Vaccines Are The Prez' Best Bet

(tune: Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend)

In Wuhan they may die for Mao –
They are very cunning, I say.
But here, so I have heard somewhere,
We prefer to go our own way.

A mask on your face
Is overtly cautionary,
But vaccines are the Prez’ best bet.
Masks are a disgrace
And look so ordinary.
They muss my fine hair
And dull the flare of ties I wear.

Sick grow cold
If they are old
And we all lose our lives in the end.
But reviewed or warp-speed
These shots are what I need.
Vaccines are the Prez’ best bet.

Pfizer
BioNTech
Moderna
‘Zeneca
Talk to me Misters Johnsons
Tell me all about it

There may come a time
When a Prez needs a lawyer,
Then pardons may be a good bet.
There may come a time
When enough angry voters
Think I’m not-so-hot,
But with the shot, then they will not.

I’m your guy
When stocks are high,
But pay no heed to growing debt.
When hardship arouses
And some lose their houses,
Vaccines are the Prez’ best bet.

I’ve heard of measures
That are safely science-based,
But a Prez needs to trust his guts
I can take pleasures
In those doctors I abased,
I know more so,
To end sorrow, give them chloro.

Time rolls on –
Many are gone
But all will vanish eventually.
But bad cold
Or bad flu
Vote for me or I will sue.
Vaccines are the Prez’ best bet.

Vaccines
Vaccines
I don’t mean lockdowns
‘Cause vaccines are the Prez’ best bet.

Ode to Older Brother

Look out ahead, there goes Older Brother.
Blazing the trail before any other.
For us, we can follow on the same path.
But we cannot surpass his aging math.

First to be born and first to grow older,
First out the door, his steps seem much bolder.
When people ask, “Well, yes, he’s my brother” –
In his shadow of fame, here’s another.

To not be compared, we may try new ground;
In our own arena, our strengths are found.
To complement instead of to compete,
He led us to our own challenges to meet.

So, thanks, Brother, for your role in my life;
To beckon me on, to lessen my strife;
To clear a path, with more room to the side;
To set a pace, for me to find my stride.

Frozen in Time

Oh, woe to the statue frozen in time,
No way to answer now for a past crime.
Perhaps it was legal when you did live,
But by today’s laws, some will not forgive.

You, living citizen, may speak your mind –
Our rights are the same, you truly should find.
You may offend me, and perhaps enrage,
But if so, no gripe, if I too engage.

Majority may rule, but not suppress
Ideals of others they need to express.
You need not replace my ideas with yours –
We should resolve this without starting wars.

History of conquest is that of crime –
Both winners and losers harmed for all time.
Bloodied by evils never to erase;
Peace halts the action, but not the disgrace.

And later they may try to reconcile,
After years and regrets build a sorry pile.
Victors offer losers some platitudes
And ask both to change their old attitudes.
.
They ask to be forgiven their success
And past mutual vengeance to excess.
Let bygones be gone and go on from here –
May not be what the others want to hear.

I have seen statues, silent in the park,
With no idea of their long deceased spark.
Perhaps a plaque to tell me their name,
Maybe a few words about their past fame.

I have never seen their worst faults proclaimed;
Virtues are extolled and vices left unnamed.
But if you know enough of history,
You can launch into angry sophistry.

You may argue with that cold block of stone,
But it will not answer, never atone.
It is not a he (or she) anymore,
Just an expression, inert on the floor.

That’s right, it is an idea, just not your own –
You may object and request to dethrone.
But tolerance of your thought and ideal
Arise from your caring how others feel.

If you strike out with angry destruction,
Some understand frustration’s seduction.
But the mob’s cheer isn’t the vote of support
To persuade in public opinion’s court.

So, let’s you and I talk and decide this
And leave the statues in their uncaring bliss.
We might forgive what we may not forget,
And reform a future, with the past set.

Deadly Farce

He would rather be wrong than uncertain
As he leads us through future’s dark curtain.
So he practices wanton imperfections
Loudly broadcasting his misperceptions.

Some say he is an obsessive liar,
Cannot speak truth even with pants on fire.
He allows no facts to cloud his vision,
He gets it wrong with pinpoint precision.

And yet some still cheer, “He has spit and spunk.
We do not care if he spews so much junk.”
They too see everything as so wrong –
They are so angry they will go along.

Perhaps it might be treated as a joke --
Roll with the laughs (and ire) his words provoke.
Do not drink bleach or pop unproven drugs –
Ignore the nonsense with dismissive shrugs.

But when his words make America grate
And when lives are lost and risks elevate –
It is hard to laugh at or ignore it –
What he breaks – will we ever restore it?

The Unbelieving Optimist

When you look through uncertain haze,
Is it pessi- or opti- mist?
What will come in the future days –
Things to be wished or to resist?

I tend to think all will work out,
With problems I can overcome.
But in gut feelings, I have doubt
And fear things may turn much more glum.

Should I believe what logic tells
Or let emotions have a vote?
Do not ignore the warning bells,
But worry not ‘til their first note.

Masks for the Masses

It’s not that I would not like to see
Their many faces smiling back at me.
But until this current crisis passes
I will be making masks for the masses.

Plucked down at my handy sewing machine,
I sew the masks to ease the quarantine,
To help us all go outside safe behind
A simple mask, each with its own design.

So, when I pass you on the street someday,
‘Though I will be at least six feet away,
You can know even when nobody asks,
I am happy you have one of my masks.


Dedicated to my sister, Amy, the mass mask maker

Her reply:
There’s a woman in our community
Who sews every day inscrutably
Obsessed with the task
Of making face mask 
To help with Covid immunity.

Xenotopia

In the place with no two things the same –
Xenotopia may be the name –
Live many people from far and near,
Although not even one is from here.

You will wake each morning to new sights –
You decide if they’re frights or delights.
Nowhere you will find old friend or foe;
None can guess where overnight they go.

No sense of balance there to be found –
No well-known anchor on which to ground –
All points of reference are too dull
To catch on a bias in your skull.

Without a knowledge of commonplace –
No luxury of old thoughts to trace –
You must learn everyday anew;
You think that is something you could do?

COVID-19 Soliloquy

To mask or not to mask – Is that the question?
Whether ‘tis nobler in public to suffer
The inconvenience of government orders,
Or to bare face before a sea of people,
And by opposing risk them: to die, to weep;
No care; and by this act to say we end
The sacrifice and thousand irksome pangs
That we were subject to? ‘Tis rebellion
Selfishly to be wished. To endanger,
Perchance to kill; aye, there’s the rub,
For in pain of others, what guilt may come,
If they shuffled off this mortal coil,
Should give us pause. Is there respect
That makes sacred and dear all human life?
For who would demand their whims and comfort,
Their vanity’s relief, their free man’s choice,
The encouragement of a stranger’s smile,
The religious shelter of their beliefs
That neglects other unblessed heathens,
When they themselves might our safety protect
With mere cloth mask? Who not the burden bear,
To care and think beyond their selfish want,
But that the fear of endless quarantine,
The undetermined future, chafes kindness
To its most slender and close dimensions,
And focus on the more immediate
Than feel for others that we know not of.
Thus unease slightly loosened begs for more,
And the strength of our forced resolution
Is weakened by the thought of its return,
And social efforts of import and merit,
With this failure, their purpose goes awry,
And lose the rank of hero. Lo, watch out,
Here are the police. Cop, in your handcuffs,
Be all my breath exhaled.

Coded Message

There are those who write code
To make instructions clear.
Others’ messages are slowed,
Crypted in wording queer.

I have written in both
With varying success.
Computers fine in troth,
But people in distress.

Knowing what to explain
May help my clarity
And tell my roving brain,
“Combat perversity.”

But rarely I set out
When scribbling in verse
Knowing what I will spout –
By rule, rhyme drives the hearse.

Occam's Electric Shaver

Well, that seems simple enough, I have heard,
Quite elegantly said and maybe true.
But, in mystery, I like some absurd
To consider with the obvious clue.

What remains with all fantasy trimmed off
Is an imagination held in chains.
Scandal of naked truth should make one scoff
At the lack of challenge to idle brains.

Twist my path and lead me further astray
As I explore my wide world of wonders.
A simple game may be easy to play,
But I might learn much more from my blunders.

Sliding Down the Rainbow

It takes both rain and sun to form
A rainbow across the grey sky.
You must wait through the soaking storm --
Then it's gone ere the ground is dry.

Seize the moment while it is here,
Though not the most convenient time.
Too soon chances will disappear,
Not again your doorbell to chime.

The Lonely Rabbit

The lonely rabbit sits in his hutch
Wishing to go out for work or fun.
It is so long since he’s been in touch
With family or friends or anyone.

He had plans for this upcoming spring –
Many places to go and things to do.
With treats, baskets, and presents to bring
To hide in nooks where nobody knew.

And now he’s told to stay at home,
As a non-essential worker.
No more allowed streets nor fields to roam,
He feels that he is such a shirker.

The Starling

As I sat here to solve a puzzle,
With my water bottle near to guzzle,
Hidden beneath the trusty umbrella to block out the sun,
Suddenly there came a chirping,
Louder than bullfrogs a-burping,
Into my quiet mood usurping,
Usurping thoughts from my fun.
"Who makes such a noxious racket,
Chirping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

I looked up to see this noisy bird,
Seating there, dropping an avian turd,
Upon the chair opposite me, which hence all should shun.
That is so very disgusting,
To attack a chair so trusting;
The chair back now was encrusting,
Encrusting crud from this hun.
"Where is your shame, you dirty fowl,
Dropping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

He flew away without my shooing,
As his excrement sat there gooing,
Semi-solid, not quite fluid, just enough to start to run.
With napkin I went to wiping,
Up and down I went on swiping.
The plain brown chair now had striping,
Striping to bake in the bright sun.
"Who will want your added feature,
Piping where before was none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

Long have I lingered on vacation,
Retirement has brought much cessation.
My leisure may have lost more than my relaxation has won.
The black bird who got me versing,
As a contemplating cursing,
Perhaps enleashed passion bursting,
Bursting to release rhyme and fun.
"Who would want my silly poems,
After a year which had none?"
Starling said, "Your rest is done."

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.