Edison's Easy Chair

While drowsily trying to think of a poem, I remembered that Thomas Edison, the American inventor of the light bulb, used drowsiness to his advantage.  I hope the poem makes it clear how.

                                             Edison’s Easy Chair

                                                           Genius is one percent inspiration,
                                                           ninety-nine percent perspiration.
                                                                                    Thomas Edison

                                   Still he knew invention lay in that blurred
                                   Borderland between awake and asleep,
                                   So he flanked his favorite chair with tin pans
                                   And held ball bearings in his clenched hands
                                   Till he dozed off and their clattered dropping
                                   Would rouse him to record some new idea –
                                   Our world long lit by his light bulb moments.

                                   But what escaped him in his deeper sleeps
                                   When no noise could awake him: perpetual
                                   Motion, the water engine, or world peace?
                                   He claimed genius was only one percent
                                   Inspired, but without that smallest spark
                                   The other work is only so much sweat
                                   And blood and tears shed by the uninspired.
                                   What noise will it take to wake us from our sleep?


Note:  There is a legend about someone who invented the water engine, an engine that runs on water rather than gas, and was then killed by the big oil companies.  David Mamet has written a very goo play by that name about this legent.

The Gas That Makes Us Go

Not the most exalted topic for a poem, yet a part of the soundtrack of our lives (and many comic movies).

                                                     The Gas That Makes Us Go

                                                   Our bodies honk to each other
                                                   from both ends, like geese going both
                                                   north and south. We’re mere mortals,
                                                   not mute marble pieces of art-
                                                   so say our butt and our mouth.
                                                   As we digest what the world has
                                                   to offer, we pass judgments as well,
                                                   from the sweet burp of the newborn
                                                   to the stale breath of the old fart,
                                                   what is not yet deadly still must smell.

Jeopardy Without Alex Trebek

This one is based on a game show in the U.S. called Jeopardy, hosted by Alex Trebek.  If you don't know the show, you should know two things: 1. The questions in the game are phrased as statements and the contestants phrase their answers as questions.  (For instance, if Alex says, "He led Athens during the Golden Age", the contestant should say, "Who was Pericles?"- if my memory of Greek history is accurate, that is.)
2. In the final round of the game, the contestants wager a portion of the money they've won so far before knowing exactly what the concluding question will be.

                                                Jeopardy Without Alex Trebek


                                           Some lovers make statements
                                           in answer to questions
                                           that were never asked.
                                           Others ask questions
                                           that are statements
                                           in disguise.
                                           And most make wagers
                                           before knowing exactly
                                           what will be asked
                                           of them.

Fear of Flying

Another poem about flying - and another stolen title.

                                   Fear of Flying

                    The runway is roughly paved with worry
                    as the airplane bucks and bounces in its
                    struggle to take off. Such straining labor,
                    like a bird not built for earthly running,
                    before the plane breaks free and lifts off
                    into its own element: air born, airborne.
                    Meanwhile, mere terrestrials such as we
                    have left our stomachs with our luggage
                    and will collect them after we land.

Calm at 24,000 Feet

I flew on a smaller plane to Portland yesterday.  For some reason, I got more nervous than usual.   I suspect I'll post 2 or 3 poems about the experience.  Please pardon the monotony.

                                                      Calm at 24,000 Feet

                                         The flight attendant overfills the cup
                                         with foam, confident it will subside
                                         into just enough Diet Coke, my zero
                                         calorie compensation for this morning’s
                                         coffee cake. She knows her job more than I
                                         know mine. All I can do is keep my
                                         seatbelt fastened, look for emergency
                                         exits, and try to forget all the failed
                                         cars abandoned along earthbound roads.

To Andrew, On His Birthday

Yesterday was my son's birthday, so I found myself thinking back to his birth.

                                               To Andrew, On His Birthday

                               You were born to be the baseball fan you’ve become
                               since I filled the labor room with Little League
                               chatter as I Lamazed your mother on.
                               Way to be. Way to be. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
                               Pant. Pant. Pant. Blow. Pant. Pant. Pant. Blow.
                               That’s it. That’s it. That’s it. You got it. You got it.
                               Relax. Relax. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.
                               All the way from dilation to delivery, and before that,
                               all the waiting, like extra innings that went on and on,
                               nothing happening until everything happened –
                               your mother came through in the clutch
                               and you slid safely headfirst home.

Note to foreign readers and non-baseball fans:  Little League players are known for their constant chatter during a game (Swing, batter batter. Swing batter. Shove hard. Shove hard to urge the batter to strike out and the pitcher to throw hard, etc. I've substituted phrases from Lamaze childbirth coaching in the poem.).  "Extra innings"  refers to a game that goes beyond the normal length. Baseball is a slow-paced game in which little happens for long stretches of time until, all of a sudden, there's a whole bunch of action.  And if someone slides home safely in an extra innings game, that probably means they've just scored the winning run. 

Life Lessons

Right now we're staying in a house with a cute little dog.

                                                       Life Lessons

                                     Larry hasn’t learned cats are enemies
                                     and not all people are friends.
                                     Larry hasn’t learned he’s smaller than
                                     a Great Dane and slower than
                                     a greyhound or that
                                     he’ll ever be older
                                     than he feels right now.
                                     Larry hasn’t learned there’s
                                     no such thing as a free lunch-
                                     although he sometimes has to wait
                                     for dinner.
                                     Larry hasn’t learned anything
                                     he doesn’t need to know
                                     and knows many things
                                     he feels no need to tell
                                     as he skitters across the hardwood
                                     when the doggie bowl is finally
                                     filled.

Legacy

I was on the road all day yesterday and only had time to fool around with a short poem.

                                                       Legacy

                                           Which is more valuable
                                            to leave behind for others,
                                            a few personal effects
                                            or one personal cause?


Note to foreign readers:  "Personal effects" is a term that refers to personal belongings someone might be found with when they die, such as clothing, rings, etc. Here it is supposed to have a double meaning (and "cause" as well.)

Moonstone Beach

This one was written after spending the morning at a beach by the Pacific in Cambria, California.

                                                           Moonstone Beach

                                                     Once we’ve seen the seals
                                                     this foggy California morning
                                                     every sea shadow comes alive
                                                     with possibilities –
                                                     the sea kelp bobbing
                                                     in the swells,
                                                     the dark rocks lurking
                                                     just below the waves,
                                                     the driftwood swirling
                                                     in the surf
                                                     could all be new
                                                     creatures for us to spot:
                                                     would-be otters or dolphins
                                                     or whales.
                                                     Each mistake makes us
                                                     more attentive.
                                                     The surfer’s silhouette
                                                     paddling to meet
                                                     what will propel him
                                                     turns from a shark
                                                     we fear to courage
                                                     we envy
                                                     and the fog begins
                                                     to burn away.

Speaking Volumes

Just a brief observation.

                                                           Speaking Volumes

                                                         He spoke softly since
                                                         he had nothing to say.
                                                         She spoke loudly so
                                                         she’d sound like she did.

Lost in Translation

Just met our friends' young granddaughter and was reminded of what experts say about language development.

                                                Lost in Translation

                                     They say babies make all the sounds
                                     all our languages need and then
                                     unlearn the ones they never use
                                     in their native tonugue; so English
                                     children lose their rolling r’s,
                                     Spanish drop their v’s, and some
                                     unlucky ones forget how to say I.

Contemplating My Navel

I decided to take the old saying about intropection literally.

                                                           Contemplating My Navel

                                                       A crater on my lunar landscape
                                                       as my belly waxes and wanes
                                                       from meal to meal
                                                       and month to month.

                                                       The wrinkled end
                                                       of my body balloon.

                                                       The one scar we all share.
                                       
                                                       My built-in lint trap.

                                                       The first sign I’d be an introvert.

                                                       The infant astronaut’s connection
                                                       with his mother ship.

                                                       The only thing I have
                                                        that Adam lacked.

Rules of the Road

Here are a few things that have become obvious from car trips over the years.

                                                       Rules of the Road

                                                               1.
                                            The more spectacular the scenery,
                                             the less the driver gets to see.

                                                               2.
                                             It’s hard to stop on winding roads
                                             and straight roads seldom pass by
                                             anything worth the stopping.

                                                               3.
                                                  The better the view,
                                                  the worse the food
                                                  (and if a restaurant revolves
                                                  so does your stomach).

                                                             4.
                                             Rental cars attract shopping
                                             carts in parking lots and
                                             gravel from passing trucks.

                                                           5.
                                              There is at least one mystery
                                              button or dial on every dash.

                                                               6.
                                               Most street signs make sense
                                               only to those who already know
                                               where they’re going.

Growing Old is for Sissies.

I got thinking about a slogan I've seen on T-shirts.

                                                         Growing Old Isn’t for Sissies

                                      say the T-shirts on the elderly women in sweat pants
                                      and the bumper stickers on the Buicks from Florida,
                                      but that’s exactly when sissies will come into their own.
                                      They’ve had a lifetime of practice at whining and
                                      complaining, squirming in fear of getting sick and
                                      dying, and obsessing about themselves, so they will
                                      already be there to open the door to old age for us.
                                      With an I-told-you-so smile, they’ll spread their arms
                                      in welcome and say, “Mi casa es su casa.”
                                      And that’s how the meek will inherit the earth.


Note:  (for foreign readers)  A sissy is a person who is not the traditional American strong and silent type.
He or she whines and complains about things and is often fearful.
   If you're not familiar with "Mi casa es su casa", it means "My house is your house."

Lovers Can Be Like Southwest Airlines

I haven't flown on Southwest Airlines enough for my observations to be statistically valid, but in my limited experience, they used to be more fun in their early days and have become more business like.  That made me think of the way some relationships unfold.

                                                     Lovers Can Be Like Southwest Airlines

                                                            They woo you with laughter –
                                                             like those funny flight attendants
                                                             with their Elvis impersonations,
                                                             stand-up comic monologues
                                                             about emergency procedures,
                                                             and Marcel Marceau mime routines
                                                             with imaginary oxygen masks.

                                                             Then they win you with money –
                                                              the low cost, the convenience,
                                                              the amazing value
                                                              and they accept your baggage.

                                                              And suddenly you’re in a
                                                              comfortable relationship –
                                                              still considerate and efficient
                                                              nothing to complain about,
                                                              but they don’t take you any place
                                                              you didn’t already think
                                                              you wanted to go.

Suspended Ceiling

Sometimes you just stare upwards when you've trying to think of a poem.

                                                Suspended Ceiling

                           Across the country, classrooms are covered
                           by acoustic tile ceilings, absorbing sound
                           so students only half hear what their teachers
                           tell them. They absorb sight as well as the
                           bored and window-deprived stare heavenward
                           with Sistine Chapel fascination, counting
                           the craters in the ceiling’s pockmarked, gridded
                           lunar surface, and occasionally – when the
                           teacher’s back is turned – launching a rocket
                           pencil probe skyward to see if it can stick,
                           suspended there like some abandoned relic
                           from the space race’s glory days: the Eagle
                           has landed, as well as the Reliance, Venus,
                           Faber, Staedtler, Blaisdell, and Ticonderoga.

                          When my classroom is torn down or remodeled
                           and the ceiling is recycled, nearly forty years
                           of absorbed sounds may come spilling out
                           of that sonic time capsule: the farts that disrupted
                           many a grammar lesson, the cruel or joyful laughter
                           of 7th graders, my own hoarse voice, and now and then,
                           the silence of new ideas being born.

Willing Suspension

I am on a trip now and this poem tries to capture the thoughts I often have when flying on an airplane.

                                                  Willing Suspension

                                   I am certain flying is an act of faith;
                                   all the other passengers decide not to doubt
                                   a forty ton plane can soar higher
                                   than a twelve pound bird – and off we go,
                                   fueled by fairy dust and happy thoughts.
                                   I, meanwhile, refuse to believe we’re even
                                   in the air, convincing myself the scene outside
                                   the plane window is no more real than
                                   the movie inside. It’s all an elaborate
                                   hoax staged by the same people who faked
                                   the lunar landing and Obama's birth certificate.
                                   Wheel away the Baltimore set, roll the CGI
                                   clouds, wheel on the Grand Canyon.
                                   I cling to this delusion, or else I’d begin
                                   to scream, trapped 30,000 feet above the earth
                                   in this glorified tin can: one giant leap
                                   for mankind, one backward step for me.


Note to foreign readers:  There are some people in America who claim we never landed on the moon and Obama was born outside of the U.S., and they claim any evidence to the contrary (film or documents) is faked. 

 

The All-You-Can-Eat Buffet

This one started with my thinking of all the saying in English that have to do with eating.  Then I began to imagine where and how people might have to literally eat these things.

                                                    The All-You-Can-Eat Buffet
                                                     or Dining in Dante’s Inferno

                                              First of all, you must swallow your pride;
                                              this is not a gourmet experience.
                                              All our dishes are mass produced for
                                              gluttons like you. For appetizers, you
                                              will find a taste of your own medicine
                                              or some thin slices of your own cooked goose.
                                              Our soup du jour is a stew of your own juices.
                                              And for the main course, you may choose to eat
                                              crow, your hat, your words, or that horse you said
                                              you were so hungry you could consume.
                                              Be careful not to spill the milk, but if you do,
                                              no crying is allowed. Then the piece de
                                              resistance: you can savor some homemade
                                              humble pie or see if the proof is in
                                              the pudding. If you are patient enough
                                              to wait for the vengeance pot to cool,
                                              you may serve some to those who follow you.
                                              It is best served cold, for then it really hurts.
                                              Here we offer only truly just desserts.

Notes to foreign readers:  This poem is stuffed with proverbial sayings in English.  I'm sure I'll miss some, but here are a few.
  A taste of  your own medicine means to be subjected to the sort of treatment you handed out to others.
 When your goose is cooked, it means you've been defeated or discredited.
 To stew in your own  juices is to be left to consider a predicament you're in.
 To eat crow is to admit defeat and/or admit you were wrong about something.
  To eat you own words is very similar.
  When someone is confident about something happening, they may say I'll eat my hat  if that event doesn't occur (or if some improbable event occuss that they laughed at as impossible.)
 When someone is really starving, they often say they are hungry enough to eat a horse.
Eating humble pie is a lot like eating crow.
The proof is in the pudding means that theoretical ideas aren't proven until they are tried out in the real world.
Shakespeare said that vengeance is a dish best served cold  (later, when people aren't expecting it and the avenger is more likely to get away with it).
Just desserts means deserved reward or punishment, but a dessert is also the final sweet dish in a meal.

A Flock of White Chickens

I can take little credit for this poem.  Except for a few connective phrases I provided, it's made up entirely of phrases and images from the students in Professor Kitsi's Poetry Workshop class at Aristotle University in Thessaloniki, Greece.  They all created poems in response to William Carlos Williams's famous piece about the red wheelbarrow and the white chickens.  I have merely taken phrases I liked from each of their poems and tried to arrange them in some sort of poetic progression.  My apologies to the students for altering some wording slightly and putting their ideas into a different context in order to make the poem work.  I hope they will forgive me and can hear the poets inside them speaking in this poem. 

                                                        A Flock of White Chickens


                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    your nicotine lips
                                                    and a sea of wasted sips.
                                                    Upon my looking for a part
                                                    to solve the puzzle
                                                    of my old square heart.
                                                    Upon my hearing a white sparrow
                                                    singing in the rhythm
                                                    of the leaves.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    silent breaths
                                                    in the snow,
                                                    the solitude at the heart
                                                    of winter-
                                                    like a white waterlily
                                                    on a long river -
                                                    and misty eyes singing
                                                    farewell.
                                                   Upon a tiny spider
                                                   hanging
                                                   from a broken lamp
                                                   and a shepherd
                                                   whistling
                                                   his own little tune.

                                                   People call it love.
                                                   I call it your name.

                                                   So much depends upon
                                                   the way some people
                                                   make your heart
                                                   decay
                                                   and others
                                                   give you a caress
                                                   that makes your body
                                                   burn.
                                                   Upon a caring voice,
                                                   a generous smile,
                                                   your light blue eyes
                                                   a bright blue sky
                                                   bright gold sunshine
                                                   and a bright moon
                                                   and stars that flicker
                                                   in a darker sky.

                                                   The power of willingness,
                                                    a bird’s faith
                                                    in its ability
                                                    to fly.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    sleep
                                                    even when nightmares
                                                    are present
                                                    and upon smelling white roses
                                                    despite the thorns.
                                                    Such roses cover lovers’ beds.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    some thoughts next to
                                                    the sea
                                                    and the waves that compose
                                                    the sea
                                                    and the black and white
                                                    keyboard that plays
                                                    the music
                                                    in the words you say,
                                                    and every note, every word
                                                    is a beginning.

                                                    No one knows
                                                    what is beneath the sea
                                                    or what that little bird
                                                    is singing as he dances
                                                    alone,
                                                    stuck in his tree.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    dreams that sing
                                                     inside me
                                                     after moments we had
                                                     together
                                                     speaking or not just
                                                     speaking,
                                                     the silence that accompanies
                                                     the break of dawn
                                                     and sets fire to my soul.


                                                      The fresh air
                                                       messes my hair
                                                       and fills my heart
                                                       with joy.

                                                       So much also depends upon
                                                       sitting alone
                                                       in the attic
                                                       or screaming in the middle
                                                       of a crowd.
                                                       Upon truth seen
                                                       through a child’s eyes
                                                       or life seen from
                                                       a cold bed
                                                       in a hospital.

                                                      An old lady with arthritic
                                                      hands wears a wedding dress.
                                                      Girls are laughing
                                                      in the forest,
                                                      dark tree trunks
                                                      and dead leaves
                                                      drenched with rain:
                                                      the laughter sounds
                                                      in the darkness
                                                      of your soul.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    these heavy drops
                                                    of rain interrupted
                                                    by the rising sun
                                                    and the mix of colors
                                                    that is the rainbow
                                                    we can walk on.

                                                    So much depends upon
                                                    love.