I looked in my closet
And discovered
That I went back to
Who I am

I tried being what I
Thought I should be
Wanted to be
I changed my wardrobe
I changed my hair
I thought I looked
The part
But playing a part
Doesn’t mean it’s real
Reality
True to oneself

Oxford shirts and jeans
And haircuts may not
Make the man
But they go a long way
Toward going back to
Who I am

Osgood the owl
Is three inches tall
A constant companion
Even though he’s green
With yellow eyes that watch me
From morning ‘til night
And faithfully sits there
‘Cause he’s made of stone

Exploding into the clarity of winter
Icicles hanging from tree limbs
Creating a crystal palace
Woven through the vines of frozen lace

The shadows of winter
Guiding the traveler to a haven
Where the cold refreshes the spirit
And cleanses the air they breathe

Longing for a freedom
From the turbulence of seasons
Chasing after rainbows
That never could have been

Time rejoices at the solstice
Making days grow longer
And the momentary fragments
That eludes the passage of time

Fragrant embers from the hearth
Filling the warmth with firelight
That overcomes the shadows
And the longing for winter’s grace

Fireflies
Leaving a trail of
Bioluminescence
Following a path
Known only to
Fireflies

Where I live
It’s so quiet
You can hear
Grasshoppers
Blow their nose

Upper East Side
The Hamptons
Aspen, Colorado
The plastic people
Follow each other
Moving in herds
Like cattle to the
Slaughter

Drifting
Floating
Shifting focus
From one charity event
To another
Whatever’s trendy
Whatever’s fashionable
Whatever’s happ’ning
Whatever’s the need
Tainted new artists
Society’s rejects
The film-maker who fits in with
The flavor of the month
The disease or the cause
That captures the moment
Stigmas overlooked
Deformities relieved
By one hyper exertion
By one pseudo good deed

Changing bedrooms
Changing partners
New alliances
Noblesse oblige

Mrs. Astor’s
Four hundred
Reinvented forever
Reinvented with fervor
On the edge
Of hypocrisy
Keeping up with the Jones’s
Maintaining the houses
Paris, Rome, Cote du Jura
Malibu, Palm Beach
Couture fashion
Madison, Rodeo
Worth avenues united
Avenues of the liege

Location, location, location
The right address unspoken
Dinner in the right places
Sporting events to be seen
Three martini luncheons
Halcion evenings
Business is business
Where money’s retrieved

Look to plastic people
For fashionable guidance
No matter the moment
No matter the need
Remember to catch them
While jetting to Santa Barbara
Saint Maarten, San Troupe
San Marco, warp speed
They live in their milieu
Can’t function outside it
Can’t follow a shadow
That others believe

It’s easy to find them
They leave behind footprints
But barely a mem’ry
Or singular creed
Other than finding
The latest in fashion
The latest persona
Or new plastic breed

I had a daydream
That I was transported back
To Old New York.
But the time was confused,
The eras overlapping.
Was I a New York Knickerbocker
Or a Gilded Age socialite?
Were my friends the Theodore Roosevelts
Or Mrs. Astor, the Vanderbilts,
Carnegies, Howells or Upton Sinclair?
With Gilded Age manners
And pride in couture.
Was I living on Washington Square
Or in a Fifth Avenue mansion?
The confusion was scary
And my timeline divided.
And yet there was something
That comforted me, held me
Like a blanket.
Society changes
But dreams are everlasting.
And Old New York remains a mem’ry;
Painting a picture,
Holding a candle, a gaslamp, a light
To brighten the moments
With happier eras,
And flights of imagination
Of times out of sight.
As Old New York remembers
The passage of time
That rekindles our passion
For elegance and splendor;
That brings on the daydreams
That remain Old New York.