the wind
speaks all languages
the leaves
are its many tongues
i have spent a lifetime
listening
learning
trying to understand just one
Friday, August 07, 2009
Toy Wars
Can you imagine if they passed a law
That required every future war
To be fought with weapons
Purchased from your local toy store?
And that every gun had to be fake
like the ones you make
with your hand -
using just your index finger,
your thumb,and a rubber band
And every gun
Could rattle off a million bullets
And fire as quickly
as you could move your lips
And since all children’s wars
are based on pretend
If anyone was shot
they could fall to the ground,
Lie still for a moment
and then get right up again
And none of these wars
would last more than an hour
And neither side would ever surrender
They would simply
go sit in the shade
And enjoy a pitcher
of cherry Kool-Aid
If wars were fought
with make-believe guns
We could send a few troops
of heavily armed children
Into the world’s
most hostile regions -
Assured they’d return
safely in the evening
But if this scenario ever came true –
What would be left for the adults do?
Oh, they’d still be responsible for
Starting all of these deadly wars.
That required every future war
To be fought with weapons
Purchased from your local toy store?
And that every gun had to be fake
like the ones you make
with your hand -
using just your index finger,
your thumb,and a rubber band
And every gun
Could rattle off a million bullets
And fire as quickly
as you could move your lips
And since all children’s wars
are based on pretend
If anyone was shot
they could fall to the ground,
Lie still for a moment
and then get right up again
And none of these wars
would last more than an hour
And neither side would ever surrender
They would simply
go sit in the shade
And enjoy a pitcher
of cherry Kool-Aid
If wars were fought
with make-believe guns
We could send a few troops
of heavily armed children
Into the world’s
most hostile regions -
Assured they’d return
safely in the evening
But if this scenario ever came true –
What would be left for the adults do?
Oh, they’d still be responsible for
Starting all of these deadly wars.
AP English
Bill Cates said I was an academic rogue
That I belonged on the road
Writing - And not in a classroom
Deciphering what others had written
To satisfy some silly exam in June
He said this in front our AP English class
Right In the middle of reading Prufrock
One spring afternoon in April
Not to embarrass me,
but to pay me the highest compliment
he could bestow on one of his students
and then he proceeded to read
one of my poems aloud – a short one
and when he was done
my classmates were stunned
at what they had heard –
at what I said in a handful of words
for I had always been the quiet one
and when they turned
and looked in my direction
the only thing I could think of
was Ezra Pound’s -
"The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals, on a wet, black bough."
As I stood at a threshold:
One foot in the classroom
The other on the open road
That I belonged on the road
Writing - And not in a classroom
Deciphering what others had written
To satisfy some silly exam in June
He said this in front our AP English class
Right In the middle of reading Prufrock
One spring afternoon in April
Not to embarrass me,
but to pay me the highest compliment
he could bestow on one of his students
and then he proceeded to read
one of my poems aloud – a short one
and when he was done
my classmates were stunned
at what they had heard –
at what I said in a handful of words
for I had always been the quiet one
and when they turned
and looked in my direction
the only thing I could think of
was Ezra Pound’s -
"The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals, on a wet, black bough."
As I stood at a threshold:
One foot in the classroom
The other on the open road
Tonight
Tonight, the bay is calm,
Veiled slightly with mist -
As we watch the sidewalk lovers
Walking arm in arm -
Stop briefly to kiss
Before moving on
Tonight, the moon rises
Slowly, pulling the tide
Back with gentle hands
Across the glistening sand
As though it were a cover
On some lover’s bed -
The small waves breaking
Like delicate ruffles along its edge
Tonight, the sweet sea air
Permeates your hair
Mixes with your perfume
Then settles in my mind -
(A memory to be recalled
At some future time)
Tonight, you are the only woman.
Your eyes sing soft alluring lullabies
Inviting me to lie at your side -
Your delicate fingers become butterflies
Fluttering playfully in a nocturnal garden
And as I unveil your moon lit skin
And accept your invitation -
I hear the Sirens sing their warning –
A song that can be heard in every woman:
Will you be here in the morning?
Sadly, there is only one answer:
Kisses are not promises,
`Nor are words whispered in the darkness -
But if it is of any consequence –
Men think and sometimes ask the same question.
Veiled slightly with mist -
As we watch the sidewalk lovers
Walking arm in arm -
Stop briefly to kiss
Before moving on
Tonight, the moon rises
Slowly, pulling the tide
Back with gentle hands
Across the glistening sand
As though it were a cover
On some lover’s bed -
The small waves breaking
Like delicate ruffles along its edge
Tonight, the sweet sea air
Permeates your hair
Mixes with your perfume
Then settles in my mind -
(A memory to be recalled
At some future time)
Tonight, you are the only woman.
Your eyes sing soft alluring lullabies
Inviting me to lie at your side -
Your delicate fingers become butterflies
Fluttering playfully in a nocturnal garden
And as I unveil your moon lit skin
And accept your invitation -
I hear the Sirens sing their warning –
A song that can be heard in every woman:
Will you be here in the morning?
Sadly, there is only one answer:
Kisses are not promises,
`Nor are words whispered in the darkness -
But if it is of any consequence –
Men think and sometimes ask the same question.
Rhetorical Questions
Does a mason
Hold a brick
And wait
For the architect
To show him a plan
Before laying it?
Does a musician
Restrain his hands
From the piano keys
Until the conductor
Flicks his baton
And signals him in?
Does a poet
Hold back his pen
From the page
Until the muse
Sends him
Into a writing rage?
Does a surgeon
Envision
What’s beneath
The patient’s skin
Before making
His incision?
Does a jury
Weigh the evidence,
The criminal intent -
And reach
A unanimous agreement
Before passing sentence?
Does a policeman
Make certain
His victim
Is the right one
Before
Reaching for his gun?
Hold a brick
And wait
For the architect
To show him a plan
Before laying it?
Does a musician
Restrain his hands
From the piano keys
Until the conductor
Flicks his baton
And signals him in?
Does a poet
Hold back his pen
From the page
Until the muse
Sends him
Into a writing rage?
Does a surgeon
Envision
What’s beneath
The patient’s skin
Before making
His incision?
Does a jury
Weigh the evidence,
The criminal intent -
And reach
A unanimous agreement
Before passing sentence?
Does a policeman
Make certain
His victim
Is the right one
Before
Reaching for his gun?
The Odyssey
I
You knew that I was a solitary person
Preferring the dark side of the moon
Or the underside of an unturned stone -
That my path to the future was a narrow one,
One that I would travel alone.
II
We spent our nights listening to Beethoven
Drinking cheap red wine by the gallon
Reading poetry by Byron and Donne
Never thinking it would someday end
We lived in an intellectual Eden
Until our little sanctuary was overrun
By protesters, assassins and political doctrine
By a decade full of chaos and madness.
By the end of the Sixties
We had switched from the classics
To Corso, Ginsberg, and Ferlinghetti
You went from cheap wine to cheap whisky
And spent mornings hung over and sick
I practiced Zen in a store front monastery
And lived out of a rucksack like Kerouac
III
You left for Chicago to attend university
And I joined the Navy and went out to sea
We sent occasional letters back and forth
Two, three years passed uneventfully
You told me you were happy translating Baudelaire -
I asked if you still braided your long hair
No, you had cut it short –
You plotted my Mediterranean ports of call:
Barcelona, Spain – Cannes, France - Rapallo, Italy
On a map you hung on your bedroom wall
You said it made your academic world seem small
To which I replied: No two worlds are of equal size:
To a snail it’s an inch wide - to a bird, it’s the entire sky
Do you recall Gulliver’s tale?
More often than not - it is we who are out of scale.
IV
More than four decades have passed since then –
And where there had once been a garden
There is only an overturned stone,
Its underside bleached white by the sun -
And as I turn my back and continue on
I Keep pace with time’s slow pendulum
Content with having chosen
The path less taken
You knew that I was a solitary person
Preferring the dark side of the moon
Or the underside of an unturned stone -
That my path to the future was a narrow one,
One that I would travel alone.
II
We spent our nights listening to Beethoven
Drinking cheap red wine by the gallon
Reading poetry by Byron and Donne
Never thinking it would someday end
We lived in an intellectual Eden
Until our little sanctuary was overrun
By protesters, assassins and political doctrine
By a decade full of chaos and madness.
By the end of the Sixties
We had switched from the classics
To Corso, Ginsberg, and Ferlinghetti
You went from cheap wine to cheap whisky
And spent mornings hung over and sick
I practiced Zen in a store front monastery
And lived out of a rucksack like Kerouac
III
You left for Chicago to attend university
And I joined the Navy and went out to sea
We sent occasional letters back and forth
Two, three years passed uneventfully
You told me you were happy translating Baudelaire -
I asked if you still braided your long hair
No, you had cut it short –
You plotted my Mediterranean ports of call:
Barcelona, Spain – Cannes, France - Rapallo, Italy
On a map you hung on your bedroom wall
You said it made your academic world seem small
To which I replied: No two worlds are of equal size:
To a snail it’s an inch wide - to a bird, it’s the entire sky
Do you recall Gulliver’s tale?
More often than not - it is we who are out of scale.
IV
More than four decades have passed since then –
And where there had once been a garden
There is only an overturned stone,
Its underside bleached white by the sun -
And as I turn my back and continue on
I Keep pace with time’s slow pendulum
Content with having chosen
The path less taken
Submarine Dream
When I was a child
I would stay up late -
While everyone slept
I’d be wide awake,
Pretending to explore
The ocean floor
In a small submarine
Called the Imagination
I was the captain
And would order my crew:
Steady ahead
Stay true at 5 knots
As I would carefully plot
A meandering course
Through the fathoms of darkness
Surrrounding my bed
My destination?
I’ll give you one clue –
It was a floating island
of shimmering light
That only appeared
On cloudless nights.
Have you guessed , yet?
No, it wasn’t the moon-
but the moon’s reflection -
Which many have said
was worth more than a chest
of gold dubloons
But the journey was long
And about halfway there
I’d always hear footsteps
Coming up the stairs
And as the last few crickets
Finished their songs
In the brakish light
Of the emerging dawn
I ‘d yawn, and say to myself:
Not now, I’m almost there.
And I’d fall asleep
in my captain’s chair
And I always dreamed
That I was carried aloft
By a pair of white swans
With delicate wings
(in reality, my mothers arms)
And heard a voice that softly said:
Maybe next time my little captain
Maybe some day you’ll reach that island -
As I was gently placed back in my bed.
I would stay up late -
While everyone slept
I’d be wide awake,
Pretending to explore
The ocean floor
In a small submarine
Called the Imagination
I was the captain
And would order my crew:
Steady ahead
Stay true at 5 knots
As I would carefully plot
A meandering course
Through the fathoms of darkness
Surrrounding my bed
My destination?
I’ll give you one clue –
It was a floating island
of shimmering light
That only appeared
On cloudless nights.
Have you guessed , yet?
No, it wasn’t the moon-
but the moon’s reflection -
Which many have said
was worth more than a chest
of gold dubloons
But the journey was long
And about halfway there
I’d always hear footsteps
Coming up the stairs
And as the last few crickets
Finished their songs
In the brakish light
Of the emerging dawn
I ‘d yawn, and say to myself:
Not now, I’m almost there.
And I’d fall asleep
in my captain’s chair
And I always dreamed
That I was carried aloft
By a pair of white swans
With delicate wings
(in reality, my mothers arms)
And heard a voice that softly said:
Maybe next time my little captain
Maybe some day you’ll reach that island -
As I was gently placed back in my bed.
A Letter to Lincoln on the Anniversary of his Death
Dear President Lincoln,
The efforts you made
More than a century ago
To free all men
From the drudgery of slavery
Lived on long after
You were laid you to rest
In your hometown cemetary.
All leaders question their decisions,
Trying to envision
The consequences of their actions
Before implementing them –
But in the end,
They all rely on blind intuition.
For none are ever certain
of the outcome -
None can predict the future -
Only God and magicians
Know what’s hidden
Behind tomorrow’s curtain -
But you were correct -
The protection of freedom,
The inalienable rights of men,
Should always take precedence
Over the politics of a nation.
From reading your letters
I can clearly see
You personally felt the pain
Of every battlefield causality,
Probably to a greater degree
Than the bullet Booth
Put into your own brain.
And on that day
When the horse-drawn wagon
Pulled your body away
In a flag-draped coffin
To the awaiting Funeral Train
You did not travel alone -
Thousands mourned you
At every station along the way
As you made your final journey
Across the nation
To your Illinois home.
And today, Mr. President
Your proclamations remain
the portals through which all me pass
In their journey to freedom -
they are still the most humane,
The most heartfelt words ever spoken -
And show the deep commitment and passion
You had for mankind and the preservation of the Union.
In the time that has past
Since your death -
You may be tempted to ask:
Is there total equality
Amongst men?
Have we reached that end?
Sadly, the answer to your question
Is that equality is not a precept-
It still remains a rare commodity,
Possessed by certain men
Men with uncompromising opinions
Who act as guardians
and protect the more obsequious members
Of their respective generations –
Much like you did Mr. President.
Finally, I think you would agree
With Malcolm X -
A radical contemporary, who said:
Freedom is not given,
It is taken.
Sincerely,
An admirer
The efforts you made
More than a century ago
To free all men
From the drudgery of slavery
Lived on long after
You were laid you to rest
In your hometown cemetary.
All leaders question their decisions,
Trying to envision
The consequences of their actions
Before implementing them –
But in the end,
They all rely on blind intuition.
For none are ever certain
of the outcome -
None can predict the future -
Only God and magicians
Know what’s hidden
Behind tomorrow’s curtain -
But you were correct -
The protection of freedom,
The inalienable rights of men,
Should always take precedence
Over the politics of a nation.
From reading your letters
I can clearly see
You personally felt the pain
Of every battlefield causality,
Probably to a greater degree
Than the bullet Booth
Put into your own brain.
And on that day
When the horse-drawn wagon
Pulled your body away
In a flag-draped coffin
To the awaiting Funeral Train
You did not travel alone -
Thousands mourned you
At every station along the way
As you made your final journey
Across the nation
To your Illinois home.
And today, Mr. President
Your proclamations remain
the portals through which all me pass
In their journey to freedom -
they are still the most humane,
The most heartfelt words ever spoken -
And show the deep commitment and passion
You had for mankind and the preservation of the Union.
In the time that has past
Since your death -
You may be tempted to ask:
Is there total equality
Amongst men?
Have we reached that end?
Sadly, the answer to your question
Is that equality is not a precept-
It still remains a rare commodity,
Possessed by certain men
Men with uncompromising opinions
Who act as guardians
and protect the more obsequious members
Of their respective generations –
Much like you did Mr. President.
Finally, I think you would agree
With Malcolm X -
A radical contemporary, who said:
Freedom is not given,
It is taken.
Sincerely,
An admirer
Abandoned Rails
Do you remember friend,
The mighty diesel engines
We carried on our backs?
And the songs they sang –
Clackety-clack…clackety-clack
As they traveled over our tracks? -
Yes, I remember, friend -
And can you still feel
The vibrations of the wheels
As they raced across our rails
Faster than the wind!
Yes, and do you remember, friend -
All the men, women, and children
That passed through our stations
And how we faithfully took them
To near and far destinations?-
Yes, and do you remember, friend -
The Great Depression
And the homeless hobo men
Who camped along our tracks at night
Who jumped and rode our box car freights
In hopes of finding a better life?-
Yes, and do you remember, friend -
The rough and rowdy railroad men
Who worked beneath the blazing sun
To replace our rotten ties with newer ones;
Who pounded in those long iron nails
To secured our endless miles of rails?
I remember well my friend –
How faithfully we served this nation
But now we are covered with weeds and dust -
And our silvery rails have turned to rust
And instead of the rhythmic clacked-clack
Of the burly engines that rode our backs
We only hear the lonely wind
Blowing between the abandoned stations.
The mighty diesel engines
We carried on our backs?
And the songs they sang –
Clackety-clack…clackety-clack
As they traveled over our tracks? -
Yes, I remember, friend -
And can you still feel
The vibrations of the wheels
As they raced across our rails
Faster than the wind!
Yes, and do you remember, friend -
All the men, women, and children
That passed through our stations
And how we faithfully took them
To near and far destinations?-
Yes, and do you remember, friend -
The Great Depression
And the homeless hobo men
Who camped along our tracks at night
Who jumped and rode our box car freights
In hopes of finding a better life?-
Yes, and do you remember, friend -
The rough and rowdy railroad men
Who worked beneath the blazing sun
To replace our rotten ties with newer ones;
Who pounded in those long iron nails
To secured our endless miles of rails?
I remember well my friend –
How faithfully we served this nation
But now we are covered with weeds and dust -
And our silvery rails have turned to rust
And instead of the rhythmic clacked-clack
Of the burly engines that rode our backs
We only hear the lonely wind
Blowing between the abandoned stations.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Book Released
My book -entitled: A Place of Departure - is now availale for purchase at the following link www.xlibris.com/APlaceofDeparture.html
Friday, February 06, 2009
Dancing with Time
And so I began my dance with time,
Learning to listen with my inner ear
To a music that was uniquely mine
To a music that only I could hear
Learning to control my reluctant feet,
Knowing when to step, when not to step,
Learning to stay in sync with the beat,
Learning the secrets of measured breath
And from that dance, I moved on to words
And as I listened, I heard them speak
In a language that sounded like birds
Singing at dawn - each separate, unique-
I learned their songs, I studied the stone
I became a root and traveled deeply
into the earth, I saw the ancient bones
Buried in the subterranean archeology
I became the leaves scattered by the wind
I became the river, the rain-
I became fire, the flame, and the thin
Strand of smoke and the ashen remains-
I became the stoical mountain
Alone and aloof, capped with snow-
I became the ledge, the hidden cave within-
I looked down at the small world below
And when I returned, I knew I had changed-
Was I still a man? – Was I still human?
What of me was different? What was the same?
My blood boiled with with endless questions.
The creative process demands obscurity,
But no man should strive to create alone
Once he has achieved its mastery
Once he has set the pace and the tone.
And so I began my dance with time,
Learning to listen with my inner ear
To a music that was uniquely mine
To a music that only I could hear.
Learning to listen with my inner ear
To a music that was uniquely mine
To a music that only I could hear
Learning to control my reluctant feet,
Knowing when to step, when not to step,
Learning to stay in sync with the beat,
Learning the secrets of measured breath
And from that dance, I moved on to words
And as I listened, I heard them speak
In a language that sounded like birds
Singing at dawn - each separate, unique-
I learned their songs, I studied the stone
I became a root and traveled deeply
into the earth, I saw the ancient bones
Buried in the subterranean archeology
I became the leaves scattered by the wind
I became the river, the rain-
I became fire, the flame, and the thin
Strand of smoke and the ashen remains-
I became the stoical mountain
Alone and aloof, capped with snow-
I became the ledge, the hidden cave within-
I looked down at the small world below
And when I returned, I knew I had changed-
Was I still a man? – Was I still human?
What of me was different? What was the same?
My blood boiled with with endless questions.
The creative process demands obscurity,
But no man should strive to create alone
Once he has achieved its mastery
Once he has set the pace and the tone.
And so I began my dance with time,
Learning to listen with my inner ear
To a music that was uniquely mine
To a music that only I could hear.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Old Crayons
Does anyone know
where old crayons go
when they're all used up?
you know...
the broken ones
we keep in special cups
the stubby ones
worn down to their nubs
the naked ones
with their papers torn off
the ones we used
to draw wavy seas
and autumn trees
and the dotted rain
the ones we used
to scribble our names
does anyone know
where old crayons go?
i hope what i heard
someone say isn't true:
that when they get to small
they're all just thrown away
where old crayons go
when they're all used up?
you know...
the broken ones
we keep in special cups
the stubby ones
worn down to their nubs
the naked ones
with their papers torn off
the ones we used
to draw wavy seas
and autumn trees
and the dotted rain
the ones we used
to scribble our names
does anyone know
where old crayons go?
i hope what i heard
someone say isn't true:
that when they get to small
they're all just thrown away
A Fine Line
Even now, when it is time
to either confirm or deny my faith
i continue to vacillate -
for my heart and mind
remain diametrically opposed
like the thorn and the rose
for one looks for the miracle
and the other the empirical
and it is that fine line
between the two
that ultimately defines
what i can accept as true
and since neither presents
a stronger argument
either for or against
i continue to straddle the fence
to either confirm or deny my faith
i continue to vacillate -
for my heart and mind
remain diametrically opposed
like the thorn and the rose
for one looks for the miracle
and the other the empirical
and it is that fine line
between the two
that ultimately defines
what i can accept as true
and since neither presents
a stronger argument
either for or against
i continue to straddle the fence
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Stephen Hawking
I think of Stephen Hawking
sitting in his wheel chair
his atrophied body
slumped to one side
looking out at the world
through a vacant stare
but looking more deeply
into his eyes
I see he isn't really there
he's parsecs away
riding a photon
through a new galaxy
singing e=mc squared
listening to music
only he can hear
sitting in his wheel chair
his atrophied body
slumped to one side
looking out at the world
through a vacant stare
but looking more deeply
into his eyes
I see he isn't really there
he's parsecs away
riding a photon
through a new galaxy
singing e=mc squared
listening to music
only he can hear
The Balooga Bird's Song
If you’ve lain awake
In the middle of the night,
An hour before daybreak
To be precise -
You may have heard
the Balooga Bird.
It's incredibly small -
Just half an inch tall
And because it is such
A diminutive thing
It can barely sing
Above a soft hush
So it waits until
The day disappears
And the night goes still
And if it's small ears
Hear the faintest sound
Like a leaf falling down
Or an owl’s low hoot
It will stop and go mute
But if all is just right
It will sing in the night
And release from its throat
The three sweetest notes
You ever will hear
So pure and so clear
So full of delight
They'll repeat in your ear
For the rest of your life
In the middle of the night,
An hour before daybreak
To be precise -
You may have heard
the Balooga Bird.
It's incredibly small -
Just half an inch tall
And because it is such
A diminutive thing
It can barely sing
Above a soft hush
So it waits until
The day disappears
And the night goes still
And if it's small ears
Hear the faintest sound
Like a leaf falling down
Or an owl’s low hoot
It will stop and go mute
But if all is just right
It will sing in the night
And release from its throat
The three sweetest notes
You ever will hear
So pure and so clear
So full of delight
They'll repeat in your ear
For the rest of your life
Crocuses
by jr paruolo
______________________________________
"Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light." - Theodore Roethke
______________________________________
The crocuses will appear again this year
just as they do every year - suddenly,
unexpectedly, cloistered among the exposed
rheumatoid roots of the ancient beech trees
that line the roadside edge of an abandoned estate
on the back road I take home each evening
For the greater part of the year
they exist in subterranean darkness,
meditating patiently beneath the ground -
like little Buddhas
Waiting to burst out of their bulbs
and expose their purple petaled flowers in prayer
at the appropriate time
And when I finally come upon them in bloom-
I am filled with the desire to stop
and lean against the decaying split rail fence
that separates them from the road
to quietly meditate for a while -
and enjoy this temporary
but beautiful oasis
set against a landscape of winter stasis
But Time says -No,
you have other places to go -
So, I continue on,
driving slowly,
for the next few miles -
trying to retain that imagery
permanently in memory-
telling myself I will stop the next time
But I never do
In a week or so they are gone -
And taking no time to mourn their loss
Nature begins her task
of rebuilding the world from scratch:
one flower,
one blade of grass,
one clutching vine at a time -
until this small patch of property
becomes just another ordinary way-point
of competing green foliage
along the roadside on the way home
______________________________________
"Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light." - Theodore Roethke
______________________________________
The crocuses will appear again this year
just as they do every year - suddenly,
unexpectedly, cloistered among the exposed
rheumatoid roots of the ancient beech trees
that line the roadside edge of an abandoned estate
on the back road I take home each evening
For the greater part of the year
they exist in subterranean darkness,
meditating patiently beneath the ground -
like little Buddhas
Waiting to burst out of their bulbs
and expose their purple petaled flowers in prayer
at the appropriate time
And when I finally come upon them in bloom-
I am filled with the desire to stop
and lean against the decaying split rail fence
that separates them from the road
to quietly meditate for a while -
and enjoy this temporary
but beautiful oasis
set against a landscape of winter stasis
But Time says -No,
you have other places to go -
So, I continue on,
driving slowly,
for the next few miles -
trying to retain that imagery
permanently in memory-
telling myself I will stop the next time
But I never do
In a week or so they are gone -
And taking no time to mourn their loss
Nature begins her task
of rebuilding the world from scratch:
one flower,
one blade of grass,
one clutching vine at a time -
until this small patch of property
becomes just another ordinary way-point
of competing green foliage
along the roadside on the way home
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Never Kiss A Jelly Fish
You can kiss
any kind
of ocean fish
and never
feel a thing
but if
you kiss
a jellyfish
you'll get
an awful
sting
so please
resist
The urge
to kiss
this fish
with tentacles
but if
you insist
remember
this –
while
beautifully
diaphanous
they're
very
very
dangerous
and
if you kiss
a jellyfish
your lips
will swell
to twice
their size
for being
So pro-
miscuous
any kind
of ocean fish
and never
feel a thing
but if
you kiss
a jellyfish
you'll get
an awful
sting
so please
resist
The urge
to kiss
this fish
with tentacles
but if
you insist
remember
this –
while
beautifully
diaphanous
they're
very
very
dangerous
and
if you kiss
a jellyfish
your lips
will swell
to twice
their size
for being
So pro-
miscuous
Monday, January 26, 2009
Words
if your words
are humble and noble
and generous and kind
let them speak freely
with an open mind
but be advised
if they speak
to the contrary
or are inclined to lie
then keep them confined
for what they say
is how you are defined
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Spring Garden
by jr paruolo
_________________________________________________________
I was determined to know beans. Walden - Henry David Thoreau
_________________________________________________________
Having waited for the frozen
Ground to soften and reopen
I stand before last year's garden
Ready to begin its resurrection
Gently working the earth,
Pushing my fingers into the loam,
Removing the unwanted stones -
Feeling the pulse of rebirth
Clearing the dormant weeds
With rakes and hoes -
Sowing handfuls of seeds
Along shallow rows -
The curious crows
Watch silently.
The earthworms burrow
Deeper to escape the calamity
And as the sun completes its arc
my blistered hands are proof
that i have fulfilled my small part-
The rest is up to the roots
_________________________________________________________
I was determined to know beans. Walden - Henry David Thoreau
_________________________________________________________
Having waited for the frozen
Ground to soften and reopen
I stand before last year's garden
Ready to begin its resurrection
Gently working the earth,
Pushing my fingers into the loam,
Removing the unwanted stones -
Feeling the pulse of rebirth
Clearing the dormant weeds
With rakes and hoes -
Sowing handfuls of seeds
Along shallow rows -
The curious crows
Watch silently.
The earthworms burrow
Deeper to escape the calamity
And as the sun completes its arc
my blistered hands are proof
that i have fulfilled my small part-
The rest is up to the roots
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The Reincarnation of Mr. Ring
Upon his death, the moth was called before the Reincarnation Council to receive his new life form.
As the moth entered the room, the Grand Council leader, smiled and said: "Welcome moth. Before we begin let me set you at ease - you are not here to be punished. You have been brought here because you were eaten by a praying mantis and now need a new life form. The Fate Keeper has selected a new life form for you. Our role is to present it to you.
"We are granting you the temporary ability understand our questions and to reply to them using two words: either Yes or No. We do this because we do not know what your reassignment is and words are used by other more complex creatures and something you may not need knowledge of in your new life. Do you understand?"
"Yes", replied the moth.
"Let us begin, then. It says here you were eaten by a praying mantis. I know it must have been painful for you, but on the other hand a delicious experience for the praying mantis. It is the way of all life. We sometimes give; we sometimes take. Do you agree?"
"Yes", replied the moth.
With that the Grand Council Leader opened the envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper inside.
"Hmm – It says here you are to be reincarnated as a human, effective tomorrow. However, there is one restriction: You must never drive a car at night. You may be the passenger, but never the driver. Is that clear?"
"Yes", replied the moth.
"Congratulations - Tonight, you will fall asleep as a moth…tomorrow, you will awaken as a human. I wish you good fortune in your next life. Oh, one last thing, in case you were wondering, over time you will remember almost nothing your life as a moth."
"Thank you", replied the moth. (Based on his new life assignment, the moth was granted additional vocabulary)
"Consider this hearing adjourned" – said the Grand Council Leader.
Now, generally, when human containers are involved, reincarnation occurs at the conception level so as not to displace a pre-existing life force.
However, under one very rare circumstance, the reincarnation process can go awry. Specifically, when a human has a near-death experience and its life force leaves its body at the same time a reincarnate is in the vicinity. If the human life force strays too far from the body and a Reincarnation Candidate is within closer range, then the Reincarnation Candidate will displace the original body spirit.
This is exactly what happened to the moth during his Reincarnation experience. Eighty-four ear old Mr. Ring, who was half-way through his knee replacement operation, suddenly flat-lined; And as the surgical team tried to resuscitate him, Mr. Ring's life force, no longer hobbled by physically bad knees, left his body and was joyfully and painlessly dancing around the operating room like a ten year old boy – and it just so happened that the moth was passing through at the precise moment the surgical team successfully resuscitated Mr. Ring and was reabsorbed by the body instead of the original life force.
What happens to the displaced life forces? Well, without actually having bodies to inhabit, they become non-entities and cannot reincarnate; and unfortunately, they simply turn to dust or lint. Their remains remains can be found under beds, in the form of dust bunnies, or in dryer lint traps. Fortunately, their disintegration is painless.
As for Mr. Ring, he pulled through successfully, completed his physical therapy, and was soon walking painlessly around on his new knees. He was identical to the old Mr. Ring except for two peculiar differences: he now insisted on using only wool blankets, wool scarves, wool shirts - anything wool in place of cotton or synthetics and he refused to drive his car at night. The latter idiosyncrasy caused the most grief for he would sometimes pick up one of his buddies in the morning but decline to drive them home once it was dark.
"You'll just have to spend the night", he would say. "I'll take you back first thing in the mooring."
Looking back in disbelief, the friend would say: "Frank," I hope you're joking. I haven't brought a change of clothes. Besides, my wife is waiting."
"I'm sorry," he would reply, "Next time it might be better if you took your own car."
"Drive! Frank, you know I don't drive. You old jackass, there won't be a next time. I'll walk."
One by one, Frank lost all of his friends until one night, the coldest night of the winter, he grew so lonely that he decided he would drive to Bill's house. Yes, Bill's house – he thought to himself – Bill's house is just five miles down the highway – a two minute ride.
So Frank put on his wool shirt, wool pants, heavy wool coat, wool scarf, wool cap, and finally his wool mittens; stepped outside into the cold winter night, got into his car, turned the key, and started the engine. He let it run for a few minutes, then drove down his driveway and headed for the main highway.
This will be a quick ride - he thought – no traffic ahead.
About half-way to Bill's house, in the opposite lane, the pin point lights of a tractor trailer were headed in Frank's direction. At first, he paid them no attention, but as they grew closer, he found them to be relaxing almost hypnotic. And as they approached, he suddenly turned his car into the oncoming cab of the tractor trailer. Frank's small car was no match for a head on with a highway heavy weight and crumpled against the big rigs grill like a bug on a windshield.
The truck driver was knocked unconscious and was taken away in the first ambulance. As the police and the ETs frantically pried open the driver's side door of Frank's car they found only the woolen clothing he had been wearing – but no body.
"What's that – something moved on the mat?" said one of the ETs -"Shine your torch over there."
"It's nothing – only a dead moth."
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Scientist Wishing Upon A Star
When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you - j cricket
_____________________________________________________________________________________
If light travels at 186,000 mph
And the speed of a wish
Is an unknown variable
that can equal but not exceed
the speed of light
And if the closest star,
other than the sun,
Proxima Centauri,
Is 4.2 light years away -
How long will it take for the wish
To reach that star? and will it come true?
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you - j cricket
_____________________________________________________________________________________
If light travels at 186,000 mph
And the speed of a wish
Is an unknown variable
that can equal but not exceed
the speed of light
And if the closest star,
other than the sun,
Proxima Centauri,
Is 4.2 light years away -
How long will it take for the wish
To reach that star? and will it come true?
Monday, January 19, 2009
You Decide
by jr paruolo
___________________________________________________________________
First recorded in Giovanni Torriano's "To go about to fetch bloud out of stones, viz. to attempt what is impossible"
___________________________________________________________________
They say you can't squeeze blood from a stone
But some who have tried –
Swear they heard something snap – a bone
Perhaps – beneath the thick rough skin
Where pressure was applied
Swear they heard a muffled cry
As though they had inflicted pain
On a living thing inside –
Others say they heard nothing
And simply tossed the stone aside
___________________________________________________________________
First recorded in Giovanni Torriano's "To go about to fetch bloud out of stones, viz. to attempt what is impossible"
___________________________________________________________________
They say you can't squeeze blood from a stone
But some who have tried –
Swear they heard something snap – a bone
Perhaps – beneath the thick rough skin
Where pressure was applied
Swear they heard a muffled cry
As though they had inflicted pain
On a living thing inside –
Others say they heard nothing
And simply tossed the stone aside
Friday, January 16, 2009
Striking it Rich
by jr paruolo
_____________________________________________________________
The writer works in a lonely way. - Irwin Shaw
_____________________________________________________________
one man alone
swinging the pick
chipping away
deep in the pit
splitting the stone
bit by bit
ready to quit
then striking it rich
revealing the poem
held in its grip
_____________________________________________________________
The writer works in a lonely way. - Irwin Shaw
_____________________________________________________________
one man alone
swinging the pick
chipping away
deep in the pit
splitting the stone
bit by bit
ready to quit
then striking it rich
revealing the poem
held in its grip
River Reincarnation
by jr paruolo
_________________________________________________
You cannot step into the same river twice. Heraclitus
_________________________________________________
You retain your youthful will -
but you are older
and your waters flow slower,
become almost still,
as you near the end of your journey
and prepare to join the sea -
You leave behind
a serpentine shape,
your physical identity -
a time line
carved permanently into the landscape
like a name into the bark of a tree
and through water's reincarnation
you will regenerate -
but whatever form you take
snowflake
or rain -
you will not make the same journey again
_________________________________________________
You cannot step into the same river twice. Heraclitus
_________________________________________________
You retain your youthful will -
but you are older
and your waters flow slower,
become almost still,
as you near the end of your journey
and prepare to join the sea -
You leave behind
a serpentine shape,
your physical identity -
a time line
carved permanently into the landscape
like a name into the bark of a tree
and through water's reincarnation
you will regenerate -
but whatever form you take
snowflake
or rain -
you will not make the same journey again
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Gambling Man: Odd Man Out
by jr paruolo
_____________________________________________________________
"At that point I ought to have gone away, but a strange sensation rose up in me, a sort of defiance of fate, a desire to challenge it, to put out my tongue at it. I laid down the largest stake allowe-four thousand gulden-and lost it. Then, getting hot, I pulled out all I had left, staked it on the same number, and lost again, after which I walked away from the table as though I were stunned. I could not even grasp what had happened to me." - Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Gambler
_____________________________________________________________
Look up my friend -
when you win it's sunny
hip hip hooray–
It's raining money –
But it sure is hard
to get back in the game
When you're a gambling man
and don't have any
When the cards you're dealt
All die on the felt
When the blistering dice
turn colder than ice
When Lady Luck
takes your last buck
And skips out of town
on the last Greyhound
Yes, it sure is hard
to get back in the game
when you're a gambling man
and it stops raining money
_____________________________________________________________
"At that point I ought to have gone away, but a strange sensation rose up in me, a sort of defiance of fate, a desire to challenge it, to put out my tongue at it. I laid down the largest stake allowe-four thousand gulden-and lost it. Then, getting hot, I pulled out all I had left, staked it on the same number, and lost again, after which I walked away from the table as though I were stunned. I could not even grasp what had happened to me." - Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Gambler
_____________________________________________________________
Look up my friend -
when you win it's sunny
hip hip hooray–
It's raining money –
But it sure is hard
to get back in the game
When you're a gambling man
and don't have any
When the cards you're dealt
All die on the felt
When the blistering dice
turn colder than ice
When Lady Luck
takes your last buck
And skips out of town
on the last Greyhound
Yes, it sure is hard
to get back in the game
when you're a gambling man
and it stops raining money
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Something For a Rainy Day
by jr paruolo
_____________________________________________________________
I don’t go looking for somewhere to spend my money. You can step on a tube of toothpaste for a week, if you have to. I spend what I need to and give it away.
T. Boone
_____________________________________________________________
When the first financial crash
Put the country in the trash
And the banks ran out of cash
Leaving everyone holding slews
Of worthless stocks and bonds and IOUs
And invoices stamped - Payment Over Due
Those of that unfortunate time
Learned how to pinch ever dime -
And control the financial bottom line
It's simple - my grandmother would say:
Don't just throw your money away.
Save something for a rainy day-
She never went on shopping sprees
or purchased things of luxury -
But splurged on life's necessities
Especially when it meant saving a few cents
on cans with missing labels or minor dents
(which she jokingly called - her mystery ingredients)
She'd haggle to her heart's content
Squeezing the value out of every cent -
Often to my embarrassment
She was truly a manager's nightmare
And would go stare for stare
Until he threw his hands in the air
And she always made sure
she left every store
None the worse -
And never with an empty purse
_____________________________________________________________
I don’t go looking for somewhere to spend my money. You can step on a tube of toothpaste for a week, if you have to. I spend what I need to and give it away.
T. Boone
_____________________________________________________________
When the first financial crash
Put the country in the trash
And the banks ran out of cash
Leaving everyone holding slews
Of worthless stocks and bonds and IOUs
And invoices stamped - Payment Over Due
Those of that unfortunate time
Learned how to pinch ever dime -
And control the financial bottom line
It's simple - my grandmother would say:
Don't just throw your money away.
Save something for a rainy day-
She never went on shopping sprees
or purchased things of luxury -
But splurged on life's necessities
Especially when it meant saving a few cents
on cans with missing labels or minor dents
(which she jokingly called - her mystery ingredients)
She'd haggle to her heart's content
Squeezing the value out of every cent -
Often to my embarrassment
She was truly a manager's nightmare
And would go stare for stare
Until he threw his hands in the air
And she always made sure
she left every store
None the worse -
And never with an empty purse
Economic Depression Redux (Financial Armageddon)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: The following poem, satirical in nature, is not the typical type of poetry I generally write - so please excuse the rhyming scheme. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
by jr paruolo
As the world slips into a global recession,
Quite possibly even a financial Armageddon,
The OPEC cartel collapses so fast
that oil reaches levels only seen in the past -
But unfortunately they can't be enjoyed
as millions of people become unemployed
The American Dream's on the brink of extinction
As thousands of homes go into foreclosure
And banks begin boarding up the windows and doors
and putting the owners out on the street
with nowhere to go and with nothing to eat -
As the investment firms
Hold out their corporate begging cups
stating - We're about to go belly up!
Instead of making them squirm
The government acts like an ATM -
And spews out cash with no stipulation on return-
In God We Trust - Amen
And you can hardly blame Detroit's Big Three
For failing to produce vehicles with better MPG -
When the public was clamoring for more SUVs
Packed with luxurious high tech accessories
To shuttle around town with their families.
The solution proposed seems a little bit funny -
It's based on appropriating money
to banks and corporations in need of fast cash
before they go bankrupt and crash -
But as has anyone even bothered to ask -
Whatever happened to their own private stash?
And where are all these dollars coming from?
It's not hard to guess -
Do they think we're that dumb?
They're hot off the Treasury's printing press -
They may as well be counterfeit -the ink is still wet.
And when the economic bubble abruptly burst
the outgoing President could have been the first
to help all of those who were hurt the worst:
All the employees who got it up the ass!
Instead of the CEOs with their hands in the cash -
Yes, the world's in a knot...
And by any one's guess
It will take years and years
to untangle this mess
and who knows what
if anything will change
For human nature being what it is –
Good intentions are short lived
and the more things change
the more they stay the same
So when that 401k statement comes in the mail
And you look at the remaining bottom line
And turn a ghostly shade of pale
Just join in and sing a song from another time:
"Buddy can you spare a dime?:
or "Life can be so sweet on the sunny side of the street."
And everything will be fine!
And I'm sure it won't be too long
Till someone sings that old Depression song -
Buddy Can You Spare A Dime?
And you see millions of the unemployed
standing in long soup kitchen lines -
Their hopes and futures suddenly destroyed.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Memories
by jr paruolo
__________________________________________________________________________
Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us. ~Oscar Wilde, "The Importance of Being Earnest"
__________________________________________________________________________
Some wash out to sea
into the fathomless abyss
of the unconscious
Some sleep
in the chrysalis
of the churning tides
Some wash ashore
fragmented and
tattered by time
Some float
in the off-shore shallows
invisibly like jellyfish
Waiting to cling to us
ready to sting us
with their painful tentacles
Should we attempt
to wade out
and reclaim them
__________________________________________________________________________
Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us. ~Oscar Wilde, "The Importance of Being Earnest"
__________________________________________________________________________
Some wash out to sea
into the fathomless abyss
of the unconscious
Some sleep
in the chrysalis
of the churning tides
Some wash ashore
fragmented and
tattered by time
Some float
in the off-shore shallows
invisibly like jellyfish
Waiting to cling to us
ready to sting us
with their painful tentacles
Should we attempt
to wade out
and reclaim them
Thursday, January 01, 2009
cummings
(1
The
page
was
a pot
into
which
he
threw
his
in
gred
ients
a
pinch
of
this
a
pinch
of
that
and
he
never
stirred
his
words
which
is
why
they
stuck
to
the
sides
like
crust
2)
like
Rapunzel
in
the
fairy
tale
who
hung
her hair
down
from
a
high
tower
window
cummings
hung
his
poems
down
and
let
us
climb
up
into
his
mind
The
page
was
a pot
into
which
he
threw
his
in
gred
ients
a
pinch
of
this
a
pinch
of
that
and
he
never
stirred
his
words
which
is
why
they
stuck
to
the
sides
like
crust
2)
like
Rapunzel
in
the
fairy
tale
who
hung
her hair
down
from
a
high
tower
window
cummings
hung
his
poems
down
and
let
us
climb
up
into
his
mind
Marion 1
My Aunt Marion,
a petite woman with blond hair,
was the matriarch of the Wildes family
a clan of 16 brothers and sisters
she achieved that role not through power
but by simply being a natural catalyst
around which everyone else seemed to gravitate -
of all the siblings she was physically the frailest
but possessed the greatest emotional strength
she always reminded me of Doris Day
a famous actress of that time
perhaps because she styled her hair in a similar way
or because she liked singing "Que Sera Sera"
(Whatever Will Be Will Be)
Marion had infinite patience
was extremely creative,
but a terrible cook - which was unfortunate
because she hosted most of the holiday gatherings
the family relegated her to desserts and beverages
under the guise that her creativity
was better spent there than in the kitchen cooking
jello must have been the sensation of the '50s
because she always made several large trays of it -
including some with banana slices suspended inside
Growing up she always teased me about living in the country
"Farmingdale", she would say, "What kind of name is that for a town?"
(little did she suspect it was originally called Hardscrabble)
"I'd rather live in Hicksville."
and her scientific facts were always a little off the mark
she insisted that the ocean was bottomless
and that the rockets we launched into into space
were responsible for all of the weather changes
because they poked holes in the atmosphere
we had our best conversations
in the backs of cabs on the way to Chinatown
where my aunt frequently took me
for lunch whenever i visited her
after eating our meal, if we had time,
we would walk among the sidewalk vendors
and I would buy a souvenir with the money she gave me
once I bought a fake snake with a segmented body
that slithered in the air when you held it by its tail
i quickly discovered that my aunt was deathly afraid of snakes
so it rode home in the trunk of the cab - just to be safe
it's hard to say which is my fondest memory of her
but i think it was the week i spent in Brooklyn
helping her strip wall paper from the plaster walls
in the upstairs rooms of the two family house she had just purchased
it was the summer of 1969 - I was 16
the radio was playing John Lennon's Give Peace a Chance
the Viet Nam war hadn't touched me yet
and as i climbed up and down the ladder
for the thousandth time
ready to press the steamer against the wall
ready to scrape the wall paper off in strips
ready to nudge the occasional patch
that needed an extra shot of steam
and a little more encouragement
from the scraper
my aunt said - "let's break for lunch -
how about some Chinese?"
and off we went with bits and pieces
of wall paper stuck to our clothes
looking like paper mache mannequins
that had just exploded
and on the way to the restaurant
i asked her if she really thought
the ocean was bottomless...
she just looked at me and smiled
a petite woman with blond hair,
was the matriarch of the Wildes family
a clan of 16 brothers and sisters
she achieved that role not through power
but by simply being a natural catalyst
around which everyone else seemed to gravitate -
of all the siblings she was physically the frailest
but possessed the greatest emotional strength
she always reminded me of Doris Day
a famous actress of that time
perhaps because she styled her hair in a similar way
or because she liked singing "Que Sera Sera"
(Whatever Will Be Will Be)
Marion had infinite patience
was extremely creative,
but a terrible cook - which was unfortunate
because she hosted most of the holiday gatherings
the family relegated her to desserts and beverages
under the guise that her creativity
was better spent there than in the kitchen cooking
jello must have been the sensation of the '50s
because she always made several large trays of it -
including some with banana slices suspended inside
Growing up she always teased me about living in the country
"Farmingdale", she would say, "What kind of name is that for a town?"
(little did she suspect it was originally called Hardscrabble)
"I'd rather live in Hicksville."
and her scientific facts were always a little off the mark
she insisted that the ocean was bottomless
and that the rockets we launched into into space
were responsible for all of the weather changes
because they poked holes in the atmosphere
we had our best conversations
in the backs of cabs on the way to Chinatown
where my aunt frequently took me
for lunch whenever i visited her
after eating our meal, if we had time,
we would walk among the sidewalk vendors
and I would buy a souvenir with the money she gave me
once I bought a fake snake with a segmented body
that slithered in the air when you held it by its tail
i quickly discovered that my aunt was deathly afraid of snakes
so it rode home in the trunk of the cab - just to be safe
it's hard to say which is my fondest memory of her
but i think it was the week i spent in Brooklyn
helping her strip wall paper from the plaster walls
in the upstairs rooms of the two family house she had just purchased
it was the summer of 1969 - I was 16
the radio was playing John Lennon's Give Peace a Chance
the Viet Nam war hadn't touched me yet
and as i climbed up and down the ladder
for the thousandth time
ready to press the steamer against the wall
ready to scrape the wall paper off in strips
ready to nudge the occasional patch
that needed an extra shot of steam
and a little more encouragement
from the scraper
my aunt said - "let's break for lunch -
how about some Chinese?"
and off we went with bits and pieces
of wall paper stuck to our clothes
looking like paper mache mannequins
that had just exploded
and on the way to the restaurant
i asked her if she really thought
the ocean was bottomless...
she just looked at me and smiled
So Many Joes
by jr paruolo
___________________________________________________________
there were so many Joes
in our family of uncles, aunts, and cousins
in order to keep things straight
we were all given nicknames
there was
Big Joe, my uncle - married to Dolly
Little Joe, my cousin
Baby Joe - (Me)
Ginny's Joe - married to the youngest sister
Pat's Joe - my father
and if someone called out Joe
and neglected to use
the appropriate nickname
they were usually met with a collective chorus of - "Which one?"
and if all of the joes were in a humorous mood
they would make a classic three-stooges entrance
wedging themselves in the doorway
as they tried to pass through all at once
back in those days
all of the joes loved the 3 stooges
all of the joes had great senses of humor
all the joes were good old joes
where have those day's gone?
where are those joes?
___________________________________________________________
there were so many Joes
in our family of uncles, aunts, and cousins
in order to keep things straight
we were all given nicknames
there was
Big Joe, my uncle - married to Dolly
Little Joe, my cousin
Baby Joe - (Me)
Ginny's Joe - married to the youngest sister
Pat's Joe - my father
and if someone called out Joe
and neglected to use
the appropriate nickname
they were usually met with a collective chorus of - "Which one?"
and if all of the joes were in a humorous mood
they would make a classic three-stooges entrance
wedging themselves in the doorway
as they tried to pass through all at once
back in those days
all of the joes loved the 3 stooges
all of the joes had great senses of humor
all the joes were good old joes
where have those day's gone?
where are those joes?
One Step Behind
as you
grow
older
glance over
your
shoulder
and you
will see
death
lagging
closely
behind
and
for every
step
you take
it takes
one
step less
knowing
it can
catch up
at
anytime
grow
older
glance over
your
shoulder
and you
will see
death
lagging
closely
behind
and
for every
step
you take
it takes
one
step less
knowing
it can
catch up
at
anytime
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Parallax
Look through the dark
infinity of deep space
Look with your heart
and you will see a place
that cannot be seen
with a telescope -
a place full of dreams
a place full of hope
a parallel universe
bursting with stars
and an alternate earth
identical to ours -
A pristine world
Completely unspoiled
But don't look too hard
its just a mirage
A Utopian vision
of what could have been
infinity of deep space
Look with your heart
and you will see a place
that cannot be seen
with a telescope -
a place full of dreams
a place full of hope
a parallel universe
bursting with stars
and an alternate earth
identical to ours -
A pristine world
Completely unspoiled
But don't look too hard
its just a mirage
A Utopian vision
of what could have been
Friday, December 26, 2008
Imagination
by jr paruolo
____________________________________________________________
The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.- Albert Einstein
____________________________________________________________
As a child they always talked of my potential
But I kept it locked away in my temple
In a place that existed in neither space nor time
A place no one but I could find -
Way back in the labyrinth of my mind.
And when they tapped on my skull and said -
"Let us in...let us into that place in your head -
It's time that you told us where it is hidden -
Just give us the key to unlock the door
Our tests show you have an exceedingly high score."
I could hear them outside probing around
But I sat there silently not making a sound
Hoping that they would just go away
And then I heard one of them say:
"We hesitate to operate for that will leave a scar
So please cooperate and leave the door ajar -
Just give us what we're looking for
And we won't bother you any more."
They persisted and pursued for quite a few years
but never gained access to my cognitive gears
Or tampered with my unborn ideas -
And finally one day they gave up and went away
Convinced I had nothing profound to say
And when they were gone I opened the door
to the world they had been looking for
the one where imagination runs through the streets
the one where ideas turn cartwheels and land on their feet
the one where dreams never sleep
all of this and much, much more...
____________________________________________________________
The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.- Albert Einstein
____________________________________________________________
As a child they always talked of my potential
But I kept it locked away in my temple
In a place that existed in neither space nor time
A place no one but I could find -
Way back in the labyrinth of my mind.
And when they tapped on my skull and said -
"Let us in...let us into that place in your head -
It's time that you told us where it is hidden -
Just give us the key to unlock the door
Our tests show you have an exceedingly high score."
I could hear them outside probing around
But I sat there silently not making a sound
Hoping that they would just go away
And then I heard one of them say:
"We hesitate to operate for that will leave a scar
So please cooperate and leave the door ajar -
Just give us what we're looking for
And we won't bother you any more."
They persisted and pursued for quite a few years
but never gained access to my cognitive gears
Or tampered with my unborn ideas -
And finally one day they gave up and went away
Convinced I had nothing profound to say
And when they were gone I opened the door
to the world they had been looking for
the one where imagination runs through the streets
the one where ideas turn cartwheels and land on their feet
the one where dreams never sleep
all of this and much, much more...
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Hospital Stay - Patient in Room 349
"You always feel trapped biologically" - Ernest Hemingway: A Farewell to Arms
I - The Notification
Friday night just a routine blood test
And next day there's a cop at the door:
"Your doctor sent me - please get dressed
I'm here to take you to the hospital ER" -
Nervously I ask - "Did he say what for?"
"No, I'll be outside waiting in my car'"
II - At the ER
I check into the ER and slip into a gown.
An EKG shows nothing wrong with the heart
But my doctor is wearing a serious frown
And says I'm anemic - three pints down -
And orders blood transfusions to start -
Something is making me fall apart.
And on that note the process begins
As they call all of the specialists in
And transport me by elevator from floor to floor
For testing - but not yet knowing what they're looking for
Blood work - once, twice, three times a day
Endoscopy - colonoscopy
Bone marrow - kidney biopsy
Stomach MRI, - chest X-Ray
Tethered to and tangled in an web of IV tubes
Making it almost impossible to move
A series of questions: Do you smoke?
Drink? Or, ever have gout?
To which I reply: "No, no, no...
Just tell me - When will I get out?
I'd really like to go."
III - Life in room 349
Most of the time I sit in my room
Spending endlessly long afternoons
mindlessly flipping through the TV stations
Showing courtroom trash and Disney cartoons
So it's particularly nice when a visitor
unexpectedly walks through the door -
Friends from work who stay for a while
to see how you are and make you smile -
Especially when they come bearing gifts
Like Hershey bars and Orange Sunkist
(I know Dr. Cap - They're not on my list.)
As the days progress I make the best
Of the passing time by surfing the Net,
And eating my meals and taking my meds
And talking to the staff as they make up the beds
With nice clean white sheets and a pillow for my head.
I continue my stay in room 349
With the other bed vacant most of the time -
Then I get a new roommate who's somewhat remiss -
84 year old Frank - who's here to get both knees fixed,
But who's just been told - it will have to come later
For recent tests showed he needs a defibrillator
But in spite of his setback we hit it off great -
for it turns out we both like the Sara Lee cake
that the courtesy cart serves for dessert -
(After all we've been through - a little cake can't hurt.)
So we sit there each night and anxiously wait
For the cart to appear -hoping it won't be late!
And as for the meals that were served -
Hats off to the chef! - They were absolutely superb!
The only thing missing was a cocktail hour with hors d'oeuvres.
(And it certainly broke from the normal tradition
where the hospital food tastes like it was cooked by morticians.)
And when it's time to turn in for the night -
I jokingly say: "Goodnight Frank, isn't this the life!"
But Frank's already out like a light
Probably dreaming of his favorite show -
The Price Is Right
Where he's just been told to "Come on down to contestant's row"
As Drew Carey says -"Place your bids, please -
On this magnificent pair of wonderful new knees."
IV -The Diagnosis and Prognosis
Finally, after analyzing the test results,
And reviewing their pages and pages of notes
The diagnosis is in and I hope for the best
As the doctor explains the disease in detail -
I sit their quietly holding my breath
Seriously thinking about life and death
And hear what I have is extremely rare,
(Microscopic Polyangitis)
But the prognosis is good with the proper care
(And a little help from the man upstairs)
V - Hospital Release
When my doctor finally prepares my release -
And I'm able to stand back up on my feet -
I'm handed a list of several prescriptions
that will become a part of my daily regimen:
Cytoxen, Bactrim, Prednisone and Levemir insulin -
and hopefully put my disease into remission.
VI - Recognition
Now as for my occasional joking and poking in jest -
In all seriousness - Thank God for the nurses and doctors -
They were really the best!
I couldn't have asked for anything more
from the entire staff at Glen Cove North Shore!
PS
Well, maybe one little thing -
Can someone come up with a better design
An easier way to reach behind
And tie up those darn, hospital gown strings
So they securely cover up everything!
I - The Notification
Friday night just a routine blood test
And next day there's a cop at the door:
"Your doctor sent me - please get dressed
I'm here to take you to the hospital ER" -
Nervously I ask - "Did he say what for?"
"No, I'll be outside waiting in my car'"
II - At the ER
I check into the ER and slip into a gown.
An EKG shows nothing wrong with the heart
But my doctor is wearing a serious frown
And says I'm anemic - three pints down -
And orders blood transfusions to start -
Something is making me fall apart.
And on that note the process begins
As they call all of the specialists in
And transport me by elevator from floor to floor
For testing - but not yet knowing what they're looking for
Blood work - once, twice, three times a day
Endoscopy - colonoscopy
Bone marrow - kidney biopsy
Stomach MRI, - chest X-Ray
Tethered to and tangled in an web of IV tubes
Making it almost impossible to move
A series of questions: Do you smoke?
Drink? Or, ever have gout?
To which I reply: "No, no, no...
Just tell me - When will I get out?
I'd really like to go."
III - Life in room 349
Most of the time I sit in my room
Spending endlessly long afternoons
mindlessly flipping through the TV stations
Showing courtroom trash and Disney cartoons
So it's particularly nice when a visitor
unexpectedly walks through the door -
Friends from work who stay for a while
to see how you are and make you smile -
Especially when they come bearing gifts
Like Hershey bars and Orange Sunkist
(I know Dr. Cap - They're not on my list.)
As the days progress I make the best
Of the passing time by surfing the Net,
And eating my meals and taking my meds
And talking to the staff as they make up the beds
With nice clean white sheets and a pillow for my head.
I continue my stay in room 349
With the other bed vacant most of the time -
Then I get a new roommate who's somewhat remiss -
84 year old Frank - who's here to get both knees fixed,
But who's just been told - it will have to come later
For recent tests showed he needs a defibrillator
But in spite of his setback we hit it off great -
for it turns out we both like the Sara Lee cake
that the courtesy cart serves for dessert -
(After all we've been through - a little cake can't hurt.)
So we sit there each night and anxiously wait
For the cart to appear -hoping it won't be late!
And as for the meals that were served -
Hats off to the chef! - They were absolutely superb!
The only thing missing was a cocktail hour with hors d'oeuvres.
(And it certainly broke from the normal tradition
where the hospital food tastes like it was cooked by morticians.)
And when it's time to turn in for the night -
I jokingly say: "Goodnight Frank, isn't this the life!"
But Frank's already out like a light
Probably dreaming of his favorite show -
The Price Is Right
Where he's just been told to "Come on down to contestant's row"
As Drew Carey says -"Place your bids, please -
On this magnificent pair of wonderful new knees."
IV -The Diagnosis and Prognosis
Finally, after analyzing the test results,
And reviewing their pages and pages of notes
The diagnosis is in and I hope for the best
As the doctor explains the disease in detail -
I sit their quietly holding my breath
Seriously thinking about life and death
And hear what I have is extremely rare,
(Microscopic Polyangitis)
But the prognosis is good with the proper care
(And a little help from the man upstairs)
V - Hospital Release
When my doctor finally prepares my release -
And I'm able to stand back up on my feet -
I'm handed a list of several prescriptions
that will become a part of my daily regimen:
Cytoxen, Bactrim, Prednisone and Levemir insulin -
and hopefully put my disease into remission.
VI - Recognition
Now as for my occasional joking and poking in jest -
In all seriousness - Thank God for the nurses and doctors -
They were really the best!
I couldn't have asked for anything more
from the entire staff at Glen Cove North Shore!
PS
Well, maybe one little thing -
Can someone come up with a better design
An easier way to reach behind
And tie up those darn, hospital gown strings
So they securely cover up everything!
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
A strand of Haiku
I
like a rusted gate
a stuborn mind will not budge
will never open
II
a synaptic crack
a chemical lightning strike
a cerebral storm
III
unspoken haiku -
words askew - image broken
so many lost thoughts
IV
sunlight streaming through
air as clear as spring water
casting no shadows
V
time to meditate
to discard the mind's debris -
clear inner vision
VI
a single thin thread
floating on the morning wind
breaks free from the web
VII
the windy river
of autumn washes away
all the falling leaves
VIII
a green uprising
of grass, weaving the sunlight
sings in the meadow
IX
a handful of coins
forgotten in a pocket
a small fortune found
X
inside the doorway
a pair of muddy shoes
on the welcome mat
XI
a woolen mitten
spacious and luxurios
next to a gove
XII
like a rusted gate
a stuborn mind will not budge
will never open
II
a synaptic crack
a chemical lightning strike
a cerebral storm
III
unspoken haiku -
words askew - image broken
so many lost thoughts
IV
sunlight streaming through
air as clear as spring water
casting no shadows
V
time to meditate
to discard the mind's debris -
clear inner vision
VI
a single thin thread
floating on the morning wind
breaks free from the web
VII
the windy river
of autumn washes away
all the falling leaves
VIII
a green uprising
of grass, weaving the sunlight
sings in the meadow
IX
a handful of coins
forgotten in a pocket
a small fortune found
X
inside the doorway
a pair of muddy shoes
on the welcome mat
XI
a woolen mitten
spacious and luxurios
next to a gove
XII
Saturday, November 29, 2008
The Running Man with No Hands or Feet
the day will come
when you'll hear them say
there's no pill
no cure
there's nothing
left to do
but hope and pray
and at that point
you don't ask –
are you sure?
you just walk quietly away
while death holds open
the door
and when you come
to the corner of Hope and Pray
you stop and obey
the sign across the street
the one with the running man
with no hands and no feet
frozen in mid-air
and you wait
when you become impatient
and try to press the walk button
death slaps your hand away
and says: wait - more are coming
so you impatiently wait
and suddenly
a mass of pedestrians
descends upon the intersection
and in one great crossing it is over
and no one is left on the corner
of Hope and Pray
Death has swept them all away
except for the running man
with no hands and no feet
frozen in mid-air
when you'll hear them say
there's no pill
no cure
there's nothing
left to do
but hope and pray
and at that point
you don't ask –
are you sure?
you just walk quietly away
while death holds open
the door
and when you come
to the corner of Hope and Pray
you stop and obey
the sign across the street
the one with the running man
with no hands and no feet
frozen in mid-air
and you wait
when you become impatient
and try to press the walk button
death slaps your hand away
and says: wait - more are coming
so you impatiently wait
and suddenly
a mass of pedestrians
descends upon the intersection
and in one great crossing it is over
and no one is left on the corner
of Hope and Pray
Death has swept them all away
except for the running man
with no hands and no feet
frozen in mid-air
Friday, November 28, 2008
A Sweet Fairytale
(1)
One day the Boy declared that pennies were “worthless”
To which his father replied:
“Nevertheless, hold on to that last penny.
You may need it someday”
“But it’s only a penny –
And it’s just as worthless as the others” – the boy quipped.
But the Father continued:
“Maybe someday you will need to buy a train ticket
To travel some where…
but when you go to pay you’re a penny short
And they won’t sell you the ticket.”
“I don’t believe that” – the boy laughed.
“It’s true” – the father said.
Years later when the Boy became a Man
He still thought pennies were worthless –
But, ironically, it was usually the last coin he fished out
Of his pocket and put down on the counter
Whenever he paid for something.
(2)
One day just to make a point, the Father said:
“Nothing is free. You pay for everything.
Everything has a price.”
“Everything” - the boy asked?
“Yes” the father repeated “Everything has a price.”
The boy said nothing because knew his father was wrong
He thought of the slice of ham or cheese
The butcher gave him when he went shopping with his mother;
He thought of the cookie the bakery girl handed down to him
From behind the clean crystal clear display cases
Full of cakes and the pastries
And then he remembered the baker
Emerging from the backroom,
carrying trays of freshly baked goods from the oven –
And when the boy Grew up wrote a story about it all
(3)
In his story, the Baker was really a Troll
And was always covered from head to toe
in what everyone thought was fine powdered flour,
But which was really magic dust thrown on him by the Wizard
To partially hide his ugly, misshapen features,
And, also, to ensure he would behave and not try to escape
The Wizard was evil and very crafty.
He knew that the numbered tickets
His customers’ plucked from the
Take-One Ticket Machine were really
Magical spell breakers
Designed to break the curse
He had put on the Troll -
Who really wasn’t a troll,
But a Prince that had fallen prey
To the Evil Wizard in his youth
And who had been held captive
In the back of the shop ever since
And the poor Prince had been a Troll
For so long he had almost forgotten
That he had once been a Prince
Now, you may be wondering why the Troll
Just didn’t bolt out the front door
It all had to do with the tiny bell
The Evil Wizard had hung above the front door
Every time it sounded,
It neutralized all of the contra-spells cast
When ever a customer plucked a ticket
From the Take-A-Ticket Machine
And because anyone who entered the shop
Also had to leave the shop through the same door
The bell always rang twice,
Ensuring there was absolutely no chance
Any of the Take-A-Ticket Machine contra- spells would work
Now, the reason I took over the story from the Boy
Was because he played a very key role in helping
The Troll to escape but never knew this
How did it happen?
Well, one day the Boy and his mother
visited the bakery to purchase some loaves of bread
As they entered the shop, the little bell rang.
The mother took a ticket from the Take-A-Ticket Machine
As she usually did and when it was here turn to place her order,
she and the Boy stepped up to the glass counter.
One of the Bakery Fairies reached over the counter and
Handed the boy a cookie
and just as he took the cookie
The Troll came out of the back room.
The Boy had never been this close to the troll.
He looked into the Troll’s eyes.
They were tired and sad.
The Boy look at the cookie he was holding and said to the Troll:
“Here, take this cookie.”
And when he did, the troll turned back into the Prince again
(but not a young Prince – even magic has its limitations.)
The spell had been broken.
And once the spell was broken,
the evil Wizard lost all his powers and left in a huff
but the fairies captured him at the train station
where he had tried to buy a train ticket out of town
but couldn't because he was a penny short
The Prince, who actually enjoyed baking,
continued to run the Bakery,
making sure that all the little boys and girls who visited
His shop always got a free cookie.
(But he didn't remove the Take-A-Ticket machine
because it helped him to serve the customers in an orderly manner
or the bell over the door for no reason other than he had always
liked the sound it made.)
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Why the Wind is Invisible
by jr paruolo
______________________________________________________________
One day, the Wind, feeling a little frisky and mischievous, decided to have a little fun with his friend the River, so he swooped down and paid him a visit.
Wind: "River, look at you, so slow and so lazy! You have no vitality. You're no match for me. I'm much too zippy for you."
River: "Yes, I travel slowly across these flat lands. But if you look high in the mountains at my source you will see how much energy I have – how swiftly I flow with the help of my friend Gravity. But, since I have a long journey to make from the mountains to the sea I must use my energy wisely. And besides you cannot win a race against my cousin Time.
Wind: "How boring – traveling the same route, year after year, century after century. Not me, I'm free to go anywhere I want – see anything I want to see. If I don't travel swiftly, I cease to exist. And as for a race against Time, I'd win hands down."
River: "Boring? No! I have seen many changes in the world – and during that time many faces have looked into me, many hands have dipped into me for a sip of water. I am slow and accommodating because I enjoy it. The younger part of me is always rushing and has few memories – but me; I'm older and savor every memory of every day."
Wind: "Well, I don't have all day to chat- when you set up that race between me and your cousin Time let me know and I will be there."
Now, it's important to know that back in the beginning – the Wind was not invisible like it is today. It was kind of like the River – clear - but not a liquid.
When the contest day finally arrived, Time and the Wind established the ground rules.
Time: "We will each present alternating challenges and the one who fails two first loses."
Wind: "Agreed. Let's start."
Time: "The first challenge: Go backwards."
Wind: "Impossible. I can't blow backwards! I can only go in one direction – forward. But what the heck, you can't either – so I guess we tie on this one."
Time: "Not so fast. I can and will."
And within an instant he took the Wind back in the time to when he was just a little breeze (actually, he came to life when one of the Celestial gods sneezed as the world was being created.) And just as the wind started to enjoy the memory, Time transported them back to the present.
Wind: "I concede. But you tricked me. Now it's my turn. Let's see you move the leaves in that old tree over there."
Time: "I can't – you win that challenge."
Feeling a bit cocky and thinking he had just humiliated Time, the Wind proposed that they have one super challenge, with the winner deciding the loser's fate. The Wind further stipulated that he be allowed to present the challenge. Time agreed.
Time: "Please state the challenge."
Wind: "The first one who goes around the world and returns to this spot first wins." (Thinking no one could ever be quicker than himself – thinking he could never loose.)
Time: "Agreed."
Wind: "We'll start by that big boulder by the River."
So, they both lined up and the River said – GO! Almost immediately, the Wind left and returned. "I win! I win! Exclaimed the Wind excitedly.
Time just laughed.
Wind: "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you. You just lost the race – in fact you never even left the starting line -and I'm about to decide your fate."
Time: "Quite the contrary. It was you who lost the race. Time is everywhere – it doesn't move in one direction like you or at your speed. Nothing is faster than Time because Time must be able to be in the future before everyone or else there would be no future. I had already won the race before you said 'Go".
Wind: "You cheated. I withdraw."
Time: "Too late – I have already told the Celestial gods to impose your punishment."
Wind: "Please don't take away my speed."
Time: "No, nothing that harsh – but from now on you will be invisible. It's bad enough having to listen to you let alone look at you. Additionally, you will be divided into four separate winds: the northern, southern, western and eastern; and, in addition, it will be your job to push the clouds around in the sky at the direction of the Seasons. This should be enough to keep you busy and out of trouble.
And with that said, the Celestial gods enacted the punishment.
From that day forward, the wind has remained invisible and busily at work moving the clouds about through the sky during the seasons - but even with his new tasks he still was able to find a little time for some occasional mischief like blowing hats off heads or holding his breath and stopping sail boats in their tracks.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Locked Hearts
Do not carry your love
Around like a key
Expecting
To find the locked heart
It was meant to open
Locked hearts
Are dead bolted from the inside
And those who live
Inside locked hearts
Hide in self-imposed exile
Look instead for open hearts
For they are the portals
That connect our souls
They are the conduits
through which all love flows
Around like a key
Expecting
To find the locked heart
It was meant to open
Locked hearts
Are dead bolted from the inside
And those who live
Inside locked hearts
Hide in self-imposed exile
Look instead for open hearts
For they are the portals
That connect our souls
They are the conduits
through which all love flows
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Moth
How is it that a small moth
flying around my desk lamp
Can be so distracting
one moment
Can be so distracting
one moment
that when I push it of course
And how is it
that when it is finally gone
I feel a small loss
And how is it
that when it is finally gone
I feel a small loss
but still a loss
Poem of War
jr paruolo
_______________________________________________
Only the dead have seen the end of the war. - Plato
_______________________________________________
It was a poem
of war
A dead zone
of words
twisted like strands
of barbed wire
across
no man's land
of war
with the shrapnel
of shattered sentences
embedded
into every page
It was a poem
of war
of war
_______________________________________________
Only the dead have seen the end of the war. - Plato
_______________________________________________
It was a poem
of war
A dead zone
of words
twisted like strands
of barbed wire
across
no man's land
of war
with the shrapnel
of shattered sentences
embedded
into every page
It was a poem
of war
instead of ink
of war
A place from which
No one came home
of war
Written
by the dead
It was a poem
of war
a poem the living
never read
Sunday, July 06, 2008
You Wrote One Perfect Poem
You wrote one perfect poem
Using rain instead of words
To ensure that your voice
would always be heard
Using rain instead of words
To ensure that your voice
would always be heard
You wrote one perfect poem
In a place hard as stone
So it would never decay
So I would never be alone
Thursday, July 03, 2008
The Old Man in the Attic
The old man in the attic
is a little eccentric -
The clock in his mind
Doesn't keep the right time
And when seen out in public
He seems perfectly fine
But he's lost half his wits
And his memory's declined
To the point where the light
in his head has gone dim
That it almost feels like
Someone else has moved in
And you'll hear him say -
It gets harder each day -
To remember that today
Is today and not yesterday
And as for Tomorrow -
It's just a dark shadow
that sits on the horizon
and blocks out the sun.
is a little eccentric -
The clock in his mind
Doesn't keep the right time
And when seen out in public
He seems perfectly fine
But he's lost half his wits
And his memory's declined
To the point where the light
in his head has gone dim
That it almost feels like
Someone else has moved in
And you'll hear him say -
It gets harder each day -
To remember that today
Is today and not yesterday
And as for Tomorrow -
It's just a dark shadow
that sits on the horizon
and blocks out the sun.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
The One Eared Race
There’s a town close to here
where everyone’s born
with only one ear -
And everyone hears
Only Half of what's said
(especially if directed
To the earless side of the head)
It's a problem, indeed.
The mayor declared
Ears should come in pairs
As he spoke to the folks
that filled the town square:
And those that heard him agreed;
And those that didn't just stared.
So he formed a committee
That met for two weeks,
That drank gallons of coffee
And went without sleep
but in spite of their efforts
had nothing new to report
So when the Mayor spoke
To the gathered town folk
He apologetically said:
We're sorry to say
We still have no idea -
We could find no way
To resolve the lack ears
on both sides of our heads.
And with nothing more to to say
They watched the Mayor
trudge wearily away
With the Committee in tow
To their awaiting pillows
And soft feather beds
To enjoy a good snore.
For the rest of the day.
"Wait, there is one solution,"
Quipped a small boy of ten,
"Simply turn your head,
The side with the ear,
In the speaker's direction
And you'll hear loud and clear
Every word that is said."
So they gave it a try
and were pleasantly surprised -
And all now agree, or mostly all do,
That this simple technique
Of just turning one's cheek
Makes one ear as useful as two.
For in good conversation
Is not only how well you speak
But it’s also how well you listen
(So, just turn your cheek)
where everyone’s born
with only one ear -
And everyone hears
Only Half of what's said
(especially if directed
To the earless side of the head)
It's a problem, indeed.
The mayor declared
Ears should come in pairs
As he spoke to the folks
that filled the town square:
And those that heard him agreed;
And those that didn't just stared.
So he formed a committee
That met for two weeks,
That drank gallons of coffee
And went without sleep
but in spite of their efforts
had nothing new to report
So when the Mayor spoke
To the gathered town folk
He apologetically said:
We're sorry to say
We still have no idea -
We could find no way
To resolve the lack ears
on both sides of our heads.
And with nothing more to to say
They watched the Mayor
trudge wearily away
With the Committee in tow
To their awaiting pillows
And soft feather beds
To enjoy a good snore.
For the rest of the day.
"Wait, there is one solution,"
Quipped a small boy of ten,
"Simply turn your head,
The side with the ear,
In the speaker's direction
And you'll hear loud and clear
Every word that is said."
So they gave it a try
and were pleasantly surprised -
And all now agree, or mostly all do,
That this simple technique
Of just turning one's cheek
Makes one ear as useful as two.
For in good conversation
Is not only how well you speak
But it’s also how well you listen
(So, just turn your cheek)
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Hope
What floated by
Invisible to the eye
Was hope -
Hope on its way
To cure poverty
Hope on its way
To cure misery
Hope on its way
To feed the hungry
Hope on its way
To disband armies
Hope on its way
To destroy tyranny
Hope on its way
To heal humanity
Invisible to the eye
Was hope -
Hope on its way
To cure poverty
Hope on its way
To cure misery
Hope on its way
To feed the hungry
Hope on its way
To disband armies
Hope on its way
To destroy tyranny
Hope on its way
To heal humanity
Sunday, June 01, 2008
The Mythical Sharpening Man
He came some summers
But not others -
Emerging from
the wavering mirage
of late afternoon heat
Driving up and down
The suburban streets
In his beat up
workshop truck
Ringing his distinctive bell -
Announcing his arrival
in a casual zen like way
as though calling monks
to temple
Ping-ping
Ping–ping
Ping-ping
Ping-Ping
To a curious boy of ten
this mystery truck
needed a closer look
And that summer
I summoned up the nerve
And asked my mother
to give me something
that needed sharpening
anything -
And hurry -he's coming
she fumbled around in the junk drawer
for what seemed like an eternity
and finally handed me a pair
of her old sewing scissors
I ran to the truck
And made my offering
barely tall enough
to see over the side opening
Without saying a word
the sharpening man
turned on the grinding wheel
And the increasing RPMs
of the wheel spinning
produce a pleasant humming
until he put the scissors
against the stone wheel
and they began to squeal
Sparks flew everywhere -
I remember one
that flew up into his smoky gray hair
And in less than a minute
He was done
and I handed him a dollar
"No charge kid," he said-
"this ones on me"
Pointing to a sign that read -
No job too large or too small -
but if it's too small it's free
and he gave the dollar
back to me
Fifty years later
I can still see the sparks
Flying off his grinding wheel
I can still remember
sitting in the shade
of the old oak tree
sequestered from the
hot August sun
Eating the ice cream
with the dollar I had made
But not others -
Emerging from
the wavering mirage
of late afternoon heat
Driving up and down
The suburban streets
In his beat up
workshop truck
Ringing his distinctive bell -
Announcing his arrival
in a casual zen like way
as though calling monks
to temple
Ping-ping
Ping–ping
Ping-ping
Ping-Ping
To a curious boy of ten
this mystery truck
needed a closer look
And that summer
I summoned up the nerve
And asked my mother
to give me something
that needed sharpening
anything -
And hurry -he's coming
she fumbled around in the junk drawer
for what seemed like an eternity
and finally handed me a pair
of her old sewing scissors
I ran to the truck
And made my offering
barely tall enough
to see over the side opening
Without saying a word
the sharpening man
turned on the grinding wheel
And the increasing RPMs
of the wheel spinning
produce a pleasant humming
until he put the scissors
against the stone wheel
and they began to squeal
Sparks flew everywhere -
I remember one
that flew up into his smoky gray hair
And in less than a minute
He was done
and I handed him a dollar
"No charge kid," he said-
"this ones on me"
Pointing to a sign that read -
No job too large or too small -
but if it's too small it's free
and he gave the dollar
back to me
Fifty years later
I can still see the sparks
Flying off his grinding wheel
I can still remember
sitting in the shade
of the old oak tree
sequestered from the
hot August sun
Eating the ice cream
with the dollar I had made
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Apocalypse
They still maintain the mausoleum
Where the names of the First Fallen
Are chiseled in granite to remind them of the night
He resurrected the dead from their crypts,
Holding the stolen Chalice to their lips
Nourishing his dark army back to life;
He willed the moon into a perpetual eclipse
Turning it into a cauldron of scalding black light -
Into a portal that flooded the world with death;
His conscripted army of Demons
Almost beat the Angels into submission
Using thorny whips that tore apart their flesh;
But the Angels fought back-
Pushing his Evil inquisition
Into total remission;
Restoring the Path of Light;
Providing safe passage
into the next life.
Where the names of the First Fallen
Are chiseled in granite to remind them of the night
He resurrected the dead from their crypts,
Holding the stolen Chalice to their lips
Nourishing his dark army back to life;
He willed the moon into a perpetual eclipse
Turning it into a cauldron of scalding black light -
Into a portal that flooded the world with death;
His conscripted army of Demons
Almost beat the Angels into submission
Using thorny whips that tore apart their flesh;
But the Angels fought back-
Pushing his Evil inquisition
Into total remission;
Restoring the Path of Light;
Providing safe passage
into the next life.
Monday, May 26, 2008
A Kerouac Dream
I dreamed I saw the ghost of Jack Kerouac
Under the magnolia tree in my front yard -
He was lying on his back
resting his head on his rucksack.
He said he had just come from the Coast,
That he was too old to still be on the road,
But it beat living a lifetime in Lowell.
He said he was glad it was finally spring -
That the past winter had been
particularly hard on his old bones.
He said he wanted to go home,
But the only home he knew was the road,
That stretched between the horizons -
And then the wind whispered softly -
Each man is his own compass
Every road begins and ends as a path
A wandering man is never lost
I knew he loved baseball,
So we talked baseball for a while.
And when he rattled off a list of immortal names -
Ruth, Fox, Cobb, Young -
It brought sparkle back into his eyes
And made him smile.
He was amazed at how much the game had changed -
At how much money the modern day players were paid.
He was visibly disturbed about how steroids
Had tarnished the sacred home run
How it was no longer a game played by men
With the souls of innocent children
Sadly, I agreed things would never be the same -
And then I suggested a good greasy spoon -
Where we could grab some bacon and a couple of fried -
Another time, he sighed – I'm due back to the road.
And as I watched him go, I called out:
Jack, wait, you forgot your rucksack...
Keep it - he said – I don’t need it anymore.
And as I stood alone under the magnolia tree -
I heard the wind whisper softly -
Each man is his own compass
Every road begins and ends as a path
A wandering man is never lost
Like someone had closed a door
To some other part of the universe.
Under the magnolia tree in my front yard -
He was lying on his back
resting his head on his rucksack.
He said he had just come from the Coast,
That he was too old to still be on the road,
But it beat living a lifetime in Lowell.
He said he was glad it was finally spring -
That the past winter had been
particularly hard on his old bones.
He said he wanted to go home,
But the only home he knew was the road,
That stretched between the horizons -
And then the wind whispered softly -
Each man is his own compass
Every road begins and ends as a path
A wandering man is never lost
I knew he loved baseball,
So we talked baseball for a while.
And when he rattled off a list of immortal names -
Ruth, Fox, Cobb, Young -
It brought sparkle back into his eyes
And made him smile.
He was amazed at how much the game had changed -
At how much money the modern day players were paid.
He was visibly disturbed about how steroids
Had tarnished the sacred home run
How it was no longer a game played by men
With the souls of innocent children
Sadly, I agreed things would never be the same -
And then I suggested a good greasy spoon -
Where we could grab some bacon and a couple of fried -
Another time, he sighed – I'm due back to the road.
And as I watched him go, I called out:
Jack, wait, you forgot your rucksack...
Keep it - he said – I don’t need it anymore.
And as I stood alone under the magnolia tree -
I heard the wind whisper softly -
Each man is his own compass
Every road begins and ends as a path
A wandering man is never lost
Like someone had closed a door
To some other part of the universe.
Saving the Sparrows
It's spring
and
the sparrows
are back
again
I can
hear them
refurbishing
the nests
they made
under my
AC units
I've lost track
of the generations
that have been born
and raised
by these perennial
squatters
All I know
is that
this will be
another year
I will go
without AC
It is my
small sacrifice
to save
an ailing planet
Someone else
will have to save
the polar bears
I'm too busy
with
these sparrows
Hopefully,
it will be
a cool summer
and
the sparrows
are back
again
I can
hear them
refurbishing
the nests
they made
under my
AC units
I've lost track
of the generations
that have been born
and raised
by these perennial
squatters
All I know
is that
this will be
another year
I will go
without AC
It is my
small sacrifice
to save
an ailing planet
Someone else
will have to save
the polar bears
I'm too busy
with
these sparrows
Hopefully,
it will be
a cool summer
Sunday, May 25, 2008
TUVA Turtle
My turn to drive
In the marathon
Trip from NY
To Michigan
To attend
My brother’s
Graduation
From MSU
Neck stretched out
As far as it can go -
In the marathon
Trip from NY
To Michigan
To attend
My brother’s
Graduation
From MSU
behind the wheel
I'm listening
To the Tuva song
Humming tires
Mixed with the
rhythmic
thud/thud
thud/thud
they make
passing
over the expansion
Joints -
Up ahead
a small spec
At the edge
Of the roadway's
shoulder -
Neck stretched out
As far as it can go -
Contemplating
Crossing
The four lane highway
To the Tuva
Of the passing cars
An important
Decision
unfinished poem
I made the mistake
Of visiting
An old, unfinished poem:
“Just lend me a few words -
I only need a few words to get through this…”
“I can’t” – i said -
“You know it’s not a matter of a few words…”
“I have to go…”
“…Just a few words…that’s all I need…”
”I’m sorry..no…”
“why the hell do you keep coming back then…
...get out…”
Back on the street, I think:
“Why do I keep going back?"
"Why is it so hard to let go
of unfinished poems?"
Why?
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Ever Fresh Farms
The black & white photo
I found on the internet
shows it from the air -
a long narrow building
surrounded by farmland -
A time when the Island
Was a blank landscape,
A canvas of crops,
Before the caravans
of suburban pioneers
made the eastward journey
from the city
in search of a better life
I remember the crackling sound
our car tires made
pulling off the smooth
main highway
onto the gravel parking lot
that surrounded it
Going there
always meant coming home
with some toy or novelty item:
a bag of green plastic army men
a packet of Mexican jumping beans
a real rabbit's foot key chain
a pair of black and white repelling dogs
They tore it down in the early '60s
to build a Wetson's
and a miniature golf course
But there are days
When I close my eyes
And pull off the main road
in memory
Just to hear
The crackling sound
of tires
on the gravel parking lot
of Ever Fresh Farms
I found on the internet
shows it from the air -
a long narrow building
surrounded by farmland -
A time when the Island
Was a blank landscape,
A canvas of crops,
Before the caravans
of suburban pioneers
made the eastward journey
from the city
in search of a better life
I remember the crackling sound
our car tires made
pulling off the smooth
main highway
onto the gravel parking lot
that surrounded it
Going there
always meant coming home
with some toy or novelty item:
a bag of green plastic army men
a packet of Mexican jumping beans
a real rabbit's foot key chain
a pair of black and white repelling dogs
They tore it down in the early '60s
to build a Wetson's
and a miniature golf course
But there are days
When I close my eyes
And pull off the main road
in memory
Just to hear
The crackling sound
of tires
on the gravel parking lot
of Ever Fresh Farms
The Marionette
At that certain young age
They are never sure
Stating one moment- He’s fake
And then in the next
Asking hesitantly - Is he real?
And it makes no difference
That they can see
The thin strings
Connected to his hands
And head and feet
But once he awakens
From his tangled sleep
And leaps into the air
To perform his little dance
All doubt disappears
And all they see
Is a little magic
Marionette man
Who is real
They are never sure
Stating one moment- He’s fake
And then in the next
Asking hesitantly - Is he real?
And it makes no difference
That they can see
The thin strings
Connected to his hands
And head and feet
But once he awakens
From his tangled sleep
And leaps into the air
To perform his little dance
All doubt disappears
And all they see
Is a little magic
Marionette man
Who is real
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Map Master
I imagine somewhere
deep in a chamber of the mind
there is a memory map
covered in myriad lines
laid down over time
representing
journeys planned
or taken
And I imagine
an ancient Map Master
waiting with his sextant -
Looking for a new
and rising star
To appear on the horizon -
Your signal
To plot a new course
deep in a chamber of the mind
there is a memory map
covered in myriad lines
laid down over time
representing
journeys planned
or taken
And I imagine
an ancient Map Master
waiting with his sextant -
Looking for a new
and rising star
To appear on the horizon -
Your signal
To plot a new course
Self Sculpture
The headless snowman
Standing frozen
in the moonlight
Is a self-sculpture of sorts
A half finished example
Of what I have become
Someone who starts
and leaves things half done
The list is long and growing
But we all have our moments
of procrastination
Our periods when we let things slide
Right now while it is snowing
It is too cold to go outside
But tomorrow -
Yes, maybe tomorrow
I will give him a head
And maybe a face
Standing frozen
in the moonlight
Is a self-sculpture of sorts
A half finished example
Of what I have become
Someone who starts
and leaves things half done
The list is long and growing
But we all have our moments
of procrastination
Our periods when we let things slide
Right now while it is snowing
It is too cold to go outside
But tomorrow -
Yes, maybe tomorrow
I will give him a head
And maybe a face
Sunday, May 11, 2008
In the Background
The sadness is always there
Like the sound
of rain, beating
against a window pane
Like the sound
of water drowning
In a drain
Like the sound of feet
treading up and down
stairs
the rhythm of sadness
the sound of sadness
never ending, never
ending
Like the sound
of rain, beating
against a window pane
Like the sound
of water drowning
In a drain
Like the sound of feet
treading up and down
stairs
the rhythm of sadness
the sound of sadness
never ending, never
ending
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Summer Boardom
Summer is here
and I hate to admit
I’m already board
and starting to wish
afloat on a log
Or, a fat grizzly bear
out looking for honey
Or even a chameleon -
Having such abilities
Would be so much fun
But choosing just one
is a dificult decision -
So, I think I’ll just stay
in the shape of a human
and I hate to admit
I’m already board
and starting to wish
I could be something else
instead of just me
like an old warty frog
asleep in the bog
afloat on a log
Or, a fat grizzly bear
out looking for honey
Or, a wild jungle monkey
At the top of a tree –
Or, a tiny black ant
(with the strength of a giant)
Or even a chameleon -
Having such abilities
Would be so much fun
But choosing just one
is a dificult decision -
So, I think I’ll just stay
in the shape of a human
Friday, March 28, 2008
The Girl on Stilts
You lived
In the corner house
And your name
Was Carol
You gave me
My first kiss
Behind the forsythia bush
When we were six
A kid’s kiss
But still - a real kiss
Right on the lips
There may have been
A second one
But I don’t remember
Because the other kids
Found us and you ran
From our hidden Eden
Crying
And when you told your father
What had happened
He said we could never play
Together again -
Seemingly harsh punishment
For a promiscuous child's crime
A week of confinement
to your backyard -
Parading clumsily around
on the stilts he made you -
Probably hoping they would purge
your mind of foolish temptations
and accelerate your rehabilitation
But they didn't -
And a month later
You got caught
Kissing another boy
Where Silence Falls on Silence
I gave you
but I was
somewhere
else -
A place
Deep
in memory
Where silence
Falls
on silence
Like snow
On top
Of snow
Sunday, March 23, 2008
The Shoe Story
You were surprised
i remembered
the story you told
about the time
your mother
lost her shoe
when she
and her sister
ran into
the rice fields
and hid
under blankets
to escape
the bombs
dropped
on their
Japanese village
one night
during WWII
It is not
something
one
easily
forgets
waiting
for the
8 AM
Monday
morning
section
meeting
to start
i remembered
the story you told
about the time
your mother
lost her shoe
when she
and her sister
ran into
the rice fields
and hid
under blankets
to escape
the bombs
dropped
on their
Japanese village
one night
during WWII
It is not
something
one
easily
forgets
waiting
for the
8 AM
Monday
morning
section
meeting
to start
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Rememberance - In no chronological order
I am looking at the only photograph
I have of my grandmother and grandfather
taken during the 1920s or early '30s
They are both young
My grandfather is wearing a three piece suit and a straw hat
My grandmother a pair of delicate leather boots
and a coat with a fur collar
They are standing somewhere in Brooklyn
It might have been a special occassion
or Sunday or maybe they just dressed that way
I never met my grandfather
He died in the late 1930s
My grandmother lived into her eighties
but my memories of her,
at this point in my life
are nothing more than small eclectic sketches
She lived through the Depression
And for the rest of her life
She saved and reused
Scraps of aluminum foil
Paper bags, rubber bands
Rags, and even the string
From the bakery boxes
Long before recycling
came into fashion
She used torn pieces
of brown bag paper
Instead of band aides
To stop the bleeding
If she accidentally
Cut herself
while pealing potatoes
or dicing onions
She used naphtha soap
And ammonia and bleach
And plenty of hot water
And elbow grease
When she cleaned
She had her own way
of doing things -
Like sharpening pencils
With a razor blade
Instead of a pencil sharpener
And I could never use them
Because the points always broke off
As soon as they touched the paper
She had a big glass jar full of buttons
That we used instead of money
When we played a card game
Called Steal the Old Man’s Pack
And a dice game called Put and Take
She used the term “dear”
Whenever she thought
Something was too expensive
Which was just about all the time
She taught me how make
Ravioli from scratch
Rolling out the dough
Cutting the shapes
With the rim of a glass
Filling them
With ricotta cheese
Tightly crimping the edges
Putting them int0
the boilng water of the "big pot"
Watching them sink to the bottom
and parachuting to the top when they were done
She put supper
On the table every night
For us after my mother died
And by then she was in her late sixties
She sang quietly
To herself
At the kitchen sink
While she washed
The supper dishes -
But stopped if she caught
Anyone listening
She watched wrestling
And loved Andre the Giant
And Gorgorius George
And never knew that what
They did in the ring wasn't real
She married twice -
Her first husband died
And she divorced the second one
Because he was too stingy with
His money
She went to mass
Almost every Sunday
And to Bingo
Once or twice during the week
And when she won
She always gave money
To all her grand children
She worked in the garment district
And sat at the kitchen table
Every Sunday night
and counted out
The piece-work tickets
form the previous week,
Wrapping a thick rubber band
Around each neat little stack
She lived into her eighties
and I thought she'd be around forever
and then one day
time rewired all her memories
and the Joey that she knew
wasn't me
Chippy
My aunt Chippy
Whose real name was Lillian
Wore her hair short
Like a tomboy
And had been in love
With the Brooklyn Dodgers
Throughout the 1950's
And when they left
The East Coast for California
It broke her heart
And she purged them from her life forever
By giving me all the Dodger memorabilia
She had spent a decade collecting
There were newspaper articles
About Sandy Amaros
The Cuban left fielder
And a photograph of him
Flashing the leather at the last moment
Stealing a sure double from Yogi Berra
Making his famous sliding catch
Down the left field line
In game seven of the '55 World Series
And although she hated the Yankees
There was an article and photograph
Of Mickey Mantle’s mammoth
565 foot home run
That cleared the Griffith Stadium roof
And became the first tape measure home run
Chippy also liked telling stories
About the stick ball games
She played In Catholic School -
The girls against the nuns
Or, as she called them – the Sisters
And when she finally decided
To spend a weekend with us
At our Long Island house
I bragged to all my friends
That she was greatest stick ball player
To ever have played in Brooklyn
Throwing in that she was capable of delivering
Home runs on the scale of Ruth and Mangle
Because none of them really knew
Where Brooklyn was
Or had ever played stick ball
but they all knew Mantle and Ruth
The moment she arrived
I dragged her out to the street
And handed her the stick ball bat
I had made from my mother's broom
And proudly pulled out a Spaldeen
And tossed it to her
She laughed and said
She hadn’t played in years
And couldn't promise anything
She whiffed the first five times
She tossed the ball in the air
And tried to hit it
And I could see
the look of doubt
Creeping into my friends' faces
and all I could say was -
“She’s rusty, that’s all.”
But then on the sixth try
She connected
And sent the bubble gum colored
ball in a high, far arc
Out of the cul-de-sac
And down the length of the block
With everyone scrambling
To retrieve it
Turning to me
She smiled
And said – "Not bad, kid.
Now you try."
Whose real name was Lillian
Wore her hair short
Like a tomboy
And had been in love
With the Brooklyn Dodgers
Throughout the 1950's
And when they left
The East Coast for California
It broke her heart
And she purged them from her life forever
By giving me all the Dodger memorabilia
She had spent a decade collecting
There were newspaper articles
About Sandy Amaros
The Cuban left fielder
And a photograph of him
Flashing the leather at the last moment
Stealing a sure double from Yogi Berra
Making his famous sliding catch
Down the left field line
In game seven of the '55 World Series
And although she hated the Yankees
There was an article and photograph
Of Mickey Mantle’s mammoth
565 foot home run
That cleared the Griffith Stadium roof
And became the first tape measure home run
Chippy also liked telling stories
About the stick ball games
She played In Catholic School -
The girls against the nuns
Or, as she called them – the Sisters
And when she finally decided
To spend a weekend with us
At our Long Island house
I bragged to all my friends
That she was greatest stick ball player
To ever have played in Brooklyn
Throwing in that she was capable of delivering
Home runs on the scale of Ruth and Mangle
Because none of them really knew
Where Brooklyn was
Or had ever played stick ball
but they all knew Mantle and Ruth
The moment she arrived
I dragged her out to the street
And handed her the stick ball bat
I had made from my mother's broom
And proudly pulled out a Spaldeen
And tossed it to her
She laughed and said
She hadn’t played in years
And couldn't promise anything
She whiffed the first five times
She tossed the ball in the air
And tried to hit it
And I could see
the look of doubt
Creeping into my friends' faces
and all I could say was -
“She’s rusty, that’s all.”
But then on the sixth try
She connected
And sent the bubble gum colored
ball in a high, far arc
Out of the cul-de-sac
And down the length of the block
With everyone scrambling
To retrieve it
Turning to me
She smiled
And said – "Not bad, kid.
Now you try."
One Long and One Short
My mother never learned how to drive
And If she needed to go anywhere
During the day she always called a cab
And within 10 or 15 minutes
A yellow cab would arrive at our house
Ready to take us on our excursion
Pulling out of our cul-de-sac
The cabbie would call into the dispatcher
And say – “I just picked up one short and one long.
What is the fare?”
And a few moments later,
The dispatcher's voice would come back
through the crackle of the two way radio
And ask – "What is the destination."
-"Local...just into town."
“That'll be a buck twenty five.”
And off we would go.
I always imagined that the dispatcher
was like someone from mission control
who controlled all of the cabbies and their taxis
from some remote and secret place
But once, when we were in town,
and my mother didn't have change
to call a cab from the pay phone at the supermarket
And we had to walk to the taxi dispatch building
I got to see the building
It turned out to be nothing more than a small shack
Attached to the Aero Tavern -a haven for afternoon bar flies
And the dispatcher -a chain smoking,
grossly overweight woman with graying
Medusa-like hair and huge arms
with undersides that hung down
and jiggled like curdled sacks of fat
whenever she reached for her cigarette
Eyeing us peripherally,
she grabbed the dispatch microphone
and said in a gravely voice:
"I have two walk-ins for pickup. Someone come and get 'em."
And then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke
that exploded against the nicotine stained plate glass window
As we sat and waited for the cab
I thought of the few occasions
When my father tried to teach
My mother how to drive
Our big, yellow Buick convertible,
with the manual transmission,
The lessons started with promise
But always ended badly
My mother couldn't operate the clutch
And put the car through a series of seizures
Which made her laugh
And my father rapidly lose his patients -
Until he couldn't take the lurching anymore
And finally blurted out - "That's enough. I'll drive."
And they would switch places.
As a result, she never learned to drive.
And in the end,
probably decided that it was easier
To simply call a cab -
And so we remained -"One long and one short"
And If she needed to go anywhere
During the day she always called a cab
And within 10 or 15 minutes
A yellow cab would arrive at our house
Ready to take us on our excursion
Pulling out of our cul-de-sac
The cabbie would call into the dispatcher
And say – “I just picked up one short and one long.
What is the fare?”
And a few moments later,
The dispatcher's voice would come back
through the crackle of the two way radio
And ask – "What is the destination."
-"Local...just into town."
“That'll be a buck twenty five.”
And off we would go.
I always imagined that the dispatcher
was like someone from mission control
who controlled all of the cabbies and their taxis
from some remote and secret place
But once, when we were in town,
and my mother didn't have change
to call a cab from the pay phone at the supermarket
And we had to walk to the taxi dispatch building
I got to see the building
It turned out to be nothing more than a small shack
Attached to the Aero Tavern -a haven for afternoon bar flies
And the dispatcher -a chain smoking,
grossly overweight woman with graying
Medusa-like hair and huge arms
with undersides that hung down
and jiggled like curdled sacks of fat
whenever she reached for her cigarette
Eyeing us peripherally,
she grabbed the dispatch microphone
and said in a gravely voice:
"I have two walk-ins for pickup. Someone come and get 'em."
And then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke
that exploded against the nicotine stained plate glass window
As we sat and waited for the cab
I thought of the few occasions
When my father tried to teach
My mother how to drive
Our big, yellow Buick convertible,
with the manual transmission,
The lessons started with promise
But always ended badly
My mother couldn't operate the clutch
And put the car through a series of seizures
Which made her laugh
And my father rapidly lose his patients -
Until he couldn't take the lurching anymore
And finally blurted out - "That's enough. I'll drive."
And they would switch places.
As a result, she never learned to drive.
And in the end,
probably decided that it was easier
To simply call a cab -
And so we remained -"One long and one short"
Marion
The forsythia
With their willowy
branches
of flaming
yellow flowers
Flailing about
In the cool
Spring breeze
Always remind me
Of my Aunt Marion
Who came
Out to the Island
- or the country
as she called it -
From Brooklyn
Every Spring
Just to walk through
the neighborhood
To enjoy them
II
Marion
had a boyfriend
Named Nick
And during the summer
She and Nick
And my cousins
Joe and Barbara
And my Aunt Chippy
Would all pile into
Nick’s black Chevy Impala
with the bullet fins
and big chrome fenders
And drive out to our house
On the Island
Either alone
or as the lead car
in a caravan
of cars
containing
my other
aunts, uncles
and cousins
And no matter
how many times
They made the trip
From Brooklyn
Out to the Island
They always missed Exit 31
And got lost
And had to call from a pay phone
For directions
And when the big, black Chevy
Pulled up in front of our house
It was the signal to breakout
The cold cuts, soda, beer,
Macaroni salad, potato salad,
Hot dogs – and have lunch
And everyone
sat around the
Big kitchen table eating
And “catching up”
And smoking...
Everyone smoked -
Mostly Pall Mall, Camel,
Lucky Strike or Chesterfield
Except my father
Who smoke Raleigh Cigarettes
Because they came with coupons
That were redeemable
For gifts in a catalog
That he let me help him
Pick out
Whenever he had
Accumulated enough
To send away
For something
And as they ate
Someone would start
To tell a story
about what silly thing
one of them said
or done the previous week
And then
someone else would
Jump in an add to it
And slowly
the story would build
In bits and pieces
until it ended
In a eruption of laughter
As they poked fun
At one another
On Saturday nights
Everyone crowded
around the TV
into the living room
to watch Sea Hunt
starring Lloyd Bridges
And as it got later and later
Someone would eventually yawn
and say -
“Well, we’d better be going soon.
It’s a long drive.”
To which my mother to say:
“No, it’s too late to leave now.
You’ll Never find the Parkway in the dark.
Stay over and leave in the morning.”
And then someone would call out-
“OK, but put on another pot.” (of coffee)
Or, “Put on the tea kettle.”
Or,“None for me. I’m turning in.”
And some would stay up -
And some would go to bed -
And as the night dwindled
The last two left at the table
Were always my mother
And Marion -
The two closest sisters
And decades later
Time has stitched
Those moments together
In my mind
like a Crazy Quilt
Made up of many small pieces
That add up
to tell a larger story
That could never be completely unfolded
With their willowy
branches
of flaming
yellow flowers
Flailing about
In the cool
Spring breeze
Always remind me
Of my Aunt Marion
Who came
Out to the Island
- or the country
as she called it -
From Brooklyn
Every Spring
Just to walk through
the neighborhood
To enjoy them
II
Marion
had a boyfriend
Named Nick
And during the summer
She and Nick
And my cousins
Joe and Barbara
And my Aunt Chippy
Would all pile into
Nick’s black Chevy Impala
with the bullet fins
and big chrome fenders
And drive out to our house
On the Island
Either alone
or as the lead car
in a caravan
of cars
containing
my other
aunts, uncles
and cousins
And no matter
how many times
They made the trip
From Brooklyn
Out to the Island
They always missed Exit 31
And got lost
And had to call from a pay phone
For directions
And when the big, black Chevy
Pulled up in front of our house
It was the signal to breakout
The cold cuts, soda, beer,
Macaroni salad, potato salad,
Hot dogs – and have lunch
And everyone
sat around the
Big kitchen table eating
And “catching up”
And smoking...
Everyone smoked -
Mostly Pall Mall, Camel,
Lucky Strike or Chesterfield
Except my father
Who smoke Raleigh Cigarettes
Because they came with coupons
That were redeemable
For gifts in a catalog
That he let me help him
Pick out
Whenever he had
Accumulated enough
To send away
For something
And as they ate
Someone would start
To tell a story
about what silly thing
one of them said
or done the previous week
And then
someone else would
Jump in an add to it
And slowly
the story would build
In bits and pieces
until it ended
In a eruption of laughter
As they poked fun
At one another
On Saturday nights
Everyone crowded
around the TV
into the living room
to watch Sea Hunt
starring Lloyd Bridges
And as it got later and later
Someone would eventually yawn
and say -
“Well, we’d better be going soon.
It’s a long drive.”
To which my mother to say:
“No, it’s too late to leave now.
You’ll Never find the Parkway in the dark.
Stay over and leave in the morning.”
And then someone would call out-
“OK, but put on another pot.” (of coffee)
Or, “Put on the tea kettle.”
Or,“None for me. I’m turning in.”
And some would stay up -
And some would go to bed -
And as the night dwindled
The last two left at the table
Were always my mother
And Marion -
The two closest sisters
And decades later
Time has stitched
Those moments together
In my mind
like a Crazy Quilt
Made up of many small pieces
That add up
to tell a larger story
That could never be completely unfolded
Blow Fish
When Ginny, the youngest sister,
married Joe Lauro
I was the ring boy at their wedding
Or would have been
Had I not gotten sick
In the back of the Checker Cab
On the way to the church
Joe like to hunt
And had converted a closet
In their Brooklyn apartment
Into an arsenal
He showed it to me once.
It was floor to ceiling guns
And shelves of ammunition.
Later on, he gave it all up
In favor of bow hunting
Saying it required more skill
But before he did
He gave me the first and only gun
I ever owned -
A 22 caliber single shot Remington rifle
Which I used to shoot on Sundays
At an underground rifle range
Out on eastern end of the Island
Joe Lauro took me fishing once
In one of the Long Island bays
I think I was about twelve or thirteen
I had never been fishing before
I caught crazy stuff –
A sea robin, a blow fish and an eel
They scared the hell out of me
When I pulled them out of the water
But my Uncle knew how to handle them -
He cut up the sea robin
And eel for bait
But put the blow fish
In a bucket of water
Later that afternoon,
When we got back to the house,
He cut up the blow fish
And cooked it on the barbecue
Casually mentioning
That parts of them were poisonous
And if not cleaned properly
They could kill a man -
And then he laughed,
And said, “But so can Ginny’s” cooking.
married Joe Lauro
I was the ring boy at their wedding
Or would have been
Had I not gotten sick
In the back of the Checker Cab
On the way to the church
Joe like to hunt
And had converted a closet
In their Brooklyn apartment
Into an arsenal
He showed it to me once.
It was floor to ceiling guns
And shelves of ammunition.
Later on, he gave it all up
In favor of bow hunting
Saying it required more skill
But before he did
He gave me the first and only gun
I ever owned -
A 22 caliber single shot Remington rifle
Which I used to shoot on Sundays
At an underground rifle range
Out on eastern end of the Island
Joe Lauro took me fishing once
In one of the Long Island bays
I think I was about twelve or thirteen
I had never been fishing before
I caught crazy stuff –
A sea robin, a blow fish and an eel
They scared the hell out of me
When I pulled them out of the water
But my Uncle knew how to handle them -
He cut up the sea robin
And eel for bait
But put the blow fish
In a bucket of water
Later that afternoon,
When we got back to the house,
He cut up the blow fish
And cooked it on the barbecue
Casually mentioning
That parts of them were poisonous
And if not cleaned properly
They could kill a man -
And then he laughed,
And said, “But so can Ginny’s” cooking.
Little Mr. Butterball
Margaret
One of the middle sisters
on my mother's side
Liked to laugh
And it didn’t take much
To get her going
And for some reason
My younger brother
Who she called
Little Mr. Butterball
Made her laugh the most
Especially, when he did his silly
Little vaudeville act
Which was nothing more
Than a spontaneous
Wiggly dance
and s series of funny faces -
When my Aunt was in her early twenties
She had baby boy
But put it up for adoption
Twenty years later
Her son found her
And wrote
Asking if he could meet her
They met and things
seemed to be going well
But then he blew his brains out in the woods
Somewhere in New Jersey
But in spite of the tragedy
She pulled through
Mostly Because
She she liked to laugh
Especially, at the antics
Of my brother
Little Mr. Butterball
One of the middle sisters
on my mother's side
Liked to laugh
And it didn’t take much
To get her going
And for some reason
My younger brother
Who she called
Little Mr. Butterball
Made her laugh the most
Especially, when he did his silly
Little vaudeville act
Which was nothing more
Than a spontaneous
Wiggly dance
and s series of funny faces -
When my Aunt was in her early twenties
She had baby boy
But put it up for adoption
Twenty years later
Her son found her
And wrote
Asking if he could meet her
They met and things
seemed to be going well
But then he blew his brains out in the woods
Somewhere in New Jersey
But in spite of the tragedy
She pulled through
Mostly Because
She she liked to laugh
Especially, at the antics
Of my brother
Little Mr. Butterball
Aunt Helen
Because I had gotten
Off the bus
To get the math book
I had left in my locker
And didn’t make it back in time
To get back on before it pulled away
My friend Rudy threw the things
I had left on the seat
From the window
as I ran along side
But I missed catching them
And when my loose leaf
Hit the ground and burst open
It Sprayed the school yard
With all of my papers
Evidence the janitor gathered the next day
And presented to my homeroom teacher
Miss Charlstin -
Stating it was clearly an act of mischief
That required some form of punishment
For his having spent the entire morning
Cleaning it up
She agreed
And made me stay after school
To wash the blackboards
And clean the chalk dust
Out of the erasers
Which I did by holding them out the window
And clapping them together -
Letting the wind blew the white wisps of dust away
After serving my punishment
I returned home that day -
The innocent victim -
Ready to repeat my story
to any one who would listen
But when I got home
I found that my bedroom
Had been turned
Into a hospital room
For my Aunt Helen
Whose heart
Was just about worn out
Even though she had recently
been treated by the famous Dr.Bakey
And just that week
She had Insisted
That she was well enough
to go with us to the World’s Fair
In Flushing Meadows
Where she enjoyed a Belgium waffle
But now she was propped up in my bed
Looking ghostly pale -
Attached to an oxygen tank,
Tangled in tubes
When she motioned
For me to come closer
I thought she wanted
Me to recount my story
Of how my integrity
Had been maligned
But She simply reached out
And held my hand
And when I looked at my hand,
Still covered in chalk dust,
It was almost the same
Pale color of hers
And during that moment
I felt my own weakness
And at the same time
Her enduring strength
Off the bus
To get the math book
I had left in my locker
And didn’t make it back in time
To get back on before it pulled away
My friend Rudy threw the things
I had left on the seat
From the window
as I ran along side
But I missed catching them
And when my loose leaf
Hit the ground and burst open
It Sprayed the school yard
With all of my papers
Evidence the janitor gathered the next day
And presented to my homeroom teacher
Miss Charlstin -
Stating it was clearly an act of mischief
That required some form of punishment
For his having spent the entire morning
Cleaning it up
She agreed
And made me stay after school
To wash the blackboards
And clean the chalk dust
Out of the erasers
Which I did by holding them out the window
And clapping them together -
Letting the wind blew the white wisps of dust away
After serving my punishment
I returned home that day -
The innocent victim -
Ready to repeat my story
to any one who would listen
But when I got home
I found that my bedroom
Had been turned
Into a hospital room
For my Aunt Helen
Whose heart
Was just about worn out
Even though she had recently
been treated by the famous Dr.Bakey
And just that week
She had Insisted
That she was well enough
to go with us to the World’s Fair
In Flushing Meadows
Where she enjoyed a Belgium waffle
But now she was propped up in my bed
Looking ghostly pale -
Attached to an oxygen tank,
Tangled in tubes
When she motioned
For me to come closer
I thought she wanted
Me to recount my story
Of how my integrity
Had been maligned
But She simply reached out
And held my hand
And when I looked at my hand,
Still covered in chalk dust,
It was almost the same
Pale color of hers
And during that moment
I felt my own weakness
And at the same time
Her enduring strength
"Pop"
"Pop” -one of the older brothers
Married Helen Moffo
I never knew
His real name
Because that was what
Everyone always called him
Married Helen Moffo
I never knew
His real name
Because that was what
Everyone always called him
The heart attack
That forced him
To go on disability
Pop had worked his entire life
at the Bazooka Bubble Gum factory
Pop liked telling the story
About the time
One of the workers
Slipped and fell
into one of the mixing vats
And was made into bubble gum
Before anyone could
Shut the machine down
I must have heard the story
a hundred times
and each time he told the story
He swore that it was was true
And the single answer he gave
To every question I posed –
Whether it was, “ What happened to the blood?”
Or, “What happened to his clothes?” –
Was – “They all turned into bubble gum.”
And then he would take out a big bag
Of Bazooka Bubble Gum
And ask: “Would you like a piece?”
I Was the Boy with Pigeon Toed Feet
I was the boy
with pigeon toed feet
with pigeon toed feet
And everyone laughed
At my funny physique
Boy in the class -
Running equally well
In the street or on grass
With long swift strides
I set a fast pace
Went down in disgrace
I was the boy with pigeon toed feet
I was the boy who won every race
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Death of Love
By the window
Watching snow
I knew
When you woke
You’d be hungry
And I knew
I had none
That would
Lessen your pain
Or undo
What had been done
As you slept
All alone
Friday, February 22, 2008
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Reincarnation 2
You came back
One last time
As rain
catalyst
That mixed
With the musk
Of the freshly
Mowed grass
And the fragrance
Of the magnolia blossoms
To produce
The sweat perfume
That was your scent
And for one
Perfect moment
Time and memory
Were tangent -
As I stood
in the legacy
of your garden
Imagining you
in your sun dress
splitting the hostas
As I held your
Small hands
In mine
One more time
Promising
To never let go
As you slipped back
Into the shadows
Where Icouldn't follow
Transient Words
These
Are the words
that come
around
When
The mind
Shuts down
When
There’s nothing
To write-
Hang around
On the corner
Street words -
Good
For nothing
Horsing around
Incomplete
Words -
Outcast
Nondescript
Nothing to say
Words –
No where
To go
No place
To be
Words-
Of their
Short comings
true
to their word
Words
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Every Step
Every step taken
Is a fork
In the road
A new direction
from some place
Or something
To be remembered
Or forgotten
That becomes
Important
Only after
It is too late
To return
Or when
it is gone
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Japanese Stroll Garden
Taking shelter
From
The sudden
Spring shower
In the
Japanese
Tea house
Of Hume Garden
The water
Run down
The rain chain
Until
The sky
Ran dry
And the
Last
Few
Watery beads
Brief
Memories
In time
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Essence
Like
An ancient
Bonsai
A thought
Pruned
down
Syllable
By
Syllable
To reveal
Its
Essence
Takes skill
Patience
and
Discipline
An ancient
Bonsai
A thought
Pruned
down
Syllable
By
Syllable
To reveal
Its
Essence
Takes skill
Patience
and
Discipline
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Shapes
You find a
Shape
And fill it with words
And it becomes
A snail
That slowly
Inches away
A shape
And fill it with words
And it becomes
A snake
That slithers
Into the grass
A shape
And fill it with words
And it becomes
A nest
From which
Two birds emerge
And fly away
A shape
And fill it with words
And it becomes
A universe
That holds
Everything in place
Shape
And fill it with words
And it becomes
A snail
That slowly
Inches away
A shape
And fill it with words
And it becomes
A snake
That slithers
Into the grass
A shape
And fill it with words
And it becomes
A nest
From which
Two birds emerge
And fly away
A shape
And fill it with words
And it becomes
A universe
That holds
Everything in place
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Haiku (9-20-07)
leafless -
the autumn trees
begin
their early morning t'ai chi
their shadows
moving slowly -
imperceptibly -
to the rhythm
of the sun
the autumn trees
begin
their early morning t'ai chi
their shadows
moving slowly -
imperceptibly -
to the rhythm
of the sun
Monday, September 17, 2007
Strength
One at a time
I carry the words
from the mind's quarry
like roughly cut stones
laying them in place
slowly transforming
an amorphous thought
into a poem
into a shape
that can stand
on its own
like an arch,
a bridge,
or a ledge
something strong
something
that will remain
in place
that will bear
its own weight
long after
i am gone
I carry the words
from the mind's quarry
like roughly cut stones
laying them in place
slowly transforming
an amorphous thought
into a poem
into a shape
that can stand
on its own
like an arch,
a bridge,
or a ledge
something strong
something
that will remain
in place
that will bear
its own weight
long after
i am gone
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Double or Nothing
Suppose Death
Came to you
And whispered
Under its breath -
Listen,
I have a proposition
to make -
Double or nothing.
Would you take the bet?
Or push it away
And say -
Come back again in
A decade or two
And I'll tell you then.
But as you get older
Your value declines -
And when death
Comes a second time
And you say -
I’m ready to bet.
Death just laughs
And says -
Sorry,
No more bets -
You’ve exceeded
Your credit -
I’m here to collect.
Came to you
And whispered
Under its breath -
Listen,
I have a proposition
to make -
Double or nothing.
Would you take the bet?
Or push it away
And say -
Come back again in
A decade or two
And I'll tell you then.
But as you get older
Your value declines -
And when death
Comes a second time
And you say -
I’m ready to bet.
Death just laughs
And says -
Sorry,
No more bets -
You’ve exceeded
Your credit -
I’m here to collect.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
The Rain is Overly Generous
The rain
Is overly
generous
Giving us
More than
enough
Instead
Of just
enough
Not because
it is
extravagant
Simply
because
There is
no way
For it to
measure
too little,
or too
much
or just
enough
So it
falls
Until
There
is Nothing
Left
And love
Should be
Like the rain
Giving itself
To the point
Of depletion
Drenching
The body
Penetrating
the soul
Right down
To the bone
So when you
Are alone
In a place
Where
It never rains
You will
Still remember
How love felt
How it
might feel
again
Is overly
generous
Giving us
More than
enough
Instead
Of just
enough
Not because
it is
extravagant
Simply
because
There is
no way
For it to
measure
too little,
or too
much
or just
enough
So it
falls
Until
There
is Nothing
Left
And love
Should be
Like the rain
Giving itself
To the point
Of depletion
Drenching
The body
Penetrating
the soul
Right down
To the bone
So when you
Are alone
In a place
Where
It never rains
You will
Still remember
How love felt
How it
might feel
again
Friday, August 31, 2007
After Image
You appear suddenly
In some meandering thought
And when I see you - you look lost
And stare at me with a puzzled face
That says - why you have brought me
Back to this place?
And I say - I have not brought you here
You occupy this spot in memory
In some meandering thought
And when I see you - you look lost
And stare at me with a puzzled face
That says - why you have brought me
Back to this place?
And I say - I have not brought you here
You occupy this spot in memory
In time you will decay
But for now it has to be this way.
But for now it has to be this way.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Second Wind
my fifth grade
gym teacher
always talked about
a second wind
and we would sit
listening to him
explain how runners
called upon it
when their energy
was completely spent
when the muscles
in their legs
turned to cement
when their lungs
and chest
burned
from the lack
of breath
how a second wind
would rise up
from somewhere
within
and push them
forward
and across
the finish line
and although
we raced
across the
playground
trying
to induce it
in our
young bodies
we never
could
it was only later
that i learned
it was something
that had to be earned
through competition
and perseverance
and once earned
lasted forever
and knowing
that i could depend
on this second wind
this miraculous breath
to provide me
with the endurance
to complete each day
and be ready
for the next
has made all the difference
gym teacher
always talked about
a second wind
and we would sit
listening to him
explain how runners
called upon it
when their energy
was completely spent
when the muscles
in their legs
turned to cement
when their lungs
and chest
burned
from the lack
of breath
how a second wind
would rise up
from somewhere
within
and push them
forward
and across
the finish line
and although
we raced
across the
playground
trying
to induce it
in our
young bodies
we never
could
it was only later
that i learned
it was something
that had to be earned
through competition
and perseverance
and once earned
lasted forever
and knowing
that i could depend
on this second wind
this miraculous breath
to provide me
with the endurance
to complete each day
and be ready
for the next
has made all the difference
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Two Kinds of Poems
You know
A good poem
By the way
It runs out
Ahead
Full of
Wild spirit
Rearing up
Kicking the air
Whenever
You come
Near it
And you know
The other kind
The one
You have
To push
And nudge
That refuses
To budge
That finally sprints
Away in defiance
Stumbling
To the ground
Coming up lame
Having to be
Put down
A good poem
By the way
It runs out
Ahead
Full of
Wild spirit
Rearing up
Kicking the air
Whenever
You come
Near it
And you know
The other kind
The one
You have
To push
And nudge
That refuses
To budge
That finally sprints
Away in defiance
Stumbling
To the ground
Coming up lame
Having to be
Put down
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Baleful Men Will Come Again
If we let them
They will come again
Just as they did back then
Dark baleful men
Dressed in foreboding uniforms
Wearing sinister insignias
Carrying guns
Shooting bullets
Through the flesh
Malignant men
who think
hey can censure words
Put freedom to death
By burning books
Not knowing that fire
Makes the them stronger
And when they look up
They will see them
Gathering over head
In flocks so massive
They fill the entire sky
Like thick black ashes
And even then
They'll fail to understand
That the words
Are not flying away
But responding to a cry
As they descend upon their prey
They will come again
Just as they did back then
Dark baleful men
Dressed in foreboding uniforms
Wearing sinister insignias
Carrying guns
Shooting bullets
Through the flesh
Malignant men
who think
hey can censure words
Put freedom to death
By burning books
Not knowing that fire
Makes the them stronger
And when they look up
They will see them
Gathering over head
In flocks so massive
They fill the entire sky
Like thick black ashes
And even then
They'll fail to understand
That the words
Are not flying away
But responding to a cry
As they descend upon their prey
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Some Day
You stood gazing
Dreamily at the horizon
Thinking…some day
Some day soon
I will follow one of those roads
One of those rivers, cross over
That vast ocean
To some place new
But the world continued to spin
While you stood still
And Time wrapped you tightly
Like a spider’s prey
Until it was impossible to get away.
Dreamily at the horizon
Thinking…some day
Some day soon
I will follow one of those roads
One of those rivers, cross over
That vast ocean
To some place new
But the world continued to spin
While you stood still
And Time wrapped you tightly
Like a spider’s prey
Until it was impossible to get away.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
on ee cummings poems
he
starved
his
poems
until
they
were
just
skin
and
bones
even
denying
them
punct
u
ation
but
by
paring
them
down
to
their
core
he
exposed
their
essence
and
by
doing so
he
gave
us
more
starved
his
poems
until
they
were
just
skin
and
bones
even
denying
them
punct
u
ation
but
by
paring
them
down
to
their
core
he
exposed
their
essence
and
by
doing so
he
gave
us
more
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Obesity of Prose Poems
I’ve noticed of late
That many poems
Are just obese
Paragraphs of prose
Of startling proportions
Masquerading around as poems
Super sized
and bloated by
Too many words
Taking up
entirely
Too much space
On the reader's plate
I blame our society
For this blight on poetry –
For we have let our poems
Go the way of our bodies
Eating superfluous words
Addicted to phonemes
and morphemes
Now, I don't mean to imply
That all poems are fat.
All I am saying
Is that the majority
Of Prose Poems
Could benefit from a diet.
Nor am I recommending
that everyone stop reading
These Unhealthy,
super sized poems
Cold turkey
Nor am I suggesting
The other extreme
That we get back
To the anorexic poems
that are nothing
but skin and bones
and sans punctuation
And yes,
I also realize
that haiku
is little more
than a bite-sized snack
And hardly enough
To curb a reader's
Hunger attack)
(and the same
can be said
of the tanka
and the cinquain
mere morsals
to the gourmond)
So what's the answer
To this conundrum:
Use less words?
Chew gum?
Twiddle your thumbs?
That many poems
Are just obese
Paragraphs of prose
Of startling proportions
Masquerading around as poems
Super sized
and bloated by
Too many words
Taking up
entirely
Too much space
On the reader's plate
I blame our society
For this blight on poetry –
For we have let our poems
Go the way of our bodies
Eating superfluous words
Addicted to phonemes
and morphemes
Now, I don't mean to imply
That all poems are fat.
All I am saying
Is that the majority
Of Prose Poems
Could benefit from a diet.
Nor am I recommending
that everyone stop reading
These Unhealthy,
super sized poems
Cold turkey
Nor am I suggesting
The other extreme
That we get back
To the anorexic poems
that are nothing
but skin and bones
and sans punctuation
And yes,
I also realize
that haiku
is little more
than a bite-sized snack
And hardly enough
To curb a reader's
Hunger attack)
(and the same
can be said
of the tanka
and the cinquain
mere morsals
to the gourmond)
So what's the answer
To this conundrum:
Use less words?
Chew gum?
Twiddle your thumbs?
If You Think Too Much
If you think too much
About the next rhyme
Like bait on the end
Of a fishing Line
You’ll never pull
A word from the sea -
You’ll always come up empty –
But if you cast your line
With a blank mind
You’ll hook one every time
And never go hungry.
About the next rhyme
Like bait on the end
Of a fishing Line
You’ll never pull
A word from the sea -
You’ll always come up empty –
But if you cast your line
With a blank mind
You’ll hook one every time
And never go hungry.
I
a green uprising
of grass
weaving the sunlight
sings in the medow
II
April's silent
rain
is a monastary
May
a cloister of flowers
a green uprising
of grass
weaving the sunlight
sings in the medow
II
April's silent
rain
is a monastary
May
a cloister of flowers
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The Poetry Tree
If there were such a thing
As a poetry tree
It would be a simple tree
And grow simple fruit
Like the apple or the peach
But the fruit would grow
High out of the reach
Of every passerby
And each piece of fruit
Would remain personified
In a perfectly ripened state
Regardless of the season
And eating this fruit
Would be strictly forbidden
But if for some reason
You could enjoy this feast
You would find it had no taste
Neither bitter nor sweet
But existed for one reason -
To solicit temptation
As a poetry tree
It would be a simple tree
And grow simple fruit
Like the apple or the peach
But the fruit would grow
High out of the reach
Of every passerby
And each piece of fruit
Would remain personified
In a perfectly ripened state
Regardless of the season
And eating this fruit
Would be strictly forbidden
But if for some reason
You could enjoy this feast
You would find it had no taste
Neither bitter nor sweet
But existed for one reason -
To solicit temptation
Monday, August 13, 2007
An Exit Interview with the Princess
The reason you weren't hired
Or, rather, why we rejected your application
Is because you lack imagination
But there’s no shame in that
Most people who lack the ability to see
The extraordinary and only the ordinay
Are still able to lead perfectly normal lives
Although a few do commit suicide
She took a drag of her cigarette
And in one long breath
Exhaled a thick cloud of smoke
And then cleared her throat
Take for example, the staircase
Between the first and second floors
You see it as a conveyance of steps
To get you from one floor to the next
We see it as a diagonal drawbridge
That leads to a castle in the sky
To you these rooms are just the rooms
But to us they're inns along the highway
Where we can stop and rest
At the end of each day's journey
And yet for all that you miss
You still see yourself as a Princess
But, clearly, you are only a business woman
Wearing a Cinderella dress
And with that she lit another cigarette
And left in a trail of smoke
To look for a job in another fairy tale
One that required a dragon
Or, rather, why we rejected your application
Is because you lack imagination
But there’s no shame in that
Most people who lack the ability to see
The extraordinary and only the ordinay
Are still able to lead perfectly normal lives
Although a few do commit suicide
She took a drag of her cigarette
And in one long breath
Exhaled a thick cloud of smoke
And then cleared her throat
Take for example, the staircase
Between the first and second floors
You see it as a conveyance of steps
To get you from one floor to the next
We see it as a diagonal drawbridge
That leads to a castle in the sky
To you these rooms are just the rooms
But to us they're inns along the highway
Where we can stop and rest
At the end of each day's journey
And yet for all that you miss
You still see yourself as a Princess
But, clearly, you are only a business woman
Wearing a Cinderella dress
And with that she lit another cigarette
And left in a trail of smoke
To look for a job in another fairy tale
One that required a dragon
Part Of the Poem
Your fingers walk across the keyboard
And the words they leave behind
Become the small footprints
That lead to one of your poems
Later someone follows them
And finds the door you left unlocked
They knock - but no one is home
They enter your poem - Alone
The ceiling is swirling with clouds
The walls are as fluid as the wind
They are standing in the vortex
of a metamorphosis
They sit in one of the comfortable
Over sized chairs
And close their eyes… to rest
For what seems only a moment
But their dreams spin them into a
Deep chrysalis of sleep
And when they awaken
and it is time to leave
They take with them the part of the poem
They have written
And the words they leave behind
Become the small footprints
That lead to one of your poems
Later someone follows them
And finds the door you left unlocked
They knock - but no one is home
They enter your poem - Alone
The ceiling is swirling with clouds
The walls are as fluid as the wind
They are standing in the vortex
of a metamorphosis
They sit in one of the comfortable
Over sized chairs
And close their eyes… to rest
For what seems only a moment
But their dreams spin them into a
Deep chrysalis of sleep
And when they awaken
and it is time to leave
They take with them the part of the poem
They have written
Sunday, August 12, 2007
The Dream Factory
He worked with dreams
His entire life -
Sometimes days,
but mostly nights -
The machine he ran had lots of parts.
And every night at the stroke of nine
He pushed the button labeled START
To begin production on the line
And filled the empty sleepy heads
of all the people lying in bed
with spontaneous dreams
from his magic machine -
Which was for the longest time
The top of the line
but being mechanical
began to decline
And was replaced with one of virtual design
And like his machine
He he became obsolete
And was asked to retire,
So they wished him well
and sent him off
With genuine praise
From his immediate boss -
Who said his departure
Was a tremendous loss -
But within two days
They had a new hire
(To whom they gave
an immediate raise)
They gave him a big,
Farewell luncheon
And everyone who came
Swore they'd always remember
His invaluable contributions -
But for all their spontaneous,
heartfelt intentions
In less than a year
He was hardly mentioned.
He lived out his life
In relative peace
And then one day
He died in his sleep
And the last dream
He dreamed
was his to keep...
His entire life -
Sometimes days,
but mostly nights -
The machine he ran had lots of parts.
And every night at the stroke of nine
He pushed the button labeled START
To begin production on the line
And filled the empty sleepy heads
of all the people lying in bed
with spontaneous dreams
from his magic machine -
Which was for the longest time
The top of the line
but being mechanical
began to decline
And was replaced with one of virtual design
And like his machine
He he became obsolete
And was asked to retire,
So they wished him well
and sent him off
With genuine praise
From his immediate boss -
Who said his departure
Was a tremendous loss -
But within two days
They had a new hire
(To whom they gave
an immediate raise)
They gave him a big,
Farewell luncheon
And everyone who came
Swore they'd always remember
His invaluable contributions -
But for all their spontaneous,
heartfelt intentions
In less than a year
He was hardly mentioned.
He lived out his life
In relative peace
And then one day
He died in his sleep
And the last dream
He dreamed
was his to keep...
Saturday, August 11, 2007
After You Left
After you left
I laid the poems of Charles Bukowski
And Pablo Neruda out side by side
To compare their suffering to mine
But it was too much suffering
For the moon to bear
It cried out in agony and went blind
Plunging the night into total darkness
The wind stopped breathing
Gravity lost its grip
And let everything slip
Slowly away into the vacuum of space
And I was left to drift
In an empty universe
Lit dimly by stars
Scattered from one end to the other
I laid the poems of Charles Bukowski
And Pablo Neruda out side by side
To compare their suffering to mine
But it was too much suffering
For the moon to bear
It cried out in agony and went blind
Plunging the night into total darkness
The wind stopped breathing
Gravity lost its grip
And let everything slip
Slowly away into the vacuum of space
And I was left to drift
In an empty universe
Lit dimly by stars
Scattered from one end to the other
Death is A Cat
Death comes
at you
not
cloaked
in
a hood
wielding
a
scythe
It comes
at you
like
a cat
right
out
of
the
damn
litter
box
right
after
taking
a
stinking
cat shit
Circling
your feet
rubbing
its head
against
your
leg
nudging
you
until
you
acknowledge
its
presence
or
kick it
away
at you
not
cloaked
in
a hood
wielding
a
scythe
It comes
at you
like
a cat
right
out
of
the
damn
litter
box
right
after
taking
a
stinking
cat shit
Circling
your feet
rubbing
its head
against
your
leg
nudging
you
until
you
acknowledge
its
presence
or
kick it
away
Meaningless Wishes
How many small,
Meaningless wishes
Do we make in a lifetime?
Wishes for options
Other than the ones
We are all stuck with
Small meaningless wishes
That pass through our minds
Like debris in the wind
Blown into oblivion
Where they die
Only to be reborn again
Meaningless wishes
Do we make in a lifetime?
Wishes for options
Other than the ones
We are all stuck with
Small meaningless wishes
That pass through our minds
Like debris in the wind
Blown into oblivion
Where they die
Only to be reborn again
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Stay on the Line
Please read carefully
As our poems have changed
To better serve your needs
Select Poem one
If you are interested
In a poem about life
Select Poem two
If you are interested
A poem about death
Select Poem three
If you are interested
In a poem about sex
For all other poems
Please stay on the line
And one of our poets
Will be with you shortly
As our poems have changed
To better serve your needs
Select Poem one
If you are interested
In a poem about life
Select Poem two
If you are interested
A poem about death
Select Poem three
If you are interested
In a poem about sex
For all other poems
Please stay on the line
And one of our poets
Will be with you shortly
Saturday, August 04, 2007
A Poet's Alimony Poem: At a loss of words
I sent you all the words
From the poems I wrote
Everything you demanded
In your curt little note
I hope you are happy
Now that I am broke
From the poems I wrote
Everything you demanded
In your curt little note
I hope you are happy
Now that I am broke
Someone Else's River
For years, your love flowed freely
By the simple act of gravity,
Filling the reservoir of my heart
To its capacity
But now that river has stopped flowing
And the water has either seeped
Back into the ground
Or evaporated up into the sky
(Water has so many places it can hide)
Leaving behind a dry river bed
Cut into the earth like a scar
But the water will flow again
When the mountain snow melts
And mixes with the spring rain
And in time, even the scar will heal
But the river will not be the same
It will be someone else‘s river
And I will call it by a different name
By the simple act of gravity,
Filling the reservoir of my heart
To its capacity
But now that river has stopped flowing
And the water has either seeped
Back into the ground
Or evaporated up into the sky
(Water has so many places it can hide)
Leaving behind a dry river bed
Cut into the earth like a scar
But the water will flow again
When the mountain snow melts
And mixes with the spring rain
And in time, even the scar will heal
But the river will not be the same
It will be someone else‘s river
And I will call it by a different name
A Poem Built For Speed
I like a poem
That is sleek
And swift -
A poem
That can zip
In and out
of traffic-
A poem
You can use
To cruise
Past the exits
That takes
You out
To the wide
Open spaces
Away from
the crowds
Away from
The faces
That is sleek
And swift -
A poem
That can zip
In and out
of traffic-
A poem
You can use
To cruise
Past the exits
That takes
You out
To the wide
Open spaces
Away from
the crowds
Away from
The faces
To Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski
Knew how thin skin was
How it barely covered the bones
How it hardly kept the soul warm
How it wasn’t wrinkle resistant
Or impervious to blood stains
How it was your only home
Through thick and thin
How it made us human
(Or inhuman if you prefer)
And when it was worn out
And time to give it up
To the check-in girl in Hell
She’d take it and hand you
Back a blank claim ticket
And send you on your way
A rickety rack of bones
And then call out...next
And Bukowski also knew
That because you didn’t tip in Hell
She’d rifle your pockets
The minute you were gone
And rob you blind
Right down to your last cigarette
After all what did you expect?
It was Hell - Death has no etiquette.
Bukowski also knew
That life was a knife fight
Mostly with yourself
Where you would slice
And be sliced but not fatally
So you could live to tell the story
Another day
But what he knew the most about
Was the bluebird
That he kept locked up in his heart
That he said he’d never let anyone see
But which he let sing freely
His whole life
Loud and undisturbed
Knew how thin skin was
How it barely covered the bones
How it hardly kept the soul warm
How it wasn’t wrinkle resistant
Or impervious to blood stains
How it was your only home
Through thick and thin
How it made us human
(Or inhuman if you prefer)
And when it was worn out
And time to give it up
To the check-in girl in Hell
She’d take it and hand you
Back a blank claim ticket
And send you on your way
A rickety rack of bones
And then call out...next
And Bukowski also knew
That because you didn’t tip in Hell
She’d rifle your pockets
The minute you were gone
And rob you blind
Right down to your last cigarette
After all what did you expect?
It was Hell - Death has no etiquette.
Bukowski also knew
That life was a knife fight
Mostly with yourself
Where you would slice
And be sliced but not fatally
So you could live to tell the story
Another day
But what he knew the most about
Was the bluebird
That he kept locked up in his heart
That he said he’d never let anyone see
But which he let sing freely
His whole life
Loud and undisturbed
The Scrap of a Dream
At four A.M.
Emerging from a restless sleep
I witness the final moment
Of an encounter
between my conscious
And unconscious mind
Over the last scrap of a dream
I remember seeing
the unconscious mind
time a perfect leap
and tear it from the jaws
of the conscious mind
Like a vicious scavenger
And then just as quickly
retreat deep into memory
Leaving the conscious mind
Looking on helplessly
And still hungry
Emerging from a restless sleep
I witness the final moment
Of an encounter
between my conscious
And unconscious mind
Over the last scrap of a dream
I remember seeing
the unconscious mind
time a perfect leap
and tear it from the jaws
of the conscious mind
Like a vicious scavenger
And then just as quickly
retreat deep into memory
Leaving the conscious mind
Looking on helplessly
And still hungry
Opportunities
They hang
just above our heads
And ripen
like fruit in season
But before you can reach
Up to pick one
from
A low hanging branch
They have all fallen
at your feet
And you’ve missed
your chance
To taste
life’s sweet profusion
And now must wait
another season
just above our heads
And ripen
like fruit in season
But before you can reach
Up to pick one
from
A low hanging branch
They have all fallen
at your feet
And you’ve missed
your chance
To taste
life’s sweet profusion
And now must wait
another season
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Morning Grub
All morning
I hear the woodpecker
Rap tapping at some dead tree
Looking for his morning grub
Of bugs buried in the bark
While I’m inside
Pecking at this paper
(That came from a tree)
Looking for my
Morning grub
Of words buried
Somewhere on this page
To feed my hungry poems
And having no success -
How about you bird?
Were you lucky?
I hear the woodpecker
Rap tapping at some dead tree
Looking for his morning grub
Of bugs buried in the bark
While I’m inside
Pecking at this paper
(That came from a tree)
Looking for my
Morning grub
Of words buried
Somewhere on this page
To feed my hungry poems
And having no success -
How about you bird?
Were you lucky?
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
The Witches Are Back
The witches
are back
in their sharp
pointed hats
and their long
flowing capes
And that
thing in a sack
That tried
to escape
Just got eaten
by a something
That crawled
out of the lake
And the moon
Stares down
From high
in the sky
Like an
unblinking eye
At the wings
Of a bat
And the black
Of a cat
And things
Even darker
Much darker
Than that
And wherever
you go
your shadow
goes too
So I’d stay
Out of sight
Before it comes
After you
are back
in their sharp
pointed hats
and their long
flowing capes
And that
thing in a sack
That tried
to escape
Just got eaten
by a something
That crawled
out of the lake
And the moon
Stares down
From high
in the sky
Like an
unblinking eye
At the wings
Of a bat
And the black
Of a cat
And things
Even darker
Much darker
Than that
And wherever
you go
your shadow
goes too
So I’d stay
Out of sight
Before it comes
After you
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Cozmic Jazz
I know of a place
Where nothing is straight
Where the streets
All wiggle like garden snakes
Where the sidewalks talk
To your feet as you walk
Where the wind can
Whistle any tune
And the cartoon moon
Has a happy face
And the stars all dance
Down a long staircase
To the cozmic jazz
Far off in space
Yes, I know of a place
oh yeah
Where nothing is straight
Where the streets
All wiggle like garden snakes
Where the sidewalks talk
To your feet as you walk
Where the wind can
Whistle any tune
And the cartoon moon
Has a happy face
And the stars all dance
Down a long staircase
To the cozmic jazz
Far off in space
Yes, I know of a place
oh yeah
The Scariest Witch I Ever Knew
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had two knobby knees and legs that were bowed
And limped with a limp and wore just one shoe
Had warts on her lips from eating small toads!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had hair on her back and hands like a chimp
Had one loose tooth and a tongue that was blue
And breath that smelled like a bucket of shrimp!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had fungus and mold instead of real skin -
And a mixed up face like a pot of stew:
One eye looked out and the other looked in!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had not just one but two separate heads
I swear this to you, I swear it is true!
One was alive and the other was dead!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had long finger nails as sharp as steel knives
That scraped on the sky whenever she flew
And if you got too close she’d scratch you, too!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Isn't any of those I just described -
It's the one that’s standing right next to you –
Well, gotta run – it's been fun – so good bye!
Had two knobby knees and legs that were bowed
And limped with a limp and wore just one shoe
Had warts on her lips from eating small toads!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had hair on her back and hands like a chimp
Had one loose tooth and a tongue that was blue
And breath that smelled like a bucket of shrimp!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had fungus and mold instead of real skin -
And a mixed up face like a pot of stew:
One eye looked out and the other looked in!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had not just one but two separate heads
I swear this to you, I swear it is true!
One was alive and the other was dead!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Had long finger nails as sharp as steel knives
That scraped on the sky whenever she flew
And if you got too close she’d scratch you, too!
The scariest witch that I ever knew
Isn't any of those I just described -
It's the one that’s standing right next to you –
Well, gotta run – it's been fun – so good bye!
Monday, July 30, 2007
Racing Time
In my youth I challenged you to a race -
My lungs and legs were powerful and strong,
And throughout my lifetime I set the pace
Over a course that was distant and long.
For most of those years it was I who lead,
While you trailed far behind no where in sight,
And during those moments I ran ahead
Propelled by the joy and beauty of life.
But towards the end you appeared from no where,
And for a while I matched you stride for stride
Till I dropped back and stopped, not from despair,
But knowing in my heart that I had tried
To go the distance in a race with Time
Over a course that had no finish line.
My lungs and legs were powerful and strong,
And throughout my lifetime I set the pace
Over a course that was distant and long.
For most of those years it was I who lead,
While you trailed far behind no where in sight,
And during those moments I ran ahead
Propelled by the joy and beauty of life.
But towards the end you appeared from no where,
And for a while I matched you stride for stride
Till I dropped back and stopped, not from despair,
But knowing in my heart that I had tried
To go the distance in a race with Time
Over a course that had no finish line.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
A List of Things That Are Thin
This
Is a list
Of things
That are thin:
The curve
Of a dish
Warm sunlight
On skin,
A weather vane,
turned
into
the wind
the fin
of a fish,
a shadow
a wish,
The last
kiss
You left
on my
lips
Is a list
Of things
That are thin:
The curve
Of a dish
Warm sunlight
On skin,
A weather vane,
turned
into
the wind
the fin
of a fish,
a shadow
a wish,
The last
kiss
You left
on my
lips
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Spontaneous Story
You go out for a drive
With no particular
Destination in mind –
No particular route mapped out –
No particular time to arrive
At the place you don’t know
You are going to.
The windows are down,
You’re left arm
Resting on the door,
Sunburned the color of a peach.
The inrushing air is deafening
And then suddenly you see it –
A big overstuffed couch,
Abandoned in a field.
You stop and stare at it.
How did it get to this field?
Did someone drive up?
Let it out, drive away
And abandon it like a dog?
This couch is massive.
The Plymouth Rock of couches -
A missing monolith from Stonehenge
And then some poor young couple
Comes along and builds a house around it
They sit on it at night and watch TV.
They share it with family and company.
And then one day the wife says -
This old thing has got to go.
Get it out of here!
So the husband puts it out at the curb.
But the next morning the couch
Is back in the house
And the wife says: I thought I
Told you to get rid of this couch!
You did. I did: The husband stammers.
So this time he loads it into his pickup
And his wife says I’m coming, too.
So they drive around looking
For a place the dump the couch.
Finally, they find a big empty field
And they stop. The husband and wife
Get out and dump it into the field.
It rolls end over end and lands upright.
As the couple turns to leave
The couch speaks:
I am not really a couch.
I am a magic coach.
I only changed a few letters in my name
So I could disguise myself.
My King sent me here
To find a couple to take over his kingdom
For he is ailing.
I thought you might be that couple,
But you aren’t.
You treated me kindly at first,
Like part of your family,
But then you tried to abandon me in this field.
Wait, we are really kind and loving.
No, I am sorry, you are not.
And now I must go.
And with that the couch
Turned into a beautiful golden coach
And flew back up into the heavens.
And the couple,
Unable to recover from their stupidity,
became homeless,
And spend the rest of their lives
Pushing around shopping carts
Full of discarded odds and ends,
Looking in fields
For large abandoned couches
That might be magic coaches
With no particular
Destination in mind –
No particular route mapped out –
No particular time to arrive
At the place you don’t know
You are going to.
The windows are down,
You’re left arm
Resting on the door,
Sunburned the color of a peach.
The inrushing air is deafening
And then suddenly you see it –
A big overstuffed couch,
Abandoned in a field.
You stop and stare at it.
How did it get to this field?
Did someone drive up?
Let it out, drive away
And abandon it like a dog?
This couch is massive.
The Plymouth Rock of couches -
A missing monolith from Stonehenge
And then some poor young couple
Comes along and builds a house around it
They sit on it at night and watch TV.
They share it with family and company.
And then one day the wife says -
This old thing has got to go.
Get it out of here!
So the husband puts it out at the curb.
But the next morning the couch
Is back in the house
And the wife says: I thought I
Told you to get rid of this couch!
You did. I did: The husband stammers.
So this time he loads it into his pickup
And his wife says I’m coming, too.
So they drive around looking
For a place the dump the couch.
Finally, they find a big empty field
And they stop. The husband and wife
Get out and dump it into the field.
It rolls end over end and lands upright.
As the couple turns to leave
The couch speaks:
I am not really a couch.
I am a magic coach.
I only changed a few letters in my name
So I could disguise myself.
My King sent me here
To find a couple to take over his kingdom
For he is ailing.
I thought you might be that couple,
But you aren’t.
You treated me kindly at first,
Like part of your family,
But then you tried to abandon me in this field.
Wait, we are really kind and loving.
No, I am sorry, you are not.
And now I must go.
And with that the couch
Turned into a beautiful golden coach
And flew back up into the heavens.
And the couple,
Unable to recover from their stupidity,
became homeless,
And spend the rest of their lives
Pushing around shopping carts
Full of discarded odds and ends,
Looking in fields
For large abandoned couches
That might be magic coaches
Spring (1)
Each day
The spring rain
Washes away
A little more
Of the gray ashtray
Color of winter
Until only
A few stubborn
Stubs of snow
Remain
In the shadows
Of the house shrubs
The spring rain
Washes away
A little more
Of the gray ashtray
Color of winter
Until only
A few stubborn
Stubs of snow
Remain
In the shadows
Of the house shrubs
Monday, July 23, 2007
Shift
For years
You can look at a poem
And everything appears fine
And then one day
You find a word
That no longer belongs -
Perhaps never belonged,
Or a space
Where a word
Should have been
But wasn't put in
for whatever reason
So you remove a word
Or insert a word,
Depending on the case,
And everything
Seemingly
Falls back into place
And then you wonder
What impact
If any
That small alteration
Had on the universe,
On the meaning
Of things
Perhaps nothing
Perhaps everything
You can look at a poem
And everything appears fine
And then one day
You find a word
That no longer belongs -
Perhaps never belonged,
Or a space
Where a word
Should have been
But wasn't put in
for whatever reason
So you remove a word
Or insert a word,
Depending on the case,
And everything
Seemingly
Falls back into place
And then you wonder
What impact
If any
That small alteration
Had on the universe,
On the meaning
Of things
Perhaps nothing
Perhaps everything
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Tanka (1)
Ringing in my ears
Makes it very hard to hear.
What did you just say?
I don’t listen anyway!
Let's end this conversation.
Makes it very hard to hear.
What did you just say?
I don’t listen anyway!
Let's end this conversation.
Sparks
failing
to ignite
the damp
kindling
in the cool
night air
i look up
at
a billion
sparking
stars
and laugh
to ignite
the damp
kindling
in the cool
night air
i look up
at
a billion
sparking
stars
and laugh
Friday, July 20, 2007
Bamboo Mountain
On Bamboo Mountain
The walls of our house
Were made of wind
And the moon
was our lantern.
We slept
In a soft bed
Made of shadows -
But that
Was a long time ago -
Before
Your restless wishes
Became a river
And you sailed away
in a boat
made of dreams.
I stayed behind
Thinking
You would return -
But rivers
Only flow
In one direction.
And now
For the first time
Snow has fallen
On Bamboo Mountain.
The walls of our house
Were made of wind
And the moon
was our lantern.
We slept
In a soft bed
Made of shadows -
But that
Was a long time ago -
Before
Your restless wishes
Became a river
And you sailed away
in a boat
made of dreams.
I stayed behind
Thinking
You would return -
But rivers
Only flow
In one direction.
And now
For the first time
Snow has fallen
On Bamboo Mountain.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Enemies
In elementary school
Our defense against the atomic bomb
Was to either crouch under a desk
Or in front of the hallway lockers
In the fetal-frog position
As an extra precaution
Talking was prohibited
Just in case the missiles
Had voice seeking capabilities -
But we whispered anyway
And if you happened to be placed
Next to one of the heating pipes
That ran down the wall
From the ceiling to the floor
Someone would make the whistling sound
Of a bomb traveling through the pipe,
Like in a 3 Stooges episode,
Followed by an explosion
This would make everyone
In the vicinity laugh
And bring reprimands
From one of the roving teachers
To quiet down or else…
But today it is different
The children do not crouch
In school hallways or hide under desks
To survive their enemy
Like we did in the Fifties and Sixties
Their enemy cannot unleash
One bomb and achieve
The type of mass annihilation
Of the Cold War missiles
And they have no silly jokes
To break the tension
Their enemy is like the Mythical
Monster that lives in the darkness
Under the bed –
And chooses one victim at a time
Our defense against the atomic bomb
Was to either crouch under a desk
Or in front of the hallway lockers
In the fetal-frog position
As an extra precaution
Talking was prohibited
Just in case the missiles
Had voice seeking capabilities -
But we whispered anyway
And if you happened to be placed
Next to one of the heating pipes
That ran down the wall
From the ceiling to the floor
Someone would make the whistling sound
Of a bomb traveling through the pipe,
Like in a 3 Stooges episode,
Followed by an explosion
This would make everyone
In the vicinity laugh
And bring reprimands
From one of the roving teachers
To quiet down or else…
But today it is different
The children do not crouch
In school hallways or hide under desks
To survive their enemy
Like we did in the Fifties and Sixties
Their enemy cannot unleash
One bomb and achieve
The type of mass annihilation
Of the Cold War missiles
And they have no silly jokes
To break the tension
Their enemy is like the Mythical
Monster that lives in the darkness
Under the bed –
And chooses one victim at a time
Sunday, July 08, 2007
A Journey from A to Z
You mark the route
On the map
A journey from A to Z
And then head out
And drive until
The monotony
Sets in
So you exit
The freeway
And soon you are lost
So you pull over
And ask for directions
But no one can tell you
Where you are
They simply say:
"You are here.
This is the place”
And then you notice
That every street
Has the same name
Every face you meet
Looks the same
So you get back in the car
Reenter the freeway
And continue to drive
Until the monotony
Sets in again
And you exit
The freeway to rest
Soon you are lost
So you pull over
Get out of the car
And ask for directions
But no one can tell you
Where you are
They simply repeat –
“You are here.
This is the place”
And then you notice
That every street
Has the same name
Every face you meet
Looks the same
So you get back
in your car
And pull onto
On the expressway
But this time
You head back home
And get off at Exit A
As you drive
A car pulls along side
Someone leans out
And asks for directions
He is lost
You say:
“You are here.
This is the place.”
He looks you in the face
And then speeds away.
He was wearing your face.
Driving your car...
On the map
A journey from A to Z
And then head out
And drive until
The monotony
Sets in
So you exit
The freeway
And soon you are lost
So you pull over
And ask for directions
But no one can tell you
Where you are
They simply say:
"You are here.
This is the place”
And then you notice
That every street
Has the same name
Every face you meet
Looks the same
So you get back in the car
Reenter the freeway
And continue to drive
Until the monotony
Sets in again
And you exit
The freeway to rest
Soon you are lost
So you pull over
Get out of the car
And ask for directions
But no one can tell you
Where you are
They simply repeat –
“You are here.
This is the place”
And then you notice
That every street
Has the same name
Every face you meet
Looks the same
So you get back
in your car
And pull onto
On the expressway
But this time
You head back home
And get off at Exit A
As you drive
A car pulls along side
Someone leans out
And asks for directions
He is lost
You say:
“You are here.
This is the place.”
He looks you in the face
And then speeds away.
He was wearing your face.
Driving your car...
Saturday, July 07, 2007
EAT
Thank god
The tongue
Doesn’t fear
The teeth
Thank god
They exist
In peace
One to taste-
The other
To chew
The meat
Not
Separate
And free
Like hands
Or feet
They Share
A tight
Space
Behind
The face
The teeth
Fixed
In place -
The
Tongue
Moving
Around
Like
The Head
Of
A Snake
Working
in tandem
To clean
The plate
Thank god
The tongue
Doesn’t fear
The teeth
How else
could we eat
The tongue
Doesn’t fear
The teeth
Thank god
They exist
In peace
One to taste-
The other
To chew
The meat
Not
Separate
And free
Like hands
Or feet
They Share
A tight
Space
Behind
The face
The teeth
Fixed
In place -
The
Tongue
Moving
Around
Like
The Head
Of
A Snake
Working
in tandem
To clean
The plate
Thank god
The tongue
Doesn’t fear
The teeth
How else
could we eat
At the Periphery
Startled at your approach -
They take flight
And disappear instantly
Into the nearby trees,
Mixing invisibly
With the leaves -
These are the words
that live
At the periphery
Of memory -
The ones
That cannot be seen
The ones you
Will never find
In any poems -
That answer
to no one -
That appear
only briefly
in moments
of inspiration-
And even then
Those who have
Witnessed their migration
Are never certain
Of what they have seen
For even when they fly
They blend into the wind.
They take flight
And disappear instantly
Into the nearby trees,
Mixing invisibly
With the leaves -
These are the words
that live
At the periphery
Of memory -
The ones
That cannot be seen
The ones you
Will never find
In any poems -
That answer
to no one -
That appear
only briefly
in moments
of inspiration-
And even then
Those who have
Witnessed their migration
Are never certain
Of what they have seen
For even when they fly
They blend into the wind.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Stones In The River
I can feel
Your hands
Placing words
In my memory
Like stones
In a river
Words
That create
Small ripples
In the
Current
Small
Impediments
In the shallows
Around which
Everything else
Flows
Your hands
Placing words
In my memory
Like stones
In a river
Words
That create
Small ripples
In the
Current
Small
Impediments
In the shallows
Around which
Everything else
Flows
Friday, June 29, 2007
Integrity
You can feel it
At your throat
Pulling tightly
Like the noose
Of a rope
That won’t
Let loose
That rejects
All lies
That accepts
Neither Truce
Nor compromise
That demands
Only Truth
Absolute Truth
And nothing less
And until it gets
Its way
It takes
your breath away
At your throat
Pulling tightly
Like the noose
Of a rope
That won’t
Let loose
That rejects
All lies
That accepts
Neither Truce
Nor compromise
That demands
Only Truth
Absolute Truth
And nothing less
And until it gets
Its way
It takes
your breath away
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Lightning Strike
Quick
Precise
Like a samurai
sword
Forged
from a
Single flash
of light
Splits the tree
In half
Bow to the rain
Let the storm pass
Precise
Like a samurai
sword
Forged
from a
Single flash
of light
Splits the tree
In half
Bow to the rain
Let the storm pass
The Early Bird
Today I read
That the Early Bird
Became extinct
The Early Bird
Was best known
For catching
The even rarer
Early Bird Worm
Once a predominate cliché
It was last sighted
Decades ago
And joins the ranks
Of the Quick Brown Fox
And the Bird in the Hand
That the Early Bird
Became extinct
The Early Bird
Was best known
For catching
The even rarer
Early Bird Worm
Once a predominate cliché
It was last sighted
Decades ago
And joins the ranks
Of the Quick Brown Fox
And the Bird in the Hand
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The Contract
I have read the fine print
Of life’s basic contract
It contains no guarantees
Expressed or implied
It covers birth
And the right to a life
of an indeterminable length
And nothing in between
It is non-transferable
And void at death
Just sign -
It’s the only deal you’ll get
Of life’s basic contract
It contains no guarantees
Expressed or implied
It covers birth
And the right to a life
of an indeterminable length
And nothing in between
It is non-transferable
And void at death
Just sign -
It’s the only deal you’ll get
Friday, June 22, 2007
The Itinerary of the Day
At four a.m.
There is nothing
But stillness -
Holding its breath
In the early
Morning darkness
Just outside
The window
Waiting for the
The birds
To begin
Their chattering
Waiting for
The shrill
Whistle of
The diesel train
As it leaves
Glenn Street station
At the bottom
Of the hill
Waiting
For the barges
To blow
Their mournful
Horns
As they make
Their way
Across the bay
This is the
Itinerary of the day -
Everyday
Be still and listen
It only lasts
A moment
There is nothing
But stillness -
Holding its breath
In the early
Morning darkness
Just outside
The window
Waiting for the
The birds
To begin
Their chattering
Waiting for
The shrill
Whistle of
The diesel train
As it leaves
Glenn Street station
At the bottom
Of the hill
Waiting
For the barges
To blow
Their mournful
Horns
As they make
Their way
Across the bay
This is the
Itinerary of the day -
Everyday
Be still and listen
It only lasts
A moment
The River
We run in parallel
With a river
Whose water
Is a sweet sermon
Flowing down
from the mountain
Whose length
Is longer than a lifetime
That offers no shallow
Point of crossing
That marks the divide
Between two worlds
Here
And the other side
That drives us
Down stream
To a point
Where we
And the water
Become one
Before it empties
Into the sea
With a river
Whose water
Is a sweet sermon
Flowing down
from the mountain
Whose length
Is longer than a lifetime
That offers no shallow
Point of crossing
That marks the divide
Between two worlds
Here
And the other side
That drives us
Down stream
To a point
Where we
And the water
Become one
Before it empties
Into the sea
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Creation of the Universe (1)
When the Sage visits, he likes to tell stories about how the universe came into existence. This is one of them – one of many – since, he says, we live in a multiverse with multiple outcomes and realities.
---
The Master Juggler stands
Poised
Ready to begin
He holds in one hand
A perfect universe of Yin -
The color of pure light
And in the other
A perfect universe of Yang -
The color of pure night
Tossing one and then
The other into the air
He sets into motion-
The two opposing forces
That spin in a perfect circle -
Pulling and repelling,
Gaining momentum
Until he loses control
And they collide -
Shattering the Yin
Into billions of stars
That spill across
The infinite darkness
Of the Yang
To form the
First universe
-----
“So,” I asked, “A juggler created the Universe?”
The Sage paused momentarily: “No, the juggler only caused it to happen. The forces needed to create the universe, the Yin and the Yang, already existed.”
“Then who created the Yin and the Yang?” I asked.
The sage laughed, “His assistant!”
“But you didn’t mention anything about his assistant.” I said.
Again, the Sage laughed, “Did I have to?”
---
The Master Juggler stands
Poised
Ready to begin
He holds in one hand
A perfect universe of Yin -
The color of pure light
And in the other
A perfect universe of Yang -
The color of pure night
Tossing one and then
The other into the air
He sets into motion-
The two opposing forces
That spin in a perfect circle -
Pulling and repelling,
Gaining momentum
Until he loses control
And they collide -
Shattering the Yin
Into billions of stars
That spill across
The infinite darkness
Of the Yang
To form the
First universe
-----
“So,” I asked, “A juggler created the Universe?”
The Sage paused momentarily: “No, the juggler only caused it to happen. The forces needed to create the universe, the Yin and the Yang, already existed.”
“Then who created the Yin and the Yang?” I asked.
The sage laughed, “His assistant!”
“But you didn’t mention anything about his assistant.” I said.
Again, the Sage laughed, “Did I have to?”
Seed
See
Can
Eye
The
As
Far
As
World
The
Into
Back
Color
Bringing
Poems
Wild
Of
Field
A
In
Word
First
The
becoming
Sunlight
Warm
Of
Promise
The
Towards
Darkness
The
Of
Out
Upwards
Drawn
Is
That
Seed
The
Like
Can
Eye
The
As
Far
As
World
The
Into
Back
Color
Bringing
Poems
Wild
Of
Field
A
In
Word
First
The
becoming
Sunlight
Warm
Of
Promise
The
Towards
Darkness
The
Of
Out
Upwards
Drawn
Is
That
Seed
The
Like
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A Place of Departure
The bare landscape
Of this page
Seems an impossible
Journey
A blank map
That offers
A beginning
And nothing else
A place
From which to start
And perhaps
Never return to
Or even
Look back upon
It marks
A point
Of origin
And departure
It is how
I arrived here
It is where
I always begin
Of this page
Seems an impossible
Journey
A blank map
That offers
A beginning
And nothing else
A place
From which to start
And perhaps
Never return to
Or even
Look back upon
It marks
A point
Of origin
And departure
It is how
I arrived here
It is where
I always begin
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Adventures of Bike Boy
My attempts at teaching myself to ride a two wheel bike were disastrous and probably as dangerous as the planes the Wright Brothers tried to put up in the air before they finally got one to fly. But my entire life has been based on teaching myself first before going to someone else for help. And while it hasn’t always been the best or safest approach its worked most of the time.
The first house I grew up in had a large, sloping yard, enclosed by a cyclone fence. (Why we had such a large yard was never made clear to me. My father was born in Brooklyn and never gained an appreciation of nature or gardening or mowing the lawn. He was attracted to things cerebral and mechanical.)
Well, my plan for learning to ride a two-wheel bike seemed sound to me. I would mount the bike at the top of the hill, gravity would give me momentum and propel me forward (so I wouldn’t have to pedal, freeing me up to concentrate) and I would descend down the hill perfectly balanced and stop at the bottom – Ta Da! And if I didn’t stop on my own accord the cyclone fence would stop me. One thing I left out. I would be wearing a yellow rubber -raincoat - sans hood - to project me from the wet, dewy morning grass.
I ascended the hill, pushing my red two-wheel bike. Upon reaching the top, I donned my yellow rubber raincoat – sans hood - mounted the bike and began the descent. At the age of six, had I known something about the slope of a hill, or the effects of gravity on a mass in motion, I might have been prepared for what happened next. The hill that I was now descending, at an ever-increasing acceleration, was not smooth. It was pitted with small shallow holes that I had dug into it while playing with my Tonka construction trucks and from the many invasions and wars my army men had participated in over the past couple of years. As I passed over the holes, I could feel my teeth loosening.
As I bounced along, still upright and balanced, I noticed the fence getting closer. Now, keep in mind that all of what I am describing happened quickly and that I have slowed it down in a linear narration to help you visualize it. Back to the fence. The fence was getting closer. The time had come to apply the brakes. Brakes applied. No effect on acceleration. Sliding on wet dewy grass. Need friction. Wet dewy grass has no friction. Fence stops bike and boy in yellow rubber raincoat - sans hood. Bike Boy on ground. Sky spinning – or is Bike Boy spinning. Bike Boy finally gets up and pushes bike back up to the top of the hill. Bike Boy goes down hill, again…and again…and again…and finally, Bike Boy is convinced plan is flawed and gives up.
Bike Boy eventually learns to ride a two-wheel bike, but can’t recall when or how, leading him to believe that if you attack a problem, even a mundane problem, with a novel solution - it's not important if you succeed or fail because you will acquire a memory that you can look back upon the rest of your life; but if you take a conservative approach to a problem and apply no originality or novelty, you may arrive at the same destination, but you will remember nothing of the journey.
PS - Bike Boy applied the former approach to learning how to ride a motorcycle in Morocco sixteen years later and remembers the experiences of his two year journey thirty years later.
The first house I grew up in had a large, sloping yard, enclosed by a cyclone fence. (Why we had such a large yard was never made clear to me. My father was born in Brooklyn and never gained an appreciation of nature or gardening or mowing the lawn. He was attracted to things cerebral and mechanical.)
Well, my plan for learning to ride a two-wheel bike seemed sound to me. I would mount the bike at the top of the hill, gravity would give me momentum and propel me forward (so I wouldn’t have to pedal, freeing me up to concentrate) and I would descend down the hill perfectly balanced and stop at the bottom – Ta Da! And if I didn’t stop on my own accord the cyclone fence would stop me. One thing I left out. I would be wearing a yellow rubber -raincoat - sans hood - to project me from the wet, dewy morning grass.
I ascended the hill, pushing my red two-wheel bike. Upon reaching the top, I donned my yellow rubber raincoat – sans hood - mounted the bike and began the descent. At the age of six, had I known something about the slope of a hill, or the effects of gravity on a mass in motion, I might have been prepared for what happened next. The hill that I was now descending, at an ever-increasing acceleration, was not smooth. It was pitted with small shallow holes that I had dug into it while playing with my Tonka construction trucks and from the many invasions and wars my army men had participated in over the past couple of years. As I passed over the holes, I could feel my teeth loosening.
As I bounced along, still upright and balanced, I noticed the fence getting closer. Now, keep in mind that all of what I am describing happened quickly and that I have slowed it down in a linear narration to help you visualize it. Back to the fence. The fence was getting closer. The time had come to apply the brakes. Brakes applied. No effect on acceleration. Sliding on wet dewy grass. Need friction. Wet dewy grass has no friction. Fence stops bike and boy in yellow rubber raincoat - sans hood. Bike Boy on ground. Sky spinning – or is Bike Boy spinning. Bike Boy finally gets up and pushes bike back up to the top of the hill. Bike Boy goes down hill, again…and again…and again…and finally, Bike Boy is convinced plan is flawed and gives up.
Bike Boy eventually learns to ride a two-wheel bike, but can’t recall when or how, leading him to believe that if you attack a problem, even a mundane problem, with a novel solution - it's not important if you succeed or fail because you will acquire a memory that you can look back upon the rest of your life; but if you take a conservative approach to a problem and apply no originality or novelty, you may arrive at the same destination, but you will remember nothing of the journey.
PS - Bike Boy applied the former approach to learning how to ride a motorcycle in Morocco sixteen years later and remembers the experiences of his two year journey thirty years later.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
The Sign
After the mass
I follow the pall bearers
Down the steps
Of the Church
To the hearse
Waiting at the curb
To take us
To the cemetery
The men sway in unison
None of them friends
Of the family
Simply Anonymous men
Who come when called
To perform the service
Of carrying a casket
From the church to the hearse
Their last task done
The funeral director
Pays them
And they disperse
As we pull away
From the curb
I notice a small sign
In the window
Of a shop
Across the street
It says simply:
“Souls Repaired”
A white haired man
(the shoemaker)
Stares back at me
Then turns away
And resumes his work
For a brief moment
The reflection in the window
The church – the hearse -
Becomes a parallel universe
(But in reverse)
And then abruptly
It’s erased
From the glass
By our quick acceleration
Into the traffic
I’m certain
I am the only one
Who saw that sign
In the window
The only one
Struck by its irony
Had I been the priest
That day
I would have skipped
The mass –the eulogy
And said simply –
“This is my sermon:
Look for the signs
And you will find them -
They are everywhere -
They are the work of simple men
Fishermen – carpenters –
Give them your attention -
They will lead you
To where you need to go.”
I follow the pall bearers
Down the steps
Of the Church
To the hearse
Waiting at the curb
To take us
To the cemetery
The men sway in unison
None of them friends
Of the family
Simply Anonymous men
Who come when called
To perform the service
Of carrying a casket
From the church to the hearse
Their last task done
The funeral director
Pays them
And they disperse
As we pull away
From the curb
I notice a small sign
In the window
Of a shop
Across the street
It says simply:
“Souls Repaired”
A white haired man
(the shoemaker)
Stares back at me
Then turns away
And resumes his work
For a brief moment
The reflection in the window
The church – the hearse -
Becomes a parallel universe
(But in reverse)
And then abruptly
It’s erased
From the glass
By our quick acceleration
Into the traffic
I’m certain
I am the only one
Who saw that sign
In the window
The only one
Struck by its irony
Had I been the priest
That day
I would have skipped
The mass –the eulogy
And said simply –
“This is my sermon:
Look for the signs
And you will find them -
They are everywhere -
They are the work of simple men
Fishermen – carpenters –
Give them your attention -
They will lead you
To where you need to go.”
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Surgical Scars
The surgical scars
Inscribed on your chest
Need no translation –
They were written
Into your skin
Years ago by a surgeon
Who battled Death
While you lay anesthetized,
Living breath to breath
They speak not
Of victory or conquest
But rather
Of a humble truce
The postponment
of a moment
to be addressed
at some future date
Inscribed on your chest
Need no translation –
They were written
Into your skin
Years ago by a surgeon
Who battled Death
While you lay anesthetized,
Living breath to breath
They speak not
Of victory or conquest
But rather
Of a humble truce
The postponment
of a moment
to be addressed
at some future date
Sunday, June 03, 2007
A Sack of White Rice
In the supermarket
The 10 lb. bag of white rice
So plain and non-descript
(But yet so symbolic and basic)
Sitting on the bottom shelf -
Always attracts my attention
I like picking it up
Because it has bulk and weight
I like to feel the contents
Shifting around, changing shape
(More like a fluid than a solid)
I like reading the simple directions:
2 cups of rice - 1 quart of water
Bring to a boil - cover - simmer
The individual grains becoming one
In Zen-like perfection
I think of its potential
To feed so many hungry mouths-
I envision it being distributed
Sack by sack off the back
Of a flat bed truck
In some drought ridden country
And then I think to myself
How misplaced this sack of rice seems
Sitting on the bottom shelf
Of this suburban store
And I take it over to the aisle
Where they are distributing food
To the poor
But the men in that Aisle
All have guns (even the children)
And they say: Don't bring us rice.
You better leave this aisle
Or we will take your life -
Do you want to be dead?
So, I leave with the sack of rice
And as I put it back
On the bottom shelf -
The sack splits
And a thousand bullets
Spill out onto the floor.
This, I think to myself,
Is what they were looking for.
The 10 lb. bag of white rice
So plain and non-descript
(But yet so symbolic and basic)
Sitting on the bottom shelf -
Always attracts my attention
I like picking it up
Because it has bulk and weight
I like to feel the contents
Shifting around, changing shape
(More like a fluid than a solid)
I like reading the simple directions:
2 cups of rice - 1 quart of water
Bring to a boil - cover - simmer
The individual grains becoming one
In Zen-like perfection
I think of its potential
To feed so many hungry mouths-
I envision it being distributed
Sack by sack off the back
Of a flat bed truck
In some drought ridden country
And then I think to myself
How misplaced this sack of rice seems
Sitting on the bottom shelf
Of this suburban store
And I take it over to the aisle
Where they are distributing food
To the poor
But the men in that Aisle
All have guns (even the children)
And they say: Don't bring us rice.
You better leave this aisle
Or we will take your life -
Do you want to be dead?
So, I leave with the sack of rice
And as I put it back
On the bottom shelf -
The sack splits
And a thousand bullets
Spill out onto the floor.
This, I think to myself,
Is what they were looking for.
Residue of a Dream
You disappear for years -
And then suddenly reappear
Momentarily in a dream.
You say - I cannot stay.
I must go –
I have no purpose here.
You are free to go -
But in that fraction
of a second before you depart
There is enough time for me
To sense your hesitation
And perhaps the uncertainty
Of your decision.
On awakening -
There is only a vague recollection
Of a woman’s silhouetted figure
Fading into the darkness
The rest is vapor -
The residue of a dream -
A memory etched in the air.
Slowly, as it disappears -
A single strand of your hair
Floats, flashes in the sunlight -
Confirming that you were here.
And then suddenly reappear
Momentarily in a dream.
You say - I cannot stay.
I must go –
I have no purpose here.
You are free to go -
But in that fraction
of a second before you depart
There is enough time for me
To sense your hesitation
And perhaps the uncertainty
Of your decision.
On awakening -
There is only a vague recollection
Of a woman’s silhouetted figure
Fading into the darkness
The rest is vapor -
The residue of a dream -
A memory etched in the air.
Slowly, as it disappears -
A single strand of your hair
Floats, flashes in the sunlight -
Confirming that you were here.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
The Incredibly Stupid Woman
Every morning the old woman went to the river bank with her bucket to fetch water for the donkey. It was a long walk, past the dead willow tree, past the high fence, across the wide meadow, and down the steep hill to the river bank.
Once at the river bank, she scooped up a bucket of water and then walked back up the steep hill, climbed over the high fence, walked back across the wide meadow, past the dead willow and poured the water into the donkey’s watering trough.
Or would have poured the water into the donkey’s trough had the bucket contained any water. But today the bucket was empty.
“I could swear I just filled this bucket,” the old woman muttered to herself. The donkey just stood there starring into the trough.
“Well, back to the river,” she groaned and once again the old woman made the trip past the dead willow tree, across the far meadow, over the high fence, and down the steep hill to the river bank.”
As she scooped up another bucket of water, she scolded the river: “You better stop playing tricks on me river. Stop stealing the water out of my bucket.”
“I didn’t steal your water,” the river gurgled, “Besides, how could I steal something that was mine to begin with.”
But the old woman had already turned her back and was making her way back up the steep hill.
“I’m lucky this bucket is light,” she said to herself, “Or this would be an impossible task.”
But when she went to pour the water into the donkey’s trough she again found herself with an empty bucket and no water.
“Well, donkey, that’s enough for today,” she said, “I’ll try again tomorrow. “
The donkey just stood there starring into the trough.
But the next day was the same and so was the day after. No matter how many times the old woman went to the river to fetch water she returned with an empty bucket. And each time she returned she blamed the river for stealing back the water in her bucket.
By now, the donkey was severely dehydrated and on the verge of death. As the old woman approached with another empty bucket, the donkey said: “Stupid woman, the river isn’t stealing back its water. You have a hole in your bucket.” And with that the donkey fell down and died.
The woman held the bucket up over her head and could see a round circle of sky and clouds through the hole where a knot had fallen out.
“Well, donkey, we're both wrong; it was the clouds in the bottom of my bucket that soaked up all the water.”
Once at the river bank, she scooped up a bucket of water and then walked back up the steep hill, climbed over the high fence, walked back across the wide meadow, past the dead willow and poured the water into the donkey’s watering trough.
Or would have poured the water into the donkey’s trough had the bucket contained any water. But today the bucket was empty.
“I could swear I just filled this bucket,” the old woman muttered to herself. The donkey just stood there starring into the trough.
“Well, back to the river,” she groaned and once again the old woman made the trip past the dead willow tree, across the far meadow, over the high fence, and down the steep hill to the river bank.”
As she scooped up another bucket of water, she scolded the river: “You better stop playing tricks on me river. Stop stealing the water out of my bucket.”
“I didn’t steal your water,” the river gurgled, “Besides, how could I steal something that was mine to begin with.”
But the old woman had already turned her back and was making her way back up the steep hill.
“I’m lucky this bucket is light,” she said to herself, “Or this would be an impossible task.”
But when she went to pour the water into the donkey’s trough she again found herself with an empty bucket and no water.
“Well, donkey, that’s enough for today,” she said, “I’ll try again tomorrow. “
The donkey just stood there starring into the trough.
But the next day was the same and so was the day after. No matter how many times the old woman went to the river to fetch water she returned with an empty bucket. And each time she returned she blamed the river for stealing back the water in her bucket.
By now, the donkey was severely dehydrated and on the verge of death. As the old woman approached with another empty bucket, the donkey said: “Stupid woman, the river isn’t stealing back its water. You have a hole in your bucket.” And with that the donkey fell down and died.
The woman held the bucket up over her head and could see a round circle of sky and clouds through the hole where a knot had fallen out.
“Well, donkey, we're both wrong; it was the clouds in the bottom of my bucket that soaked up all the water.”
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Tinkra the Inventor
Tinkera lived deep in the forest far from the village. He wasn't a recluse or a hermit - simply a deep thinker who preferred not to be disturbed, so he had moved from the village and into the forest.
Once or twice a year, he journeyed into the village to visit friends and acquaintances, but after a day or two he was ready to return home.
Occasioinally, Tinkra would visit the astronomer who lived in the stone tower at the top of the mountain and they would take turns looking through the telescope at all of the celestial wonders. Compared to Tinkra, the astronomer was even more reclusive. He never left his tower and if it wasn’t for his dutiful daughter, he would have probably starved to death a long time ago.
All in all, Tinkra lived a simple, but happy life. He came and went as he pleased. He woke early every morning before dawn (on the days he didn’t work straight through the night), and sipped mint tea as he watched the sun rise.
And just at this moment, Tinkra decided he needed another cup of tea, but he couldn’t remember where he had last put his cup down. Tinkra wasn’t absent minded, but he tended to less adept at the simple, everyday things – like remembering where he last left his tea cup.
Tinkra’s workshop was overflowing with countless drawings and prototype models in various stages of completion, and stacks and stacks of notebooks. As he rummaged through the models on one of his work tables, pushing this one and that one aside, he muttered to himself: “This one was a waste of time…” and “I should have spent more time on that one…” and “If I ever find the time …”
And then abruptly he stopped: “That’s it – Time – I need to invent something to organize my time.” And so, this is how Tinkra lived his life. He was blessed with a brain that induced frequent moments of inspiration, excitement and pure genius, although Tinkra would not use the last word to describe himself. He was too modest.
As the initial surge of inspiration and euphoria subsided, the analytical part of Tinkra’s brain took control. “This idea of yours”, it said to him, “sounds complicated.” But Tinkra had already started a list of preliminary thoughts on the problem:
Time is consistent and not something intermittent, like the wind, which blows one moment and is then still in the next.
It is not something solid that casts a shadow. It is invisible.
It is more like water perpetually flowing…or like water dripping…one drop at a time.
Tinkra closed his eyes and imagined the sound of water dripping in his mind…drip drip drip drip
Yes, that was what Time sounded like, or would sound like if it made a sound.
And that thought became the catalyst for the creativity that sprung forth and propelled Tinkra for the next week as he filled notebook after notebook with sketches and descriptions of his invention to create a mechanical device to organize time.
At one point, Tinkra looked up and said, “Time is circular”, meaning every day was pretty much like the previous one and the next one. The sun rose and set and in between there was a period of something called Time.
How many drops of water did it take to go from the moment the sun rose in the morning to the time it set in the evening and then from the night to the next morning?
The only way Tinkra would know was to count them. And when he finished this tedious task he slept for two straight days. But while he slept his mind kept working, and when he woke he felt refreshed and even remembered where he had left his tea cup.
As the water boiled for his tea, he watched the curls of steam rise up from the tea kettle. And then he had the answer, water evaporated – it couldn’t keep track of Time – but a drip is like a click, a mechanical click – and it was easy to make mechanical clicks.
Tinkra grabbed his notebook. This time he wrote and sketched slowly and methodically. He knew the answer. It was just a matter of filling in the details.
Tinkra was as skilled a craftsman as he was an inventor and over the course of the next several weeks, he worked on the prototype until he was satisfied with the result.
Excitedly, Tinkra turned the crank and wound the spring tightly and when he let go, the gears rotated and the ratchets vacillated and most importantly he heard the rhythmic sound of Time: click, click, click, click…
Tinkra adjusted one of the gears and the sound of the clock changed to click, clack, click, clack, click, clack…. much better he said.
“Now I will always know the time. My days will be organized.” And for a while, they were.
The clock told him when it was time to get up and when to go to sleep. It told him when it was time to eat and when it was time for tea. It told him when he was working late. In fact, it regulated every aspect of his day.
Slowly, the daily activities that Tinkra had once approached enthusiastically and spontaneously, he now completed mindlessly and mechanically.
“What have I done,” he asked himself.
You’re probably saying to yourself,” Why doesn’t he just stop winding the Time mechanism and let it run down.” Well, Tinkra tried doing just that, but found he had become addicted to the rhythmic click, clack, click, clack sound of the mechanism that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The best he could do was cover it with a cloth to muffle the sound.
Tinkra climbed into his bed that evening, anticipating another restless night. Just as he started to fall asleep, someone knocked at the cottage door. Tinkra got out of bed and opened the door to see who it was.
“Dreadfully sorry for disturbing you, sir,” said one of the strangers, “But we’ve come a long way and there doesn’t seem to be an inn at hand. Could you put us up for the night?”
Tinkra looked at the man and his two companions. The made who had made the request was tall and thin and seemed to be the spokesperson. The other two men were shorter and both about the same height.
Reluctantly, because it was his nature to be kind, he said that they could, but that they were not to touch anything.
“Oh, we won’t touch your valuables,” one of the other men said.
Tinkra let the three men in and showed them to the back of the workshop.
“You can sleep here tonight. But you must leave first thing in the morning. I have a very busy day scheduled and I don't like people looking over my shoulder while I work.”
“What’s that noise?” interrupted one of the men. “It sounds like it’s coming from under that cloth.”
“Nothing,” replied Tinkra, “Not wanting to have to explain and describe the Time mechanism.”
“Is it valuable?” All three men asked at once and then snickered in a funny sort of way like a muffled cough.
“These men are robbers,” Tinkra thought to himself, "but I have nothing of value they would be interested in."
Suddenly, Tinkra had a brilliant idea. Suppose he let on that whatever the lay under the cloth was extremely valuable and that was why he kept it covered. Perhaps the men would steal it and he would be rid of it forever.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Trinkra, “I don’t usually show it anyone because it is valuable and irreplaceable. But you seem to be honest men, so I’ll make an exception.”
And with that said, Tinkra whisked the cloth off the Time mechanism the way a magician does on stage. The three men stared at the Time mechanism – hypnotized by the rotating gears and the vacillating ratchet.
“It must be worth a small fortune,” one of the men said in the low voice.
Tinkra nodded, barely about to hold back a smile as he thought to himself,” Very small.”
One of the other men was about to ask,"What is it?", but was elbowed in the side by the tall man before he could say anythhing.
“That’s why I keep it covered,” Tinkra said, as he carefully placed the cloth back over the the Time mechanism.
“Well, it’s best we take our rest now,” said tall spokes person.
“Yes, it’s late. We’d best take our rest.” Echoed the other two men
As the men bedded down for the night, Tinkra went back to his bed and pretended to fall asleep.
A short while later he heard whispering in the darkness.
“Be quiet, you fool, or you’ll wake him.”
“You be quiet, yourself,” one of the men quipped back.
“Do you have it?”
“Yeah, I put it in the sack.”
“Be careful, don’t break it or we’ll lose a small fortune.”
“Where’s the door?”
“Over here.”
The door opened and a slice of moonlight cut across the workshop.
The three men exited, closing the door behind them. The workshop plunged back into darkness.
A few minutes later, Tinkra fell asleep and when he woke in the morning, the first thing he noticed was that the sound was gone! “
“Ah, how peaceful this is.” he thought, as he jumped out of bed: “I think it’s time for tea, then again, maybe it’s not time for tea...maybe it's not time for anything!”
Well, in a matter of no time, Tinkra returned to his leisurely ways. He rose each morning, moments before sunrise, made a pot of his favorite mint tea and enjoyed the peacefulness of the approaching day.
And what became of the robbers? They sold Tinkra’s invention for a small fortune and soon there were clocks everywhere, regulating everyone’s activities. Sometimes, if you look closely you can even see people walking in synchronization to the clocks of the world. Look, but don't listen to long.
Once or twice a year, he journeyed into the village to visit friends and acquaintances, but after a day or two he was ready to return home.
Occasioinally, Tinkra would visit the astronomer who lived in the stone tower at the top of the mountain and they would take turns looking through the telescope at all of the celestial wonders. Compared to Tinkra, the astronomer was even more reclusive. He never left his tower and if it wasn’t for his dutiful daughter, he would have probably starved to death a long time ago.
All in all, Tinkra lived a simple, but happy life. He came and went as he pleased. He woke early every morning before dawn (on the days he didn’t work straight through the night), and sipped mint tea as he watched the sun rise.
And just at this moment, Tinkra decided he needed another cup of tea, but he couldn’t remember where he had last put his cup down. Tinkra wasn’t absent minded, but he tended to less adept at the simple, everyday things – like remembering where he last left his tea cup.
Tinkra’s workshop was overflowing with countless drawings and prototype models in various stages of completion, and stacks and stacks of notebooks. As he rummaged through the models on one of his work tables, pushing this one and that one aside, he muttered to himself: “This one was a waste of time…” and “I should have spent more time on that one…” and “If I ever find the time …”
And then abruptly he stopped: “That’s it – Time – I need to invent something to organize my time.” And so, this is how Tinkra lived his life. He was blessed with a brain that induced frequent moments of inspiration, excitement and pure genius, although Tinkra would not use the last word to describe himself. He was too modest.
As the initial surge of inspiration and euphoria subsided, the analytical part of Tinkra’s brain took control. “This idea of yours”, it said to him, “sounds complicated.” But Tinkra had already started a list of preliminary thoughts on the problem:
Time is consistent and not something intermittent, like the wind, which blows one moment and is then still in the next.
It is not something solid that casts a shadow. It is invisible.
It is more like water perpetually flowing…or like water dripping…one drop at a time.
Tinkra closed his eyes and imagined the sound of water dripping in his mind…drip drip drip drip
Yes, that was what Time sounded like, or would sound like if it made a sound.
And that thought became the catalyst for the creativity that sprung forth and propelled Tinkra for the next week as he filled notebook after notebook with sketches and descriptions of his invention to create a mechanical device to organize time.
At one point, Tinkra looked up and said, “Time is circular”, meaning every day was pretty much like the previous one and the next one. The sun rose and set and in between there was a period of something called Time.
How many drops of water did it take to go from the moment the sun rose in the morning to the time it set in the evening and then from the night to the next morning?
The only way Tinkra would know was to count them. And when he finished this tedious task he slept for two straight days. But while he slept his mind kept working, and when he woke he felt refreshed and even remembered where he had left his tea cup.
As the water boiled for his tea, he watched the curls of steam rise up from the tea kettle. And then he had the answer, water evaporated – it couldn’t keep track of Time – but a drip is like a click, a mechanical click – and it was easy to make mechanical clicks.
Tinkra grabbed his notebook. This time he wrote and sketched slowly and methodically. He knew the answer. It was just a matter of filling in the details.
Tinkra was as skilled a craftsman as he was an inventor and over the course of the next several weeks, he worked on the prototype until he was satisfied with the result.
Excitedly, Tinkra turned the crank and wound the spring tightly and when he let go, the gears rotated and the ratchets vacillated and most importantly he heard the rhythmic sound of Time: click, click, click, click…
Tinkra adjusted one of the gears and the sound of the clock changed to click, clack, click, clack, click, clack…. much better he said.
“Now I will always know the time. My days will be organized.” And for a while, they were.
The clock told him when it was time to get up and when to go to sleep. It told him when it was time to eat and when it was time for tea. It told him when he was working late. In fact, it regulated every aspect of his day.
Slowly, the daily activities that Tinkra had once approached enthusiastically and spontaneously, he now completed mindlessly and mechanically.
“What have I done,” he asked himself.
You’re probably saying to yourself,” Why doesn’t he just stop winding the Time mechanism and let it run down.” Well, Tinkra tried doing just that, but found he had become addicted to the rhythmic click, clack, click, clack sound of the mechanism that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The best he could do was cover it with a cloth to muffle the sound.
Tinkra climbed into his bed that evening, anticipating another restless night. Just as he started to fall asleep, someone knocked at the cottage door. Tinkra got out of bed and opened the door to see who it was.
“Dreadfully sorry for disturbing you, sir,” said one of the strangers, “But we’ve come a long way and there doesn’t seem to be an inn at hand. Could you put us up for the night?”
Tinkra looked at the man and his two companions. The made who had made the request was tall and thin and seemed to be the spokesperson. The other two men were shorter and both about the same height.
Reluctantly, because it was his nature to be kind, he said that they could, but that they were not to touch anything.
“Oh, we won’t touch your valuables,” one of the other men said.
Tinkra let the three men in and showed them to the back of the workshop.
“You can sleep here tonight. But you must leave first thing in the morning. I have a very busy day scheduled and I don't like people looking over my shoulder while I work.”
“What’s that noise?” interrupted one of the men. “It sounds like it’s coming from under that cloth.”
“Nothing,” replied Tinkra, “Not wanting to have to explain and describe the Time mechanism.”
“Is it valuable?” All three men asked at once and then snickered in a funny sort of way like a muffled cough.
“These men are robbers,” Tinkra thought to himself, "but I have nothing of value they would be interested in."
Suddenly, Tinkra had a brilliant idea. Suppose he let on that whatever the lay under the cloth was extremely valuable and that was why he kept it covered. Perhaps the men would steal it and he would be rid of it forever.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Trinkra, “I don’t usually show it anyone because it is valuable and irreplaceable. But you seem to be honest men, so I’ll make an exception.”
And with that said, Tinkra whisked the cloth off the Time mechanism the way a magician does on stage. The three men stared at the Time mechanism – hypnotized by the rotating gears and the vacillating ratchet.
“It must be worth a small fortune,” one of the men said in the low voice.
Tinkra nodded, barely about to hold back a smile as he thought to himself,” Very small.”
One of the other men was about to ask,"What is it?", but was elbowed in the side by the tall man before he could say anythhing.
“That’s why I keep it covered,” Tinkra said, as he carefully placed the cloth back over the the Time mechanism.
“Well, it’s best we take our rest now,” said tall spokes person.
“Yes, it’s late. We’d best take our rest.” Echoed the other two men
As the men bedded down for the night, Tinkra went back to his bed and pretended to fall asleep.
A short while later he heard whispering in the darkness.
“Be quiet, you fool, or you’ll wake him.”
“You be quiet, yourself,” one of the men quipped back.
“Do you have it?”
“Yeah, I put it in the sack.”
“Be careful, don’t break it or we’ll lose a small fortune.”
“Where’s the door?”
“Over here.”
The door opened and a slice of moonlight cut across the workshop.
The three men exited, closing the door behind them. The workshop plunged back into darkness.
A few minutes later, Tinkra fell asleep and when he woke in the morning, the first thing he noticed was that the sound was gone! “
“Ah, how peaceful this is.” he thought, as he jumped out of bed: “I think it’s time for tea, then again, maybe it’s not time for tea...maybe it's not time for anything!”
Well, in a matter of no time, Tinkra returned to his leisurely ways. He rose each morning, moments before sunrise, made a pot of his favorite mint tea and enjoyed the peacefulness of the approaching day.
And what became of the robbers? They sold Tinkra’s invention for a small fortune and soon there were clocks everywhere, regulating everyone’s activities. Sometimes, if you look closely you can even see people walking in synchronization to the clocks of the world. Look, but don't listen to long.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
The Solar System
And now a few comments
On the nine planets
That orbit around the sun:
Mercury is the smallest one -
Venus is hidden by gas -
Mars has a mysterious past -
Earth is the one we inhabit -
Neptune’s non-descript -
Saturn has rings that spin -
Pluto is no longer in -
Jupiter boasts the largest mass -
And Uranus – has that unfortunate reference to your "a__"
On the nine planets
That orbit around the sun:
Mercury is the smallest one -
Venus is hidden by gas -
Mars has a mysterious past -
Earth is the one we inhabit -
Neptune’s non-descript -
Saturn has rings that spin -
Pluto is no longer in -
Jupiter boasts the largest mass -
And Uranus – has that unfortunate reference to your "a__"
The Chameleon and the Moth
It was only by accident that the chameleon met the moth, or rather the caterpillar, as it had not yet undergone the metamorphosis to become a moth.
Normally, the caterpillar would have been a quick meal for the chameleon, but the chameleon had just finished eating a praying mantis which had given him quite a battle and he was a little tired.
It was the reason the chameleon had fallen from a higher branch to a lower one. And upon landing on the lower branch, the chameleon confronted a small caterpillar.
The caterpillar, completely surprise by the chameleon that had just appeared in front of him, reared up on his back pairs of legs and blurted out: “Hey…what! Your eyes – what’s wrong with your eyes. Did you bang your head?”
Slowly, and in a monotone voice, the chameleon replied: “Nothing. I can see just fine.”
“But your eyes are rolling around in different directions.” The caterpillar said excitedly.
“They’re supposed to,” the chameleon stated, “I can see in two different directions at once.”
“And your color…? You were just a light green and now you’re brown.”
“That, too,” said the Chameleon, “Is part of being a chameleon.”
“And now, if you’re done with your questioning, I have a few questions for you.”
“O.K.,” Said the caterpillar, “Ask away, but then I have to get back to work. Time is running out.”
“First,” began the chameleon, what are you doing?”
“I’m making a chrysalis,” replied the caterpillar.
“Why?”
“So, I can change into a beautiful butterfly; hopefully, a monarch butterfly.”
“It looks more like a cocoon to me,” said the chameleon.
“No,” said the caterpillar emphatically, “It’s a chrysalis. I’m sure.”
The chameleon rolled one eye around in a circle, but said nothing. The caterpillar took no notice of the eye rolling. He was busily back at his task.
For a long time, neither one said anything. Slowly, the caterpillar disappeared into his “chrysalis” and the chameleon was left alone on the branch. And with that, the chameleon started walking in that herky-jerky chameleon way along the branch, away from the chrysalis.
Once a week, as he passed through the vicinity, the chameleon stopped in to see if the caterpillar had emerged from his chrysalis.
Finally, after about a month, the caterpillar emerged from his chrysalis and the chameleon was there to see it.
“How do I look?” he asked as he dried his delicate wings in the breeze.
“You have been transformed,” replied the chameleon.
“I have become a beautiful monarch butterfly,” and with that he leaped into the next breeze and disappeared into the distance, leaving the chameleon alone on the branch.
In reality the caterpillar had emerged as an ordinary brown moth, but the chameleon said nothing for he thought: “Who am I to interfere in the dreams and aspirations of others.”
And as the chameleon watched the sun go down, a soft wind made the branch sway gently and the chameleon closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to fly in the breeze like a butterfly. After a few moments, he thought to himself, “This swaying branch is as close as I will ever come to flying.”, and gave his eyes a good roll - in opposite directions because that's what chameleons do.
Melinda and the Evil King Ravelen
King Ravelen
Long ago, in one of the evil kingdoms, perhaps the evilest, there lived an especially vile person named King Ravelen. But before we go any further, let me amend my introduction. I said the Kingdom was evil. This is not correct. The people of this kingdom were simple, honest peasants who happened to be ruled by an evil King. Did I say ruled? Again, I must correct myself. King Ravelen did not rule his Kingdom; he terrorized it and everyone in it. He demanded that everyone provide him with the best of whatever they made or did for a living. If they refused – well let’s just say that the King responded in such a way they never refused a second time.
From the baker he demanded the best golden brown crusted breads that came out of the ovens in the morning as well as the pies, cookies and pastries. After giving away all of his best baked goods each morning, the poor baker was usually left with a few stale crusts and crumbs for himself and his family.
From the woodsman, the King demanded cords of chopped and neatly stacked wood. This was a never ending task as the King’s castle had 36 fireplaces with 36 roaring fires all year round. (Evil kingdoms tend to be chilly all the time – even in summer.) If the woodsman wasn’t chopping wood, he was sharpening his axe head. If he wasn’t sharpening his axe he was stacking wood outside the King’s castle.
In any other Kingdom, the woodsman could have given his axe to the blacksmith for sharpening – but not in this Kingdom. The blacksmith in this Kingdom was too busy making hundreds of pairs of horse shoes for all of the horses that pulled the King about in any one of his fifty carriages. The blacksmith often wished he was one of the King’s horses, since the King could only use one carriage at a time which meant most of the horses just stood around doing nothing most of the time.
And as for the other subjects - there isn’t enough time to describe the harried lives of the tailor, the candle stick maker, the clock maker or any of the other subjects whose lives and resources were monopolized and exploited by the King.
You’re probably thinking, “Why didn’t the peasants rebel? Collectively, they certainly outnumbered the King.”
Were they weak? – No.
Were they dim witted? – No.
Disorganized? – No.
Afraid? - No, they weren’t afraid … they were petrified - petrified of the King’s special powers. For you see, King Ravelen could change himself into a large raven at will. And when transformed into a raven, he gained his evil powers. As a human, he had no special powers, just an evil personality, but his subjects did not know this. In his human form, he was so vicious, no one dared to provoke him for fear of falling victim to his wrath.
There are several important things you should know about the King. First, he could only transform into a raven during the day and only on sunny days. On cloudy or rainy days he had no powers and stayed locked inside his castle. Second, the King had absolutely no powers at night, even on the nights when the moon was full. The third and final thing you should know about the King is that he was afraid of the dark and always had the 36 fireplaces blazing.
Where Were All the Children?
Now, if you inspected this Kingdom closely. The first thing you would notice was that there were very few children playing outdoors. In fact, there were very few children left in the Kingdom and those that remained tried to be as inconspicuous as possible so as to avoid the King’s wrath. So instead of playing outside during the day, the children played outside at night when they knew the King would be in his castle. But even at night they were vigilant to the possibility of the King appearing suddenly. (An unfounded fear, but they didn't know that the King was afraid of the darkness.)
Melinda in Her Garden
Melinda was one of the children still living in the Kingdom. She lived in a small cottage just north of the King’s castle. Like the rest of the peasants, both of Melinda’s parents were forced to devote the majority of their time and energy to appeasing the King’s wishes and wants. Melinda’s father was a cooper and her mother grew herbs for cooking and medicinal purposes. Despite the King’s impact on their lives, they were a happy family.
Melinda was an extraordinary child who possessed the amazing ability to understand and speak to the animals. Now, she didn’t possess the ability to control their behavior - so if she met a wolf while walking through the forest she couldn’t command it to not attack and devour her if it were hungry. The best she could do would be to reason with it and perhaps startle it from its intention. More often than not, bears and wolves, the two most powerful and dangerous animals in the forest, were so surprised at hearing Melinda speak to them in their language that they thought she was a spirit creature passing through the human world on a pilgrimage to the Forest of Perpetual Autumn and ran in the opposite direction to avoid angering the spirit world.
But most of the encounters Melinda had with animals, and birds, occurred in and around her garden where she spent most of her time. Besides being able to speak to the animals, Melinda also had a special talent for making things grow… and grow… and grow… into the tallest flowers or the largest vegetables or fruits imaginable. Melinda’s parents, however, forbade her to apply her
Long ago, in one of the evil kingdoms, perhaps the evilest, there lived an especially vile person named King Ravelen. But before we go any further, let me amend my introduction. I said the Kingdom was evil. This is not correct. The people of this kingdom were simple, honest peasants who happened to be ruled by an evil King. Did I say ruled? Again, I must correct myself. King Ravelen did not rule his Kingdom; he terrorized it and everyone in it. He demanded that everyone provide him with the best of whatever they made or did for a living. If they refused – well let’s just say that the King responded in such a way they never refused a second time.
From the baker he demanded the best golden brown crusted breads that came out of the ovens in the morning as well as the pies, cookies and pastries. After giving away all of his best baked goods each morning, the poor baker was usually left with a few stale crusts and crumbs for himself and his family.
From the woodsman, the King demanded cords of chopped and neatly stacked wood. This was a never ending task as the King’s castle had 36 fireplaces with 36 roaring fires all year round. (Evil kingdoms tend to be chilly all the time – even in summer.) If the woodsman wasn’t chopping wood, he was sharpening his axe head. If he wasn’t sharpening his axe he was stacking wood outside the King’s castle.
In any other Kingdom, the woodsman could have given his axe to the blacksmith for sharpening – but not in this Kingdom. The blacksmith in this Kingdom was too busy making hundreds of pairs of horse shoes for all of the horses that pulled the King about in any one of his fifty carriages. The blacksmith often wished he was one of the King’s horses, since the King could only use one carriage at a time which meant most of the horses just stood around doing nothing most of the time.
And as for the other subjects - there isn’t enough time to describe the harried lives of the tailor, the candle stick maker, the clock maker or any of the other subjects whose lives and resources were monopolized and exploited by the King.
You’re probably thinking, “Why didn’t the peasants rebel? Collectively, they certainly outnumbered the King.”
Were they weak? – No.
Were they dim witted? – No.
Disorganized? – No.
Afraid? - No, they weren’t afraid … they were petrified - petrified of the King’s special powers. For you see, King Ravelen could change himself into a large raven at will. And when transformed into a raven, he gained his evil powers. As a human, he had no special powers, just an evil personality, but his subjects did not know this. In his human form, he was so vicious, no one dared to provoke him for fear of falling victim to his wrath.
There are several important things you should know about the King. First, he could only transform into a raven during the day and only on sunny days. On cloudy or rainy days he had no powers and stayed locked inside his castle. Second, the King had absolutely no powers at night, even on the nights when the moon was full. The third and final thing you should know about the King is that he was afraid of the dark and always had the 36 fireplaces blazing.
Where Were All the Children?
Now, if you inspected this Kingdom closely. The first thing you would notice was that there were very few children playing outdoors. In fact, there were very few children left in the Kingdom and those that remained tried to be as inconspicuous as possible so as to avoid the King’s wrath. So instead of playing outside during the day, the children played outside at night when they knew the King would be in his castle. But even at night they were vigilant to the possibility of the King appearing suddenly. (An unfounded fear, but they didn't know that the King was afraid of the darkness.)
Melinda in Her Garden
Melinda was one of the children still living in the Kingdom. She lived in a small cottage just north of the King’s castle. Like the rest of the peasants, both of Melinda’s parents were forced to devote the majority of their time and energy to appeasing the King’s wishes and wants. Melinda’s father was a cooper and her mother grew herbs for cooking and medicinal purposes. Despite the King’s impact on their lives, they were a happy family.
Melinda was an extraordinary child who possessed the amazing ability to understand and speak to the animals. Now, she didn’t possess the ability to control their behavior - so if she met a wolf while walking through the forest she couldn’t command it to not attack and devour her if it were hungry. The best she could do would be to reason with it and perhaps startle it from its intention. More often than not, bears and wolves, the two most powerful and dangerous animals in the forest, were so surprised at hearing Melinda speak to them in their language that they thought she was a spirit creature passing through the human world on a pilgrimage to the Forest of Perpetual Autumn and ran in the opposite direction to avoid angering the spirit world.
But most of the encounters Melinda had with animals, and birds, occurred in and around her garden where she spent most of her time. Besides being able to speak to the animals, Melinda also had a special talent for making things grow… and grow… and grow… into the tallest flowers or the largest vegetables or fruits imaginable. Melinda’s parents, however, forbade her to apply her