Monthly Archives: February 2003

Another Rainy Day

The gutters are filled and the streets overflowing
The raindrops keep falling, the winds keep on blowing
And just when it will stop, there’s no way of knowing
So batten the hatches, and prepare for rowing

The skies are dark grayish, and no light is shining
For warm winds and sunshine we all are a-pining
But there’s no use whimpering or in complaining
As long as the levee walls keep on retaining

And what of parades, and the Mardi Gras Krewing?
In this type of weather, what can they be doing?
Well, most of them are stuck inside and are brewing
Just watching the sky with its endless wet spewing

This year, Mother Nature is throwing her beads
And thinking what plants, not what drunken fools need
Her parade a raincloud that cold water bleeds
Refreshing the green world that hungrily feeds

So think not the fun is spoiled by this downpour
(though most of the tourists, I’m sure, are quite sore)
It’s not like no one’s seen flashed titties before
And the world can live without a year’s worth, I’m sure

Besides, the forecast says the rain will die down
enough to enable all jesters and clowns
to cram themselves into a few miles, uptown
and leave their wet trash lying there on the ground.

26 FEB 2003

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A Tavern in Spring

Where have the dancing ladies gone,
those fair and merry maids,
that once so sweetly filled the air?
Too soon, their laughter fades.

(It must be spring that bids them go
and seek for other haunts;
once winter’s grip has loosened on them,
they have other wants)

And so, the tavern echoes now
with silent, mirthless men
who sit and sip their bitter brews
and think of shady glens.

(It must be spring, but if it be,
this place should feel it, too,
Instead of fading with the night
like stars are wont to do)

The bard is set to sing anew,
but needs attentive ears;
for when the place is bright and gay,
then inspiration nears.

(It must be spring, the waking world,
that brings on such a need
for dancing, song and tender smiles –
Pan plays upon this reed)

Oh, ladies, come ye back again
and share your warmth and grace;
and I’ll endeavor by and by
to liven up this place.

2000

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The Road to Find Out

On the road to find out,
did you stop to lose your way
and play upon your fiddle
for the breaking of the day
In the midst of the confusion,
stepping back from the melee?
Was a merry song upon your lips
as you slipped softly away?

There on the wind,
the beginning of the world
Will you miss the grand production
of the play?
Beyond the map,
where the edge is bent and curled
lies the ramble bramble essence of today

Do you smell the pretty pansies
growing there along the quay
and dance a jig of pleasure
in the leisure of mid-day,
as the world around you fumbles,
tumbling onward, come what may?
Are you building dreams although it seems
your feet are made of clay?

On the road to find out,
where the songs of life still play,
do you listen to the gentle music,
learning more each day?

There on the breeze,
in the fragrance of the trees
Will you sense the world
is changed from yesterday?
Beyond the map,
you can grow just as you please,
find the ramble bramble essence of today

25 FEB 2003

For some reason, this morning thinking about Ian Anderson and Cat Stevens (did they ever collaborate?)

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The First Time

I can clearly remember the first time:
there it was, in the back of the closet,
the case a little dusty. Not too sure
exactly what it was, I carefully

lifted it free of the stored winter clothes
(breathing in that sour faint lingering scent
of mothballs and dry cleaning plastic wrap)
and set it carefully down on the floor.

At the moment my fingers hit the strings
and that big sound came out, filling the room,
vibrating down and through my whole body,

I knew I would spend the rest of my life
hearing things I just had to learn to play,
and wanting all my friends to sing along.

25 FEB 2003

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Philosophers in General

I suppose it should be quite obvious
at least to a pompous erudite snob
that spending one’s whole life oblivious
can turn into a full-time, all day job.

But still, some profess and philosophize
non-stop, bent on proving that a theorem
can whittle the universe down to size
or be distilled as big picture serum.

Me, I’m not quite at that level, I guess;
all my time is taken up with scribbling
random notes for lectures I’m not giving.

The great fishpond of my thoughts is a mess,
and the bait I’m using, few are nibbling;
Still, there are worse ways to go on living.

24 FEB 2003

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The Burning Times

It did not start with a single matchstrike,
or bonfires blazing brightly in the night;
it began with thinking they did not like
the fact that they might not be in the right

about everything; and so found kindling
that could easily burn (at least catch fire);
once the ready supply began dwindling
they had to begin to plot, to transpire

against perceptions, to find illusions
that could ignite the passion of the crowd
to step beyond thought and discount reason.
In this chaos, amidst such confusion,

can any call themselves brave or be proud
if they are not currently in season?
When we say, “never again,” do we mean
“not to us”, or never to anyone?

Because we have been burned, are our hands clean
when the call for blood has again begun?
Or is it this: that we truly believe
one man in prison means no one is free;

that one widow or one orphan that grieves
is too many? Are we too blind to see,
despite our claim of universal kin,
that the warm safety of our little den

is fueled by our dissident neighbor’s pyre?
How long will we continue to buy in –
until the flames come just for us again?
Who will be left to put out that great fire?

23 FEB 2003

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The Wrong Answer

How many, when they think

of right-wing strong-arm tactics
of national emergencies requiring increased security
of leaders not elected by the vote
of opposition candidates denounced as non-patriotic
of speeches that appeal to the lowest common denominator
of the discouragement of public criticisms of policy
of rounding up minority nationals for arrest
of increased eavesdropping, wiretapping, listening in
of failing domestic economy
of the crippling of an international ruling body
of finding an enemy outside to divert our attention
of a leader who believes themselves directed by God
of the Reichstag Fire

think of Hitler?

Wrong answer.

I’ll bet the French and Germans know.
I wonder why they are so hesitant to offer their support.

23 FEB 2003

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