In this corner, wearing blue trunks,
Stands the professor, looking appropriately outraged.
In the opposite corner wearing red trunks,
Looking altogether righteous, the cop glares
This fight, viewed by fans everywhere
Will almost certainly prove justice can triumph,
While assuring reason,
Can not overcome “The Fog of Bores”.
But wait! Our esteemed referee,
Having shown early prejudice,
Has recovered his fabled balance,
Now calls the pugilists to center ring.
Both fighters and their legions of supporters,
Seem ready to mumble, but not rumble.
It seems possible that neither camp
Will throw chairs or bombs.
“Sometimes a good cigar is just a smoke”. (S, Freud).
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Euphoria
Wondering if an idea could work
I hold it to the light and shrug.
What are my choices, what lies unseen?
Why are my needs convoluted?
The idea, shared with the unimpressed.
leaves another thought stranded.
I jump, as always, this time as a believer.
The work takes me to a comfort zone.
Now come the righteous, perhaps self-righteous, knights.
Their only wish, to save the day.
Swords drawn with aphorisms that stretch for miles.
But fail to bring insight, only quotidian pronouncements.
Time I move on, maybe?
To not test the waters is anathema.
Is failure the lesser evil? Or is walking away?
Most often I walk.
Progress, a slight lightening of the overcast.
Pieces fall in or out.
Mistakes spotted in the clarity of second vision.
May becomes October.
Last minute changes destroy all lucidity.
Few days left, much climbing ahead.
The stage begrudgingly set.
Who will come to my party?
So many show up. Why?
The question delights me. I am euphoric.
The results bring tiny new questions.
Where to go, how to get there.
Was it really worth the effort ?
Did the means justify the means?
Oh Yes! I float on a quiet following sea.
I can’t fly, but maybe for this moment, I am transported.
It is time to hear other voices. Inhale deeply.
Today I can forgive myself yesterdays sins.
I think success or failure end at the means,
But it’s awfully nice when the rocket flies.
I hold it to the light and shrug.
What are my choices, what lies unseen?
Why are my needs convoluted?
The idea, shared with the unimpressed.
leaves another thought stranded.
I jump, as always, this time as a believer.
The work takes me to a comfort zone.
Now come the righteous, perhaps self-righteous, knights.
Their only wish, to save the day.
Swords drawn with aphorisms that stretch for miles.
But fail to bring insight, only quotidian pronouncements.
Time I move on, maybe?
To not test the waters is anathema.
Is failure the lesser evil? Or is walking away?
Most often I walk.
Progress, a slight lightening of the overcast.
Pieces fall in or out.
Mistakes spotted in the clarity of second vision.
May becomes October.
Last minute changes destroy all lucidity.
Few days left, much climbing ahead.
The stage begrudgingly set.
Who will come to my party?
So many show up. Why?
The question delights me. I am euphoric.
The results bring tiny new questions.
Where to go, how to get there.
Was it really worth the effort ?
Did the means justify the means?
Oh Yes! I float on a quiet following sea.
I can’t fly, but maybe for this moment, I am transported.
It is time to hear other voices. Inhale deeply.
Today I can forgive myself yesterdays sins.
I think success or failure end at the means,
But it’s awfully nice when the rocket flies.
Mother on Her 90th birthday
I find the warmth comforting.
The meal paid in advance
And my space tranquil.
I have grown round and peaceful.
My children are older than my minds eye.
I am still a liberal and think, I think.
So many gone, but more have come.
They will enjoy the party.
I will rejoice in the role of matriarch.
Lou would have happily shared the occasion.
He would dance with great grandchildren.
He was a wonderful dancer.
What became of the painted red ducks?
Was the apartment really so many years ago?
Phil never got his bike.
Will there be a Jew left after me? I think not.
The children have lost that resource,
Traded for houses, cousins gone.
These are such good times.
I have been carried far from want
I believe my family cares.
The meal paid in advance
And my space tranquil.
I have grown round and peaceful.
My children are older than my minds eye.
I am still a liberal and think, I think.
So many gone, but more have come.
They will enjoy the party.
I will rejoice in the role of matriarch.
Lou would have happily shared the occasion.
He would dance with great grandchildren.
He was a wonderful dancer.
What became of the painted red ducks?
Was the apartment really so many years ago?
Phil never got his bike.
Will there be a Jew left after me? I think not.
The children have lost that resource,
Traded for houses, cousins gone.
These are such good times.
I have been carried far from want
I believe my family cares.
Parade
Tents, flags and family dogs,
All part of the colorful median strip
That, until his morning,
Showed verdant green.
Military and school bands
Salute my country
With drums and horns
As they step briskly to their march.
A small town with 10,000 visitors
Celebrating the unlikely 231st anniversary
Of a people who would not tolerate
Decisions made by others.
A terrific day for the sellers
Of snacks, Uncle Sam caps and rides on Segues.
I marvel at the waving folks in convertibles
Who seem to have wandered into the line of march.
My favorite contingent remains
The “Precision Marching Lawn Mower Moms”
They perform with an air of silliness
Adding a delightful insouciance to the day.
Locals, like me, could point to
And wave at friends and neighbors
Who proudly represented such groups
As the garbage collection company.
Of course most every politician,
From within one light-year,
Managed to share handshakes and execute hi-fives
With us humble folks.
Even those as cynical and crusty as I
Could look at the watchers and paraders
And feel at least an “Oh, what the hell”.
All part of the colorful median strip
That, until his morning,
Showed verdant green.
Military and school bands
Salute my country
With drums and horns
As they step briskly to their march.
A small town with 10,000 visitors
Celebrating the unlikely 231st anniversary
Of a people who would not tolerate
Decisions made by others.
A terrific day for the sellers
Of snacks, Uncle Sam caps and rides on Segues.
I marvel at the waving folks in convertibles
Who seem to have wandered into the line of march.
My favorite contingent remains
The “Precision Marching Lawn Mower Moms”
They perform with an air of silliness
Adding a delightful insouciance to the day.
Locals, like me, could point to
And wave at friends and neighbors
Who proudly represented such groups
As the garbage collection company.
Of course most every politician,
From within one light-year,
Managed to share handshakes and execute hi-fives
With us humble folks.
Even those as cynical and crusty as I
Could look at the watchers and paraders
And feel at least an “Oh, what the hell”.
Now
When I touch the keyboard time begins, again.
Morning fog surrenders its embrace,
Somewhere a voice will bellow “action!”
And we, actors, renew our journey.
Could I but stay my hand
Allow nothing to change;
Void the anticipated next chapter
And so remain untethered, outside of time.
Alert, without thought.
Aware of a stupendous nothingness
That exists, omnipresent,
And abides my suspension.
Morning fog surrenders its embrace,
Somewhere a voice will bellow “action!”
And we, actors, renew our journey.
Could I but stay my hand
Allow nothing to change;
Void the anticipated next chapter
And so remain untethered, outside of time.
Alert, without thought.
Aware of a stupendous nothingness
That exists, omnipresent,
And abides my suspension.
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