31-40

Life lessons from Casablanca

An interactive poem

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We all need something bigger than ourselves

To believe in.

We all need a Sam to remind us

Of things we’d rather not think of.

We all need a love

To remind us what we’re fighting for.

We all need someone to be unafraid

To show us the way.

We all need someone to fail

To show us the consequences.

We all need a foe

To stand up to.

We all need someone in need

To help us to sacrifice.

We all need a friend

To go with us on our way

Is it real or is it Memorex

I’ve been having trouble

Telling the difference between faith and denial,

As they have an uncomfortable tendency the look the same,

Hope in things not yet come,

Or failure to acknowledge one’s desperate straits.

I realize a lot depends on

If what you put your faith in is real.

One problem is, I am capable of rationalizing anything

And deluding myself to an amazing degree.

Not to mention, the deity I ascribe to,

Even if you believe in that sort of thing,

Has not visited in physical form

For quite some time,

And those who claim direct communication

Tend not to be, what you would call,

Reliable witnesses.

So, despite some claims there is

Evidence of proof demanding a verdict,

And regardless of my feelings

There is no other explanation for

The curious form my existence has taken,

It is unlikely I will be able to make a definitive statement

Concerning my ability perceive the difference

Between denial and faith.

However, I am confidant, if I am living in faith,

There is a reasonable chance

We’ll exchange a meaningful glance

Sometime on the other side,

Whatever and wherever and whenever that may be.

Getting the itch

The wind is getting close,

The lean around corners,

Then the push to vertical.

You’ll hear it when it comes,

Roaring in the distance,

The sound of spring,

Full throttle,

Eating a single line of pavement.

Exercise

If we move to Sparta, on the Cumberland plateau,

18 minutes down Scots Bluff road

Is the Virgin Falls trailhead,

A four and a half mile hike

Down an eight hundred foot deep canyon.

If we move there I will refer to the canyon as Bally’s,

Referring back to what is now L.A. Fitness on Clyborn,

Whom I will no longer pay a monthly fee.

I’ll tell Jackie, “I’m going to Bally’s,

Grab my new trail running shoes

And go for my workout,

Not that I’ll actually run,

Though I do have every intention

Of building up to walking fast.

I’ll be in training for the real hiking

An hour and a half further east

At Frozen Head State Park

Where in future years I’ll know the rangers by name

And all the trails

And where the Mountain’s secret places are

Still holding the spirit of days long ago

When such things could not be bought or sold

Or covered up with concrete.

Anniversary

I was brought up on John Wayne movies,

Also starring Aldo Ray and Lee Marvin,

Some even staring actual war hero Audie Murphy,

The good guys fighting the good fight

For truth and Justice,

Fighting wars that needed to be fought.

How did we get from there to here?

Is it just harder to tell lies

Now that information comes so much quicker?

Or is the hubris of our technology and self-riotousness

So much more blinding and lethal?

Oh what sad anniversary we’ve come upon ten years on.

With what noble sounding words and cries of vengeance

Did we liberate from dictator and humanity

And slough off with analogies of broken crockery.

We did break many things

Flesh and bone, will and dreams,

Their souls and ours. 

There are some things there are no making amends for.

These atrocities our arrogance and technologies

Continue to make so much easier,

We must carry and confess and repent

Or the road we are on will not end

And its depth will be darker then we can imagine.

Odd Bird

I’ve read we were created a little higher than angels.

Maybe our reach toward our higher selves

And our anguish when we fail is proof?

Maybe the great artists among us

Have found their way a little closer;

When I read Baldwin’s Sonny’s Blues

I knew there was something touching me

I couldn’t quite name.

How much easier it would be,

When up against what seems impossible,

To just give up,

Yet we tend to go on

With some strange memory

There is something higher obtainable out there,

Some hope in a better way,

For the most part, bearing our crosses and walking on,

Even in the face of knowing, deep down,

It could all be illusion.

Faith is an odd bird,

An unexplainable mystery of why

We do what we do,

Strive toward what we do not know.

 

I think therefore I’m not sure

Ode to Fox News

What do you think?

How important is that to you?

What do you think about all the important things

Going on everywhere

And your ability to tell

If they are important or not?

Which are more important than the others?

How important is it to have all the facts

Before you make up your mind?

Is it possible to have all the facts?

How do you tell?

How do you tell if they’re facts?

If one and one are two

But one is an apple and one is an orange

Are they still two?

And who said you can’t add them together anyway?

Who decides these things

And who made them God?

Or is it that they talk direct?

If they are talking direct,

Who are they talking to?

Should you listen?

 

Finding a Way

What are the chances I’ll get a poem out

Before I have to leave for work

Is not really a fair question

Because I work for myself and leave when I want

Because it’s not like I have a tight schedule

Due to some Wall Street shenanigans

Winked at by government employees

With their hands out

Leading to a worldwide financial collapse

For us poorer schlubs on the lower end of the ladder

Kicked down several rungs

Clearing the way for cutting the ladder off

So us riff-raff won’t contaminate the higher echelons

Of the upper crust of the social stratosphere

And clutter up their lives

With our petty demands of fair play?

No.

The real question is,

How do I find my way into the poem?

 

A little pitiful part

I’m trying to find my way into Englewood,

An older white guy

Who doesn’t know what he’s talking about

Other than what I’ve heard

From fifteen minute snatches while driving

From two hours of in-depth reporting the other day

On NPR

About what can only be called the carnage

At a high school that saw 29 shootings in one year,

About a cycle of violence kids are drafted into

By dint of height and few blocks of neighborhood,

Where the breakup of the larger gangs

Has localized and amplified the violence.

I can only remember the sounds of names

And the sounds of their broken and lost voices,

The despair of being born in the wrong place and time,

The consequence of indifference,

The comfort of ignoring the nagging knowledge

Of third world atrocities in first world back yards,

The conviction of the old idealistic saying

“If you are not part of the solution

You are part of the problem.”

So here is my little pitiful part,

Which does pretty much nothing to assuage

My little pitiful part of guilt.

 

I didn’t do it

Sympathetic magic

Is an act of modeling to the universe

The outcome of what you desire,

Thus, when I begin to wear my sandals

It signals to the weather gods

It should be warmer out,

But I’ve got on Keens,

And I like them a bit too much

And the lack of snow

Has allowed me to wear them throughout winter

Really confusing the weather gods,

So it’s either Keens fault

For making such a damn good sandal

Or the republicans

For their failure to recognize

The damage done to the environment

By evil multinational corporations,

And I deny, in the strongest terms, any allegations

Or scurrilous rumors

Of culpability on my part in these matters.