Relativity

Here's another kayaking poem.

                                          Relativity

                       When I want a sense of progress,

                       I paddle close to shore

                       and mark my way from dock to dock,

                        house to house, point to point, and more.

                        But when I want perspective,

                        I head for the middle of the lake,

                        where the shore seems almost stationary,

                        and the breeze erases my own faint wake.

Found in Translation

Here's a silly one, loosely inspired by a stay in Venice.

     Found in Translation

When Giovanni Schiaperelli

gave the name canali

to those apparent markings on Mars,

the world thought of Venice

and found no menace

in alien life midst the stars.

Instead of raiders

or ruthless invaders

embodying all of our fears,

we simply imagined

in fine Venetian fashion

a fleet of green gondoliers.

Of course, all this elation

was due to mistranslation.

“Channels” was what Giovanni said.

Just think what linguistic confusion

would have been added to optical illusion

if he had used the word cannoli instead. 

Final Announcement

What if train announcers were philosophers?  (Not sure this poem needs the final stanza.)

     Final Announcement

 Please mind the gap between

the train and the platform,

between what moves and changes

and what seems more permanent,

between what you expect and

what is real,

between the rich and the poor,

the tourist and the native,

between what you want and

what you need,

between your desires

 and another’s,

between impulse and instinct,

between the guidebook and

the city street,

between memento and memory,

between what it’s taken you

to get here and what your

destination gives you

in return.

And always check to make sure

you’ve left nothing behind

you don’t want to lose

before you depart.

Summer Cold

Here's a quasi-limerick. (I might add that being laid low by a summer cold when you're supposed to be doing some biking in Italy is doubly frustrating.)

Summer Cold

Unpleasant and oxymoronic,
it defies both treatment and tonic.
It seems unreasonable
and feels so unseasonable,
but at least it’s not the plague bubonic.

False Dawns

This one's dedicated to the roosters of Umbria. (Sorry for the uneven spacing.
After more than two years of this blog, I still haven't figured out why
certain Word documents transfer intact and others don't- and I'm too
lazy to retype the whole poem.)

             False Dawns

The first rooster is an eager reporter
spreading his news before the sky is grey;
the last a solemn history scholar
declaring  noon truly begins the day,

 In between comes the crowing competition,

so many claiming credit for the dawn.

Despite this much trumpeted tradition,
I’ll judge for myself when the night is gone.