To be a man in this day and age
Is to be adrift in a sea of confusion and longing.
But every once in a while,
These meandering thoughts
Allow for clarity and cleansing.
These thoughts of Love and life,
Of fears and strife,
The kind of thoughts that
Will keep you up at night,
Keep you up and give you peace.
While thoughts roam the open expanses
Created in his mind's own vacuum of space
They happen upon a thought whose origin
simply cannot be traced.
For the thought originated not in the mind, but in the heart,
Nay, the very soul, the fabric of being
From whence all things claim as their motherland,
And to which all shall, one day, return.
And it is in this vast plain of existence,
In the calm offered to him from the dark
By the Almighty Creator Himself,
that life gains new perspective.
Among the flickering shadows of hope
And faith and responsibilities,
Moving through like a pack of wolves
In search of their next meal of an innocent soul
Desperate enough to invite them out of the shadows
And into the light of wisdom where they prey upon the naive.
It is in this place,
This place where midnight thoughts mingle
With the menacing silhouettes of desire and ambition,
And prospective love that today's man
Can reflect on his life in the silence
Of the thunderstorm.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
To B. Akhmadulina
We are many. Four, perhaps, altogether,
spinning along in our car devil-may-care.
The girl at the wheel flaunts her orange hair,
the sleeves of her jacket yanked up to the elbow.
Ah, Bela, though your driving leaves me limp,
you look angelic, out of this world;
your marvelous porcelain profile
glows like a white lamp...
In hell they bang their frying pans
and send their scouts up to the gate to watch,
when you, as the speedometer runs wild,
lift both hands off the wheel to strike a match.
How I love it, when stepping on the gas
in your transparent tones you say,
"What a mess!
they've taken my license away...
"I swear they got me wrong!
You'd think I was a reckless driver!
Why! I was just poking along..."
Forget it, Bela. To argue with a cop,
you know, is a losing proposition.
He can't appreciate your lyric speed -
it's past the power of his transmission.
A poet owes it to himself
not to be trapped in miles-per-hour;
let him resound at the speed of light
like angels choiring in the stratosphere.
No matter, taking light-years as our measure,
if we should vanish like a radiant star,
with not a creature left behind to earn the prize.
We were the first to crack the sound barrier.
Step on it, Bela, heavenly friend!
Who cares if we're smashed to bits in the end?
Long live the speed of poetry,
the most lethal of all speeds!
What if the maps ahead are enigmatical?
We are only a few. Four, perhaps, altogether:
Hurtling along - and you are a Goddess!
A middle school class was asked to tell a story with a moral. Kathy went first. "once we were driving a basket of hen eggs to market when we hit a big bump in the road. the eggs broke. the moral is don't put all of your eggs in one basket." Tammy went next. "once we had a dozen chicken eggs, but when they hatched, we only got ten chicks. the moral is not to count your chickens before they've hatched." Then it was Johnny's turn. "when my aunt karen was in desert storm, her plane was hit. she bailed out over enemy territory with only a bottle of whiskey and a machine gun. she drank the whiskey on the way down so the bottle would not break, and landed in the middle of 100 enemy soldiers. she killed 70 of them with the machine gun, and when she ran out of bullets, she killed the rest with her bare hands." "what is the moral of that terrible story?" the horrified teacher asked. "the moral of the story is to stay away from aunt karen when she's been drinking."
My grandson Tanner recently visited a fire station with his kindergarten class. while reviewing safety tips, the fire chief asked what to do if your clothes were on fire. Tanner replied, "wear something else"
Fourth of july fireworks displays are for the most part, safe. but that didn't stop the technicians at the last bash i saw from wearing this on the backs of their orange shirts. it read "if you see us running, try to keep up."
a tourist in maine paid an emergency visit to a veteranarian's office when his dog got the short end of a brawl with a porcupine. after the dog was dequilled, the man went to pay, but was shocked at the $450 bill. "450 dollars?!" he shouted. "what do you mainers do in the wintertime when all the tourists are gone?" "raise porcupines" the receptionist said as she took his check.
spinning along in our car devil-may-care.
The girl at the wheel flaunts her orange hair,
the sleeves of her jacket yanked up to the elbow.
Ah, Bela, though your driving leaves me limp,
you look angelic, out of this world;
your marvelous porcelain profile
glows like a white lamp...
In hell they bang their frying pans
and send their scouts up to the gate to watch,
when you, as the speedometer runs wild,
lift both hands off the wheel to strike a match.
How I love it, when stepping on the gas
in your transparent tones you say,
"What a mess!
they've taken my license away...
"I swear they got me wrong!
You'd think I was a reckless driver!
Why! I was just poking along..."
Forget it, Bela. To argue with a cop,
you know, is a losing proposition.
He can't appreciate your lyric speed -
it's past the power of his transmission.
A poet owes it to himself
not to be trapped in miles-per-hour;
let him resound at the speed of light
like angels choiring in the stratosphere.
No matter, taking light-years as our measure,
if we should vanish like a radiant star,
with not a creature left behind to earn the prize.
We were the first to crack the sound barrier.
Step on it, Bela, heavenly friend!
Who cares if we're smashed to bits in the end?
Long live the speed of poetry,
the most lethal of all speeds!
What if the maps ahead are enigmatical?
We are only a few. Four, perhaps, altogether:
Hurtling along - and you are a Goddess!
A middle school class was asked to tell a story with a moral. Kathy went first. "once we were driving a basket of hen eggs to market when we hit a big bump in the road. the eggs broke. the moral is don't put all of your eggs in one basket." Tammy went next. "once we had a dozen chicken eggs, but when they hatched, we only got ten chicks. the moral is not to count your chickens before they've hatched." Then it was Johnny's turn. "when my aunt karen was in desert storm, her plane was hit. she bailed out over enemy territory with only a bottle of whiskey and a machine gun. she drank the whiskey on the way down so the bottle would not break, and landed in the middle of 100 enemy soldiers. she killed 70 of them with the machine gun, and when she ran out of bullets, she killed the rest with her bare hands." "what is the moral of that terrible story?" the horrified teacher asked. "the moral of the story is to stay away from aunt karen when she's been drinking."
My grandson Tanner recently visited a fire station with his kindergarten class. while reviewing safety tips, the fire chief asked what to do if your clothes were on fire. Tanner replied, "wear something else"
Fourth of july fireworks displays are for the most part, safe. but that didn't stop the technicians at the last bash i saw from wearing this on the backs of their orange shirts. it read "if you see us running, try to keep up."
a tourist in maine paid an emergency visit to a veteranarian's office when his dog got the short end of a brawl with a porcupine. after the dog was dequilled, the man went to pay, but was shocked at the $450 bill. "450 dollars?!" he shouted. "what do you mainers do in the wintertime when all the tourists are gone?" "raise porcupines" the receptionist said as she took his check.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Haikus
Your look melts the ice.
The cold winter reversed as
The world bursts to life.
You light my whole world
And make me fly, you alone
Set my heart aflame.
Sweet to all you meet
Sometimes it seems like you are
Too good to be true
The cold winter reversed as
The world bursts to life.
You light my whole world
And make me fly, you alone
Set my heart aflame.
Sweet to all you meet
Sometimes it seems like you are
Too good to be true
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