For scores of years Dagwood Bumstead’s wide-eyed
Character comic’ly graced the funnies
But on nine/twenty-two/two thousand nine
Elmo, the kid next door, stunned centuries
Of psychiatry in just 3 panels—
Forty-two taut words. “There’s this little girl
At school who likes me, but I don’t like her.
There’s another girl” (lustrous thoughts, like pearls!),
“And I like her, but she doesn’t like me.”
This, bitterly, we all remember well.
But Elmo’s optimistic youth, we see,
Does not envision what we know of hell—
“I’ll sure be glad when I grow up and all
This gets straightened out, Mr. B.” The fall
Impending, as this innocent matures,
Will tax those medics charged with finding cures.
(9/22/09)
Often, down at the paddle tennis court,
We survey the morning’s display. Today,
On court four, two girls, newcomers, cavort
Clumsily, but so scantily arrayed,
That we, testosterone-bludgeoned, transfixed,
Talk fake philosophy, yet cannot hide
A somewhat baser interest (think tryst!).
Our youngest, quite unable to abide
The neurological pull of creamed flesh,
Makes a move. The women grin, check him out—
They know this game better than he—eyes meshed,
They silently agree, suspend their doubt.
“So,” the tall one says, amused by his jive,
“You’re cute enough—but what car do you drive?”
(9/18/09)
Some folks down at the paddle tennis court
BELIEVE! Man oh man, really do believe.
They’ve been to school, read, write, and yet contort
Plain reality; wishfully conceive
A loving god and immortality.
“We do not, cannot die—eternal soul’s
Our guarantee.” With such banality,
Their fervent, glistening eyes skyward roll!
Intelligent designers, I suppose,
Can make souls, sow their magisteria
With spirits—but why just man? Cannot crows,
Fleas, fish, asps, kangaroos, bacteria
Wallow in souls as well? And if not, why?
Only bipeds qualify? I decry
Rank injustice! Honor the mosquito,
Or, by god, subject all souls to veto!
(9/11/09)
My neighbors’ child Cash, now sixteen months old—
Life measured in months! While my years, decades,
Eras rush. I know for whom the bell tolls:
For this time-hollowed wreck—drained, degraded.
The sun, lifting night’s curtain, lights the stage
Whereon Cash, enthralled, perceives mystery
While fierce cognition, stokes, flames his nascent
Mind, creating there thrill-filled history.
My play is closing; the trite, worn-out tunes,
The cold, heaped ashes of my life, endorse
That blunt, ancient view: there is nothing new
Under the sun! That grist mill, Time, grinds coarse.
While my days, dark, menace with dry thunder,
Gleeful Cash greets his with wide-eyed wonder.
(9/8/09)
Where do writers get their plots?
Today, at Ralph’s supermarket,
Standing at the cashier’s
Queue,
I heard her greet the woman
Just ahead of me.
“I saw your husband yesterday,
He bought some lovely flowers.”
“Flowers?” Frowning,
Snarling,
“What flowers?”
And there it was—
The opening scene:
A four star murder mystery—
Tortured complex histories:
Betrayal, sex, rage—
Deadly retribution,
And, of course, flowers.
Three Golden Globes!
Best Original Screenplay!
It didn’t happen quite like that.
The woman, grinning, said,
“A beautiful bouquet,
He’s such a dear, my Ted.”
Her mundane words too late—
I had my plot!
(9/1/09)
Reflection on my struggle to burn a computer CD.
For J.J
I’m going on eighty, been through a lot—
Been called a Jew Christ-killer, lost schoolyard
Fights (won some, too). Swallowed the acrid snot
Of subordination. Reduced to shards
By slow promotion. Wept for one lost wife
(But found another). Twice lost election
To Department Chair—two vote rejection!
That stung, as well as blessed—I dodged the rife
Strife—administrator’s pain, spirit’s blight.
At the gym, I couldn’t twist a T-knob
Wound too tight; a woman—two-thirds my height,
Half my weight—freed it easily (throat sob!).
But no humiliation so stung me
As my defeat by Windows damned XP!
(8/26/09)
