[Read W.B. Yeats’ remarkable poem “The Second Coming"]
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
………………..
And what rough beast, his hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
W. B. Yeats, “The Second Coming” (1919)
He knew—that mildly addled Irishman—
That hist’ry spiraled, bounced like bungees, down
And up, skids from side to side, momentum
Prone. He knew the rapt tides of greed would drown
Us all. But he got one thing wildly wrong.
That rough and slouching Beast does not gestate
Two thousand years! Nowhere near that long—
A decade or two at most. Raw, irate,
Exceptional America fought wars
(Great and small, hot and cold) a dozen times
In a bit more than a century. Scores
Of angry nations ranged not far behind!
Meanwhile, we elders dream of sanity—
A birth of wisdom, love, humanity.
(11/23/10)
Sarah, Arlene, Erez, and Trish bring sock
To the somewhat moribund restaurant
At the bottom of my Venice Beach block.
Finally, entrepreneurs madly flaunt
Imagination! Exotic cuisine—
Sliders, marinated tuna, kebobs.
Various fine coffees, richly caffeined,
Accent multi-flavored bread pudding gobs!
At the bottom of my block, excitement
Reigns, and wise diners, hopefully, will flock—
Recognize the drive, the spirit—ferment
The passion to sustain, expand the shock
Of innovation—make that spot a Scene—
Reward Erez, Sarah, Trish, and Arlene!
(11/23/10)
We lost. Why should I give a thin rat’s ass?
The parties of “no,” smoke, and anarchy
(“Free! Free! Lord god almighty, free at last!”)
Put markets first, strut under greed’s marquee.
Furtive wealth spun, burrowed, wormed to power.
Not our problem. We’re old—our slim future
Firm. Plain work, prudence, insure our dower,
Unsullied by behemoth greed’s gross spoor.
And yet, though unaffected, we must mourn.
“Climate concerns be damned, they limit growth—
Regulation? A page of lib’ral porn—
Environment? A mythic dream we loath!”
They’ll stain our oceans’ blue to murk, sow death;
Their poisoned air will choke their children’s breath.
Astride that Fifth Horse (ageless, handsome roan),
Fierce Wealth devours while spirits softly moan.
(11/11/10)
Historians declare: t’was always thus!
And, I suppose, they’re right. Pols once fought duels,
Caned each other, created monstrous fuss,
Shoveled libelous dirt, shrieking cries and hues.
Though I am eighty now, I’ve never seen
Such foul nonsense, inane stupidity
Projected everywhere demeaning
Each foe’s heart in this cursed democracy.
“You’re a witch!” “Am not!” “Are too!” “You raised tax!”
“Did not!” “Did too!” “Your maid’s illegal!” Rot!
Undisguised nonsense, spewed by hired flacks;
All thought drowned in the piss of cracked teapots!
Diseased democracy, staggered, besot—
Perhaps an enlightened and kind despot
Would save us from the reign of weird crackpots!
(10/31/10)
We’ve got stuff now they never dreamed of—slick
Built-ins—the massive wide screen TV fit
Exactly to the niched wall, the slim, tricked,
Dual oven, proud in taut cabinet.
Learn! The dark side of that trim built-in world’s
A terrifying, damned Armageddon!
Appliance flags inevitably do furl,
Age intrudes, wires fry, the glitz falls dead.
That’s when you discover “DISCONTINUED.”
Gaggeneau slim ovens no longer made,
They’re seven inches wider now (you’re screwed!).
New cook tops can no longer be displayed
In that tiled island built at great expense.
Attention people! Building-in is dense!
(10/29/10)
For M.M-F
Poetry 101 lays down stiff rules—
Each word must count, strike hard! Eschew clichés!
But rules (the cliché holds), often just tools,
Are made to be broken, and clichés say,
Quite deftly, the taut words that must be said
To solemnize sacred, poetic truth.
Hence clichés (consider!) became the bread
Of discourse and description’s able sleuth.
I lay this out because a neighbor chick
Of certain age, an RN wise beyond
Her years—able, strong, emanating slick
Energy, laughter, despite life’s desponds—
Demands cliché, the only course for us,
Because that woman’s plain drop dead gorgeous!
(10/25/10)
