Image credit: Emily KenCairn via Unsplash
"All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets
must be truthful."--Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Owen became the unintentional Poet Laureate of World War One. In one of that war's cruelest ironies, he died on the battlefield just one week prior to the Armistice of November 1918.
must be truthful."--Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Owen became the unintentional Poet Laureate of World War One. In one of that war's cruelest ironies, he died on the battlefield just one week prior to the Armistice of November 1918.
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[NOTE: Most recent work appears at top.]
January 21, 2022
[Drearily Ongoing Events Department]
The “Right to Lifers” are marching
The “Right to Lifers” are marching, not bothered by the cold;
their good friends on SCOTUS making them extra bold.
But the man in the White House won’t bow down,
won’t embrace them like his predecessor, the clown.
“Human life is sacred!” they scream, “Don’t you get it?!”
But deaths from proliferating firearms bother them not one bit.
And when American bombs and missiles in other lands fly,
we know they’ll wave the flag, shouting “Die, enemy, die!”
Every pregnancy must come to fruition, it’s God’s decree.
“Don’t want the kid? Put it up for adoption. On that can’t we agree?”
But oddly, if the child isn’t Caucasian, skin of a different hue,
they tend to be Missing in Action from the adoption agency queue.
Thousands of women on parade, opposing the rights of women:
a fine manifestation of their twisted, hypocritical politics American.
Self-righteous are they, unable to grasp the concept of irony.
So until Roe’s tossed, they’ll continue parading their gross hypocrisy.
[Drearily Ongoing Events Department]
The “Right to Lifers” are marching
The “Right to Lifers” are marching, not bothered by the cold;
their good friends on SCOTUS making them extra bold.
But the man in the White House won’t bow down,
won’t embrace them like his predecessor, the clown.
“Human life is sacred!” they scream, “Don’t you get it?!”
But deaths from proliferating firearms bother them not one bit.
And when American bombs and missiles in other lands fly,
we know they’ll wave the flag, shouting “Die, enemy, die!”
Every pregnancy must come to fruition, it’s God’s decree.
“Don’t want the kid? Put it up for adoption. On that can’t we agree?”
But oddly, if the child isn’t Caucasian, skin of a different hue,
they tend to be Missing in Action from the adoption agency queue.
Thousands of women on parade, opposing the rights of women:
a fine manifestation of their twisted, hypocritical politics American.
Self-righteous are they, unable to grasp the concept of irony.
So until Roe’s tossed, they’ll continue parading their gross hypocrisy.
January 20, 2022
[Current Events]
Candidate for “Well, duh!” moment of the decade?
[From CNN website, January 20, 2022:]
“States with weaker gun laws have higher rates of firearm related homicides and suicides, study finds.”
Memo to funders of this study: I could’ve told you this for half the price! Someone should paddle your behinds!
[Current Events]
Candidate for “Well, duh!” moment of the decade?
[From CNN website, January 20, 2022:]
“States with weaker gun laws have higher rates of firearm related homicides and suicides, study finds.”
Memo to funders of this study: I could’ve told you this for half the price! Someone should paddle your behinds!
January 19, 2022
[Current Events, Science Division]
“Have another psychedelic beer, kemosabe!” *
From the pages of the journal Antiquity,
a periodical considered fairly scholarly,
comes the tale of an ancient celebration . . .
though the authors admit it’s only speculation.
In the Andes region way down south of here,
it seems psychedelics were being added to beer.
What’s the idea? To influence and win new friends
among neighboring tribes were the presumed ends.
Among the people called Wari was this practice
of preferring partying to war-making malice.
It appears they ground up the seeds of vilca
and added the powder to their beer-like chicha.
Congress really ought to take note,
in light of their latest generous vote
to pay for weapons new and dandy,
how much cheaper it would be—like candy--
to invite our “adversaries,” Mr. Putin and Mr. Xie,
to a blow-out all-night psychedelic beer party!
* Or shall we make that “chemosabe”?
[Current Events, Science Division]
“Have another psychedelic beer, kemosabe!” *
From the pages of the journal Antiquity,
a periodical considered fairly scholarly,
comes the tale of an ancient celebration . . .
though the authors admit it’s only speculation.
In the Andes region way down south of here,
it seems psychedelics were being added to beer.
What’s the idea? To influence and win new friends
among neighboring tribes were the presumed ends.
Among the people called Wari was this practice
of preferring partying to war-making malice.
It appears they ground up the seeds of vilca
and added the powder to their beer-like chicha.
Congress really ought to take note,
in light of their latest generous vote
to pay for weapons new and dandy,
how much cheaper it would be—like candy--
to invite our “adversaries,” Mr. Putin and Mr. Xie,
to a blow-out all-night psychedelic beer party!
* Or shall we make that “chemosabe”?
January 18, 2022
Happy Birthday, Archie Leach!
Archibald Leach. You know him better as Cary Grant.
He and I share a secret bond I’ll take to my grave.
No, it’s not that we’re both so handsome and suave.
Debatable in my case, anyway, deny that I can’t.
Nor can I match his marriages numbering five.
The luxury homes hither, thither and yon?
Heck, such turf I never even set foot on!
Sorry, still no parallel paths by which to arrive.
Before I slip and give it away, a final nod to glory:
Essential to give due credit to Cary, Jimmy and Kate.
Love resurrected from a relationship turned to hate.
For this cinephile, nothing tops The Philadelphia Story!
Happy Birthday, Archie Leach!
Archibald Leach. You know him better as Cary Grant.
He and I share a secret bond I’ll take to my grave.
No, it’s not that we’re both so handsome and suave.
Debatable in my case, anyway, deny that I can’t.
Nor can I match his marriages numbering five.
The luxury homes hither, thither and yon?
Heck, such turf I never even set foot on!
Sorry, still no parallel paths by which to arrive.
Before I slip and give it away, a final nod to glory:
Essential to give due credit to Cary, Jimmy and Kate.
Love resurrected from a relationship turned to hate.
For this cinephile, nothing tops The Philadelphia Story!
January 17, 2022
MLK Day 2022
Dr. King believed moral force could effect a revolution, one without bloodshed;
John Edgar Hoover, pointedly observing this, said he’d detected a “Red.”
He ordered ceaseless surveillance of the good pastor—even in bed;
claimed he had evidence of hotel room orgies to bring the Good King down, but instead
this great national security threat conveniently was felled by a bullet, a certain mass of lead,
and on a balcony at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis he lay dead.
J. Edgar is roasting in Hell, while Martin on green pastures of Heaven does tread.
Dr. King believed moral force could effect a revolution, one without bloodshed;
John Edgar Hoover, pointedly observing this, said he’d detected a “Red.”
He ordered ceaseless surveillance of the good pastor—even in bed;
claimed he had evidence of hotel room orgies to bring the Good King down, but instead
this great national security threat conveniently was felled by a bullet, a certain mass of lead,
and on a balcony at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis he lay dead.
J. Edgar is roasting in Hell, while Martin on green pastures of Heaven does tread.
January 16, 2022
Mark Twain would have chuckled
Okay, so it’s weird, maybe I should be in rehab.
I’m a compulsive proofreader, you see.
Any typo in anything I read my eye does grab.
And it saddens, nay, irritates me,
that publishers don’t give a damn (sigh).
Case in point: a caption—yes, I
even proofread captions!—in today’s NY Times.
(To buy a hard copy these days, bring lots of dimes.)
The subject, you need to know,
was the ‘kunga,’ a human-created hybrid
between a Syrian wild ass and a female
donkey from some 4500 years ago.
The Times credits the source of a photo
of fossil skeletons to “John Hopkins” University.
When that esteemed institution offered
to Mark Twain an Honorary Degree,
he stated he would decline the honor until
that school learned to spell its name properly!
Mark Twain would have chuckled
Okay, so it’s weird, maybe I should be in rehab.
I’m a compulsive proofreader, you see.
Any typo in anything I read my eye does grab.
And it saddens, nay, irritates me,
that publishers don’t give a damn (sigh).
Case in point: a caption—yes, I
even proofread captions!—in today’s NY Times.
(To buy a hard copy these days, bring lots of dimes.)
The subject, you need to know,
was the ‘kunga,’ a human-created hybrid
between a Syrian wild ass and a female
donkey from some 4500 years ago.
The Times credits the source of a photo
of fossil skeletons to “John Hopkins” University.
When that esteemed institution offered
to Mark Twain an Honorary Degree,
he stated he would decline the honor until
that school learned to spell its name properly!
January 15, 2022
The $125 bucket of popcorn
Some folks in our society have way too much
money to burn, to throw away, on such
and such frivolous activity.
Additional proof arrived today, courtesy
of CBS Radio News as I drove my car.
Seems that Disney World, in Orlando down thar,
was selling a special bucket of popcorn
(in rainbow hues!) for a mere 25 bucks.
But that ain’t all to the story, aw shucks!
Here we approach the border of “money porn”:
Tired of waiting in a long, long queue,
some well-heeled folks were offering $100 bills . . .
“Here, let me in front of you!” “Sure, and thank you!”
A nicely condensed picture of this society’s ills.
The $125 bucket of popcorn
Some folks in our society have way too much
money to burn, to throw away, on such
and such frivolous activity.
Additional proof arrived today, courtesy
of CBS Radio News as I drove my car.
Seems that Disney World, in Orlando down thar,
was selling a special bucket of popcorn
(in rainbow hues!) for a mere 25 bucks.
But that ain’t all to the story, aw shucks!
Here we approach the border of “money porn”:
Tired of waiting in a long, long queue,
some well-heeled folks were offering $100 bills . . .
“Here, let me in front of you!” “Sure, and thank you!”
A nicely condensed picture of this society’s ills.
January 14, 2022
Major issue of the day
A reader asks the NY Times
“Ethicist Columnist” (yes, being
an “ethicist” is now an occupation):
“Is it okay for our daughter to bring
her married boyfriend along on our vacation?”
Oh, would not many, many of us wish
this was the biggest problem on our daily dish?
It reeketh of a purely middle-class ethical situation.
We really ARE doomed!
I just heard on radio news,
in relation to President Biden’s
nominees for Federal Reserve Board,
that “the Fed” employs 900 PhDs in Economics.
Ah, Economics, rightly called “the dismal science.”
So we’ll keep moving forward, folks . . . without any clues!
Major issue of the day
A reader asks the NY Times
“Ethicist Columnist” (yes, being
an “ethicist” is now an occupation):
“Is it okay for our daughter to bring
her married boyfriend along on our vacation?”
Oh, would not many, many of us wish
this was the biggest problem on our daily dish?
It reeketh of a purely middle-class ethical situation.
We really ARE doomed!
I just heard on radio news,
in relation to President Biden’s
nominees for Federal Reserve Board,
that “the Fed” employs 900 PhDs in Economics.
Ah, Economics, rightly called “the dismal science.”
So we’ll keep moving forward, folks . . . without any clues!
January 13, 2022
A Slow News Day
From CNN: “Dawn changes its dish soap bottle with a wacky new lid.”
This cheers me greatly, now I’ll forget about Covid!
Town in Australia records temperature of 123 degrees in the shade;
good thing it’s Fahrenheit and not Centigrade!
SCOTUS rules against mandatory vaccine or testing for private sector employees--
‘cuz, you know, it’s a matter of personal liberties!
From NY Times: “F.D.A. to stop regulating French dressing.”
Oh no! Now that piece of news is truly distressing!
A Slow News Day
From CNN: “Dawn changes its dish soap bottle with a wacky new lid.”
This cheers me greatly, now I’ll forget about Covid!
Town in Australia records temperature of 123 degrees in the shade;
good thing it’s Fahrenheit and not Centigrade!
SCOTUS rules against mandatory vaccine or testing for private sector employees--
‘cuz, you know, it’s a matter of personal liberties!
From NY Times: “F.D.A. to stop regulating French dressing.”
Oh no! Now that piece of news is truly distressing!
January 12, 2022
To-Do List
1.) research whether use of hyphen between “to” and “do” is correct;
2.) search for To-Do List I made out yesterday but misplaced;
3.) make note to self to never misplace a To-Do List again;
4.) try to not misplace reminder referenced in point #3;
5.) if yesterday’s To-Do List fails to surface, start new To-Do List;
6.) review point #3 above;
7.) hope for the best.
[Dedicated to my friend Chuck . . . and myself.]
To-Do List
1.) research whether use of hyphen between “to” and “do” is correct;
2.) search for To-Do List I made out yesterday but misplaced;
3.) make note to self to never misplace a To-Do List again;
4.) try to not misplace reminder referenced in point #3;
5.) if yesterday’s To-Do List fails to surface, start new To-Do List;
6.) review point #3 above;
7.) hope for the best.
[Dedicated to my friend Chuck . . . and myself.]
January 11, 2022
Walmart
A truly immense corporation, Walmart
is so respectful of Jesus’s sacred heart,
they won’t sell ya no liquor, wine or beer. *
But if it’s firearms you desire, don’t fear!
Go on, Bubba, fill up that shopping cart!
* Theological Note: Some Christian Fundamentalists have long insisted that references to wine in the New Testament actually signify unfermented grape juice. I don’t think the Welch’s brand dates back quite that far.
Walmart
A truly immense corporation, Walmart
is so respectful of Jesus’s sacred heart,
they won’t sell ya no liquor, wine or beer. *
But if it’s firearms you desire, don’t fear!
Go on, Bubba, fill up that shopping cart!
* Theological Note: Some Christian Fundamentalists have long insisted that references to wine in the New Testament actually signify unfermented grape juice. I don’t think the Welch’s brand dates back quite that far.
January 10, 2022
Monday After the NFL Season
Head coaches’ heads rolling by the dozen—okay, slight exaggeration.
Must be an explanation. What’s the rhyme, what’s the reason?
Oh, it’s easy, though it makes their brethren coaches queasy . . .
Every team owner demands a winning season!
(NOTE: I wrote this in my head while stuck in a traffic delay, listening to a sports roundup on the car radio. Blame it on my hyperactive Muse!)
Monday After the NFL Season
Head coaches’ heads rolling by the dozen—okay, slight exaggeration.
Must be an explanation. What’s the rhyme, what’s the reason?
Oh, it’s easy, though it makes their brethren coaches queasy . . .
Every team owner demands a winning season!
(NOTE: I wrote this in my head while stuck in a traffic delay, listening to a sports roundup on the car radio. Blame it on my hyperactive Muse!)
January 9, 2022
Cross Bronx Expressway
It’s just a few miles of Interstate 95,
but an expressway? What a load of jive!
Folks stuck out there, have pity on them.
Traffic’s actually flowing? It’s a major news item!
Email me if at your destination you actually arrive.
Expressway? What an incredible misnomer!
In equal travel time, you could get to Oklahomer! *
Oh, I’ve been there, sometimes thanks to wrong turn,
joining thousands of others, doing a slow burn.
Your trip will be an epic odyssey, worthy of Homer.
* Here the reader must forgive me. I’m just an amateur poet, you know.
Cross Bronx Expressway
It’s just a few miles of Interstate 95,
but an expressway? What a load of jive!
Folks stuck out there, have pity on them.
Traffic’s actually flowing? It’s a major news item!
Email me if at your destination you actually arrive.
Expressway? What an incredible misnomer!
In equal travel time, you could get to Oklahomer! *
Oh, I’ve been there, sometimes thanks to wrong turn,
joining thousands of others, doing a slow burn.
Your trip will be an epic odyssey, worthy of Homer.
* Here the reader must forgive me. I’m just an amateur poet, you know.
January 8, 2022
A conspiracy of inanimate objects
A conspiracy of inanimate objects
has been operating against me
for quite some time.
Should I ever get to the bottom
of this nefarious plot,
someone’s gonna have hell to pay!
On the simplest of levels,
there’s the lid on the jar of salsa
that can’t be budged without
force of several horsepower;
the dregs of the toothpaste
so recalcitrant to depart the tube;
the “back saving” snow shovel that doesn’t
(“save” my back, that is);
the bolt on the road that finds
my car’s tire with great accuracy;
the car battery that gave up
the ghost with no warning;
the airbag flaw that required recall.
But towering above all, like Everest,
loom the computer software programs
that never work like we’re led to believe
(and are never, ever “intuitively easy
to use”—to the gallows with those
making such claims!). Once upon
a time, our species could live
without these annoyances . . .
oh, sorry, I mean “improvements.”
True, I wrote this on a computer--
and now let me post it, before a glitch arises.
A conspiracy of inanimate objects
A conspiracy of inanimate objects
has been operating against me
for quite some time.
Should I ever get to the bottom
of this nefarious plot,
someone’s gonna have hell to pay!
On the simplest of levels,
there’s the lid on the jar of salsa
that can’t be budged without
force of several horsepower;
the dregs of the toothpaste
so recalcitrant to depart the tube;
the “back saving” snow shovel that doesn’t
(“save” my back, that is);
the bolt on the road that finds
my car’s tire with great accuracy;
the car battery that gave up
the ghost with no warning;
the airbag flaw that required recall.
But towering above all, like Everest,
loom the computer software programs
that never work like we’re led to believe
(and are never, ever “intuitively easy
to use”—to the gallows with those
making such claims!). Once upon
a time, our species could live
without these annoyances . . .
oh, sorry, I mean “improvements.”
True, I wrote this on a computer--
and now let me post it, before a glitch arises.
January 7, 2022
Four Haiku for First Friday of the Year
First real snow of the season
lovely little flakes
from the heavens descending
time to shovel . . . ugh!
Three for Sir Sidney Poitier
1.)
young doctor Sidney
up against mad dog racist
Widmark . . . No Way Out
2.)
Call him Mister Tibbs!
Quincy Jones’s music demands
in Heat of the Night
3.)
Tracy and Hepburn
guessing who’s coming to dine
beautiful black man!
Four Haiku for First Friday of the Year
First real snow of the season
lovely little flakes
from the heavens descending
time to shovel . . . ugh!
Three for Sir Sidney Poitier
1.)
young doctor Sidney
up against mad dog racist
Widmark . . . No Way Out
2.)
Call him Mister Tibbs!
Quincy Jones’s music demands
in Heat of the Night
3.)
Tracy and Hepburn
guessing who’s coming to dine
beautiful black man!
January 6, 2022
The Arc of the Universe
“The arc of the Universe,” we’re sometimes told,
“bends toward justice”—a claim rather bold.
Yes, it’s a lovely bit of sentimentality,
but quite far divorced from reality.
If the Universe has an arc that bends at all,
it’s toward entropy, and this we cannot stall.
Justice, injustice, these concepts are surely
in the minds of human beings purely.
The Universe will go on humming for eons,
blissfully unaware of the travails of us peons.
The galaxies engage in their cosmic dance,
comets across our night sky still prance.
What transpires down here is not their concern.
But if in you a desire for justice does burn,
be prepared to fight for it, you’ll not get it by vote.
The Ship of State defends the status quo . . .
Let’s rock that boat!
The Arc of the Universe
“The arc of the Universe,” we’re sometimes told,
“bends toward justice”—a claim rather bold.
Yes, it’s a lovely bit of sentimentality,
but quite far divorced from reality.
If the Universe has an arc that bends at all,
it’s toward entropy, and this we cannot stall.
Justice, injustice, these concepts are surely
in the minds of human beings purely.
The Universe will go on humming for eons,
blissfully unaware of the travails of us peons.
The galaxies engage in their cosmic dance,
comets across our night sky still prance.
What transpires down here is not their concern.
But if in you a desire for justice does burn,
be prepared to fight for it, you’ll not get it by vote.
The Ship of State defends the status quo . . .
Let’s rock that boat!
January 5, 2022
Axolotl Millionaire
Louie brought home some very pricey spirits in a fancy bottle.
When he decanted this precious fluid for some high-falutin’ guests,
they all gasped in horror—suspended in it they saw a nicely-pickled axolotl!
Louie’s attorney cackled and rubbed his hands in glee. “You know what this suggests?”
“No,” answered his client. But noting the twinkle in the legal eagle’s eye, he said “Please enlighten me.”
“A handsome seven-figure settlement, I’d bet!” Grinning, Louie dashed off to put a deposit on a vintage XKE.
Axolotl Millionaire
Louie brought home some very pricey spirits in a fancy bottle.
When he decanted this precious fluid for some high-falutin’ guests,
they all gasped in horror—suspended in it they saw a nicely-pickled axolotl!
Louie’s attorney cackled and rubbed his hands in glee. “You know what this suggests?”
“No,” answered his client. But noting the twinkle in the legal eagle’s eye, he said “Please enlighten me.”
“A handsome seven-figure settlement, I’d bet!” Grinning, Louie dashed off to put a deposit on a vintage XKE.
January 4, 2022
Artificial Intelligence
(Don’t Make Me Laugh!)
Homo sapiens (“Man who knows”),
that’s our scientific designation.
“What a piece of work is he” declared
that English chap. Forgive him—little could he know
the depth of Man’s future degradation.
Yes, he of the convoluted cerebral cortex
(but matched or exceeded by an average dolphin),
hovering near the perimeter of extinction’s vortex.
Thinks he can keep lording it over all Creation,
still using the planet as a toxic waste dump.
“Oh, relax!” proclaim apologists for industry.
“Technology will save us, don’t you see?”
Don’t believe it, don’t be a chump!
We’ve crossed the Rubicon, ain’t no turning back.
Our leaders have blown it, don’t cut ’em no slack.
Daily they’re trumpeted—tech’s marvelous new toys:
Artificial Intelligence is now all the rage.
Sure to save the world, usher in a New Age.
But all along it’s common sense human
intelligence that’s been needed.
“Inconvenient truths,” though, tend not to be heeded.
Get in the way of profits? That can’t be tolerated!
And anyway, “green” technologies are just overrated!
That’s the “conventional wisdom,” but be on guard:
that’s what we desperately need to discard!
Artificial Intelligence
(Don’t Make Me Laugh!)
Homo sapiens (“Man who knows”),
that’s our scientific designation.
“What a piece of work is he” declared
that English chap. Forgive him—little could he know
the depth of Man’s future degradation.
Yes, he of the convoluted cerebral cortex
(but matched or exceeded by an average dolphin),
hovering near the perimeter of extinction’s vortex.
Thinks he can keep lording it over all Creation,
still using the planet as a toxic waste dump.
“Oh, relax!” proclaim apologists for industry.
“Technology will save us, don’t you see?”
Don’t believe it, don’t be a chump!
We’ve crossed the Rubicon, ain’t no turning back.
Our leaders have blown it, don’t cut ’em no slack.
Daily they’re trumpeted—tech’s marvelous new toys:
Artificial Intelligence is now all the rage.
Sure to save the world, usher in a New Age.
But all along it’s common sense human
intelligence that’s been needed.
“Inconvenient truths,” though, tend not to be heeded.
Get in the way of profits? That can’t be tolerated!
And anyway, “green” technologies are just overrated!
That’s the “conventional wisdom,” but be on guard:
that’s what we desperately need to discard!
January 3, 2022
Something about Poetry
Your Fearless Poet hereby confesses
that he has never made a formal study
of this art, if art it do be.
Iambic pentameter? Yeah, I’ve heard of it.
In days of yore, I scribbled free-form
when some event moved or outraged me sufficiently.
(I know that a rhyme scheme isn’t mandatory,
but somehow it keeps forcing itself on me.)
I know the simple stuff, like the limerick,
and dear old haiku. But the latter
originally were—yes, the word’s plural as well as singular--
passing reflections on Nature’s glory.
The syllable count here is what matters:
Five in the first and third lines, seven in middle.
And that’s about the extent of my knowledge;
I lack a degree in Literature from any damn college.
And there I go again, hung up on rhyme!
But I’m having a hell of a good time
living up to my self-challenge to churn
this stuff out daily.
And if, at times, you say I’ve descended to mere doggerel,
I can only respond by getting down on all fours,
going “Woof!” and wagging my tail gaily.
Something about Poetry
Your Fearless Poet hereby confesses
that he has never made a formal study
of this art, if art it do be.
Iambic pentameter? Yeah, I’ve heard of it.
In days of yore, I scribbled free-form
when some event moved or outraged me sufficiently.
(I know that a rhyme scheme isn’t mandatory,
but somehow it keeps forcing itself on me.)
I know the simple stuff, like the limerick,
and dear old haiku. But the latter
originally were—yes, the word’s plural as well as singular--
passing reflections on Nature’s glory.
The syllable count here is what matters:
Five in the first and third lines, seven in middle.
And that’s about the extent of my knowledge;
I lack a degree in Literature from any damn college.
And there I go again, hung up on rhyme!
But I’m having a hell of a good time
living up to my self-challenge to churn
this stuff out daily.
And if, at times, you say I’ve descended to mere doggerel,
I can only respond by getting down on all fours,
going “Woof!” and wagging my tail gaily.
January 2, 2022
If there is a “Planet B” . . .
If, out there somewhere, does reside a “Planet B”
habitable by humans, of pollution still free,
you can bet it will be found by B, M & Z:
Bezos, Musk, Zuckerberg—The Unholy Three! *
This diligent search for a substitute Earth
is devouring a lot of their personal worth.
They see the writing on the wall, things turning to shit;
Humankind’s days here are numbered, we really blew it.
What’ll be the price of a ticket to the New Paradise?
To these uber-rich dudes you better make nice!
Get your ass to the Yukon, start panning for gold;
maybe those stolen masterpieces are ripe to be sold?
Strictly hush-hush, of course, IRS ain’t going away,
they’ll be on the job ’til their last dying day.
Of course, had Congress been more diligent,
less inclined toward the rich terribly indulgent,
they wouldn’t be plotting their escape from gravity.
They’d remain Earthbound with chumps you and me.
But their accountants know all loopholes in the code,
so B, M & Z are able to prep for extraterrestrial mode.
Well, for their sake let’s hope they can all get along,
else a contest may arise, each striving to be most strong.
Their armies of clones may well decimate that planet;
only the winner will get the right to stick his name on it.
So, will it be Planet Bezos, Planet Musk or Planet Z??
This will only be recounted in distant future’s history!
* The Unholy Three is a 1925 movie starring Lon Chaney, remade as a talkie in 1930.
If there is a “Planet B” . . .
If, out there somewhere, does reside a “Planet B”
habitable by humans, of pollution still free,
you can bet it will be found by B, M & Z:
Bezos, Musk, Zuckerberg—The Unholy Three! *
This diligent search for a substitute Earth
is devouring a lot of their personal worth.
They see the writing on the wall, things turning to shit;
Humankind’s days here are numbered, we really blew it.
What’ll be the price of a ticket to the New Paradise?
To these uber-rich dudes you better make nice!
Get your ass to the Yukon, start panning for gold;
maybe those stolen masterpieces are ripe to be sold?
Strictly hush-hush, of course, IRS ain’t going away,
they’ll be on the job ’til their last dying day.
Of course, had Congress been more diligent,
less inclined toward the rich terribly indulgent,
they wouldn’t be plotting their escape from gravity.
They’d remain Earthbound with chumps you and me.
But their accountants know all loopholes in the code,
so B, M & Z are able to prep for extraterrestrial mode.
Well, for their sake let’s hope they can all get along,
else a contest may arise, each striving to be most strong.
Their armies of clones may well decimate that planet;
only the winner will get the right to stick his name on it.
So, will it be Planet Bezos, Planet Musk or Planet Z??
This will only be recounted in distant future’s history!
* The Unholy Three is a 1925 movie starring Lon Chaney, remade as a talkie in 1930.
January 1, 2022
SIX STUNNING PREDICTIONS FOR THE NEW YEAR!!
(Who needs The National Enquirer?)
(Who needs The National Enquirer?)
1.) Republicans discover common sense, return to real world,
their “Stolen Election” banner no longer unfurled!
2.) The Gun Lobby finds a conscience, reconsiders its stands,
admits guns really do kill people when in the wrong hands!!
3.) Barack, Hillary and The Donald, hands joined all three
serenade us with “Kumbaya” in three-part harmony!!!
4.) The new (old) religion is Transcendental Meditation,
bringing Big Pharma to ruin here in Medication Nation!!!!
5.) The U.S. War Machine turns on a dime:
“We’re refunding your taxes, it’s finally Peacetime.”!!!!!
6.) Jehovah Himself descends from Heaven and a miracle works:
He reverses global warming, scolds humans “Don’t screw it up again, you jerks.”!!!!!!
Have I lost my freakin’ mind, what’s come over me??
Nothing much. This poem is an exercise in sheer fantasy.
[And eat your heart out, Nostradamus!!]
December 31, 2021
TEN (count ’em!) LIMERICKS FOR THE YEAR DEPARTING
(and don’t we just hate to see it go?)
(and don’t we just hate to see it go?)
1.)
Big angry baby bawls “Stolen election!”
His mob makes a near-insurrection.
Proud Boy Nazis, a “shaman” in animal skin;
Sympathetic cops wave them on in.
They should all be in padded cells, for public’s protection.
2.)
Neither Hellfire missiles nor well-placed bribes
could quell those wild Afghan tribes.
Another U.S. military fiasco, quite the splendid debacle!
Human “collateral damage,” blown to bits, a real spectacle.
Pentagon’s reward: another $800 billion—good vibes!!
3.)
Critical Race Theory has rightwingers pooping in their breeches!
They want to burn books . . . soon after, it will be witches!
Subjects like gender nonconformity, boo-hoo!
Can’t have that discussed in school, strictly taboo!
All in name of Jesus, they’ll always declare, the sons of bitches!
4.)
Those with vested interests in the status quo
let the climate calamity grow and grow.
“There’s no ‘Planet B,’ this was our Eden”
noted a wise teenage girl from Sweden.
Attention humans: What you reap thou didst sow.
[Dedicated to Greta Thunberg]
5.)
World’s coming apart at a quickening pace,
inconvenient truth for self-appointed Master Race.
“We’re the Exceptional Nation, oh say can you see”
proclaim the ultimate exemplars of hypocrisy.
Future historians—if there is a future—must note this disgrace.
6.)
The obscenely rich keep pursuing more bling.
“He who dies with the most toys is king!”
Ninety-nine percent of us labor for their benefit;
for our well-being, they really don’t give a shit!
It’s from our sweat and toil their fortunes they wring.
[Dedicated to Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels]
7.)
“Go on,” said King Covid, “hold your great debate
over ‘Where did this nasty bug originate?’
We’ll just keep going our merry mutating way--
hey, we’re viruses, that’s how we play!
Oh, and you vaccine refusers: It’s you we most appreciate!”
8.)
“The New Jim Crow” reared its very ugly head,
new legal games to suppress votes that aren’t “Red.”
(And can we please ditch this “Red” or “Blue State” crap?
Raving wingnuts aren’t confined to any one zone on the map.)
Who cares that struggle for the right to vote left so many dead?
9.)
And further to the above, GOP feels SCOTUS has their backs,
as they push ever more aggressively their revolting attacks
on concepts that make them squirm, like basic human rights:
End to discrimination, right to abortion, to not be in cops’ rifle sights.
But “conservatives” hold court majority, all political hacks!
[And now I must violate Limerick Form, I’m feeling kinda rash!
Extra lines needed to say “If up to me, I’d leave them all out with the morning trash!”]
10.)
Boosted, masked, Father Time and New Year’s Baby ready to perform
in Times Square, and ain’t we shocked? It’s unseasonably warm.
All the world’s a stage, Betty White’s taken her final bow.
She was close to 100. Millions of fans moan “What now?”
Oh, Year of ’22, we implore you: Don’t to your predecessor conform!
Big angry baby bawls “Stolen election!”
His mob makes a near-insurrection.
Proud Boy Nazis, a “shaman” in animal skin;
Sympathetic cops wave them on in.
They should all be in padded cells, for public’s protection.
2.)
Neither Hellfire missiles nor well-placed bribes
could quell those wild Afghan tribes.
Another U.S. military fiasco, quite the splendid debacle!
Human “collateral damage,” blown to bits, a real spectacle.
Pentagon’s reward: another $800 billion—good vibes!!
3.)
Critical Race Theory has rightwingers pooping in their breeches!
They want to burn books . . . soon after, it will be witches!
Subjects like gender nonconformity, boo-hoo!
Can’t have that discussed in school, strictly taboo!
All in name of Jesus, they’ll always declare, the sons of bitches!
4.)
Those with vested interests in the status quo
let the climate calamity grow and grow.
“There’s no ‘Planet B,’ this was our Eden”
noted a wise teenage girl from Sweden.
Attention humans: What you reap thou didst sow.
[Dedicated to Greta Thunberg]
5.)
World’s coming apart at a quickening pace,
inconvenient truth for self-appointed Master Race.
“We’re the Exceptional Nation, oh say can you see”
proclaim the ultimate exemplars of hypocrisy.
Future historians—if there is a future—must note this disgrace.
6.)
The obscenely rich keep pursuing more bling.
“He who dies with the most toys is king!”
Ninety-nine percent of us labor for their benefit;
for our well-being, they really don’t give a shit!
It’s from our sweat and toil their fortunes they wring.
[Dedicated to Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels]
7.)
“Go on,” said King Covid, “hold your great debate
over ‘Where did this nasty bug originate?’
We’ll just keep going our merry mutating way--
hey, we’re viruses, that’s how we play!
Oh, and you vaccine refusers: It’s you we most appreciate!”
8.)
“The New Jim Crow” reared its very ugly head,
new legal games to suppress votes that aren’t “Red.”
(And can we please ditch this “Red” or “Blue State” crap?
Raving wingnuts aren’t confined to any one zone on the map.)
Who cares that struggle for the right to vote left so many dead?
9.)
And further to the above, GOP feels SCOTUS has their backs,
as they push ever more aggressively their revolting attacks
on concepts that make them squirm, like basic human rights:
End to discrimination, right to abortion, to not be in cops’ rifle sights.
But “conservatives” hold court majority, all political hacks!
[And now I must violate Limerick Form, I’m feeling kinda rash!
Extra lines needed to say “If up to me, I’d leave them all out with the morning trash!”]
10.)
Boosted, masked, Father Time and New Year’s Baby ready to perform
in Times Square, and ain’t we shocked? It’s unseasonably warm.
All the world’s a stage, Betty White’s taken her final bow.
She was close to 100. Millions of fans moan “What now?”
Oh, Year of ’22, we implore you: Don’t to your predecessor conform!
December 30, 2021
Resolution Absolution
New Year’s Resolutions! Time to make ’em!
And very soon it’ll be time to break them!
Less expensive than breaking a piece of fine crystal!
This silly, annoying annual ritual!
So go on, toss ’em all in the trash!
I grant you absolution, enjoy your New Year’s bash!
Resolution Absolution
New Year’s Resolutions! Time to make ’em!
And very soon it’ll be time to break them!
Less expensive than breaking a piece of fine crystal!
This silly, annoying annual ritual!
So go on, toss ’em all in the trash!
I grant you absolution, enjoy your New Year’s bash!
December 29, 2021
When Was the Beginning of the End?
It was 1956, when the genius of man
invented an electric device to open a can.
One labor-saving device led to another
and behold now the state of the Earth, our mother.
For my first novel I’ve hatched a plan
to attribute this observation to Abbie Hoffman
or maybe Phil Ochs—could’ve been made by either of those folks.
But in point of fact the insight’s my own:
I’m always attuned to the seeds of destruction Mankind has sown.
When Was the Beginning of the End?
It was 1956, when the genius of man
invented an electric device to open a can.
One labor-saving device led to another
and behold now the state of the Earth, our mother.
For my first novel I’ve hatched a plan
to attribute this observation to Abbie Hoffman
or maybe Phil Ochs—could’ve been made by either of those folks.
But in point of fact the insight’s my own:
I’m always attuned to the seeds of destruction Mankind has sown.
December 28, 2021
Out with Geocentrism!!
Average Joe and Jane are blissfully unaware
that as our world spins dutifully on its axis,
the sun never “sets” nor “rises”—little do they care!
But the horizon does, that’s what the scientific fact is.
The misperception arose way back in the time
when, observing empirically Nature’s daily procession
of objects above, ancient people sought reason or rhyme
to explain things in the sky: divine intercession!
These natural appearances led folks to conclude
that sun, constellations, etc. revolve ’round our terrestrial ball.
“Sun rises in east, sets in west” the scheme they construed.
This long-lived view is called Geocentrism. It must fall!
Noble scientists were faced with inquisition
for daring to challenge such erroneous notions.
Superstition makes fraught with danger Truth’s acquisition,
including the mechanics of celestial motions.
So next time, driving west late in day, with shades on,
curse not the sun for still blinding your view.
The fault lies entirely with our own horizon.
Earth keeps turning on her axis, nothin’ you can do!
(But do raise a toast to ol’ Copernicus and Galileo!
Their wisdom and the courage to pass it on
forced me to add these additional lines, oh,
with hours to go before rises the western horizon.)
Out with Geocentrism!!
Average Joe and Jane are blissfully unaware
that as our world spins dutifully on its axis,
the sun never “sets” nor “rises”—little do they care!
But the horizon does, that’s what the scientific fact is.
The misperception arose way back in the time
when, observing empirically Nature’s daily procession
of objects above, ancient people sought reason or rhyme
to explain things in the sky: divine intercession!
These natural appearances led folks to conclude
that sun, constellations, etc. revolve ’round our terrestrial ball.
“Sun rises in east, sets in west” the scheme they construed.
This long-lived view is called Geocentrism. It must fall!
Noble scientists were faced with inquisition
for daring to challenge such erroneous notions.
Superstition makes fraught with danger Truth’s acquisition,
including the mechanics of celestial motions.
So next time, driving west late in day, with shades on,
curse not the sun for still blinding your view.
The fault lies entirely with our own horizon.
Earth keeps turning on her axis, nothin’ you can do!
(But do raise a toast to ol’ Copernicus and Galileo!
Their wisdom and the courage to pass it on
forced me to add these additional lines, oh,
with hours to go before rises the western horizon.)
December 27, 2021
All hail the Internet!
Mark Twain observed that
“A lie can travel halfway
around the world
before truth can get out of bed.”
Now the most preposterous and vile
lies can travel at nearly the speed of light.
Don’t you just love “progress”?
Anatomy & Physiology
(an observation in passing)
If you wear your heart on your sleeve constantly
For all the uncaring world to see
Your circulation is gonna be messed-up significantly
But this little truth does not deter me.
All hail the Internet!
Mark Twain observed that
“A lie can travel halfway
around the world
before truth can get out of bed.”
Now the most preposterous and vile
lies can travel at nearly the speed of light.
Don’t you just love “progress”?
Anatomy & Physiology
(an observation in passing)
If you wear your heart on your sleeve constantly
For all the uncaring world to see
Your circulation is gonna be messed-up significantly
But this little truth does not deter me.
December 26, 2021
It’s Boxing Day, hooray!
The greatest boxing match what ever transpired
unfolds strictly in me head, imagination-inspired:
strong and mean as an old bull bison,
in one corner we find ‘Iron Mike’ Tyson.
In t’other, you’ve likely already guessed:
Muhammad Ali, by his presence are we blessed.
If this event is to be truly sublime,
we must picture each in his prime.
“Ali,” declares Tyson, “you’re gonna gasp and gulp,
‘cuz my devastating power’ll reduce ya to pulp!”
“Oh, I’ve heard that so many times” yawns Ali.
“Many a chump made that promise, tee-hee!
I said before this fight I’ll end it in seven;
I hope a bed is waitin’ for you in Heaven.”
“Sure,” says Mike, “keep shuckin’ and jivin’!
I ain’t like the others, you be lucky if you survivin’!
I’ll bring you to your knobby knees,
you soon be beggin’ ‘Ha’ mercy, please!’”
Ali says “Bring it on, suckah, you’ll quickly find
how easily I can mess with your mind!”
Tyson comes charging in, as was his habit;
Ali shuffles and dances, quick like a rabbit.
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!”
from Muhammad’s corner shouts Drew Bundini.
“Stop those tired old cliches!” demands Mr. Mike,
“Like a deadly rattler I’m ready to strike!”
By round 4, Tyson’s nearly punched himself out,
though he’s built so compactly, so stout.
See, there’s something called lactic acid,
fatigue byproduct that’ll make muscles go flaccid!
Comes the round where Ali called for the end,
and poor ‘Iron Mike’—his body’s no longer a friend.
Bam! Flash! Muhammad’s glove moves like lightning!
Once again, Ali’s skills are downright frightening.
The ref counts “One…two…three…four…five…”
Tyson stays limp on the canvas. Is he even alive?!
“six…seven…eight…nine…ten!” It’s all over!
Once again, The Greatest is covered in clover.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this little make-believe play;
now dash away, dash away ’til the next Boxing Day.
It’s Boxing Day, hooray!
The greatest boxing match what ever transpired
unfolds strictly in me head, imagination-inspired:
strong and mean as an old bull bison,
in one corner we find ‘Iron Mike’ Tyson.
In t’other, you’ve likely already guessed:
Muhammad Ali, by his presence are we blessed.
If this event is to be truly sublime,
we must picture each in his prime.
“Ali,” declares Tyson, “you’re gonna gasp and gulp,
‘cuz my devastating power’ll reduce ya to pulp!”
“Oh, I’ve heard that so many times” yawns Ali.
“Many a chump made that promise, tee-hee!
I said before this fight I’ll end it in seven;
I hope a bed is waitin’ for you in Heaven.”
“Sure,” says Mike, “keep shuckin’ and jivin’!
I ain’t like the others, you be lucky if you survivin’!
I’ll bring you to your knobby knees,
you soon be beggin’ ‘Ha’ mercy, please!’”
Ali says “Bring it on, suckah, you’ll quickly find
how easily I can mess with your mind!”
Tyson comes charging in, as was his habit;
Ali shuffles and dances, quick like a rabbit.
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!”
from Muhammad’s corner shouts Drew Bundini.
“Stop those tired old cliches!” demands Mr. Mike,
“Like a deadly rattler I’m ready to strike!”
By round 4, Tyson’s nearly punched himself out,
though he’s built so compactly, so stout.
See, there’s something called lactic acid,
fatigue byproduct that’ll make muscles go flaccid!
Comes the round where Ali called for the end,
and poor ‘Iron Mike’—his body’s no longer a friend.
Bam! Flash! Muhammad’s glove moves like lightning!
Once again, Ali’s skills are downright frightening.
The ref counts “One…two…three…four…five…”
Tyson stays limp on the canvas. Is he even alive?!
“six…seven…eight…nine…ten!” It’s all over!
Once again, The Greatest is covered in clover.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this little make-believe play;
now dash away, dash away ’til the next Boxing Day.
December 25, 2021
My Greatest Christmas Pleasure
My greatest Christmas pleasure derives
from digging into my massive movie archives
and plucking out Monty Python’s ‘Life of Brian.’
And having plucked it (no sense in denyin’),
I watch it straight through, my annual tradition
though the humorless may cry all day “Sedition!”
A movie attacked by devout Christians as well as Jews--
how can a non-believing viewer possibly lose?
’Tis the story of one Brian Cohen, whose mum had invited to her bed
a member of the Roman legion occupying Nazareth. With dread
did Brian learn he was a bastard half-Roman—painful truth!--
long after he’d departed his innocent youth.
Brian so hated the occupiers he joined the Jewish resistance,
simultaneously dealing with the slight nuisance
of being taken, himself, for a messiah by zealots asinine,
desperately seeking deliverance from oppression in Palestine.
The Judean People’s Front! The People’s Front of Judea! “Which group are we in?”
The respective members of the rebel cells wallow in confusion.
From this point, the movie turns to skewering leftist politics.
This offends me not, for I lack the narrow mind of religious critics.
All the Pythons—Terry, Eric, Graham, John, Michael and Terry--
play multiple roles in this quasi-epic saga so grim yet merry,
but towering over them all is John Cleese, it’s my contention,
as Reg, leader of the rebels, plus the Roman Centurion.
Brian’s commitment by the rebels is tested, with some malice:
he’s to paint “ROMANS GO HOME” on the walls of Pilate’s palace!
His poor knowledge of Latin puts our boy in a bind
until the Centurion, in a gesture peculiarly kind,
corrects our hero’s grammar and spelling on the spot,
ordering “Now paint the slogan 100 times!” without further thought.
Brian labors mightily through the night, painting away,
but with the light of day is arrested and carted away.
This poem is becoming rather epic, in praise of the worth
of this “controversial” movie that in 1979 burst forth.
I must wrestle it to its conclusion, though we haven’t even gotten
to Pontius Pilate’s speech impediment and Brian’s fate so “wotten.”
But it’s incumbent to remind you that, on TV long ago,
Mr. Cleese felt compelled to explain to religious critics
that their complaints were in vain.
For a depiction of Jesus appears but once on screen,
dignified, delivering the Sermon on the Mount.
Critics perhaps should actually watch a movie
rather than launch a very distorted account.
But that’s probably asking a bit too much,
when Religion’s a button labeled “Don’t dare touch!”
“Persecute and kill the heretics!” a zealot in this movie cries.
It’s funny until you let it sink in, as another victim today dies,
for this is where the real danger of fanaticism lies.
My Greatest Christmas Pleasure
My greatest Christmas pleasure derives
from digging into my massive movie archives
and plucking out Monty Python’s ‘Life of Brian.’
And having plucked it (no sense in denyin’),
I watch it straight through, my annual tradition
though the humorless may cry all day “Sedition!”
A movie attacked by devout Christians as well as Jews--
how can a non-believing viewer possibly lose?
’Tis the story of one Brian Cohen, whose mum had invited to her bed
a member of the Roman legion occupying Nazareth. With dread
did Brian learn he was a bastard half-Roman—painful truth!--
long after he’d departed his innocent youth.
Brian so hated the occupiers he joined the Jewish resistance,
simultaneously dealing with the slight nuisance
of being taken, himself, for a messiah by zealots asinine,
desperately seeking deliverance from oppression in Palestine.
The Judean People’s Front! The People’s Front of Judea! “Which group are we in?”
The respective members of the rebel cells wallow in confusion.
From this point, the movie turns to skewering leftist politics.
This offends me not, for I lack the narrow mind of religious critics.
All the Pythons—Terry, Eric, Graham, John, Michael and Terry--
play multiple roles in this quasi-epic saga so grim yet merry,
but towering over them all is John Cleese, it’s my contention,
as Reg, leader of the rebels, plus the Roman Centurion.
Brian’s commitment by the rebels is tested, with some malice:
he’s to paint “ROMANS GO HOME” on the walls of Pilate’s palace!
His poor knowledge of Latin puts our boy in a bind
until the Centurion, in a gesture peculiarly kind,
corrects our hero’s grammar and spelling on the spot,
ordering “Now paint the slogan 100 times!” without further thought.
Brian labors mightily through the night, painting away,
but with the light of day is arrested and carted away.
This poem is becoming rather epic, in praise of the worth
of this “controversial” movie that in 1979 burst forth.
I must wrestle it to its conclusion, though we haven’t even gotten
to Pontius Pilate’s speech impediment and Brian’s fate so “wotten.”
But it’s incumbent to remind you that, on TV long ago,
Mr. Cleese felt compelled to explain to religious critics
that their complaints were in vain.
For a depiction of Jesus appears but once on screen,
dignified, delivering the Sermon on the Mount.
Critics perhaps should actually watch a movie
rather than launch a very distorted account.
But that’s probably asking a bit too much,
when Religion’s a button labeled “Don’t dare touch!”
“Persecute and kill the heretics!” a zealot in this movie cries.
It’s funny until you let it sink in, as another victim today dies,
for this is where the real danger of fanaticism lies.
December 24, 2021
The Tale of the Christmas Salamander
(of which every word is true)
Two, maybe three years ago, ’twas Christmas Eve
when, exiting my basement, I beheld a sight I couldn’t believe:
A drab-colored little salamander scurried inside
and quickly under some basement litter did hide!
I’d stood motionless, reacted too slowly to grab it.
(Great reflexes for me were never really a habit.)
To essay a rescue was my moral obligation
else in the basement trapped, my guest faced starvation.
But the very next day, covered with dust and other debris
from hiding she emerged, looking no worse for wear to me.
I picked up my uninvited guest and hustled her outside;
shock no longer a factor, I took this task in stride.
The soil was yet unfrozen, no snow atall around;
so I deposited the critter there on the ground.
I commanded “Start digging! Here’s your proper destination.
You’ve got just enough time to launch hibernation!”
The Tale of the Christmas Salamander
(of which every word is true)
Two, maybe three years ago, ’twas Christmas Eve
when, exiting my basement, I beheld a sight I couldn’t believe:
A drab-colored little salamander scurried inside
and quickly under some basement litter did hide!
I’d stood motionless, reacted too slowly to grab it.
(Great reflexes for me were never really a habit.)
To essay a rescue was my moral obligation
else in the basement trapped, my guest faced starvation.
But the very next day, covered with dust and other debris
from hiding she emerged, looking no worse for wear to me.
I picked up my uninvited guest and hustled her outside;
shock no longer a factor, I took this task in stride.
The soil was yet unfrozen, no snow atall around;
so I deposited the critter there on the ground.
I commanded “Start digging! Here’s your proper destination.
You’ve got just enough time to launch hibernation!”
December 23, 2021
All I want for Christmas 1
All I want for Christmas is Carrie-Anne Moss!
Has a gal in shiny black leather ever looked so boss?!
Folks say “Oh, she looks downright androgynous.”
My retort to this: “That’s just preposterous!”
The Matrix franchise is back, replete with Keanu.
That’s a good thing—it puts Carrie-Anne back on view.
All I want for Christmas 2
On a “slightly more serious note,”
can’t we purge today’s world of all HATE?
Ah, but that would take a true Christmas Miracle.
Some deny still that our Earth is spherical.
Galileo with torture was threatened for discussing such matters;
superstition’s grip on Humanity’s mentality seldom shatters.
For “miracles” I’m not willing to wait,
it’s for Science I’ll always cast my vote.
Therefore, fellow human, look inside your own core.
Turn off Fox “News,” and its hate-spewing galore.
HATE is a virus far more deadly than Covid.
Embrace LOVE, like Jesus—so we’re told—did.
Gandhi, Dr. King and others here on earthly plane
proved a virgin birth not needed to become truly humane.
All I want for Christmas 1
All I want for Christmas is Carrie-Anne Moss!
Has a gal in shiny black leather ever looked so boss?!
Folks say “Oh, she looks downright androgynous.”
My retort to this: “That’s just preposterous!”
The Matrix franchise is back, replete with Keanu.
That’s a good thing—it puts Carrie-Anne back on view.
All I want for Christmas 2
On a “slightly more serious note,”
can’t we purge today’s world of all HATE?
Ah, but that would take a true Christmas Miracle.
Some deny still that our Earth is spherical.
Galileo with torture was threatened for discussing such matters;
superstition’s grip on Humanity’s mentality seldom shatters.
For “miracles” I’m not willing to wait,
it’s for Science I’ll always cast my vote.
Therefore, fellow human, look inside your own core.
Turn off Fox “News,” and its hate-spewing galore.
HATE is a virus far more deadly than Covid.
Embrace LOVE, like Jesus—so we’re told—did.
Gandhi, Dr. King and others here on earthly plane
proved a virgin birth not needed to become truly humane.
December 22, 2021
I cannot weep for the woes of this world
I cannot weep for the woes of this world
For once I started, I couldn’t restrain it.
The fluids would flow out of me ’til my
Body was, like in a “Star Trek” episode,
Reduced to a modest pile of dust
To be scattered abroad by the first hearty gust.
Rhiannon’s hands
Over women’s hands and necks I tend to obsess,
my honesty forces me to confess.
And hey-diddle-diddle, whether grasping her fiddle
or merely at rest, the sight of
Rhiannon Giddens’s hands
makes me feel blessed.
In the New Basement Tapes video
she’s a major part of the show.
Sure, okay, it sounds like a fetish
but psychoanalysis stuff I don’t relish.
Please, reader, if you happen to know her,
pass the word I’m her fervent worshipper.
I cannot weep for the woes of this world
I cannot weep for the woes of this world
For once I started, I couldn’t restrain it.
The fluids would flow out of me ’til my
Body was, like in a “Star Trek” episode,
Reduced to a modest pile of dust
To be scattered abroad by the first hearty gust.
Rhiannon’s hands
Over women’s hands and necks I tend to obsess,
my honesty forces me to confess.
And hey-diddle-diddle, whether grasping her fiddle
or merely at rest, the sight of
Rhiannon Giddens’s hands
makes me feel blessed.
In the New Basement Tapes video
she’s a major part of the show.
Sure, okay, it sounds like a fetish
but psychoanalysis stuff I don’t relish.
Please, reader, if you happen to know her,
pass the word I’m her fervent worshipper.
December 21, 2021
My Winter Solstice Grievances
“It’s the shortest day of the year,
sun returns, end of long night and fear.
Hooray, hooray, hooray!”
“Bollocks to all that!” I’m forced to say.
At the latitude where I endeavor to survive
snow and coldest days are still to arrive.
It’s the start of summer in hemisphere to the south
but up here it all leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
What a dilemma!
This week’s just-before Xmas
new DVD releases are dominated
by cheesy low-budget horror flicks!
Which should I choose? Vampire Hookers,
Perils from the Planet Mongo, Screams of
the Mutilated, or Revenge of the Living Dead Girls???
[Note: I did not invent any of these titles!]
My Winter Solstice Grievances
“It’s the shortest day of the year,
sun returns, end of long night and fear.
Hooray, hooray, hooray!”
“Bollocks to all that!” I’m forced to say.
At the latitude where I endeavor to survive
snow and coldest days are still to arrive.
It’s the start of summer in hemisphere to the south
but up here it all leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
What a dilemma!
This week’s just-before Xmas
new DVD releases are dominated
by cheesy low-budget horror flicks!
Which should I choose? Vampire Hookers,
Perils from the Planet Mongo, Screams of
the Mutilated, or Revenge of the Living Dead Girls???
[Note: I did not invent any of these titles!]
December 20, 2021
The dreaded 16th Haiku for A Clockwork Orange (re: the first fifteen)
(see yesterday’s post)
(see yesterday’s post)
16.)
Chagrin to the max!
How did I fail to mention
Moloko Milk Bar?!
[Current Events]
Say it is so, Joe!
Joe Manchin of ol’ Wes’ Virginny,
Oh what a gallant hero is he!
Though the DJIA momentarily does not agree.
Soon he’ll announce he’s joined the Gee-Oh-Pee.
Chagrin to the max!
How did I fail to mention
Moloko Milk Bar?!
[Current Events]
Say it is so, Joe!
Joe Manchin of ol’ Wes’ Virginny,
Oh what a gallant hero is he!
Though the DJIA momentarily does not agree.
Soon he’ll announce he’s joined the Gee-Oh-Pee.
December 19, 2021
A Vast Right-wing Conspiracy
In the ‘70s, living in New York City
Of the cinema I became a great devotee
But en route to a show, very near my destination
Seldom it failed that a chunk of airborne dirt
found my eye, such irritation!
All part of a vast right-wing conspiracy.
A Vast Right-wing Conspiracy
In the ‘70s, living in New York City
Of the cinema I became a great devotee
But en route to a show, very near my destination
Seldom it failed that a chunk of airborne dirt
found my eye, such irritation!
All part of a vast right-wing conspiracy.
15 Haiku on A Clockwork Orange
|
1.)
Nineteenth December fifty years ago debut A Clockwork Orange 3.) Anthony Burgess the novel did pen, the film pretty damn faithful 5.) Pray, what punch would an anti-war flick have if purged of war’s brutal truth? 7.) Is the cry of the public in dystopian not distant future 9.) Against beloved Lovely Ludwig van, oh dear the great Ninth, no less! 11.) The foul deed did do in Her Majesty’s Prison Our boy he must serve 13.) By volunteering for the enlightened new way-- model citizen! |
2.)
“Too much violence!” some critics soon came to shriek “Mr. Kubrick, no!” 4.) To depict evil on film ain’t to endorse it should that not be clear? 6.) ‘Alex’ falls prey to cynical politicians “Law and order!” yes 8.) Ludovico is prescribed treatment for our boy side effect turns him 10.) Nasty revenge by the writer whose wife was killed ‘Alex’ and his droogs! 12.) But he worms his way into Prison Charlie’s graces early release won 14.) Now I needs wind down I’m giving away whole plot but take note of this: |
15.)
If Kubrick did err
it was to allow McDowell
to ooze too much charm.
If Kubrick did err
it was to allow McDowell
to ooze too much charm.
December 18, 2021
No more “little old man” jokes, please
Back at South Grove Elementary School
In Syosset, in Sixth Grade was I,
Locked with another fellow in a tie,
As tallest boys we did rule.
Already threatening the six-foot mark,
For six-foot-four at least I aspired.
But growth sputtered and little more I acquired.
Seventy-two inches I barely topped, disappointment stark.
And now that I’m past seventy years
My life on the whole I must say isn’t bad
But I’ve shrunk at least an inch, and that’s sad
And jokes about “little old men” do insult my ears.
So no more jokes about “little old ladies” or men
Young folks I thee entreat,
Or upon thy head I may be compelled to beat.
Can someone please shout “Amen”?
Where resides my Muse?
Where resides my Muse, and why can’t I see her?
In that twilight zone betwixt asleep and conscious fully
She plants seeds of ideas wild and woolly
With bouquets of roses she I’d smother
By definition, she surely must be a she;
Is she tall, like Thurman, Weaver or Kidman?
Or delightfully petite, like many another woman?
But wait, she needn’t be white…what’s wrong with me?
Primarily that I fall in love too easily,
Though some would call it lust.
I admire a beautiful face above the bust.
That’s just how Nature assembled me.
But now the topic of this poem is wandering.
Oh Muse, come rescue me from this morass
Afore I further myself embarrass.
I swear, I’m really not into philandering.
Come forth, dear Muse, from your hiding place
And lay your cards on the table before me:
Why with constant ideas do you torture me nightly?
Yet must I recognize that without you, I’d lose the pace.
I needs now this fantasy end, you’re not flesh and blood;
I’m not Leos Janacek, blessed with finding a young lover
When he was past seventy, causing his creativity to boil over.
I’ll settle for the reality that you do me less harm than good.
No more “little old man” jokes, please
Back at South Grove Elementary School
In Syosset, in Sixth Grade was I,
Locked with another fellow in a tie,
As tallest boys we did rule.
Already threatening the six-foot mark,
For six-foot-four at least I aspired.
But growth sputtered and little more I acquired.
Seventy-two inches I barely topped, disappointment stark.
And now that I’m past seventy years
My life on the whole I must say isn’t bad
But I’ve shrunk at least an inch, and that’s sad
And jokes about “little old men” do insult my ears.
So no more jokes about “little old ladies” or men
Young folks I thee entreat,
Or upon thy head I may be compelled to beat.
Can someone please shout “Amen”?
Where resides my Muse?
Where resides my Muse, and why can’t I see her?
In that twilight zone betwixt asleep and conscious fully
She plants seeds of ideas wild and woolly
With bouquets of roses she I’d smother
By definition, she surely must be a she;
Is she tall, like Thurman, Weaver or Kidman?
Or delightfully petite, like many another woman?
But wait, she needn’t be white…what’s wrong with me?
Primarily that I fall in love too easily,
Though some would call it lust.
I admire a beautiful face above the bust.
That’s just how Nature assembled me.
But now the topic of this poem is wandering.
Oh Muse, come rescue me from this morass
Afore I further myself embarrass.
I swear, I’m really not into philandering.
Come forth, dear Muse, from your hiding place
And lay your cards on the table before me:
Why with constant ideas do you torture me nightly?
Yet must I recognize that without you, I’d lose the pace.
I needs now this fantasy end, you’re not flesh and blood;
I’m not Leos Janacek, blessed with finding a young lover
When he was past seventy, causing his creativity to boil over.
I’ll settle for the reality that you do me less harm than good.
December 17, 2021
Tragic Limerick of a Dyslexic Peot (sorry, make that “Poet”)
Early success mdae a young peot feel evre so superior,
Till daignosis of dyslexia filpped his mood to inferior.
So he took heavily to dirnk and the bttole will take its toll.
He landed in gaol * though taht surely hadn’t been his goal.
And most tracigally of all, in prison he preished from Porphyria.
*British spelling of “jail.” Is it a sign of bad poetry for the poet to have to diagram his work?
Tragic Limerick of a Dyslexic Peot (sorry, make that “Poet”)
Early success mdae a young peot feel evre so superior,
Till daignosis of dyslexia filpped his mood to inferior.
So he took heavily to dirnk and the bttole will take its toll.
He landed in gaol * though taht surely hadn’t been his goal.
And most tracigally of all, in prison he preished from Porphyria.
*British spelling of “jail.” Is it a sign of bad poetry for the poet to have to diagram his work?
December 16, 2021
Eumillipes Persephone
The New York Times today
Reports the discovery
Of a “true millipede”
Living deep under the ground
In Western Australia.
This is not a fossil;
This astounding creature is our contemporary.
Eyeless, pale, so thin of physique
It took a microscope to enable the count:
One-thousand-three-hundred-six legs!!
A New World Record! (the crowd goes crazy!)
No longer need the first zoologist live in infamy
Who coined the term “millipede”—“a thousand feet”!
Are that many legs really necessary for locomotion?
Perhaps for Emillipes Persephone, yes.
And again is confirmed the wisdom of The Bard,
Who proclaimed “There are more things in Heaven
And Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
On first sipping a 20-year-old Porto
It being that Holiday time of year,
I decided to splurge on some beverages.
This is not a decision of which to boast.
I desperately need to cough up
A few hundred bucks for a new eyeglass prescription.
But what the hell, we only live once.
The verdict? More, please!
This magic Tinta Tawny Port
Lubricated the decision to undertake
A self-directed dare
To essay to write a poem a day
On average.
This is the second of this day,
So I’m ahead of the game!
Eumillipes Persephone
The New York Times today
Reports the discovery
Of a “true millipede”
Living deep under the ground
In Western Australia.
This is not a fossil;
This astounding creature is our contemporary.
Eyeless, pale, so thin of physique
It took a microscope to enable the count:
One-thousand-three-hundred-six legs!!
A New World Record! (the crowd goes crazy!)
No longer need the first zoologist live in infamy
Who coined the term “millipede”—“a thousand feet”!
Are that many legs really necessary for locomotion?
Perhaps for Emillipes Persephone, yes.
And again is confirmed the wisdom of The Bard,
Who proclaimed “There are more things in Heaven
And Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
On first sipping a 20-year-old Porto
It being that Holiday time of year,
I decided to splurge on some beverages.
This is not a decision of which to boast.
I desperately need to cough up
A few hundred bucks for a new eyeglass prescription.
But what the hell, we only live once.
The verdict? More, please!
This magic Tinta Tawny Port
Lubricated the decision to undertake
A self-directed dare
To essay to write a poem a day
On average.
This is the second of this day,
So I’m ahead of the game!
