pompidou Center of the arts (it really is ugly in the classical sense). But their acceptance is not without passion and turmoil that brought about revolution (x2), the impressionists, riots and most recently, workers taking managers hostage to enhance their collective bargaining negotiations.

Parisians love their dogs. Even the homeless have dogs and they use them as partners in panhandling.  But Parisians haven’t discovered pooper scoopers. You need to look down before you look up. If they didn’t powerwash the sidewalks on a regular basis Paris would not be called the City of Lights. Paris is a city of small things with an almost reverent respect for space. Small cars, small appliances and small rooms yet they afford themselves the luxury of having separate rooms for the bath and the toilet (well stocked with magazines) – two things that cannot be rushed. Although Paris is called the City of Lights, they go off automatically in public areas after a prescribed time to save precious resources, which accounts for their small but fast cars.

Paris is a city of noise – Construction abounds, motorcycles assault the ear, restaurants are filled with lively conversation that can be deafening. Police cars constantly scream out a see-saw siren borrowed from foreign films. It is a city of smells made up of a cocktail of urine, diesel fuel, sewer water (the Seine River not withstanding) and some unidentifiable aromas hanging on from past centuries. But most of all, Paris is all these sights, sounds and smells that create an unforgettable ambience and experience worthy of revisiting over and over again.


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