Rhyme for Reason

I do not think I could write
A poem without a rhyme.
My brain would say, "It's not right,
With nothing to mark the time."

Memo to Self

And now you find yourself retired -
Done that for which you were hired.
You'll not do that familiar chore -
Those duties are your role no more.

You might sit, a bump on a log,
Or simply croak like a bullfrog.
Nowhere to go, so stay in bed,
No more to do, dream on instead.

But that job was not your whole self.
You have not been put on the shelf.
Don't stew and get idly all vexed -
Stand up, take stock, and ask "What's next?"

Waiting for My Car

I think in little bites
'Though I want a whole meal.
In order to scale heights,
I find one step that's real.

I will often set off
With hardly any plan.
Give myself rope enough
To wander where I can.

Being willing to start
Has lead me many places.
Adventure, part by part,
Builds in trail of my paces.

I wrote above one line
Not knowing what was next.
Perhaps it's not so fine,
But now I have this text.

Nightcrawler

Nightcrawler, nightcrawler, crawl away home,
For the early bird has begun to roam.
If he finds you out still crawling his beat,
He will consider you his breakfast treat.

It is time to return to your dark bed,
To chew on the debris you were fed.
Let it pass through as your innards will toil
To take what you need and improve my soil.

You help to break down much of nature's waste,
Part of the cycle of life interlaced.
A simple task you efficiently do --
Priceless service and you go fishing too.

The Unlucky Duck

When a duck runs out of luck,
He must depend on other things.
If in trouble he is stuck,
He should remember he has wings.

It is important to note
He need not stay when fox chases him.
He can just jump in the moat,
If he recalls that fox don't swim.

Don't depend on random chance
To bring you all that you need.
Your fortune you will enhance
If to your own assets you heed.

The 300

"Incentivized Retirement"


Three hundred were chosen to never return;
Not one more cent from the tax-payers to earn.
It is time for their leisure, like it or not,
With hopes their legacy will not be forgot.

With warmest regards, they were shown to the door.
Their pensions were drawn with a little bit more.
Fare thee well, the State said, we wish you the best,
But, for cost savings, of you, we must divest.

So, off we march with duty, hope, and regrets –
May three hundred martyrs make smaller budgets.
We may not suffer as much as those we leave,
As we drop our burdens on you who receive.

But we leave you also with our thoughts and thanks
For happy and fruitful times among your ranks.
Many years you have been our partners and friends,
And, in our hearts, that fellowship never ends.

When Rooster Refused to Crow

For so very long, he would greet the dawn
With his boisterous bellow to the sky.
Many the farm folk awoke with a yawn
And would set to chores that ever were nigh.

But new neighbors, who did not rise with the sun,
Converted farms with their housing expansions.
Late nights they prefer and mornings they shun,
As they sleep late in condos and mansions.

The new folks thought to make it their mission
To have no alarms ere seven A.M.
Some said, "'Tis against long held traditions,"
But the newcomers soon overruled them.

And so it was the law, none could call out
From midnight until seven each morning.
The rooster was told to stifle his shout
And let the sun appear without warning.

"If I cannot do as my nature calls,"
Said the Rooster in his bold defiance,
"Then not all day, nor after night falls,
Shall I utter a sound in compliance."

With that, Rooster went silent as a stone,
In his pledged vow to his higher power.
And every fowl and beast on its own
Grew quiet too beneath Rooster's glower.

But the newfangled clocks buzzed, beeped, and rang
In the modern homes of those late risers.
They woke heedless to their caused sturm und drang,
Staring through their rosy, one-way visors.

The farmers too bought new clocks to wake them
So they may still do their so early work.
They secretly set theirs for five A.M.
With volume low, their neighbors to not irk.

And the silent Rooster stands at his post
To set the example for all to see.
At least until he becomes Sunday's roast,
The price, it seems, to fight for liberty.

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.

Before the Camping Trip

Few believe and none now know
If the old town tale was true.
'Bout three hundred years ago,
They first told what I tell you.

The first who came to those hills
Brought ax and saw as their tools.
Their job was to feed the mills
With logs drug to streams by mules.

So they say, that one morning,
They heard unhappy braying.
A mule a tree adorning,
Atop in the wind swaying.

"Who taught you to climb a tree,
You dang-cussed, long-eared fool?
Now it's down for which you plea -
We should leave you, as a rule."

All day 'twas to fetch him down -
It took the whole cursing crew.
Their anger in sleep to drown -
But next morning, there were two.

One was twenty feet up there,
The other 'bout twenty-five.
'Twas like they'd flown through the air
By ways none could quite contrive.

"This didn't happen on that hill
Nor none we cut before now.
Of this place, I've had my fill
And I'll not come back, I vow."

And so they left it uncleared
To harvest all around it.
They say Mule Hill's ghostly weird,
Protected by a spirit.

So you have your camping fun,
And hike that hill, if you please.
But beware when sets the sun
Of mules falling from the trees.

Grandfather's Tales

I am old, as you know,
Older than so many things.
In your young eyes I grow
More ancient than bygone kings.

Less than all, I have seen,
But, oh, so much more than you.
When I tell where I've been,
You can count it's mostly true.

Maybe just 'tween the ears,
They perform their lively dance.
Replay in to-come years
The tales for you I enhance.

You should not think so hard
That your ears let naught come in.
With me, you need not guard,
If you wish to laugh or grin.

My Neighbor's Cat

My neighbor had a cat
Who could never sing on key.
But he'd not stop for that,
Causing all great misery.

I think he truly thought
That his song was quite a treat.
High treetops he so sought
To broadcast to the whole street.

The dogs joined in chorus
To howl out their displeasure.
'Twould make my skull porous
As he sang at his leisure.

You may want me to tell
Of this tale's happy ending.
Oft not all comes out well
Like for this cat's ear-rending.

It took another cat
To make him see his error.
This cat was twice as fat
And six times the terror.

Cutie, they had named her,
And she greatly loved to nap.
After she preened her fur,
She'd settle onto a lap.

Asleep she was so cute,
You could understand her name.
But do not wake the brute
Unless mayhem is your aim.

The woeful singer chose,
Not wisely, but all are fools,
To court her as she doze,
With the wisdom seen in mules.

His voice crashed from the heights
To grate on her sleeping ear.
Her yowl gave all the frights --
The likes you might never hear.

Up that tree in one bound
Flew female, feline fury.
One swat, he hit the ground,
And lit out for Missouri.

Riding the Rocket's Tale

When the skies fill with bursting lights
And all cheer the fireworks display,
I think back through so many nights
To when I flew over Cathay.

I was apprentice to a monk,
A master of Tao alchemy.
It was my job to mind his junk
As he sought immortality.

Each day he mixed some this and that
To capture life's elusive spark.
He found more ways to kill a cat
Than the trees can grow kinds of bark.

Each night ere I could go to sleep,
I had to clean the testing shed.
All matters of things I had to sweep
Into the bin besides my bed.

But one time, too full was the bin
And I felt down on my whole lot.
I gathered up that day's sweeping
And hid it all beneath my cot.

I fell in bed, so sorely tired,
And blew my candle a small puff.
I did not see the spark that fired
The reaction amongst that stuff.

And with a bang, my bed took flight
Through the roof and past the treetop -
Gave those monks a helluva fright --
Up it went with no plan to stop.

Beneath me grew a sparkling tail
As explosions pushed me higher.
Through clouds and sky, I learned to sail,
There, upon my bed on fire.

Oh, while it lasted, it was great,
'Though I do not recommend it.
You'd enjoy the view - it's top-rate -
But not the ground when you hit it.

Better Safe Than Safari

If ever you meet a crocodile,
Be forewarned about his tricks.
He is not your friend, despite his smile -
He will eat you, just for kicks.

Few are as snobbish as a giraffe,
With his nose high in the air.
It'll make you want to giggle and laugh,
But you really should not dare.

You might safely laugh with a hyena,
If you understood his joke.
But I would answer a subpoena,
There is no less funny bloke.

Do not be caught counting leopard's spots
That adorn her lovely hide.
The pattern will tie your eyes in knots
And you mustn't insult her pride.

A lion's pride is his foremost prize,
More important than his mane.
Around his wives, you avert your eyes
To show respect for his reign.

The anteater has a sticky tongue
Which she pokes in anyplace.
Take care what tales nearby her are flung,
For she gossips without grace.

You should fear too the monkeys' chatter
Which they screech from tree to tree.
It is rare they say aught to flatter -
They are as mean as mean can be.

You are much safer here in your bed
Than visiting the jungle.
So many warnings to fill your head
To prevent a bad bungle.

But if go you must, well then, you must -
So with my advice, prepare.
Remember all tonight we discussed
And you be careful out there.

Rhino Woes

Gromps, do you know a tale of woe about a rhino?
Um, let me see, this could well be such a story.
I took a trip on a cruise ship with my pal Kip,

We signed as crew, did what such do to get on through
To the Congo - no, we didn't row to a bongo -
But it was rough, the Cap'n was gruff, and we'd enough.

So we jumped off, our caps to doff, troubles to scoff,
And we set out, this land to scout, find what's about.
Inland we went, where there's no rent, with great intent.

Where's the rhino, in this long show? they cry to know.
Settle on down, it's not in town, did Gromps so frown.
He's on the plain, after much rain, so don't complain.

But we'll skip that, if you sit pat. Where was I at?
Upriver there, the sun does glare -- you must beware.
The grass so tall, couldn't see at all, we felt quite small.

We heard a crash; Kip was so brash, off in a flash.
Better to see. Well, just maybe, but gone was he.
But just as quick, I heard him kick and fly past slick.

As I stood still, I got a chill to hear Kip shrill.
For on his tail, a train on rail, followed his trail.
Both huge and gray, with angry bray, it went Kip's way.

Well, I went mine, different line, with faith divine.
I last saw Kip, off the horn's tip, showing great zip.
He ran sprightly, escape could be, but I didn't see.

But I did hear, for the next year, some people cheer -
Tale of a race, a mighty chase, out there someplace.
Some for Kip root, others the brute in hot pursuit.

Some even say they run today, far, far, astray.
Here is my tip - you ought to skip a bet on Kip;
Though Kip is fast, that rhino cast was built to last.

Riding My Camel on the Beach

Ever once upon an autumn
I do get up off my bottom,
And I go ride my camel on the beach.
I admit it is not often
When my self-control does soften,
And we two do all propriety breach.

Now, you may think I am kidding
'Bout a camel at my bidding
When the whimsy held within me breaks loose.
He'll only so long be hidden
Before he insists to be ridden --
It is he who this mischief does induce.

As I bounce there between his humps,
A freedom into my heart pumps,
And I feel I can see all that there is.
As my camel so wildly romps
With no heed of castles he stomps,
I mentally enter the world that's his.

He rules the sands where he proceeds
And displays not a lot of speeds,
For where he goes he really does not care.
He has not a worry in his head
About the path he chose to tread,
For there, there will be, when at last he's there,

Whenever we go anywhere,
It seems most people point and stare
To see someone ride a camel past them.
They should have little cause to fear
As long as they are not too near
When that camel launches his mighty sputum.

He won't stop to apologize
If the sight of him shocks their eyes,
For, to him, there is naught that's out-of-place.
He has no need to compromise
When none he meets can match his size --
Few will ever confront him face-to-face.

We cause more smiles than true scandal,
Even eating some lad's sandal,
And we are gone almost before they know.
When you've a camel to straddle,
Rather than let your brains addle,
Hop on him and see where you two may go.

The Spoiled Hamster

Here is a story I can tell to you
About a spoiled hamster who I once knew.
He was too special to live in a cage
And had his own room, painted blue and beige.

He would sleep past noon - he thought it was cool;
I would tip-toe out when I went to school.
When he awoke, he'd eat ice cream and cake -
Claimed anything else made his tummy ache.

He hired two mice to run on his wheel
And would complain when it started to squeal.
His turtle was engaged to oil the rig -
I never was clear how she got the gig.

There was not much that hamster ever did,
But not because anyone had forbid.
It seemed we were all there to wait on him,
And he just lied down and raised not a limb.

You'll likely not see one that weighs a pound
And is barely as long as it is round.
But that was to be this spoiled hamster's fate -
You know that I never exaggerate.

So you be careful - don't ask for too much;
And do not use other folks as a crutch.
Get up, go outside, and run, jump, and leap -
But not right now -- it's time for you to sleep.

The Racing Snail

Did I ever tell you, dear child,
Of the world's greatest racing snail?
I took him to home from the wild --
At least I think he was a male.

I found him when I was a boy,
Perhaps then no older than you.
In him, I found my childhood joy --
I had faith in what he could do.

I taught him to follow my scent
As I ran outside in the grass.
He would come wherever I went
'Til he caught up with me at last.

He could go a half mile a day
And would follow me to my school.
It was only two blocks away --
He'd be home by ten as a rule.

But, alas, a child will grow up
And leave his playthings far behind.
When I was no longer a pup.
I went off, my future to find.

I traveled about the nation
Both north to south and east to west.
After years, I found my station
And settled down to do my best.

And here sat I just yesterday
And do you know what I did see?
That persistent snail came to say,
"Hey, there, do you remember me?"

The Talking Dog

I once did have a talking dog,
Although he was not so well-read.
Nary a chat he did not hog,
Saying what came into his head.

He would converse on anything,
No matter what subject you chose.
Opinions as facts he would fling --
Who could know from whence they arose?

My friends often argued with him,
Until they turned blue in the face.
I indulged his every whim,
For I learned I could not keep pace.

One day we saw two men debate
In a political contest.
Love, more than for his dinner plate,
Seized my old dog deep in his chest.

So, soon, he started to campaign
For any office he could find.
His dog catcher run was inane,
But the voters seemed not to mind.

From catcher to mayor, he climbed;
Each opponent he did defeat.
His speeches and jokes were so well-timed,
Their own windbags they would deplete.

I last saw him leaving our town
For challenges awaiting out there.
I knew not to where he was bound,
But home was much quieter, I swear.

The Woolly Caterpillar

I was a woolly caterpillar once
Although it was very long ago.
But I was considered the class dunce --
I never knew how long it would snow.

I did try to learn to prognosticate
With the other larvae of my kind.
But that brown fur I loved to replicate --
I just could not get it off my mind.

They say the black absorbs the summer heat
To warm a body through winter cold.
But I preferred the sable brown complete
And cared not a bit what it foretold.

When came the time at last to hibernate,
I found myself alas unprepared.
It was not a style to refrigerate
And my cold discomfort was not spared.

If you are ever a woolly bear worm,
I would give you this bit of advice:
Resist temptation and to rules hold firm
And do not end up a chunk of ice.

Grandfather's Adventures

When I was just a lad, I went to sea
On the full-blown sails of my fantasy.
I travelled to far isles of mystery
And saw sights that few other ever see.

My ship was powered by a serpent's puff
And my hold was full of all I could stuff.
I adventured in calm weather or rough,
Endlessly searching -- I couldn't get emough.

My stories you might find a bit too strange
And you may think the facts I rearrange.
But despite your protests, I will not change
My memories of that wonder-filled range.

Now, if you'll stay still for a tale of mine
And close your eyes as abed you recline,
I'll take you with me o'er that ancient brine
To a place where truths and dreams intertwine.

When Titans Clash

This poem was recently found on a repaired vase, perhaps of ancient origin. Or maybe written yesterday.
Beware when Titans clash
If you live on land below.
They stomp about most rash
And seldom watch where they go.

They seek more distant goals
With their heads above the clouds.
Their passions drive their souls;
Self-purpose their vision shrouds.

All focused on campaign,
They answer the challenge's call.
They will rule their domain,
Or, with all foes, they will fall.

Who they were ere the fight
Is lost in fog of battle.
The thought to do what's right
Gone in combative prattle.

Urge to win overwhelms,
Knocking over reasons why.
Power lust for the realms
Blinds the more foresighted eye.

What victory is won
In this heedless ruins' wake?
All that was is undone --
No prize left intact to take.

Oh, Titans, be at peace
Within that you now possess,
And leave our bits of Greece
Unflattened by your excess.

If Mitty Can Do It ...

"You are wrong. You are emphatically and thoroughly wrong," Mitty insisted. "It will be a waste of money to pursue this course any further. And a waste of breath to explain why."

"But we have two million dollars sunk into this software! Oh, why didn't we ask for your help sooner?" The chairman sat at the head of the conference table lined on one side with executives and department heads looking as despondent as he. The team of outside contractors sat cowed and silent in their seats on the other side. "Is there anything we can do to save this mess?"

"Oh, yes, I should say so," Mitty demurred. "The project was worth doing and it still is. I cannot promise to spend another two million dollars though," he smiled slyly. "It will take a week for my team. Let's say $10,000 and all the pizza they can eat."

"Dad, we're here!" shouted Walt Jr. The boys in the backseat rambunctiously wrestled to be the first to exit the car and run to the pizzeria entrance. Their Cub Scout uniforms, so neat when they arrived at his home for the den meeting, were all rumpled and untucked after the brief ride to their field trip destination. Mrs. Mitty, the Den Mother, had already arrived with her carload of scouts as neat as pins.

"Did you get lost again, dear?" She soon had his half of the boys filed in line behind the others, with their clothes straightened sufficiently to be presentable. "Now remember, boys, this is a place of business and Mr. Larose has been kind enough to invite us into his kitchen to see how it runs. We are guests, we are polite, we are orderly. Now let's go inside."

"General Mitty, the factory is ready for your inspection, sir." The lieutenant saluted.

"Very well, Rogers," Mitty said, returning the salute and accepting the clipboard from him. "Let's see what the folks in Engineering made of the plans. Good afternoon, Enrico. You have been busy, I see."

"Quite so, General. All was so smooth going until now. The blueprints are a creation worthy of Da Vinci, both genius and artist in one. We hope you are pleased with what we have done to bring your ideas to life."

"But? Do I hear you hesitate at a problem puzzling you, Enrico?" Mitty reassuredly urged the chief engineer to continue.

"Every part, it works perfectly," Enrico explained. "But, as we bring them together, the power consumption, it grows far more than the addition of the parts' individual requirements. We must solve this to continue, for the power source as specified cannot sustain the whole process."

"Ah, the trilateral synchronization effect is what you have missed." General Mitty laid the clipboard on the table nearby and took out his pen. "Components have their own personalities, so to speak, and without the proper alignment, timing, and separations in their assembly as a whole, they compete at least as much as cooperate. Here," pointing with his pen, "and here, for example, you should note orders for the assembly of the mechanism. Pull together as stated, the power will suffice."

"No, Johnny, we never put peanut butter and anchovies on the same pizza," Mr. Larose answered. Why did he let his wife talk him into this? Johnny, his son, was probably the worse of the bunch when it came to asking ridiculous questions. Time to wrap this up. "Okay, boys. Who wants to make a pizza?" Everyone's hand shot up. "Let's move over to the table there where we have a lump of dough for each of you."

"Walter, where have you been?" Mrs. Mitty demanded. "Can't you pay attention and help keep the boys on task? Watch those four and I will supervise these."

"OK, this dough has been mixed and knead by the machine we saw earlier. It is ready to be flattened into a crust to receive the toppings." Mr. Larose thought that should be simple enough and keep them busy for a while. Well, it is what he thought! "Uh, no, we don't need to throw the dough balls up in the air! Just lay it on the table and spread it out with your hands. Well, I guess you could make a bunny shape like your mother's pancakes. No, there is only enough dough to make a six inch circle -- you cannot make a extra-extra-large pizza from that much dough."

"Mr. Mitty, we are approaching the edge of our sun's gravity well. We are about to leave the solar system." The captain looked to him deferentially. He held no rank amongst the crew operating this space vessel, but they all knew they would not be here except for his vision and efforts. "We have gone further than any man or woman in human history. Would you care to address the crew and passengers?"

"Thank you, Captain Czebec. Friends, we have exceeded all limits placed upon us. We allowed our imaginations to guide us and our energies to carry us forth. We have escaped our petty problems by tackling those we were told were too big to be handled. May your dreams take you everywhere you want to go." Walter Mitty accepted the applause he heard in his head. It has been a great life. Who could want for better?