Chance Encounter - Aug 10 2023

 

Chance Encounter

Aug 10 2023

He recognized me,

the face, the name

the time we met.

Did he feel slighted

I had no idea?

How, after all those years

it might as well have been

a previous life?

They say forgetting is good.

I'm told that people who can't

are burdened by the past;

their tired brains

sagging with the weight

of mundane biography.

But the conversation was pleasant.

I listened attentively,

and who doesn't think well

of good listeners,

come away impressed

by their conversational skills?

A chance encounter,

and a part of my past

brought back to me,

a vague apparition

appearing out of the mist,

softened by time

and incomplete.

And a moment of connection

in an increasingly fractious world

of alienation

and loneliness.

Most likely, we will never meet again;

a fine gentleman

with a memory for faces,

and I

who can't even remember names.

And if we do

I'm sure I'll forget

we ever met even once.

Burying the Lede - Aug 5 2023

 

Burying the Lede

Aug 5 2023

It's all bad news.

Fire, famine, flood

somewhere in the world.

I suppose I should take consolation

that it wouldn't be news

if it didn't bleed.

That most everywhere else

it's pretty much as usual;

an early commute,

the kids pouting

that there’s nothing to do,

the grousing about

the traffic, the weather

the slow internet.

But still, the bad news gets worse,

and my concern about the future

deepens.

After all, by what law of nature

should things stay the same,

disaster

always happen far away?

So I have reason to feel unsettled.

That the centre cannot hold.

That there is no safe refuge,

even here

in this privileged haven.

That the point of no return

has passed us by,

and the thin line

on which human flourishing teeters

is about to tip us off,

a bottomless fall

from a squandered Eden.

Fire, famine, flood.

The headlines scream blood,

and I can't help but hear.

A note for nitpickers.

No, not “lead”.

There are two familiar cliches that involving this word: “burying the lede”, and “if it bleeds, it leads”. I thought the first made a better title, even though the second is more appropriate to the theme of this poem.

"Burying the lede" means relegating the key paragraph of the news story — the one that best summarizes it while including the most salient details — further down the page. In the old days of hot type and inked newsprint, space was limited, and articles often had to conform to rigid word counts: so in the composing room, a story could be arbitrarily cut anywhere in the middle. So to be certain it wasn't entirely left out, the lede had to come first. If it was “buried”, it might be lost.

This is the classic ”pyramid style” of news reporting. No room for creativity or personal story-telling! Not so in the digital medium.

In Linotype printing, a “lead” was a metal divider and an earlier coinage. So using the same spelling risked confusion.

Putting Down - Aug 4 2023

 

Putting Down

Aug 4 2023

The old dog

sheds like she's falling apart,

dematerializing

before my eyes.

She kicks in her sleep,

no doubt dreaming

of the rambunctious puppy

she once was.

Her snoring

could awaken the dead;

but then, I fear she will be joining them soon,

so why not

announce her presence?

But mostly, it's what she portends.

It's as if the short life of a dog

offers a preview

of my own sad end.

Because after all these years together

we have both grown old,

except that she

   —  faster, stronger, gentler  —

has, as always, outrun me

and will get there first.

Her deafness annoys me

her appetite's waned

she sleeps most of the day.

The limp alarms me

the breathing seems strained,

but she is game,

and still enjoying life.

The time will come

I have to put her down.

When I will comfort her,

looking into those soft brown eyes

while she gazes trustingly back,

as the needle slips in

the breathing slows

the body sags.

The democracy of death

in which we all are equal.

Hoping hers will be kind;

mine, no less.

Leaving for Good - Aug 1 2023

 

Leaving For Good

Aug 1 2023



Even the sound was different.

Just blank walls

and bare hardwood floors.

Where all that was left

of the thick wool rug

was an outline

in lighter wood.

Where the plush sofa

was no more.

How its upholstery had been worn

to a threadbare shine,

its ample cushions

lost their bounce.

Where sun flooded in

through the big expanse of glass

into dark secluded corners

as never before;

dust bunnies

caught in the light

like prisoners on the lam.

But how nice

to see those pleated curtains taken down,

clouds of dust

rising from their heavy folds.

For too many years

they'd made the place look old and fusty,

but I guess I stopped noticing

as the years added up.

So now, there was nothing

to absorb sound;

just cold hard surfaces

reflecting it.

But what really struck me

was how large the place looked.

And how the living room

with no life left in it

seemed indifferent to my presence,

whatever character it once contained

carted off with the movers.

Because emptiness

is less than simple measurement.

How it felt

as if I'd never been there.

As if all the memories

had been expunged.

As if every letter

had been addressed

to whatever “occupant”.

This is what happens

when all that remains

is still air

where all the dust has settled,

the unsparing glare

of full light .

When footsteps

on a hardwood floor

land like breaking glass.

When you close the door

for the last time

and a home becomes a house.

When a place is left for good.

Or at least for somebody else.

The Fine Line - July 30 2023

 

The Fine Line

July 30 2023

It begins small.

Tinder, to coax a flame,

kindling to sustain it.

On my knees

in the soggy soil

I bend my face close,

cup my hands

to shelter it

from the cold shifting gusts.

Then, one-by-one

small dry branches

are placed with care,

as if crafting

a handmade work of art;

too slow, and the fire sputters out,

too fast

and it smothers.

Attentive

measured

protective,

I must navigate the fine line

between too little and too much,

my vision

tunnelling down

to this select pile of wood

carefully sized,

the precious flame

I'm shepherding.

Could focus

be more singular?

In a life, where more is better

and impatience rampant

such self-restraint

clears the mind.

And in a life

of instant gratification

and easy excess,

how refreshing

to have to depend

on fire.

Could anything

be more ancient than this,

more elemental?

And later,

scooching closer

we circle the dancing flames,

backs cold, faces flushed;

our eyes, reflecting the light

mesmerized by its play.

The blaze

demands to be fed

and we happily comply.

Sparks jump

as we feed it higher.

No restraint now.

Sammy the Banana Slug - July 28 2023

 

Sammy the Banana Slug

July 28 2023

Kids want to hug him.

Teenage girls

shimmy to his moves,

while their boyfriends

toss beer cans

at the giant cartoon head.

The team mascot

is a plush toy

with a punny name;

kindly, cuddly, cheeky

he runs up and down the sidelines

like cheerleader in chief.

While inside

a poorly paid intern

with a pale pimply face

is dripping wet

in the hot clammy interior

that smells of old sweat.

Can barely see

through the badly placed eye-holes,

keeps stumbling

over invisible feet.

He only volunteered

because no one else

wanted the job.

Is not nearly as lovable

as the cartoon animal

with the big yellow head

and paper mâché smile,

Like the Wizard of Oz

behind the flimsy curtain

he is powerless and small,

and all in all

would rather be somewhere else.

But even the parents

who should know better

suspend their disbelief.

Because we all need fantasy,

and because the mascot

gives the home team an edge.

While the heat-addled intern

who always danced so well

has to admit

he enjoys showing off.

And who can resist

all those star-struck kids

flocking after him,

the unstinting love

he could only imagine

in real life.

Sammy the Banana Slug, the actual thing mascot for the University of California, Santa Cruz. Not the inspiration for the poem, but rather chosen after the fact simply because of its silliness. Not to mention that a slow homely slug hardly is hardly the most suitable representative for a competitive athletic team!