A Note From A Friend

Something is dying and we can’t agree

On the cause, the cure or the disease.

He has sent me the rant of an old soldier

Who screamed for what never was.

There is something quite pathetic,

About a sword drawn

To parry an imaginary enemy.

It’s already been put to music.

I hear a redrafting of the Animal Farm constitution,

Calling for “up” to mean “down”,

In words that recall white students

In Little Rock in 57.

Are you outraged by the comparison?

Speak to me of March, 2009.

When you claimed the President a disaster.

At a time he was guilty of being black.

Perhaps the old man is beyond reason,

But what does it say of you?

You who claim he voices your thoughts.

Where will you hide the Jews?

Not Much Yin But Yang Works

She looked about 60,

Blond, sunglasses, thin, 

Head facing forward,

Intent on avoiding eye contact.

Uncomfortable without a prompt.

Dogs and small children make potential bridges.

On my morning constitutional,

Rose, on a short leash, allows me to say “Hi”.

I am at least middle aged,

Unless one expects to live past 150.

I got no response when I greeted the blond,

And my second good morning did no better.

Another “middle aged” man

Taking pity on my abject defeat,

Offered a sympathetic

“That’s OK, I’ll say good morning”.

Accepting the spirit of his message

I loudly addressed the entire planet:

“Good morning world !”,

While wondering about the 60 year old blond.

Old men with small dogs

Do not usually suggest a mugging.

I wasn’t wearing a bathrobe,

So I wasn’t likely to flash her.

She may have been planning 

The murder of her fucking husband

And was simply too self-absorbed

To hear the man 5 feet in front of her.

--------------------------------------------

A young man was waiting in the wrong line.

Knowing I was in the right line

Before he was in the wrong line,

I prepared for battle.

I moved forward with MY line,

Planting both feet firmly,

Waiting for my adversary to protest.

He spoke....

OK, he didn’t speak.

He laughed at himself

For being in the wrong line.

And stepped in behind me.

My Day Is Made

I stormed the mountain,

To discover it was only a hill.

No monsters here, not yet.

But should they come ......

I read lines that wavered,

Caught in an unsettle urgency

That challenged, then rescinded its message,

As though unable to trust the reader.

Given the morning hate,

Spewing from my radio

My day has risen to something bright and shiny.

I think I’ll stay.

For the hill seems welcoming.

The writer has settled

And delivered, with pristine clarity, her poem,

I can believe the hills and dig the poem.

Mutterings

Next year will be better.

It’s 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.

It’s 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.

Man On A Mission

Since it was the only outside table

I wasn’t bothered by his request to join me.

He told me he ran marathons for Kidney cancer,

His brother had been a victim.

Bob had been running marathon’s for three years.

From South America, to Asia, Australia and Europe.

Any money raised went to the cause.

He paid for his travels.

Cynically, I wondered about the tax benefits,

Why not give the travel money directly to the cause?

Then I wondered why I was not inclined

To give the guy a break?

He had two causes.

Should I rank them?

Decide he was less noble?

More ambitious?

What standards do I employ

To shrink his effort?

Jheesh, all he wanted was a little celebrity

And a look at different worlds.

Making Money

Breeding doesn’t take long,

Assuming that’s the purpose of this life,

We have too much spare time.

There must be more.

Lets make money!

Consider all the “goodies” prosperity brings.

It can make your life better,

Fill in the times between breeding sessions.

With money you can leave stuff.

Perhaps a building bearing your name,

Or a portfolio ensuring your heirs

Can leisurely seek out life’s higher purpose.

Think of the nifty games you can play

In your effort to make money.

Home ownership is very popular.

Drinking and eating can move beyond need.

Imagine having a TV show where

Your principal activity was terminating employees.

Not quite the same as ordering a firing squad,

Still, the aphrodisiac element could be near orgiastic.

If you want more opportunities to breed,

Making money can be very helpful.

Attracting good breeding stock with shinny trinkets

Could certainly improve your chances.

While other options could be considered,

Batiking for example, or flossing,

Making money has one very special advantage.

It can buy you a lovely funeral.

Lunch

4 pair of ladies panties, all extra large,

As well as 1 bra and assorted socks hang on the line

That swings from the balcony over looking

Our luncheon table.

It is a perfect juxtaposition.

We may speculate on the nature of man

Or the deeper meaning of baseball,

But in the end it’s the laundry that matters.

Fashion or weather dictates our choice of loincloth,

Plans for the day, or the next Armageddon,

But they're inextricably tied to the choices

A butterfly makes when starting a 1000-mile journey.

Don Quixote searched for the grand challenge.

Had he looked for lady’s underwear, extra large,

Chances are the answers to his noble quest

Would have been displayed emphatically on Dolcineia’s  clothline.

Surely the answer to any quest

Begins with the need to define the objective?

Where better to hunt for meaning

Than among the purified garments of the honest homemaker?