The Magnificent Fate of the Lowly Cucumber
Nothing tastes better than a good pickle!
Juicy, crunchy, sharp of taste --
If it costs a dollar (or sometimes a nickel)
The money I spent is not a waste.
Some people enjoy their sandwiches;
My mouth loves a gherkin or dill.
I realize what my best snack is:
A half-sour or sour . . . Oh, what a thrill!
If there’s a Heaven, pickles will be there,
Waiting for me to have them for lunch.
My taste buds will engage them anywhere,
And my teeth will busily munch and crunch.
It is true that in life there are very few times
When joy can be found of a certainty,
But I know that a pickle is worth these rhymes
And will be treasured for all eternity.
Juicy, crunchy, sharp of taste --
If it costs a dollar (or sometimes a nickel)
The money I spent is not a waste.
Some people enjoy their sandwiches;
My mouth loves a gherkin or dill.
I realize what my best snack is:
A half-sour or sour . . . Oh, what a thrill!
If there’s a Heaven, pickles will be there,
Waiting for me to have them for lunch.
My taste buds will engage them anywhere,
And my teeth will busily munch and crunch.
It is true that in life there are very few times
When joy can be found of a certainty,
But I know that a pickle is worth these rhymes
And will be treasured for all eternity.
Kelly’s Cow
“Has anybody seen my eye?
I know it used to be right here,”
Said the sad cow, with a weepy sigh
As she pointed to a space quite near her ear.
“I know I had two just yesterday,
But now I am missing my favorite orb.
I guess it must have rolled away;
It’s a fact I simply cannot absorb.”
Bessie — for that was this cow’s given name --
Was staring and focusing out of one lens
While I sat and listened and felt great shame
For I’d sold her eye to buy a Mercedes Benz.
“Well, I guess one eye is better than none,”
Bessie uttered, fluttering one of her lids;
“This way I can keep an eye on my son --
Although I can’t see my adopted kids.”
And so I keep quiet and avoid her lone eye,
Not admitting the other one was dissected,
And soon I will bid Bessie a guilty good-bye,
And I pray that the other eye won’t get infected.
“Has anybody seen my eye?
I know it used to be right here,”
Said the sad cow, with a weepy sigh
As she pointed to a space quite near her ear.
“I know I had two just yesterday,
But now I am missing my favorite orb.
I guess it must have rolled away;
It’s a fact I simply cannot absorb.”
Bessie — for that was this cow’s given name --
Was staring and focusing out of one lens
While I sat and listened and felt great shame
For I’d sold her eye to buy a Mercedes Benz.
“Well, I guess one eye is better than none,”
Bessie uttered, fluttering one of her lids;
“This way I can keep an eye on my son --
Although I can’t see my adopted kids.”
And so I keep quiet and avoid her lone eye,
Not admitting the other one was dissected,
And soon I will bid Bessie a guilty good-bye,
And I pray that the other eye won’t get infected.
Lament of the Exoskeletal Soul
People tell me to come out of my shell
But that’s the place where I’m forced to dwell;
I am stuck in this lousy exoskeleton
And dragging it with me is not so much fun.
I work out . . . and desire to show my body
But it’s inside the skeleton, so I appear shoddy.
How I envy the lowly caterpillar,
Able to dance to that move-maker Thriller --
Why, I just crawl along inch by inch,
Stuck on the ground, while the soaring finch
Flies through the sky with its hollow bones;
Creatures like me are more sluggish drones
Plodding the sod, not gravity-defying --
Mere earth-bound captive feeling like dying!
My exoskeleton follows me everywhere.
I wish that, for minutes, it would disappear
And that I, just briefly, would feel truly free
But a Fate such as that is not meant to be --
So don’t tell me again to come out of my shell:
It’s part of my being, most of my Hell.
People tell me to come out of my shell
But that’s the place where I’m forced to dwell;
I am stuck in this lousy exoskeleton
And dragging it with me is not so much fun.
I work out . . . and desire to show my body
But it’s inside the skeleton, so I appear shoddy.
How I envy the lowly caterpillar,
Able to dance to that move-maker Thriller --
Why, I just crawl along inch by inch,
Stuck on the ground, while the soaring finch
Flies through the sky with its hollow bones;
Creatures like me are more sluggish drones
Plodding the sod, not gravity-defying --
Mere earth-bound captive feeling like dying!
My exoskeleton follows me everywhere.
I wish that, for minutes, it would disappear
And that I, just briefly, would feel truly free
But a Fate such as that is not meant to be --
So don’t tell me again to come out of my shell:
It’s part of my being, most of my Hell.
What a Waste
I itched and I twitched and I kind of bitched
About doing that workshop — but then I switched
To a brand new maturity unaccustomed to me,
To a realization, in fact, of a fait accompli,
That for once and again that same workshop awaited,
And to view all those slides I was irrevocably fated,
So I made up my mind: my intellectual thirst
I would quench on my own . . . by March thirty-first!
And again to the dreaded workshops I turned,
And from my “favorite” one this much I learned:
Hazardous materials aren’t my friend;
If I ignore signs, they can signal my end!
If I am not careful, I might really combust
And turn into ashes or simply just rust!!
I must be aware of how each chem is rated
Or I might be carelessly asphyxiated.
I know I must read the manual through
So if there’s a spill I will know what to do!
I am thankful this valuable workshop is through;
Now I know the same stuff that last year I knew,
And if I should spy some lye on the fly,
I’ll cry and I’ll sigh — but I never will die
‘Cause I have now traveled the GCN train
And I can rely on my own well-trained brain
To keep me safe from hazardous waste,
From dangerous stuff that is unwisely placed!
I confess I am more learnéd, overall
And so proud my certificate hangs on the wall.
I itched and I twitched and I kind of bitched
About doing that workshop — but then I switched
To a brand new maturity unaccustomed to me,
To a realization, in fact, of a fait accompli,
That for once and again that same workshop awaited,
And to view all those slides I was irrevocably fated,
So I made up my mind: my intellectual thirst
I would quench on my own . . . by March thirty-first!
And again to the dreaded workshops I turned,
And from my “favorite” one this much I learned:
Hazardous materials aren’t my friend;
If I ignore signs, they can signal my end!
If I am not careful, I might really combust
And turn into ashes or simply just rust!!
I must be aware of how each chem is rated
Or I might be carelessly asphyxiated.
I know I must read the manual through
So if there’s a spill I will know what to do!
I am thankful this valuable workshop is through;
Now I know the same stuff that last year I knew,
And if I should spy some lye on the fly,
I’ll cry and I’ll sigh — but I never will die
‘Cause I have now traveled the GCN train
And I can rely on my own well-trained brain
To keep me safe from hazardous waste,
From dangerous stuff that is unwisely placed!
I confess I am more learnéd, overall
And so proud my certificate hangs on the wall.
Proposed Course
Eight of those workshops is not nearly enough;
I really want more of this important stuff.
I hope and I pray that there will soon be nine,
At which point the amount of extra work will be just fine.
"What would be a proper topic?", you may casually ask;
"What would not cause me to imbibe from a tiny flash?"
I submit that one aspect of school really annoys:
The overbearing volume of educational noise.
Let's take, for instance, hissing that spews forth from purifiers.
That sound will not be found among melodious choirs
Which pleasantly entertain our world-weary ears.
No, that dry sound is found to foster many fears and tears.
And in addition, we are victims of a periodic bell
That sounds as though an invitation from the realms of hell,
Blowing forth a tune eliciting someone deeply crying,
Waiting for the coming bell can really be quite trying.
Next comes the urgent rapid ringing of the wall-hung phones,
A sound that fills the atmosphere and chills me to my bones.
Perhaps one day that sound will give way to a blip
That vibrates in my brain emanating from a chip.
Please, GCN, heed my plea and my sincere confession:
Produce for me another twenty-minute training session,
One that will prepare me for accepting all those noises,
Including yells and screams and giggling, sniggling voices.
I crave another chance to earn certification;
I'll never reach the point at which I've met my satiation ---
And please place at the end a group of questions once again;
I'll really strive to thrive by getting right each of the TEN!
At which point I will anoint myself King of the GCN!!
Eight of those workshops is not nearly enough;
I really want more of this important stuff.
I hope and I pray that there will soon be nine,
At which point the amount of extra work will be just fine.
"What would be a proper topic?", you may casually ask;
"What would not cause me to imbibe from a tiny flash?"
I submit that one aspect of school really annoys:
The overbearing volume of educational noise.
Let's take, for instance, hissing that spews forth from purifiers.
That sound will not be found among melodious choirs
Which pleasantly entertain our world-weary ears.
No, that dry sound is found to foster many fears and tears.
And in addition, we are victims of a periodic bell
That sounds as though an invitation from the realms of hell,
Blowing forth a tune eliciting someone deeply crying,
Waiting for the coming bell can really be quite trying.
Next comes the urgent rapid ringing of the wall-hung phones,
A sound that fills the atmosphere and chills me to my bones.
Perhaps one day that sound will give way to a blip
That vibrates in my brain emanating from a chip.
Please, GCN, heed my plea and my sincere confession:
Produce for me another twenty-minute training session,
One that will prepare me for accepting all those noises,
Including yells and screams and giggling, sniggling voices.
I crave another chance to earn certification;
I'll never reach the point at which I've met my satiation ---
And please place at the end a group of questions once again;
I'll really strive to thrive by getting right each of the TEN!
At which point I will anoint myself King of the GCN!!
Ode to a Desolate Desk
I can think of nothing more grotesque
Than a clear surface on a working desk.
With piles of papers, one can clearly find
A true reflection of a busy mind,
But one can never so appreciate
An empty desk as valued as first-rate!
A mind that’s thinking piles sheet on sheet
Until the desk top seems to be complete,
And even if some papers float to floor ---
The active mind well knows there’s room for more!
A clean, clear surface may seem very fine
But books and papers gather by design
Until they represent a world of thought;
This is a state appreciated . . . or it ought
To be so recognized by those intelligent
Enough to see what a full desk was meant
To represent: a clash and gathering of things
So worthy of both thinkers and of kings!
Something there is that doesn’t love a mess;
Of this world view I readily confess
But there’s another school of thought that states
That neatness and its order tempt the Fates.
The desk now clear, where did the papers go?
That is for you to find and me to know.
I can think of nothing more grotesque
Than a clear surface on a working desk.
With piles of papers, one can clearly find
A true reflection of a busy mind,
But one can never so appreciate
An empty desk as valued as first-rate!
A mind that’s thinking piles sheet on sheet
Until the desk top seems to be complete,
And even if some papers float to floor ---
The active mind well knows there’s room for more!
A clean, clear surface may seem very fine
But books and papers gather by design
Until they represent a world of thought;
This is a state appreciated . . . or it ought
To be so recognized by those intelligent
Enough to see what a full desk was meant
To represent: a clash and gathering of things
So worthy of both thinkers and of kings!
Something there is that doesn’t love a mess;
Of this world view I readily confess
But there’s another school of thought that states
That neatness and its order tempt the Fates.
The desk now clear, where did the papers go?
That is for you to find and me to know.
The Villa of the Villi
In the small intestine, each very tiny villus
Absorbs those nutrients whose job it is to fill us
With energy and life --- and that can really thrill us
"Cause with the faithful villi, our intestines simply will us
To make use of all our foods and to remain quite healthy
So that we can work soon and become very wealthy
In many obvious ways (though others may be stealthy).
It takes a villus --- or a lot of villi there
To keep one going, whether person or a bear,
And even though the villus does appear a hair,
It should ne'er be cut with a very sharpened shear,
For you do not want your villi to ever disappear,
For having not a villus in your small intestine
Will sadly lead to a dreadfully deadly infest in
An important section which you need to carefully invest in
With better care and tender wear so that it is the best in
All your bodies --- friends' and yours;
You do not want intestines full of sores!
In the small intestine, each very tiny villus
Absorbs those nutrients whose job it is to fill us
With energy and life --- and that can really thrill us
"Cause with the faithful villi, our intestines simply will us
To make use of all our foods and to remain quite healthy
So that we can work soon and become very wealthy
In many obvious ways (though others may be stealthy).
It takes a villus --- or a lot of villi there
To keep one going, whether person or a bear,
And even though the villus does appear a hair,
It should ne'er be cut with a very sharpened shear,
For you do not want your villi to ever disappear,
For having not a villus in your small intestine
Will sadly lead to a dreadfully deadly infest in
An important section which you need to carefully invest in
With better care and tender wear so that it is the best in
All your bodies --- friends' and yours;
You do not want intestines full of sores!
Of Matters of Matter
The first two particles
Were Atom and Eve;
Then, as written in articles,
Eve chose to leave
(So she did not conceive;
This she would later bereave),
Leaving Atom to make up
The Earth, and this break-up
Had its worth, for the first Atom
Led to others --- and each sir or madam,
Brothers, mothers --- built the world:
Atom by atom, the world was unfurled,
Ande all the new Atoms elements built . . .
Ande Eve was bereaved by the weight of her guilt
And Atom knew not of original sin
For 'twas withone Atom that the World did begin!
The first two particles
Were Atom and Eve;
Then, as written in articles,
Eve chose to leave
(So she did not conceive;
This she would later bereave),
Leaving Atom to make up
The Earth, and this break-up
Had its worth, for the first Atom
Led to others --- and each sir or madam,
Brothers, mothers --- built the world:
Atom by atom, the world was unfurled,
Ande all the new Atoms elements built . . .
Ande Eve was bereaved by the weight of her guilt
And Atom knew not of original sin
For 'twas withone Atom that the World did begin!
A House Divided
My mother and my father are the same;
The process he-she-they use has a name:
The scientists have named this thing mitosis
But it has left me victim of psychosis.
What do I do on Mother's, Father's Day?
I need relief from stress; now let me pray
For a sensible and logical solution
To save me from this parental pollution
Or I will cry and run run far away ---
But whether I decide to go or stay
I fear that, despite my personal pride
I will begin one day to self-divide
And when that happens it will be a bother
For I too will become my mother and my father:
No way around it, I am so confused
For Nature my kind has so much abused,
And when that day comes, and I stop to dine,
I will excuse myself - but which bathroom is mine??
My mother and my father are the same;
The process he-she-they use has a name:
The scientists have named this thing mitosis
But it has left me victim of psychosis.
What do I do on Mother's, Father's Day?
I need relief from stress; now let me pray
For a sensible and logical solution
To save me from this parental pollution
Or I will cry and run run far away ---
But whether I decide to go or stay
I fear that, despite my personal pride
I will begin one day to self-divide
And when that happens it will be a bother
For I too will become my mother and my father:
No way around it, I am so confused
For Nature my kind has so much abused,
And when that day comes, and I stop to dine,
I will excuse myself - but which bathroom is mine??
In Honor of Jayne's Daughter (Fourth Grade Version)
I had a spat
With my one-eyed cat
And he scampered away
Much like a stray.
I did not know
Where he decided to go
But I started to cry.
(I bet his eye was dry.)
I started to look
But I soon forsook
All hope of discovery
And began my recovery
When I heard a meow
And I knew I'd allow
My one-eyed cat back:
It was time for a snack,
But right after he ate
He ended our "date"
And again ran away;
He just would not stay!
He was angry I'd said
In a voice filled with dread
Early that day ---
Now, what did I say?
Oh, yes, I just uttered,
"Don't eye me," I'd muttered
Because he was staring,
Indeed, he was glaring!
Apparently, I'd
Upset him; he sighed
And stormed to the street
And our "friendship," not sweet,
Had ended right then ---
And never again
Would Cyclops defer
To my whims; no more purr
Would emote from his vault
For felineous assault
I'd committed on him
And his eye'd become dim
--- And I missed him a lot
And I'd wished he'd forgot
My poor choice of words
. . . But he's gone, chasing birds
And being nocturnal
While I'm just an infernal
Non-owner, with a sigh
For my cat with one eye!
I had a spat
With my one-eyed cat
And he scampered away
Much like a stray.
I did not know
Where he decided to go
But I started to cry.
(I bet his eye was dry.)
I started to look
But I soon forsook
All hope of discovery
And began my recovery
When I heard a meow
And I knew I'd allow
My one-eyed cat back:
It was time for a snack,
But right after he ate
He ended our "date"
And again ran away;
He just would not stay!
He was angry I'd said
In a voice filled with dread
Early that day ---
Now, what did I say?
Oh, yes, I just uttered,
"Don't eye me," I'd muttered
Because he was staring,
Indeed, he was glaring!
Apparently, I'd
Upset him; he sighed
And stormed to the street
And our "friendship," not sweet,
Had ended right then ---
And never again
Would Cyclops defer
To my whims; no more purr
Would emote from his vault
For felineous assault
I'd committed on him
And his eye'd become dim
--- And I missed him a lot
And I'd wished he'd forgot
My poor choice of words
. . . But he's gone, chasing birds
And being nocturnal
While I'm just an infernal
Non-owner, with a sigh
For my cat with one eye!
The Life Journey of a NUT: Tree Nut or Ground Nut?
To tree of not to tree?
Or better, to be free . . .
To leave my SHELL-tered life
And face a world of strife
Or play it safe and stay
Among the leaves which sway . . .
This is the choice I face,
To find my rightful place
On this nutty Earth;
Where do I find self-worth?
Is it by feeling the breeze
That kisses the earth-bound trees,
Or should I break out of my shell,
Among the groundlings to dwell?
I know why the caged bird sings,
Trapped, unable to use its wings;
I can relate if I stay in my tree,
Which is why I'd much rather choose to be free ---
Yes, I have chosen it best just to flee!
I've examined my options and will no longer be bound:
I'll take my chances right there on the ground!
And with that choice my heart is all a-flutter ---
I've decided my place is in peanut butter!!
Or better, to be free . . .
To leave my SHELL-tered life
And face a world of strife
Or play it safe and stay
Among the leaves which sway . . .
This is the choice I face,
To find my rightful place
On this nutty Earth;
Where do I find self-worth?
Is it by feeling the breeze
That kisses the earth-bound trees,
Or should I break out of my shell,
Among the groundlings to dwell?
I know why the caged bird sings,
Trapped, unable to use its wings;
I can relate if I stay in my tree,
Which is why I'd much rather choose to be free ---
Yes, I have chosen it best just to flee!
I've examined my options and will no longer be bound:
I'll take my chances right there on the ground!
And with that choice my heart is all a-flutter ---
I've decided my place is in peanut butter!!
A Crunchy Bunch of Chips
I love all kinds of chips
That go together with dips
I like the chips so crispy
They kind of make me tipsy
I like chips from potatoes
I'd probably like tomato
Chips and those from veggies
I wonder what are Reggie's
Most admired kind of chips
I bet that he just flips
When his Pringles are brand new
And infused with barbecue
And so sweet-tasting honey
Which makes your taste buds funny
But he hates when flavored dust
Gets on his fingers; still you must
Agree that they are worth the time
and leave one feeling quite sublime
I love all kinds of chips
That go together with dips
I like the chips so crispy
They kind of make me tipsy
I like chips from potatoes
I'd probably like tomato
Chips and those from veggies
I wonder what are Reggie's
Most admired kind of chips
I bet that he just flips
When his Pringles are brand new
And infused with barbecue
And so sweet-tasting honey
Which makes your taste buds funny
But he hates when flavored dust
Gets on his fingers; still you must
Agree that they are worth the time
and leave one feeling quite sublime
MY DREAM SHIRT
Sonnet CLV
It is quite hard for me to now believe
That people who built a lunar rocket
Could possibly use their brains to conceive
Of creating a shirt without a pocket.
Where am I supposed to place
My cell phone and my needed glasses?
I tell you it's a great disgrace
Perpetrated on our virile classes!
I do not like a pocketbook
Hanging next to my wild side;
It's just not such a manly look,
So that idea I'll just let slide.
I need a pocket to be effective,
The absence of which leaves me defective!
It is quite hard for me to now believe
That people who built a lunar rocket
Could possibly use their brains to conceive
Of creating a shirt without a pocket.
Where am I supposed to place
My cell phone and my needed glasses?
I tell you it's a great disgrace
Perpetrated on our virile classes!
I do not like a pocketbook
Hanging next to my wild side;
It's just not such a manly look,
So that idea I'll just let slide.
I need a pocket to be effective,
The absence of which leaves me defective!
MY DOG!
My old dog looks just like a frog
And when he's weary he sleeps like a hog
I never gave my dog a real name
And he doesn't care; he's not very tame
And doesn't fetch or do any trick
Quite frankly my dog just makes me sick
He is so ugly he makes babies cry
If I looked like him I'd want to die
He cannot hunt or point or guard
He just lies around like a lump of lard
BUT if he were to run far away . . . . . .
I'd get a new dog that very day!
My old dog looks just like a frog
And when he's weary he sleeps like a hog
I never gave my dog a real name
And he doesn't care; he's not very tame
And doesn't fetch or do any trick
Quite frankly my dog just makes me sick
He is so ugly he makes babies cry
If I looked like him I'd want to die
He cannot hunt or point or guard
He just lies around like a lump of lard
BUT if he were to run far away . . . . . .
I'd get a new dog that very day!
The Great Outdoors
(really?)
The Great Outdoors can really hurt:
For example, you can fall in dirt
And get all wet if it's turned to mud;
The Great Outdoors is such a dud!
What will I do if there is snow?
The cold, wet stuff is just a foe
Which can attack and freeze my fingers ---
And then it gets so dark and lingers.
The flowers, pretty as they are,
Can a great day begin to mar
When they attract a hive of bees
Which sting my face, my arms, my knees!
The trees are beautiful, you say,
But I wish they would go away.
The birds that build nests peck at me
So rather than smile, I just must flee.
Why then call them the Great Outdoors
When every inch of me abhors
Every second I'm outside?
The Great Outdoors I can't abide!
For example, you can fall in dirt
And get all wet if it's turned to mud;
The Great Outdoors is such a dud!
What will I do if there is snow?
The cold, wet stuff is just a foe
Which can attack and freeze my fingers ---
And then it gets so dark and lingers.
The flowers, pretty as they are,
Can a great day begin to mar
When they attract a hive of bees
Which sting my face, my arms, my knees!
The trees are beautiful, you say,
But I wish they would go away.
The birds that build nests peck at me
So rather than smile, I just must flee.
Why then call them the Great Outdoors
When every inch of me abhors
Every second I'm outside?
The Great Outdoors I can't abide!
Facetious
I don't mean to cry it
but please try to be quiet
Teach with a whisper
Speak lowly but crisper
than high-pitched loud roars
'cause Nature abhors
such shattering sounds
Each one resounds
from eardrum to drum
and makes me feel numb
and desensitized
so kindly be wise
and just keep it down
and delete my large frown
I hate to so push
but kindly just shush
and tech stuff scientific
in a manner less horrific
My suggestion quite sublime:
Try teaching as a mime!
I don't mean to cry it
but please try to be quiet
Teach with a whisper
Speak lowly but crisper
than high-pitched loud roars
'cause Nature abhors
such shattering sounds
Each one resounds
from eardrum to drum
and makes me feel numb
and desensitized
so kindly be wise
and just keep it down
and delete my large frown
I hate to so push
but kindly just shush
and tech stuff scientific
in a manner less horrific
My suggestion quite sublime:
Try teaching as a mime!
Automated Help
Frustration knows no better name
Than automation on the phone;
I approach a state insane
And wait and wait and start to moan.
Then I am switched from voice to voice:
Each one comes from a different place;
I only wish I had a choice
To burrow through this great disgrace
But ‘stead I hold as repeat rings
Shatter nerves and my eardrum;
I can’t abide eternal pings
As I hold on and feel so dumb.
And when at last a robot speaks
And asks me what I really need,
I tell it fully what I seek
But my combatant fails to heed.
My kingdom for a human ear;
I’ll never find one, I do fear,
So I at last give up . . . and then
I start the process o’er again!
Than automation on the phone;
I approach a state insane
And wait and wait and start to moan.
Then I am switched from voice to voice:
Each one comes from a different place;
I only wish I had a choice
To burrow through this great disgrace
But ‘stead I hold as repeat rings
Shatter nerves and my eardrum;
I can’t abide eternal pings
As I hold on and feel so dumb.
And when at last a robot speaks
And asks me what I really need,
I tell it fully what I seek
But my combatant fails to heed.
My kingdom for a human ear;
I’ll never find one, I do fear,
So I at last give up . . . and then
I start the process o’er again!
Charlie
I owned a parakeet
Or rather he owned me
And rather than a tweet
He'd hurl a slur at me.
Now, why he hated me
In no way did I know
But I can guarantee
I was his mortal foe.
Perhaps it was the way
I filled his bowl with seed
Although big bucks I'd pay
To get the best of feed.
Or was it just the taste
Of water I supplied?
The biting that I faced
Could never be denied.
With hand I'd try to pet
His head, and then he'd seek
My fingers and I'd get
Attacked by his sharp beak.
And when I let him fly
Around the room with glee
He'd dive into my eye
And hate that he was free.
He wasn't really nice
(Though some thought he was swell)
And if he went to paradise,
I'd rather go to hell.
I owned a parakeet
Or rather he owned me
And rather than a tweet
He'd hurl a slur at me.
Now, why he hated me
In no way did I know
But I can guarantee
I was his mortal foe.
Perhaps it was the way
I filled his bowl with seed
Although big bucks I'd pay
To get the best of feed.
Or was it just the taste
Of water I supplied?
The biting that I faced
Could never be denied.
With hand I'd try to pet
His head, and then he'd seek
My fingers and I'd get
Attacked by his sharp beak.
And when I let him fly
Around the room with glee
He'd dive into my eye
And hate that he was free.
He wasn't really nice
(Though some thought he was swell)
And if he went to paradise,
I'd rather go to hell.
Deliver Me from Deliveries
For eight months I have had delivered
Groceries --- thank the pandemic,
And I fear my legs have withered;
Such a fate is quite endemic
When one eschews a shopping spree
In person and won't leave the house
But rather pays the costly fee
And stays at home with my dear spouse.
I get excited when I hear
The doorbell ring from down the stairs
And I can't help but feel the cheer
When all that stuff absolves my cares,
As my apartment welcomes then
Those shopping bags filled up with food
And soon are brought more bags again
And all of this so soothes my mood!
Oh, one day we will see the end
Of COVID and its deadly spread,
And when that comes my wife will send
Me to the market without dread.
It will be good to roam the aisles
And place my fingers on the cart
And I won't mind the many miles
I walk once I am in the mart
For there will be repeated smiles
To wear, for shopping is an art,
And Peapod's end will be my start!
(And that's too true of Instacart)
For eight months I have had delivered
Groceries --- thank the pandemic,
And I fear my legs have withered;
Such a fate is quite endemic
When one eschews a shopping spree
In person and won't leave the house
But rather pays the costly fee
And stays at home with my dear spouse.
I get excited when I hear
The doorbell ring from down the stairs
And I can't help but feel the cheer
When all that stuff absolves my cares,
As my apartment welcomes then
Those shopping bags filled up with food
And soon are brought more bags again
And all of this so soothes my mood!
Oh, one day we will see the end
Of COVID and its deadly spread,
And when that comes my wife will send
Me to the market without dread.
It will be good to roam the aisles
And place my fingers on the cart
And I won't mind the many miles
I walk once I am in the mart
For there will be repeated smiles
To wear, for shopping is an art,
And Peapod's end will be my start!
(And that's too true of Instacart)
I'm taking a break
I'm taking a break from writing poems.
I need to collect my thoughts and my breath
And gaze at the azure sky
And be reassured that tomorrow will come.
I have no time right now for creativity,
For composing a rhyme
Or structuring a rhyme scheme
Or playing with intricate word connections
Or even taking the easy way
And writing free verse
Or free perverse presentations
On my computer or my phone.
Oh, I could rhyme balloon with perfume
If I chose, but why?
Now is not the time for rhyme;
It is the time for love and beauty and
The many treasures and pleasures
That make up this Earth.
So --- it is fully understood:
I will not write a poem today.
I'll walk and view my neighborhood,
And poetry must go away!
I'm taking a break from writing poems.
I need to collect my thoughts and my breath
And gaze at the azure sky
And be reassured that tomorrow will come.
I have no time right now for creativity,
For composing a rhyme
Or structuring a rhyme scheme
Or playing with intricate word connections
Or even taking the easy way
And writing free verse
Or free perverse presentations
On my computer or my phone.
Oh, I could rhyme balloon with perfume
If I chose, but why?
Now is not the time for rhyme;
It is the time for love and beauty and
The many treasures and pleasures
That make up this Earth.
So --- it is fully understood:
I will not write a poem today.
I'll walk and view my neighborhood,
And poetry must go away!
This Poem is About You!
This poem is about you,
About your smile and your intelligence,
Concerning how you are deserving of
My efforts and attention
And celebration of the being that you are.
This poem must be read by you;
IT needs your validation
And approval because without those,
Then this poem can't exist.
A poem that's not read is a dream,
A fantasy that soon evaporates
As letters fade into the air
One by one, fleck by shattered piece Until they're none
And so believe me when I say
This poem is about you and it calls
To you to pay it heed.
I thought of you and sculpted every word
To carve it pleasing to your eyes
And spirit and I knew you'd love it
And its depth of meaning, symbols
And allusions ---
And I am blessed to have you
As my audience in this my time of need.
And so I say again, for your contentment
And your need, it's true ---
This Poem is for you.
This poem is about you,
About your smile and your intelligence,
Concerning how you are deserving of
My efforts and attention
And celebration of the being that you are.
This poem must be read by you;
IT needs your validation
And approval because without those,
Then this poem can't exist.
A poem that's not read is a dream,
A fantasy that soon evaporates
As letters fade into the air
One by one, fleck by shattered piece Until they're none
And so believe me when I say
This poem is about you and it calls
To you to pay it heed.
I thought of you and sculpted every word
To carve it pleasing to your eyes
And spirit and I knew you'd love it
And its depth of meaning, symbols
And allusions ---
And I am blessed to have you
As my audience in this my time of need.
And so I say again, for your contentment
And your need, it's true ---
This Poem is for you.
The Jackson-Dylan Game
I drove to play with Jackson and Dylan;
We played basketball because they were willin'
But after a while I was so hot
That I scored a lot; I hit every shot!
I faked and I dribbled and shot the ball
And the boys were surprised: I made them all!
And when I glided and smoothly rebounded,
Dylan and Jackson were really dumbfounded
At my skills and at my speed;
They threw to each other; myself I did feed,
And soon I was running up my score
And I heard them plead, "No more, we implore!"
I understood and said I won't bother
Them long as they'd say, "We can't beat Grandfather."
They said so and then said I was insane
And so I beat them both all over again!
I drove to play with Jackson and Dylan;
We played basketball because they were willin'
But after a while I was so hot
That I scored a lot; I hit every shot!
I faked and I dribbled and shot the ball
And the boys were surprised: I made them all!
And when I glided and smoothly rebounded,
Dylan and Jackson were really dumbfounded
At my skills and at my speed;
They threw to each other; myself I did feed,
And soon I was running up my score
And I heard them plead, "No more, we implore!"
I understood and said I won't bother
Them long as they'd say, "We can't beat Grandfather."
They said so and then said I was insane
And so I beat them both all over again!
BROWNIE
They called him all-American
(A fancy way to say a mutt or cur)
But he was our first prize:
Loyal and bright and eager
To please, to earn his way in the pack.
He loved the kids and knew he was
A treasured part of the family.
He was as all of us should be:
Demonstrating no aggression
(If only that were true of human beings)
But full of love and faith,
Enjoying what to many is elusive ---
A joy of living,
His place in the sun,
And unlike many who hold themselves
As civilized yet fight the sense of fairness
That their brothers and their sisters
Seek in this struggling world,
Fight with prejudice and with misogyny
And a million foolish reasons to engage in war,
Brownie simply got along ---
With cat and rabbit and even with
An overbearing bully collie;
He believed in the real Golden Rule:
Live and let live.
Because of this and for his undeniable love,
His love that knew no limits, I now celebrate
His heart and his presence in the memory
Of his true family. Long will he dwell
In our poignant thoughts
For sometimes there's a reason
That god and dog share the letters.
There is in our world
Nothing holier than love and loyalty
And Brownie ironically
Personified both traits better than most.
They called him all-American
(A fancy way to say a mutt or cur)
But he was our first prize:
Loyal and bright and eager
To please, to earn his way in the pack.
He loved the kids and knew he was
A treasured part of the family.
He was as all of us should be:
Demonstrating no aggression
(If only that were true of human beings)
But full of love and faith,
Enjoying what to many is elusive ---
A joy of living,
His place in the sun,
And unlike many who hold themselves
As civilized yet fight the sense of fairness
That their brothers and their sisters
Seek in this struggling world,
Fight with prejudice and with misogyny
And a million foolish reasons to engage in war,
Brownie simply got along ---
With cat and rabbit and even with
An overbearing bully collie;
He believed in the real Golden Rule:
Live and let live.
Because of this and for his undeniable love,
His love that knew no limits, I now celebrate
His heart and his presence in the memory
Of his true family. Long will he dwell
In our poignant thoughts
For sometimes there's a reason
That god and dog share the letters.
There is in our world
Nothing holier than love and loyalty
And Brownie ironically
Personified both traits better than most.
Jewelry Store
Earl is a pearl
Living in a swirl
Of festivities, a whirl-
Wind ready to unfurl
His charms on any girl.
Jeanie’s hair is ruby red.
She must be fed
Her passion, it is said,
Or she will soon be dead.
Her fate I dread.
Jane’s eyes are emerald green;
They must be truly seen
To know their lusty sheen.
She knows where she has been,
If you know what I mean.
Tim’s a diamond in the rough,
Made up of all that stuff
That makes girls cry, “Enough!”
He thinks he’s really tough,
But he’s all smoke and puff.
Louse is all sapphire:
Her character’s a fire
To which others aspire,
But, as they say, the buyer
Best beware, lest his fate be too dire.
Lana is all jade,
So preciously she’s made,
So it has been said;
Her beauty will not fade,
But woo her --- odds are laid
There’ll be price to be paid!
Such a precious group they are:
With them, your money won’t go far!
Earl is a pearl
Living in a swirl
Of festivities, a whirl-
Wind ready to unfurl
His charms on any girl.
Jeanie’s hair is ruby red.
She must be fed
Her passion, it is said,
Or she will soon be dead.
Her fate I dread.
Jane’s eyes are emerald green;
They must be truly seen
To know their lusty sheen.
She knows where she has been,
If you know what I mean.
Tim’s a diamond in the rough,
Made up of all that stuff
That makes girls cry, “Enough!”
He thinks he’s really tough,
But he’s all smoke and puff.
Louse is all sapphire:
Her character’s a fire
To which others aspire,
But, as they say, the buyer
Best beware, lest his fate be too dire.
Lana is all jade,
So preciously she’s made,
So it has been said;
Her beauty will not fade,
But woo her --- odds are laid
There’ll be price to be paid!
Such a precious group they are:
With them, your money won’t go far!
I Was Shot
I was shot today.
I awoke this morning full of joy
And anticipation and excitement,
Looking forward to my voyage
Too long postponed, but finally
My destination called to me.
Eagerly, I packed my bag and checked
The time and counted first the hours,
Then each minute till at last
I went down to my car and checked my plan
And I was off to college, as it were.
I realized that they were waiting
For my imminent arrival
But when I made that final turn
I found my place and then remained
Inside the car, contemplating just how much
The new experience awaiting me
Would change me and my soul.
Cassius said, “There is a tide
In the affairs of men Which, taken
At the flood, leads on to fortune"
And I realized my time had come
For fortune good or ill,
And so I dragged my bag and waited
For my fate to beckon me
With grimace or with smiles ---
And that is when it happened!
She looked so friendly, even charming,
Asking for my name, which I gave readily
Together with whatever else she sought
And soon, as I sat there, engulfed
In bare vulnerability, she aimed at me,
I shuddered and she shot me...
With the long awaited COVID vaccination
And my return to normalcy
Had taken its first step at last.
I was shot today.
I awoke this morning full of joy
And anticipation and excitement,
Looking forward to my voyage
Too long postponed, but finally
My destination called to me.
Eagerly, I packed my bag and checked
The time and counted first the hours,
Then each minute till at last
I went down to my car and checked my plan
And I was off to college, as it were.
I realized that they were waiting
For my imminent arrival
But when I made that final turn
I found my place and then remained
Inside the car, contemplating just how much
The new experience awaiting me
Would change me and my soul.
Cassius said, “There is a tide
In the affairs of men Which, taken
At the flood, leads on to fortune"
And I realized my time had come
For fortune good or ill,
And so I dragged my bag and waited
For my fate to beckon me
With grimace or with smiles ---
And that is when it happened!
She looked so friendly, even charming,
Asking for my name, which I gave readily
Together with whatever else she sought
And soon, as I sat there, engulfed
In bare vulnerability, she aimed at me,
I shuddered and she shot me...
With the long awaited COVID vaccination
And my return to normalcy
Had taken its first step at last.
80 {written on 3-17-21 upon contemplation of my impending 80th birthday and my eventual return to work}
I fear I must discuss a topic weighty;
It seems my time has come to become 80,
And though that seems like many lengthy years,
I'd like to say I'm cranking on all gears.
Please do not think of me as an old geezer
Who walks a flight of stairs and turns into a wheeze.
Rather, I perceive myself a winner
Who once was chubby but now is so much thinner.
I still can count to ten --- and I remember
That my wife's next birthday's in December.
That's pretty good considering my age;
I'm no old tome that's reached its final page!
Please look upon me as a subtle wine:
It may be aged but still it is so fine.
I hardly ever take a noon-time nap,
And when I do, I wake up in a snap!
But most important is that I still deem
Myself part of the Study Center team.
Yes, back to work with energy I'll burst
When I return on August thirty-first!
I fear I must discuss a topic weighty;
It seems my time has come to become 80,
And though that seems like many lengthy years,
I'd like to say I'm cranking on all gears.
Please do not think of me as an old geezer
Who walks a flight of stairs and turns into a wheeze.
Rather, I perceive myself a winner
Who once was chubby but now is so much thinner.
I still can count to ten --- and I remember
That my wife's next birthday's in December.
That's pretty good considering my age;
I'm no old tome that's reached its final page!
Please look upon me as a subtle wine:
It may be aged but still it is so fine.
I hardly ever take a noon-time nap,
And when I do, I wake up in a snap!
But most important is that I still deem
Myself part of the Study Center team.
Yes, back to work with energy I'll burst
When I return on August thirty-first!
Not So Small Victories
(on the occasion of a loved one's monumental struggle with constipation)
There are some times when we can't go.
Howe'er we try, there just no flow
Of fecal matter from our asses;
We try so hard but all that passes
Are some gases, not much more
And such failed efforts we deplore!
We try and try and grunt out loud
But nothing comes to make us proud
And sometimes many days go by,
So many that we want to cry
But Nature is our faithful friend,
And all comes right out in the end!
We may live lonely lives for hours
And what comes out won't smell like flowers
And, yes, we'll struggle day and night
But we will one day win the fight ---
And then, now empty, we smile and sing
And feel that we love everything...
We dance and prance to music hurled
Because all's well with our own world!!
(on the occasion of a loved one's monumental struggle with constipation)
There are some times when we can't go.
Howe'er we try, there just no flow
Of fecal matter from our asses;
We try so hard but all that passes
Are some gases, not much more
And such failed efforts we deplore!
We try and try and grunt out loud
But nothing comes to make us proud
And sometimes many days go by,
So many that we want to cry
But Nature is our faithful friend,
And all comes right out in the end!
We may live lonely lives for hours
And what comes out won't smell like flowers
And, yes, we'll struggle day and night
But we will one day win the fight ---
And then, now empty, we smile and sing
And feel that we love everything...
We dance and prance to music hurled
Because all's well with our own world!!
Visiting the Sensuous Store for More
I went again to the bagel store,
Where they sell bread and so much more.
I got egg salad on an onion bagel
And then I asked the man to finagle
Some cream cheese inside a newly scooped
Plain bagel, which he did and became extremely pooped
(And even though the man's head was bobbin'
Correctly, he added nova for Robin.)
But I then thought of Esther's palate
And had him make her some more egg salad
And he placed it into a bagel of wheat,
After which the order was almost complete.
Next, he poured a large hazelnut coffee
And a really green cup of very hot tea.
I cried a lot at the pastries I saw
Because I can't eat that stuff any more
And that goes for all those varied chips
That would taste so good with forbidden dips.
Anyway, I left to go to my car,
Relieved that that store is not very far
Away; till then, for bagels I'll yearn
But I'll never fear: Robin will return!!
I went again to the bagel store,
Where they sell bread and so much more.
I got egg salad on an onion bagel
And then I asked the man to finagle
Some cream cheese inside a newly scooped
Plain bagel, which he did and became extremely pooped
(And even though the man's head was bobbin'
Correctly, he added nova for Robin.)
But I then thought of Esther's palate
And had him make her some more egg salad
And he placed it into a bagel of wheat,
After which the order was almost complete.
Next, he poured a large hazelnut coffee
And a really green cup of very hot tea.
I cried a lot at the pastries I saw
Because I can't eat that stuff any more
And that goes for all those varied chips
That would taste so good with forbidden dips.
Anyway, I left to go to my car,
Relieved that that store is not very far
Away; till then, for bagels I'll yearn
But I'll never fear: Robin will return!!
My Masterpiece
Have you seen my masterpiece?
I placed on my favorite chair
And now my heartbeat may soon cease:
It’s managed to just disappear.
I finished writing such a story
That generations will arise
And shower me with well-earned glory,
Loving me with puppy eyes.
It took me every single minute
Of the hour before dawn,
And when I finished putting in it
All my soul, a work was born
That represents my greatest skills
All within those twenty pages,
Love and angst and daring thrills ---
A masterpiece that will last ages . . .
Except that I misplaced the work
And though I’ve sought for it all day,
My fame and fortune will once more lurk
Outside renown, a castaway
Most likely ne’er to e’er be known
By massive throngs awaiting my art.
And I will forever remain unknown,
A career too soon ended before it did start.
Such fate must await one such as I;
I spent sixty minutes creating a plot
And a conflict and subtleties, lows and a high
That would capture the hearts of both grownup and tot,
But now I will never know what a best-seller
Feels like, for my masterpiece is long gone,
And I, in the depths of depression, remain . . .
Weeping and sniffling and deeply forlorn.
I know --- I’ll ignore this abomination
And give birth to a new number one tale;
I’ll rally my spirit plus determination
And write a new story that will never fail
To earn me the accolades of critics and such.
I’ll be hailed the new Saki or possibly Poe
They will say that my masterpiece carries the touch
Of a genius, a writer very much in the know . . . .
But in truth it won’t match the one that is lost;
Ne’er before has such genius paid such a high cost!
Have you seen my masterpiece?
I placed on my favorite chair
And now my heartbeat may soon cease:
It’s managed to just disappear.
I finished writing such a story
That generations will arise
And shower me with well-earned glory,
Loving me with puppy eyes.
It took me every single minute
Of the hour before dawn,
And when I finished putting in it
All my soul, a work was born
That represents my greatest skills
All within those twenty pages,
Love and angst and daring thrills ---
A masterpiece that will last ages . . .
Except that I misplaced the work
And though I’ve sought for it all day,
My fame and fortune will once more lurk
Outside renown, a castaway
Most likely ne’er to e’er be known
By massive throngs awaiting my art.
And I will forever remain unknown,
A career too soon ended before it did start.
Such fate must await one such as I;
I spent sixty minutes creating a plot
And a conflict and subtleties, lows and a high
That would capture the hearts of both grownup and tot,
But now I will never know what a best-seller
Feels like, for my masterpiece is long gone,
And I, in the depths of depression, remain . . .
Weeping and sniffling and deeply forlorn.
I know --- I’ll ignore this abomination
And give birth to a new number one tale;
I’ll rally my spirit plus determination
And write a new story that will never fail
To earn me the accolades of critics and such.
I’ll be hailed the new Saki or possibly Poe
They will say that my masterpiece carries the touch
Of a genius, a writer very much in the know . . . .
But in truth it won’t match the one that is lost;
Ne’er before has such genius paid such a high cost!
AUTOMATIC (upon encountering an over-eager repeating automatic commode flusher)
The automatic flusher
Is out of all control,
Producing many a gusher
When saving water's the goal.
It must be happy to see me
For it flushes excitedly
In its intent to free me
From touching its handle with glee.
But in the end this friend,
Overdoing what it oughta,
Must seek a plumber to end
This gigantic waste of water!
The automatic flusher
Is out of all control,
Producing many a gusher
When saving water's the goal.
It must be happy to see me
For it flushes excitedly
In its intent to free me
From touching its handle with glee.
But in the end this friend,
Overdoing what it oughta,
Must seek a plumber to end
This gigantic waste of water!
Eulogy for a Bowl
-- upon the disposal of my favorite but cracked bowl
I sadly mourn my pop corn bowl
Your death has left a forlorn soul
And now you've served me one last time
(My pop corn tasting so sublime)
I'll miss your plastic pastel curve
And no replacement can well serve
A snack so fitting for a king
Oh, pop corn bowl, to you I sing
An ode of love, for without dearth
You filled the purpose of your birth
A great fulfillment showed your worth
Now may you rest in a better place
Where you'll decompose with skillful grace
May you be recycled to a fate you deserve
--- Another's snack you'll regally serve
I'll miss you, but I'll pay the toll
Emotionally, and my new bowl
Can never heal my broken heart . . .
But a new tradition I must start ---
Reluctantly will I fill my new bowl
With pop corn to fill in my heart a new hole.
--- Rest in pieces, oh Pop Corn Bowl!
-- upon the disposal of my favorite but cracked bowl
I sadly mourn my pop corn bowl
Your death has left a forlorn soul
And now you've served me one last time
(My pop corn tasting so sublime)
I'll miss your plastic pastel curve
And no replacement can well serve
A snack so fitting for a king
Oh, pop corn bowl, to you I sing
An ode of love, for without dearth
You filled the purpose of your birth
A great fulfillment showed your worth
Now may you rest in a better place
Where you'll decompose with skillful grace
May you be recycled to a fate you deserve
--- Another's snack you'll regally serve
I'll miss you, but I'll pay the toll
Emotionally, and my new bowl
Can never heal my broken heart . . .
But a new tradition I must start ---
Reluctantly will I fill my new bowl
With pop corn to fill in my heart a new hole.
--- Rest in pieces, oh Pop Corn Bowl!
BIG QUESTIONS; small solutions
I wonder this: Can a man bury
A coffee maker with an apple
Or should he replace it with a cranberry
And use the apple to make a Snapple
Which he would liquefy and drink
In one big gulp --- to end his thirst?
Tell me exactly what you think,
Which would be best? Which would be worst?
Which would result in the best producer ---
Cranberry? Apple? Maybe tomato . . .?
Which would satiate a thirsty user ---
Or should we replace the fruit with potato?
This will not give the world any peace
Or cure diseases, ending cancer ---
But thoughts like these put the world at ease
And replace every warrior with a mental dancer,
And, admit it, rather than a gaggle of geese,
It's far more pleasant to pursue a dream prancer.
I wonder this: Can a man bury
A coffee maker with an apple
Or should he replace it with a cranberry
And use the apple to make a Snapple
Which he would liquefy and drink
In one big gulp --- to end his thirst?
Tell me exactly what you think,
Which would be best? Which would be worst?
Which would result in the best producer ---
Cranberry? Apple? Maybe tomato . . .?
Which would satiate a thirsty user ---
Or should we replace the fruit with potato?
This will not give the world any peace
Or cure diseases, ending cancer ---
But thoughts like these put the world at ease
And replace every warrior with a mental dancer,
And, admit it, rather than a gaggle of geese,
It's far more pleasant to pursue a dream prancer.
Words That Describe
An adjective describes a noun or pronoun,
Making each word easier to see
So when we are reading of a clown,
We learn this clown was rather elderly,
And we can hear about a pointed shoe
As well as a red dress that your friend wore
And that her blouse was frilled and silk and blue
And that she opened up an oaken door.
An adverb is a challenge, to be sure ----
Modifying adverbs, adjectives and verbs;
It’s almost more than students can endure
To locate, and yet if one observes
A verb and asks about it how or when
(Take “ran” --- ran slowly --- that’s a how;
Or was it showing when?: “He ran again”)
Or does the adverb tell about adverbs?:
Very slowly or too boldly dare;
This is more punishment than one deserves,
Yet adverbs can be found just everywhere!
Take adjectives: adverbs may describe those words
(Too Tall Jones played football many years;
The sky was filled with smoothly soaring birds
And sharply pointed ears can bring real fears.)
Where would we be without our modifiers?
We’d know just trees and desks and flowers
And we’d too often hear that we are liars
Because without them we would have no powers
To tell which one we were referring to:
A flower is just dour with no hue!
An adjective describes a noun or pronoun,
Making each word easier to see
So when we are reading of a clown,
We learn this clown was rather elderly,
And we can hear about a pointed shoe
As well as a red dress that your friend wore
And that her blouse was frilled and silk and blue
And that she opened up an oaken door.
An adverb is a challenge, to be sure ----
Modifying adverbs, adjectives and verbs;
It’s almost more than students can endure
To locate, and yet if one observes
A verb and asks about it how or when
(Take “ran” --- ran slowly --- that’s a how;
Or was it showing when?: “He ran again”)
Or does the adverb tell about adverbs?:
Very slowly or too boldly dare;
This is more punishment than one deserves,
Yet adverbs can be found just everywhere!
Take adjectives: adverbs may describe those words
(Too Tall Jones played football many years;
The sky was filled with smoothly soaring birds
And sharply pointed ears can bring real fears.)
Where would we be without our modifiers?
We’d know just trees and desks and flowers
And we’d too often hear that we are liars
Because without them we would have no powers
To tell which one we were referring to:
A flower is just dour with no hue!
Olympic Dreams
That day I had a very nice surprise:
My teacher in the gym opened my eyes
By telling me that eating meat and pies
Would count as a good type of exercise.
He said that chewing burned up calories
Which kept my weight down and I know that he’s
An expert so I will work quite hard to please
Him by eating; oh, such memories
Will I retain of this gymnastics guy:
He says, “Feel free to ingest apple pie;
In doing so, just know you can rely
On culinary arts to keep you spry.”
And so I eat and will not hesitate
To stuff my mouth from morning till it’s late.
From this new exercise I’ll deviate
Only when I sleep --- and I’ll be great
At eating and at staying finely fit.
My exercise to me is a sweet hit!
I’ll swallow every peach and every pit
But only after chewing with much grit.
Perhaps one day Olympic games I’ll play.
To two gold medals I will eat my way,
One for chewing till the end of day;
One for gulping down the largest prey.
Until that time, I will my mouth maintain
In eating shape, trying not to gain
A hundred pounds; that would be a pain:
I hope my eating will not ever wane.
That day I had a very nice surprise:
My teacher in the gym opened my eyes
By telling me that eating meat and pies
Would count as a good type of exercise.
He said that chewing burned up calories
Which kept my weight down and I know that he’s
An expert so I will work quite hard to please
Him by eating; oh, such memories
Will I retain of this gymnastics guy:
He says, “Feel free to ingest apple pie;
In doing so, just know you can rely
On culinary arts to keep you spry.”
And so I eat and will not hesitate
To stuff my mouth from morning till it’s late.
From this new exercise I’ll deviate
Only when I sleep --- and I’ll be great
At eating and at staying finely fit.
My exercise to me is a sweet hit!
I’ll swallow every peach and every pit
But only after chewing with much grit.
Perhaps one day Olympic games I’ll play.
To two gold medals I will eat my way,
One for chewing till the end of day;
One for gulping down the largest prey.
Until that time, I will my mouth maintain
In eating shape, trying not to gain
A hundred pounds; that would be a pain:
I hope my eating will not ever wane.
Eat the Meat --- oh, what a treat!
I love to eat my favorite food.
I love it when I swallow every piece.
I eat quietly so I’m not rude.
I love to eat chickens and geese.
I don’t like cooking but I try
And when I try I work so very hard.
I cook the wings and even every eye,
And I ingest each piece of greasy lard.
My friends say that I shouldn’t be so quick
To eat disgusting stuff the way I do,
But I enjoy each and every lick
Including the bird’s organs and its goo.
I want to eat and gulp down every bit
Every single day that I’m live.
I plan to eat a lot and never quit,
And in that way I’ll flourish and I’ll thrive!
I plan to eat my hungry way through life
And I will have a smile on my face
When I carve pieces with my trusty knife,
Although my wife will think it’s a disgrace.
I love to eat my favorite food.
I love it when I swallow every piece.
I eat quietly so I’m not rude.
I love to eat chickens and geese.
I don’t like cooking but I try
And when I try I work so very hard.
I cook the wings and even every eye,
And I ingest each piece of greasy lard.
My friends say that I shouldn’t be so quick
To eat disgusting stuff the way I do,
But I enjoy each and every lick
Including the bird’s organs and its goo.
I want to eat and gulp down every bit
Every single day that I’m live.
I plan to eat a lot and never quit,
And in that way I’ll flourish and I’ll thrive!
I plan to eat my hungry way through life
And I will have a smile on my face
When I carve pieces with my trusty knife,
Although my wife will think it’s a disgrace.
Waiting Room
Lined up sitting down
Non-Automated waiting my turn
Hoping to win the lottery
First prize being poked prodded injected
Excitement fills my heart
Will my name be called
Will I get a standing ovation
Or more likely total bland indifference
And no deference from my competition
But I still will win
And march with dignity
Following with obeisance
Led to the next level of waiting
Waiting waiting
Until it's over
The crescendo plays and I take a bow
Chorus of
"We are the Champions”
Plays in my head
And I have scored the goal
At last!
Lined up sitting down
Non-Automated waiting my turn
Hoping to win the lottery
First prize being poked prodded injected
Excitement fills my heart
Will my name be called
Will I get a standing ovation
Or more likely total bland indifference
And no deference from my competition
But I still will win
And march with dignity
Following with obeisance
Led to the next level of waiting
Waiting waiting
Until it's over
The crescendo plays and I take a bow
Chorus of
"We are the Champions”
Plays in my head
And I have scored the goal
At last!
The Plea of the Amoeba
Please don’t leave me all alone!
I will change . . . I will be whatever you want me to be;
Just don’t go.
If I don’t please you with my gelatinous appearance,
I will adjust my parameters and try my best to please you:
You prefer a square? You’ve got it!
A circle or an oval? I can do that.
Just don’t turn your back on me.
I know I’m not perfect --- but which single-cell organism is?
Give me a break.
I admit that I am no movie star
I’m cellulose, not celluloid
And I try to stay within my limits
But my limits keep changing!
You can’t hold my nature against me.
I did not cheat on you.
The one you saw me with was my other self
Born of a split personality.
So stay, and I will try to be more solid . . .
If it is possible.
I love it when you notice me,
And I am proud to say that you selected me out of all my non-identical twins.
Now stay with me and you will not regret it.
Without you, I will simply di . . . vide.
Please don’t leave me all alone!
I will change . . . I will be whatever you want me to be;
Just don’t go.
If I don’t please you with my gelatinous appearance,
I will adjust my parameters and try my best to please you:
You prefer a square? You’ve got it!
A circle or an oval? I can do that.
Just don’t turn your back on me.
I know I’m not perfect --- but which single-cell organism is?
Give me a break.
I admit that I am no movie star
I’m cellulose, not celluloid
And I try to stay within my limits
But my limits keep changing!
You can’t hold my nature against me.
I did not cheat on you.
The one you saw me with was my other self
Born of a split personality.
So stay, and I will try to be more solid . . .
If it is possible.
I love it when you notice me,
And I am proud to say that you selected me out of all my non-identical twins.
Now stay with me and you will not regret it.
Without you, I will simply di . . . vide.
The Isolated Umbrella
A husky man and his umbrella
Were seen to have an argument:
“Now, listen here, my shady fella,
I don’t know what you meant
By saying I’m dumb; that’s a hella
Nasty, smarmy comment!”
Thereby, the brelly did reply,
“You miss my meaning true.
By ‘dumb’ I meant, my guy,
That your words were too few.
I wanted you to answer why
Your raincoat is so new.”
The young man gripped the parasol
And looked up at the thing,
And uttered, “You have so much gall
To hurt me with your sting.
I should return you to the mall,
Such anguish do you bring.”
“I’m an umbrella,” was the reply,
“I spoke ‘cause I was lonely.
I wasn’t trying to defy
You; it’s just that I am only
Touched when rain clouds fill the sky.”
That voice sounded so moanly.
“You never take me for a walk,”
So said the sad umbrella.
“We never sit and have a talk
About the plays of Pirandella.”
The man responded with no balk,
“I’d rather speak of Cinderella
With such a wit as you, my friend.”
At which umbrella got upset
And said, “There’s no need to offend.
I’m not your friendly pet.
And I believe we’re at the end!
These are your worst words yet!!”
And so umbrella learned a lesson:
Never ask a man to speak;
His words, so dense, will keep you guessin’
And make you feel quite weak:
Their aim will be to enjoy messin’
With you to make you meek.
A husky man and his umbrella
Were seen to have an argument:
“Now, listen here, my shady fella,
I don’t know what you meant
By saying I’m dumb; that’s a hella
Nasty, smarmy comment!”
Thereby, the brelly did reply,
“You miss my meaning true.
By ‘dumb’ I meant, my guy,
That your words were too few.
I wanted you to answer why
Your raincoat is so new.”
The young man gripped the parasol
And looked up at the thing,
And uttered, “You have so much gall
To hurt me with your sting.
I should return you to the mall,
Such anguish do you bring.”
“I’m an umbrella,” was the reply,
“I spoke ‘cause I was lonely.
I wasn’t trying to defy
You; it’s just that I am only
Touched when rain clouds fill the sky.”
That voice sounded so moanly.
“You never take me for a walk,”
So said the sad umbrella.
“We never sit and have a talk
About the plays of Pirandella.”
The man responded with no balk,
“I’d rather speak of Cinderella
With such a wit as you, my friend.”
At which umbrella got upset
And said, “There’s no need to offend.
I’m not your friendly pet.
And I believe we’re at the end!
These are your worst words yet!!”
And so umbrella learned a lesson:
Never ask a man to speak;
His words, so dense, will keep you guessin’
And make you feel quite weak:
Their aim will be to enjoy messin’
With you to make you meek.
Two Not of a Kind
One day, I made an odd decision
To wear a sneaker and a high-heel.
I knew I would receive derision
And many a mocking, squawking squeal
But I’d determined I had the right
To dress the way I wanted,
So I arrived at work a sight
But I remained undaunted.
My boss walked over with a glare
And pointed out my footwear;
He made a growl just like a bear;
I wanted to just disappear
But I then stood my wobbly ground
(Tilting to the left a bit)
And that caused all there to confound
Their thoughts – but my style was a hit!
The boss saw all his workers smile
And noted that they then worked hard.
He was so bright; he used his guile
And pronounced to his every ward,
“From this day forth you all must don
Two different shoes, for then I know
You’ll work much better with them on,
And then my profits all will grow!”
One day, I made an odd decision
To wear a sneaker and a high-heel.
I knew I would receive derision
And many a mocking, squawking squeal
But I’d determined I had the right
To dress the way I wanted,
So I arrived at work a sight
But I remained undaunted.
My boss walked over with a glare
And pointed out my footwear;
He made a growl just like a bear;
I wanted to just disappear
But I then stood my wobbly ground
(Tilting to the left a bit)
And that caused all there to confound
Their thoughts – but my style was a hit!
The boss saw all his workers smile
And noted that they then worked hard.
He was so bright; he used his guile
And pronounced to his every ward,
“From this day forth you all must don
Two different shoes, for then I know
You’ll work much better with them on,
And then my profits all will grow!”
To See or Not to See
There are some creatures who might have bled
But we don’t know: their blood’s not red.
It makes me wonder if there’s confusion
When such a thing needs a transfusion.
And if its blood is truly clear,
How would react someone with fear
Of seeing blood? Would he or she
Detect the blood subconsciously
And then proceed to just collapse
At seeing blood that looks like sap?
Another question bothers me:
If such a creature cannot see
Its blood, then how and where
Would it treat a cut when its blood disappears?
And what would be the appropriate shade
Of the properly used and applied Band-Aid?
There are simply just too many pains
Caused by this blood that leaves no remains:
At least when it’s red you can see where it is.
To locate transparency takes a real wiz!
If the world were so perfect, all blood would be red,
And having said that, I leave nothing unsaid.
There are some creatures who might have bled
But we don’t know: their blood’s not red.
It makes me wonder if there’s confusion
When such a thing needs a transfusion.
And if its blood is truly clear,
How would react someone with fear
Of seeing blood? Would he or she
Detect the blood subconsciously
And then proceed to just collapse
At seeing blood that looks like sap?
Another question bothers me:
If such a creature cannot see
Its blood, then how and where
Would it treat a cut when its blood disappears?
And what would be the appropriate shade
Of the properly used and applied Band-Aid?
There are simply just too many pains
Caused by this blood that leaves no remains:
At least when it’s red you can see where it is.
To locate transparency takes a real wiz!
If the world were so perfect, all blood would be red,
And having said that, I leave nothing unsaid.
Mini-Head
I sat and stared at a head being shrunk,
As the tribesman mixed human flesh with some gunk;
It was happening right in front of my eyes . . .
Then I suddenly heard some panicky cries!
Where were these whimpers I couldn’t avoid?
- - - It was my own head that was so annoyed!
“Of all the good films you could have picked,
You chose the one that would make me sick!
A more pleasant movie you might have selected . . .
But, NO, the scariest flick you elected.
Did it ever occur that your own precious head
Would see this procedure and be filled with dread?”
I glared at the screen --- and that head was diminished.
My head just kept shaking till the process was finished,
And when from the film those beady eyes focused,
My head shouted out, “Enough hocus-pocus!
Get me out of this darkness and right to the giant,
Statue of Wadlow!” My head was defiant
So, we left the theatre and that shrunken head,
Later went to have supper, where my head was fed.
I learned my lesson and have ever since
Avoided all movies that make my head wince.
I sat and stared at a head being shrunk,
As the tribesman mixed human flesh with some gunk;
It was happening right in front of my eyes . . .
Then I suddenly heard some panicky cries!
Where were these whimpers I couldn’t avoid?
- - - It was my own head that was so annoyed!
“Of all the good films you could have picked,
You chose the one that would make me sick!
A more pleasant movie you might have selected . . .
But, NO, the scariest flick you elected.
Did it ever occur that your own precious head
Would see this procedure and be filled with dread?”
I glared at the screen --- and that head was diminished.
My head just kept shaking till the process was finished,
And when from the film those beady eyes focused,
My head shouted out, “Enough hocus-pocus!
Get me out of this darkness and right to the giant,
Statue of Wadlow!” My head was defiant
So, we left the theatre and that shrunken head,
Later went to have supper, where my head was fed.
I learned my lesson and have ever since
Avoided all movies that make my head wince.
Not Even Once!!
I've attended many games;
I can list so many names
Of players on so many days
Who won or lost in many ways.
I've seen my share of pitchers winning
And comebacks in the final inning.
I've eaten hot dogs and drunk beers,
Admired stars who had no fears,
Seen pitchers throw at scary speeds
And fielders pull off startling deeds.
I saw infielders reach and grab
A certain hit with one great stab
And watched the ball go to first base
Where it was caught with skill and grace.
I've seen balls lost in the bright sun
And speedsters score the winning run.
But of all sad things that I recall
The one that hurts me most of all
Is that I've never caught a foul;
It keeps me up and makes me howl:
I've never caught a single ball!
I've attended many games;
I can list so many names
Of players on so many days
Who won or lost in many ways.
I've seen my share of pitchers winning
And comebacks in the final inning.
I've eaten hot dogs and drunk beers,
Admired stars who had no fears,
Seen pitchers throw at scary speeds
And fielders pull off startling deeds.
I saw infielders reach and grab
A certain hit with one great stab
And watched the ball go to first base
Where it was caught with skill and grace.
I've seen balls lost in the bright sun
And speedsters score the winning run.
But of all sad things that I recall
The one that hurts me most of all
Is that I've never caught a foul;
It keeps me up and makes me howl:
I've never caught a single ball!
Mazeroski Broke My Heart
The choice was simple: Go to that day’s Bio class or
Stay home and watch Game 7 of the magical World Series.
It was 1960 and I was a serious student thinking
Pre-med in the footsteps of Drs. Casey and Kildare on TV
But that was fiction and Game 7 was reality so
I dropped Bio and stayed home and knew the Yanks would win.
(This was before the Mets were born and stole my heart,
But that’s a tale for another time.)
This was the time for the Bronx Bombers, living in my home borough,
To follow the script to the title as they had in seven of the last 12 years,
And as they would in 1961 and 1962; I made the obvious choice
And watched on my good old black and white RCA and waited
For the celebration. Mantle was still Mantle then and so were
Whitey, Yogi, Elston, Gil and Roger Maris, one year before his great
Home run chase with the Mick. How could they lose?
Dropping Bio 101 was so clearly worth it. Forbes Field was a great setting
For this David and Goliath match-up, the first Series show-up
For the Pirates since they lost to the Bambino and his Yanks in 1927.
These Yanks had won three games by scoring 35 more runs than
Their mediocre opponents from the City of Steel; this victory
Would be a different kind of steal! Biology may have been the
Study of life but this game was Life! I was into it, and when the Yanks,
Losing 9-7, tied the game in the top of the ninth I knew where it was headed.
And then my world collapsed. It happened quickly, on the second pitch,
The one that weakling Mazeroski sent flying over the left field wall ---
And there I was, speechless, astounded, classless:
Instead of dissecting a frog, which I should have been doing,
I was left to dissect the Series --- but it made no sense. Pittsburgh celebrated
And I debated Terry’s choice; when asked what kind of pitch he threw,
Ralph Terry said, “The wrong one” and that paralleled my choice:
My own decision was “the wrong one” too --- but the mind,
In conflict with the heart, will never win. I lost that Series but
I won some wisdom from it, and so I guess my choice was worth it . . .
Still, I would have chosen ignorance, not wisdom, if it had meant
The Yanks would win that game.
The choice was simple: Go to that day’s Bio class or
Stay home and watch Game 7 of the magical World Series.
It was 1960 and I was a serious student thinking
Pre-med in the footsteps of Drs. Casey and Kildare on TV
But that was fiction and Game 7 was reality so
I dropped Bio and stayed home and knew the Yanks would win.
(This was before the Mets were born and stole my heart,
But that’s a tale for another time.)
This was the time for the Bronx Bombers, living in my home borough,
To follow the script to the title as they had in seven of the last 12 years,
And as they would in 1961 and 1962; I made the obvious choice
And watched on my good old black and white RCA and waited
For the celebration. Mantle was still Mantle then and so were
Whitey, Yogi, Elston, Gil and Roger Maris, one year before his great
Home run chase with the Mick. How could they lose?
Dropping Bio 101 was so clearly worth it. Forbes Field was a great setting
For this David and Goliath match-up, the first Series show-up
For the Pirates since they lost to the Bambino and his Yanks in 1927.
These Yanks had won three games by scoring 35 more runs than
Their mediocre opponents from the City of Steel; this victory
Would be a different kind of steal! Biology may have been the
Study of life but this game was Life! I was into it, and when the Yanks,
Losing 9-7, tied the game in the top of the ninth I knew where it was headed.
And then my world collapsed. It happened quickly, on the second pitch,
The one that weakling Mazeroski sent flying over the left field wall ---
And there I was, speechless, astounded, classless:
Instead of dissecting a frog, which I should have been doing,
I was left to dissect the Series --- but it made no sense. Pittsburgh celebrated
And I debated Terry’s choice; when asked what kind of pitch he threw,
Ralph Terry said, “The wrong one” and that paralleled my choice:
My own decision was “the wrong one” too --- but the mind,
In conflict with the heart, will never win. I lost that Series but
I won some wisdom from it, and so I guess my choice was worth it . . .
Still, I would have chosen ignorance, not wisdom, if it had meant
The Yanks would win that game.
My First Homerun
There was no verdant grass symmetrically mown into crisscross patterns,
No sweet, pleasing scent of nature’s gentle carpet, no well-packed dirt
Or crowd-filled stands or electrified scoreboard flashing my image.
No announcer’s banter would be interrupted by some catchy phrase
To herald the soaring flight of the ball over the fence.
No reporters would fiercely keyboard (or type, in those days),
Rushing to meet a deadline; no camera crew would eagerly provide
Timely video of the shot that would be heard later among my impressionable
Friends, eager to hear every detail more than once.
But this is not about what there was not; it is a historical reflection
On what really happened that day in April, May, or June
Outside P.S. 119, my primary source of education in those early ’50 days.
Let me set the scene, as best I can recall: the rectangle was circumscribed
By a chain-link fence and chrome supporting bars. The punchball field (for softball
To those older kids) had bases drawn in white paint but other than that
You couldn’t tell the infield from the outfield. For the sake of avoiding
Constant ground-keeping by the school custodian, the surface was
A steady stream of concrete, finely smoothed, going on until it met
The façade of the school. Left field went on forever, center ended with
A chain-link garden where some quite enthusiastic students tried ever so hard
To grow vegetables, and right field just kind of ended much too soon
When a towering handball wall encroached upon it. We were up; the score
Might have been 1 – 0 or more likely 45 – 39 because we were in the inchoate
Stages of learning the fine art of fielding grounders and fly balls.
It was my turn to hit. If you know punchball, then you know the hitter
Gently tossed the ball straight up a few fine inches and as it was
On its merry way back to earth, the hitter, fingers in a fist,
Swung and hit the ball and watched it fly into another realm ---
Or, in my case that day, I ran toward first base as the smash
Headed to the terrified shortstop (the ball determined to avoid
Capture at all costs) and mirabile dictu that self-same ball eluded
The fielder and escaped toward the boy in left who bent to stop it . . .
Unsuccessfully, and watched the fast-escaping pink Spaldeen
(The New York boroughs’ universal way of saying Spalding, name of the
Manufacturer) scamper toward the outer limits of left field,
Like a frightened rabbit desperately eluding a fleet, voracious fox,
And all the while I chugged around the bases, confounded
That I was still allowed to run . . . and that is how I hit my first home run.
Oh, you may shout “four-base error” but years have passed
And in the record book of my mind, sans asterisk, it was certainly a homer.
There was no verdant grass symmetrically mown into crisscross patterns,
No sweet, pleasing scent of nature’s gentle carpet, no well-packed dirt
Or crowd-filled stands or electrified scoreboard flashing my image.
No announcer’s banter would be interrupted by some catchy phrase
To herald the soaring flight of the ball over the fence.
No reporters would fiercely keyboard (or type, in those days),
Rushing to meet a deadline; no camera crew would eagerly provide
Timely video of the shot that would be heard later among my impressionable
Friends, eager to hear every detail more than once.
But this is not about what there was not; it is a historical reflection
On what really happened that day in April, May, or June
Outside P.S. 119, my primary source of education in those early ’50 days.
Let me set the scene, as best I can recall: the rectangle was circumscribed
By a chain-link fence and chrome supporting bars. The punchball field (for softball
To those older kids) had bases drawn in white paint but other than that
You couldn’t tell the infield from the outfield. For the sake of avoiding
Constant ground-keeping by the school custodian, the surface was
A steady stream of concrete, finely smoothed, going on until it met
The façade of the school. Left field went on forever, center ended with
A chain-link garden where some quite enthusiastic students tried ever so hard
To grow vegetables, and right field just kind of ended much too soon
When a towering handball wall encroached upon it. We were up; the score
Might have been 1 – 0 or more likely 45 – 39 because we were in the inchoate
Stages of learning the fine art of fielding grounders and fly balls.
It was my turn to hit. If you know punchball, then you know the hitter
Gently tossed the ball straight up a few fine inches and as it was
On its merry way back to earth, the hitter, fingers in a fist,
Swung and hit the ball and watched it fly into another realm ---
Or, in my case that day, I ran toward first base as the smash
Headed to the terrified shortstop (the ball determined to avoid
Capture at all costs) and mirabile dictu that self-same ball eluded
The fielder and escaped toward the boy in left who bent to stop it . . .
Unsuccessfully, and watched the fast-escaping pink Spaldeen
(The New York boroughs’ universal way of saying Spalding, name of the
Manufacturer) scamper toward the outer limits of left field,
Like a frightened rabbit desperately eluding a fleet, voracious fox,
And all the while I chugged around the bases, confounded
That I was still allowed to run . . . and that is how I hit my first home run.
Oh, you may shout “four-base error” but years have passed
And in the record book of my mind, sans asterisk, it was certainly a homer.
Broken
When he was 12, my son was practicing
On our Spring Valley field as he prepared
For that year's Little League All-star game.
He was at shortstop, for no good reason.
He was a pitcher - outfielder
And threw left - handed! If you ask
Who were all the lefty throwing shortstops
In the history of the Major Leagues,
It won't take very long to say their names,
And rest assured you never heard of them.
So why was he positioned between second and third?
I'll tell you this: it would be the only time,
And when the coach's batted ball
Crashed into his nose and smashed it,
And we rushed him to the hospital and surgery,
That was the end of his Little League career.
A few weeks later, his bandages removed and a fading memory,
He and I were taking turns hitting fly balls
To each other. I, without my righty mitt,
Borrowed his southpaw glove. He sent
A fly, a can of corn, they call it, in my direction.
I moved so gracefully, now well positioned,
As smooth as the Yankee Clipper many times had glided to the ball.
I pounded my unaccustomed mitt, waiting
For the ball to make its predicted descent.
It came down in the direction of my glove and hand
And landed... on my nose! A clean break!
I'd left a space between my gloved hand and the other.
I soon wore the family bandage and as we
Gazed at each other, my son and I just mumbled,
"Father!" --- "Son!"
I know that baseball strengthens relationships,
As it did ours, through playing and by rooting for the same team,
But you'll understand it if I tell you now,
I wish the process had been a bit less painful.
When he was 12, my son was practicing
On our Spring Valley field as he prepared
For that year's Little League All-star game.
He was at shortstop, for no good reason.
He was a pitcher - outfielder
And threw left - handed! If you ask
Who were all the lefty throwing shortstops
In the history of the Major Leagues,
It won't take very long to say their names,
And rest assured you never heard of them.
So why was he positioned between second and third?
I'll tell you this: it would be the only time,
And when the coach's batted ball
Crashed into his nose and smashed it,
And we rushed him to the hospital and surgery,
That was the end of his Little League career.
A few weeks later, his bandages removed and a fading memory,
He and I were taking turns hitting fly balls
To each other. I, without my righty mitt,
Borrowed his southpaw glove. He sent
A fly, a can of corn, they call it, in my direction.
I moved so gracefully, now well positioned,
As smooth as the Yankee Clipper many times had glided to the ball.
I pounded my unaccustomed mitt, waiting
For the ball to make its predicted descent.
It came down in the direction of my glove and hand
And landed... on my nose! A clean break!
I'd left a space between my gloved hand and the other.
I soon wore the family bandage and as we
Gazed at each other, my son and I just mumbled,
"Father!" --- "Son!"
I know that baseball strengthens relationships,
As it did ours, through playing and by rooting for the same team,
But you'll understand it if I tell you now,
I wish the process had been a bit less painful.
Field of Nightmares
In the escapist years right after The War to End All Wars
(Which it did not do) Major Leaguers sometimes,
Ending Spring Training and on their way north from
The Sunshine State, tripped over a minor league
Stadium in Nashville that was to baseball fields
What catfish are to detritus, the bottom-feeder
Of the world of stadiums. Sulphur Dell had lengthy
Left and center fields but 262 feet to a wall in right
That could tame and shame the Green Monster at Fenway.
Those players roaming that area were termed mountain goats;
They faced the daily challenge of a hill that rose from level ground
More than 22 feet to the Mount Everest of walls
(And players who stopped by snickered that Sulphur Dell
Was properly pronounced “Suffer Hell”)
One day the townsfolk took a brief vacation
And crowded all those swampland seats to see
The Yankees and the Cardinals play each other on their way home.
The Babe stared at right field, shook his head, and then declared:
“I won’t play on any field that a starving cow would refuse
To graze on.” Sometimes a baseball tale is valued
For the smile that it brings to the reader. In that light,
The Sultan of Swat that day hit a homer without laying
A hand on that giant stick of ash that he could swing.
In the escapist years right after The War to End All Wars
(Which it did not do) Major Leaguers sometimes,
Ending Spring Training and on their way north from
The Sunshine State, tripped over a minor league
Stadium in Nashville that was to baseball fields
What catfish are to detritus, the bottom-feeder
Of the world of stadiums. Sulphur Dell had lengthy
Left and center fields but 262 feet to a wall in right
That could tame and shame the Green Monster at Fenway.
Those players roaming that area were termed mountain goats;
They faced the daily challenge of a hill that rose from level ground
More than 22 feet to the Mount Everest of walls
(And players who stopped by snickered that Sulphur Dell
Was properly pronounced “Suffer Hell”)
One day the townsfolk took a brief vacation
And crowded all those swampland seats to see
The Yankees and the Cardinals play each other on their way home.
The Babe stared at right field, shook his head, and then declared:
“I won’t play on any field that a starving cow would refuse
To graze on.” Sometimes a baseball tale is valued
For the smile that it brings to the reader. In that light,
The Sultan of Swat that day hit a homer without laying
A hand on that giant stick of ash that he could swing.
Disappointment (upon learning that the Twins signed Carlos Correa after the Mets' deal with him collapsed)
The story is so sad
And the luck is quicksand bad.
My team signed Correa
But now we must say, “See ya”
Because he’s failed another test
And he is no more with the Mets.
That metal plate that’s in his leg
Is in a state too bad to beg
Our Uncle Steve to take a chance
And on his future bet the ranch.
I’m sad that he won’t be at third;
It seems to me that it’s absurd
That my team, which is built for now,
Couldn’t find a way somehow
To talk his agent into staying
(No matter how much I was praying)
And now the Twins will have Correa,
To which I mutter, “Mama Mia”
But that’s the way the baseball rolls.
Every team must have its holes.
It isn’t fair; in fact, it’s foul,
It’s torn a segment of my bowel!
Still, when I consider
The money he gets from this bidder
From the Twins, I say, “Correa ---
I can’t help wishin’ I could be ya.”
The story is so sad
And the luck is quicksand bad.
My team signed Correa
But now we must say, “See ya”
Because he’s failed another test
And he is no more with the Mets.
That metal plate that’s in his leg
Is in a state too bad to beg
Our Uncle Steve to take a chance
And on his future bet the ranch.
I’m sad that he won’t be at third;
It seems to me that it’s absurd
That my team, which is built for now,
Couldn’t find a way somehow
To talk his agent into staying
(No matter how much I was praying)
And now the Twins will have Correa,
To which I mutter, “Mama Mia”
But that’s the way the baseball rolls.
Every team must have its holes.
It isn’t fair; in fact, it’s foul,
It’s torn a segment of my bowel!
Still, when I consider
The money he gets from this bidder
From the Twins, I say, “Correa ---
I can’t help wishin’ I could be ya.”
Righties Should Never Borrow Lefties’ Gloves!
It was a clear and sunny day.
My son and I were out to play
A baseball game that we called "Zones,"
A game absent of moans and groans,
Or so we thought as we prepared
To hit or field. We really cared
About the game, about each run,
About a father and a son
Sharing smiling memories,
A sport activity to please.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
'Fore I go on, here were the rules
(Easily understood by fools):
The batter hit a ball quite high
While fielder catching it did try.
If it landed not so far,
It was a double for the star
Batter but if it fell further still,
It was a triple and a thrill.
If it fell beyond and past
The fielder, it was quite a blast.
It would be declared a homer
So "Zones" was certainly no misnomer.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
We played on; the score was tight;
Then my son hit with his might
A long fly ball but right at me
And I was gleeful as could be.
I waited and held up my glove
To squeeze the ball from way above . . .
But as the ball quickly descended,
The baseball gods whom I'd offended
Did my glove and bare hand part
And the ball, a deadly dart,
A missile seeking out my nose,
Hit its target . . . Thus I compose
A narrative to teach you all
To be prepared and catch the ball
For catching balls with noses hurts
But the embarrassment’s much worse!!
It was a clear and sunny day.
My son and I were out to play
A baseball game that we called "Zones,"
A game absent of moans and groans,
Or so we thought as we prepared
To hit or field. We really cared
About the game, about each run,
About a father and a son
Sharing smiling memories,
A sport activity to please.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
'Fore I go on, here were the rules
(Easily understood by fools):
The batter hit a ball quite high
While fielder catching it did try.
If it landed not so far,
It was a double for the star
Batter but if it fell further still,
It was a triple and a thrill.
If it fell beyond and past
The fielder, it was quite a blast.
It would be declared a homer
So "Zones" was certainly no misnomer.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
We played on; the score was tight;
Then my son hit with his might
A long fly ball but right at me
And I was gleeful as could be.
I waited and held up my glove
To squeeze the ball from way above . . .
But as the ball quickly descended,
The baseball gods whom I'd offended
Did my glove and bare hand part
And the ball, a deadly dart,
A missile seeking out my nose,
Hit its target . . . Thus I compose
A narrative to teach you all
To be prepared and catch the ball
For catching balls with noses hurts
But the embarrassment’s much worse!!
Great Expectations
Who says it’s just a waste of time to pray?
I got my Amazon delivery today
And I’m so thrilled that I am close to tears;
I feel much better than I have in years!
I though that it might take a week to come,
But now I feel so much that I’ve been dumb.
That cardboard box just blew my mind away.
I got my Amazon delivery today!
The email said it would arrive by noon.
But I just wasted my whole afternoon
Waiting for that smiling boxed delay;
I got my Amazon delivery today.
I checked my watch and wondered where it was.
I checked my doorbell, waiting for a buzz
But hours passed and I feared some foul play ---
‘Til I got my Amazon delivery today!
Life can be hard when one waits for a joyous
Package, and waiting can annoy us
But I have only smiles to display:
I got my Amazon delivery today!!
Who says it’s just a waste of time to pray?
I got my Amazon delivery today
And I’m so thrilled that I am close to tears;
I feel much better than I have in years!
I though that it might take a week to come,
But now I feel so much that I’ve been dumb.
That cardboard box just blew my mind away.
I got my Amazon delivery today!
The email said it would arrive by noon.
But I just wasted my whole afternoon
Waiting for that smiling boxed delay;
I got my Amazon delivery today.
I checked my watch and wondered where it was.
I checked my doorbell, waiting for a buzz
But hours passed and I feared some foul play ---
‘Til I got my Amazon delivery today!
Life can be hard when one waits for a joyous
Package, and waiting can annoy us
But I have only smiles to display:
I got my Amazon delivery today!!
A Seamless Sameness
There is a seamless sameness about the life of a baseball fan.
He or she is not fazed by rumors of the approaching demise of
America’s Game, suggestions that its popularity has been surpassed
By that of football (a brutal sport with six minutes of action per
Encounter) or that it lacks the excitement of the perpetual motion
Of basketball or hockey or the flash of pro wrestling. (Where have
You gone, Gorgeous George?) It does lack the tedious and
Frustrating nature of a golf match. It has the beauty of grace and
Meaningful development, pitch by pitch, inning by inning. It is a
Game of rhythm and dance, a game of strategy and chance ---
A seamless sameness that the fan of the National Pastime
Can enjoy and appreciate. There will never be a completed tie;
Rules and yardsticks change as time goes on but there is
History to the sport unmatched by any other, tracing back past
Abner Doubleday to its formation at the time of the nation’s birth.
And it would be safe to say that the first day a baseball game was
Played the sport tangentially gave birth to the ancestral fanatic whose
Descendants today may not engage in tailgating but whose
Appetites surpass those of their football cousins and their cuisine.
In a more civilized engagement, fans seamlessly (and sometimes
Aimlessly) pursue their gastronomic calling with vendor-delivered
Fair to the depth that baseball’s anthem’s lyrics refer to peanuts
And to Cracker Jack (which Katie Casey loved). Football and its
Don’t-blink season length, basketball and hockey with their sprint-
Seasons don’t compare to the gradual, tension-building, play-off
Rewarding season for drama and fulfillment, not to the true and
Dedicated sports fan who appreciates that artists can not ever
Be so rushed that the beauty of the game will be ignored for
Common expediency. No one told Da Vinci that his progress was
Too slow; no one put pressure on Frank Lloyd Wright to build it
Faster and make it less complex; No one screamed impatiently
At Mozart or Bach to skip some notes and shorten their haunting
Compositions. What they did was art, and so too is the creation
Of each baseball game, the layering of game upon game and
Series onto series until the most serious of Series is upon its
Fandom every autumn. The flow of the sport is both Ruthian
And Maysian. Its strengths are both power and grace. It is
A sport for all ages. It is seamless in its movement,
Uniting past, present and future in a melody that is
The same for its audience, and it is that seamless sameness
That makes baseball King, and the others, servants that must bow
And acknowledge that they, in the end, are simply not worthy of
Being viewed as in the same old league. When all has been
Considered, they are not Baseball. There is nothing more to say.
There is a seamless sameness about the life of a baseball fan.
He or she is not fazed by rumors of the approaching demise of
America’s Game, suggestions that its popularity has been surpassed
By that of football (a brutal sport with six minutes of action per
Encounter) or that it lacks the excitement of the perpetual motion
Of basketball or hockey or the flash of pro wrestling. (Where have
You gone, Gorgeous George?) It does lack the tedious and
Frustrating nature of a golf match. It has the beauty of grace and
Meaningful development, pitch by pitch, inning by inning. It is a
Game of rhythm and dance, a game of strategy and chance ---
A seamless sameness that the fan of the National Pastime
Can enjoy and appreciate. There will never be a completed tie;
Rules and yardsticks change as time goes on but there is
History to the sport unmatched by any other, tracing back past
Abner Doubleday to its formation at the time of the nation’s birth.
And it would be safe to say that the first day a baseball game was
Played the sport tangentially gave birth to the ancestral fanatic whose
Descendants today may not engage in tailgating but whose
Appetites surpass those of their football cousins and their cuisine.
In a more civilized engagement, fans seamlessly (and sometimes
Aimlessly) pursue their gastronomic calling with vendor-delivered
Fair to the depth that baseball’s anthem’s lyrics refer to peanuts
And to Cracker Jack (which Katie Casey loved). Football and its
Don’t-blink season length, basketball and hockey with their sprint-
Seasons don’t compare to the gradual, tension-building, play-off
Rewarding season for drama and fulfillment, not to the true and
Dedicated sports fan who appreciates that artists can not ever
Be so rushed that the beauty of the game will be ignored for
Common expediency. No one told Da Vinci that his progress was
Too slow; no one put pressure on Frank Lloyd Wright to build it
Faster and make it less complex; No one screamed impatiently
At Mozart or Bach to skip some notes and shorten their haunting
Compositions. What they did was art, and so too is the creation
Of each baseball game, the layering of game upon game and
Series onto series until the most serious of Series is upon its
Fandom every autumn. The flow of the sport is both Ruthian
And Maysian. Its strengths are both power and grace. It is
A sport for all ages. It is seamless in its movement,
Uniting past, present and future in a melody that is
The same for its audience, and it is that seamless sameness
That makes baseball King, and the others, servants that must bow
And acknowledge that they, in the end, are simply not worthy of
Being viewed as in the same old league. When all has been
Considered, they are not Baseball. There is nothing more to say.
That Elusive Ball
I never caught a foul ball in my life.
I've been to Yank and Met and Giant games
For decades. I'm talking more than seven - - -
And I've never come closer than
Two sections away. That's like
Aiming to kiss your wife but smooching
Your affection-starved pooch instead.
But I am Ralph Kramden, looking for
That get-rich quick scheme that will
Get me out of driving that damn bus,
I am what those less than kind refer to as
The eternal optimist, seeing gold
Where there is pyrite,
Believing veggie "meat" tastes
Just like filet mignon, maybe better.
Baseball is a game of dreams
And if I want to hold on to my fantasy
That there is somewhere, one day,
Some way a foul ball waiting to come home
To my lonely, loving arms,
The universe must bow to confidence
And the law of averages
And send me to the game I will recall
Forever as the time I got that freaking ball!
I never caught a foul ball in my life.
I've been to Yank and Met and Giant games
For decades. I'm talking more than seven - - -
And I've never come closer than
Two sections away. That's like
Aiming to kiss your wife but smooching
Your affection-starved pooch instead.
But I am Ralph Kramden, looking for
That get-rich quick scheme that will
Get me out of driving that damn bus,
I am what those less than kind refer to as
The eternal optimist, seeing gold
Where there is pyrite,
Believing veggie "meat" tastes
Just like filet mignon, maybe better.
Baseball is a game of dreams
And if I want to hold on to my fantasy
That there is somewhere, one day,
Some way a foul ball waiting to come home
To my lonely, loving arms,
The universe must bow to confidence
And the law of averages
And send me to the game I will recall
Forever as the time I got that freaking ball!
Unanswered Questions
Why are foul lines in fair territory (an old but comforting way to start)?
Why is it a home run instead of the more accurate run home
Or the even better trot home, because when was the last time
A hitter ran around the bases? Why is home plate, not home base?
Why is it okay to treat an injured player but not to doctor
A baseball? Why were bonus babies in the 1950's clearly adults?
Why doesn't a bench coach try to improve the dugout bench?
And what was the dugout dug out of? How can a base runner
See daylight in a night game? How can one be accused of stealing
A base when it's exactly where it was at the start of the game?
Why is the fourth hitter in a lineup batting cleanup even if
He leads off the second inning? What is there to clean?
Why are the seats called the stands when fans usually sit there?
How can a player boot a ground ball when his hands are involved,
Not his feet? How did Cleveland win 111 games out of 154 in 1954,
On the strength of a powerful pitching staff of Lemon, Wynn, Garcia
And Feller, only to lose the World Series in four straight games to the
New York Giants, winners of only 96? And this last question has kept me
Up at night so often that I am now supporting the melatonin industry
All by myself: Why did my team not win the wild card when they won
101 games in the regular season? Why did you do this to me in 2022,
My beloved New York Mets?
Why is it a home run instead of the more accurate run home
Or the even better trot home, because when was the last time
A hitter ran around the bases? Why is home plate, not home base?
Why is it okay to treat an injured player but not to doctor
A baseball? Why were bonus babies in the 1950's clearly adults?
Why doesn't a bench coach try to improve the dugout bench?
And what was the dugout dug out of? How can a base runner
See daylight in a night game? How can one be accused of stealing
A base when it's exactly where it was at the start of the game?
Why is the fourth hitter in a lineup batting cleanup even if
He leads off the second inning? What is there to clean?
Why are the seats called the stands when fans usually sit there?
How can a player boot a ground ball when his hands are involved,
Not his feet? How did Cleveland win 111 games out of 154 in 1954,
On the strength of a powerful pitching staff of Lemon, Wynn, Garcia
And Feller, only to lose the World Series in four straight games to the
New York Giants, winners of only 96? And this last question has kept me
Up at night so often that I am now supporting the melatonin industry
All by myself: Why did my team not win the wild card when they won
101 games in the regular season? Why did you do this to me in 2022,
My beloved New York Mets?
On Studying an e e cummings poem the Billy Collins Way
I read “Introduction to Poetry” by Billy Collins and decided to re-read
cummings’ “anyone lived in a pretty how town” with a different approach,
Following Collins’ lead. So I laid out a printed copy of the cummings poem
And dove into it. As I entered, I looked around and had difficulty adjusting
To the two-dimensional town, but I held my breath, became thinner, and
Began to hop around, overcoming the breathing difficulties I was having. Indeed,
It was a pretty, aesthetically pleasing village but when I tried to stop a couple
And interview them, the little and small men and women stuck their tongues
Out at me, gave me a thumbs down, and drifted away. I couldn’t run; I could
Barely move, but my hand-held telescope spotted a young man dancing!
I took a street canoe to his location and inquired about his motion, but he
Kept muttering that he had done it! And on he danced and pranced. But what he did
I couldn’t guess. I took out my phone and googled it to no avail. There was no
Wi-fi where I had disembarked. Then I sprang up and ignored the bird by the snow
And asked the dancer whom he was waiting for, and he rudely said noone! So
I moved on, having found an electric bike smoldering nearby. I cooled it off with a
Blanket lying closely and asked a bloke who was both laughing and crying if I could
Borrow it; he gave me the finger but didn’t say no. I next saw a bunch of kids
With quizzical looks and asked them about the main character of this narrative but
They claimed not to know noone (I corrected their language) or, for that matter,
Anyone --- so I asked a cop about them, but he told me he didn’t belong in that poem
And he walked away trying to contact someone distant with his walkie-talkie, as I called it.
I decided, having taken a couple of sociology courses in college, to remain in the
Town and study the unusual indigenous population. I got a job as a censor-specialist, and
Focused on replacing upper case with lower case letters in their literature and eliminating
Punctuation. I got around town by using a series of bungee cords and trampolines, only rarely
Overshooting my target stops. I never forgot the two young lovers that the rest
(Except a few young and innocent children) eventually forgot about. I heard that
When the lovers died, they were buried together but the others had no time for a
Service, claiming that they were, “Just too busy.” I eventually got bored eating
Tasteless food and drinking flat soda but I couldn’t figure out how to leave and
Return to my realm until a scientist named David pronounced my name correctly, and
Was able to launch me into orbit via a human catapult, using the dong and ding approach.
Upon my descent from orbit, I asked my peers if anyone had ever heard the real names
Of the lonely lovers: noone had ever heard about them, but whenever I now think of
That town --- it was pretty (and how!), I remember visiting their marshmallow graves and
That fills me with sweet memories, day and night, season after season. But cummings
Remains a mystery writer to me!
I read “Introduction to Poetry” by Billy Collins and decided to re-read
cummings’ “anyone lived in a pretty how town” with a different approach,
Following Collins’ lead. So I laid out a printed copy of the cummings poem
And dove into it. As I entered, I looked around and had difficulty adjusting
To the two-dimensional town, but I held my breath, became thinner, and
Began to hop around, overcoming the breathing difficulties I was having. Indeed,
It was a pretty, aesthetically pleasing village but when I tried to stop a couple
And interview them, the little and small men and women stuck their tongues
Out at me, gave me a thumbs down, and drifted away. I couldn’t run; I could
Barely move, but my hand-held telescope spotted a young man dancing!
I took a street canoe to his location and inquired about his motion, but he
Kept muttering that he had done it! And on he danced and pranced. But what he did
I couldn’t guess. I took out my phone and googled it to no avail. There was no
Wi-fi where I had disembarked. Then I sprang up and ignored the bird by the snow
And asked the dancer whom he was waiting for, and he rudely said noone! So
I moved on, having found an electric bike smoldering nearby. I cooled it off with a
Blanket lying closely and asked a bloke who was both laughing and crying if I could
Borrow it; he gave me the finger but didn’t say no. I next saw a bunch of kids
With quizzical looks and asked them about the main character of this narrative but
They claimed not to know noone (I corrected their language) or, for that matter,
Anyone --- so I asked a cop about them, but he told me he didn’t belong in that poem
And he walked away trying to contact someone distant with his walkie-talkie, as I called it.
I decided, having taken a couple of sociology courses in college, to remain in the
Town and study the unusual indigenous population. I got a job as a censor-specialist, and
Focused on replacing upper case with lower case letters in their literature and eliminating
Punctuation. I got around town by using a series of bungee cords and trampolines, only rarely
Overshooting my target stops. I never forgot the two young lovers that the rest
(Except a few young and innocent children) eventually forgot about. I heard that
When the lovers died, they were buried together but the others had no time for a
Service, claiming that they were, “Just too busy.” I eventually got bored eating
Tasteless food and drinking flat soda but I couldn’t figure out how to leave and
Return to my realm until a scientist named David pronounced my name correctly, and
Was able to launch me into orbit via a human catapult, using the dong and ding approach.
Upon my descent from orbit, I asked my peers if anyone had ever heard the real names
Of the lonely lovers: noone had ever heard about them, but whenever I now think of
That town --- it was pretty (and how!), I remember visiting their marshmallow graves and
That fills me with sweet memories, day and night, season after season. But cummings
Remains a mystery writer to me!
Here are the two poems referenced above:
Introduction to Poetry
by Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
by Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
anyone lived in a pretty how town
by e e cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
by e e cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
Stream of Conscienceless: A Writers’ Circle Nightmare
Friendly serial murderer naval officer happily married but murdering women
(Hopefully, the marriage was sexless and the kids immaculately conceived);
South African woman raised in a fabulously wealthy farm but dirt poor and
Barefoot till dying rich father hired three men to run things as they did - - -
Into the ground, so blind mother and sick father died and nineteen year old
High school grad came to America, rejected 13 marriage proposals and
Wed a man 14 years her senior despite everyone telling this beauty that
She could do better, but she became a famous real estate agent no one ever
Heard of and then retired and now hangs out with a man much younger but
Will never wed again and now wants to write a memoir but would rather
Talk and talk; surgical nurse considering a tell-all about all those lustful,
Misogynistic surgeons (plastic and flesh and blood) who carried on, seemed
To take the Hypocritical Oath (“First, do all the nurses you can”) and the former
Nurse and the former naval officer consider legal exposure for exposing what
They know --- and once in a while we even read someone’s writing and try to
Give positive feedback and that part’s good because that’s why we meet,
Not to gossip and to fantasize, not to open up and express our troubled minds
But to tell each other how to write because the psycho-therapy session meets in
A different room run by professionals and the rubber padding in the walls are
Comforting in warm hues. My loved one reads about the power of words, a strong poem filled with great imagery and metaphors, with pertinent examples --- and I feel that our time is not being wasted --- until the others take over with the Thoughts that have imprisoned them in Memoir Hell and Fantasyland; The next Reader frets because her child is asking questions about Death and we have no answers and I read my poetic philosophical observation about People and the Universe, which is greeted with silence and exhaustion from what was said before And then disharmony and some insight but by then 90 minutes have passed and we are all mentally and verbally exhausted but don’t be concerned: We will soon have a guest speaker but I am left to hope that the speaker is not a writer or a publisher but a psychiatrist . . . a very good psychiatrist!!
Friendly serial murderer naval officer happily married but murdering women
(Hopefully, the marriage was sexless and the kids immaculately conceived);
South African woman raised in a fabulously wealthy farm but dirt poor and
Barefoot till dying rich father hired three men to run things as they did - - -
Into the ground, so blind mother and sick father died and nineteen year old
High school grad came to America, rejected 13 marriage proposals and
Wed a man 14 years her senior despite everyone telling this beauty that
She could do better, but she became a famous real estate agent no one ever
Heard of and then retired and now hangs out with a man much younger but
Will never wed again and now wants to write a memoir but would rather
Talk and talk; surgical nurse considering a tell-all about all those lustful,
Misogynistic surgeons (plastic and flesh and blood) who carried on, seemed
To take the Hypocritical Oath (“First, do all the nurses you can”) and the former
Nurse and the former naval officer consider legal exposure for exposing what
They know --- and once in a while we even read someone’s writing and try to
Give positive feedback and that part’s good because that’s why we meet,
Not to gossip and to fantasize, not to open up and express our troubled minds
But to tell each other how to write because the psycho-therapy session meets in
A different room run by professionals and the rubber padding in the walls are
Comforting in warm hues. My loved one reads about the power of words, a strong poem filled with great imagery and metaphors, with pertinent examples --- and I feel that our time is not being wasted --- until the others take over with the Thoughts that have imprisoned them in Memoir Hell and Fantasyland; The next Reader frets because her child is asking questions about Death and we have no answers and I read my poetic philosophical observation about People and the Universe, which is greeted with silence and exhaustion from what was said before And then disharmony and some insight but by then 90 minutes have passed and we are all mentally and verbally exhausted but don’t be concerned: We will soon have a guest speaker but I am left to hope that the speaker is not a writer or a publisher but a psychiatrist . . . a very good psychiatrist!!
Fantasy Baseball
No, no - - - You have it wrong. Kudos to Abner Doubleday
But that wasn’t the real beginning. You see, it goes back a while,
To 1790. Those Brits had trouble swallowing their big loss on the
Battlefields, so they tried again - - - on the playing field, this time
Challenging the Founding Fathers and some others to what started
Out as a fame of Rounders . . . thinking they could win some bragging
Rights and go home with some pride. They billed it as a good old British
Game between the Redcoats and the Turncoats but that soon
Changed, as the new statesmen declared their team name would
Be referred to as the Patriots. Leftover cannonballs were to be used
As spheroids to be hit but they kept breaking branch-bats during
Practice, so Franklin came up with balls of cowhide stuffed with
Southern cotton. The umps were those strange men who’d attended the
First meeting of the new Supreme Court February 1; the crew chief was
John Jay and the base umpires were James Wilson, William Cushing
And John Blair, Jr. There was no dissent among the Redcoats as they
Were confident of victory. A few Rounders rules were tweaked for ease
Of playing. The Americans took the field, as they were the home team:
Tom Paine was bench coach; Ben Franklin was manager, since he named
Himself wisest; John Hancock signed on as pitcher and Patrick Henry
Caught him, saying things like, “Give me fastballs or give me Death!”;
Tall George Washington was at first; the Adams boys (Sam and John)
Were the double-play combo; Alex Hamilton, quick as he was, played
Third; and the outfield consisted of Richard Henry Lee, Tom Jefferson
(Who caught everything he could reach) and Roger Sherman. The umps
Ordered the playing of the National Anthem by Fife and Drums but
No one knew the tune yet, though the Brits suggested playing some old
English drinking song - - - and everybody laughed. Sad to say, no one
Kept a scorecard and so the details of the game were lost to history,
But the new countrymen must have won . . . for baseball, as the winners
Must have renamed it, has become embedded in American souls since
That first matchup recognized by all and known after that grand
Occasion - - - until it transitioned into our mythology - - - as the
First real baseball game quietly referred to by the true believers
As the Founding Fantasy Baseball Game!
No, no - - - You have it wrong. Kudos to Abner Doubleday
But that wasn’t the real beginning. You see, it goes back a while,
To 1790. Those Brits had trouble swallowing their big loss on the
Battlefields, so they tried again - - - on the playing field, this time
Challenging the Founding Fathers and some others to what started
Out as a fame of Rounders . . . thinking they could win some bragging
Rights and go home with some pride. They billed it as a good old British
Game between the Redcoats and the Turncoats but that soon
Changed, as the new statesmen declared their team name would
Be referred to as the Patriots. Leftover cannonballs were to be used
As spheroids to be hit but they kept breaking branch-bats during
Practice, so Franklin came up with balls of cowhide stuffed with
Southern cotton. The umps were those strange men who’d attended the
First meeting of the new Supreme Court February 1; the crew chief was
John Jay and the base umpires were James Wilson, William Cushing
And John Blair, Jr. There was no dissent among the Redcoats as they
Were confident of victory. A few Rounders rules were tweaked for ease
Of playing. The Americans took the field, as they were the home team:
Tom Paine was bench coach; Ben Franklin was manager, since he named
Himself wisest; John Hancock signed on as pitcher and Patrick Henry
Caught him, saying things like, “Give me fastballs or give me Death!”;
Tall George Washington was at first; the Adams boys (Sam and John)
Were the double-play combo; Alex Hamilton, quick as he was, played
Third; and the outfield consisted of Richard Henry Lee, Tom Jefferson
(Who caught everything he could reach) and Roger Sherman. The umps
Ordered the playing of the National Anthem by Fife and Drums but
No one knew the tune yet, though the Brits suggested playing some old
English drinking song - - - and everybody laughed. Sad to say, no one
Kept a scorecard and so the details of the game were lost to history,
But the new countrymen must have won . . . for baseball, as the winners
Must have renamed it, has become embedded in American souls since
That first matchup recognized by all and known after that grand
Occasion - - - until it transitioned into our mythology - - - as the
First real baseball game quietly referred to by the true believers
As the Founding Fantasy Baseball Game!
1941
If I am judged by who my Yankees were
The season I was born, then I am an all-star
By association. That 1941 team won the World Series
4 games to 1 against the Brooklyn Dodgers, after
Posting a 101-53 season and finishing 17 games ahead
Of the boys from Beantown. But who were those players
No doubt inspired by my birth? Di Maggio hit in 56 straight
Games that year, a record still standing. He and fellow
Outfielders Heinrich and Keller all hit 30 or more home runs.
The infield had stand-outs Rizzuto, Gordon and Rolfe. The
Catcher was Bill Dickey and the pitchers included Red Ruffing,
Spud Chandler and Lefty Gomez . . . and reliever
Johnny Murphy's ERA was 1.98. They were led by all-time
Great manager Joe McCarthy. I came along at season's start
To root them on. They did all the rest!
If I am judged by who my Yankees were
The season I was born, then I am an all-star
By association. That 1941 team won the World Series
4 games to 1 against the Brooklyn Dodgers, after
Posting a 101-53 season and finishing 17 games ahead
Of the boys from Beantown. But who were those players
No doubt inspired by my birth? Di Maggio hit in 56 straight
Games that year, a record still standing. He and fellow
Outfielders Heinrich and Keller all hit 30 or more home runs.
The infield had stand-outs Rizzuto, Gordon and Rolfe. The
Catcher was Bill Dickey and the pitchers included Red Ruffing,
Spud Chandler and Lefty Gomez . . . and reliever
Johnny Murphy's ERA was 1.98. They were led by all-time
Great manager Joe McCarthy. I came along at season's start
To root them on. They did all the rest!
Try, Try Again
You used to be a pitcher but you found the strike zone
As elusive as a fish you reach for as it swims away:
Try another way!
You are a natural right-handed hitter but the company
You keep as you swing and miss is south of the Mendoza Line:
Try another way!
You charge balls beat into the ground and your heart
Pounds as you bend, reach and come up empty-handed:
Try another way!
You want to steal a base to show your value and you plan it
Out and wait for the off-speed pitch but you are always out:
Try another way!
You know the batter is a sucker for a pitch high and in
But when you try, the ball goes sailing to the backstop:
Try another way!
You are a good right fielder with a great jump and a
Rifle throwing arm that Colavito would be jealous of
But your accuracy makes one question your sobriety:
Try another way!
Baseball is a game of on-the-fly adjustments and
Analyses and observations and goals to reach and
Determination and exoneration and if you can’t see that:
Try another game!
You used to be a pitcher but you found the strike zone
As elusive as a fish you reach for as it swims away:
Try another way!
You are a natural right-handed hitter but the company
You keep as you swing and miss is south of the Mendoza Line:
Try another way!
You charge balls beat into the ground and your heart
Pounds as you bend, reach and come up empty-handed:
Try another way!
You want to steal a base to show your value and you plan it
Out and wait for the off-speed pitch but you are always out:
Try another way!
You know the batter is a sucker for a pitch high and in
But when you try, the ball goes sailing to the backstop:
Try another way!
You are a good right fielder with a great jump and a
Rifle throwing arm that Colavito would be jealous of
But your accuracy makes one question your sobriety:
Try another way!
Baseball is a game of on-the-fly adjustments and
Analyses and observations and goals to reach and
Determination and exoneration and if you can’t see that:
Try another game!
So Long to Too Long {dedicated to a critic who felt my poems were lengthy}
I read a poem to a class of fellow poets
And was told by one who knew not much,
“It’s just too long”.
I told of angels and their sweethearts
Smiling and gently holding hands but
I was interrupted by a word-thug who
Informed me, “It’s just too long”.
I shared my spirit with those who got me,
Who understood that stories must be
Told, but when I had concluded and
Waited for the praise of my poetic peers,
Instead I heard an angry whispered voice
Who relished in repeating daggers to
My heart as he pronounced, “It’s just
Too long”. It left me wondering what
This skilled critic would say to Frost
About his “Birches” or “Mending Wall”,
To Poe about “The Raven”, to Longfellow
About “The Song of Hiawatha”, to cummings
About “anyone lived in a pretty how town”,
To Whitman about “When Lilacs Last in
The Dooryard Bloom’d” or “Song of Myself”,
To Eliot about “The Waste Land”, to
Coleridge about “The Ancient Mariner”
--- but I must regain control and interrupt
This list before I hear the raven croak
Once more, “It’s just too long!”
I read a poem to a class of fellow poets
And was told by one who knew not much,
“It’s just too long”.
I told of angels and their sweethearts
Smiling and gently holding hands but
I was interrupted by a word-thug who
Informed me, “It’s just too long”.
I shared my spirit with those who got me,
Who understood that stories must be
Told, but when I had concluded and
Waited for the praise of my poetic peers,
Instead I heard an angry whispered voice
Who relished in repeating daggers to
My heart as he pronounced, “It’s just
Too long”. It left me wondering what
This skilled critic would say to Frost
About his “Birches” or “Mending Wall”,
To Poe about “The Raven”, to Longfellow
About “The Song of Hiawatha”, to cummings
About “anyone lived in a pretty how town”,
To Whitman about “When Lilacs Last in
The Dooryard Bloom’d” or “Song of Myself”,
To Eliot about “The Waste Land”, to
Coleridge about “The Ancient Mariner”
--- but I must regain control and interrupt
This list before I hear the raven croak
Once more, “It’s just too long!”
11
I have 11 grandkids; four of them are boys
Of different ages; they make lots of noise.
Some love their sports to watch or play
As I once did the same old way;
Others like to read or fix.
They really are a charming mix.
I have 11 grandkids; three of them are girls
Of different ages, yet all of them are pearls.
I find them charming , entertaining
And alluring, not needing much maintaining.
You see, I am the grandfather;
I know their parents so why bother?
I have 11 grandkids; two of them are canine;
They wag their tails excitedly to signal all is fine,
They show their love and kind of smile
And when I see them, they use their guile
To wheedle from me a snack or two,
After which they bark, “What’s new?”
I have 11 grandkids; two of them are feline
Who purr and rub but won’t be mine
Until I offer them a tasty treat,
After which they are so sweet!
These cats then scat away from me
Until another treat they see.
I have 11 grandkids whom I love very much,
Who come to me affectionately and touch
My heart with their sweet presence,
Who make me rich with their deep essence.
Let me take the time right now
To say I love you, woof, meow!
I have 11 grandkids; four of them are boys
Of different ages; they make lots of noise.
Some love their sports to watch or play
As I once did the same old way;
Others like to read or fix.
They really are a charming mix.
I have 11 grandkids; three of them are girls
Of different ages, yet all of them are pearls.
I find them charming , entertaining
And alluring, not needing much maintaining.
You see, I am the grandfather;
I know their parents so why bother?
I have 11 grandkids; two of them are canine;
They wag their tails excitedly to signal all is fine,
They show their love and kind of smile
And when I see them, they use their guile
To wheedle from me a snack or two,
After which they bark, “What’s new?”
I have 11 grandkids; two of them are feline
Who purr and rub but won’t be mine
Until I offer them a tasty treat,
After which they are so sweet!
These cats then scat away from me
Until another treat they see.
I have 11 grandkids whom I love very much,
Who come to me affectionately and touch
My heart with their sweet presence,
Who make me rich with their deep essence.
Let me take the time right now
To say I love you, woof, meow!
But Did They Win?
Long-time Met fans have heard of the guy who asked
About a Met game in in 1964 and was told that
They had scored 19 runs. He responded as only
An early Met fan would, “But did they win?” and
The angels (not those fledglings from California)
Laughed. How much would you laugh 15 years
Later almost to the day if you rooted for the baby
Bears and was told that they had scored 22 runs
- - - and had lost! You read that correctly. In ’79,
At Wrigley Field, with a steady wind of 20 mph
Swimming toward the outfield providing background
Music, the Chicago Cubs really entertained the
Phillies, allowing a seven-run lead before the home
Team even came to bat. They trailed 21 – 9 as the
Bottom of the fifth began - - - but then the Cubbies
Came to life, and the score turned 21 – 19. Behind
Three homers hit by King Kong Kingman and other
Dingers, the game went into the tenth, 22 – 22. By
The end of the tenth, after a combined 11 home runs,
The Boys from the City of Brotherly Love showed no
Love for their Windy City opponents; the Cubs lost,
23 – 22!
At least, the Cubs, to erase the memory of this game,
Had history to escape to. Back in 1897, when they
Were still the White Stockings, they beat the Louisville,
Colonels, 36 – 7. (Soon after, Louisville transitioned
Into a minor league team . . . which folded in 1962.) The
Cubs play on, looking to one day avenge that home-
Grown loss against the Phillies. Hope is a song without
An ending, so far.
Long-time Met fans have heard of the guy who asked
About a Met game in in 1964 and was told that
They had scored 19 runs. He responded as only
An early Met fan would, “But did they win?” and
The angels (not those fledglings from California)
Laughed. How much would you laugh 15 years
Later almost to the day if you rooted for the baby
Bears and was told that they had scored 22 runs
- - - and had lost! You read that correctly. In ’79,
At Wrigley Field, with a steady wind of 20 mph
Swimming toward the outfield providing background
Music, the Chicago Cubs really entertained the
Phillies, allowing a seven-run lead before the home
Team even came to bat. They trailed 21 – 9 as the
Bottom of the fifth began - - - but then the Cubbies
Came to life, and the score turned 21 – 19. Behind
Three homers hit by King Kong Kingman and other
Dingers, the game went into the tenth, 22 – 22. By
The end of the tenth, after a combined 11 home runs,
The Boys from the City of Brotherly Love showed no
Love for their Windy City opponents; the Cubs lost,
23 – 22!
At least, the Cubs, to erase the memory of this game,
Had history to escape to. Back in 1897, when they
Were still the White Stockings, they beat the Louisville,
Colonels, 36 – 7. (Soon after, Louisville transitioned
Into a minor league team . . . which folded in 1962.) The
Cubs play on, looking to one day avenge that home-
Grown loss against the Phillies. Hope is a song without
An ending, so far.
Glove Affair
(inspired by “True Love” by Isaac Asimov)
It was love at first sight for me, a one-way love but
still a passion that could not be denied. There she
was, for all budding athletes to see, but staring at me
from a window of the sporting goods establishment
a good mile from where I lived, her rich mellow brown
curves whispering to me that we belonged together.
And I offered no resistance - - - until I saw her price:
Twenty dollars! (That would translate to $229.77 in
today’s money: I Googled it.) So close, yet for a time
beyond my reach . . . but to true love, obstacles are
a temporary challenge, serving only to enrich the full
experience; we were meant to be a team (or at least,
part of a winning team). I stared and smiled and
fantasized about our coming union, our unrestrained
though yet to be realized tender first physical contact,
and I whispered her name . . . Rawlings . . . and I
told her mine (in my thoughts and in my soul).
It took me several molasses-moving weeks to save
my single dollar weekly allowances to accumulate the
Scrooge McDuck fortune of twenty dollars so that
I could purchase that dream glove and call her mine.
On that day (memorialized by me forever), I trudged
from my Bronx apartment house, through the wilds
of Parkchester, across the mean streets, avoiding
several cars, passing the 43rd Precinct, and finally
arriving at the store which had imprisoned my love ---
I mean, my glove! I took her home, plied her with
oil enriched with lanolin and aloe, shaped her pocket
to my desire, and for several days watched over her
as she warmly caressed a baseball in her budding
pocket, secured with rubber bands. When at last we
were a happy couple, we played well together, a
match made in left field, for many seasons; we
had been destined from the first time my eyes met
her eyelets; we spent several scintillating seasons
together; we had been destined to fit as one. We
completed each other, working hand in glove to
defeat the enemy. Now that I am old, she is but a
memory, but I will always remember her; after all,
she was, as I said, my first true love . . .
I mean, glove.
(inspired by “True Love” by Isaac Asimov)
It was love at first sight for me, a one-way love but
still a passion that could not be denied. There she
was, for all budding athletes to see, but staring at me
from a window of the sporting goods establishment
a good mile from where I lived, her rich mellow brown
curves whispering to me that we belonged together.
And I offered no resistance - - - until I saw her price:
Twenty dollars! (That would translate to $229.77 in
today’s money: I Googled it.) So close, yet for a time
beyond my reach . . . but to true love, obstacles are
a temporary challenge, serving only to enrich the full
experience; we were meant to be a team (or at least,
part of a winning team). I stared and smiled and
fantasized about our coming union, our unrestrained
though yet to be realized tender first physical contact,
and I whispered her name . . . Rawlings . . . and I
told her mine (in my thoughts and in my soul).
It took me several molasses-moving weeks to save
my single dollar weekly allowances to accumulate the
Scrooge McDuck fortune of twenty dollars so that
I could purchase that dream glove and call her mine.
On that day (memorialized by me forever), I trudged
from my Bronx apartment house, through the wilds
of Parkchester, across the mean streets, avoiding
several cars, passing the 43rd Precinct, and finally
arriving at the store which had imprisoned my love ---
I mean, my glove! I took her home, plied her with
oil enriched with lanolin and aloe, shaped her pocket
to my desire, and for several days watched over her
as she warmly caressed a baseball in her budding
pocket, secured with rubber bands. When at last we
were a happy couple, we played well together, a
match made in left field, for many seasons; we
had been destined from the first time my eyes met
her eyelets; we spent several scintillating seasons
together; we had been destined to fit as one. We
completed each other, working hand in glove to
defeat the enemy. Now that I am old, she is but a
memory, but I will always remember her; after all,
she was, as I said, my first true love . . .
I mean, glove.
I Threw My Life Away
When George Bernard Shaw said, “Youth is the most beautiful thing
in this world — and what a pity that it has to be wasted on children!”,
He must have had me in mind. With the cursed benefit of hindsight,
I peer into my past and find far less than exquisite pain in my
Recognition and cognition of the times I would (if I could) press the
Re-set button and withdraw unto myself the treasures I too
Heartlessly discarded as my life took its share of missteps on the
Journey to my present stage. I was a misled pirate, hoisting adrift
Articles of import which I saw no value in at the given time. And now
I fill myself with devastating remorse whene’er I seek to touch and
View symbols of poignancy that would adhere disparate
Moments in my life. You need examples, you say, and I fully
Understand your point, so I will painfully present such items
Missing from the building steps of the foundation of my existential
Being. There were the baseball cards, so excitedly acquired and so
Sensuous to my touch and vision, with portraits of heroes of my
Youth --- and on the obverse, statistics attesting to their skills pre-
Free agency. With them, I had the power of Webb and Topping.
I could save and arrange them or trade and gamble them away.
There was my fine collection, from the 1950’s, of three-dimensional
Comic books and magazines, supplemented periodically with my
Donning red-and-blue 3-D glasses to scream with others as wildlife
Vaulted at me in the movie “Bwana Devil” or an ancient frog-man
Slouched in my direction in “The Maze” or Vincent Price melted
Away in “House of Wax”. All are gone now except the memories ---
And streaming services. Sadly, too, because of my short-sightedness,
Are all the artifacts I once embraced to my heart that evidenced my
Success in Henry Hudson Junior High and James Monroe High School,
Pins of honor, report cards and certificates, my Golden Ayin. And
Finally, heartlessly disposed of in a pawn shop in the shadow of the
Radio City Music Hall, was my first coin collection --- sold, admittedly
For a noble cause (to raise money for college books) but sold for
Less than half their worth, fiscally. I used to touch, caress some of those
Precious coins and dream of distant times and places. Youth is indeed
Wasted on the young, but the only one who fully understands the
Weight of such a maxim is the one who has loved and lost.
As Emily Dickinson wrote in her poem,
“Success is counted sweetest”
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory
As he defeated – dying –
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
And now, dear reader, you understand the hurt I bear
Because of my youthful lack of depth- - - and how I pray
That others heed my words, and maintain ownership
Of the bounty of their early years, that they may in the
Twilight look at such items and smile with no regrets.
When George Bernard Shaw said, “Youth is the most beautiful thing
in this world — and what a pity that it has to be wasted on children!”,
He must have had me in mind. With the cursed benefit of hindsight,
I peer into my past and find far less than exquisite pain in my
Recognition and cognition of the times I would (if I could) press the
Re-set button and withdraw unto myself the treasures I too
Heartlessly discarded as my life took its share of missteps on the
Journey to my present stage. I was a misled pirate, hoisting adrift
Articles of import which I saw no value in at the given time. And now
I fill myself with devastating remorse whene’er I seek to touch and
View symbols of poignancy that would adhere disparate
Moments in my life. You need examples, you say, and I fully
Understand your point, so I will painfully present such items
Missing from the building steps of the foundation of my existential
Being. There were the baseball cards, so excitedly acquired and so
Sensuous to my touch and vision, with portraits of heroes of my
Youth --- and on the obverse, statistics attesting to their skills pre-
Free agency. With them, I had the power of Webb and Topping.
I could save and arrange them or trade and gamble them away.
There was my fine collection, from the 1950’s, of three-dimensional
Comic books and magazines, supplemented periodically with my
Donning red-and-blue 3-D glasses to scream with others as wildlife
Vaulted at me in the movie “Bwana Devil” or an ancient frog-man
Slouched in my direction in “The Maze” or Vincent Price melted
Away in “House of Wax”. All are gone now except the memories ---
And streaming services. Sadly, too, because of my short-sightedness,
Are all the artifacts I once embraced to my heart that evidenced my
Success in Henry Hudson Junior High and James Monroe High School,
Pins of honor, report cards and certificates, my Golden Ayin. And
Finally, heartlessly disposed of in a pawn shop in the shadow of the
Radio City Music Hall, was my first coin collection --- sold, admittedly
For a noble cause (to raise money for college books) but sold for
Less than half their worth, fiscally. I used to touch, caress some of those
Precious coins and dream of distant times and places. Youth is indeed
Wasted on the young, but the only one who fully understands the
Weight of such a maxim is the one who has loved and lost.
As Emily Dickinson wrote in her poem,
“Success is counted sweetest”
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory
As he defeated – dying –
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
And now, dear reader, you understand the hurt I bear
Because of my youthful lack of depth- - - and how I pray
That others heed my words, and maintain ownership
Of the bounty of their early years, that they may in the
Twilight look at such items and smile with no regrets.
A Warning
Hello, twig. I am sorry that you had to be amputated
From the limb that gave you life, but you deserved it
For trying to branch out on your own. You had to learn
The hard way that breaking away before your time
Would anger Mother Nature and would terminate the
Never-spoken contract among life-forms that selfish
Independence is no substitute for interdependence - - -
So there you lie and there you die, and in your passing
You give new life to the concept that the symphony of nature
Is played by an orchestra of full-body trees and bushes
And flowers and grass and a million other instruments
Living ‘neath the skies. What happens to a flower full
Of beauty should it be picked and separated from its
Home? It dies! It wasn’t meant to thrive alone. And
Likewise you, in trying to escape your majestic
Tree as it withstood the onslaught of the Storm now
Will wither and decay. You’ve leaned your lesson
Even in your final hours, lying on my window sill.
Die, twig! And resuscitate your glory in the warning
That your demise sets forth, that the symphony will
Once again play on to the smiles and even cheers of
The audience, and we all will drown out the thunder
With applause for the Beauty of Cooperation!
Hello, twig. I am sorry that you had to be amputated
From the limb that gave you life, but you deserved it
For trying to branch out on your own. You had to learn
The hard way that breaking away before your time
Would anger Mother Nature and would terminate the
Never-spoken contract among life-forms that selfish
Independence is no substitute for interdependence - - -
So there you lie and there you die, and in your passing
You give new life to the concept that the symphony of nature
Is played by an orchestra of full-body trees and bushes
And flowers and grass and a million other instruments
Living ‘neath the skies. What happens to a flower full
Of beauty should it be picked and separated from its
Home? It dies! It wasn’t meant to thrive alone. And
Likewise you, in trying to escape your majestic
Tree as it withstood the onslaught of the Storm now
Will wither and decay. You’ve leaned your lesson
Even in your final hours, lying on my window sill.
Die, twig! And resuscitate your glory in the warning
That your demise sets forth, that the symphony will
Once again play on to the smiles and even cheers of
The audience, and we all will drown out the thunder
With applause for the Beauty of Cooperation!
Ode to Bobble-heads
Why are Bobble-heads so popular with baseball fans?
Thousands line up way ahead of game time at
Dodger Stadium for a bobble-head of Ohtani and
His dog. Other stars or plain popular players are
Honored by this figment figure resembling its
Subject sometimes in rudimentary ways, and
Players cannot help but smile and feel the warmth
Radiated by fans coming early and seeking out
Plastic-metal replicas of their teammates - - - or
Themselves - - - a way of showing that these fans
Care and that they recognize the positive emotional
Connection that exists between player and fan,
And subsisting beneath consciousness is the
Positivity between fan and athlete embodied by
The people’s art, the bobble-head, a treasure to
Be passed through the generations just to make
Us smile. Shake the bobble-head gently, with
Soft feeling. You will be rewarded with a nod or
Twenty. Have you ever seen a bobble-head
Respond with any motion but a north-south
Nodding of the over-sized smiling head and a
Corresponding “Yes”? A free memento geared to
Make the possessor smile and feel that everything
Will be all right: it makes showing up way too early
Worth every special second. Your descendants
Will be grateful and will no doubt smile in time
With that precious and precocious
Baseball bobble-head. That’s what the world
Needs more of . . . gentle, agreeable smiles.
Why are Bobble-heads so popular with baseball fans?
Thousands line up way ahead of game time at
Dodger Stadium for a bobble-head of Ohtani and
His dog. Other stars or plain popular players are
Honored by this figment figure resembling its
Subject sometimes in rudimentary ways, and
Players cannot help but smile and feel the warmth
Radiated by fans coming early and seeking out
Plastic-metal replicas of their teammates - - - or
Themselves - - - a way of showing that these fans
Care and that they recognize the positive emotional
Connection that exists between player and fan,
And subsisting beneath consciousness is the
Positivity between fan and athlete embodied by
The people’s art, the bobble-head, a treasure to
Be passed through the generations just to make
Us smile. Shake the bobble-head gently, with
Soft feeling. You will be rewarded with a nod or
Twenty. Have you ever seen a bobble-head
Respond with any motion but a north-south
Nodding of the over-sized smiling head and a
Corresponding “Yes”? A free memento geared to
Make the possessor smile and feel that everything
Will be all right: it makes showing up way too early
Worth every special second. Your descendants
Will be grateful and will no doubt smile in time
With that precious and precocious
Baseball bobble-head. That’s what the world
Needs more of . . . gentle, agreeable smiles.
Before reading the following Haiku, view this Video (for context). Copy & paste.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hNXCbSDBvc
Japanese Form Poems About a Japanese Player
Ohtani and dog
Play ball for all to witness
It is a big hit!
New dog learns new trick
Makes the crowd cheer out loud
They chant, “MVP!”
I am getting tired
Haiku are a vibrant form
I am glad I’m done!
Japanese Form Poems About a Japanese Player
Ohtani and dog
Play ball for all to witness
It is a big hit!
New dog learns new trick
Makes the crowd cheer out loud
They chant, “MVP!”
I am getting tired
Haiku are a vibrant form
I am glad I’m done!
Payment Declined
I am not amazed or shocked when I check my spam
Email and I find that I will no longer have access to
Netflix, Costco, HULU, Amazon or others of my
Subscriptions because of “Payment Declined”.
I have been known to misplace things or not
Recall the name of this actor or that politician.
It must be a fault in my record keeping that I have
Missed payments - - - or maybe forgetfulness
Is creeping into my octogenarian brain and
Eating away at it the way that worm digested
The best part of Junior’s mind, accounting for
His strange, fantastical, scary ideas. I begin to
Check these delinquent accounts, and read that
All will be well, God will be in His Universe,
Ford in his Flivver, if only I call this number
Or open that link and send these kind people
Money money money . . . but then I realize
That I never did belong to Costco, and my
Other subscriptions are renewed automatically,
So I think about it all and come up with a
Most fitting reply to all those charlatans who
Just want to suck my bank account dry the
Way an annoying mosquito parched would like
To suck my blood. I conjure up the perfect
Phrase to send as my response:
“Payment Declined!”
I am not amazed or shocked when I check my spam
Email and I find that I will no longer have access to
Netflix, Costco, HULU, Amazon or others of my
Subscriptions because of “Payment Declined”.
I have been known to misplace things or not
Recall the name of this actor or that politician.
It must be a fault in my record keeping that I have
Missed payments - - - or maybe forgetfulness
Is creeping into my octogenarian brain and
Eating away at it the way that worm digested
The best part of Junior’s mind, accounting for
His strange, fantastical, scary ideas. I begin to
Check these delinquent accounts, and read that
All will be well, God will be in His Universe,
Ford in his Flivver, if only I call this number
Or open that link and send these kind people
Money money money . . . but then I realize
That I never did belong to Costco, and my
Other subscriptions are renewed automatically,
So I think about it all and come up with a
Most fitting reply to all those charlatans who
Just want to suck my bank account dry the
Way an annoying mosquito parched would like
To suck my blood. I conjure up the perfect
Phrase to send as my response:
“Payment Declined!”
Not So Perfect
It would just be a perfect shame
If I were to throw a perfect game.
27 up; 27 down . . .
I’d suffocate in such renown.
I would go down in history
With fingers that were blistery
From tossing all those knuckleballs
And watching as each batter falls
Prey to pitches that would flutter by,
As hitters swung at butterflies
And flailed and failed every inning.
Why, that would be distracting winning!
For all my fielders would a tingle
Feel: each pitch could be a single.
Let’s say that I throw perfection . . .
Would not the fans seek a collection
Of perfect games to grow with each
Appearance that I make? They would beseech
Me to do what I’d done before.
“Be perfect,” they fiercely would implore - - -
And so I know that should I throw
A perfect game, my peace would go.
I think for me the best beginning
Is giving up a hit an inning;
That way fans will expect less
And I won’t be in such a mess.
It would just be a perfect shame
If I were to throw a perfect game.
27 up; 27 down . . .
I’d suffocate in such renown.
I would go down in history
With fingers that were blistery
From tossing all those knuckleballs
And watching as each batter falls
Prey to pitches that would flutter by,
As hitters swung at butterflies
And flailed and failed every inning.
Why, that would be distracting winning!
For all my fielders would a tingle
Feel: each pitch could be a single.
Let’s say that I throw perfection . . .
Would not the fans seek a collection
Of perfect games to grow with each
Appearance that I make? They would beseech
Me to do what I’d done before.
“Be perfect,” they fiercely would implore - - -
And so I know that should I throw
A perfect game, my peace would go.
I think for me the best beginning
Is giving up a hit an inning;
That way fans will expect less
And I won’t be in such a mess.
Food for Thought
The tall drink of water stood on the mound,
looking as though his cap were grazing the
egg yolk sun. It was the dessert part of the
season, and, with two outs and the sky a crispy
blue, with runners on all three bases, tension
oozing all over the place in this final game for
first place - - - and standing at the plate like a
string bean, in the bottom of the ninth, with
his team losing but really needing this game,
was a drooling rookie, eager to show that
he could cut the mustard in the Big Show.
The pitcher threw him a pea, which whizzed by
the hitter’s hungry eyes, for a strike. That pitch
was followed by a meatball, but the hot dog
batter was too eager, and he swung too early,
missing for strike two. The old Pro hurler then
jammed the batter with some cheese, but
the batsman didn’t fall for it, so the count became
one and two - - - and the rook could taste a
ribeye about to come his way . . . maybe even
the coveted grand salami! He was desperate
to smash a ‘tater - - - but he hit a can of corn
to the center fielder for the final out. It was
as clear as chicken broth that the batter would
wear the uniform for a cup of coffee, and would
then be eating those less than scrumptious
Minor meals. Meanwhile, the losing manager
would be left to deal with his painful indigestion.
The tall drink of water stood on the mound,
looking as though his cap were grazing the
egg yolk sun. It was the dessert part of the
season, and, with two outs and the sky a crispy
blue, with runners on all three bases, tension
oozing all over the place in this final game for
first place - - - and standing at the plate like a
string bean, in the bottom of the ninth, with
his team losing but really needing this game,
was a drooling rookie, eager to show that
he could cut the mustard in the Big Show.
The pitcher threw him a pea, which whizzed by
the hitter’s hungry eyes, for a strike. That pitch
was followed by a meatball, but the hot dog
batter was too eager, and he swung too early,
missing for strike two. The old Pro hurler then
jammed the batter with some cheese, but
the batsman didn’t fall for it, so the count became
one and two - - - and the rook could taste a
ribeye about to come his way . . . maybe even
the coveted grand salami! He was desperate
to smash a ‘tater - - - but he hit a can of corn
to the center fielder for the final out. It was
as clear as chicken broth that the batter would
wear the uniform for a cup of coffee, and would
then be eating those less than scrumptious
Minor meals. Meanwhile, the losing manager
would be left to deal with his painful indigestion.
Photo from r.nial.bradshaw
