Party Lines

This one started with some lines of conversation overheard at a recent party and then cast in a different context. It is not meant as a representation of the people who said a few of these things.

                                                             Party Lines


                                              “Squirrels are the spawn of Satan,”
                                              my neighbor maintains while
                                              eating some banana trifle.
                                             “Nothing but fluffy-tailed rats.
                                              Nipped off my tulips, one-by-one,
                                              without even eating the petals.”

                                              “It’s the stem that has the nutrition,”
                                               his wife explains,
                                               then smiles at the other guests.
                                              “Even squirrels have to eat, I guess.
                                               This salad is wonderful, isn’t it?”

                                              “No,” her spouse objects,
                                              “ it’s beauty they can’t abide.
                                               Why else do they always attack
                                               the flowers and leave the weeds alone? ”

                                              “And who made the quiche?”
                                               the wife inquires.
                                             “ Mine always turns out so dry.”

Homophonia

This is one of those poems that seemed to make sense as I was falling asleep last night, but puzzles me a bit in the cold light of day.  Anyway, here goes.

                                                            Homophonia


                                                      If you listen carefully
                                                      (or is it carelessly?),
                                                      you can hear rouse
                                                      in drowse
                                                      and yearn
                                                      in spurn.
                                                      Sometimes opposites
                                                      embrace and sow
                                                      the seeds of their own
                                                      construction.

A Few Thoughts on Our Educational System

I haven't written a scatological poem in almost a week, so here goes (the first section, at least).

                  A Few Thoughts on Our Educational System


                                       1. Abstraction

                         So after his first day of kindergarten
                         my cousin came home so excited about
                         numbers and letters and crayons and snack
                         that while talking to his mom he lifted
                         toy box lid, lowered his pants, and pissed
                         on his Legos and Lincoln Logs and Weebles.
                         He did not realize his mistake until he tried to flush.

                                  2. Taxonomy

                         In third grade, my son misheard “nocturnal”,
                         as “not turtle” and thought there were just
                         two types of animals – turtles and not turtles.
                         In fourth grade, he learned about Us and Them.
                        
                                  3. Discipline

                        When the class is too unruly, I sometimes give
                         a detention to the quietest kid. Hitters respect
                         pitchers who are sometimes a little wild.

                                       4. Memorization

                         My daughter claims she was the one who heard “not turtle.”
                         All my cousins claim it was someone else who peed on his toys.
                         I don’t know for sure. I just pretend to be certain.
                         That’s what it means to be a grown-up.






Notes for foreign readers:
       1. Lincoln Logs are a wooden building toys, small logs with notches that allow you to build log cabins, just like our 16th president did.
       2.  Weebles are small plastic figures with round bottoms.  The ad says, "Weebles will wobble, but they won't fall down."
       3.  Hitters and pitchers refer to baseball, in which a pitcher who throws an occasional pitch close to the batter, into the dirt, etc. keeps the batter from being completely comfortable and ready to hit the ball when it's thrown where it could be hit.  (By the way, I actually seldom give detentions.  Some teachers do exactly what I describe, though.)
      

Libya

Here's an attempt to write a more traditional rhyming poem as a tribute to a current event.  I'm not sure I've succeeded at either task.

                                                                        Libya


                                               How dare I write mere lines of poetry
                                               while rebels die in the streets of Tripoli?
                                               Unless theirs is poetic license at its best;
                                               to rhyme one’s life with one’s dreams is truly blessed.
                                               More heroic than my couplets, they bravely fight
                                               for a living meter, not one imposed by might.
                                               But still their sacrifice is well beyond my art.
                                               I make this up as I go; they live and die by heart.

Biking for Beginners

Here's another list poem.  I hope the separate parts work together.

                                                  Biking for Beginners


                                                      1. Balance

                                                Keep moving forward.
                                                If you stand still.
                                                you’ll fall over.

                                                     2. Vision

                                                Don’t look at what you want
                                                to avoid or you’ll head for it.
                                                Focus instead on where you
                                                truly want to go.

                                                      3. Trust

                                              Your father will raise the training
                                              wheels each night and finally let
                                              go of the seat even when he says
                                              he won’t - but he still loves you.

                                                     4. Direction

                                             Let your body do the steering.
                                             Lean the way you want to go
                                             and the bike will follow.

                                                     5. Position

                                            Raise the seat as high as you can
                                            until you can barely touch the ground
                                            but are no longer bound to it.

                                                    6. Gravity

                                            Climbs build your strength.
                                            Descents reward you for your effort.

                                                   7. Distance

                                            However far you ride from home
                                            is the distance you must return -
                                            unless you’re not coming back.

                                                   8. Time

                                           Measure your journeys in minutes,
                                           months, or years and not in miles.

                                                   9. Memory

                                           You will forget many things
                                            and still remember how to ride.

Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires

Here's a free associative poem.  I just started with a phrase and let it lead me wherever it wanted to.  This poems involved less conscious shaping than any of the others, which is both a strength and a weakness.
(The title is a reference to Smokey the Bear, a cartoon character who urged people to stop the forests from burning through their careless use of matches and campfires.)

                                                            Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires


                                             “Three moves equal one fire,” my friend always says,
                                              but most moves are for the better despite the damage
                                              to the furniture, until the last move to the nursing home
                                              when everything is left behind. When there’s a fire
                                              there, it’s usually on the coldest night of the year
                                              and the TV news shows all the residents in walkers
                                              and wheelchairs, shivering on the sidewalk, some of
                                              them thinking it’s the forest fire from Bambi which they
                                              saw as a kid, but not all fires are caused by careless
                                              hunters. Sometimes lightning strikes once or twice
                                              and starts a fire that clears the forest undergrowth
                                              and even fertilizes the soil so things can grow back
                                              better. When farmers fertilize their fields, they can
                                              improve their yields, but the run-off can strangle
                                              the rivers and form dead spots in the sea, like the one
                                              in the Gulf, not far from the BP oil spill – which was
                                              supposed to ruin all the wildlife but some oil-hungry
                                              bacteria helped save us, like all the friendly bacteria
                                              that help us digest food or inoculate us against disease,
                                              but we’re so busy killing germs with bleach and soap
                                              that more and more people are getting allergic to life.
                                             “The fire next time,” the Bible says, and we’ve made
                                              the world so dirty clean, perhaps it’s time to move.

True Colors

I hope I have the physics right.  This poem was triggered by thoughts about the nature of light and color.

                                                          True Colors

                                         An object absorbs the light that excites
                                         its electrons and rejects what leaves it
                                         cold. Rejection is reflection, so we see
                                         the world in cast-off colors. The apple’s
                                         red only because it embraces the rest
                                         of the spectrum, spurning all shades of
                                         scarlet. Everything radiates remains
                                         of unrequited love; the artist’s eye
                                         relishes and rescues what was rejected.

Crooked Pictures

I hope this one speaks for itself.

                                                  Crooked Pictures


                                 In some homes, the art always hangs askew.
                                 The paintings may be tastefully chosen
                                 and beautifully framed but seem to be
                                 sensitive to every footfall and doorslam.
                                 If truth is beauty, they tell all their truths
                                 aslant, and we must either be constantly
                                 straightening or re-hanging them on the
                                 level – or learn to tilt our heads.

Birds of Prey

I went to a modern art museum yesterday and saw a long-legged, short skirted woman moving through the exhibitions as if she were hunting for something.  I imagined her, and other women like her, at a gallery opening, searching for the next hot artist.  (I'm not sure all this comes through in this short poem - or sketch for a poem.)

                                                                    Birds of Prey

                                         Women in high heels pick their way through
                                          the gallery opening like long-legged herons
                                          on the prowl in still and shallow water.
                                         They lift their feet in a slow, segmented prance,
                                         eyeing pieces as if they were fish to snatch -
                                         but only if they are well worth the wading.
                                         Otherwise, the martini olives will have to do.

Adopt-A-Highway Program Next Two Miles

In the U.S., local businesses often adopt a bit of highway as a public relations/advertising move. They keep this section of road clean in exchange for having their names mentioned on a roadside sign.  Yesterday I got wondering about these bits of adopted highway in an anthropomorphic way.

                                         Adopt-A-Highway Program Next Two Miles


                                              Do these adopted stretches of asphalt
                                              ever long to find their true birth parents
                                              in place of these familiar strangers in
                                              lime green visibility vests who clean
                                             their shoulders once a week in return
                                             for a public proclamation of their goodness?
                                             Do such streets ever dream of going back
                                             in time to meet the root of their route, their
                                             cowpath mother and hunting trail father
                                             who first came together to pave their way
                                             well before there was paving?
                                             Or are modern roads incurious about
                                             where they came from and where they’re going
                                             as long as the local Moose or Johnson’s
                                             Funeral Home takes care of the next couple miles.

A Pound of Prevention

This morning I am trying a persona poem.  I am definitely not the speaker in the poem - and hope I never am - but I am expressing what I would probably feel in the speaker's situation.  The old saying "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure" triggered a thought about how I would react if I lived as healthy of a life as I could and still came dowm with cancer, something that does happen to lots of  people.  (I hope I haven't robbed the poem of what little impact it may have had by explaining it too much.)

                                                                 A Pound of Prevention


                                                       I would trade all the anti-oxidants,
                                                       all the free range, hormone-less meat,
                                                       all the organic low fat, low sugar,
                                                       low taste granola bars and the green tea
                                                       tofu burgers, as well as the hours
                                                       spent pretzeled on yoga mats at dawn
                                                       or at the gym, squeezing out one more rep
                                                       of crunches or curls or squats or whatnots –
                                                       I would trade them all for one tiny pill
                                                       to stop the pain and banish the tumor
                                                       from my brain, for now I do feel the burn.

The Writers' Block

Here I've finally resorted to the old trick of writing about not being able to write by trying to imagine writer's block as an actual place.

                                                     The Writers’ Block


                                                 Is in the arsty part of town,
                                                 just south of the intersection
                                                 of Necessity and Invention,
                                                 where once-published authors
                                                 stare at blank pages or screens
                                                 until one of them blinks.
                                                 The more more fashionable ones
                                                 lounge in lofts and talk about
                                                 how there’s nothing new
                                                 left to write about
                                                 while in the lower apartments
                                                 novelists are looking
                                                 for Cinderella, ,
                                                 trying on first sentences
                                                 that don’t quite fit.
                                                 And beneath them all,
                                                 the underground poets
                                                 play bongos in the basement
                                                 long into the electric night,
                                                 searching for their rhythm
                                                 until they are well past beat.

The Feast of St. Valentine

     Here is an attempt to write a sonnet.  It was not until after I had written it, though, that I realized I had misremembered the rhyme scheme and not written a Shakespearean, Petrarchan, or Miltonic sonnet. Instead, I had invented my own form, which I have dubbed the Moronic, since the rhyming couplets in the middle of the three quatrains seem to rob the poem of forward momentum, so it just stands there and drools, then suddenly lurches to an ending.  Let me know what you think.
    This was composed to be read at a Valentine's Day dinner with friends this past Monday. (I hope they don't mind my using it for a public blog.) The recipe for the heart-shaped meat loaf, the whimsical main course for this meal, is sheer conjecture since I didn't make it- plus,it leaves out the central physical ingredient, the ground beef.

                                                The Feast of St. Valentine


                                    A heart-shaped meat loaf must be made by hand,
                                    for it’s a true main course, not some cookie cutter sweet.
                                   They can’t make molds for such a custom treat.
                                   No mere form can make the mundane grand;
                                   the trick is to have opposites enhanced –
                                   onion’s sharp sting set off by sugar’s soft swirl,
                                   mustard’s tart tang causes ketchup’s sweetness to unfurl.
                                   In culinary counterpoint, all must sing and dance.
                                   Then the separate voices must be made into one.
                                   They need to be kneaded, by egg and oatmeal bound,
                                   until this varied chorus makes one tasty, joyful sound
                                   to be popped in the oven until the blending’s done.
                                   But more essential than the dish are the friends who dine upon it.
                                  They make any meal more nourishing than this, my occasional sonnet.

The Music Lovers

I went to hear some chamber music last night and was reminded of the marks that violinists and violists usually have on their necks from the instrument they play, marks that resemble those left by very passionate kisses.  That's where this poem began.

                                                     The Music Lovers

                                         The violinist has a hickey on her neck.
                                         So does the violist. It’s from their
                                         instruments, as if they were teenage
                                         lovers, making out to Bach in the
                                         backseat - or being abused by Schonberg.

                                        The cellist must have different bruises
                                        since he always plays with the instrument
                                        between his legs.

                                        In this strange string quartet,
                                        only the bass player is upright
                                        and unblemished, but then again
                                        his date always stands him up.


Notes on possible Americanisms for foreign followers:
1. A hickey is a mark left by a passionate, sucking kiss – usually on the neck.
2. When a date stands you up, it means that (s)he doesn’t show up for a rendezvous.
3. A string bass is also called an upright bass (and upright also means morally sound and strict).
4. This is a strange string quartet since the string bass is not a chamber instrument.

The Wreaths in the Window

Welcome to any Greek students from Aritstotle University in Thessaloniki who may be reading this blog as part of their poetry workshop class.  Unfortunately, this first poem is filled with allusions to American customs.  I'll provide some notes at the end in case you are lost.  (Please look at some of my earlier poems as well.  They are not as full of Americanisms.)

                                                     The Wreaths in the Window


                                           Our new neighbors down the street celebrate
                                           every season and occasion, not just with the
                                           Christmas evergreen but also with the harvest
                                           horn of plenty, the Halloween pumpkin,
                                           the Thanksgiving turkey, the Veterans’
                                           Day flag, and the Valentine’s Day heart.

                                          Now I find myself imagining what sour
                                          or silly signs I might post to scandalize
                                          the neighborhood: a bunny on a cross
                                          for Easter, a half-naked Liberty
                                          for the Fourth, a bleeding purse on April
                                          15th, and on Groundhog Day,
                                          the shadows of my former selves
                                          to help the winter linger on.


Notes:  The Easter Bunny leaves eggs and candy for children, hidden around the house on Easter morning.
             The Fourth is the Fourth of July, our independence day.
             April 15th is the ay that federal income taxes are due.
             In February on Groundhog Day in a town in Pennsylvania, a groundhog comes out of his den.
             If he sees his shadow, he goes back into his den, and we are supposed to have six more weeks
             of winter.  (Someone being a shadow of his former self is also a common phrase, decribing someone
             who is not as good or strong or smart,etc. as they once were.)

                      I'm not sure why the blog is not formatting the notes in the way I am typing them,
               but I can't seem to stop them from getting scattered in odd ways all over the page.  Sorry about that.

Daylight Savings Time

Looking at the calendar, I see that Daylight Savings Time starts in March, and I began to wonder where was all that sunlight when we needed it during the dark days of winter. (There, I gave away most of the poem.  It's a short one.)

                                                                      Daylight Savings Time


                                                           Where is all that saved daylight deposited,
                                                            and how can it be withdrawn in the dead
                                                            of winter or when that dread rainy day
                                                            finally comes? Or is it saved religiously,
                                                            leading a luminous afterlife, securely
                                                            retired in an ideal, eternal Florida,
                                                            somewhere well beyond this dull February sky?

Everything and the Kitchen Sink

This morning I was thinking I have blogged about everything but the kitchen sink (as the old saying goes), so I decided to remedy that oversight.

                                                            Everything and the Kitchen Sink


                                                                               1.
                                                                       Specialization

                                                       Nothing divides like division of la-
                                                       bor. It has split the sink into two. One
                                                       bowl for washing, the other for feeding
                                                      the Insinkerator. Efficient but
                                                      insufficient: the left side too small for
                                                      the largest pan, the right too small for
                                                      anything else. Convenience has a price.

                                                                          2.
                                                                Procrastination

                                                    “Leave it to the morning,” we say and let
                                                     the broiler pan soak until we are ready
                                                     to face it afresh. Then at 7:00 AM
                                                     the afternoon seems much the better time
                                                     to plunge into that cold and greasy swamp.

                                                                       3.
                                                            Alpha and Omega

                                                   Meals start here with the washing of the food:
                                                   lettuce rinsed, fish freshened, glasses filled.
                                                  Meals end here with the washing of the plates
                                                  and the grinding of the garbage to be sent
                                                  downstream to feed or choke the fish

                                                                         4.
                                                                  Taking Turns

                                                 The cook never cleans. That’s the rule.
                                                 What’s fair is not always fun.
                                                 The dishwasher faces the mess alone
                                                 while the chef watches the evening news.

                                                                       5.
                                                             Nightmare

                                                I'm trying to rescue a chicken bone
                                                from the garbage disposal.
                                                A helpful stranger enters the kitchen
                                                and says, "Here, let me turn on
                                                the light switch for you."
                                              
                                                                         6.
                                                                  Team Effort
                                                   One person washes the dishes.
                                                   The other points out the spots
                                                   that have been missed.