In July of 2009,
I saw Frankfurt am Main,
Visited Weimar and Berlin,
Went to Warsaw, and in
Two days found myself in Krakow
(Via Czestochowa, of
Black Madonna fame, and Auschwitz).
Quickly through Slovakia, which,
Though picturesque & panoramic,
We tourists viewed in panic
Lest our dinner in Budapest
Should turn cold. I didn’t rest
In Vienna, Austria, either,
Grabbing just one souvenir,
A weiner, and some beer
Before heading to Prague to hear
A recital of Strauss, etc.
In Rothenburg, a plethora
Of crafts and pastries met our eyes.
We yet again said our goodbyes,
And in the nick
Of time, Munich
Came into view: the Glockenspiel
In Marienplatz, the real deal,
Chimed, and charmed us; then
(Already?) Frankfurt again.
In the morning, to the airport—
Farewell, Frankfurt!
Oh, there’s Heathrow,
Just a stone’s throw
(Yes, it’s pertinent)
From the Continent.
In July of 2010,
I forsook travel; attempted Zen;
Took two weeks off from work,
Seeing neither carrier nor clerk,
Neither customer nor canine;
Stayed up late, awoke again at nine
After having gotten up at eight
(Everything could wait);
Wrote, reread, unwound whenever I pleased.
Time, this time, not distance, was the feast.
From my house’s patio,
Observing hares hop to and fro,
And crazy squirrels go,
Without apparent vertigo,
Up and down the maple tree
Was sight-seeing enough for me.
Another day, bicycling up a trail,
Leaving life’s mundane travail
Behind, the crunchy gravel
In that moment was all the travel
I needed or desired.
Stopped when I got tired
Of exercise, or too wired
From being required
To search for synonyms.
Sang some hymns—
Prolonged a hug—
Pulled the plug—
Ate whenever hungry—
Shaved when I felt scraggly—
Moved as if I were a snail
Browsing at a yard sale.
The clock did tick
And tock, but it had lost its kick,
Lacked its verve and grit and urgency.
Nothing then but tendency—
Molasseslike momentum—
Spun the atom
Monday, September 27, 2010
Miracles 101
When under stress,
Grasping at the hem of Christ’s garment
As though at straws,
Praying for this or that—for employment,
Wisdom, healing—
Whatever particular lament
Has got you kneeling,
Do you sometimes wonder if God can’t?
Can’t give you peace,
Or food on the table, money for rent,
Simple surcease
Of pain? I, when troubled, invent
A syllogism-
Like series of questions, expressly meant
(Think of a prism)
To delineate God’s might and intent.
Can He yet provide,
Despite a lull prolonged, a job, a cure?
Did His feet not ride
Upon the tossed and plunging waves, secure
In step and stride?
And was this more difficult than taking pure,
Plain water aside,
And turning it to wine instantly mature?
He multiplied
Two fish and five loaves of bread, feeding
A crowd that cried
For free refreshments at the meeting.
A friend who had died
Harkened to Christ’s voice, and Lazarus
Stirred, blinking inside
His tomb. This was a more fabulous
Feat of power
Than setting up a livelihood for you
Out of nowhere,
Or ameliorating symptoms of your flu!
Not impressed? Not
Quite persuaded? Need another clue?
Like a clot,
The sea stiffened, letting Israel through.
Out of clay,
Man was fashioned; from nothingness, a slew
Of suns, day
And night, water, land, and air, on cue,
Appeared. Before that,
There was God alone, and the only view
He had, where He sat,
Was of Chaos. With it came a notion: you.
Grasping at the hem of Christ’s garment
As though at straws,
Praying for this or that—for employment,
Wisdom, healing—
Whatever particular lament
Has got you kneeling,
Do you sometimes wonder if God can’t?
Can’t give you peace,
Or food on the table, money for rent,
Simple surcease
Of pain? I, when troubled, invent
A syllogism-
Like series of questions, expressly meant
(Think of a prism)
To delineate God’s might and intent.
Can He yet provide,
Despite a lull prolonged, a job, a cure?
Did His feet not ride
Upon the tossed and plunging waves, secure
In step and stride?
And was this more difficult than taking pure,
Plain water aside,
And turning it to wine instantly mature?
He multiplied
Two fish and five loaves of bread, feeding
A crowd that cried
For free refreshments at the meeting.
A friend who had died
Harkened to Christ’s voice, and Lazarus
Stirred, blinking inside
His tomb. This was a more fabulous
Feat of power
Than setting up a livelihood for you
Out of nowhere,
Or ameliorating symptoms of your flu!
Not impressed? Not
Quite persuaded? Need another clue?
Like a clot,
The sea stiffened, letting Israel through.
Out of clay,
Man was fashioned; from nothingness, a slew
Of suns, day
And night, water, land, and air, on cue,
Appeared. Before that,
There was God alone, and the only view
He had, where He sat,
Was of Chaos. With it came a notion: you.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Eavesdropper
There is in that forest preserve a spot
Which joggers and surveyors have not found—
A hole the size and depth of a cot.
You could not tell it from solid ground.
Beneath its dandelion-covered lid,
My pit from other eyes is ever hid.
No arms but mine may lift its roof;
Cranes cannot pry its boards; no bomb
Exists, or horse’s hoof,
That has the force to shake my tomb.
Many a dawn have I lain in it,
Beneath the tread of Alexander,
Caesar, and Charlemagne—an infinite
Column on the march, while inches under
Them, secluded and silent as a mole,
I listened as far-flung empires turned
Their swords upon each other, till the toll
In blood could scarcely be discerned
(I peeked, a crack above the sod)
From the crimson sky of an angry God.
I have heard the scream of Genghis Khan
Rise above the roar of panzer tanks
As Napoleon’s troops were overrun
By Hunnish hordes right through their flanks.
For the loam in which my hole is dug
Is also shifting sand, and anywhere
That history’s tectonic forces tug
My little hollow will be there,
My hiding place, which cannot sag
Though earth itself may lurch or lag.
Cedar from Lebanon, fragrant wood,
Surrounds its sides, and makes the air
Within ever and exceeding good.
For food and drink, within my lair,
I have lembas bread, peanut butter,
And a quart of Aphrodite’s nectar.
Enclosed, invulnerable,
I can sense the sinuous lion passing
Overhead, and hear the rumble
Of wildebeests and zebras massing
Upon the sun-beaten Serengeti.
I have noted the clickety-clack
Of civilization in Cincinnati,
Right above a subway track;
Also the subtle thud of pygmy feet
Landing near some hapless animal.
Shoes and heels, ever in pursuit of meat.
The din has become subliminal.
The patter, the incessant shuffling…
The winds of change howling, as one,
With the dogs of war, ruffling
My feathers. I am undone!
Snug in that deer-inhabited preserve,
I am coming close to losing my nerve—
Leaping from my burrow in the ground,
The weedy, mulchy cover thrown aside,
I gasp for air, and, blinking, look around.
There, snoring (bless her), and still beside
Me, lies my wife of nineteen years,
Whose arms, enfolding mine, assuage my fears.
Which joggers and surveyors have not found—
A hole the size and depth of a cot.
You could not tell it from solid ground.
Beneath its dandelion-covered lid,
My pit from other eyes is ever hid.
No arms but mine may lift its roof;
Cranes cannot pry its boards; no bomb
Exists, or horse’s hoof,
That has the force to shake my tomb.
Many a dawn have I lain in it,
Beneath the tread of Alexander,
Caesar, and Charlemagne—an infinite
Column on the march, while inches under
Them, secluded and silent as a mole,
I listened as far-flung empires turned
Their swords upon each other, till the toll
In blood could scarcely be discerned
(I peeked, a crack above the sod)
From the crimson sky of an angry God.
I have heard the scream of Genghis Khan
Rise above the roar of panzer tanks
As Napoleon’s troops were overrun
By Hunnish hordes right through their flanks.
For the loam in which my hole is dug
Is also shifting sand, and anywhere
That history’s tectonic forces tug
My little hollow will be there,
My hiding place, which cannot sag
Though earth itself may lurch or lag.
Cedar from Lebanon, fragrant wood,
Surrounds its sides, and makes the air
Within ever and exceeding good.
For food and drink, within my lair,
I have lembas bread, peanut butter,
And a quart of Aphrodite’s nectar.
Enclosed, invulnerable,
I can sense the sinuous lion passing
Overhead, and hear the rumble
Of wildebeests and zebras massing
Upon the sun-beaten Serengeti.
I have noted the clickety-clack
Of civilization in Cincinnati,
Right above a subway track;
Also the subtle thud of pygmy feet
Landing near some hapless animal.
Shoes and heels, ever in pursuit of meat.
The din has become subliminal.
The patter, the incessant shuffling…
The winds of change howling, as one,
With the dogs of war, ruffling
My feathers. I am undone!
Snug in that deer-inhabited preserve,
I am coming close to losing my nerve—
Leaping from my burrow in the ground,
The weedy, mulchy cover thrown aside,
I gasp for air, and, blinking, look around.
There, snoring (bless her), and still beside
Me, lies my wife of nineteen years,
Whose arms, enfolding mine, assuage my fears.
The Umpteenth Amendment
“Everything costs money,” merchants say
As, splaying their palms and shrugging,
They explain why customers have to pay.
And you, victim of a ritual mugging,
Sigh in your turn, “Everything costs money.”
"Everything costs money, buddy,”
Says the taxman, taking his cut
With impudence, exactitude, no qualms;
Says, too, the panhandler on his butt,
Having bought his booze with slimy alms.
“Everything costs money, honey,”
Purrs the costly catlike bunny—
Opines the bishop from his pulpit—
Cries the lawyer, seeking restitution.
We, the People, have—we couldn’t help it—
Added this line to the Constitution.
Everything costs money.
It isn’t even funny.
As, splaying their palms and shrugging,
They explain why customers have to pay.
And you, victim of a ritual mugging,
Sigh in your turn, “Everything costs money.”
"Everything costs money, buddy,”
Says the taxman, taking his cut
With impudence, exactitude, no qualms;
Says, too, the panhandler on his butt,
Having bought his booze with slimy alms.
“Everything costs money, honey,”
Purrs the costly catlike bunny—
Opines the bishop from his pulpit—
Cries the lawyer, seeking restitution.
We, the People, have—we couldn’t help it—
Added this line to the Constitution.
Everything costs money.
It isn’t even funny.
Evolution of the Public Sector
The colony began as a normal, thriving society of ants. The queen reproduced assiduously, and the various castes of workers tended to the larvae, or guarded the colony’s entrance, or collected food for everyone. The drones, who were also community organizers, kept to themselves, waiting for the appointed time when they would mate with the queen. Somehow, due either to a mutation or a rogue pheromone, these drones began to infect the other ants with “progressive” ideas, using their antennae as instruments of propaganda.
The first thing that happened was an interruption in the ant trail outside. Instead of carrying bits of food and detritus, some of the workers decided to station themselves at regular intervals on the line, and to collect toll. Meanwhile, in the nursery, a third of the crew abandoned its assigned larvae, and demanded to be shown the permits and professional licenses of the other workers. Most alarming of all, the soldier ants were letting in alien ants from hostile colonies. They were loathed, they said, to “profile” anyone, just because his or her formic acid smelled different.
Soon, the minor workers, tired of being harassed by the toll-collectors, formed their own unions. One group of ants carried only plant matter; another transported only millipede legs; another collected only dues; yet another took breaks, and nothing else.
And what of the queen? Without anyone to feed her, she ceased to reproduce her own kind, begetting instead quantities of pension liabilities, which quickly filled her chamber, and asphyxiated her. The death of the queen, however, did not destroy the colony. The ants had by then metamorphosed into bureaucratic parasites, and those organisms, as we know, live forever.
The first thing that happened was an interruption in the ant trail outside. Instead of carrying bits of food and detritus, some of the workers decided to station themselves at regular intervals on the line, and to collect toll. Meanwhile, in the nursery, a third of the crew abandoned its assigned larvae, and demanded to be shown the permits and professional licenses of the other workers. Most alarming of all, the soldier ants were letting in alien ants from hostile colonies. They were loathed, they said, to “profile” anyone, just because his or her formic acid smelled different.
Soon, the minor workers, tired of being harassed by the toll-collectors, formed their own unions. One group of ants carried only plant matter; another transported only millipede legs; another collected only dues; yet another took breaks, and nothing else.
And what of the queen? Without anyone to feed her, she ceased to reproduce her own kind, begetting instead quantities of pension liabilities, which quickly filled her chamber, and asphyxiated her. The death of the queen, however, did not destroy the colony. The ants had by then metamorphosed into bureaucratic parasites, and those organisms, as we know, live forever.
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