Taking Time to Think Economically

Now, you may not have asked yourself yet, but with the week's stock market news, consider:

Is the better model for our economy a cuckoo clock or an hourglass?

That old cuckoo clock has been hanging on the wall since your parents brought it back from their trip to Wallabash, Wisconsin. It clicks with each swing of its pendulum, seemingly progressing all the time, until you realize it has circled back to where it was twelve hours ago. You lift the weights every few days to keep it in motion, then you leave it to its task. It cries its news with a regularity that you become accustomed to ignore, except on those sleepless nights when you anxiously count through every chirp it emits outside your bedroom door.

On the other hand, the hourglass only works if you flip it entirely on its head periodically.

That old economy has been churning along since Alexander Hamilton shepherded in the First Bank of the United States. Probably since before that. It clinks with each financial exchange, seemingly moving the dollars and cents around from pocket to pocket, until you realize that it likely circled back into the bank account of the person who made the first trade. You buy what you want, sell what you have, and save or invest what's left, then you leave the markets to do what they do. The financial news is cast with such regularity that you become accustomed to ignore, except when some frenzy keeps you awake counting your assets and compounding your anxiety..

And then, they change the game. Regulations, technology, war, peace, politics. Things change.

How do you know if it is a revolutionary game change or merely a common cuckoo call which startled you from a shallow nap? Even if the immediate cause of alarm is that little bird, how do you know that your latent Jedi senses did not detect a disturbance in the Force (or burglar in the house)? In truth, you probably do not - nobody does in the first moments.

It is better to prepare for change, in advance and as a general and inevitable fact, than let it provoke you into impulsive reactions. Fight, flight, or freeze instincts did not build civilization, from benefit-deferring agriculture to the globe-spanning economy of today. Preparation, planning, and patience did.

Perhaps the question is not whether the economy is a cuckoo clock or an hourglass, but whether our lives are. You are not going to avoid those regular reminders of the quirky nature of the world in which we live. You are going to experience the big events (graduation, marriage, children, new jobs, lost jobs, retirement) that turn your life topsy-turvy. But even when inverted, remember the hourglass measures your life with the same grit within that defines you. Do not abandon your long-term strategy for a chaotic lack of a plan. Although you cannot control everything, you should control yourself.

Stranger in Town

Some folks say it was a cold day
When the stranger came to town.
Why he came our way, he wouldn't say,
Cutting off talk with his frown.

I was then just a lad of ten,
Free to play as I wanted.
That was when I feared not such men,
So, I followed, undaunted.

He walked in peace along our streets
Like he knew them long ere now.
Although where the new the old meets,
Puzzlement wrinkled his brow.

I was surprised when I realized
He was heading to my home.
I soon surmised 'twas it he prized
And why he came here to roam.

He saw me then where I'd hidden
And called for me to come near.
'Though I did as I was bidden.
That planted the seed of fear.

"You do live here, with parents dear?"
The stranger asked most kindly.
It seemed so clear I'd naught to fear,
So I set it behind me.

"Yes, it's true; but I know not you
Nor reason for your visit.
I followed to see what you'd do;
My home is your goal, is it?"

"My home," he sighed, standing outside
As his eyes scanned all about,
He hardly tried to hide his pride --
Of that, I had not a doubt.

Quick as he came, he left again,
Having done what he'd to do.
His look then caused me to refrain
His trail to further pursue.

Who was that stranger in our town?
I think often it was I.
Deep into nostalgia pulled down,
He came for a last goodbye.

Flashback to High School

Attending a class reunion drudges up a lot of buried memories. I happened to mention some of these old poetic efforts and got a reaction suggesting they might be lost treasures worth sharing. That, of course, was said by somebody who had never been subjected to them, but I will post them for the Class of 1970.

---

Ode to the First Marking Period

Early last September, another school was begun.
The schedules were handed out and the starting bell was rung
To the great marathon of mighty minds and muscles,
Fighting their way through the academic halls of hussle-bussle.

New classes, new teachers, and new students to meet,
Old friends and old enemies with whom to compete,
Clubs and meetings and groups to attend,
Opinions and issues to attack and defend.

The days pass slowly and then they go fast,
And everyone is hopping from class to class;
“There is a test next Friday” and “a quiz on Monday,”
And finally, “The marking period ends today.”

Some students sigh a little and others shake with fear,
And others care only what the average is at the end of the year.
The grades are given and the honor roll is done,
And the sigh is short-lived, because the second period has begun.

---

With Nothing To Do

With nothing to do
And nowhere to go to,
Sitting in this study hall
Is enough to make one bawl.

Dull, why yes it is!
Deathly, of course it is!
But then why do I sit there
Without a hope, without a prayer?

Because there is nothing to do
And there is nowhere to go to!
I will waste away another hour
And hope to get out before my life goes sour.

---

Deathly Domain of Doom
(or Study Hall Snickers)

As I sat in my cubicle desk, in deathly detention,
Quietly creating my diabolical doomsday invention.
A snicker rose in the back of the study hall foyer
And grew to a giggle, to a laugh, and then to an uproar.

Petrified by this insolence, our guardian turned quite pale,
Then flushed in the stony face, produce one hell of a gale!
“This is a study hall, not a gossip gala room!”
And with that came a hush of a “no-library-pass” doom.

The hush was still with fright, but soon was exhaled,
And a murmur grew to another roar and the teacher again was paled.
“You asked for it and I warned you twice!
No library passes for anyone!” and that was not very nice.

One student looked at another who was looking at another still,
And everyone was looking for the culprit who was busy making out his will.
“Oh, we'll rehabilitate the villain alright,” I heard them say.
And with that, in sweet innocence, I decided to slip away.

---

(12/02/1969)

Dedicated to Bosworth's Spittoon Theory of Self-Expression

Ignorance is the cause of trouble;
And I spit at ignorance;
It spits back at me.
I spit and spit and spit!
Back it spits and spits and spits!
Spit, spit, spit!
And the result?
Merely a wet floor.

---

While Waiting for the Bell to Ring

While waiting for the bell to ring,
Sitting here, ready to swing
Out the door and down the hall,
A flight for freedom from this study hall.

It is not that I have nothing to do,
Nor that my day is nearly through.
It is not for hatred of the teacher, nor fear;
It is just that I want to get out of here.

A minute to go and the tension is mounting.
I'll make a beeline to the water fountain.
Out the door, then back again;
Chemistry lecture is about to begin.

---

Within the Bounds of Our Desks

We sit within the bounds of our desks,
Hypnotized by the teacher's hex,
Consciously listening, unconsciously not,
Dreaming of visions that best be forgot.

Even through the professor's trance,
Students' dreams and visions dance
Under the surface of the mind,
Until in the plane, a hole they find.

Then up it jets and into a thought it grows,
Then down the head and out the mouth it goes.
The teacher turns and gives a scowl,
And once more the student is under his control.

---

Life in the Doldrums

The Teacher stands before the class in a suit that is not quite creaseless,
Spouting out gusts of wisdom, in succession that seems almost ceaseless.
And the Student sits and stifles one, or two, ho-hums,
For he is living in the breathless world of the doldrums.

But the Teacher keeps on blowing, with plenty of wind for all,
For some this is too much and for others it is too small.
Some in front get the full force which makes their puny sails cower,
And some in the back must motor their minds with their own power.

Oh, you poor Student! Nobody cares about your woes and troubles,
Nor that with each uttered word your total befuddlement doubles.
But when you feel talked into the ground and seeming so low and blue,
Remember the Teacher once lived in the doldrums, just like you.

---

The Borrowed Pen

Stranded, penless, hopeless in the raging rapids of writing,
I asked my neighbor for a pen, so I could keep on fighting.
He said, “I'll lend you one of my best, but it must come to no harm.”
He would charge a nickel per mark which caused me some alarm.

But I was desperate and really needed a pen badly,
So after I signed the contract, he lent me the pen gladly.
And then I looked at this costly borrowed pen, wondering if I dare touch it,
For if I dropped it on the floor, it could ruin my whole monthly budget.

All day long I carried that pen, packed in my pocket with the greatest care,
And I refused to use it for anything, because frankly I did not dare.
Unscathed and unused, I returned the pen to the lender at the end of the day,
He said, “You're welcome,” stuck the pen between his teeth, and just walked away.

---

Ode to the Last Marking Period

Way back in September, eight long months from June,
We had a short school day that ended by noon.
And on that long-past distant day, we each were dealt a card,
Thirty-six weeks of scheduled courses, both easy and hard.

And as we approach week thirty-six, the ritual draws to a close,
And one hundred and eighty some diplomas are tied with little blue bows.
Farewell, high school, mumble the seniors with four-year memories full,
With good times and bad, with escape out of and into that old school.

The Elephant's New Shoes

There is an elephant in the Nairobi Zoo
Who loves nothing more than to examine a shoe.
A loafer, a sneaker, or a pair of high heels,
It's hard to imagine what that elephant feels.

How she got her first shoe is still not very clear,
But soon bare-footed visitors left their shoes near.
She gathered, studied, sorted and stacked them in piles,
Until she was an expert in all the shoe styles.

She sketches her designs in the mud with great passion
And now they have become the height of high fashion.
But although she is a jumbo Egyptian hit,
She just cannot create one that her own foot will fit.