Names

Met a new family today—
Jason and Poppy—dad and mom.
Isaiah, four, excels at play,
While year-old Cyrus, calm as balm,

Watched everything attentively,
And Cousin Jordan lent his hands
To keep the party filled with glee.
The names, those tangled twisted strands,

Resonate historically.
The youngest, Cyrus, freed the Jews
(Thrashed Babylon), because he needs
Strategic buffers to defuse

Egypt’s aspirations—foretold
By Isaiah (that loud organ).
This to and fro-ing all unfolds
Right there on old river Jordan!

Which leaves Jason and Poppy—dad
And mom. Now, Jason’s tale’s too long,
Too bloody, too complex, too sad
To retell here. You’d best not wrong

Your wife as Jay did Medea,
Lest your fate mirror his tragic
Fall from grace—look it up and see
The price imposed by Dee’s magic!

Poppy’s a lovely flower—strong
And beautiful—the source of peace,
Addiction also. But no wrong
Ensues when poppy decreases

Pain medicinally. These names—
Rich with awe-filled myth, mystery—
Endow this family with claims
Embedded in fierce history.
                    (3/12/10)

Posted in Friends, Words

My Wife

My wife’s a cornucopia—
Spilling science, squash, ceramics—
My home’s a near utopia,
Fashioned by her daemon: manic.

She turns and builds and paints and fires—
She grandly grows both flowers and veg—
Recycles, composts, rules, desires—
By god, she’s even baking bread.

Mostly she smiles and jitterbugs,
Though sometimes fate deals her chagrin—
Never morose, she sometimes shrugs—
Her Yang well-balanced by her Yin.
                        (2/16/10)

Posted in Inspiration, Joan

Maintenance

We’ve got two cars—Forerunner twelve years old,
Lexus, eighteen. We don’t drive much but still
Time counts and, even more than wear, takes toll.
The sensors fail, gaskets rot, fluids spill,

Brakes, tires thin, and dreaded maintenance
Shrieks its need. We could, of course, buy pristine
New cars, eschew repairs, flaunt wealth, enhance
Our stark lives. But we felt, somehow, demeaned

By such defeat—besides, could not abide
Dealing with new and strange technology.
So we spent eight grand! Sucked it in and sighed,
Resigned those wrecks to major surgery.

At vigil’s end, we welcomed home that pair—
Slick with new cartilage, veins freed of plaque
Well shod, knees firm, heart timed, bright neurons flared.
What’s more, we’re sixty thousand in the black!
                           (2/15/10)

Posted in Gadgets

Eighty

     When old age shall this generation waste,
     Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
     Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
     ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
     Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’
               John Keats, from “Ode on a Grecian Urn”

     [This will be difficult if you don’t know Keats’s poem]

You know, I’ve never really liked that poem
(Unravished bride—my ass!)—and that greasy,
Weasel ending (pathetic fallacy!)
Spoken by an antique urn—poofy, prim!

Sententious, chiseled marble, for chrissake!
Tell me, pagan pot, what does it mean—truth
Is beauty, beauty truth? Long in the tooth
As I am, I’ll tell you “truth”—it’s tears, ache,

Withered testes, oblivious to both
Ravishing brides or painted, ornate pots.
Wasted by stark old age, consumed by rot,
I testify: the ravages I loathe
Birth real beauty, truth—all you need inveighed—
A book, firm bed, warm duvet, strong nsaid­1.
                       (2/13/10)

1 For the young and unafflicted, nsaid = nonsteroidal-anti-inflammation drug.

Posted in Aging, Bullshit

Preserving Plutocracy: Part II—How Much Is Enough?

As I write, seven hundred ninety-three
Bloated billionaires dominate our Earth,
While enterprise, notoriously free,
Gives hundred-million dollar fortunes birth—

Ten thousand (maybe more!)—think about it!
At a modest five percent return, shrewd
Plutocrats (the poorest ones!) get to flout
Five million bucks. Jeez—with such wealth imbued,

What can they buy? Dinner out ev’ry night
With good wine—say five hundred Cs—chump change!
Not even two-hundred thou a year, right?
But then there’s costly politics—arrange

To keep wages, taxes low—save themselves
From any inroads on their filthy pelf.
                             (2/12/10)

Posted in Greed, Politics

Preserving Plutocracy: Part I—Weeds

An obese neighbor with striped politics,
Distressed by socialist taxes spoke out:
“Take the world’s wealth—divide it equally
Among everyone on earth—in five years
That same one percent of us would, again,
Control that same wealth.” Probably, he’s right.
But right’s a complex word. Morality,
Pesky weed, like kudzu, spreads ev’rywhere.
And, despite all plutocratic efforts
Those damn weeds (happily) just won’t succumb.

Self-interest, that humble plant, blossoms
Into greed, distressed by the encroaching
Weeds that limit obscene growth. “Wit and work
Grow my spoils—weedy morals blight my crops.
For what? To save the fools, the indolent?”
This question’s not so simple as it seems.
Listen plutocrats! To exploit your world,
You must first save it, must nurture those fools,
Those indolents—be both right and righteous—
And next, consider: How Much Is Enough?
And thus—both seemly rich and generous,
Embracing karmic virtue—serve to quell
Desp’rate anger, armed, raging to rebel.
Cultivate the weeds; save yourselves from hell.
                             (1/21/10)

Posted in Greed, Neighbors, Politics