Dog Day Poetry

Jarrod stared at his laptop. The lines he typed an hour ago lurked on the screen, unmoved, uninspiring, uninteresting. He read the stanza from the top, hoping to jump-start his brain and add a few more lines to complete the poem. Nothing brewed in him. Instead, something else became clear. This was not a poem. Not even the beginning for one. It was a poor attempt at being smart, unique, thoughtful. He pondered whether to save it or junk it, and finally decided on the latter. The screen blinked and turned white again, the cursor blinking at the top left, challenging him to go at it again. He sighed, a little louder than was appropriate, given the circumstance.

The sound attracted some attention at the coffee shop. A woman seated at a table a few feet away from him raised her eyes from her book and glared at him admonishingly. Jarrod smiled apologetically and straightened in his chair. The laptop screen glared at him, like a teacher staring down a student tardy with his school work. He placed his hands on the keyboard, as if hoping they will start typing away and do his work for him, relieving his anxiety. But to no avail. The screen remained black, as was his mind.

Frustrated, he closed his laptop and looked around. The woman at the table near him read her book and ignored him. A couple at the corner table was having a conversation over salads, but he could not hear them. The two baristas organized items behind the counter. Outside on the street, the traffic hummed its casual city theme. Jarrod deliberated whether to leave the coffee shop or stay. His coffee cup sat empty, and he had no desire to refile it. The woman with the book looked attractive. He might try to stark a conversation with her, perhaps mention his writings. He will read her a poem or two, impress her, maybe invite her to have dinner with him. Oh, who was he kidding? He could impress no one. He was an unknown poet, one of millions just like him. Creative, hopeful, frustrated. Spending his afternoon at a coffee shop with nothing to show.

Over the years he read some of his works at different gatherings of local writers. He attended a number of regional conventions, listened to the lectures and tried to interest some publishers in his writings. One of them, an older man who resembled Jarrod’s high school shop teacher looked at his folder, and returned it to him after a quick scan, sneering “Keep working and see me in five years.” Five years?! He has been honing his poetry for more than twelve! He thought he was a good poet. He knew he was a good writer. But sadly, he was the only one to recognize those facts.

Jarrod wanted to get noticed, to be successful, he very much wanted to do so. Get published and earn a living from his books. Be the one everyone waits for before starting a poets’ meeting, come to seek advice from, try to befriend, wish to be like. He wanted to be everything he was not. But he could not achieve that to save his life. Hack, even the woman reading next to him did not pay attention to him. She kept to her book, turning page after page, enjoying herself. The only time she noticed him was when he sighed. Well, at least that was something. The couple in the corner did not turn their heads toward him even once. What does one need to do to get noticed? What??

Get noticed, he thought. Be famous. Be known. His endless efforts at writing clever, engaging, original poetry yielded no results. Maybe he should get recognized for something else, and let his poetry rise naturally to the surface as people learn of him. He needed to perform some heroic act. Save someone in a dangerous situation. Someone’s life, just like in the movies. His heart raced, imagining him throwing himself into danger while bystanders look on. Save a person. Save the day. Be famous. Be known. Oh, come on! He was no hero. Only in his dreams. He wouldn’t offer to help an old lady to cross the street, afraid she will mistake his offer for a purse-snatching attempt and smack him with bag, yelling for bystanders for help. He sighed again, careful to do it quietly. He was always misunderstood. His poetry. His ambitions. Everything he was. His entire life was one long saga of misunderstandings. But he was going to change that, he decided. He was going to change that today.

Jarrod looked outside, hoping to find a clue in the urban scenery. He found it quickly, standing across the street under a green and white sign. He gathered his belongings into his bag, threw his cup in the trash can by the door, and left. He crossed the street, careful with the drivers who had to negotiate his jaywalking. His intended target had a glass door that felt heavy and cool to the touch. He pushed it in and entered the lobby.

“Welcome to Merchant Savings Bank. May I help you?” the teller in the middle window motioned from him to approach.

“Just a second.” Jarrod took out his folder and opened it, as if searching for some paperwork. He looked to both sides. There were no security guards visible. One would occasionally stand by the front door or somewhere in the lobby. If a robber walked in right now, no one would be there to stop them. No one but him. He will be the one, that hero, the one everyone will recognize, the one who will give interviews on TV later on. Jarrod noticed a sitting area to the right; two sofas and a table. A self-help coffee machine stood near it. He walked over and sat down, facing the front door. He reopened his folder and shuffled the papers in it.

“Good afternoon, sir,” a lady came out from the office to his left. “Is someone helping you?”

“Umm, I… I mean… not yet,” he fumbled his words. “I… I’ll be ready in a few minutes,”

“Well, let me know when you are ready, and I will be happy to help you,” she smiled and returned to her office.

Jarrod checked his watch. If a robber was not going to walk through the front door in ten minutes or so, he will have to come up with a new plan. He couldn’t just sit here the whole day and wait. Someone was bound to get suspicious and call the police. He will need to answer questions, be embarrassed, or worse. The worse part worried him. He would not be able to afford a lawyer. He would lose the small savings he had. No, he realized. Unacceptable solution. He needed to think of a different plan.

Jarrod stood up. The banker who addressed him earlier rose from her chair.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have all my papers with me,” he said before she made it out of her office. She nodded and returned to her work. Jarrod walked toward the front door. He needed to think of something.

He was about ten steps from the door when a bearded, rough-looking man walked in. The man carried a dark object in his hand and headed straight to the tellers’ window. A charge went through Jarrod’s body. This is my lucky day! He redirected his steps to intercept the man.

“Stop! Don’t move!” he yelled. The robber continued to walk as he turned his head toward the source of the noise.

“Stop!” Jarrod yelled again. The robber realized he was the target of the holler, stopped and turned toward Jarrod.

“What is your problem?” he asked in an angry voice and looked around as if trying to assess additional danger.

“Put your hands up and get down on the floor,” Jarrod said in a stern, authoritative voice. “Now!” he said louder.

“You’d better chill before you get yourself hurt,” the robber stood in place. He was not going to obey Jarrod’s orders. Worse, he was ignoring Jarrod just like everyone else did all the time. He was disregarding Jarrod and about to rob the bank, just like that. Jarrod needed to act quickly before this robbery got from under his control.

“Is there a problem?” a man in a tan suit and blue tie featuring the bank’s logo on it approached them. The tag on his jacket read “William Hobbs, branch manager”.

The bearded man reacted first. “Hey, Bill. I came in to make my deposit and this weirdo started yelling at me,” he raised his hand to show the dark item he carried, a leather money envelope.

“And who are you, sir?” the branch manager turned to Jarrod.

“I’m… I’m,” Jarrod mumbled. “I thought he was robbing the bank.” He held tight to his folder.

“You’re damn crazy,” the bearded man dismissed him, and instantly turned his sight to the door. Everyone did the same, including Jarrod.

Two police officers walked in with their guns drawn. Blue light flashed atop a police cruiser stopped in front of the building.

“False alarm gentlemen,” the bank manager walked toward them with his hands up. “We had a simple misunderstanding here.”

“Thanks, Bill,” the first officer nodded at the bank manager and looked around. He replaced his gun in his belt. The second officer followed suit, and reported something into his shoulder mic.

“So, let me get the story here,” the first officer took a step forward.

 

About twenty minutes later the officer finished interviewing Jarrod, the bearded man, the manager, and the lady banker. He handed Jarrod a summons for disturbing the peace with a court date for nine weeks later. Deflated, Jarrod left the bank. A TV reporter rushed to him as soon as he stepped outside.

“Were you involved in the incident earlier today?” he placed a microphone in front of Jarrod.

“Yes, yes I was,” Jarrod ran his hand through his hair.

“What were you doing at the bank?” the reporter moved closer.

“My name is Jarrod, Jarrod Sunnyvale. I am a poet. I was at the coffee shop there, across the street,” he pointed behind the reporter’s shoulder.

“I meant, what were you doing at the bank?” the reporter repeated his question.

“Like I said, I write poetry, and I was at the coffee shop, writing, and…” The officer who interviewed them exited the bank. The reporter abandoned the interview and rushed to intercept him. The cameraman lifted the video camera with its tripod and rushed after him. A red Channel 3 News logo sticker covered the right side of the camera. Jarrod looked at the small crowd watching the scene and waited for the news crew to return and continue his interview. The reporter proceeded to interview the bearded man, and the bank manager. He and the cameraman returned to the news van and loaded their gear. Jarrod approached them but they ignored him and drove away. The street returned to its familiar hum. The sun rested low over the building to the west. Jarrod shuffled home slowly.

 

Hours later, Jarrod sat alone in his apartment. The court summons rested on the table, right next to his empty dinner plate. The 10 o’clock news came on, and he waited anxiously for his face to appear on the screen. Someone will notice, he thought. Someone is watching and is bound to recognize him. He was proud of his effort. It wasn’t the heroic act he imagined, but it was something. Not too dangerous, no one got hurt, and he got to talk to a TV reporter! He could not recall what exactly he said on camera, but he was pretty sure he mentioning his poetry. He was hopeful and eager to find out how he did. That story was sure to come up next, right after the weather report.

“And that’s the news for tonight,” the anchors returned to the screen. “Thank you for watching, and we’ll see you again starting at 5 tomorrow.” The program’s logo appeared, and a set of commercials began playing. That was it. Disappointed, Jarrod turned off the TV. There was not a single mention of his ordeal. Not a picture with his name lettered underneath. No recognition of his bravery or dedication to the written word. No chance at fame and success. He remained unknown, the same as he was before, the same he will always be. He opened his laptop and began to write.

 

December 3, 2014

Vignettigination

Painting by Carol Neiger, ©CL Neiger Fine Art

Under arm a virgin sketchbook,
Pages yet to be informed,
Clutched in hand are pens and pencils,
Colors rainbow and beyond.

Sites to see and thoughts to wonder,
Fresh ideas to spill on page,
Start a line and add some tint to,
Grow with wide strokes edge to edge.

Walk the path to the horizon,
Veer off it, and stop to rest,
Pastures green there just as much here,
Feel the grass beneath your feet.

 

November 3, 2019

Mikel

Mikel froze in place and listened. He could sense movement anywhere the building through his feet. The wood floor hummed like an orchestra, telling of and pointing out creatures large and small, moving about, walking, running, sneaking, hunting. The wood building was not very large. It had a below-ground level, an above-ground level, and an upper floor. Despite its size, it had plenty of room for all of its inhabitants. The temperature inside held steady most days, and no predators ever came in. Well, other than the giants, of course.

There were three giants living inside. They used every room, but rarely in the below-ground level. Mikel preferred to stay there for that reason. To be out of sight. To hide. The giants ate twice a day in the eating room, where the food was stored. Once in the morning after they cleaned themselves, and again in the evening after they returned from hunting and gathering, and before they moved to rest in the upper level. Mikel kept inside at all times. His choice. Leaving the building was too dangerous. He learned that through numerous painful lessons since he was young. Every time someone left the building to gather food, he would never see them again. None of them ever returned. Predators, no doubt, go them. Animals, maybe even other giants. The group became smaller and smaller until a week ago when it was down to just him and Moona. Oh, poor Moona.

There was not much to do inside, and less so to see. That would not have been such a big problem had he been able to eat normally. But gathering food was incredibly challenging, and became even more so since the giants discovered them, his group. Every time one of them found a new way to gather, the giant would defeat it and the food would be hidden again in harder to reach places. The smallest of the three giants was also the most careless and would leave pieces of food everywhere; on the floor, on the plate, in the bucket. Mikel thought it did that on purpose, so it could watch them eat it. Very strange. There was that time when Mikel found some food on the floor in the eating room and started eating it on the spot. He was so hungry. He almost lost his mind when he realized the small giant watching him silently from the stairs. Mikel ran and hid so fast he forgot to take the food with him. What a loss. Damn it!

Movement! Mikel listened intently to the heavy steps. It was one of the giants. It descended the steps and walked into the eating room. It was so close, right on the other side of the wall! Mikel shrunk his body and lowered himself to the ground, trying to disappear into the wood crevices. He hoped his stomach will not growl. He had not eaten in three days, maybe more. Getting discovered, he knew, would mean certain death. He held still. The only part of his body that moved was his heart, and it was racing.

The giant stopped. Mikel recognized the steps instantly. It was the large giant. Despite its mammoth size, this giant was fast. Very fast. In a flash, Mikel remembered it chasing after Moona while another giant, the long-haired companion, howled from the top of the stairs. Mikel shivered in horror as he recalled Moona’s scream when the giant lowered the large wood on her body, killing her instantly. There was no hesitation in its move, just pure evil. It picked Moona’s limp body with its enormous fingers and carried her outside. When it returned a short time later it howled at the other giant, and they both started looking for Mikel and the others. They did not know he was the only one left. How could they? Lucky for Mikel he anticipated they would do that and hid quickly behind the curtains in the sitting room. He knew all the good hiding places. He also knew not to panic and run when the large giant came near him and moved the curtains from side to side, searching. Mikel just hung there with his eyes closed, thinking of Moona. It was the scariest moment of his life.

Mikel broke his thoughts and returned his attention to the giant. It made tearing sounds in the eating room. Curiosity overwhelmed Mikel. Was it preparing food? Not at this time. The giants already ate and would turn to rest soon. So, what was it? A new sound emerged, sharp, high-peached squeaks. Metal rubbing against metal, he guessed. Was the giant building something? He wished he had a better vantage point, but moving while the giant was near was risky. He needed to think of something. Maybe if the giant was so busy with this activity it would pay less attention to its surroundings? Mikel carefully considered where to move to. He had to stay in this room, in the dark, and go somewhere with a direct line of sight to the giant. The sounds the giant made came from the counter, which made sense. The giant only did things on the counter, never on the floor. It was too big to get down, and the counter probably made it easier for it to do things, like preparing food. Mikel listened again. The giant continued with its activity. It’s time, he decided. He moved slowly along the wall, careful to avoid the squeaky floor areas, not to disturb objects along the way, do anything that could alert the giants to his presence. He stayed in the dark, keeping a good distance from the patch of light that fell on the floor from the eating room. He reached the other side of the room and hid behind the structure that held the wonder thing. Many times, one or more of the giants would gather in the room in front of it and watch as other giants made of light appeared on it and howled. But it was now quiet and dark. Mikel crouched in his hiding spot and looked at the giant. It stood with its back to Mikel and did something with its hands. This was not good enough. Mikel needed to find a better spot.

STOP!

More steps came from upstairs. Mikel instantly recognized the small giant. He heard it walking down the stairs before it appeared and stood next to the giant. They howled at each other a number of times. Mikel retreated slowly, letting the darkness cover him, hide him, protect him. He could still see well. With both of them only steps away from him he could not move anywhere. He waited. Shivering. Scared. Hungry.

The giant stopped making the metallic sounds and turned to the smaller one. It held something in its hands and showed it to the other. Mikel did not see anything like this before. It was a gray-colored device, probably a little larger than Mikel. The giant manipulated parts of the device and howled, but the smaller one did not howl back. Instead, it looked around the eating room. The giant howled again. Still, the smaller one remained mum. It now looked straight at Mikel’s direction. Could it see him? DID it see him? It was too late to move. Mikel closed his eyes. They were big and dark, but could reflect in the light coming from the eating room, exposing him. He listened and hoped. He felt no movement on the floor, only the giant continued howling.

Mikel peeked through the cracks. Both giants still stood facing each other. The smaller one howled, but in a lower voice. The giant opened the food door and took out a piece of soft cheese. Cheese! Mikel gulped. This was his favorite thing to eat! Oh, if he could only get one piece of this, just a taste, he would be so happy! If the giants would only drop it on the floor and not notice, forget to check, and leave. He would get it and eat it, and leave nothing behind, not a trace for them to find.

The howling stopped. Mikel watched as the giant placed the cheese into the device. It slowly pressed on it, which made the squeaky metallic sound again. The giant placed it on the floor. Mikel was stunned. Why was it doing that, placing food on the floor? Was it doing so on purpose? The giants were clean creatures that never left food behind them. Perhaps this was a new way for the smaller one to eat? Mikel could not figure this out. He waited.

The giant howled again, and the two turned and left the eating room. The light vanished instantly, and the place fell dark. Mikel heard the heavy footsteps. The giants climbed up the stairs. Mikel wanted to leap out of his hiding spot and grab the food, but waited. He could still hear movement upstairs. He would not dare getting exposed. He decided to wait. His eyes adjusted to the dark. The device rested in the middle of the eating room floor. The cheese smell hit his nostrils. So good! His stomach growled. Soon, he would quiet his hunger.

Mikel did not move. He relaxed his body and waited. The floor vibrations conveyed sounds from upstairs. They gradually quieted, then stopped. The giants were probably resting. Mikel stepped quickly into the eating room, the cheese smell pulling him in. He reached the device and investigated quickly. The cheese rested in the middle of the device. This would be easy, he thought. He slowly circled the device, careful not to make a sound. The cheese smell hit his nostrils hard and caused him to salivate. He completed a second turn and figured that the best way to reach the food would be through the opening on the smaller side. He stepped in and felt the cool metal against his body. The cheese was stuck on one of the metal parts. Mikel held it between his nails. Eat, finally! He pulled.

 

October 30, 2019

הרהור

,דַּפִּים לְבָנִים, צְחוֹרִים כַּשֶּׁלֶג
,כְּתוּבִים בִּדְיוֹ בִּלְתִּי נִרְאֵית
.סְפוּנִים בְּתֵיבַת עֵץ מְקֻשְׁקֶשֶׁת
,אוֹת לְאוֹת נִסְמֶכֶת, מִלָּה לִשְׁכֵנָתָהּ
,שׁוּרוֹת צְפוּפוֹת שֶׁל זִכְרוֹנוֹת תּוֹעִים
,סִפּוּרִים כְּלוּאִים מִזְּמַן אַחֵר
,וּבֵינֵיהֶם אוֹרְבוֹת אִמְרוֹת שֶׁפֶר
.מִתְחָכְּמוֹת, מְדַגְדְּגוֹת, מִשְׁתַּעַשְׁעוֹת

,זְרִיחַת יַלְדוּת
,בֹּקֶר נָעַרוּת רַעֲנָן
,עִיר שֶׁתִּהְיֶה גְּדוֹלָה
,שְׂדוֹת עֵמֶק שֶׁיַּבְשִׁילוּ
,צָהֳרֵי בַּגְרוּת, בַּיִת שֶׁיִּתְמַלֵּא וְיִתְרוֹקֵן
,עֶרֶב שֶׁל חַיִּים אֲרֻכִּים
.וּשְׁקִיעָה נוּגַהּ

,מַבָּט נוֹסָף, שׁוּרוֹת מְרַחֲפוֹת מִתּוֹךְ הַדַּף
,מִלִּים מוּכָּרוֹת, מְלַטְּפוֹת, דּוֹקְרוֹת
.מִישֶׁהוּ כְּבָר אָמַר אוֹתָן פַּעַם
,זוֹ הָיִיתָ אַתְּ? מָתַי
,אוֹ שֶׁזֶּהוּ הַסִּיפּוּר שֶׁלִּי
.מַמְשִׁיךְ לוֹ, כָּאן וּלְבַד

 

Thought

Clear pages, white as snow,
Written in invisible ink,
Stored in a scribbled wooden box.
Letter by letter, word by word,
Dense lines of stray memories,
Captive stories from another time,
And among them lurk fine sayings,
Smarting up, tickling, acting playful.

Childhood sunrise,
Fresh juvenile morning,
A city that will grow large,
Valley fields that will ripe,
Maturity noon, a home that will fill and empty,
An evening of a long lived life,
And a gentle sunset.

One more look, lines float out of the page,
Familiar words, caressing, piercing,
Someone had said them before.
Was that you? When?
Or is this my story,
Continues, here and alone.

 

November 12, 2018

בתום

,בְּתוֹם הַסְּעוּדָה
,מוֹחֶה אָדַם אֶת פִּיו
.שְׁיָירֵי מָזוֹן, טַעֲמֵי תַּבְלִין
,זֶה הַשָּׂבֵעַ
,אֲשֶׁר קְדֶירָתוֹ מְלֵאָה לִגְלֹשׁ
,וְזֶה הָרָעֵב
.שֶׁפִּיתּוֹ דָּלָה

,עִם רֶדֶת יוֹם
,עוֹצֵר אָדָם מֵעֲמָלוֹ
.זֵיעָתוֹ מִצְטַבֶּרֶת, עָיֶיפוּתוֹ גּוֹבֶרֶת
,זֶה הֶעֱשִׁיר
,אֲשֶׁר תְּבוּאָתוֹ פּוֹרָה
,וְזֶה הֶעָנִי
.שֶׁשָׁדֶהוּ דַּל

,בְּסוֹף הַמַּסָּע
,נָח אָדָם בְּיַעֲדוֹ
.דּוֹאֲבוֹת רַגְלָיו, אָבָק הַדֶּרֶךְ בִּבְגָדָיו
,זֶה שֶׁהִרְחִיק לֶכֶת
,שֶׁבָּטַח צַעֲדוֹ
,וְזֶה הַתָּחוּם
.שֶׁרַגְלוֹ הִסְסָה

,הַהַצְלָחָה מִי יֶשוּרֶנָה
,פּוֹרֵשׂ אָדַם אֶת מוֹרַשְׁתּוֹ
,מִשְׁפַּחְתּוֹ, חֲבֵרָיו
.שוּתָפַיו לַדֶּרֶךְ, אַף אוֹיְבָיו
,מִי יָהִין לֶאֱחֹז בָּמוֹשְׁכַה
,לָצֵאת וְלַחְרֹשׁ
.לִמְשֹׁךְ בָּעֹל

 

At the end of

At the end of a meal,
A man wipes his mouth,
Food parts, tastes of spices.
There is the satisfied,
Whose bowl full to overflow,
And there is the hungry,
Whose bread slice is meager.

At the end of a day,
A man ceases from his toil,
His sweat accumulated, his weariness growing.
There is the wealthy,
Whose crops are plentiful,
And there is the pauper,
Whose field is poor.

At the end of a journey,
A man rests at his destination,
His legs ache, the road dust in his clothes.
There is the one who traveled far,
Whose stride is assured,
And there is the restricted,
Whose step uncertain.

Success who shall foresee,
A man displays his legacy,
His family, friends,
His road companions, even his enemies,
Who is brave to hold to the bridles,
Go out and plow,
Carry the load.

 

July 12, 2018

2 A.M.

Trees of forest,
Quiet brook,
Cool air breeze,
Light rain on grass.

Smell of foliage,
Sense of wild,
A timid step,
Stroll into light.

Quiet lake,
Reflecting skies,
Licked water ripple,
Disturbing sight.

A sudden rustle,
From behind,
A quick jump, runner,
Leaps into hide.

 

July 18, 2015

Dreaming in Black and White

An invisible nip pen,
Deeps in veiled well.
A dark dot forms,
On virgin paper.

More specks follow,
To form letters and words.
A line grows,
Like coal raindrops,
On a bright day cloud,

Short lines, longs strokes,
Comma, comma, full stop.
Backhand pushes against the paper,
Fingertips darken slowly.

Page follows page,
Turned by fresh thoughts breeze,
Ideas keep flowing,
From a dream.

Writing hastily each vision,
Right as it appears,
Inscribed pages,
Accumulate in a pile.

Short anecdotes, long tales,
Pages fly in the dark,
Captivating stories,
Late into the night.

Stay out there, don’t wake up,
Sleep tight ‘till they’re done,
Once you open your eyes,
They’ll be instantly gone.

 

February 25, 2015

Four Quarter Love

This party’s nice and special,
I like the dress you wear,
Second hour English,
I sit three chairs left, rear.

How do you like this music?
The DJ’s fun and hip,
This song he played is awesome,
Would you like to dance a bit?

∗∗∗∗

This spot is great, let’s sit here,
The view is nice and clear,
I have some wine and glasses,
Here is to us, dear, cheers!

I wish to ask you something,
My mind is in a twist,
I love you to the heavens,
Will you accept this ring?

∗∗∗∗

I have an early meeting,
Can you run kids to school?
I may be late this evening,
We need to join a carpool.

Let’s call the babysitter,
Go on a date, tonight,
We need to spend alone time,
Sit somewhere and just chat.

∗∗∗∗

I need another blanket,
The room is chill again,
The grandkids called this morning,
They’ll visit over the weekend.

Can you please draw the curtains?
The evening shade had set,
Our program’s coming on soon,
Let’s rest and watch in bed.

 

September 20, 2011

יאוש

,שִׂיחָה, וְעוֹד שִׂיחָה
,מִלִּים חַדּוֹת, קֵהוֹת רֶגֶשׁ
,מָחוֹג הַזְּמַן חוֹלֵף לוֹ
.בְּמַעְגָּל סָגוּר

,בְּמַבָּט קְדִימָה
,קַו יוֹצֵא, נִמְתַח
,פּוֹנֶה וּמִתְעַגֵּל לוֹ
.אֶל הָאוֹפֶק לֹא יַגִּיעַ

 

Despair

Conversation, and another,
Sharp words, sans emotion,
The clock hand passes,
In a closed circuit.

In a view forward,
A line is drawn, stretches,
Turns and curves,
Never makes it to the horizon.

 

December 3, 2018

Flat Earth

Exciting times are here upon us,
Full of promises, advances,
Tech afforded, automation,
Piles of data, mounds of bites.

Worldly thoughts, ideas high-minded,
Profit high and nations build,
War and peace, tectonic clashes,
Men continues to achieve.

From the print press to the wide web,
Words amassed to Mars and back,
Theorem, proof, the flood gate open,
Reason set aside amass.

High degrees and faux science experts,
Loud self-made men spewing “facts”,
Doctors, masters, eight grade dropouts,
Ready manifest at hand.

Earth is flat and here is why so,
Moon land mission? Was a hoax!
State is spying on your person,
Put aluminum hat on!

Ocean deep misinformation,
Science world struggling to respond,
Much like Dutch boy, standing helpless,
Fingers tired in a hole.

Facts aside and reason passé,
Stupid cannot be undone,
Move with caution, study deeper,
Truth made not to argue on.

 

August 1, 2019