The Discfunctional Family

Here is the poem that for some reason did not get posted as scheduled in the queue for yesterday (5/12).  Perhaps it is appropriate because it is a poem about computer (and familial) dysfunction.

                                                               
                                               The Discfuntional Family

                                      The computer and the printer aren’t talking,
                                      and their compatibility is ever in doubt.
                                      The motherboard’s memory is balking;
                                      she seldom remembers what she’s about.

                                       The RAM and the ROM keep on fighting,
                                        like siblings over their share of a seat.
                                        Dozens of documents they are slighting,
                                        left in limbo between save and delete.

                                        Meanwhile all maintenance is neglected –
                                        even the mouse is beginning to squeak,
                                        and the hard drive needs to be inspected:
                                        it coughs and hums as if preparing to speak.

                                        Yes, all signs here point to an imminent crash,
                                         but the problem, as always, is not enough cache.

Misfits

Yesterday's post is still listed as scheduled to be posted on 5/12.  It is now 5/13, so here is a new poem as I try to find out what happened to yesterday's.  This poem comes from the surprise we sometimes feel when someone does not live up to a stereotyped expectations we (including me) may have.

                                                               Misfits

                                              The Asian who fails math,
                                               the African-American who can’t dance,
                                               the unromantic Frenchman,
                                               amorous Brit, meek Greek,
                                               impassive Italian, contented Russian,
                                               the imprecise and peace-loving German,
                                               silent and sober Irishman,
                                               dispassionate Spaniard, vulgar WASP,
                                               modest American, and colorful Canadian
                                               are all noted with wonder
                                               by the imperceptive poet.

Roof Rack

Yes, I drove 340 miles today with no stops - and with my new bike on top of the car.

                                                    Roof Rack

                                     We seldom see what we carry there.
                                     Though it may be important, may be rare–
                                     a mattress for a marriage bed,
                                     a baby crib, a brand new bike –
                                     we simply lash it on however we like,
                                     check its shadow in the morning sun
                                     and forget about it until nearly noon
                                     when it starts to hide beneath us.

                                     But if we hear a sudden sound
                                     from above, we fear we might lose
                                     what we love to the littered roadside.
                                     Knots untie and straps come loose
                                     as whatever we do can come undone;
                                     and on this road, there’s no slowing down.

An Attic Disposition

This time I was thinking about how poetry is often thought of as involving very formal and unnaturally refined thoughts and phrasing.

                                                   An Attic Disposition

                                           I ascended to the poetry penthouse,
                                           A place full of elevated diction and
                                           Lofty ideals- but really more of a glorified
                                           Attic – with its phrasing archaic and cob-
                                           Webbed, yet able to catch the light just right,
                                            Now and then - especially at sunset.
                                            Whence and thence leaned against thither and yon
                                            In the corner just beyond a magic mirror,
                                            One that inverted sound as well as sight,
                                            So that when I left that musty garret,
                                            That garret musty left I.

A Walk in the Woods.

We are on trip through California these days and did not quite make it to Muir Woods, home of some old growth redwoods, but stopped at another park instead.
(This poem somehow migrated from 4/23. I haven't figured out how to put this back where it belongs.)

                                                  A Walk in the Woods

                                                             1.
                                  We drove past miles of orchards to get here
                                   from the Sacramento Valley, all those
                                   regimented rows of trees ready
                                   to feed us. Why do we prefer these random,
                                   fruitless giants to those willing servants?

                                                        2.
                                  The Samuel P. Taylor State Park is named
                                  after a paper mill baron who destroyed
                                  the old growth forest. Next thing you know,
                                  they will have a George Armstrong Custer
                                  Native American Museum.

                                                       3.
                                 The sign says redwoods have extensive but
                                 shallow roots, so they can grow for centuries
                                 or topple in a moment. Younger trees grow
                                 in the soil and sunlight left by the fallen.

                                                     4.
                                We pose beside the trees
                                 like all tourists do
                                 to prove we were here
                                 and show how small we are.

                                                   5.
                                The forest path is unblazed.
                                When we reach a fork, at first
                                we choose to climb toward bird
                                and stream song. Later, as we
                                tire, we turn downhill and descend
                                toward the sound of traffic.

                                                        6.
                                They call one nearly hollow redwood
                               “The Family Tree.” The children gather
                                 there to look up through the holes
                                 and branches to see the sky.
                                 It seems higher when there’s
                                 something reaching for it.

                                                      7.
                                 Couples get married
                                 in the group picnic area.
                                 They are supposed to have
                                 reservations but not about
                                 each other.

                                                    8.
                                 The Samuel P. Taylor State Park
                                 now has Wi-Fi, provided by
                                 AT&T. Have the redwoods
                                 friended the Douglas Fir,
                                 or did they do that
                                 long ago?

                                                   9.
                                 Muir Woods is more famous
                                 since John, unlike Samuel,
                                 saved the old growth trees,
                                 but this park is less crowded
                                 more personal
                                 and it’s good to see
                                 some mistakes
                                 can be forgiven.



Note:  I am aware that some experts on redwoods might be reading this, so I welcome corrections of any factual errors.  This poem is my quick take on some first impreesions and not a scientically researched piece.

Brevity

This is one from the archive.

                                                Brevity
                                       I hope if I shrink
                                       with age, I become
                                       compressed like a poem-
                                       condensed yet complete-
                                       and not an abridged
                                       version of myself,
                                       all plot and no point.

An Elegy for Analog

My older daughter is getting married today.  Since I have no time to write a new poem, I'm posting an old one from 2009, when all the TV broadcasting in the U.S. switched from digital to analog.

                                                  An Elegy for Analog: 6/12/2009

                                              On this day, analog TV gave up
                                              the ghosts- and the snow and the tin foil
                                              on the antenna and the test pattern
                                              and the national anthem at dawn
                                              and “this is a test” and horizontal hold
                                              and the slap on the side before you phoned
                                              the repairman who wore a uniform
                                              and tubes that glowed like embers
                                              and tube testers at the local hardware
                                              and the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show
                                              and Elvis on The Ed Sullivan Show
                                              and opera singers and jugglers on The Ed Sullivan Show
                                              and families huddled around that black and white
                                              campfire, eating Swanson’s TV dinners
                                              before the sets became behemoths
                                              carted off on gurneys
                                              to make way for the flat screens, as slim as
                                              trophy wives, to be put on a pedestal
                                              and admired, picture perfect as only
                                              a paint-by-number picture can be.
                                              YesNoYesNo. OnOffOnOff. 0101 the supermodels say.
                                              Digital is so decisive,
                                              but sometimes I miss maybe.