“Time” is immutable,
At least that’s one theory.
Our reality moves through today’s chunk of time
Staying constant, like a billboard,
As we move to the beyond.
Imagine, at 11:59 we hear a small motor.
A signal that the brain is gearing for tomorrow.
Could I run ahead to glimpse something of another time? No!
Running backward would not help.
We’re just stuck with “right now”,
186,0000 miles per second and not even a breeze.
So when your asked to “be here now”
You may reply “when in now?”
Of course we can’t spend our day waiting for tomorrow.
We have today’s chunk to deal with,
Eating, working, sex, haircuts,
Wars, showers, changing diapers all have to fit in there.
Our leaders can predict things that likely
Will engage our attention tomorrow:
“Between 8 and 11 AM we will pillage,
Followed by afternoon showers”
Should tomorrow morning bring a horrendous downpour of elephants,
You’d expect the Pillage to be cut short.
Carrying a super-strong umbrella as headcover makes pillaging difficult
Not to mention the insuperable challenge of elephant disposal.
I could imagine a congressional committee,
Named, perhaps, “The Alien Elephant Sub-Committee”,
Asking such critical questions as, “What kind of elephants are these?” or
“Which terrorist organization has elephant launching capabilities”?
My ”immutable” theory has not gained many adherents.
A small chocolate bribe left my 9 year-old grandson non-plus.
Once again, I find myself seeking recognition in some future chunk of time.
And who really knows about tomorrow’s precipitation
Or what time it is?
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Afternoon with Marvin
A friendly, harmless, blue sky,
With white teddy-bear clouds advancing slowly,
Exhorted us to experience the day--- softly.
Stopping on our walk,
Noting the palms and the omnipresent cypresses
Moving somnambulant on a quiet breeze.
We watched 2 ducks,
Whose softness and color was one with the clouds.
The ducks had little to say
While picking effortlessly at the ponds smooth surface
Finding some things of value.
From our command position
A bench overlooking the water,
We renounced the foolishness of little men,
Playing God, in a badly scripted black comedy.
“Bucolic”, might encompass the scene.
Recognizing how trivial the task
Of cursing the darkness,
We formulate breath-taking scenarios.
Are we not among the oldest sophomores?
Unable to freeze the day,
No idea of how to stop the insanity of those small men,
Marvin and I walked to the gate
Departing, each to his slightly sad smile.
With white teddy-bear clouds advancing slowly,
Exhorted us to experience the day--- softly.
Stopping on our walk,
Noting the palms and the omnipresent cypresses
Moving somnambulant on a quiet breeze.
We watched 2 ducks,
Whose softness and color was one with the clouds.
The ducks had little to say
While picking effortlessly at the ponds smooth surface
Finding some things of value.
From our command position
A bench overlooking the water,
We renounced the foolishness of little men,
Playing God, in a badly scripted black comedy.
“Bucolic”, might encompass the scene.
Recognizing how trivial the task
Of cursing the darkness,
We formulate breath-taking scenarios.
Are we not among the oldest sophomores?
Unable to freeze the day,
No idea of how to stop the insanity of those small men,
Marvin and I walked to the gate
Departing, each to his slightly sad smile.
Pictures
Upon entering, my eyes are drawn
To the rectangular, marbled topped, coffee table.
45 photos stand at attention.
Each needs its own narrative.
Young grandchildren, perhaps siblings, smile furiously.
They appear anxious to move on,
Too soon reappearing as fully grown
Here stand my boys,
First as 18 year-olds,
Next at 40, quite changed
But recognizable from their teen years.
Diana and I, tanned and posed,
In a 25 year-old picture,
Taken in a small house
That featured a Porsche in the living room.
My slight sister, stands next to her
Large husband.
There are recent photographs on table,
That show Maddy and I, past our prime,
And Mom, at 97, looks to be our contemporary.
The crowded tabletop leaves me uncomfortable,
Unable to hold the moment,
That lives forever, in the photos.
How often do we decide Mom's future,
In her presence, without her participation?
My sister and I have contended for
Honor of placement for some time.
We now resolve the conundrum
By removing all but 10 photos.
Now the tabletop looks barren,
And fewer stories can be imposed.
To the rectangular, marbled topped, coffee table.
45 photos stand at attention.
Each needs its own narrative.
Young grandchildren, perhaps siblings, smile furiously.
They appear anxious to move on,
Too soon reappearing as fully grown
Here stand my boys,
First as 18 year-olds,
Next at 40, quite changed
But recognizable from their teen years.
Diana and I, tanned and posed,
In a 25 year-old picture,
Taken in a small house
That featured a Porsche in the living room.
My slight sister, stands next to her
Large husband.
There are recent photographs on table,
That show Maddy and I, past our prime,
And Mom, at 97, looks to be our contemporary.
The crowded tabletop leaves me uncomfortable,
Unable to hold the moment,
That lives forever, in the photos.
How often do we decide Mom's future,
In her presence, without her participation?
My sister and I have contended for
Honor of placement for some time.
We now resolve the conundrum
By removing all but 10 photos.
Now the tabletop looks barren,
And fewer stories can be imposed.
Xmas with Jimmy Stewart
No snow to be seen,
Not for the last 150 years.
We do have pines
And a main street called Orange Avenue.
For the holiday season
Parking meters are covered.
Your money is not accepted.
“It’s a Wonderful Life”
Plays endlessly in our library.
A picture postcard medial stripe
Runs the 2-mile length of Orange.
Today with the sweet smell of cut grass fills the street,
Seasonal hedges, planted for their brilliant reds
In December, Pine trees
And menageries of fantastic animals,
Carved with care and humor.
The Pines,
Bejeweled with small blue and green lights
Enveloping each tree,
Inviting the gently curved branches to dance.
An 80-foot Norfolk,
Stands where the road bends,
Clothed, incongruously, in vertical light strips,
That suggests an unhappy relationship.
Store decorations
Tired of the annual effort,
Make a nominal attempt
At charm and gaiety.
At the edge of downtown, built in the 1880’s
Stands the Del Coronado hotel,
Recently expanded to provide more rooms
And an elegant pedestrian walk
That parallels the ocean.
Just short of the walk,
Lies one the worlds most beautiful beaches,
A short-lived Ice rink holds sway,
Children permitted.
The “Del”, as the hotel is known
Houses one of the most deliciously decorated
Christmas trees in the county,
Informing guests of magic and majesty.
From the bridge, leading to Coronado,
You can see the brightly lit outline
Of the Del’s cupolas.
On the island, over the holidays,
You’ll likely be greeted with warm wishes and smiles,
That, if not wholly sincere,
Are far from fatuous.
Walking feels safe at any hour,
And the new, expanded, library
Is open until 9.
A 1950’s style park facing the library,
Complete with bandstand, that gets used
Throughout the year, but most especially at Christmas.
It is probably a little warmer
Than Jimmy would have it.
Still, I think he’d want to finish the movie here.
Not for the last 150 years.
We do have pines
And a main street called Orange Avenue.
For the holiday season
Parking meters are covered.
Your money is not accepted.
“It’s a Wonderful Life”
Plays endlessly in our library.
A picture postcard medial stripe
Runs the 2-mile length of Orange.
Today with the sweet smell of cut grass fills the street,
Seasonal hedges, planted for their brilliant reds
In December, Pine trees
And menageries of fantastic animals,
Carved with care and humor.
The Pines,
Bejeweled with small blue and green lights
Enveloping each tree,
Inviting the gently curved branches to dance.
An 80-foot Norfolk,
Stands where the road bends,
Clothed, incongruously, in vertical light strips,
That suggests an unhappy relationship.
Store decorations
Tired of the annual effort,
Make a nominal attempt
At charm and gaiety.
At the edge of downtown, built in the 1880’s
Stands the Del Coronado hotel,
Recently expanded to provide more rooms
And an elegant pedestrian walk
That parallels the ocean.
Just short of the walk,
Lies one the worlds most beautiful beaches,
A short-lived Ice rink holds sway,
Children permitted.
The “Del”, as the hotel is known
Houses one of the most deliciously decorated
Christmas trees in the county,
Informing guests of magic and majesty.
From the bridge, leading to Coronado,
You can see the brightly lit outline
Of the Del’s cupolas.
On the island, over the holidays,
You’ll likely be greeted with warm wishes and smiles,
That, if not wholly sincere,
Are far from fatuous.
Walking feels safe at any hour,
And the new, expanded, library
Is open until 9.
A 1950’s style park facing the library,
Complete with bandstand, that gets used
Throughout the year, but most especially at Christmas.
It is probably a little warmer
Than Jimmy would have it.
Still, I think he’d want to finish the movie here.
Rehab Center
This is a place for dying.
Past the comfortable lobby,
You enter the holding tanks,
Peopled by subdued caregivers
And vacant eyed seniors.
I suspected that my buddy
Was the only potential candidate
For reentry into life beyond
The large dark-wooded front doors.
Clean floors and lots of ammonia
Could not cover the pervasive smell of urine.
They could not hide the gloom
From the seriously yellowed fluorescent panels,
Marching the length of the narrow corridor.
John was wheeled into a room
Where two others lay waiting for Godot.
A smallish man lay to his left,
Eyelids determinedly closed, whined softly.
On his right a large blond haired fellow,
Missing a leg, whispered fiercely
Into a space only he could fill.
Past the comfortable lobby,
You enter the holding tanks,
Peopled by subdued caregivers
And vacant eyed seniors.
I suspected that my buddy
Was the only potential candidate
For reentry into life beyond
The large dark-wooded front doors.
Clean floors and lots of ammonia
Could not cover the pervasive smell of urine.
They could not hide the gloom
From the seriously yellowed fluorescent panels,
Marching the length of the narrow corridor.
John was wheeled into a room
Where two others lay waiting for Godot.
A smallish man lay to his left,
Eyelids determinedly closed, whined softly.
On his right a large blond haired fellow,
Missing a leg, whispered fiercely
Into a space only he could fill.
Invitation to the Dance
I'd like to join the group,
Listen to men of learning,
Participate in their search for something more.
I've been invited to join.
It’s the price of admission that stops me.
No, no money involved,
Just acceptance of their beliefs
Requires my loss of my fantasy.
I doubt that my myth is superior to theirs.
They certainly have more adherents,
And a more salable product.
A complete resume would show
I've done much negotiating
More then once I've placed my principles,
On the anvil of compromise,
Only to see accommodation turn to beheading.
Still, these guys are worth hearing.
My guess?
It has less to do with caste-iron positions
And more to do with lethargy
Listen to men of learning,
Participate in their search for something more.
I've been invited to join.
It’s the price of admission that stops me.
No, no money involved,
Just acceptance of their beliefs
Requires my loss of my fantasy.
I doubt that my myth is superior to theirs.
They certainly have more adherents,
And a more salable product.
A complete resume would show
I've done much negotiating
More then once I've placed my principles,
On the anvil of compromise,
Only to see accommodation turn to beheading.
Still, these guys are worth hearing.
My guess?
It has less to do with caste-iron positions
And more to do with lethargy
Unexpressible.
There was this understanding.
We were, and remain today,
A very loving family.
Some truths do not require a voice.
Some are just too. Too what?
Too embarrassing to state openly?
What was the omen that cautioned us
Not to say words that committed?
Under who's roof, under what commandment,
Facing what threat did we avoid sounds of endearment.
I have said those words
But not before I turned 60.
I say them hurriedly,
Feeling pressured not to linger,
Wanting to qualify the sentiment as to time and place.
As a child we were taught never to say God’s name?
I feel no such compunction now.
Those other words, warm and caring, somehow cheapened
By casual usage, must not be squandered.
So I now brave the sacred hill,
Telling friends and family that I love them,
Then hurriedly moving beyond the meaning
We were, and remain today,
A very loving family.
Some truths do not require a voice.
Some are just too. Too what?
Too embarrassing to state openly?
What was the omen that cautioned us
Not to say words that committed?
Under who's roof, under what commandment,
Facing what threat did we avoid sounds of endearment.
I have said those words
But not before I turned 60.
I say them hurriedly,
Feeling pressured not to linger,
Wanting to qualify the sentiment as to time and place.
As a child we were taught never to say God’s name?
I feel no such compunction now.
Those other words, warm and caring, somehow cheapened
By casual usage, must not be squandered.
So I now brave the sacred hill,
Telling friends and family that I love them,
Then hurriedly moving beyond the meaning
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