Ishmael Schlemiel
2
Primavera, Edge of Summer
Café de Zwart, Amsterdam, May the 11th, 2010, 16 lines
Primavera, Edge of Summer
Of his rugged good looks, senility and death
compete to pry away the final pieces.
He is finding life less precious these last days.
He’s become, he thinks, a contemplative species,
a sapien now it so little matters.
The tatters of his reputations count
less stridently each shrunken afternoon.
His latest prides and prejudices dismount,
and he, unhorsed and fearful of the sword
that he brandished for three decades and once used,
takes solace in the autumn sun that frightens
his face this spring, and he is sore amused
at the quandaries life presents him, such as death.
He shivers in the arctic breeze that splays
the sunlight into shards of frigid glory.
He is finding life more precious these first days.
Bearly
The papa bear rises in anger
and throws up the sash and his dinner
plus the tickets he’s bought for the races.
They’ve delivered him bile but no winner.
The mama bear, pining for roses,
sashays to a tout she’d once dangled
to make papa pout, she supposes,
but the tout coldly flattens her angles.
The baby bear Just Right is crying
to change papa’s luck or its diaper
but both parents are deaf or distracted
and the race track has no candy striper.
Sheepish Sheik
For Mother’s Day he gives to all his spouses
who have proved viviparous Maseratis.
To the others he gives sherry (sweet) and flowers,
and a Haitian potion to the one who’s dotty.
Perhaps it’s him who’s dotty, they’re not telling
what only they and he know. Coming clean
would tear it and their treasure trove would dry up
should the world learn he was eunuched when thirteen.
Big History
Unhindered by much knowledge, he had twittered
about Big History, his newest find.
One “tweet” – 140 characters or fewer –
sufficed to write out everything he knew.
He knew that he was hooked. Why hadn’t he heard
before about Big History, he whined.
Big History! Here we become the viewer
with all our research tools of all that’s new
and all that ever was new since Big Bang
rang in the universe. This topic mined
long time frames in attempts to see and skewer
the common themes and patterns. He was blue
and blown out of the water. Lots to learn!
The sun comes up, and fly-by birds remind
him life is good, and learning what is truer
is the happiest path one ever can pursue.
It is salutary and humbling to be so frequently reminded of my ignorance, which appears limitless. This morning I came across a SFGate article reporting that an international team of scientists says that UC Berkeley geologist Walter Alvarez was right thirty years ago with his revolutionary answer on what killed off the dinosaurs. But what got to me was what Alvarez said he is doing now: “…but I’ve moved away from my love of geology these days, and I’m interested in what we call Big History now – the entire history of the cosmos, Earth, life and humanity. What a wonderful class to teach!”
Were Worthy
‘Which words resemble me?’ I asked.
The Red Queen answered, ‘None.’
‘Is that use or mention?’ I inquired.
‘Do no words look at all like me
or’s None my doppelganger, Ma’am?’
There was silence in the Hall.
When someone laughed, ‘Off with his head!’
was what the Red Queen screamed.
Her liveried rabbits strode my way
and pointed tungsten pikes
at what I hoped was someone stood
behind me, and it was.
It was a password who still laughed:
it was my old friend Were.
Were simpered still, subjectively.
The queen, who’d been irate,
ripped the pike from the lead rabbit’s hands
and smote Were on his pate.
And what was Were right up to then
went weirdly inert.
From a nose bleed nudged by queenly pike
rose flowers on Were’s shirt.
I wished no more that I were Were;
were that so I’d be dead.
I woke and wept for Were who wasn’t
anymore, and left.
Causal Cautions
Do stories start in any sense that’s real?
I used to think so, till I met the cat.
I’d been hunting in the forest and the chill
had leached feeling from my fingers, and my hat
no longer blocked the rain. A chattering rat
had been the only mammal that I’d seen
and even though God knows that it had been
too long since I had eaten there’s a line
I would not cross, then, as to what’s cuisine.
A cat struck down the rat and said, ‘That’s mine.’
‘You spoke,’ I said astonished, and the cat
asked, ‘Was it yours? I’m sorry, here take half.’
And so began a conversation that
while less exalted than a rubaiyat
I had read once that a camel had composed
surpassed the monologue the rat had nosed
around for cheese. It ended in a wheeze
we savoured and then, sated, we both dozed.
Renewal
The jackdaws fly through snow, no trepidation
apparent in their wing beats as they soar
above this leafless tree, their destination.
The pair alights, returning home once more
to glom onto and clean the site that wore
their nest, then eggs, then baby birds whose flying
began from these stout branches. They’re denying
its hollow trunk to rivals who must go
find other nesting places, go on vying
and flying further through the flaky snow.
(for Dr. Sturman, who reminded me that there is more than bleakness)
Earth Tourist 