Sunday, December 30, 2012

Looking in the Rearview Mirror

Looking in the Rearview Mirror


'Tis not the safest way to move forward
To be looking back at where you've been.
But it can be difficult to know one's whereabouts
Without the knowledge of the path that lead to here.

Trapped in nostalgia, trying to rekindle past ashes,
May yield little energy to power today's craft.
Locked in a view of old familiar memories
Blinds one for oncoming hazard and opportunity.

And yet I do linger on what has already passed
With only faint anticipation for the future yet.
Less than expectation, the feeling is pessimistic;
The pleasant has been balanced by the less desirable to be.

In youth the road ahead is long and unexplored
And with unsatisfied boldness we rush to meet it.
But in the ebbtide, many happy discoveries are behind,
Perhaps gone beyond reach, but not from hindsight.

Does a discontent man drive to reinvent and restart
While the happily complacent merely rehashes and reuses?
Is it gluttony to desire more virgin grounds to despoil
Or to overharvest the same trodden acres to ruin?

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Airing of Grievances

Airing of Grievances

(“I got a lot of problems with you people!”)


As we gather today on Festivus,
Or at least as I might wish to imagine,
We may release our mental detritus
When our thoughts carefully we examine.

Perhaps it started as a silly joke,
Made famous on a old television show;
A rebellion from the holidays broke
From which the too many divisions grow.

But we might all indeed get benefit
From an annual cleansing in the air;
We could to each other this once admit
The disappointments we silently bear.

And we probably should also listen
When a grievance is directed our way
To learn of our own flaws from us hidden
Which cause those surrounding us some dismay.

If family and friends were this honest,
Even if only but this once each year,
The rest of the days we would be less stressed
And airing of grievances would bring us cheer.

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Joy of Giving

Joy of Giving


I like to blend charity
With much anonymity.
It is what those who receive
Are reinforced to believe
About the people around
Where help is readily found.

I do not want the credit
But hope to widely spread it
To everyone whom we meet
As we walk out on the street,
To every unknown face there
Who silently within do care.

Yes, I do enjoy the game
Of impishness without blame;
To add the prank to the gift
To give with laughs extra lift.
It makes the giving more fun,
When none know I am the one.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Gathering 'Round the Holiday Tree


Gathering 'Round the Holiday Tree

There are those who say,
In these times of holiday,
That all trees which shine
Are only Christmas divine.
They protest to share
All the decorated glare
With whom believe not
The Christmas tale they were taught.

Which of the magi
Was the tree-toting wise guy?
Did a shepherd haul
The tree to the scene natal?
Maybe I have missed
That gift on the baby's list,
But it's likely true
That elsewhere this folklore grew.

Evergreen brings life
Inside through the winter strife.
Pagans sought its charm
To help them feel safe and warm.
As the sun climbs back
From the deep point on its track,
The memory of spring
To those fragrant boughs does cling.

Christians it deplored
As a mockery of their Lord.
Many centuries passed
Ere with Christmas it was cast.
With food, ball, and light
They covered that borrowed sight.
Not in manger born,
But from ancient customs torn.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Mr. Toad's Bumpy Ride

Mr. Toad's Bumpy Ride


Surely it was late night gastrointestinal distress, I told myself upon opening my eyes. A bit too much dinner, that extra wide slice of pie.

For there I was sitting in the roofless jalopy, bouncing down rough dirt roads. And at the controls was a well-dressed gigantic toad. Or perhaps I, the car, and the landscape had all shrunk to his scale. Under either explanation, I felt my stomach torturously cast about inside my frame with my skeletal structure alternately compressed and stretched with each bump.

Are we going somewhere?” I asked the driver. “Are we so terribly late that we need such haste?”

We have made much progress, but we still have a long way to go,” the toad reassured me.

But where are we going?”

Forward” was his simple reply.

Would we not get there at any speed? Must I experience such jostling and inner turmoil for so general a goal?”

We were on the wrong road when I took the wheel,” explained Toad.  "It has taken almost until now to get back to where we need to start. And the other passengers have become rather impatient.”

Looking over my shoulder into the backseat, I now saw my fellow travelers. A Mole, a Rat, and a Badger. While Mole was enjoying the adventure, Rat seemed quite eager to have this trip end, reverse, or, at least, change course.  Badger, in the middle, was asleep.

Oh, hello,” I said. “Glad to meet you. How are you chaps doing back there?”

As well as can be expected,” replied Mole.

We have not crashed yet,” commented Rat more glumly. “But be assured, we will.”

Badger quietly snored, unanswering.

You seem quite unhappy to be on this trip, Rat. Why did you come?”

For the company, I suppose. I scarcely was asked whether I wanted to come or not. Before I could state a single reasonable objection, we were speeding off. Who knows what cliff lays ahead, but Toad holds the belief that with enough velocity the car may simply learn to fly.”

You are exaggerating again, Rat,” the Badger said in a soft rebuke without stirring. “Relax. Close your eyes and maybe you will see fewer imagined dire possibilities.”

You do worry an awful lot, Rat,” said Mole in a gentle and friendly voice, “It really cannot be good for you to worry so.”

Mole, my loving friend, you do not worry enough,” replied Rat. “You accept boon and bust with the same concession to inevitability as though you have no say one way or the other. 'All is for the best' and 'What will be will be'. You are not so insignificant as you chose to believe. Choices can be made, made by you, to guide you to the better and to avoid the worse.”

But I do not need to choose, Rat. If the outcome of every event is known and selected in advance, how will we have any adventure in surprises and discovery? I would never have met you, Rat, or you either, Badger and Toad, if I stayed tucked into my comfy home under the tree,”

He has a point,” Badger opened his eyes to state. “Peace and quiet are good for napping, but you achieve little if asleep all the time. The world keeps spinning and changing every day and you cannot hold it back, Rat. No matter how much you may wish. And you cannot know all the changes before they appear, so you are best to be prepared to adapt to what comes.”

Everyone hold tight!” Toad warned excitedly. Moments later, the car was careening down an extra rocky slope with no sign of slowing in Toad's navigaton of the obstacles.

Now, really, Toad,” Rat protested. “Use the brakes.”

No time for that now, Rat,” shouted Toad. “It is only a brief shortcut, I think,” he murmured more softly as he wretched the path of the car around the larger nearly boulders.

Wheeeeeee,” cried Mole as he poked his head into the front seat between Toad and me. “Oh, that was a close one; well done, Toad.”

Perhaps you should sit back down, Mole,” suggested Badger, “and let Toad concentrate on his steering.” Mole returned to the seat behind me, but lean over the side of the car to watch the landscape go whirling past.
 

As Toad continued our plummet, I wished that I might too be in the backseat, if indeed I needed to be in the car at all. None of the travelers seemed to question the need for this precarious ride nor their presence here. Neither Mole's exuberant optimism nor Rat's fatalistic pessimism stirred Badger from his patient nonchalance. Toad assumed his command of the vehicle, but the route was perhaps less his priority than his distant goal. It felt like I had seen this circumstance being played out in my waking life as well, for I was surely like the snoozing Badger, ignoring the uncertainties and conserving my energies to deal with what will happen rather than worry or wistfully speculate about the too many possibilities.
 

In recognizing my dream state for what it was, it broke up into cerebral mist again. In the fog banks of my mind, perhaps these sprites will await their opportunity to stage some future drama about their bumpy ride or other adventures or humdrum in their lives together.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

No Trepassing Without Permission

No Trepassing Without Permission

No Trepassing Without Permission



Watch your step as you tread on my toes.
I like a zone where nobody goes.
You are free to dance to whatever tune
And to howl yourself hoarse to the moon.

But grant me the space to do the same,
To voice my thoughts and to take my blame.
Let me cross your belief with my own,
Grateful for the patience you have shown.

Fence in your beliefs in your border
And sort them for comfort and order.
But we may listen, yet still not agree;
Our freedom hinges on our courtesy.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Ode to A Turkey

Ode to A Turkey


My tummy aches, and a satiated sleep overcomes
  My eyes, as though chugging Nyquil I partook,
Or shared a case of Ripple amongst the bums
   Until fully drunk upon the bleary world I look:
'Tis not through alcohol that I imbibed,
  Not cranberry, potato, gravy, nor apple pie
     In mountainous piles upon my plate,
       Stuffed as much as I tried
  To feast alongside thy luscious thigh,
     But 'tis your tryptophan rendered me sedate.

O for another notch or two! That belt loosen
  With a sigh of relief from deep within,
Expanding volume and the unpressured abdomen,
   Jiggle, and hearty burp, and gluttonous sin!
O for the bottle full of the pink Pepto!
   Full of the antidote for gustatory abuse,
     With viscous ooze coating all the tract
       And ease for alimentary woe;
  That I might dose and take a peaceful snooze
     And with thee passed through, get my comfort back.

Pass all through, digest, and absorb that
   What thou unbeknownst hath today given me,
The calories, the protein, and the fat,
   Here, where families dine with worshipful glee;
Where ancient Uncle again retells his jokes,
   Where too tall teen at the kids table sits,
     Where but to eat is to miss half the fun
       And risk snickered chokes;
  Where joy cannot hide behind the sacred rites
     Or old travails dull the enthusiatic reunion.

Here! Here! forever thou stay tenderly,
   Not captured by my gut and my body,
But held with gentle clasp of Memory,
   Though synapses age and grow shoddy:
Already thou merges! thy feast hath joined others
   And content Thanksgiving is upon the stage
     Surrounded by its many blessing past
       Dimming out the faded bothers,
   But that troubles passed without permanent damage,
     For here and now we gather again at last.

I cannot see the future beyond my eyes,
   Nor who will attend our next annual feast,
But, in enchanted dreams, my hope will realize
   All such speculation is of importance least:
The laughs, the stories, and good times shared,
   Blessings counted and burdens lifted,
     In camaraderie and assemblies years ago
       And with kin and friends who cared;
   These are what thy festival has to us gifted
     Upon which our fate and happiness doth grow.

Dark meat I eat; and, for many years,
   I have overfilled in a game with lurking Pain,
Taunted him with food stuffed to my ears
   To wrap me head and torso in constricting chain;
Now again precautions were all neglected,
   As experience whispered not on my shoulder,
     Whilst thou are tempting in thy savory aroma,
       Me left unprotected!
   Still wouldst thou entreat, and, not wiser, just older,
     I respond to eat myself into a coma.

Thou wast born for death, delicious Bird!
   The hungry generations gobble thee down;
The first drumstick, the second (but not a third)
   I thought yummy as many for years have found.
Perhaps for more, thy white flesh is as good,
  With thy gravy poured thickly on top,
    In company of an ear of sugar-and-butter corn
      And all other manners of food.
  Arrays of dishes at the table that ne'er doth stop
     To celebrate the sacrifice for which thou were born.

Born! the word that starts all our fates,
   From thee to me my thoughts again turn!
Farewell! and thanks to you and your mates
   For pleasures and lessons we yearly learn.
Bye, bye! Thou hast filled our body and mind
   With much nourishment for today and all year
     As a symbol for this holiday we keep
       To be thankful for what we find:
   Such a ramble to bounce from ear to ear;
     Now, go away – I want to sleep.

Pacificist Reflections on Veterans' Day

A Pacificist Reflections
 on Veterans' Day

I hate war and all its waste;
The nations ruined and lives erased.
I wish there to be no need
For troops that armed conflicts breed.

I never want to make war.
When young, I refused what I abhor.
As years have passed, others went,
To have their minds and bodies be spent.

I now look back at my hopes
In light of how the real world copes.
To wish away an evil thing
Does naught to remove reality's sting.

My Dad went, but never spoke,
Of the flames of war that evils stoke.
To hate the fight, not who fought,
Is what time and life to us has taught.

It doesn't please me they must serve,
But I feel the thanks that they deserve.
I may hope a world at peace,
But they stand ready until wars cease.

How may I help that to be?
The answer has always eluded me.
It is the goal that is wrong
In its certainty for which we long.

The world has no absolutes
And we will forever have our disputes.
From playground to globally,
We will find reasons to disagree.

As we mature, maybe if,
With cooler minds, we'll avoid the cliff.
But in our kind will still be
That looming bit of geography. (pathology?)

Prepared or not, we will fight;
Little pause to ask if we are right.
When over that human brink,
We will struggle to make ourselves think.

So, it is necessity
That I concede to reality,
My debt for unwanted needs
So ably met by veterans' deeds.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

The Obligation of Choice

THE OBLIGATION OF CHOICE

At first glance, I thought all the inhabitants had the same bilaterally hued, two-toned colorations.  The black and white patterns split down the center on both their clothing and their flesh.

“Where am I?” was my first query.


Two representatives separated themselves from the crowd and approached me. “Welcome to Volitio,” said one vigorously. “Will you be leaving soon?” asked the other as eagerly.


“Volitio; well, I guess I am truly lost. Can you help me get my bearings? I do not even remember leaving my bed. Which hemisphere is this?”

“North,” replied the greeting, and somewhat shorter, one. “West,” said the taller one.

“May I address you by name? I am Lemuel.”

“You may call me Emil, but my compatriot may not be so ready for such cordiality yet.” The short man extended his hand which I clasped briefly.

“If it will move this along, I am Horace, and you may so address me,” begrudged the taller man. Horace's hands remained at his sides.

“Oh, no,” interjected Emil, “do not feel any haste. Please visit if you have the time.”

“Well,” I said, eying Horace who obviously felt less accomodating, “I would enjoy knowing more about Volitio and its people, since I have been plunked down here somehow. I am sure I will be going back to my own home by the same mysterious method very soon,” I tried to reassure Horace.

“Let's entertain your curiosity and ours then for what time has been granted us. Would you come with us to the assembly hall where we can rest and get out of the sun?” Emil turned to escort me down the street to the nearby building.

“The picnic yard would allow more to participate if we must,” suggested Horace. He turned towards the park in front of the building.

“The hall,” said Emil, showing the first edges of unpleasantness since my arrival.

“The yard,” insisted Horace adamantly. The crowd began to move, dividing into two factions behind Emil and Horace. That was when I first noted the right-white, left-black pattern of Emil (and his supporters) and the right-black, left-white arrangement in Horace's group. And my plaid pajamas with their assortment of blue, yellow, red, and green threads.

I felt the hairs on my neck rise with the expectation of tension. But instead of further wrangling and argument, the groups formed into orderly ranks and files and promptly counted their numbers. Horace's group was larger and those from both factions who wished to continue our meeting moved into the park, quickly intermingling again until their difference was obscured from my notice.

“That was a very impressive display of democracy, Emil,” I commented as I followed him to a small pavilion in the front of the park.

“We will have the next majority,” he assured me. “Those Lefts so often vote themselves into situations they lose interest in pursuing. Happens to us Rights also. Winning takes persistence and timing. Look at all those Lefts leaving now that the Park is chosen.” Looking at Emil then, I recognizes his reference to which side was White in his and Horace's factions.

“Are Volitians naturally pigmented with bilaterally opposite colors?”

“No. It is a choice – we are born with as blank a skin as you have and just as naked. But our children learn to chose a side.” We had reached the low platform where Horace awaited us.

“You will sit in the middle,” Horace said as he lead me to a row of chairs. Emil and Horace sat with their White sides towards me (Emil (a Right) on my left, Horace (a Left) on my right).

“So, stranger, as we see from your childish appearance, you have much to learn,” began Horace. “We will forebear you this opportunity to make up your mind. What do you need to know?"

Although it had been many a year since anyone called me a youngster, I asked politely, “How do you choose to be a Right or a Left?”

“We are taught what is correct by our families, friends, and communities,” explained Emil. “We recognize what we believe in whom we believe.”

“So, do all Right parents have Right children and Lefts have Left?”

“No. Even spouses might not be of the same persuasion. My wife is a Right, while I am a Left,” Horace said. “Two of our grown offspring are Rights and one is a Left. We still have one Undecided at home.”

“And if you changed your mind later in life, how do you change your Side?”

“Why would you change? What is right today is Right tomorrow,” Emil exclaimed.

“And what is left today will still be Left tomorrow,” agreed Horace.

“It seems that sometimes you both agree. Is that true or are you defined by what the ones are not?”

“There are things that are true when viewed from any direction,” Horace declared. “It is our common belief in majority rule that allows our society to decide. We Lefts believe it is equitable, the Rights believe it is efficient, but the outcome is the same.”

“There is nothing wrong with disagreement, only with being disagreeable,” Emil smiled, looking across at Horace.

“Courtesy is too often a mere disguise for dishonesty,” Horace replied, speaking more to Emil than me.

“More is achieved in harmony than in discord,” replied Emil.

“And more of value is built from truth than from disillusion,” Horace countered.

As the men on each side of me started to ignore me, I scanned the audience. They also seemed to have lost interest in my presence and begun discussions amongst themselves. Small groups formed. I watched as topics began, sides stated, and decisions made in a choreography of small votes.  The lopsided kaleidoscopic images of their democracy in action whirled in my mind.  Drowsily, I closed my eyes.

Awaking in my bed, Volitio had faded.  Have I chosen my one side for life?

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Visit from Ghost of Birthday Present

Visit from Ghost of Birthday Present


Oh, yes, I knew he would be coming. Joviality incarnate. Yippee, time for another birthday.

Still, I drew the shades and sat near a single lamp, hoping he might decide that nobody was home. I just was not in the mood this year. Gone were my youthful years of eagerly awaiting the next milestone age when some new opportunity would open for me. Long gone.

There was the knock at the door. Did he knock last year? Maybe he has developed some manners. More typically he would materialize behind my back in his prankish practice of “surprising” me. Clap me on the back with a boisterous greeting, designed to lift me out of my skin. Maybe I could ignore him and he would pass on.

Another knock, no louder or more insistent than the first. And, in a while, a third. Every minute or so, another. No, he was neither coming in or going away. Strange. My curiosity overcame my antipathy for his visit. I answered the door.

What an unhappy clown he was! Same shiny suit, polka tie, and fizzy wig as he wore every year, but his face bore no mirth.

Oh, goodness, what has happened to you?” I exclaimed. “Please, come in.”

He forced a smile to his lips, hardly more than a grimace. “Happy Birthday, sport,” he breathed in a whisper. He stepped over threshold and I guided him to an easy chair.

Can I get you something?” I asked.

A piece of cake would be nice,” he murmured. Looking at my expression, he answered himself. “No, I did not suppose you would have a cake. Who does anymore? Mothers looking for healthy alternatives, everyone counting calories, or denying their aging.”

Well, I really did not see a need to celebrate. I mean I do not feel any older than yesterday,” I protested. “Never feel any younger,” I grumbled quietly.

I should have applied for the Tooth Fairy job when I had the chance.” He slumped in the chair. “Kids, nothing but kids. By the time they lose interest, they stop losing teeth.”

Well, you did not need to visit me today,” I said defensively. “I told you before I was done with all this frivolity. Spend your time at children's parties and let us have some peace and quiet.”

It doesn't work like that. I was assigned to your cohort the year you were born. You are my clientele until the last of you move on. Fewer people every year and even fewer parties. Well, Happy Birthday, old friend. I'll get out of your way so you can do whatever more important things you have scheduled for today.” He rose from the chair, no less disheartened than when he arrived.

Wait a minute. Since you did come, we could do something,” I said. “We don't need to light all those candles, but I could perhaps make a wish and blow out one.”

And would you wish for me to come again next year,” his grin at his mouth and the twinkle in his eyes began to grow,

Well, I guess it does beat you having no reason to appear again.” I smiled as I went to find a candle. “I have some cookies and milk if you can stay.”

Oh, Happy Birthday, and many more to come!” he boomed in his familiar style. “Yes, many, many more!”

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Given to Believe


Given to Believe


Is all we are given a gift we wish to receive?
Consider the teachings we are given to believe.
Predigested offerings removing need to think and ponder,
Prepared and packaged, cleared of concern, doubt, and wonder.

Axiomatically true, the given lays the track to follow,
Leading step by constructed step to the truth of Apollo,
Raising up his towering temple to its lofty peak;
But, if given false, its foundation is hollow and weak.

For a child, expediency may rule the balance;
No time to explain, obediency needed at once.
With energy limited to confront all the whys,
We find the ready comfort in the old replies.

But when accepted in youth, will we challenge later?
Should we look within and beyond for answers greater?
Does the reason still hold and science know no more?
Are tradition and convention enough to cease to explore?

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Sandwiched In Between

[Sandwiched In Between]


I think it was the mismatch of the long grey beard and ponytail with the three piece business suit that caught my attention first. I usually am as disinterested as anyone else on the sidewalk passing a sandwich board clad prophet. But this one got a second glance and then a stop out of me.

There was a single word on his breastplate and a different one riding on his back. LIBERTY declared the front and DUTY replied its partner (or maybe its opponent).

Well, you caught me,” I said to the gent. “You have certainly simplified your message, but I do not think I know what it is.”

Two sides, same middleman,” he explained. “Or maybe four sides if you count both internal and external.” He revealed the side facing his chest (on the reverse of LIBERTY) said DUTY and, facing his back, LIBERTY was on the reverse of DUTY.

Uh, maybe, I still need another hint?” I asked, perplexed.

Well, sir, we talk of our rights as those freedoms or liberties we possess as citizens. But you cannot have a liberty without it invoking a duty. You can speak as freely as your body and mind will produce, but you don't have the protection of free speech unless the rest of us acknowledge and fulfill our duty to tolerate your speaking and what you say. We got no duty to listen or to agree, but we got to allow you to say it.”

So, my personal Liberties are backed by everyone's Duties to respect them,” I restated to him.

Yup. And the same thing happens the other way around. The Liberties of everyone around you depend on you accepting your personal Duty to support them.” He grinned widely at my apparent comprehension. “When it comes to Rights, what you do within affects what others outside receive and what they do outside decides what you actually possess within.”

And if I do not accept your right to something?”

Then, sir, the system breaks down. You cannot expect to have your rights honored (by me or others) if you do not uphold your side of the bargain.”

But I thought my rights were unalienable, given to me by my Creator.”

He isn't exactly hanging around to defend them for you, except as how He is part of every consenting member of society by whatever name or concept that represents Him to folks. Without the agreement to agree as a society (even when the particulars may displease us), nobody has any assurance of receiving de facto the protections of his or her rights.”

But people do not all tolerate other people exercising their rights. Somebody will blow up the building where I work, because another crackpot working three floors up posted a hateful blog.”

And we agree as a society that the bomber is a criminal (who will lose his liberties when caught) and the crackpot is merely stupid (and wrong perhaps). But the crackpot's rights did not protect him or you from somebody who sees his duty wrong or too unimportant to fulfill. Liberties are made of the air in the words of speeches, but it is Duties that are the sinew that assure the reality of Rights. It is what we do, not what we say, that defines and defends the society we build together. Patrick Henry's quote of 'give me liberty or give me death' sums it up; we can choose our actions, but we are given the consequences. Sometimes we must risk dire returns to achieve desired results.”

Well, thanks for the explanation. I appreciate you seeing it as your duty to enlighten us.” I extended my hand, curiosity satisfied.

He shook my hand and said, “Oh, they are paying me $8.25 an hour to stand here. Have a good day, sir.”


Sunday, September 16, 2012

Three Men in a Tub Redux


Three Men in a Tub Redux


Neil and Doug slept too late and the bus departed without them.
That missed Earth Day trip starts this tale and triggers this poem.
Perhaps you have heard the story all you want, so hide your eyes,
For here again is the adventure of a small boat and three Tech guys.

Too late for the bus but awake too early, this pair to the City does go
To lower Manhattan at Saturday's dawn when city life is slow.
Through the unpeopled streets they walk and explore;
Only garbage and delivery trucks replace the horde's roar.

Wall Street is tall and windswept, echoing a faint silence,
And Trinity Church in its glory houses an absent presence.
Down streets and across, the grid leads them around and about
Until their path at the Battery Park waterfront peeks out.

The sun is now up through a light fog, toasting the air,
And the residents appear, shifting from here to elsewhere.
Neil and Doug pause to scan the river, its traffic and flow,
When behold, in a small sailboat, it is Diego.

Climb aboard, he offers, and let's share this morning ride.
He manuevers the tiny craft to pull up to the wharfside.
Neil and Doug look down at the drop to the water,
Then taking the plunge, they join the intrepid boater.

The bold little craft swings out to challenge the river's tide
Which washes downstream against the sail's force applied.
Our trio is swept forth, down, out, and into the harbor;
Progress resisted, windpower overwhelmed, they flounder.

We need a repair, says Diego, looking over the boat's stern,
So to the north shore of a small nearby island they turn.
I will make the fix, he says, while you look around.
So Doug and Neil scramble out and onto the ground.

Hey, look, there are buildings. Wonder where we are.
Let's wander to check it out; it is not very far.
So, over they stroll and enter by a back door
Into ages of litter and dust on the floor.

The corridors pass by large rooms with glass half walls,
Open for inspection by everyone patrolling the halls.
Abandoned in pieces, the rooms' stories are muted,
And, by curiosity, farther in, the adventurers are guided.

The hallways brighten as they enter the building main
And emerge at a dock where a half sunken ferry was lain.
Two men are at work feeding wood into a fire
When they spot the interlopers and respond with ire. 
 
Whats you boys doing here, yelled the little man in the hat,
This here U.S. Guvment property, and youse gotta scat.
Joining his partner, the large man moves the axe to his shoulder
And, for our young men, the air grows suddenly colder.

Under guard, four abreast, they march back whence they came
While little man lambasts them with abuse and shame.
At Doug's side, We ought to break your legs, he says.
The goliath grunts and Neil jumps a foot sideways.

Despite threat and dread, back to where the boat is moored,
They load in with Diego and push off with a broken board.
There are not many who ever can match their claim
That expelled from Ellis Island is now part of their fame.

The battle against the river once more they renew
But their efforts and plans again go askew.
They cross east to discover at Governors Island they arrive,
The Coast Guard headquarters with its docked fleet of five.

Their curiosity was untamed by their Ellis Island escape,
So in amongst the cutters they sail and wide-eyed gape.
Surrounded by walls of steel out of the water erected
The sail goes limp for all winds are deflected.

But the windlocked lads have gained the needed tool,
That broken old board, now a paddle in the tranquil pool.
With many a stroke, they turn themselves about
And with indeed many more, they eventually get out.

The sun has grown high and the tide has at last turned;
To get to Hoboken is top priority for all here concerned.
A zigzag course across the Hudson's unassisted flow
Should now be possible although still slow.

So off to the west at a hope filled angle they sail
And, finally, progress eases up on their travail.
They approach the Jersey side and tack to the east
And their eagerness for home is greatly increased.

But Diego is not happy with the rudder's performance,
As he peers over the back and takes another glance.
His fix has loosened; he needs to do it again,
So he passes forward a small cable to straighten.

With a small twist here and a bend or two there,
Neil gets the cable ready for the repair.
Diego leans over to rethread the rudder
With confidence and skill and maybe a mutter.

The repair continues as New York side grows nearer;
Doug sees faces onshore and hopes soon for a steerer.
Diego sits up at his helmsman position and with a snap,
It is off to New Jersey, hopping a passing ship's whitecap.

In midriver, Diego decides the repair is not quite right,
And again requests the cable reshaping to correct the slight.
From Neil, another twist and another couple more bends,
And the cable back to Diego to make more amends.

Diego resumes his midcruise repairs, when Oops he does utter
As overboard to the river's bottom goes that part of the rudder.
All is not lost, says resourceful Diego to calm his crew,
We just need a bit of string, like a lace from a shoe.

Doug at his pair of “modern” plastic loafers does look,
While Neil, for a loose string, the plug in the hull mistook.
With a quick little tug before anyone can stop him,
He retrieves this bit of cord, so crucial yet slim.

Oh, what a surprise! A trinkle of water starts to come in
And it is then that Neil announces he cannot swim.
In the boat are two lifejackets; Diego wears one.
Getting Neil into the other is the next course of action.

The plug once pulled afloat will never return,
So, to its new duty, it goes over the stern.
Doug's Korfam shoes are now buckets to bail
As over the sides the incoming water they flail.

The piers of Jersey City are a welcoming sight;
When the boat reaches, to them it's steered tight.
Skirting the shore, poking in and out and around,
The crew creeps back to Hoboken's safe ground.

Neil leaps from the vessel and plants a kiss on the ramp,
Relieved to the utmost to be saved from a fate too damp.
Life on land is celebrated with a trip to Washington Street
With the most wonderful Cuban meal they ever will eat.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

The Cross-Jungle Bus



The Cross-Jungle Bus


(08/10/1969, editted)



The monkey and the giraffe got on the cross-jungle bus;
Giraffe sat upfront, Monkey back by Hippopotamus.
Said Monkey to Hippo, “Might you move the slightest bit,
You're so wide and big, seems to me, I have no place to sit.”

Hippo replied, “Certainly,” and he tried to move a mite,
But off went Monkey headfirst when Hippo slid left, not right.
My head is lodged in your footprint; please lend me a hand,”
Certainly,” but reaching, Hippo fell, body along with hand.

Alas, poor Monkey laid underneath, flat as a platter.
The noise brought Giraffe asking, “What's the matter?”
Monkey squeaked, “I'd ask him off before he starts napping,
But I fear to ask another favor. Imagine what might happen?”

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Flower Power

FLOWER POWER (circa 1970, editted)



In the middle of the field, grows a little daisy,
And, by his roots, an ant colony is ruled by a tyrant.
Hey, little daisy, silly little daisy, why are you so lazy,
While about you hundreds of little laborers pant?
They work in oppression and utter dejection,
While above, you mindlessly dance in the breeze.
Does your disgust of their work cause your rejection,
Or can you just overlook tyranny with such ease?

But the silly little daisy, oh so lazy, has no ear
Nor a voice to object nor arms to restrain.
How could the silly daisy stop what it cannot hear,
And be guilty from intervention to refrain?
But, men, silly little men, why are you so lazy
While below a rabble of mistreated citizens rants?
You are men with ears, arms, and voices, not a daisy,
Nor are those unfortunate souls merely little ants.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

The Chocolate Chip Rocket Ship



The Chocolate Chip Rocket Ship

(8/6/1986)

Come ride with me, says Joey Carr,
On a trip to see a neighboring star.
We'll ride upon my rocket ship,
Driven by the power of a chocolate chip.

It is a cardboard box his father found,
And so far, it has never yet left the ground.
But Joey plays in his rocket each day,
Taking voyages wherever his imagination may.

Captain Carr boards the rocket loaded with fuel,
Hands full of cookies against the elements so cruel.
Three cookies for takeoff, another to land,
One for cruising, and an emergency cookie at hand.

Supplies are running low! Back to Earth we go;
Into the kitchen for more fuel runs Joe.
Replenished and resupplied, he takes off again
To explore the universe as long as he can.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Who Else Would I Be, Dr. Maslow?


Who Else Would I Be, Dr. Maslow?


My thoughts, so seems, scaled a pyramid
To decide to do the things I did.
Each day I act within its shade,
As my wants and desires are weighed.

Physical needs are first to choose
With control that none can refuse.
Feed me, clothe me, and keep me warm,
Protect my vital, creature form.

But once my body rests at ease,
Fears for safety my mind will tease.
Save for later, and watch my steps,
Stay out of rain, avoid all streps.

Yet when those fears are reassured,
To other’s company I am lured.
To love, be loved, to give and get,
To belong, to owe or hold a debt.

I may linger in these thoughts long,
Building my links both wide and strong.
But more remains for me to want,
As to me of me I may vaunt.

Your praise and my pride blend a mix,
Confident, to set out to fix
All I am for all that can be,
To bring to life the inner me.

Who is this me who waits in queue
For all other needs to quell ado?
And who is real in other eyes
When I do not self-actualize?

A noble peak was placed atop
The mount for our most elite crop.
If no peek there I ever see,
You say I have never been me?

------------------------------------

An Alternate Arrangement of Maslow Needs



We react to our perceived needs.  All our needs areas are continually "shouting out" their wants and suggestions for what we should do.  As individuals, we might differ in the relative strengths with which they broadcast their demands into our brains.  But as we act to fulfill these needs, we develop remoteness from an imperative to listen further.  In this illustration, the needs sphere moves away from our inner decision appartus and its shouts fade like sound (inverse squared) traveling a greater distance.  We may also fatigue from repetitively hearing demands we cannot (or at least do  not) met and develop an acclimation that has the same distancing effect.  Or we may habituate to some demands as a sort of meaningless "white noise" as we find we so seldom respond to them.  But all the needs area are sending messages constantly, whether faintly or loudly perceived.  We are not always able to met all those needs in the moment, but we will tend to act to satisfy as many as we can, relegating others to the waiting list (or a later repeat request).  Thus, the hungry man, with a choice of door A to eat a doughnut in soltitude and door B to share a sandwich with a friend, might be expected more frequently to chose door B.  And the hungry parent might fetch his portion of the shared sandwich and give it to his child (or to a stranger's child acting on the faint calls from hypothesized nobility of the Maslow unrealized self).