Ceres Above Lasalle Street

Goddess of Grain, standing among the clouds, 

Atop the tower called the Board of Trade, 

One hundred years, almost, you’ve watched the crowds 

That fill the streets below, like a parade 

Of hungry life, the market-makers hustling, 

The lawyers squabbling as the deals get made, 

And back behind the scene, the bankers bustling 

To pile the money up, and then to lend it 

All out again in hopes of getting more. 

Life must go on - unless you want to end it - 

It must keep cycling through a central core: 

Production and exchange keep people fed, 

The bounty of the harvest widely spread.

Ask Your Doctor

 Ask your doctor if X is right for you!

That’s what they say - and so that’s what I do. 

I call my doctor every week, you see,

To find out if each med is right for me,

Especially when I cannot figure out 

What X is for - I give my doc a shout. 

And here’s his oddest recommendation yet:

He said I should get off the internet

And skip through all commercials on TV

That show a happy person running free

Through open fields with some mysterious glee

While droning voices list the side effects

That fall upon poor patients like a hex.

Said the Maple to the Oak

Said the maple to the oak,

Fall is here and that’s no joke. 

I’ve put on my scarlet cloak. 

Said the oak tree to the maple,

There’s a shade of copper cable…

That’s the brightest I am able. 

Said the trees then to each other,

Soon we’ll face the winter weather,

Standing proudly, bare together.

Unclear

My speech was rather unclear. 

 Somehow I didn’t hear 

The shimmering sounds of words 

Quite like others heard. 

 This struggle went on for years, 

Let’s say till I was eight. 

 And so I grew to hate 

Not being understood - 

Which lived on, as an inmost fear, 

Long, long afterward.

People of the Book

They had a book that other people loved,
A book that showed a way to walk in glory
By following a law. A book of stories
Succinctly told, that seemed to rise above
The moral tone of all those pagan tales
Of gods whose virtue mostly seems to fail.
The other people loved the book so much,
They took it on, but with some alterations,
Taking the form of yet more revelations,
Which somehow made it easier to clutch
Close to the heart, and less a thorny thing
To argue over endlessly - as if
Anything less would give the text short shrift.
At least that's how it seemed to them, the tribe
That owned the book - that testament of passion.
They could not go along with this new fashion
Of modifying what they had imbibed
As mother's milk. And so they stood alone,
And tried to keep the law that was their own.

The Beckoning Bayou

 They say that people who routinely put things off

Are mostly perfectionists (cough, cough)

Who are afraid

Of committing to wade

Into that big swamp

Where the frisky gators chomp,

Where uncertain wrestling

Presents the distressing

Prospect of possible flopping. 

How pleasant, then to be stopping

And waiting 

And contemplating 

Despite the fact that what is needed

Is something more like rushing unheeded 

Into the murky slime

Tackling, perhaps, one gator at a time,

Probably starting first

With the one who looks like the worst.

Anniversary

It is hard to maintain perspective 

When a person holds your heart for decades

And perhaps there’s no point in trying. 

Entangled love, undying,

Yields a close up view,

Unique for you. 

And stepping back to be more objective 

Is an exercise defying

Common sense,

Especially since

It’s big inside another human being. 

There’s always something more to be seeing. 

For better or worse

It’s like another universe,

Which somehow bends

A gravitational lens 

Into your own,

So that a similar dizzying close up view

Of you

Is shown

To your partner alone. 

Grandchildren

Grandchildren, I love you dearly, 

But let me tell you sincerely 

 I’m seriously glad 

You’ve got a mom and dad 

To take the lead on your care. 

 Since I would spoil you and make you bad, 

Which would be extremely unfair. 

 So let them lay down their rules, 

And pay for your room and board, 

While we play together like fools, 

Which sometimes is the subtlest form of school.

No Fear Shakespeare

There is a set of books called No Fear Shakespeare 

Which translate Shakespeare into modern prose -

On facing pages. Meaning is made clear!

But does it mean the same? Well, it seems close. 

Elizabethan grammar could be strange,

His mythical allusions are obscure,

His vocab runs outside the normal range,

Perhaps it’s more than most folks can endure. 

Even the English majors glance at notes

While reading Henry, Hamlet, and King Lear. 

Sometimes the experts rip each other’s throats 

In thickets where the text is far from clear. 

But if, perchance, you start to catch the drift,

Abundant are the treasures there to sift.

Not For The Faint Of Heart

Translation is an art

That’s not for the faint of heart. 

And it turns extra scary,

When the text is literary,

And when it’s (shudder) poetic,

The peril is pathetic. 

The problem is the words

Were pointedly picked to be heard,

To be savored, almost sung. 

But the sounds vary crazily

From tongue to tongue. 

As a first shot you can lazily 

Give AI a try,

But somehow it never quite

Gets texture or flavor right.

Translator Accused

Translator, traitor!
They say.
And some will add
That even though the English isn’t bad,
The original Italian blows it away.
“Traduttore, traditore.”
Which does little for me,
But then again I’m not from Italy,
So I’m in a poor position to disagree.
English is the language that’s truly mine,
So translator/traitor will have to do just fine!

Inheritance

I hear my father’s and my mother’s voices
Inside my head. And when I face hard choices
I do not find they give the same advice.
My mother sweetly leaned toward the nice,
My father strongly leaned toward the tough.
Yes, underneath his trial lawyer’s gruff
Exterior he had a softer side.
And behind my mother’s sweetness could be spied
A steely resolution. But it’s plain
That these two voices never will attain
Agreement as to what would be the best
Course of action. Beating in my chest,
My mother’s heart inclines in one direction,
While in my brain’s more analytical section,
My father’s eyes chart out alternative ways
To navigate what may be a hazardous maze.
How these two ever made a life together
Puzzles me at times. Regardless, whether
Or not they always saw things eye to eye,
They worked things out, and somehow they got by,
And left me here to try to work things out
Between their dueling legacies, which shout
Incompatible notions to my ear.
Of course, I’m old, and I have gotten clear
On most of this, but still, sometimes I hear
The two of them, and when I must decide,
I hope my judgment has been fortified
By the debate that’s going on inside.

The Book of Job

The Book of Job opens up with the Devil
Making a bet with God,
Which is odd,
But sort of explains the presence of evil.
Job complains
Of his boils and pains
And his life getting generally worse,
Being careful
While giving God this earful
Not to break out in a curse,
Always ready to praise
His mysterious ways
But just asking why -
Just wanting a cause -
That an upright man who followed the laws
Should be so beset.
And what does Job get?
An explanation?
Not so much.
He does get chided for being so out of touch
As to demand to understand
When he doesn’t know
What makes the universe go -
Wasn’t there for the creation.
But because he keeps a civil tongue in his head,
He eventually gets new children instead
To replace the ones that are dead,
And prospers again.
He never does get told about Satan’s bet.
My mind rebels against this tale, and yet…
And yet I come back to it when
I see someone good, to whom
There has been a visitation of doom,
And I think to myself it’s a myth
But there’s something herewith,
Something true
About what to do,
Namely to stand upright,
When forced to suffer through,
And not take random blame
And not grab at straws to explain
And not curse the universe
With a prayer for flame.

Children

I certainly have heard it argued sincerely
That having children is not itself rewarding.
I must admit I find this argument frightful,
Believing as I do that they’re delightful.
Tastes vary of course. You may find children merely
Annoying tenants that you’re stuck with boarding.

I’ve heard it argued that their earliest years
Are times to be endured, not much enjoyed.
I scratch my head. What infants have they known?
Our hearts may quiver when we see their tears,
But that’s a sign our hearts are well employed
At vital work. We feel it. It is shown.

I’ve heard it argued all the fun comes after
A child is grown, but have you heard their laughter?
Their little voices ringing out like bells,
Dispelling gloom, bestowing benediction,
Becoming over time a glad addiction,
Rejuvenating spirits like nothing else.

Trials of Skill

Trials of skill are never truly easy,
But that’s the way the gifted make them seem.
I watch a tightrope walker, I get queasy,
While he does flips and splits I wouldn’t dream
Of doing - even on a cushioned floor.
Of course the key is practice, practice, practice,
And then perhaps a little practice more.
The skater, showing off her triple axels, Fell many times while mastering that landing.
It doesn’t mean just anyone can do it -
When contemplating talent that’s outstanding,
It often seems there’s something inborn to it.
But all the powers you receive at birth,
Will prove at last to be of paltry worth
Unless you find a purpose to pursue.
Gifts blossom best when love of task is true.

Charmin The Musical Lyrics Video

Love

 It is a form of madness, so some say,

That overtakes calm reason’s gentle way,

And sweeps aside most practical objections 

In favor of primordial predilections. 

The heart has reasons, reason knows not of,

Declared one thinker. Did he think of love?

Perhaps then love is not a form of treason

But rather greater fealty to reason. 

Logic can puzzle out the hidden drives

That populate the passions of our lives,

But mostly that’s in hindsight’s golden glow. 

In the moment it’s often hard to know

Just how the heart is choosing when it’s choosing,

Resulting in a gladness that’s confusing.

Ted K.

 The Unabomber was brilliant at math,

But went off the rails with enviro-wrath. 

If he’d majored in English he might have known,

That he could be caught by prose style alone.

Forty Copies

I received a gift from a friend,
A book of his poems - which I would recommend,
But he published a limited run,
Just forty copies and then he was done,
No print-on-demand, no e-book.
So drop by my house. I’ll give you a look.
Due to the author’s carefully considered refusal,
It’s only available in my library
For solitary perusal.

Diplomatic Language

Many a signed-and-sealed treaty
Is vague about things that are meaty.
They load lots of nuance up front,
And into the future they punt,
Hoping the next generation
Finds a peaceful interpretation.

Being a Thorough Skeptic

Being a thorough skeptic
Who never says: yes that’s true,
Is like pouring antiseptic
Straight in your brain, you eschew
The pain of being wrong,
But there’s a price to it too:
You live your whole life long
Uncertain of what to do.

Mulberry Season

Mulberry season is coming,
A thought that fills me with glee.
Nobody else seems to like them,
Which means there are plenty for me.
I especially eat them when running-
I pluck them right off of the tree.

Ridge Run

 I always struggle with expressing myself on Memorial Day weekend. This year I finally wrote a poem I liked about the holiday:

Heartrending holiday -
Summer comes rolling in,
The days turn sweet and warm,
We picnic and we play,
But somewhere a bell is tolling:
They died in uniform.

My usual activity for Memorial Day, since the early 80s, has been to run a local neighborhood race, and then to watch some of the parade on Longwood Drive. But, while waiting at Ridge Park for the parade, I had a mishap.

I lost my glasses in the grass,
After the run.
Somebody found them. Thank you! Thank you!
You’re number one!

Sprung

 Perhaps the snow is truly gone. 

A vibrant green has seized the lawn. 

The sky shines blue, the air blows warm,

And life, which crouched in dormant form,

Springs forth triumphant. And some small bird

Chirps of the change which has occurred.

Enright

 Most “right” names have a W. 

Which comes from old English for maker. 

But Enright is from a different root,

And so it’s a spelling rule breaker. 

It comes from some word in Irish,

But no one’s sure which word. 

“Lawful” or maybe “attacker” -

Those are the ones I’ve heard. 

I’d like to get this settled

But need a Time Machine. 

Which is the “right” explanation?

What does this name really mean?

Port’s Prayer

 Muse, I have done as you asked, I have tried hard to serve. 

Dazzled I was, by the sound of the spoken word,

Spoken with aural charms but not yet sung,

Spoken with nothing but tones from my native tongue,

Entrancing so strangely, spelled out, as they were, in plain sight,

But casting a spell nonetheless and I eagerly sought

To learn the devices, the rhythms, the echoes of sounds,

And the art of compressing the meaning to something intense,

With figures of speech, and allusions, and quick turns of sense. 

Long have I labored through love at this troublesome task. 

Muse, I have struggled to serve. I have done what you asked. 

It was all I could do, and I hope that it pleased you at times,

As I poured out my thoughts in this tumbling cascade of rhymes.

Exercise

 If Pharma sold us Exercise 

Embedded in a pill

With all the same Health Benefits,

Without the need for Will,

Then everyone would swallow it. 

I must say, so would I. 

But all our current scientists,

Declare “Not yet!” - and sigh.

For A Dance

John the Baptist spoke unpleasantly 

About higher ups, and presently 

His head was brought forth on a platter. 

It seems that surely this would end the matter? 

Not quite. His sightless eyes 

Bored into their souls, and to their surprise, 

They found they still had consciences to drown, 

And felt their dreams of triumph spiraling down.

The Bent Stick Illusion

 The stick looks straight underwater. 

The stick looks straight aboveground. 

The stick looks bent when halfway in,

But at least it doesn’t look round. 

Some say our eyes deceive us. 

But they’re doing the best that they can!

You have other ways to test if it’s bent,

Like grabbing the stick with your hand!

And after sufficient testing 

And vigorous interaction 

You may begin to understand 

Something about refraction.

Movie Star

 I think it’s hard to be a movie star. 

You do not have much job security -

You know how fickle audiences are. 

So when you stare off at futurity,

You’re filled with doubt.  You’re not sure why they love you,

You’re worried your next film may be a bomb,

You do not trust executives above you-

I’d say it’s none too good for inner calm!

Time

 Some people try to make the case

That time is an illusion,

But having run a lengthy race,

This seems like more confusion. 

Memories come from a distant shore,

Which happens to be the past. 

And some are sad, and some are sore,

But others are a blast.

Rubber Band

Sometimes I find, when I am procrastinating, 

It helps to visualize a rubber band 

That's pulling me to the task that I am hating, 

And, feeling that pull, it somehow comes to hand. 

Procrastination is a kind of tension 

Between a thing you'd really like to do 

And possibly a fear you'd rather not mention 

That maybe this problem is just too much for you. 

Once knee-deep in whatever swamp is calling, 

The alligators don't seem quite so furious. 

Viewed from afar, the challenges are sprawling. 

Viewed from up close, they're smaller and more curious. 

Is this guaranteed? Nope. That I cannot say. 

But often enough for me it works this way.

Artifacts

Statistical artifacts are my favorite kind of facts,

Luring you in, making you look front and back,

Mathematical mirages of causality,

Real but misleading clues to actuality.

Visualizing

Imagination’s great for writing plays

But when it comes to grief, it just delays

Acceptance, since they seem to reappear

In flashes. Sharply. All too briefly here.

Jan 1

It’s an arbitrary date 

That we use to mark the year 

But we’ve got to mark it somewhere 

So it might as well be here. 

The Roman god named Janus 

Had two faces, one looked back, 

The other, it stared forward, 

At the up-and-coming track.