Cheers for the Weatherman

Cheers for the Weatherman

He was very specific,
For next 10 days the weather would be terrific.
Nothing but blue skies
From here to where the eagle flies.

Today it poured.
Rainy days I once abhorred,
Now wet sidewalks allow time to for TV
Without feeling so absurdly guilty.

Of today the guy has little to say,
Reporting on patterns, far away
That is likely to stray.

High pressure will not track true
Faithless lows could cause a stew
Resulting in higher humidity,
Suggesting our protagonists stupidity
Was responsible for the rapidity
With which his forecast lost credibility.

Consider how true he would be
If he reported only on what he did see,
“Yesterday was very nice
The day before had sprinkles, twice”.

Imagine our news anchor’s forecasting tomorrow’s Dow!
Or suggesting that tomorrow is now,
At least, to the extent
That he could read the firmament.

How very exciting to have all the news
Telling of tomorrow’s blues!

So lets celebrate the predictor of weather
He will hear our scorn, forever and ever.

I Hate Morty Russinow

5 floors down lived the enemy.
Taller, better looking, faster,
And vastly superior academically.
How could I not hate him?

60 years later I still hear my mother,
“Look how good Morty is doing,
Why can’t you be more like him?”
How could I not hate him?

Did I mention he was more popular?
Oh yes, Morty was a very popular guy.
Do I sound like an escapee
From a Woody Allen monologue?

Yet, I knew I was smarter then Morty,
Sort of.
I prayed to be taller.
(Before adjustable dental seats
It required 2 New York phone books
To reach a height where the dentist could examine me.)

But not Morty.
6 inches taller then my puny Holocaust-like self,
He could look straight over my head.
How could I not hate him?

Ha! Vengeance comes in many forms.
While he may have persisted in being taller
Morty grew up and became a dentist.
I hate him only occasionally now

 
 
 

Morning

Rose swishing, indifferent to the sleepers on either side,
Starts stretching herself,
Switching positions.
I wake to the small sounds she makes.

The sky still undecided ;
To call for daylight
Or hold the tenuous moments of predawn
When all, and nothing coexist.
Turning onto my back
I hear a rustle from the Magnolia tree
Just beyond the bedroom window.
Softly, its branches sweep the house wall and my sleep.

Not far away car engines announce their presence,
Pursuing a road much traveled.
One, no two humming birds discuss
The wisdom of building a home on my neighbors Ficus.

This is the best of times.
Roof in tact, daylight now cautiously
Works her traces along the wall
Opposite my bed.

With some regret, I rise,
Consider my options:
Exercise, a shave, breakfast,
All seem a mistake.
Id rather just stand, making no choice .

Diana might wake and consider me stuck,
Naked with infantile thoughts
Cementing me to the carpet.
She might decide I’m a very bad Moore sculpture.

What of the morning papers,
Sharing all the “good” news?
When sunshine cuts a line half way
Up the front door,
Shadows have retreated.