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Life is What You Make It

Published on January 10, 2006

When I was a kid, I had a record (yeah, a plastic disk that spun around and was activated by an actual needle, producing sound waves that were amplified as electric signals through hot glass tubes and pushed out into the atmosphere through big ol’ speakers, not headphones) that included Guy Lombardo’s “Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think)”. I always liked the song and what it seemed to suggest … for those who think that Tim McGraw’s song “Live Like You Were Dying” represents some new breakthrough in psychology, I would suggest checking it out. Anyway, I was sitting here watching a family of cardinals dining at the bird feeder in the backyard and enjoying the sunshine, and came up with the line “there’s no use in complaining, son, when life throws you a curve / we each get what we ask for, or at least, what we deserve.” And the rest of the song sprung (as in “spring has sprung / fall has fell / winter’s here / and it’s colder than … usual) from that.

Now, I suppose each of us chose
where we were born and raised,
just like we pick which songs to play
and what work fills our days.
I know it’s true that fortune moves
in strange and wondrous ways;
the lessons we require are given
’til the learning stays.

Good times and bad both come and go,
one day leads to the next;
you never know what’s coming
or just what you can expect.
There’s no use in complaining, though,
when life throws you a curve;
we each get what we asked for,
or at least what we deserve.

Life is what you make it
Don’t waste time knocking around
Don’t let your dreams split at the seams
Don’t let those teardrops drown
The sun that keeps on shining
Every morning until night
It may not be a perfect day
But it will be all right.

Geography and circumstance
are not just random luck;
and it’s no accident you drive
a Beamer or a truck.
Blue collar or accountant,
each has their own row to hoe,
and either fights the current
or learns to go with the flow.

There’s not much point in judging, then,
how the world has passed you by;
we each serve our own sentence,
a life’s span, and then we die.
So live like you want life to be,
and dance to your own drum;
who knows? tomorrow you might find
your lucky number’s come.

Life is what you make it
Don’t waste time spinning around
Don’t let love bloom around you
Without chasing a bit down
The sun will keep on shining
Every morning until night
It may not be a perfect day
But it will be all right.

10 JAN 2006

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That Subtlety Escapes Me

Published on March 1, 2005

Philosophically, I’ve walked
the wrong side of the tracks for quite some time;
and in a chasm that’s grown bigger
I have passed ridiculous into sublime.
But the fundamental differences between us
haven’t really crossed my mind:
you on one side claiming genius,
leaving me a portion of insanity.
There may be a difference, but I have to say
sometimes that subtlety escapes me.

Realistically, if given even odds,
I’m not too sure there’d be a split decision.
Yet it seems that one of us gets all the praise,
the other laughter and derision
because our goals diverged at some point
that I can’t pinpoint with much precision:
you on one side in majority,
with me standing where your shadow ought to be.
There may be a balance to be struck,
but I must say that subtlety escapes me.

Confidentially, I’ve watched the way you operate;
and it seems underhanded:
how you stumble into things and have the gall to say
that’s just the way you planned it,
and yet when I discover happiness in small amounts,
you want me reprimanded.
Just because you are imprisoned,
it infuriates you that I might be free.
There are some chains much more obvious,
but honestly, that subtlety escapes me

01 MAR 2005

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A Different Path

Published on February 3, 2005

Sometimes, I wonder: if I’d walked a different path,
the one, like Frost’s, well-traveled and defined,
perhaps more suited to my demograph
but nonetheless a road that I declined,
and put my energy into some goal,
a measure pleasing to the status quo,
if I pretended to have more control
of what I’ve had, and lost, or just let go,

would I have turned out more or less the same
at least as superficial means could sense
or would I be caught up in the grand game,
believing it the sole experience?
What might have been that person’s might-have-beens,
those dreams unknown to he who is me now?
Would those who live as I do seem obscene,
mere blots that for some reason gods allow?

And when I paused to think of hows and whys
in quiet moments between each new dance
would I conceive a world cut down to size
to fit my purpose providence or chance?
I ponder, sometimes, on the path I walk,
and wonder, of the two worlds, which is worse:
to see the pebble dwarfed next to the rock,
or know the rock, lost in the universe.

The knowing that I chose the darker way,
through brambles that some might have cleared to pass,
has brought me right to where I am today;
perhaps my journey hasn’t been as fast
as if I’d walked the straight and brighter trail,
but then again, there is no use for speed
when, despite all your efforts, guidebooks fail
to tell you everything your journey needs.

02 FEB 2005

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Questioning

Published on January 17, 2005

The exercise this week relates to the poetic foot the dactyl, which is basically a stressed syllable followed by two unstressed ones. A typical waltz pattern, you could say. Here’s the example I used, with successive stanzas in dactylic monometer, dimeter, trimeter, tetrameter, pentameter and hexameter.

Listening
carefully:
wondering,
wandering —
what is the
reason for
being a
questioner?

There can be questions that
tear at the fabric of
what seems so vital and
yet is not meaningful.

Knowing these queries can lead to the
answers, but only if asked with a passionate
selflessness, without an ultimate
motive or reason for seeking them.

That makes the seeking out answers more perilous;
often it leads to a crisis of temperment:
peace is oft lost in the battle for dominance,
forcing your hand as you make your way traveling.

Once in a while, though, the pathway is stunningly beautiful,
filled with an essence of wonder that speaks quite unconsciously.
These moments, glimpses of possible, reachable paradise
Give us the courage to press on in spite of our maladies.

Courage is needed for much of the journey to find out our destiny,
bravery wrought from the stuff we think commonplace, meaningless wandering.
Beautiful, gossamer dreams that as children we thought were reality:
These are the valuable ores that construct a world we find worth living in.

17 JAN 2005

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On Reaching Forty in a Week

Published on December 16, 2004

In a week I will be forty. If my mother’s right
it’s time to get my act together and find more delight
in doing what needs to be done to build something to show
for two score spent in dissipation watching the grass grow.

For forty years I’ve wandered, aimless (if you read my press)
and how I managed to survive is anybody’s guess;
but here I am an older man with little put aside
for rainy days and the malaise built up like muck inside.

And even though my mother (bless her and her dreams for me)
is likely to deny it or at best, just disagree,
the course for me is still unset, with mountains still to climb,
and wild paths yet to ramble left untraveled all this time.

I could have gone a different route, sought greater wealth and fame,
but had I come another path I would not be the same.
The stars are not much different in the sky as they were then;
they can be used to form new paths, not just trace might have beens.

And I have what I want, right now, though some would call it less
that what it should be. I seek out a greater happiness.
If I should last for forty more, undoubtedly, I’ll find
that my boat will at last reach shore — just where, I do not mind.

For ports and inns and treasure troves on wild, uncharted lands,
I’m sure will fade from memory like dry dust in my hands.
It’s only knowing who you are that makes a difference;
and taking forty years to learn that through experience

instead of scanning manuals, taking courses, reading signs,
has built a life worth living. And the best part? It is mine.
So forty comes and forty goes — it seems a lot of days.
All that was bad was my own fault, for good, I must give praise

to forces I’ve just glimpsed upon this often lonely trail,
that oft appear as wisps of smoke not some great holy grail.
I hope just this: the time to come, what’s left to me this round,
won’t seem like unimportant drivel, or just mumbled sound.

But forty’s just a number; it does not mean all that much:
some measure of maturity to lean on, like a crutch,
or use to force my issues down some young and eager throats
who’ve just started their seeking and still think they must take notes.

So I will taste of forty (a respectable old port)
and try to make the next four decades of a different sort.
I couldn’t do the same again, so what’s the point to try?
I’ll take each new day as it comes, and get there, by and by.

26 DEC 2004

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The View You Choose

Published on June 6, 2004

Having just seen the new Harry Potter film, I was contemplating the underlying message I find in JK Rowling’s work. No, it’s not some dark Satanic point that seeks to overthrow the basic power structure of the Christo-centric universe. Not exactly, anyway. In my opinion, the most important lesson to be learned from Harry Potter is this: there are people in this world who see magic, and those who don’t. Much like there are people that imagine the world is becoming a hell-hole, and those who imagine it can become a paradise. It doesn’t matter, really, from whence you feel that the magic, or power, emanates. What does matter is your motivation for harnessing it. Next to that, is your interest in how it affects other people. Or something like that.

Among the views with which to judge this life
are found just variations of a pair:
the one, that looks upon the world as filled with strife
and seeks for naught beyond its veiled despair,

with tired and jaded judgments placing blame
on circumstance and temporary might;
for those who look in this way, life’s a game
that designates the one who wins as right.

And sadly, with this vision they proceed
to deem imagination foolishness;
Upon the world they let their bitterness exceed
their hope, and thus, destroy real happiness.

Some unseen, greater prize in vain they seek
to line the coffers of their empty hearts;
and without joy, at length, they deign to speak
of where one’s duty ends, and knowledge starts.

The other view sees the same time and place,
but seeks beyond the surface of the world
and to its mad illusions gives no chase
preferring the whole oyster to the pearl.

Where others see mere folly and lost wealth
attending those who linger on the path,
concerned with more than benefit to self,
they look upon the flower’s bloom, and laugh.

In each small thing, a sense of grand design
and purpose is observed by eyes like these;
and in the commonplace, they seek and find
beneath the surface, subtle energies

that form the substance of all that exists;
yet this discovery breeds no sense of pride,
nor puts their name on some great hidden list;
’tis rarely fame and wisdom coincide.

Of course, within each group, a varied lot
that spans the gamut from glutton to saint,
exists, and each must find their chosen spot.
For some the vision’s strong, for others, faint.

But it is from this pair of points of view
that all the world divides in sects and creeds:
the one, that sees no magic left to do;
the other, knowing better, disagrees.

06 JUN 2004

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moving edward, a wall said longing

Published on March 18, 2004

come fall with me, he said,
where i have lain alone beside myself
and watched in silence
screaming it is not for me
to say or not to speak the words
that self-destruct and
creep unseen between your lips
where i have seen eternity.

come lay with me, she said,
where i have fallen into trusting you
and waited longing there
explaining it is not my fault
to blame or not to curse the seeds
that self-inflicted and
once wanted from between your lips
i wear now like eternity.

come live with me, i said,
where i have been and seen and done
and wrested quiet angels
whispering it is not for you
to know or not to guess the secrets
that self-deprived and
ancient slip about your head
where i have thought of eternity.

come laugh with me, you said,
where we can blissful meet entwined
and write our heartless memoirs
wishing it were not the same
to you and i or not to anyone else
that self-indulgent and
zealous stripped our guilt away
and thrust us together in eternity.

1994

Delaying the inevitable writing of another daily poem by digging into the archives. This one is from my “ee cummings meets gertrude stein” period. The title refers to, if you can believe it, the Prince Edward’s abdication of the throne of England (that would be the edward) because of his love for Wallace Simpson (that would be the “wall”). That leads one to believe that the poem is about a willingness to pay any price for love. And it MAY be.

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