Love and marriage and love

Before marriage there must be love,

And after marriage there must be even more love,

For love cannot be the vessel to a marriage alone.

It must also be what nurtures and grows 

The happiness of the life together thereafter.

Love and marriage and love in that order,

In very good times and equally in bad,

On sunny summer days and cold winter nights,

During sounds of laughter and sniffles with tears,

When the pantry is full and glass half empty.

Love and marriage and love in that order,

Even when the jobs become very demanding,

And especially when the world becomes distracting,

Magnifying the lines between yours and mine

When they should clearly and continuously be “ours.”

Love and marriage and love in that order,

Just like this year will lead to the next,

And this decade to the one after,

As your young minds and bodies age

Evolving for better and for worse.

After marriage there must be more love,

For your everlasting love will be the foundation

That makes your strong marriage the fulfillment

Of a life you were truly destined 

To share together hand in hand.

 ©Copyright 2024, Charles A. Bruns

This poem was written for the marriage of my youngest son, Kevin, and daughter-in-law Hillary, and read for the first time at their wedding ceremony. 

Remembering Elena ten years later

On January 15, 2012, my mother passed away in a New York City hospital. When I received the news that morning, I cried louder than I had ever cried before. Six days later, on the 100^th birthday of her late mother, Elena was laid to rest in Glendale Cemetery in Bloomfield, just a short walk from her mother’s grave. There has not been a day during the past ten years when I have not thought of my mother. 

I’ve thought about how resourceful she was raising my older brother and me in our apartment in a public housing neighborhood in New York City, squeezing fifteen or twenty cents out of every dime and making sure we ate and dressed well and had some fun growing up. I’ve also recalled how, as a young divorcee, she saw to it that her essentially fatherless sons went to good schools and did their homework every day. 
 
I remember how my mother’s life changed when she remarried and our family moved to New Jersey, where she faced new challenges. I recall her happy smile at times, and the sad look in her eyes on other occasions. I’ve thought about how happy she was on some special family occasions, and many moments years afterward when she enjoyed being with her grandchildren. 
 
I’ve thought about how she insisted on helping take care of me one day when I was in my 40s and had routine surgery, and how she might’ve wanted to help me less than a year after her fatal surgery when Superstorm Sandy knocked the power out of my beachfront condominium for over a week. I’ve imagined how happy she would’ve been at my eldest son’s wedding in Central Park, not far from our former New York City home. 
 
 
I never doubted my mother loved me. I knew it was unconditional love, like the love she felt from her own mother. And I loved her the same. It’s a love I’ve sorely missed sharing for ten years now.

Song for Hire

Here are some words that

Need to be sung

Could use to be played 

Might be helped with a tune.

So if you know a singer songwriter,

Tell them this song’s for hire. 

 

He comes to this land

With little but busy hands,

Sharp mind and desire

To have a good life.

So if you want a dreamer,

This boy’s for hire.

 

Give me your tired your poor

The stiff lady in the harbor beckons.

They flock in by ship

And by planes and by feet

Doing work few others want.

This country’s for hire.

 

Look at them on your screens,

Hear what they have to say.

These messages cost lots of money,

And they’re all trying to appeal to you.

Figure out who might be telling truth,

This election’s winner is for hire.

 

He looks far and wide 

For ways to make it happen.

Nothing’s impossible 

Or too hard, too big or too small.

So if you need to get it done,

This guy’s for hire.

 

Writing something that makes sense

But sounds to others like nonsense.

It’s fact, it’s fiction, it’s poetry, it’s literature.

What difference does it make?

Just enjoy the sound and flow of the words,

This writer’s for hire.

 

Freedom of speech

For all citizens rich or poor,

In various forums and media.

But that also implies the right to be wrong

And believe what you want to believe.

This truth’s for hire.

 

Words and pictures congregate on phones and tablets

And computers with little and big screens.

Some are offensive and others reassuring

So pick the ones you like and deny the others.

Eventually you see what you want to be believe.

This newsfeed’s for hire.

 

The day’s newspapers are delivered

To the building’s varied residents.

Local papers, out-of-town papers,

Religious publications, gossip sheets.

They’re all there for anyone to read.

These eyes are for hire.

 

I think so but I’m not sure,

Maybe possibly perhaps possibly maybe.

My gut tells me so, but my head’s not sure.

It’s just a sense I have somewhere,

Something in me just tells me.

This feeling’s for hire.

 

To want and be wanted

And embrace and be cared for.

Isn’t that what’s it all about?

But often there’s a price to pay,

Compromises and sacrifices to make.

This love’s for hire.

 

So, there are some words that

Need to be sung

Could use to be played 

Might be helped with a tune.

So if you know a singer songwriter

Tell them this song’s for hire. 

Copyright 2020, Charles A. Bruns

Lonely thoughts on a beach

When I last saw you

I thought I’d be back.

I didn’t think my good-bye

was so-long forever.

But here I sit on the beach,

looking beyond the cold ocean,

wondering where you are, 

how you’re doing,

if you still remember me.

I’m okay if you’re curious.

My studies were followed by jobs

and before you know it

I was practically American.

But I’m not quite all-American.

There’s no house with a white picket fence

or dogs running around a yard 

or a spouse with kids in my home.

Instead there are nights on WhatsApp,

Instagram, Facebook, Twitter,

with the TV on and bed unmade.

There are weekend days on the beach,

cold days, warm days, lonely days.

Yes, I got the education and career I wanted,

but I still don’t have you.

Will you be coming over any time soon?

Or should I came back for you?

Anyway, where are you?

copyright Charles A. Bruns, 2019

The Bard at the Hard Rock

He needs no introduction. Sure enough, Bob Dylan did not get one last night. Neither did his band from him, for that matter. The audience at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City, in fact, did not get a hello or any acknowledgement from The Bard as he went through his 20-song setlist in under two hours. What they did get, however, was an exhibition of American music history from a 77-year-old legend on the latest leg of his Never Ending Tour, which began 30 years ago and someday will end.

As he always does, Bob breathed new life into his old songs, including “Like a Rolling Stone” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” He also gave new life to his 21st century songs, including four selections from his most recent album of original material, Tempest. Nearly all the songs were performed slower and softer than originally recorded, often crooned, always in his unique voice. Bob covered many of his songs like it was a poetry recital, which makes some sense from a Nobel Prize in Literature recipient whose words are considered poetic. The sound and song selection, including “Make You Feel My Love” and “Love Sick,” at times made it feel a romantic evening for many in the crowd who still can find romance in spoken words.

When the last note of “All Along the Watchtower” faded away and the Etess Arena lights went on, Bob and his band were back on the bus for their next one-night stand in Springfield, Massachusetts, leaving everyone in Atlantic City to settle for the various artifacts from his career on display at the Hard Rock. Eventually, the tour will make its way to New York City for seven shows at the Beacon Theatre and its last stop in Philadelphia. If you haven’t seen The Bard and his band in concert, don’t you dare miss it. 

Love the Sea, See the Love

The boy looked out at the sea

and saw a lighthouse.

Beyond its beacon he could imagine

his home, his brother, his mother.

He loved that sea dearly.

It was a direct path to everything

he longed for, for all he missed,

and love that awaited him.

The sea was also his best friend, 

always there day and night,

bringing him all kinds of joy.

It refreshed him, it played with him,

at times it even fed him.

But the sea was also tempestuous,

dancing wickedly with stormy rains,

knocking against his door with anger,

once even climbing inside his room

and sweeping away some toys.

It was like the father he remembered,

all playful and attentive one day,

then angry and furious the next.

But the sea did not leave him. 

It returned, calmed down 

and ready to play, refresh and feed, 

like the good women in his life.

And there were many good women.

His aunt, grandmother and mother 

and others, all took turns

to bring him back to the sea.

They waded in its waters with him,

playing and laughing with joy

as he jumped the waves 

or dove under its currents,

the silky sand under his soft feet.

But none was lovelier than the one

he married and raised their family with.

Many years she would jump right in

to share in his joy of the sea,

and see the boy who was also her man.

His eyes still sparkle by the sea, 

his wife often beside him.

He likes to watch her face 

as she relaxes under the sun, 

the sound of the surf and children

playing around them.

When he closes his eyes, 

he sees the lighthouse, feels the joy.

When he opens his eyes,

he smiles and remembers how much

he still loves the sea. 

He turns to look at his wife,

and sees a love as warm as the sun.

--Charles Bruns, copyright 2017