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.