Hummingbird

It starts down from the leafless tip
Of a Magnolia tree.
Dropping, not in response to gravity’s insistence
But for a closer look.

Fixed on its objective,
This magical creature changes its descent
From that of commercial aircraft approaching a runway
To a kamakazi dive: straight down at warp speed.

Disappearing behind an obscuring bush
It must inevitably lie dead on the hidden ground-
Yet as I imagine its broken body
It rises above the bush, hovers, circles and moves on.

Fifth Option

Fifth Option 1/15/12

She came when I called...
After checking, like a good NFL quarterback,
Her four preferred options:
Sandy Beach, Birds, other Dogs and landscape.

Rose wasn’t argumentative.
She simply knew what mattered.
Her piece of the bed might vary,
But always included encampment against my knees.

A 44 pound mutt, should not be difficult to move,
But there was some kind of moral imperative
Blocking the obvious alternative,
To laying with legs frozen in place for seven hours.

Somehow Rose had gained an absolute right
To sleep in a position that forbade me comfort.
Why should she have options
That were not afforded me?

I can imagine Rose replying:
“I don’t get to walk whenever I want,
I don’t get to eat chocolates,
And you can drive without me.”

OK, her logic is somewhat superior to mine.
I never suggested she was stupid.
But fifth option is insulting.
For christ-sake, she could show a little respect.

What Matters?

What Matters ? 1/16/12

I ate a seedless tangerine this morning.
It is not obviously a world changing event.
No clash of civilizations arise
To defend or capture a seedless tangerine.

If we were to discuss the creation of a seedless tangerine,
It would be essential that we consider the science involved.
What happened to the seed?
What are the ramifications of such an accomplishment?

Can we imagine life without seeds?
What about seedless artichokes
Or elephants and whales?
We must be careful.

Can we make tall blond haired people
If genetic seeds can be eliminated?
Will the biblical injunctions against homosexuals
Need modification if reproduction is seedless?

Clearly, however innocently created,
My seedless tangerine suggests grave prospects.
I do not relish the return of that despicable seed,
But we can see the need, for the seed matters.

Two Parking Spaces

Two Parking Spaces 1/18/12

Like the man said “The fault -- is not in the stars”.
I have an adequate garage
So the problem is not mine,
Unless I chose.

My neighbor uses her car rarely,
But leaves it parked so that
What is a two car space
Can hold but one.

It may be her apparent wealth
That argues for special privileges,
Her newest Mercedes could get bumped.
Some day she might have a guest car needing parking.

Other folks on the block,
Many not having a parking space
End up parked blocks away.
Of course, they might recognize the affront.

In truth I’m not sure anyone but me
Is aware of the outrage being perpetrated.
I could post a notice on the curb side trees,
Pointing out the address of the evil doer.

At least theoretically, there is a higher calling here.
My neighbor has usurped a neighborhood asset.
Am I not called upon to attempt to pursued the woman,
And, if nicely done, might it not end happily?

But as I said, I have an adequate garage.

I Am the Keeper of the Word!

I Am the Keeper of the Word! 1/18/12

I am a righteous man.
God’s word is the supreme authority
On all matters.
I study and follow his commandments.

Even though the eight year old girl
Did dress most inappropriately,
Insulting God’s message,
I should have not spit on her.

Her parents are to blame,
Mostly her mother.
Debra, the mother, is a failing believer.
How else to explain the daughter’s despicable school dress.

Of course, it was important that
Both mother and daughter understood our distress.
If we were to allow such a scandalous display
We could expect the Lord’s punishment.

How badly might our young, righteous, men
Drift from their studies,
If confronted by a brazen harlot?
We must be vigilant and unswerving.

And the Crowd Cheered

I was eighteen once.
At least the chronology is there,
Despite a retrospective glance
That suggests I spent the year hiding.

Eighteen is an age of war.
Hormones and your country’s enemies
Form an amalgam top heavy with sex,
And games devoted to super-sizing latent heroics.

While I masturbated as a feeble alternative
To actually risking contact with girls,
Many of my betters had mastered the games,
And concluded Ayn Rand had it right.

Fortunately, they saw themselves as John Galt,
Not the people who would be led to the promised land.
Unfortunately, many did not turn nineteen,
And continued to believe that gravity is optional.

Today, those senior eighteen year-olds
Still talk of kicking butt
And believe the “golden rule”
Is promoted by blood sucking socialists.

Tomorrow they will rule,
And discover that gravity is stubborn;
Compromise is essential,
And that they have been played.

Walks

Walks 1/21/12

Andy walks every chance he gets.
Running stopped when the back surgeries began.
If there was a guinness record for back surgeries
He would own the sucker.

I am 5’6”, Andy’s 5’3”
And five years my senior.
My expectation is that
I will always be able to look down on Andy.

He is my only friend that is shorter
And this makes him special.
He is also a reader and doer,
Both traits I admire, along with my being taller.

Accompanied by my dog, Rose,
Ours is a beachside walk,
Where our assigned roles
Reflect over and underlapping sympathies.

Andy tends toward the tutorial
While I lean in a Brooklyn direction.
It is a rare stroll that fails
To be stimulating and convivial.

I have come to consider our 45 morning minutes
Something of a treasure.
Like me, I suspect Andy, does not want agreement,
Rather, if there is an objective, it is friendship.