Blue, green, and red fireworks
In fantastic shapes and sizes
Burst across the evening sky,
Amazing the little girl who holds her mother’s hand.
A present to the six year old
That permanently resides
In the dream compartment
Of those able to smile.
Accompanied by explosive sounds
That momentarily catch the child's imagination,
Creating a space for uncertainty and fear
Before Mom nods the world safe and fun again.
From the science that brought us
Spears, guns and bombs,
A collateral, incidental byproduct
Of progress, becomes the wonder of the innocent.
She will dream of the colors
In those giant spreading displays
That filled the sky,
But, thankfully, not of the power that launched the wonders.
Friday, April 15, 2011
God’s Messenger
When I suspect the start of profundity
There is always the Crow to puncture the image.
As the street rally reaches its crescendo
I hear the Crow suggesting “it’s in the game”.
There is no better vehicle
For subduing oversized pride,
Positing an improbable restraint,
Than the sudden screech of a Crow.
For consistency of message,
And implacable directness,
With just a touch of humor,
God reached perfection with the Crow.
Had the Roman general, Gaius Marius, heard,
As he passed through the Forum’s arch,
Not a slave’s warning, but the Crows dismissal,
Moderation would have ruled the triumphant parade.
Not an especially likable fellow, the Crow,
With but one thought to air.
But he knows all is vanity,
And invites your sardonic agreement.
There is always the Crow to puncture the image.
As the street rally reaches its crescendo
I hear the Crow suggesting “it’s in the game”.
There is no better vehicle
For subduing oversized pride,
Positing an improbable restraint,
Than the sudden screech of a Crow.
For consistency of message,
And implacable directness,
With just a touch of humor,
God reached perfection with the Crow.
Had the Roman general, Gaius Marius, heard,
As he passed through the Forum’s arch,
Not a slave’s warning, but the Crows dismissal,
Moderation would have ruled the triumphant parade.
Not an especially likable fellow, the Crow,
With but one thought to air.
But he knows all is vanity,
And invites your sardonic agreement.
Muttering
Next year will be better.
Its part of the plan.
Still, today I will eat dessert first,
In case I’m wrong about next year.
I cannot process all the changes.
I read books, that are not printed,
And engage in civil discussion,
That takes place digitally.
Across from my restaurant table
A child is coloring her picture book,
While my companion explains
Why I need an annuity.
Its hard to get the right perspective.
Most days change looks superficial.
But sometimes it seems we will drop too heavy a burden,
And the earth will grow dark.
If we could just get over ourselves
There might be more time in Paris,
And less time spent measuring time.
Its part of the plan.
Still, today I will eat dessert first,
In case I’m wrong about next year.
I cannot process all the changes.
I read books, that are not printed,
And engage in civil discussion,
That takes place digitally.
Across from my restaurant table
A child is coloring her picture book,
While my companion explains
Why I need an annuity.
Its hard to get the right perspective.
Most days change looks superficial.
But sometimes it seems we will drop too heavy a burden,
And the earth will grow dark.
If we could just get over ourselves
There might be more time in Paris,
And less time spent measuring time.
Tribute
(Witnessed on the flight deck of the Aircraft Carrier Midway, 9/11/10)
After the color guards and the ritual salute,
There is the calling of names.
343 responding firefighters died that day,
It’s nine years, still there is a catch in the naming.
After each name there is the tolling.
A bell, that on another day would summon
A rush to rapidly descent the fire pole,
Today commemorates the loss.
300 of us gathered
On the bow of the flight deck
With flags of every state crackling in tribute
To bear witness.
Memories of that day echo
In the voices of the name readers
Long after the speeches fade
Into a tired salute to heros.
Widows and fatherless teenagers
Burdened with the madness
That cleaved their lives.
Stand tall and hold back tears,
After the color guards and the ritual salute,
There is the calling of names.
343 responding firefighters died that day,
It’s nine years, still there is a catch in the naming.
After each name there is the tolling.
A bell, that on another day would summon
A rush to rapidly descent the fire pole,
Today commemorates the loss.
300 of us gathered
On the bow of the flight deck
With flags of every state crackling in tribute
To bear witness.
Memories of that day echo
In the voices of the name readers
Long after the speeches fade
Into a tired salute to heros.
Widows and fatherless teenagers
Burdened with the madness
That cleaved their lives.
Stand tall and hold back tears,
Piano Music
It allows my hurt feelings
Free range and some bullshit self-pity.
Warping my view of streets
And the sounds of the suffering.
I can’t accept justifications
That suggest it was offered for the “greater good”.
My friend did not steal my purse,
He just wanted his job back.
There is such beauty in emotional pain.
A purity that converts suffering
To an absurd belief in your vision
Of a higher truth.
Music can speak eloquently of loss
Low octave minor key notes rich
With a sense of forlorn,
Slowly, extending to despair.
With luck, tomorrow’s dream
Will replace today’s nightmare,
Reduce the grief
To a smaller melancholy.
Yes, tomorrow’s weather may brighten
My dismal landscape into
A field of hope.
But I cannot leave without absorbing the darkness.
Free range and some bullshit self-pity.
Warping my view of streets
And the sounds of the suffering.
I can’t accept justifications
That suggest it was offered for the “greater good”.
My friend did not steal my purse,
He just wanted his job back.
There is such beauty in emotional pain.
A purity that converts suffering
To an absurd belief in your vision
Of a higher truth.
Music can speak eloquently of loss
Low octave minor key notes rich
With a sense of forlorn,
Slowly, extending to despair.
With luck, tomorrow’s dream
Will replace today’s nightmare,
Reduce the grief
To a smaller melancholy.
Yes, tomorrow’s weather may brighten
My dismal landscape into
A field of hope.
But I cannot leave without absorbing the darkness.
Debbe
If there is pride in place it’s because someone brings it!
To do a job well, day after day, is not easy
To do that job well day after day for 25 years is extraordinary
To do that job well day after day for 25 years while retaining a light touch is magical
To do that job well day after day for 25 years while retaining a light touch in the face of 100 ego-manics convinced that they are entitled to preferential treatment is DEBBE!
To do a job well, day after day, is not easy
To do that job well day after day for 25 years is extraordinary
To do that job well day after day for 25 years while retaining a light touch is magical
To do that job well day after day for 25 years while retaining a light touch in the face of 100 ego-manics convinced that they are entitled to preferential treatment is DEBBE!
Ruth
Her last good friend was not Jewish.
I’ve a picture of them playing Rummy,
Or at least attempting to play Rummy.
Mom is focused on winning.
Her last best friend is not white.
But the lady understood
That Mom had carried
A relatively benign racism into their relationship.
Mom had moved beyond those
Acculturated fears
Long before she died.
Veronica had become her friend.
In the minutes before she died,
Asked to wait for her children
Ruth gave a small head shake.
For Veronica she nodded.
Mom settled in Veronica’s arms
And, as a child comforted
By her mothers embrace,
Left us.
I’ve a picture of them playing Rummy,
Or at least attempting to play Rummy.
Mom is focused on winning.
Her last best friend is not white.
But the lady understood
That Mom had carried
A relatively benign racism into their relationship.
Mom had moved beyond those
Acculturated fears
Long before she died.
Veronica had become her friend.
In the minutes before she died,
Asked to wait for her children
Ruth gave a small head shake.
For Veronica she nodded.
Mom settled in Veronica’s arms
And, as a child comforted
By her mothers embrace,
Left us.
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