Seattle’s famed Pike Place Market turns 100 years old

Come meet the producers
fishmongers, florists,
farmers and winemakers.
Come hear their chorus.

Amid ferries belching
and gulls’ haunting scree,
I hear merchant voices.
They’re calling to me.

It’s where locals linger.
It’s where tourists throng.
Where fish are seen flying
to street singers songs.

Vendors and crafters
all welcome the morn
while sipping their coffee
where Starbucks was born.

Rachel the piggy bank
stands proud neath the clock
while guarding a place that
just goes on for blocks.

And though it’s one-hundred,
it’s vital and strong.
Though once given last rites,
that verdict was wrong.

Pike Place is quite special,
unequaled, unique.
So why not discover
the Market’s mystique?

A poetic tribute to my childhood hero;
The Tenor of Our Grief

[Editor’s note: Paul Harvey celebrates his 89th birthday this week]

“Hello, Americans!” he’s wont to say.
I hear him say it everyday.

His lilting voice conveys the news
while finding ways to spin his views.
Just hearing him, makes me feel warm
when icy headlines make me mourn.

Since I was just a school age lad,
I’ve heard him take what’s really sad
and find a hook to help us cope
through God and country, dreams and hope.

His bumper snickers make me laugh.
His stories have a second half.
His sponsors are like family,
like Hillsdale, Bose, Hi-Health, page three.

My favorite newsman is unique
in what he says and how he speaks.
I think you’d call him my mainstay.
His name is Paul …Harvey… Good day!

*Recently, while on vacation in Phoenix, I unexpectedly encountered Mr. Harvey taking his daily afternoon walk near the Biltmore Hotel. I greeted with a hearty “Hello, American!” He smiled and invited me to join him on his 1 1/2 mile stroll. For thirty minutes I savored a dream come true. Making the most of the fleeting moments, I asked the 88 year old newsman questions about which I’ve wondered since I first heard him on the radio when I was a boy of twelve. It was the highlight of my vacation.

The Tenor of Our Grief
A Tribute to Luciano Pavarotti

The phantom of the opera
holds a mask that hides his tears
A trio has become a sad duet.
The big man with the giant voice
who taught the world to sing
is silent. Pavarotti now is dead.

Those lyrics few could stomach,
Luciano brought to life.
Like a circus clown,
his singing coaxed a smile.
Opera music gained a hearing.
Like a rock star he found fame
though his weight and marriage failures
proved a trial.

Luciano, how we loved you.
No one else can take your place.
May you find in death God’s mercy
on your soul.
With a voice that tempted angels,
you brought Heaven down to earth.
Now it’s time to sing God’s praises
loud and full.

Calculating the wages of fame (and faith) a decade later;
Unearthing Mother Teresa

August 31st.
The paparazzi’s thirst.
The people’s princess
raced for freedom.
Tunnel vision won.

A decade has gone by
since Lady Spencer died.
Still Will and Harry
(and their father)
grieve as no one knows.

And lessons yet remain
for those beset by fame.
The rich and famous
are the diet
of a hungry press.

Yes, fame can be a blight.
It robs you of your rights.
And renders you
a well-dressed prisoner
wishing you were free

Unearthing Mother Teresa

And now a decade later
they’re unearthing Mother T
Some say the sainted nun was less
than she appeared to be.

They say her reservoir of faith
was leaky… filled with holes.
That she confessed to what is called
the dark night of the soul.

But those who doubt her virtue
do not fully understand
that doubting fertilizes faith
as only questions can.

The saints of old were not immune
from times when God seemed mute.
Their badge of faith was inner angst,
an ash heap and some soot.

What’s telling about Mother T
is how she carried on.
In spite of doubt she didn’t quit
until her life was done.