Monthly Archives: December 2017

Finding myself being twice as old as my son — and brief reflection


 
I am 66, he 33.
This will never happen again.
 
He is catching up with me.
If he lives to be 1000
 
And I am still alive,
I will be 1033.
 
By that time
California will be a desert.
 
But we will sit in an old growth forest
In what used to be Alberta
 
And we will talk about things
That would only interest 1000-year-old men.
 
Not health, because
We would have mastered the health-thing.
 
No, we will talk about dreams
And yogurt and colors.
 
Also, we won’t be using words
But whistles, like the birds
 
Who will, I like to imagine, flourish
After the Climate Crash of 2053.
 
I will smile and look into his craggy face
And he will see how much I love him.
 
And I will see his love for me.
I really like having an old soul!
 
It makes it easy to see beyond
And feel OK with the possibility that
 
Things may not get better
For a long, long time.
 
Reflection: When my son was one year old I was 33 times older than him. Now I am only twice as old as he is. He is catching up with me. In this poem I having fun imagining what it would be like if my son and I lived so long that we were almost peers. What would that be like? To make it seem less impossible, I picture sitting in a Sequoia forest where the trees are as old as us even though we are as old as the hills. What would such old specimens of humanity talk about? It occurred to me that 1000-year-old men would have no interest in. . .whatever we talk about when we are 100 or less years old. Why yogurt? Because I love yogurt so much I figure that it counts among those things that I could never get tired of even if I lived a thousand years. Love would also last 1000 years.

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The sad truth — and poet’s reflections

We’re not going to get rid of Trump
because Trump is an archetype.
Trump was already here
long before we voted him into office.
But he was more like a transparent pink bear
filling up tons of space,
being bombastic,crude,sarcastic
throwing his weight around,
baiting us in dreams that we repressed,
letting us know there were big holes in our dystopia,
the Benighted States of America.
He, or his aura, was around
swimming across the screen of everyday.
Long before the Republican Party
made him magically appear in the flesh
he was a big floater in our eye.
(Big floaters are a bitch, man!)
And you know what the doctor says
when you get a floater?
“You’ll get used to it.”
And aren’t we?
Getting used to being bullied,
lied to?
Used?
Impotent?
Used to living on the edge,
used to feeling ashamed
used to being shocked by our own sheepishness.
Emergency after emergency after emergency!
The pink bear, the annoying floater,
call it Trump or whatever you want.
Call it the new reality show of shows,
call it the ubiquitous traveling circus,
the new all-day-all-night show.
Call it the last act in the theater of fools
where there is no curtain
and no exits, and some guy
is shouting “Fire!” ”Fire!”
and the place begins to fill up with smoke
but everyone looks straight ahead with knitted brows.
But relax, it’s just a dream.
It’s just a poem.
It’s just another daydaydaydayday. . . .

Reflection:There is something about Trump’s appearance that defies explanation, although there is a lot of convincing banter out there about how Trump got the vote. I mean, the surrealism of his appearance and of Pence’s rise for that matter makes me wonder if I am really comatose and this is all just some endless lucid nightmare. (WHAT? HUH?) We’ve had some doozie’s in the Oval Office but, wait a second! How could someone who is so preposterously slung together that I am hard-put to come up with his like, walk into our midst and hang up his hat? I have to go to the comic book world to conceive of a character that holds a candle to Trump. Maybe Super Man’s nemesis, the trickster from the 5th dimension, Mister Mxyzptik who can only be defeated by getting him to say his own name backward. My point is, Trump is much bigger than Trump. Surely he is possessed by the archetype of Trump, or perhaps by some entity from a parallel dimension or far-off planet where Trumps are the norm, only here on Earth he has super powers. Maybe it is worth trying to trick him into saying his name backwards. (Oh, and by the way, we better start thinking of how to get rid of Pence while we’re at it. He’s the next up. Did the Republican Party discover some kind of portal to the 5th dimension?)