PLEASE TO FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS

At least some Chinese manufacturers
have seemingly grown tired of our
endless mockery of their instructions.

No longer do they tell me “please to be
inserting the extended aspect
of part A into part B in the slotted area.”

Now they give me wordless instructions,
a series of pictures with lettered parts
which seems easier until, after

unpacking the many pieces, laying them
out on th workspace I discover
that either I am short one or more screws

or worse still, but more likely, when I begin
I will discover that several of the part
labels are lying in the bottom of the empty box.

SNAKE, PRAY FOR US

In a time set aside for mourning
we easily remember those, loved
or despised, taken by age, disease,
war or poverty and neglect.

But trapped in our isolation
we should also pause and recall
the snake, condemned for offering
knowledge for which we were ill-equipped.

Let us not forget the ram,
whose only sin was to be
in the wrong place at the wrong time,
traded for Isaac without remorse.

And let us share a moment’s silence
for those left behind as God’s waters rose,
wondering as they drowned, how Noah decided,
God hearing no appeals in His pique.

Who will mourn for us, when we
make our departure, or will we
be like the snake, ram and Noah’s overlooked,
awaiting for eternity a poetic moment.

First appeared in Song Between Our Stars, Issue 1, Spring 2021

https://thesongbetweenourstars.com/v1n1

WRITERS

I was born the same day, in
a much later year as Thornton Wilder,
a fact that had no impact at all
on my life, since I discovered our
common birthday long after
my life’s path was half tread.

I read him in my youth, and must
admit I can recall nothing of what
I read, which I attribute to all
that I have read since, and not
as any criticism of Wilder’s writing,
for his talent is beyond question.

But what was disconcerting
was to learn that Nick Hornby
was born five years to the day after me
and has penned works that I love
but cannot hope to equal
despite my having lived longer
if not more fully than he has.

PENNED IN

He stares at the collection
of pens crammed tightly into
a coffee mug whose handle
had long since broken away.

He knows some are dead,
awaiting a proper burial,
following a brief memorial
service paying homage
to their illustrious past.

He is certain that one
or more is secretly harboring
the poem or story that he
has been meaning to write,
the one that the journal
on the desk has been waiting
its entire lifetime to receive.

CAT PEOPLE

We spent one morning
of our visit to Key West wandering
around Hemingway’s home.

The six-toed cats seemed to realize
that we were cat people, came
over to us, took us aside
for a petting and conversation.

He was a tough old goat,
they said, or so our ancestors
told itm and we cannot begin
to understand why you,
cat people, so obviously intelligent
would pay to see the old
typewriter he hated, because
the S and D keys always stuck

We scratched them behind
the ears, sat by the empty pool,
and waited for a literary
inspiration we knew was
never included in the ticket.

NEVER EVER

For those who cannot see the picture above, please imagine this text is the most hated font of all time*:

There are certain sins
a poet learns never to commit,
whether by teaching or
simply bad experience.

Poetic sins come in many
shapes and sizes, grammatical,
typographical, metaphorical,
or just about any -al you choose.

Bad rhyme is a minefield, unable
to know slant from abject miss,
forced form a train wreck with you
at the controls, blinded by ambition.

But the cardinal sin, the one
for which there can never beĀ 
any excuse, mortal to a poem, is
to think you can use this font.

*comic sans, of course.

PERSPECTIVE

It is always, the artist told me,
a question of angles and elevations,
but I am sure that was just his perspective.

Dali threw all of that out, made
a pretty good living at taking perspective
out of his work, replaced by fluidity.

For Dali that fluidity resulted
in a fair bit of liquidity, which was
an irony not the least bit lost on him.

But even Dali ran out of time
before he ran out of ideas, it flowed
away from him and he did not care.

I choose to work with words,
for they are easily aligned with
what I imagine, from my perspective.

DECISION TIME

Checking the calendar, I see
that today I must make
a profound decision that will
affect my life for years to come.

I am certain it will not be
a simple decision, important
decisions seldom are, and this
offers multiple but no easy choices.

I have long taken the facile way
around the issue, a straightforward
“same as everyone else does”
approach that has gotten me by.

But it is time for a change, so I
am left with organizing my library
by month and day of birth of author,
year not counting, first name initial,

or, and here is where I am leaning
given my love of the film High
Fidelity, arranging them in
perfect autobiographical order.

TAILORING

My adoptive
grandfather 
could take bits
of cloth, 
a needle, thread
and with magicly
gnarled fingers
create a garment
fit for royalty, 
to be worn
by the old woman
living 
in the walkup 
down the street.

I take words
bits of ideas
and hope,
and with 
manicured fingers
create what
I can only hope
passes for poetry
to be ignored
by those
living nearby
in my suburb.