Ode to the Cherry Street Inn

for my nephew Austin

 

There are so many ways

To kick the bucket

Without even trying

Some involve stupidity

Some serial bad luck

But easiest of all 

Is succumbing

To the living death

Of the day after day

Whereas living in grace

Entails a far simpler plan

If you can only whistle a bar 

Or two of the Hallelujah chorus 

While sipping at your morning coffee

If you can keep an open heart and mind  

In the face of all the sameness

That lies directly ahead

You have to persist in this

Notwithstanding the shadows

Lying in wait outside

The front door

Shadows that seem to impede

Your forward progress  

On February 2^nd much as

Any other day

You have to figure out how

Not to let those shadows

Get in your way

Groundhog Day tells a story

That’s easily misunderstood

As a simple allegory whereas

It's actually a realistic account

Of the pact each of us

May choose to renew in response   

The alarm clock's summons

Each and every day

No matter what quadrant you start out in  

Whether at the Cherry Street Inn 

Or down at the Blue Lotus Temple

Snug at a table at Papa G's

Or across the Square

And out at the old homestead

Sooner or later your lifetime begins

To spin around the coordinate points

Faster and faster in a disorienting way

It's powerful enough to fool GPS 

And it can certainly confound a foolish

Old man like me

*  *  *  *  *

For those of you wondering about the title of this poem, it's a reference to the great Harold Ramis movie Groundhog Day.  And the picture above is the view from the shade of the front porch of the Inn where Bill Murray stayed for almost an eternity and where Marissa and I were lucky enough to stay last night - as guests of Karla and Everton Martin.  Now called the Royal Victorian Manor, for those of you passing though McHenry County Illinois, I recommend it highly.

Poem Written While Sipping a Cup of 7/11's Finest

 

Even the candy wrapper 

Approaches perfection

Sitting at roadside as the world

Spins and strives to regain its balance

***************************
Every cause seeks out its effect 

With longing and finds bliss 

In the attainment from 

One moment to the next
*******************
All ten thousand things
Fit snugly in the pocket
Of emptiness

Ode to the Barrista's Fedora

Just the other day
I reread a favorite essay
By George S. Trow
In which he lamented
His demographic fate
As outcast to his
Patrimony only fit
To wear a fedora
Ironically

And then again today
In a coffee shop
I noticed this barrista
Named Sarah who was
Wearing her fedora
Most fashionably and 
Without a hint of irony

And I realized it all adds up:
No context has been context
Enough to trace our progress
Over the intervening years
As fashions came and went
The hat got passed from
Clark Kent to Jimmy Olson
And now to Lois Lane
And all the while
The goat continues
Tabulating

Under a Gibbous Moon Rising

-->

A dog barks to leeward

I am so in the mix of

The west wind rising

Uplifted with the tide 

And likewise enthralled 
By a milky gibbous moon 

Which has pulled Time adrift 

And so I slip a little too 

A Short Poem for Wittgenstein's Ghost

The punchline to the best jokes
Lately sounds exactly the same
As we figure things out
A minute too late or else
Our sizable cash inheritance 
Only becomes payable the day after
All currencies have been abolished
And or it turns out even words come
With an expiration date
As a medium of exchange
For expressing matters
Of utmost importance 

A Poem Written While Waiting Online at Staples

So this is pretty interesting.  At least to me it is.  I went to buy myself a new notebook this afternoon around the corner at Staples.  And while standing in line I wrote a poem.  I've never quite managed that feat before - in one clean shot a poetic composition complete, ready to stand on its own, without further adieu.  Not only that, I went home right away and published the poem via Twitter.  I wasn't sure at the time I wrote it how many characters it would be.  In other words, it wasn't initially written pursuant to a formal notion or constraint of 140 characters. Rather I wrote the poem I wanted to only subject to the constraint of standing on line at Staples and it just so happened that it fell under Jack Dorsey's prescribed limit to be publishable on Twitter.

In any case, here is the poem I wrote and first published on Twitter together with the photo I took while standing in line.

Now once again
I've returned to
The scene of
Previous mention
In line at Staples
Except this time
I manage to go through
With the purchase


I imagine some of you well might think - it's not much of a poem.  And no doubt that's quite true.  But please bear in mind the circumstances under which it was written.  And also please take a moment to read the poem I wrote immediately prior to this (which you can read by clicking here) to which this poem directly relates if not answers.  So in a sense I suppose it may be cheating slightly - as this poem is formally constrained to being 140 characters or less but it does in part derive meaning by reference to a slightly longer prior poem.  (In fact Haiku originally developed in a very similar manner through a tradition of linked short poems known as Renku or Renga - so there is even good historical precedent for that poetic business model as well!)

In any case, whether it's a good poem or not is utterly besides the point.  What is of note here is that I have made a discovery for myself.  It's such a good idea I wouldn't be surprised if there aren't a number of other poets out there exploring similarly how to really use Twitter instead of continuing to resist it.  So far I have only seen poets using Twitter in the usual ways - as a means of self-promotion, casual banter or snide asides.  But getting beyond such banalities there is no reason we can't someday hope to see a genre of poetry spring up here too, like a modern day version of Haiku or better yet Renku!  A new journal or two from some hipsters in Brooklyn is surely soon to follow and what more after that do you suppose? Just wait until next week ...     

Poem Written in Line While Waiting at Staples

   

A Little Lost Leaf

Far too long and

Deep into the weeds
Between stoned and not
There’s naught but

An exhale of difference
Except now the depression
Scuds low enough
To envelope me
Much like a riptide
Dragging my sorry ass
Far out to sea
A tiny speck
All but submerged

              *  *  *

At Staples just now
They asked 8 bucks plus

For a little black notebook
But why pay such

A high price
For poems that
May just as well
Remain thought
But unwritten?