inertia

Why don't you ever write happy endings she asked, looking up at him from her side of the bed. She was prostrate, her head propped up on one elbow the other arm akimbo, the latest issue of Marie Claire open beside her.
"Happiness isn't interesting, Nadine. Nothing happens to characters who are content."
"Oh," she replied. "Still, it's always so bleak, so hopeless."
"That's what makes compelling reading," he said, putting down the manuscript he'd been editing to look at her over the rim of his glasses. Normally she would have been wearing flimsier night clothes. Something chiffon with spaghetti straps or a nightshirt enticingly unbuttoned. But this spring and early summer had been punctuated by cold nights and she was dressed accordingly.
"Would people show up at an air show if there wasn't the possibility of a crash?"
She looked at him sideways and sighed. "Isn't there a middle ground, somewhere between boring and plane crash?"
"There is, he said, "but it's where we already live. All of us. We're waiting for the plane crash but the most exciting things get for most of us is a trash can knocked over by a raccoon, or even better, the neighbor's trash can."
He waxed on, as he was prone to do, there was nothing he enjoyed more than talking, which was unusual for a writer.
"You see Nadine, only teenagers and senior citizens want happy endings. The former because they think that's the way things should be and the latter because experience has taught them it's the way things aren't."
How can I be with someone who doesn't comprehend the basics of good fiction he wondered. Someone who will never understand. She had gone back to her magazine, as if discussion of his life's work and her complete ignorance of it was just a passing thought to her, something to consider while flipping from the table of contents to this month's feature stories. He closed his eyes and saw the years stretching out ahead of him, endless taxiing down a runway with no hope of ever taking off.
The two of them in a workable but tasteless relationship, getting along but not getting what they ultimately need. And yet here they were and he wasn't sure he had the energy to change things. Happy endings were neither fact nor fiction. Maybe that was their appeal - and their repulsion.
Outside a dog, misunderstood or neglected, barked to be let in.

Better Late

Barreling down the road in her station wagon, Bet ignored the dirty look from the old man but then she passed the dour-faced woman walking the basset hound, and the jogger. She felt their eyes on her. Their disapproving stares.
The preschool charged a dollar for every minute parents arrived later than 4PM. She'd heard from other parents that they followed through. Since she had two kids attending she wondered if they'd charge her double.
Bet had never run over anything except the rocks at the end of her driveway; even so, the thud was unmistakable. She'd hit an animal.
She pulled over. The street was deserted. Where had everyone gone? She wasn't sure if she was relieved or desperately in need of a confidant.
She released her sweaty palms from the steering wheel and got out of the car. The afternoon sun cast a dreamlike-ink blot pattern across the road. She felt shaky. Like she was walking to the podium to deliver her senior thesis. She hated to speak in front of crowds.
The animal lay in a heap near a storm drain. Had she seen it? It was white. She remembered a white streak, what she thought was a patch of sunlight.
It was dead. She'd seen enough episodes of CSI to recognize the fixed glaze, even on an animal. It was a cat. There was no collar but it had to be someone's pet, it was too robust to be feral. Even dead it had the contented look of a house pet.
Now what? Should she leave it? She was already late, she wasn't about to go door-to-door with a dead cat. No, it would be cruel to leave it. What if a child found it. One the same age as Kelsey or Amanda.
She decided to take it home. Let the owner think it ran away. She could bury it or ask Jack to. He always got rid of the mice they trapped in the attic.
She rummaged around for something with which to pick it up. Thankfully she never cleaned out the car so the ice scraper was there, even in mid-May. She used it to deftly push the cat onto a plastic bag. She picked the bag up by the corners; gingerly put it in the back of the car and closed the door. As it slammed shut she heard footsteps. She turned and saw the long shadow of someone walking towards the car, they were still around the corner and hadn't seen her yet. It was the lady with the basset hound. Did she need to explain why she was stopped here - in the middle of the road? No, she decided that being too eager to talk would look suspicious.
Quickly Bet got in the car. She started the ignition and looked at the clock, only eight minutes had passed. It wasn't possible.
"I'm so sorry," she stammered lamely to Michelle, the assistant teacher, a perky brunette, ten years younger than Bet. Perky described every assistant preschool teacher she'd ever met. High school cheerleading must be a prerequisite for the job. If Michelle ever ran over an animal Bet imagined she could just coax it back to life.
"There you go now, you can do it, just get yourself up, that's right, good girl, just look at you!"
"That's okay," said Michelle, snapping Bet out of her haze.
"The girls were so engrossed with playing house they didn't want to leave anyway.
"Oh," she said. "Well just let me know what I owe you."
"Owe me?"
"Owe the school. You know, for being late."
"Oh that," laughed Michelle. "We always give parents at least three warnings. Don't you worry about that."
"Besides," she went on, "Miss Arnold isn't here to dock you," she said with a wink. "She's down the road somewhere. Looking for her cat. A white Persian."
Bet felt her mouth go dry. "Oh," she managed. It came out sounding like "ug."
The girls appeared on the steps of the school, Kelsy was holding a toy vacuum cleaner.
"Kelsy and Mandy have been having such fun with this I told them they could borrow it overnight," Michelle explained. "Here, let me put it in the back of the car for you," said added.
"No!" said Bet, trying not to sound hysterical, "it's just that, well, you know how it is, the car's a mess and all. Here let me."
Martha looked startled, as if the other team had just scored a touchdown despite her best cheering efforts, but she quickly recovered."
"Sure okay."
Bet opened the back of the car, and without looking down, placed the vacuum on top of the cat. It looked like she was cleaning an exotic animal rug.
The girls were already fighting over the radio station. She wondered how Ms. Arnold did it. The girls adored her and she seemed to return their affection. Teacher's pet she thought grimly. Bet turned the wheel, squinted in the afternoon sun, and navigated the wagon out of the school's driveway

April 30

Ode to National Poetry Month (a couplet)
It was fun once begun
but I'm glad tis done

Maybe I'll start now and try to find 30 poems I'm not familiar with for next year instead of falling back on the tried and true. But for now I leave you with one for the guys. If you want to impress the ladies at least memorize the first four lines.

She walks in beauty, like the night
by Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,—
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

But lads, be careful who you recite them to:

When I was one-and-twenty
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

April 29

Will this month never end? Here's another from the archives, my post-college trip to Europe.
Having to speak French gave me great pain
Thank goodness tomorrow
We'll all be in Spain.

A favorite, from one of my favorite people to get e-mail from!
Thesis, Antithesis, and Nostalgia
by Alan dugan

Not even dried-up leaves,
skidding like iceboats on
their points down winter streets,
can scratch the surface of
a child's summer and its wealth:
a stagnant calm that seemed
as if it must go on and on
outside of cyclical variety
the way, at child-height on a wall,
a brick named "Ann"
by someone's piece of chalk
still loves the one named "Al"
although the street is vacant and
the writer and the named are gone.

April 28

Three Twos Again
Too cold
To play
Outside
Today

My Shadow
Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

April 27

three twos
Too tired
To Write
Poetry
Tonight

Dim
Dim
by Jim Daniels

April 26

if it's not sand it's leaves
a haiku
I rake last fall's leaves
from the corners of my yard
where they were hiding

Here's one from the Lizard King though I can't quite picture Jim Morrison out raking leaves in his snake skin pants.

A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
and leans on his rake and
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause and heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years.

April 25

arbor day (a couplet)
Who celerates Arbor Day
Any way?

The Internet can be such a source of disappointment. All these years I thought Joyce Kilmer was a woman - then I google the poem and it's Alfred Joyce Kilmer.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

-- Joyce Kilmer

April 24

if Robert Frost Lived on Cape Cod
Whose beach this is I think I know
Their year-round house is in the city though
They will not see me walking here
Or else they'd tell me where to go
The neighbors, they might see me here
But in spring, they too are not near
None have time to bother being here
On the Cape this time of year
So year rounders have a chance
Upon private beaches to advance
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy drake
The ocean's lovely, dark and deep
But I have no beach rights so off I creep
And travel miles to the public beach
And travel miles to the public beach

This one is for the twin's first trip to Old Silver Beach, though they weren't the ones who came home sandy.

Season at the Shore
by Phyllis McGinley
On, not by sun and not by cloud
And not by whippoorwill, crying loud,
And not by the pricking of my thumbs,
Do I know the way that the summer comes.
Yet here on this seagull-haunted strand,
Hers is an omen I understand -
Sand:
Sand on the beaches,
Sand at the door,
Sand that screeches
On the new-swept floor;
In the shower, sand for the foot to crunch on;
Sand in the sandwiches spread for luncheon;
Sand adhesive to son and sibling,
From wallet sifting, from pockets dribbling;
Sand by the beaker
Nightly shed
From odious sneaker;
Sand in bed;
Sahara always in my seaside shanty
Like the sand in the voice
of J. Durante.

Winter is mittens, winter is gaiters
Steaming on various radiators.
Autumn is leaves that bog the broom.
Spring is mud in the living room
Or skates in places one scarcely planned.
But what is summer, her seal in hand?
Sand:
Sand in closets,
Sand on the stair,
Desert deposits
In the parlor chair;
Sand n the halls like the halls of the ocean;
Sand in he soap and the sun-tan lotion;
Stirred in the porridge, tossed on the greens,
Poured from the bottoms of rolled-up jeans;
In the elmy street
On the lawny acre;
Glued to the seat
Of the Studebaker.

April 23

Animal themes tonight. I just love picturing that roach shaking a shimmy on the butter.

indoor cat (a quatrain)
She sits looking out in disbelief
At the little birds singing cheep cheep cheep
With no means to reach the doorknob she has a hunch
That today, again, she'll miss the free lunch

NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
by Christopher Morley
 SCUTTLE, scuttle, little roach— 
   
How you run when I approach. 
   
Up above the pantry shelf, 
   
Hastening to secrete yourself.

Most adventurous of vermin, 
   
How I wish I could determine 
   
How you spend your hours of ease, 
   
Perhaps reclining on the cheese.

Cook has gone, and all is dark— 
   
Then the kitchen is your park: 
   
In the garbage heap that she leaves 
   
Do you browse among the tea leaves?

How delightful to suspect 
   
All the places you have trekked: 
   
Does your long antenna whisk its 
   
Gentle tip across the biscuits?

Do you linger, little soul, 
   
Drowsing in our sugar bowl? 
   
Or, abandonment most utter, 
   
Shake a shimmy on the butter?

Do you chant your simple tunes 
   
Swimming in the baby's prunes? 
   
Then, when dawn comes, do you slink 
   
Homeward to the kitchen sink?

Timid roach, why be so shy? 
   
We are brothers, thou and I. 
   
In the midnight, like yourself, 
 
I explore the pantry shelf!

April 22

Here's another old poem. This one is real, real bad. It's from my environmental righteous indignation period.

I was walking through Boston one day with a friend
When a great line of people walked by end to end
They were carrying signs with intent to rebel
With t-shirts to match, and on one my eye fell
And now with conviction I'll repeat if I may
That "laboratory animals never have a nice day"
My friend and I laughed and said it was true
Some people, it seems, have nothing better to do
But as they marched on, with direction and cause
I had a strange thought and here's what it was
Perhaps millions of creatures die season after season
And who's telling them that it's for a good reason
The answer it came, and was obvious to see
If a laboratory animal I was born to be
I sure would want someone marching for me

POLLUTION IS THE SOLUTION
from Esquire magazine, November 1992
I like the notion of oil on the ocean,
'cause it lubricates all of the waves.
When the water is slicker,
the tankers are quicker.
And look at the fuel that it saves.
I like burgers in styrofoam dishes,
Not fishes,
they take up good space in the sea.
Pollution is the solution,
Nature's annoying to me.

It's funny, I think, when things go extinct,
and they become yesterday's news.
When a species ceases, there's no more feces
for me to scrape off my shoes.
Well, some trees stay - I guess they're okay.
(The Prez says they're more toxic than cars.)
Pollution is the the only solution.
(Well, the easiest solution by far.)

I could spend hours in acid-rain showers,
and nuclear power is fun.
Hooray for pullutants !
'ecause they make us mutants,
and two heads are better than one !
Oh, I feel so attractive when I'm radioactive,
and I get my haircuts for free.
Pollution is the solution,
'cause if it's not, what else could be ?

When a strip mine stops, a town's livehood drops,
so the ax that I wield just cuts trees.
What's the answer, my friend ?
It blows in the wind,
which is thickening with CFCs.
We've always had trouble, since the first
critter's bubble popped the primordial slime.
Pollution, my son, is the solution,
and I know that you'll thank me in time.

April 21

a haiku from 2006 and one from japanese haiku master Uejima Onitsura
Summer brings fruit flies.
They drown in my glass of wine.
Someone bring a spoon.

It is nice to read
news that our spring rain also
visited your town

April 20

Making up a poem every day is harder than I thought. I'll have to call in some reinforcement. Here's one from college.

There was a toilet in Arnold Hall
It flushed and flushed for no reason at all
Our R.A. Jeannie called the plumber
I'd have done it myself if I'd known the number

This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

April 19

haiku
backyard daffodils
little patches of sunshine
amidst a bare ground

In Flanders Fields
by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

April 18

today in history (a couplet)
for most of us, history.
is little more than mystery.

Since this poem is rather long (A long poem by Longfellow? Coincidence or not?), only its beginning follows. Here is a link to the rest of the poem.

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

April 17

zzzzz
or
nothing beats a good night's sleep (a quatrain)
At day's end a poem is quite grand
it soothes the soul like nothing can.
But listening to your children, fast sleep
is the thing to best help one's sanity keep.

This one's for Wendy. I didn't know I had received any comments on this site but lo and behold there are some. Thanks for your kind words Wendy. The poem you sent reminds me of the the Walrus and the Carpenter another classic by Lewis Carroll.

There Once Was a Puffin
by Florence Page Jaques
Oh, there once was a Puffin
Just the shape of a muffin,
And he lived on an island
In the bright blue sea!

He ate little fishes,
That were most delicious,
And he had them for supper
And he had them for tea.

But this poor little Puffin,
He couldn't play nothin',
For he hadn't anybody
To play with at all.

So he sat on his island,
And he cried for awhile, and
He felt very lonely,
And he felt very small.

Then along came the fishes,
And they said, "If you wishes,
You can have us for playmates,
Instead of for tea!"

So they now play together,
In all sorts of weather,
And the Puffin eats pancakes,
Like you and like me.

April 16

Johnny Cash had them for breakfast (a riddle poem)
Children might prefer them baked.
What parents choose to percolate.
Little brothers often spill.
Little problems don't amount to a hill.

I quoted this poem (along with the movie Back to the Future) in my high school year book.
I'm thinking that Robert Frost would say the road less travelled doesn't include four kids and a mini van.

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

April 15

April 15 quatrain
Taxes in the mail
today without fail.
To the government
is where the money's sent.

The Dangerous Book for Boys, a book Ken and I found rather random given its many weeks as a bestseller, lists the poem Invictus as one every boy should be familiar with.
I recall it as being one of the poems that was xeroxed and taped to the bathroom stalls in our dorm at Simmons. I guess someone thought girls ought to be familiar with it as well. More recently the poem gained notoriety as Oklahoma bomber Timothy McVeighs final statement prior to his execution.
I read one website that described Invictus as being poet William Ernest Henley's "one hit." It's funny to think of poets as one hit wonders, but I guess for every Emily Dickinson there's the poetical equivalent of Alan O'Day.
"I said, what?"

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
 

April 14

little black dress (a persona poem)
In the dark I wait in vain
Wondering when
she'll take me out
of the closet again.

How could someone like Emily Dickinson, with seemingly so little life experience, find so much to write about?

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

April 13

garden couplet
april showers get me down
hope my lettuce seeds don't drown

This one's a bit of a cheat but song lyrics are poetry too.

Garden Song
by Dave Mallet
Inch by inch, row by row,
Gonna make this garden grow,
All it takes is a rake and a hoe,
And a piece of fertile ground.

Inch by inch, row by row,
Someone bless these seeds I sow,
Someone warm them from below,
'Till the rain comes tumblin' down.

Pullin' weeds and pickin' stones,
Man is made of dreams and bones,
Feel the need to grow my own,
'Cause the time is close at hand.

Grain for grain, sun and rain,
Find my way in Nature's chain,
Tune my body and my brain
To the music from the land.

Plant your rows straight and long,
Temper them with prayer and song,
Mother Earth will make you strong
If you give her loving care.

An old crow watching hungrily
From his perch in yonder tree,
In my garden I'm as free
As that feathered thief up there.