MACDEATH!
Poor Duncan has exhaled his final breath,
His bloody body lies in dark-red pools
And his two guards are dead, thanks to Macbeth,
Whose wife transformed them to two drunken fools.
Macbeth at last becomes all Scotland’s king
While have escaped dead Duncan’s two young sons.
Macbeth now wears the regal crown and ring
While Shakespeare entertains us with his puns.
Lady Macbeth, so strong, has helped start things:
She feels such pride, but monster-man she has
Unknowingly produced; continuous it rings,
The death bell knelling for those gone, alas!
Be careful when you seek to feel a thrill;
When you do murder, ‘‘tis your soul you kill.
His bloody body lies in dark-red pools
And his two guards are dead, thanks to Macbeth,
Whose wife transformed them to two drunken fools.
Macbeth at last becomes all Scotland’s king
While have escaped dead Duncan’s two young sons.
Macbeth now wears the regal crown and ring
While Shakespeare entertains us with his puns.
Lady Macbeth, so strong, has helped start things:
She feels such pride, but monster-man she has
Unknowingly produced; continuous it rings,
The death bell knelling for those gone, alas!
Be careful when you seek to feel a thrill;
When you do murder, ‘‘tis your soul you kill.
The Moor is No More: Othello
There once was too trusting an innocent fellow
Who went by the African name of Othello.
He fell in love with an innocent damsel,
For which he would then be damned to Hell
By his ferocious father-in-law --
Brabantio, a clod who was quite a boor.
Papa was warned way to the max
That his daughter and O were a beast with two backs!
Anyway, Othello passed o’er Iago
And said it was time for a timely Cassio,
So he incurred the wrath of this villain
Who loved to do harm without any blood spillin’.
Othello truly loved his Desdemon,
A woman who kept him from being alone --
He loved her not wisely but rather too much,
And that left him exposed to Iago’s black touch.
The villain convinced him of her hanky-panky,
Putting the blame on a strawberry hanky
And leading Othello to break his own heart;
He did truly love her till death did them part.
Then Big O attacked Iago at once
When he saw he’d been made a murderous dunce.
What’s the theme of this action, the lesson you must
Learn very well? -- Take care whom you trust!
There once was too trusting an innocent fellow
Who went by the African name of Othello.
He fell in love with an innocent damsel,
For which he would then be damned to Hell
By his ferocious father-in-law --
Brabantio, a clod who was quite a boor.
Papa was warned way to the max
That his daughter and O were a beast with two backs!
Anyway, Othello passed o’er Iago
And said it was time for a timely Cassio,
So he incurred the wrath of this villain
Who loved to do harm without any blood spillin’.
Othello truly loved his Desdemon,
A woman who kept him from being alone --
He loved her not wisely but rather too much,
And that left him exposed to Iago’s black touch.
The villain convinced him of her hanky-panky,
Putting the blame on a strawberry hanky
And leading Othello to break his own heart;
He did truly love her till death did them part.
Then Big O attacked Iago at once
When he saw he’d been made a murderous dunce.
What’s the theme of this action, the lesson you must
Learn very well? -- Take care whom you trust!
Novel Reactions
What is that book whose page you’re turning?
Does it fulfill a need you’re yearning
To satisfy, an emptiness burning
In your mind? Does it help you find
Characters that are of your kind --
Those with whom you can closely bind
In smooth relationship
To soothe you on your trip
Or do they seek to rip
Emotions from your soul
And draw you from your goal
And leave a fearsome hole
That tears you from your breed,
Forcing you to hopelessly concede
That words can make you bleed?
What is that book whose life you’re living?
Is it too harsh, or is it giving
A story’s message worth believing?
Does it supply a population
Whose acts are worth a celebration
As opposed to rancor, condemnation?
Such collection is much glory
For you can dwell in such a story,
Escaping a life which is purgatory
And drifting away to a fantasy land
In which from the author: a helping hand
So within your plight you can understand
What you do, whom you care about
And that way there will be no doubt
That this is a world you can’t do without.
A well-crafted novel builds a charming sphere
Which offers its readers the chance to be there
And locate a character who can be so dear;
Fictitious companionship lasts many a year . . .
(To me, Miss Havisham can ne’er disappear,
For as long as I maintain existence here!)
What is that book whose page you’re turning?
Does it fulfill a need you’re yearning
To satisfy, an emptiness burning
In your mind? Does it help you find
Characters that are of your kind --
Those with whom you can closely bind
In smooth relationship
To soothe you on your trip
Or do they seek to rip
Emotions from your soul
And draw you from your goal
And leave a fearsome hole
That tears you from your breed,
Forcing you to hopelessly concede
That words can make you bleed?
What is that book whose life you’re living?
Is it too harsh, or is it giving
A story’s message worth believing?
Does it supply a population
Whose acts are worth a celebration
As opposed to rancor, condemnation?
Such collection is much glory
For you can dwell in such a story,
Escaping a life which is purgatory
And drifting away to a fantasy land
In which from the author: a helping hand
So within your plight you can understand
What you do, whom you care about
And that way there will be no doubt
That this is a world you can’t do without.
A well-crafted novel builds a charming sphere
Which offers its readers the chance to be there
And locate a character who can be so dear;
Fictitious companionship lasts many a year . . .
(To me, Miss Havisham can ne’er disappear,
For as long as I maintain existence here!)
too much class . . . or Not Enough: Pygmalion/ My Fair Lady
Henry Higgins made Pickering a wager
That he could give a Cockney a major
Makeover and make her be
A faker in so High Society,
So a flower girl he then selected
To be the one whom he elected
To learn to speak the King’s good English.
(Did I mention that she was quite the dish?)
Poor Higgins was so in love with the word
That he missed human love -- which was simply absurd --
And he and Eliza would then never be
A couple in love and in great ecstasy.
It never occurred to the Professor
To pursue his love for someone lesser
For he was imprisoned in his Upper Class
And that left him pining for that wondrous lass;
What he should have done was give it a whirl --
And become a couple with that fair girl!
Henry Higgins made Pickering a wager
That he could give a Cockney a major
Makeover and make her be
A faker in so High Society,
So a flower girl he then selected
To be the one whom he elected
To learn to speak the King’s good English.
(Did I mention that she was quite the dish?)
Poor Higgins was so in love with the word
That he missed human love -- which was simply absurd --
And he and Eliza would then never be
A couple in love and in great ecstasy.
It never occurred to the Professor
To pursue his love for someone lesser
For he was imprisoned in his Upper Class
And that left him pining for that wondrous lass;
What he should have done was give it a whirl --
And become a couple with that fair girl!
Introduction to Five Poems about Literature
Works of literature are so rich with plot and character that they continuously stimulate my imagination and lead me to comment on the events and people of the storyline. The first poem that follows, “Driven,” is my reaction --- gleaned from my interactions with numerous students --- about the nature of the relationship between Bert Cates and Rachel Brown in Inherit the Wind. It is the result of a monolog the Rachel character makes toward the end of the play, the one about ideas being like babies and having an innate right to be “born” --- which was the main point that Henry Drummond (the Clarence Darrow derivative) was trying to make in a trial which was not about proving that Cates broke a law but was about the right to teach different ideas, even if you disagree with them, so that they can be debated and explored.
The next poem coming up, “Self-Anger,” is a brief exploration of the jury in Twelve Angry Men. It barely approaches the characterizations of a few jurors but it does make a couple of major points with reference to themes of the play.
The third, “Many Days’ Journey from the Fight,” is a comic take on the adventures and misadventures of Odysseus, just random thoughts I have when I consider the ridiculously long “hero’s journey” that the protagonist undertakes. He gets many of his men killed. He has abandoned his wife and son for an unconscionable amount of time. I understand that he was the epitome of a manly man hero back in the day but I’m not terribly convinced that he would be considered a hero today.
Next comes “Hansberry Buries Bad Blood.” It is one of the saddest events in literature that such a gifted playwright as Lorraine Hansberry lost her fight for life at such an early age. She did leave us this masterpiece titled A raisin in the Sun, which had so much to say about pride and racism, about love and family and responsibility to those who love you and see you as a role model and to a society which badly needs people of strength to keep it from following the easy but destructive path. I have a great amount of respect for the members of the Younger family, living and deceased, and I tried to communicate that in this poem.
Finally, there is the first poem to appear on this page, "Macdeath", which, I admit, is a trite title – yet it is so accurate, for there is so much more than the death of an anti-hero. There is the death of a dream, the death of the innocence of a nation, the death of honor, the deaths of much of two families and a host of innocents. In the end, justice is served in Shakespeare’s reimagining of Scottish historical events. I was seeking to highlight the errors one can make when one is overly ambitious and loses sight of one’s better qualities.
Literature offers such fertile land to the welcoming mind and imagination. Just remember that the story does not end with the end of the story. It is an invitation to readers to continue the conversation and extend and project the events for those characters fortunate enough to still be alive by the end of the dramatic production.
Works of literature are so rich with plot and character that they continuously stimulate my imagination and lead me to comment on the events and people of the storyline. The first poem that follows, “Driven,” is my reaction --- gleaned from my interactions with numerous students --- about the nature of the relationship between Bert Cates and Rachel Brown in Inherit the Wind. It is the result of a monolog the Rachel character makes toward the end of the play, the one about ideas being like babies and having an innate right to be “born” --- which was the main point that Henry Drummond (the Clarence Darrow derivative) was trying to make in a trial which was not about proving that Cates broke a law but was about the right to teach different ideas, even if you disagree with them, so that they can be debated and explored.
The next poem coming up, “Self-Anger,” is a brief exploration of the jury in Twelve Angry Men. It barely approaches the characterizations of a few jurors but it does make a couple of major points with reference to themes of the play.
The third, “Many Days’ Journey from the Fight,” is a comic take on the adventures and misadventures of Odysseus, just random thoughts I have when I consider the ridiculously long “hero’s journey” that the protagonist undertakes. He gets many of his men killed. He has abandoned his wife and son for an unconscionable amount of time. I understand that he was the epitome of a manly man hero back in the day but I’m not terribly convinced that he would be considered a hero today.
Next comes “Hansberry Buries Bad Blood.” It is one of the saddest events in literature that such a gifted playwright as Lorraine Hansberry lost her fight for life at such an early age. She did leave us this masterpiece titled A raisin in the Sun, which had so much to say about pride and racism, about love and family and responsibility to those who love you and see you as a role model and to a society which badly needs people of strength to keep it from following the easy but destructive path. I have a great amount of respect for the members of the Younger family, living and deceased, and I tried to communicate that in this poem.
Finally, there is the first poem to appear on this page, "Macdeath", which, I admit, is a trite title – yet it is so accurate, for there is so much more than the death of an anti-hero. There is the death of a dream, the death of the innocence of a nation, the death of honor, the deaths of much of two families and a host of innocents. In the end, justice is served in Shakespeare’s reimagining of Scottish historical events. I was seeking to highlight the errors one can make when one is overly ambitious and loses sight of one’s better qualities.
Literature offers such fertile land to the welcoming mind and imagination. Just remember that the story does not end with the end of the story. It is an invitation to readers to continue the conversation and extend and project the events for those characters fortunate enough to still be alive by the end of the dramatic production.
Driven
(inspired by Inherit the Wind, a play by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee)
“Ideas have a right to live,
To see the light and breathe and smile,”
Said Rachel Brown as she tried to forgive
Her father, whose words had been brimming with bile.
Bert Cates, her lover, was scientific
And cared about educational truth.
Bert, in her eyes, had been terrific,
Facing society with the innocence of youth.
While Brady was shady and pandered so much
In his desire to matter again,
Drummond drummed and loosened his touch
Till old Brady died of unrecognized pain.
The circus had ended; the clowns had all left
And Rachel and Bert were preparing to leave
And though the Brown clan had been clumsily cleft
There was nowhere in Rachel the need to bereave.
They all had claimed that Cates was wrong,
That he had not taught as much as he’d sinned
Yet Reverend Brown, with his bitter song
Had guaranteed that he’d inherit the wind!
(inspired by Inherit the Wind, a play by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee)
“Ideas have a right to live,
To see the light and breathe and smile,”
Said Rachel Brown as she tried to forgive
Her father, whose words had been brimming with bile.
Bert Cates, her lover, was scientific
And cared about educational truth.
Bert, in her eyes, had been terrific,
Facing society with the innocence of youth.
While Brady was shady and pandered so much
In his desire to matter again,
Drummond drummed and loosened his touch
Till old Brady died of unrecognized pain.
The circus had ended; the clowns had all left
And Rachel and Bert were preparing to leave
And though the Brown clan had been clumsily cleft
There was nowhere in Rachel the need to bereave.
They all had claimed that Cates was wrong,
That he had not taught as much as he’d sinned
Yet Reverend Brown, with his bitter song
Had guaranteed that he’d inherit the wind!
Self-Anger
(inspired by Twelve Angry Men, a play by Reginald Rose)
Number 8 began to fret:
The rest were angry and upset;
They felt the boy was full of guilt
But the case on which was built
A house of cards was mostly air
And rush to verdict was unfair,
Unjustified --- product of hate
But that’s no way to seal one’s fate
So Number 8 decried and cried
Till his lone voice was satisfied
As one by one each one decided
That Number 3, who so derided
The boy because his own teen son
Had punched his face and then had run,
Was faced with isolation and rebellion
And had to free the “Guilty” hellion.
A lesson learned, his bias smudged:
“Do not judge harshly lest you be judged!”
(inspired by Twelve Angry Men, a play by Reginald Rose)
Number 8 began to fret:
The rest were angry and upset;
They felt the boy was full of guilt
But the case on which was built
A house of cards was mostly air
And rush to verdict was unfair,
Unjustified --- product of hate
But that’s no way to seal one’s fate
So Number 8 decried and cried
Till his lone voice was satisfied
As one by one each one decided
That Number 3, who so derided
The boy because his own teen son
Had punched his face and then had run,
Was faced with isolation and rebellion
And had to free the “Guilty” hellion.
A lesson learned, his bias smudged:
“Do not judge harshly lest you be judged!”
Many Days’ Journey from the Fight (inspired by Homer’s Odyssey)
I think it to be quite an oddity
When I delve into Homer’s Odyssey
That a man should abandon his wife
And remain far from her for half her life.
Did Odysseus, when bidding good-bye,
Dream deeply of the Cyclops’ one eye
Or did he depart his home environs
With a wish to behold the lovely Sirens?
Did Homer, when telling this story,
Target such a compelling and glory-
Seeking sailor to choose from Charybdis and Scylla
As one chooses ‘tween chocolate and vanilla
Or was he just a fine lesson teaching
Of a man far from home --- and then finally reaching
His son and his wife, who were waiting at last
She killing off suitors, not having a blast?
All I know is if I left my wife
And sought ruination and disconsolate strife,
When, years later, arriving from foam
I would --- I’ve no doubt --- find nobody home!
I think it to be quite an oddity
When I delve into Homer’s Odyssey
That a man should abandon his wife
And remain far from her for half her life.
Did Odysseus, when bidding good-bye,
Dream deeply of the Cyclops’ one eye
Or did he depart his home environs
With a wish to behold the lovely Sirens?
Did Homer, when telling this story,
Target such a compelling and glory-
Seeking sailor to choose from Charybdis and Scylla
As one chooses ‘tween chocolate and vanilla
Or was he just a fine lesson teaching
Of a man far from home --- and then finally reaching
His son and his wife, who were waiting at last
She killing off suitors, not having a blast?
All I know is if I left my wife
And sought ruination and disconsolate strife,
When, years later, arriving from foam
I would --- I’ve no doubt --- find nobody home!
Hansberry Buries Bad Blood (inspired by A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry)
Appreciate the Younger family;
Big Mama proved to be extremely wise:
She knew they hungered greatly to be free,
And saw the world through her late husband’s eyes.
Her Daughter had ambition but her Son
Wanted his position at the top
As coming to him, but was undone
When a so-called friend absconded without stop . . .
But Mama challenged Son to be a man
To her Grandson, to confront that Mr. Linder
And to be proud and fulfill his Father’s plan
That no amount of racist hate could hinder.
And so no Hughes’ poor raisin will explode;
Instead, a garden full of pride they’ll sow
As once again racism will erode ---
A garden full of pride will grow and glow!
Appreciate the Younger family;
Big Mama proved to be extremely wise:
She knew they hungered greatly to be free,
And saw the world through her late husband’s eyes.
Her Daughter had ambition but her Son
Wanted his position at the top
As coming to him, but was undone
When a so-called friend absconded without stop . . .
But Mama challenged Son to be a man
To her Grandson, to confront that Mr. Linder
And to be proud and fulfill his Father’s plan
That no amount of racist hate could hinder.
And so no Hughes’ poor raisin will explode;
Instead, a garden full of pride they’ll sow
As once again racism will erode ---
A garden full of pride will grow and glow!
I am constantly intrigued by unique characters and their idiosyncrasies. Perhaps I should write a poem about characters from my favorite novel, Charles Dickens' Great Expectations. (For more on that matter, read my first blog entry.) Maybe I will do that one day. Miss Havisham demands to be heard, to give her side of the story! Let's pursue that line of reasoning: Attention must be paid to Willie Loman! Blanche remains dependent on the kindness of strangers. Queequeg and Chingachgook wish not to be overlooked. And how can I ignore Oliver, starving for more gruel and love? I cannot leave him twisting in the wind. Allow Boo radley to be seen if not heard!
At the least, pay heed to the poems which follow. Authors and poets give birth to characters, and those characters deserve to live - on the page!
At the least, pay heed to the poems which follow. Authors and poets give birth to characters, and those characters deserve to live - on the page!
TO HOLDEN: Catcher in the Rye
To Holden, people are full of boloney;
Everyone he sees is quite a phony.
He keeps getting kicked right out of school,
Which turns him to a desperate fool.
He's allowed his life to become a mess,
Which is why he drowns in loneliness.
At times, he is nice, such as with Mrs. Morrow.
(He doesn't want her to feel any sorrow ---
So he says that her son is beloved by all,
Which is his lie, a story too tall.)
Holden calls his dorm-mates dumb,
Feeling that each is a slob or a bum;
Then Holden goes to town in a cab,
After which his days turn dull and drab.
Whenever he needs to, he wears his red hat
And feels that there's nothing wrong with that:
Brim to the front when he wants to belong;
Brim to the rear when belonging is wrong!
Holden attempts not to shed a tear
But his sorrow for Allie is everywhere.
His brother, alive, had been so very smart,
But when Allie died, it broke Holden's heart ---
So Holden now lives a meaningless life
With nights full of gloom and mournings of strife ---
And WE are left to wonder and pray
That Holden will one day find his way . . .
To Holden, people are full of boloney;
Everyone he sees is quite a phony.
He keeps getting kicked right out of school,
Which turns him to a desperate fool.
He's allowed his life to become a mess,
Which is why he drowns in loneliness.
At times, he is nice, such as with Mrs. Morrow.
(He doesn't want her to feel any sorrow ---
So he says that her son is beloved by all,
Which is his lie, a story too tall.)
Holden calls his dorm-mates dumb,
Feeling that each is a slob or a bum;
Then Holden goes to town in a cab,
After which his days turn dull and drab.
Whenever he needs to, he wears his red hat
And feels that there's nothing wrong with that:
Brim to the front when he wants to belong;
Brim to the rear when belonging is wrong!
Holden attempts not to shed a tear
But his sorrow for Allie is everywhere.
His brother, alive, had been so very smart,
But when Allie died, it broke Holden's heart ---
So Holden now lives a meaningless life
With nights full of gloom and mournings of strife ---
And WE are left to wonder and pray
That Holden will one day find his way . . .
Stradlater Says . . . : Catcher in the Rye
I will never beholden
To that pesky Holden.
I simply needed him to write
A composition by tonight,
Details on a house or room ---
But now I face an English doom
For Holden wrote about a glove
And said his brother, who he loved
Wrote poems on it in green ink!
I think he wrote a thing that'd stink
So that I'd fail. He's really mean ---
And just because I dated Jean!
I will never beholden
To that pesky Holden.
I simply needed him to write
A composition by tonight,
Details on a house or room ---
But now I face an English doom
For Holden wrote about a glove
And said his brother, who he loved
Wrote poems on it in green ink!
I think he wrote a thing that'd stink
So that I'd fail. He's really mean ---
And just because I dated Jean!
The Original Mac the Knife: Macbeth
Of Cawdor and Glamis he is thane
But he can barely wait to reign
Over the kingdom of the Scots
And that very ambition must be what's
Going to bring lots of trouble to Macbeth
And in the end, a most cutting death.
It all begins with a meeting with witches
And their second prediction, causing Macbeth's twitches
And sending him rushing to speak with his wife ---
And so starts the legend of Mac and his knife.
(It is true in the play it is called a dagger
But that's just to give old Mac his cool swagger;
It's a fatal weapon to kill a king,
To enable the thane to wear royal ring.)
And so the lord takes Rex Duncan's place
And thus begins his majestic disgrace!
(Don't worry or fret about Duncan's two sons;
For now we know that each one runs,
And with good cause, for they both have fright
That the arrow that's shot has yet to alight!
You cannot trust friends who smile and beguile
And who plan your demise the entire while.)
Now where was I? Oh, yes, on to Scone
(But Macduff suspects, and he isn't alone).
Macbeth realizes that Banquo is brave
And smart and a threat, which makes our lord crave
His good friend's hasty ambushed demise ---
And for that job, he hires two spies
Who, together with a mysterious stranger,
Put Banquo's life to immediate danger.
Farewell to Banquo and welcome his ghost
Which proceeds to perplex and torture the host
As all the king's men just wonder and stare
Till her lowness orders them all out of there!
He wants to know now the witches' prediction
And goes to see them (his own predilection,
But he doesn't know that the sisters' musings
Are aimed at setting him up with confusings
Which will instill in him sense of security,
Which, you all know, is his "chiefest enemy").
"You're safe," they proclaim, "till Birnam Wood
Starts walking and invades your neighborhood."
And then they add, "You will remain human
For you cannot be hurt by one born of woman,
So look to live a life you deserve."
Boy, those weird women have some nerve!
But they do well, and Macbeth falls for it
And by that misjudgment, his life he will forfeit.
Macduff's wife and babes he surprises and kills
(Probably just for the kicks and the thrills)
But this act opens a sharp can of worms
In that it guarantees that Macduff now returns
And Malcolm the smart one comes up with a plan
To make the Woods move --- a bough to the man.
Next, Macduff, from mom's womb "untimely ripp'd,"
Swings and slashes: the lord's head gets clipped
And Lady M's added to the day's wealth
By thoughtfully gracelessly killing herself.
And so the day is quite cheaply won
And the rightful king is the Number One son!
[Shakespeare would like King James to note
That the assassin he wrote that he smote,
For it is always a good idea
To show your monarch your allegiance clear.
Regicide is always a sin
And the wrongful king never will win
So love your leader and do not deceive;
That be what a good subject believe!]
Of Cawdor and Glamis he is thane
But he can barely wait to reign
Over the kingdom of the Scots
And that very ambition must be what's
Going to bring lots of trouble to Macbeth
And in the end, a most cutting death.
It all begins with a meeting with witches
And their second prediction, causing Macbeth's twitches
And sending him rushing to speak with his wife ---
And so starts the legend of Mac and his knife.
(It is true in the play it is called a dagger
But that's just to give old Mac his cool swagger;
It's a fatal weapon to kill a king,
To enable the thane to wear royal ring.)
And so the lord takes Rex Duncan's place
And thus begins his majestic disgrace!
(Don't worry or fret about Duncan's two sons;
For now we know that each one runs,
And with good cause, for they both have fright
That the arrow that's shot has yet to alight!
You cannot trust friends who smile and beguile
And who plan your demise the entire while.)
Now where was I? Oh, yes, on to Scone
(But Macduff suspects, and he isn't alone).
Macbeth realizes that Banquo is brave
And smart and a threat, which makes our lord crave
His good friend's hasty ambushed demise ---
And for that job, he hires two spies
Who, together with a mysterious stranger,
Put Banquo's life to immediate danger.
Farewell to Banquo and welcome his ghost
Which proceeds to perplex and torture the host
As all the king's men just wonder and stare
Till her lowness orders them all out of there!
He wants to know now the witches' prediction
And goes to see them (his own predilection,
But he doesn't know that the sisters' musings
Are aimed at setting him up with confusings
Which will instill in him sense of security,
Which, you all know, is his "chiefest enemy").
"You're safe," they proclaim, "till Birnam Wood
Starts walking and invades your neighborhood."
And then they add, "You will remain human
For you cannot be hurt by one born of woman,
So look to live a life you deserve."
Boy, those weird women have some nerve!
But they do well, and Macbeth falls for it
And by that misjudgment, his life he will forfeit.
Macduff's wife and babes he surprises and kills
(Probably just for the kicks and the thrills)
But this act opens a sharp can of worms
In that it guarantees that Macduff now returns
And Malcolm the smart one comes up with a plan
To make the Woods move --- a bough to the man.
Next, Macduff, from mom's womb "untimely ripp'd,"
Swings and slashes: the lord's head gets clipped
And Lady M's added to the day's wealth
By thoughtfully gracelessly killing herself.
And so the day is quite cheaply won
And the rightful king is the Number One son!
[Shakespeare would like King James to note
That the assassin he wrote that he smote,
For it is always a good idea
To show your monarch your allegiance clear.
Regicide is always a sin
And the wrongful king never will win
So love your leader and do not deceive;
That be what a good subject believe!]
The Next Chapter: Fahrenheit 451
Beatty thought that when he burned
Those books, he erased what had been learned
But he failed to see that Montag yearned
To find out why th' dying woman cried,
"You can destroy my books inside
But their inner thoughts will e'er abide!"
And Montag then decided on action;
He couldn't deny the mental attraction
Of books, so he joined Clarisse's faction
And hid some tomes around his house
Until Mildred, that little mouse,
Tried to turn him in - that miserable louse!
Montag was attacked by the mechanical hound
But he won the battle, and then he found
That his plan of escape was really quite sound.
He left the city, and began to look,
As Faber had advised, for People of the Book
While the government lied, and then forsook
Its search for the fugitive fireman, gone:
Not worth spending any more time on,
And Montag's days now begin, "Once upon . . . ."
Beatty thought that when he burned
Those books, he erased what had been learned
But he failed to see that Montag yearned
To find out why th' dying woman cried,
"You can destroy my books inside
But their inner thoughts will e'er abide!"
And Montag then decided on action;
He couldn't deny the mental attraction
Of books, so he joined Clarisse's faction
And hid some tomes around his house
Until Mildred, that little mouse,
Tried to turn him in - that miserable louse!
Montag was attacked by the mechanical hound
But he won the battle, and then he found
That his plan of escape was really quite sound.
He left the city, and began to look,
As Faber had advised, for People of the Book
While the government lied, and then forsook
Its search for the fugitive fireman, gone:
Not worth spending any more time on,
And Montag's days now begin, "Once upon . . . ."
Early 1984
In 1984, Orwell's Big Brother
Is not so nice; he's not your mother
And you can't hide from prying eyes:
Your neighbors' kids are BB's spies!
You can't escape the telescreen
And your co-workers are sneaky and mean.
I can't stand the Party watching me;
I am terrified of what they might see.
I am so frustrated without privacy:
Why can't those bastards just let me be?!
They want us all to smile and hate
But as for me, it's much too late.
The only ones I cannot stand
Are the Ones who gave me the Party brand!
First I started a diary
In my attempt to set my mind free,
And then I discovered a loving girl,
So we rebelled; I loved that perfect pearl.
I can only hope that 1985
Will find me free, in love --- and alive!
In 1984, Orwell's Big Brother
Is not so nice; he's not your mother
And you can't hide from prying eyes:
Your neighbors' kids are BB's spies!
You can't escape the telescreen
And your co-workers are sneaky and mean.
I can't stand the Party watching me;
I am terrified of what they might see.
I am so frustrated without privacy:
Why can't those bastards just let me be?!
They want us all to smile and hate
But as for me, it's much too late.
The only ones I cannot stand
Are the Ones who gave me the Party brand!
First I started a diary
In my attempt to set my mind free,
And then I discovered a loving girl,
So we rebelled; I loved that perfect pearl.
I can only hope that 1985
Will find me free, in love --- and alive!
Lord, Let Me Fly Away!: Lord of the Flies
There they were, surviving boys on an island
Running around and enjoying the sand ---
Ralph and Jack, Roger and Piggy:
No adults to guide them? Not really a biggie . . .
Except for the darkness, they didn't feel danger
But their lives on the island would soon become stranger.
Their fears would turn tribal life from a game
And their souls would never again be the same:
Conflicts arose between Ralph and Jack;
They fought for the conch, each taking it back;
Ralph wanted rescue and society more
But Jack wanted fun and hunting and war!
The deaths would increase, first the boar and then Simon
But the frenzied tribe claimed Mr. Good had bad timin'.
His beating, they said, was just accidental;
They got carried away; it was all merely mental ---
But then Roger, meanest kid on the block,
Destroyed Piggy by dropping upon him a rock,
A push and a shove let loose quite a boulder
Which crumbled his head right into his shoulder.
(It was certain that day that he'd never grow older.)
Then Jack turned his attention and all of his "men"
Toward Ralph, and they hunted again.
Thank goodness the Navy showed up just in time
Or the end of this book would have had one more crime.
There they were, surviving boys on an island
Running around and enjoying the sand ---
Ralph and Jack, Roger and Piggy:
No adults to guide them? Not really a biggie . . .
Except for the darkness, they didn't feel danger
But their lives on the island would soon become stranger.
Their fears would turn tribal life from a game
And their souls would never again be the same:
Conflicts arose between Ralph and Jack;
They fought for the conch, each taking it back;
Ralph wanted rescue and society more
But Jack wanted fun and hunting and war!
The deaths would increase, first the boar and then Simon
But the frenzied tribe claimed Mr. Good had bad timin'.
His beating, they said, was just accidental;
They got carried away; it was all merely mental ---
But then Roger, meanest kid on the block,
Destroyed Piggy by dropping upon him a rock,
A push and a shove let loose quite a boulder
Which crumbled his head right into his shoulder.
(It was certain that day that he'd never grow older.)
Then Jack turned his attention and all of his "men"
Toward Ralph, and they hunted again.
Thank goodness the Navy showed up just in time
Or the end of this book would have had one more crime.
|
Complaint of the Rebel
I do not want to write a villanelle. I find its form too challenging to know. I simply must refuse; I will rebel! I stumble and I bumble in my hell And try to find the rhyming and the flow; I do not want to write a villanelle. I know that I must show and never tell . . . And write my villanelle --- but oh, my woe! I simply must refuse; I will rebel! The heartbeat rhythm simply will not gel; I start each stanza but my lines won't grow; I do not want to write a villanelle. I'm told I must create --- and cast a spell To which I answer that I must say No! I simply must refuse; I will rebel! The rhyme scheme A-B-A is hard to sell. I feel as though I dwell on some Death Row; I do not want to write a villanelle. I simply must refuse; I will rebel! |
Vertical Divider
The Flock
It's not so easy writing sonnets now: My mind just seems to struggle with the words. Which topic should I choose? A cloud? A cow? Or maybe a smooth-sailing flock of birds! I could describe the way they float in air And glide and dive as if they were a team. I love it when they simply disappear As if they were the stars of some great dream. That's it! That is exactly what I'll write about. I love the birds that I see every day. I wonder why I ever had a doubt: I'll write about them; then they'll have to stay. As long as birds are flying in my song So long will they be where they do belong. 
|
SHAKESPEARE WORKS
Shakespeare wrote 37 plays:
In Macbeth, the main character slays
The King, but in Hamlet, another
Of his plays, the King is killed by his brother
(and let's not bring up his mother)
and Julius Caesar is killed by a friend
and Romeo and Juliet die in the end;
Then there's Othello, killing his wife;
So in Shakespeare . . . no one lived a long life ---
Unless you read Taming of the Shrew,
'Cause in a comedy he knew what to do:
Leave them happy; let the hero live
Or --- in All's Well That Ends Well --- people forgive.
Then there are the famous histories
About British kings and all their mysteries ---
But by the time his plays are all read,
His characters survive, living or dead.
Then there are 154 sonnets, too,
Where so many themes taught lessons so true,
All the while keeping iambic rhythm.
(I love his advices and plan to live with 'em.)
Shakespeare lived till the age 52
And then he passed, which makes me feel blue:
If he'd only lived to be 54,
Maybe he'd have written a little bit more.
In Macbeth, the main character slays
The King, but in Hamlet, another
Of his plays, the King is killed by his brother
(and let's not bring up his mother)
and Julius Caesar is killed by a friend
and Romeo and Juliet die in the end;
Then there's Othello, killing his wife;
So in Shakespeare . . . no one lived a long life ---
Unless you read Taming of the Shrew,
'Cause in a comedy he knew what to do:
Leave them happy; let the hero live
Or --- in All's Well That Ends Well --- people forgive.
Then there are the famous histories
About British kings and all their mysteries ---
But by the time his plays are all read,
His characters survive, living or dead.
Then there are 154 sonnets, too,
Where so many themes taught lessons so true,
All the while keeping iambic rhythm.
(I love his advices and plan to live with 'em.)
Shakespeare lived till the age 52
And then he passed, which makes me feel blue:
If he'd only lived to be 54,
Maybe he'd have written a little bit more.
Fare Well: Requiem for a Warning
Here lies Pterodactyl Rose:
Gone the way each good book goes ---
To the Great Library in the Sky;
It will be missed: each teary eye
Will long remember lessons learned
With every page so slowly turned.
Away we walk, and each of us
Bears the burden so pluribus-
Faceted, to the Future: We must safeguard,
To treat Nature gently, not to be hard-
Hearted and cruel, callous and mean:
The Future of Earth comes from current demean.
No longer the themes of pollution, extinction
Will we consider through poetic distinction
For with the absence of Professor Heyen,
The Rose will fade . . . and we’ll be left prayin’
And we will study poems of love
Instead of dire warnings of the ozone above.
Pterodactyl Rose, we hardly knew ye
And yet we will rise to protect every tree
And the concept that people should kill every bird
Brings only one thought: That’s truly absurd!
It took a poet to bring conscientiousness
To a world that’s become an ecological mess!
May days that are coming bring great dedication
And love and good health to each living nation.
Here lies Pterodactyl Rose:
Gone the way each good book goes ---
To the Great Library in the Sky;
It will be missed: each teary eye
Will long remember lessons learned
With every page so slowly turned.
Away we walk, and each of us
Bears the burden so pluribus-
Faceted, to the Future: We must safeguard,
To treat Nature gently, not to be hard-
Hearted and cruel, callous and mean:
The Future of Earth comes from current demean.
No longer the themes of pollution, extinction
Will we consider through poetic distinction
For with the absence of Professor Heyen,
The Rose will fade . . . and we’ll be left prayin’
And we will study poems of love
Instead of dire warnings of the ozone above.
Pterodactyl Rose, we hardly knew ye
And yet we will rise to protect every tree
And the concept that people should kill every bird
Brings only one thought: That’s truly absurd!
It took a poet to bring conscientiousness
To a world that’s become an ecological mess!
May days that are coming bring great dedication
And love and good health to each living nation.
Poet Laureate
It must have been good
To be Robert Frost
In a world much less in love
With technology,
To stop in the woods and appreciate
The unspoiled snow
Not muddied by approaching cars
Or footsteps of the careless and
Oblivious, where even hoof marks
Formed geometric patterns in
The frost. And when the weather
Turned to spring, to populate
A land where young boys found
Themselves swingers of birches,
Sailing off to other lands but
Only for a while while neighbors
Played caveman games and fixed
Their wall, mending it but not
Their deep misunderstanding.
That was a world so simple but
Really not simplistic, a world where Nature was the teacher and
Earth-tied students listened,
Got it and grew up.
I have visited his family
Where they rest together there
In Bennington and was undone
By the simplicity of a single slab
Of stone listing the names that lie
Beneath the surface earth --- no
Monuments or crypts, eternal flames
Or flooding lights but just a welcome
home parcel of land
For Frost was of the land and we are
Of our hero, a man who took
The road that led America to
Home-grown wisdom that he
Dared to share. From the America
That he wrote of in his quaint home in Vermont
To that time when he spoke,
That gusty winter day in his overcoat
(When JFK took up the reins of Leadership) reciting his vision of
The land that made The Land,
He was a hero much as Whitman was
A century before,
American as they come,
Born of and for America!
It must have been good
To be Robert Frost
In a world much less in love
With technology,
To stop in the woods and appreciate
The unspoiled snow
Not muddied by approaching cars
Or footsteps of the careless and
Oblivious, where even hoof marks
Formed geometric patterns in
The frost. And when the weather
Turned to spring, to populate
A land where young boys found
Themselves swingers of birches,
Sailing off to other lands but
Only for a while while neighbors
Played caveman games and fixed
Their wall, mending it but not
Their deep misunderstanding.
That was a world so simple but
Really not simplistic, a world where Nature was the teacher and
Earth-tied students listened,
Got it and grew up.
I have visited his family
Where they rest together there
In Bennington and was undone
By the simplicity of a single slab
Of stone listing the names that lie
Beneath the surface earth --- no
Monuments or crypts, eternal flames
Or flooding lights but just a welcome
home parcel of land
For Frost was of the land and we are
Of our hero, a man who took
The road that led America to
Home-grown wisdom that he
Dared to share. From the America
That he wrote of in his quaint home in Vermont
To that time when he spoke,
That gusty winter day in his overcoat
(When JFK took up the reins of Leadership) reciting his vision of
The land that made The Land,
He was a hero much as Whitman was
A century before,
American as they come,
Born of and for America!
The poetry of everyday things
A kitchen table speaks of home
A place of warmth and cheer
With seats for those who love
Surrounded by aromas
Flowers, food, family
Dishes, cups and bowls:
What is more poetic than that?
A closet full of clothes
For comfort and love
With hues and textures
Sizes and shapes
And arms, many arms
That hold in their embrace
The touch that soothes
The knowledge of familiarity
Oh, so poetic;
Piano with its sheen of care
It's strings coordinated and
Potential for such harmony
That blesses the very souls
Who listen and willingly
Find themselves deeply lost
In drifting melodies of memory
Giving music to the poetry of lyrics
Of the past and future realms;
A white refrigerator
Cool but really warm in contents
That can feed the spirit
That have been chosen with thought
And meaning and desire
With nourishment to feed the love
That never feels the chill
That lovers never know
And thus light up the lines
Of poetry that hunger never knows;
A tall proud bookcase
Giving home and strong support
To stories telling tales of triumph
Of characters who love
Life for eternity, of the rainbow
Of emotions people share,
And acts defiant, words of meaning,
Overcoming obstacles until the
Calm conclusion, tales told
For lovers of the word and those
Who seek to supplement
Their daily lives with thoughts
That satisfy and shout:
Feed your mind with the poetry
Of the imagination, travel with us
To dimensions waiting patiently,
For there is poetry eager to be found
In ordinary, simple useful things
Taken too much
For their surface
But whose substance gives a home
To concepts that give Life reason
To exist every single day
A kitchen table speaks of home
A place of warmth and cheer
With seats for those who love
Surrounded by aromas
Flowers, food, family
Dishes, cups and bowls:
What is more poetic than that?
A closet full of clothes
For comfort and love
With hues and textures
Sizes and shapes
And arms, many arms
That hold in their embrace
The touch that soothes
The knowledge of familiarity
Oh, so poetic;
Piano with its sheen of care
It's strings coordinated and
Potential for such harmony
That blesses the very souls
Who listen and willingly
Find themselves deeply lost
In drifting melodies of memory
Giving music to the poetry of lyrics
Of the past and future realms;
A white refrigerator
Cool but really warm in contents
That can feed the spirit
That have been chosen with thought
And meaning and desire
With nourishment to feed the love
That never feels the chill
That lovers never know
And thus light up the lines
Of poetry that hunger never knows;
A tall proud bookcase
Giving home and strong support
To stories telling tales of triumph
Of characters who love
Life for eternity, of the rainbow
Of emotions people share,
And acts defiant, words of meaning,
Overcoming obstacles until the
Calm conclusion, tales told
For lovers of the word and those
Who seek to supplement
Their daily lives with thoughts
That satisfy and shout:
Feed your mind with the poetry
Of the imagination, travel with us
To dimensions waiting patiently,
For there is poetry eager to be found
In ordinary, simple useful things
Taken too much
For their surface
But whose substance gives a home
To concepts that give Life reason
To exist every single day
Innocent
|
I bemoan their fates:
Desdemona and Ophelia, Juliet and the poor wife Of the Thane of Fife And Portia and let us not forget The two Biancas, sister of the shrew And target of the villain nonpareil. They are the innocents Victimized for centuries by less Than superior men who never learned To value those who stood before them. Vanity destroys those who might fight in vain. In a world ruled by foolish customs, insecurities, The innocent are hurt and cannot fend Off centuries of cruel, unfeeling practices And thus the loving Desdemona loses life To a Moor morose and simplified Who could not see the brilliant jewel glowing By his side and so the light was anguishly extinguished. And sad Ophelia, Driven mad by a tradition that cursed her regal blood For lack of royalty, did lose her mind. So it is said that when men make the rules, The world is ruled by fools But women pay the price. Now you may say fair Juliet Took her own fate into her hands Against the fate her father chose for her, But does one have free will when that will So is expended on a father's domination, Where a wall confines one's nature Till there is a merciless and thoughtless Inner explosion that leads to the destruction Of one's being and one's dreams? The wife of Fife and Brutus' Portia Were but buffered by their marriages And the whims of husbands too short-sighted To foresee the damage done to those They left behind, the fates these women Could in no way hold as those that they would choose. But such it is in this Man's world, As they And others of their kind have reason to decry. The lieutenant's sweet Bianca lived to love And Katherine's sister loved to live But both were prisoners of their Time And shared as did the others: Total uncontrol of future fair --- And so this sisterhood of passiveness Knew no liberation and thus were lost To lust for power, to domination, for eternity And so I mourn the so forlorn That to such confined fate was each one born. |
|
The Madame: "The Necklace"
Madame Loisel
Could not really tell
The treasure she had
So her life was quite sad.
She persuaded her man
To help her to plan
Her night on the town
In a beautiful gown
And from a rich friend
She asked her to lend
A necklace renowned
To match her fine gown.
Then she had a ball;
She then had a fall:
She lost the necklace
But was too feckless
To tell friend the fact
So for ten years she lacked
Her previous pleasures
Which she now knew were treasures.
She replaced the lost jewels
With new, for it's fools
Who cover mistakes
And then act like fakes.
She aged rather quickly
And looked rather sickly,
And then in the end
She confessed to her friend,
Who replied, "For la bonté sake,
The diamonds were fake!"
So Loisel at last learned
Liars often get burned
And they should appreciate
Life before it's too late.
Madame Loisel
Could not really tell
The treasure she had
So her life was quite sad.
She persuaded her man
To help her to plan
Her night on the town
In a beautiful gown
And from a rich friend
She asked her to lend
A necklace renowned
To match her fine gown.
Then she had a ball;
She then had a fall:
She lost the necklace
But was too feckless
To tell friend the fact
So for ten years she lacked
Her previous pleasures
Which she now knew were treasures.
She replaced the lost jewels
With new, for it's fools
Who cover mistakes
And then act like fakes.
She aged rather quickly
And looked rather sickly,
And then in the end
She confessed to her friend,
Who replied, "For la bonté sake,
The diamonds were fake!"
So Loisel at last learned
Liars often get burned
And they should appreciate
Life before it's too late.
William's Words
Shakespeare's language is a mystery:
When is it "thou" and when is it "thee"?
And if it's "To be or not to be"
Will I be gone or will I be free?
And if I meet a rump-fed reunion,
Is that a woman or is it an onion?
And is an awl anything at all
And is a heath some kind of mall?
How's a baby just "untimely ripped"?
IS that better than being loose-lipped?
And if I beg Spot to go out, out
Will I be left with a lingering doubt?
And if a child is called a poor bird,
Is that a metaphor or simply absurd?
What happens when we are told to "Hark"?
Should we be on guard for a hungry shark?
So many questions leave me insane.
I wish that the Bard had written more plain
And eschewed such jargon as "dost" and "for sooth"
Because it's exhausting and that is the truth!
Shakespeare's language is a mystery:
When is it "thou" and when is it "thee"?
And if it's "To be or not to be"
Will I be gone or will I be free?
And if I meet a rump-fed reunion,
Is that a woman or is it an onion?
And is an awl anything at all
And is a heath some kind of mall?
How's a baby just "untimely ripped"?
IS that better than being loose-lipped?
And if I beg Spot to go out, out
Will I be left with a lingering doubt?
And if a child is called a poor bird,
Is that a metaphor or simply absurd?
What happens when we are told to "Hark"?
Should we be on guard for a hungry shark?
So many questions leave me insane.
I wish that the Bard had written more plain
And eschewed such jargon as "dost" and "for sooth"
Because it's exhausting and that is the truth!
PAST FRIENDS KNOW NO ENDS
I thought today I'd write a brand new sonnet
So here I sit before a big white screen
And I don't know what I will soon put on it;
Perhaps I'll write of Katniss Everdeen . . .
(You know, the heroine from Hunger Games).
I have a lot to say about her fate
And how she wore that dress so full of flames.
(Oh, boy, I'd love to take her on a date!)
Or maybe Walter Younger will appear
On the computer screen in front of me.
He's living in Chicago, so I hear.
He'd be someone interesting to see.
These characters I now an keep alive,
For in my sonnet they'll forever thrive.
I thought today I'd write a brand new sonnet
So here I sit before a big white screen
And I don't know what I will soon put on it;
Perhaps I'll write of Katniss Everdeen . . .
(You know, the heroine from Hunger Games).
I have a lot to say about her fate
And how she wore that dress so full of flames.
(Oh, boy, I'd love to take her on a date!)
Or maybe Walter Younger will appear
On the computer screen in front of me.
He's living in Chicago, so I hear.
He'd be someone interesting to see.
These characters I now an keep alive,
For in my sonnet they'll forever thrive.
Bad Seed, Indeed!
They said that Rhoda was indeed
A very evil little girl,
A deeply vengeful little seed
Who'd kill to get a promised pearl
But maybe she was very good
And tricked the others with her harms,
A little child misunderstood,
So full of smiles and tiny charms.
Perhaps if we were on her side,
Looked closely from her point of view,
We'd comprehend why each one died,
How they deserved what she did do!
The boy called Claude, he's an example,
Winning the medal for penmanship:
That he cheated, proof is ample;
He did--- at one point --- let it slip
That Rhoda wrote a whole lot better,
As well as she tap-danced away,
So by taking the medal, he became a debtor,
And he paid back . . . victim of a slay!
Now, Leroy, he was one who learned
That you don't tease a sensitive girl named Rhoda,
'Cause if you do, you will get burned
And you'll be turned into charcoal odor.
Leroy said he'd figured it out
About Rhoda's shoes used as a hammer,
That he had proof there was no doubt,
And he'd tell the cops of her deadly manner,
So all she did was what anyone would ---
She acted out of self-defense,
And simply did whate'er she could
And, yes, the smoke became quite dense,
But what would you do if called a liar,
A killer, and worst --- a terrible dancer?
Of course, you'd start a killer fire;
And if you deny --- ask a necromancer
To conjure up old Leroy's ashes
And get a response that he deserved
His painful end as Claude did his deep gashes:
Both stood their ground, but should have swerved!
Remember, it started with old Mrs. Post,
Who teased poor Rhoda, then had a great fall.
She teased Rhoda with what she desired most,
That fancy-schmancy crystal ball.
See, even you will have to admit
That Rhoda was truly justified
In shoving old Post down the stairs in a fit,
Which saddened Rhoda . . . in fact, she cried!
Now, about that incident with her mother,
Christine, who filled Rhoda with sleeping pills:
It was just pure luck that in another
Few minutes Rhoda would die of the ills
That were forced on her by her relatives:
Her grandma and mom both tried to kill ---
And Rhoda got blamed?? Hey, what gives?!
But both Bessie and Mommy paid the bill,
And sweet little Rhoda, thank goodness, lives!
They said that Rhoda was indeed
A very evil little girl,
A deeply vengeful little seed
Who'd kill to get a promised pearl
But maybe she was very good
And tricked the others with her harms,
A little child misunderstood,
So full of smiles and tiny charms.
Perhaps if we were on her side,
Looked closely from her point of view,
We'd comprehend why each one died,
How they deserved what she did do!
The boy called Claude, he's an example,
Winning the medal for penmanship:
That he cheated, proof is ample;
He did--- at one point --- let it slip
That Rhoda wrote a whole lot better,
As well as she tap-danced away,
So by taking the medal, he became a debtor,
And he paid back . . . victim of a slay!
Now, Leroy, he was one who learned
That you don't tease a sensitive girl named Rhoda,
'Cause if you do, you will get burned
And you'll be turned into charcoal odor.
Leroy said he'd figured it out
About Rhoda's shoes used as a hammer,
That he had proof there was no doubt,
And he'd tell the cops of her deadly manner,
So all she did was what anyone would ---
She acted out of self-defense,
And simply did whate'er she could
And, yes, the smoke became quite dense,
But what would you do if called a liar,
A killer, and worst --- a terrible dancer?
Of course, you'd start a killer fire;
And if you deny --- ask a necromancer
To conjure up old Leroy's ashes
And get a response that he deserved
His painful end as Claude did his deep gashes:
Both stood their ground, but should have swerved!
Remember, it started with old Mrs. Post,
Who teased poor Rhoda, then had a great fall.
She teased Rhoda with what she desired most,
That fancy-schmancy crystal ball.
See, even you will have to admit
That Rhoda was truly justified
In shoving old Post down the stairs in a fit,
Which saddened Rhoda . . . in fact, she cried!
Now, about that incident with her mother,
Christine, who filled Rhoda with sleeping pills:
It was just pure luck that in another
Few minutes Rhoda would die of the ills
That were forced on her by her relatives:
Her grandma and mom both tried to kill ---
And Rhoda got blamed?? Hey, what gives?!
But both Bessie and Mommy paid the bill,
And sweet little Rhoda, thank goodness, lives!
The Frost that Warms the Heart
--- a celebration of America's eternal poet laureate
I.
I stood so silent in the churchyard burial ground on a hot summer day ---
The Old Bennington Cemetery ---
And was in awe of the understated scene.
I had walked among the tombstones and varied grave markers
Looking for an overwhelming monument that would hover
Over visitors and spread its wings and scream to all the pilgrims
Who came to worship the man, his works and his place,
But I had failed, and I prepared to leave
Disheartened and confused,
Gazing at the unimposing Old First Congregational Church
(Founded two hundred and one years before his death
At age eighty-eight),
Having known the successes and failures of
The road not taken,
The weather-worn white wooden home of worship.
I let my eyes traverse one final time across the modest stones and cared-for mounds
And my attention was drawn by a lengthy gray-white rectangular granite blanket
Bordered by intertwining leaves of life,
And I read the names and I was overwhelmed
With sorrow and respect and much enchantment:
Robert Lee Frost in his rightful place looking down at the names
Of his loved ones: his wife Elinor Miriam;
Marjorie, who passed at twenty-nine;
Carol, who died at 38;
Elliott, who didn't quite make his fourth birthday;
Elinor Bettina, precious daughter who blessed this world for a single day...
So much love and too much grief for a man of sensitivity
And I was left to feel the humble humanity
Of a man whose words I'd often celebrated.
I understood at that intimate moment What had of ignorance escaped me,
That Robert Frost meant what he had inscribed below his name,
That he indeed had had a lover's quarrel with the world,
And knew both the excitement of discovery and lessons learned from nature
And the anguish that defined what it Sometimes meant to be a human being,
And thus with clarity unmatched, I vowed to explore and re-investigate
His poetry with eyes that sought his vision.
II.
He took an unaccustomed road and yes,
It made a difference to his future and his reputation;
He was in early writing life an unsuccessful and underrated American
And then he went to England where he achieved success and recognition
And came home
From England to New England so celebrated
By the very same who had turned their backs
But Frost refused to accept this judgement
And did what we all should do:
Believed in his skills and his perceptions
And in good time became our Poet Laureate in 1958,
Was asked by our young President to recite an original poem
(Made impossible because of glare)
And instead reported from the heart lines
That spoke to this our land,
But not until he'd won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times
And a host of medals both before and after:
When a genius speaks, we should listen
And ingest his words and his conceptions.
III.
He had a gift. He saw the common soul-shared scene
And looked beneath the view that others saw
And connected with the lessons nature offered.
He was as astute with people.
He saw a road and recognized the options
That life offered; he saw the snow and grasped
The purity and comfort in the blanket plane.
He saw a birch and knew it offered an attachment
To everyboy's childhood fantasy (as well as his own adult dream of brief respite).
He viewed two neighbors, one a caveman,
One so trusting and so logical,
And recognized in them the omnipresent conflict
That has kept apart the nations and the pseudo-friends throughout our history
(Hysterical rather than historical)
And noted but not preached the lesson to be learned
(A foreshadowing of Lennon's song "Imagine").
IV.
He put more than soul into his verses:
He put his Life and liveliness ---
His "Home Burial" echoes the grief of a parent
Outliving a child and bearing the unbearable, as much too well he knew.
His "Stopping by Woods" reflects his harsh decision to stay with the urging of the poet's life
With its miles to go contrasting with
The attraction of the gentle woods which offered solace
But no satisfaction for a working man;
His "Road Not Taken" reinforcing in another way
A choice he made, a turn from which he never turned his back.
V.
He spoke of an outright gift and loved the land as much as the Land.
He treasured every step both individual and national as natural.
He loved the dream and destiny
As only poets can
And now he has become part of that Land
Sleeping within the land together with
Those he felt the love.
His burning passion chose the fire over ice
And his eternal flame will keep on
Lighting up
Our lives in words and sentiments,
Wisdom and true empathy
Dwelling in his lines
Read by the students of existence
Wanting more than mere subsistence.
VI.
And so it is that I am made a poet and a teacher
By his vision and love of life,
Of man and nature
Of winter and of spring
Of field and farm
And of boulder and of sky.
He crafted and he shared visions of our world
With the common and the genius touch
And I am made the better for it
As are you and you and
All who will one day breathe the atmosphere
And realize the joy of inspiration
And of all epiphanies waiting
For discovery.
He lives on in his works
And I in turn live and work
Forever in his shadow but basking in the man
Who led me to appreciate his deep New England farmer's roots
And motivated me to write
"This tribute verse."
--- a celebration of America's eternal poet laureate
I.
I stood so silent in the churchyard burial ground on a hot summer day ---
The Old Bennington Cemetery ---
And was in awe of the understated scene.
I had walked among the tombstones and varied grave markers
Looking for an overwhelming monument that would hover
Over visitors and spread its wings and scream to all the pilgrims
Who came to worship the man, his works and his place,
But I had failed, and I prepared to leave
Disheartened and confused,
Gazing at the unimposing Old First Congregational Church
(Founded two hundred and one years before his death
At age eighty-eight),
Having known the successes and failures of
The road not taken,
The weather-worn white wooden home of worship.
I let my eyes traverse one final time across the modest stones and cared-for mounds
And my attention was drawn by a lengthy gray-white rectangular granite blanket
Bordered by intertwining leaves of life,
And I read the names and I was overwhelmed
With sorrow and respect and much enchantment:
Robert Lee Frost in his rightful place looking down at the names
Of his loved ones: his wife Elinor Miriam;
Marjorie, who passed at twenty-nine;
Carol, who died at 38;
Elliott, who didn't quite make his fourth birthday;
Elinor Bettina, precious daughter who blessed this world for a single day...
So much love and too much grief for a man of sensitivity
And I was left to feel the humble humanity
Of a man whose words I'd often celebrated.
I understood at that intimate moment What had of ignorance escaped me,
That Robert Frost meant what he had inscribed below his name,
That he indeed had had a lover's quarrel with the world,
And knew both the excitement of discovery and lessons learned from nature
And the anguish that defined what it Sometimes meant to be a human being,
And thus with clarity unmatched, I vowed to explore and re-investigate
His poetry with eyes that sought his vision.
II.
He took an unaccustomed road and yes,
It made a difference to his future and his reputation;
He was in early writing life an unsuccessful and underrated American
And then he went to England where he achieved success and recognition
And came home
From England to New England so celebrated
By the very same who had turned their backs
But Frost refused to accept this judgement
And did what we all should do:
Believed in his skills and his perceptions
And in good time became our Poet Laureate in 1958,
Was asked by our young President to recite an original poem
(Made impossible because of glare)
And instead reported from the heart lines
That spoke to this our land,
But not until he'd won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times
And a host of medals both before and after:
When a genius speaks, we should listen
And ingest his words and his conceptions.
III.
He had a gift. He saw the common soul-shared scene
And looked beneath the view that others saw
And connected with the lessons nature offered.
He was as astute with people.
He saw a road and recognized the options
That life offered; he saw the snow and grasped
The purity and comfort in the blanket plane.
He saw a birch and knew it offered an attachment
To everyboy's childhood fantasy (as well as his own adult dream of brief respite).
He viewed two neighbors, one a caveman,
One so trusting and so logical,
And recognized in them the omnipresent conflict
That has kept apart the nations and the pseudo-friends throughout our history
(Hysterical rather than historical)
And noted but not preached the lesson to be learned
(A foreshadowing of Lennon's song "Imagine").
IV.
He put more than soul into his verses:
He put his Life and liveliness ---
His "Home Burial" echoes the grief of a parent
Outliving a child and bearing the unbearable, as much too well he knew.
His "Stopping by Woods" reflects his harsh decision to stay with the urging of the poet's life
With its miles to go contrasting with
The attraction of the gentle woods which offered solace
But no satisfaction for a working man;
His "Road Not Taken" reinforcing in another way
A choice he made, a turn from which he never turned his back.
V.
He spoke of an outright gift and loved the land as much as the Land.
He treasured every step both individual and national as natural.
He loved the dream and destiny
As only poets can
And now he has become part of that Land
Sleeping within the land together with
Those he felt the love.
His burning passion chose the fire over ice
And his eternal flame will keep on
Lighting up
Our lives in words and sentiments,
Wisdom and true empathy
Dwelling in his lines
Read by the students of existence
Wanting more than mere subsistence.
VI.
And so it is that I am made a poet and a teacher
By his vision and love of life,
Of man and nature
Of winter and of spring
Of field and farm
And of boulder and of sky.
He crafted and he shared visions of our world
With the common and the genius touch
And I am made the better for it
As are you and you and
All who will one day breathe the atmosphere
And realize the joy of inspiration
And of all epiphanies waiting
For discovery.
He lives on in his works
And I in turn live and work
Forever in his shadow but basking in the man
Who led me to appreciate his deep New England farmer's roots
And motivated me to write
"This tribute verse."
My Favorite Book
It starts in a cemetery
Gruff old man (made old by life) threatening naïve helpless boy
Life in exchange for a meal of desperation
Written by number two only to the Bard
A masterpiece of characterization
A parade of memorable characters with their quaintness
Hooked from the start to the conclusion
With twists meandering throughout
All seen through the eyes and innocence of Philip Pirrip:
The comforting Joe
The frozen-in-time Miss Havisham
The gentle Herbert
Abel Magwitch?
And Estella, a Janus figure raised to attract love
Only to reverse that affection into ugliness and a broken heart
Or two or ten
Love, hate, jealousy, revenge, redemption
A wedding cake never eaten, now covered with cobwebs
A wedding dress turned grey and hanging on the woman as a funeral shroud
A fire, a return from Australia-prison, deaths,
A final parting of two lovers
Repaired by the shout of the crowd until no separation will be had
An overwhelming series of adventures told in Victorian English
A few pages at a time delivered to the waiting fans
And left to live in the hearts of those of us who know
How to spend our time and our remembrance
This novel met my expectations of greatness
From the creator of Scrooge and Madame DeFarge and Sidney Carton
And David C and Oliver and Fagin and a host of others
It is a book of hope and fantasy and truth and wisdom
And it feeds me to fulfillment
It starts in a cemetery
Gruff old man (made old by life) threatening naïve helpless boy
Life in exchange for a meal of desperation
Written by number two only to the Bard
A masterpiece of characterization
A parade of memorable characters with their quaintness
Hooked from the start to the conclusion
With twists meandering throughout
All seen through the eyes and innocence of Philip Pirrip:
The comforting Joe
The frozen-in-time Miss Havisham
The gentle Herbert
Abel Magwitch?
And Estella, a Janus figure raised to attract love
Only to reverse that affection into ugliness and a broken heart
Or two or ten
Love, hate, jealousy, revenge, redemption
A wedding cake never eaten, now covered with cobwebs
A wedding dress turned grey and hanging on the woman as a funeral shroud
A fire, a return from Australia-prison, deaths,
A final parting of two lovers
Repaired by the shout of the crowd until no separation will be had
An overwhelming series of adventures told in Victorian English
A few pages at a time delivered to the waiting fans
And left to live in the hearts of those of us who know
How to spend our time and our remembrance
This novel met my expectations of greatness
From the creator of Scrooge and Madame DeFarge and Sidney Carton
And David C and Oliver and Fagin and a host of others
It is a book of hope and fantasy and truth and wisdom
And it feeds me to fulfillment
Dear Miss Lottie
Dear Miss Lottie,
I’m sorry I killed your marigold flowers.
I’m sure you must have spent many hours
Caring for them, bringing their beauty
And feeling as though it was your duty
To brighten the lives of the whole neighborhood,
Watering marigolds whenever you could.
I’d had a bad day with my father crying
So I wanted to see the flowers dying.
I was feeling so deeply my own great depression
But now I must tell you this honest confession:
If I were able, I’d plant you new flowers
But I do not have any such super powers
So all I can do is tell you I regret
What I did; I owe you a debt
Because for a while you made our town
Beautiful rather than feeling down.
Miss Lottie, I hope that wherever you are,
From heavenly beauty you’re never too far.
Rattle is
Rattle is
Rattle is a Jackson Pollock painting,
Pages splattered with streaks and dots and lightning bolts
Of words in patterns not always pleasing to the senses.
It worships youth and tingling hearts but has no heart
That beats for advanced age and finds in that a rage
That mashes all its patterns together into a wall
That traps inside it youth and middle age but in so doing
Builds a prison, keeping out the wisdom and the insight
Of seniority in its classic meaning. Rattle is a home to
Eager poets but only if they fail the test of age.
The Pollock painting offers designs meant to call forth
Prime emotions from all --- but there is always danger
That the views of those who have seen decades pass
Will be dismissed, for who will break the barrier apart
When the dangerous majority perpetuates the myth
That youth must be served while age and insight starve?
Sometimes a poem is a work of art that also serves
As a clarion call to highlight ignorance and prejudice.
Sometimes a poetry magazine harbors naiveté
And discards as offal treasures culled from
Mountains of experience and Life:
This from my old, old eyes and heart is just what
Rattle is.
Rattle is
Rattle is a Jackson Pollock painting,
Pages splattered with streaks and dots and lightning bolts
Of words in patterns not always pleasing to the senses.
It worships youth and tingling hearts but has no heart
That beats for advanced age and finds in that a rage
That mashes all its patterns together into a wall
That traps inside it youth and middle age but in so doing
Builds a prison, keeping out the wisdom and the insight
Of seniority in its classic meaning. Rattle is a home to
Eager poets but only if they fail the test of age.
The Pollock painting offers designs meant to call forth
Prime emotions from all --- but there is always danger
That the views of those who have seen decades pass
Will be dismissed, for who will break the barrier apart
When the dangerous majority perpetuates the myth
That youth must be served while age and insight starve?
Sometimes a poem is a work of art that also serves
As a clarion call to highlight ignorance and prejudice.
Sometimes a poetry magazine harbors naiveté
And discards as offal treasures culled from
Mountains of experience and Life:
This from my old, old eyes and heart is just what
Rattle is.
They Come
In the middle of the night, in the silence of my isolated moments
During daylight, in the times when my mind wanders and abandons
My deep consciousness . . . they come to visit me, to fill me with warmth
And companionship, to remind me of more life-filled days when I
Commanded the attention of future generations --- and I smile;
I am never by my self. There are moments when Magwitch tries
To threaten me among the tombstones, begging for some food
And marking in his memory a debt he must repay one day; Romeo
Seeks my advice and I caution him to live in moderation, knowing
That he cannot hear my words because his heartbeat is too loud;
Hawkeye seeks companionship now that his fellow wanderer has
Ventured to another world; Sidney Carton seeks a love that has
Escaped him, and I cannot stop him from the altruistic carriage ride
He will soon embark upon; Willie Loman will not take advice from
Me or money from a friend even though his life depends on it;
George has nightmares about his hulking friend, and I am not so wise
That I can counsel him; Macbeth is too much full of sound and fury
To see the world for what it is, and I am helpless to assuage him
In his final moments of dark desperation; Casey begs for one more swing and
Weeps for disappointing fans, but I assure him that he will have another
Whack at that elusive pitch one day --- and he just scoffs at me; Atticus
Confides in me great disappointment at his fellow man, and when I say
The future holds more fairness and equality for all, he squinches at the
Tenor of my voice and sadly detects my disbelief at my very words ---
And will not gather solace from the angry men or the truth blowing
In the wind; Ophelia drifts in my direction and questions the ability
Of men to act with honor to the women of their lives, and all I offer
Is a shrug of shoulders and mumbled words that betray my disappointment
In my brothers and their supercilious attitudes; when Maud Muller echoes
Sister Ophelia’s frailty in the face of male society, I bow my head;
Richard Cory visits me in the dead of night and I still fail to gather why
He took his life . . . and fail to listen to old Miniver, who grouches endlessly
About his comprehension of Cory’s suicide as he takes another drink;
I throw my arms up at the ignorance of Knowlt Hoheimer and haplessly
Convey simple words, advising him to just accept the way things turn out;
To a weeping Mademoiselle Loisel, exhausted by illusion, I stare and hope that
Lessons learned make up for years destroyed; Othello glares at me
And mutters something about putting out the light --- what am I to say
That will take away his anguish?; Gatsby enters my awareness and is
So confused; Ishmael seeks wisdom from my eyes but knows more
Than he says and understands a lost cause more than most.
They come --- and many more from the book cases of my heart and
Keep me company so I am never lonely, and yet I wish I could convey
The language that they all require. I am both at ease and quite uneasy
At this parade of characters seeking my companionship as they did
When I shared their stories with my students for so many years . . .
And I wonder just how many of my former pupils find themselves
Alone as well as not alone in their solitary moments as echoes of my
Teaching moments come to them; how many understood the poignancy
Of all the stories that made up their storied education. Dickinson was
Right about her sentiment regarding books.
In the middle of the night, in the silence of my isolated moments
During daylight, in the times when my mind wanders and abandons
My deep consciousness . . . they come to visit me, to fill me with warmth
And companionship, to remind me of more life-filled days when I
Commanded the attention of future generations --- and I smile;
I am never by my self. There are moments when Magwitch tries
To threaten me among the tombstones, begging for some food
And marking in his memory a debt he must repay one day; Romeo
Seeks my advice and I caution him to live in moderation, knowing
That he cannot hear my words because his heartbeat is too loud;
Hawkeye seeks companionship now that his fellow wanderer has
Ventured to another world; Sidney Carton seeks a love that has
Escaped him, and I cannot stop him from the altruistic carriage ride
He will soon embark upon; Willie Loman will not take advice from
Me or money from a friend even though his life depends on it;
George has nightmares about his hulking friend, and I am not so wise
That I can counsel him; Macbeth is too much full of sound and fury
To see the world for what it is, and I am helpless to assuage him
In his final moments of dark desperation; Casey begs for one more swing and
Weeps for disappointing fans, but I assure him that he will have another
Whack at that elusive pitch one day --- and he just scoffs at me; Atticus
Confides in me great disappointment at his fellow man, and when I say
The future holds more fairness and equality for all, he squinches at the
Tenor of my voice and sadly detects my disbelief at my very words ---
And will not gather solace from the angry men or the truth blowing
In the wind; Ophelia drifts in my direction and questions the ability
Of men to act with honor to the women of their lives, and all I offer
Is a shrug of shoulders and mumbled words that betray my disappointment
In my brothers and their supercilious attitudes; when Maud Muller echoes
Sister Ophelia’s frailty in the face of male society, I bow my head;
Richard Cory visits me in the dead of night and I still fail to gather why
He took his life . . . and fail to listen to old Miniver, who grouches endlessly
About his comprehension of Cory’s suicide as he takes another drink;
I throw my arms up at the ignorance of Knowlt Hoheimer and haplessly
Convey simple words, advising him to just accept the way things turn out;
To a weeping Mademoiselle Loisel, exhausted by illusion, I stare and hope that
Lessons learned make up for years destroyed; Othello glares at me
And mutters something about putting out the light --- what am I to say
That will take away his anguish?; Gatsby enters my awareness and is
So confused; Ishmael seeks wisdom from my eyes but knows more
Than he says and understands a lost cause more than most.
They come --- and many more from the book cases of my heart and
Keep me company so I am never lonely, and yet I wish I could convey
The language that they all require. I am both at ease and quite uneasy
At this parade of characters seeking my companionship as they did
When I shared their stories with my students for so many years . . .
And I wonder just how many of my former pupils find themselves
Alone as well as not alone in their solitary moments as echoes of my
Teaching moments come to them; how many understood the poignancy
Of all the stories that made up their storied education. Dickinson was
Right about her sentiment regarding books.
Determination
I won't go gently into that good night.
How is it gentle? It fills me with fright,
And though some would say I stay out of spite,
It is simply my nature not to yield but to fight.
I have miles to go before I can sleep.
I want family to laugh rather than weep,
And I have wisdom to share, not to keep
To myself; joy and love I still hope to reap.
Children care for me and wish me to stay;
Grandchildren eagerly seek to obey
My nature's mandate that I remain in the fray.
I feel their sweet voices as they silently pray
That I will stay with them one day more;;
I hear so many friends implore
That I not open Death’s dark door
And I reply that Nevermore
Will I face “gentle” nights with fear.
Each precious day is much too dear,
And my own soul will with all share
That Life and Love are everywhere!
I won't go gently into that good night.
How is it gentle? It fills me with fright,
And though some would say I stay out of spite,
It is simply my nature not to yield but to fight.
I have miles to go before I can sleep.
I want family to laugh rather than weep,
And I have wisdom to share, not to keep
To myself; joy and love I still hope to reap.
Children care for me and wish me to stay;
Grandchildren eagerly seek to obey
My nature's mandate that I remain in the fray.
I feel their sweet voices as they silently pray
That I will stay with them one day more;;
I hear so many friends implore
That I not open Death’s dark door
And I reply that Nevermore
Will I face “gentle” nights with fear.
Each precious day is much too dear,
And my own soul will with all share
That Life and Love are everywhere!
The Never-Ending Story
When I read a novel and it’s really good, so well-crafted
That I fall in love with the plot and want to hold tight onto
Characters because they have become close friends, I
Do not want the final page to come. I want these friends
To have heartbeats that will not cease with the closing
Of the covers. I mourn when Magwitch meets his end and
Want to warmly befriend Pip and Estella and visit them
The night they greet their first born. I become a not so distant
Relative flushed with comprehension of the struggles and
The expectations met of this treasured couple. I wish to pay
Homage at the grave of the tortured Miss Havisham. When I
Go off to the sea with Ishmael or Van Weyden, I feel the
Terror and the angst aboard the vessels of the eighteenth
Century but I manage to survive the bombast and the
Viciousness of Captain Ahab and Wolf Larsen, and I kneel
And kiss the earth that promises security when the journey’s
Done. I understand the loneliness and isolation of Frankenstein’s
Creation and the desolation of Kino and Juana when they
Return bearing the lifeless child. I want their story to go on
And somehow reach a resolution that I can live with. I so
Desperately want Charlie Gordon to recapture his sparkling
Intelligence --- for good, this time --- so I can smile. I wish
For a way that Homer’s brother regains life and returns to
Ithaca, his death in war a mere mistake in record-keeping
By the all-too-busy wartime army. I have a need to feel a
Satisfaction in the way the people who have entertained me
Well from page to page resolve their issues, for then I can
Recognize the hope that I as well can have a happy ending
That will cheer the loving followers of the story I am writing
Day by day. I want my cherished audience to keep on reading,
Unencumbered by questions left unanswered and quests too
Unfulfilled. Darney and Lucie will name their first-born son
Sydney, Androcles will visit his lion’s cubs, Silas Marner will
Bounce Eppie’s child upon his knee and smile, Hester and her
Pearl will find the life that they deserve to have --- and I
Will be there one way or another to share the love, and
When my story finishes I will not be alone; I will be in the
Midst of those I love and I will then find new pages and
Adventures awaiting me to be shared with all my fans,
Both here and there.
When I read a novel and it’s really good, so well-crafted
That I fall in love with the plot and want to hold tight onto
Characters because they have become close friends, I
Do not want the final page to come. I want these friends
To have heartbeats that will not cease with the closing
Of the covers. I mourn when Magwitch meets his end and
Want to warmly befriend Pip and Estella and visit them
The night they greet their first born. I become a not so distant
Relative flushed with comprehension of the struggles and
The expectations met of this treasured couple. I wish to pay
Homage at the grave of the tortured Miss Havisham. When I
Go off to the sea with Ishmael or Van Weyden, I feel the
Terror and the angst aboard the vessels of the eighteenth
Century but I manage to survive the bombast and the
Viciousness of Captain Ahab and Wolf Larsen, and I kneel
And kiss the earth that promises security when the journey’s
Done. I understand the loneliness and isolation of Frankenstein’s
Creation and the desolation of Kino and Juana when they
Return bearing the lifeless child. I want their story to go on
And somehow reach a resolution that I can live with. I so
Desperately want Charlie Gordon to recapture his sparkling
Intelligence --- for good, this time --- so I can smile. I wish
For a way that Homer’s brother regains life and returns to
Ithaca, his death in war a mere mistake in record-keeping
By the all-too-busy wartime army. I have a need to feel a
Satisfaction in the way the people who have entertained me
Well from page to page resolve their issues, for then I can
Recognize the hope that I as well can have a happy ending
That will cheer the loving followers of the story I am writing
Day by day. I want my cherished audience to keep on reading,
Unencumbered by questions left unanswered and quests too
Unfulfilled. Darney and Lucie will name their first-born son
Sydney, Androcles will visit his lion’s cubs, Silas Marner will
Bounce Eppie’s child upon his knee and smile, Hester and her
Pearl will find the life that they deserve to have --- and I
Will be there one way or another to share the love, and
When my story finishes I will not be alone; I will be in the
Midst of those I love and I will then find new pages and
Adventures awaiting me to be shared with all my fans,
Both here and there.
Baseball and Teaching
I taught for 58 fulfilling years,
Tried to share my love of books from classics
Such as Great Expectations and Hamlet
To more contemporary works, such as The Hunger Games,
And as I reflect on my career, which someone my age is wont
To do, I am acutely aware of the stepping stones and
That what I took for granted deserves recognition and
Respect and a place of honor in my consciousness:
I owe my career with the thousands whose lives I touched
In a positive, meaningful way - - - to baseball!
You see, that night I sat in a 1960’s Brooklyn classroom
With its homey ancient wooden desks and chairs and
Slate Blackboard blanketed with white chalk dust,
Taking an exam that was a major part of the price of admission
To a New York City teaching career, and I was asked to write
About any non-fiction work; I chose to analyze the
Biography of a son of Brooklyn, a story I was so familiar with
From his time on the basketball court at Lafayette High to
His wild start on Brooklyn mounds to his best years playing
For Los Angeles. I passed that ogre’s challenge and
Continued on my own Hero's Journey thanks in no small way
To baseball and to Sandy Koufax, who kept me company
On my road game from my hometown, the Bronx, on that dark
And thrilling Brooklyn night. Thanks to Sandy, I pitched a
Victory in that classroom so full of memories. It’s so much better
When your teammate is a proven winner!
I taught for 58 fulfilling years,
Tried to share my love of books from classics
Such as Great Expectations and Hamlet
To more contemporary works, such as The Hunger Games,
And as I reflect on my career, which someone my age is wont
To do, I am acutely aware of the stepping stones and
That what I took for granted deserves recognition and
Respect and a place of honor in my consciousness:
I owe my career with the thousands whose lives I touched
In a positive, meaningful way - - - to baseball!
You see, that night I sat in a 1960’s Brooklyn classroom
With its homey ancient wooden desks and chairs and
Slate Blackboard blanketed with white chalk dust,
Taking an exam that was a major part of the price of admission
To a New York City teaching career, and I was asked to write
About any non-fiction work; I chose to analyze the
Biography of a son of Brooklyn, a story I was so familiar with
From his time on the basketball court at Lafayette High to
His wild start on Brooklyn mounds to his best years playing
For Los Angeles. I passed that ogre’s challenge and
Continued on my own Hero's Journey thanks in no small way
To baseball and to Sandy Koufax, who kept me company
On my road game from my hometown, the Bronx, on that dark
And thrilling Brooklyn night. Thanks to Sandy, I pitched a
Victory in that classroom so full of memories. It’s so much better
When your teammate is a proven winner!
