Notes On Visiting the Department of Motor Vehicles

I've heard of a place where demons dwell,
It's a dark and lonely portal to Hell,
But in my opinion it wasn't so bad,
The clientele wasn't nearly as sad,
As all the horrible stories they tell.

The DMV is impossibly inevitable,
Unless ye be mineral or vegetable,
I happen to know,
We'll all have to go,
Because the vehicle code is impenetrable!

The employees are not totally unkind,
They do have a rather unenviable time,
Each day they confront,
Citizens so blunt,
As to drive each of them out of their mind.

I know the truth due to hours I spent,
In the beastly belly of doom where I went,
To register and license,
For my Class C drivin',
And the things I saw are a bit different.

They come undocumented and entitled,
Rude folks who become unbridled,
They yell and they scream,
But this is no one's dream,
To watch an adult act like a spoiled child.

It would seem that the budget is bloated,
But it wouldn't be polite if I gloated,
I would have some nerve,
To attack those who serve,
And it's not like anyone's getting demoted.

Renewals, transfers, & permitting needs,
The collective good the money feeds,
Roads and bridges get fixed,
But those projects seem to get nixed,
And the cracks in the streets host weeds.

So what's three hours to be up to date,
When motor vehicles are our fate?
It's the way it's designed,
So we should be resigned,
To the rules of the game in this state.

At least the facilities will help you cope,
But once you finish there is no hope,
Where it should be dispensed,
A summary scrawled & condensed,
Are only the words, "You need soap."

6-23-19

In the Words of Al Green and Bob Marley...

Maybe it's time to toss aside,
The barbs and stones and jibes,
Wipe away all those delineated territories,
That indicate our tribes.
For when we bleed we bleed the same,
And there's no case for blame,
Nor claim to be made,
In any of god's names,
Because when we bow our heads,
Or look upon the stars,
The hope that's in our hearts,
Does not end with faith alone,
But starts,
With love.

We will all someday die,
And that is why,
It seems so awful not to try,
And again this is why,
I do not cry but plead and beg,
That we not allow any more time to go by,
Before we stop,
Stop,
Stop,
This pointless bickering,
This cruel snickering,
At each and the other's foibles,
While dickering over rotten spoils,
And all the while,
Toiling each and every day,
Every one of us.
Why?

For love.

Our days start and end with love.
It is our compass,
So we should let it guide us,
But remember that our love,
It is no greater,
Than the love of anyone else.
That is to say,
If I may,
That it is no more important,
Or less so,
Than that of the sisters and brothers,
The fathers and mothers,
Of all the others,
Everywhere in the world.

We all start from the same place,
And that is a place of hope,
And love.

It seems so simple,
But maybe,
If we could just get together,
For real,
Everything would be all right.

6-18-19

Even Now

Even now,
I get choked up,
Tears well in my eyes,
And I'm all but incapacitated,
Whenever I hear your voice.

Three years seems enough,
To come to terms,
To get a grip,
To at least not feel so raw,
But I guess not.

Perhaps it's the bond we forged in youth,
Or the fact that your spirit was true,
One in a million,
Without doubt,
And I know I'm not alone in this thought.

If you were here and I said these things,
I know you'd just smile,
You'd wave me off with a laugh,
You'd change the subject,
If you had the chance.

Even now,
You're still larger than life,
In my mind,
And in my heart,
And my soul aches when I think of you.

You'd hate that,
I know,
But it's just the way it is,
Losing friends,
And living with ghosts.

Even now,
I can barely hear you sing,
Let alone sing along,
Without feeling overwhelmed,
And wishing you were still here.

6-15-19

Season of the Move

It's June,
And our living room is filled with boxes.
Again.
Moving,
For us,
Always seems to fall,
Not in autumn or spring,
When it's logical and civilized.
No,
For us.
Moving in winter is not a thing.
Nope,
Summer is the season of change,
Of wrapping,
And packing,
And lifting,
Of loading,
Uprooting.
So,
We play the waiting game,
And turn our home into a warehouse,
Until we can find a new place to land.
At which time we will procure a truck,
And lug our stuff out from under one roof,
And gladly drop it beneath another,
All the while panting,
Sweating,
Dripping,
And cursing ourselves,
Because it's June and we're moving.
Again.

6-12-19

Last Day of School

A marathon of endless days,
Worrying over progress,
Day in,
Day out,
All the little magic happening,
Imperceptibly,
Like time lapse photography,
Tiny buds blooming,
Minds blossom,
Dawning,
Unfolding,
Majestically,
Gloriously open to the universe,
Sun's shadows waxing and waning,
Fading,
Hard work,
And fun,
Forgotten,
Simultaneously remembered,
Every moment distilled into one smile,
And some tears,
Then,
It is over.

6-10-19

One Hundred Fifteen (3-2-19)

Just now it hit me,
Just now I was struck,
That a day like today,
Well,
It is remarkable luck!

What better type of day,
To honor the man,
Who made reading so fun,
Who made us all fans?

I mean,
It's raining!
Are you kidding me?
It is actually raining,
On Theodor's birthday!
Just like that book,
You know the one,
Where the Cat shows up,
With Thing Two and Thing One.

(Let us note,
Some of his older drawings are icky.
If he drew them today,
Things would get sticky.
The ones showing different people,
In exaggerated ways,
Well,
They would not,
SHOULD not,
Be done these days!)

However,
On a damp day like today,
Because it is raining,
Because it is grey,
We should think many thinks,
About his best works.
And how they've grown many readers.
Those are great perks!

It is ironic,
I say,
It is quite a sight,
That on Ol' Seussy's birthday,
It should rain from morning to night.
His books and ideas,
His undeniable rhymes,
Have made me smile,
Quite a few times.

So happy birthday to you,
Dear Geisel,
Wherever you are.
Thanks to you ,
We all love to read,
On planes and ships,
Or in cars.

3-2-19

(Thanks to Caroline Hines Melgoza for the inadvertent suggestion!)

If Sun Tzu was a Runner (2-21-19)

How do you have time?
Mornings are too rushed. I say,
Get up earlier.

2-21-19

Tourism Board: Buy This Poem (2-18-19)

Western states,
where winter is suggested,
but not mandatory.
Where the first sunny day,
following stormy weather,
awakens hopeful thoughts of spring to come.

Blessed and lucky we are,
to live in this arid,
shining west.
This landscape of dreams;
at least until the water runs out.

These crisp sunshine days of winter,
a mockery of Wisconsinite brutality,
a denial of New England blizzards,
when donning shorts and flip-flops,
in late February,
induces smiles,
because it feels so good.
And let's face it,
it is somehow,
ridiculous,
to wear shorts and flip-flops in February,
even in the west.

Western winters have their rare,
unicorn-like,
moments.
The occasional hard freeze on the desert floor,
snow (once a decade) in Las Vegas,
or perhaps,
three WHOLE days of rain in Greater L.A.
Unthinkable!
But it happens.
Sometimes.

Winter of the west.
Keep a coat handy,
or at least a hoody.

Be ready to indulge your inner farmer,
at a moment's notice,
when you will feel compelled to dig the earth,
plant vibrant flowers,
play God.
Maybe,
like us,
you plant a little cactus,
or daffodils,
that remind you of home.

Rejoice in the blissful February sunshine,
soak up the tender warmth that disappears,
so quickly,
when the shade falls across your brow.
Days like these,
are what sell little plots of land,
on the outskirts of Phoenix,
or Tucson,
or Palm Springs,
or even Sacramento,
where snowbirds go on the lam,
hiding out from eternal midwestern winters.
How can we blame them?
We know what a gift we have,
even if we forget sometimes to enjoy it.
We take it for granted,
until days like this.

Sure,
we're a bit smug about winter out here,
where experiencing snow is a choice,
seen mostly on distant rugged ranges,
like powdered donuts.
Sunny days like this,
in February,
you feel like a kid again,
bubbling with happy wonder.
These are days that inspire.
They are days that are nearly perfect.

Elsewhere,
we know,
the grim grip of winter holds fast and long.
The bitter winds,
the snowy drifts,
snuff out hope.
These are days to cherish.
For we know,
that the oppressive boot of summer will arrive in due time,
and our backs will be dripping with sweat.
Now though,
with these hints of spring,
with this sweet breeze,
with this radiant sunshine,
this winter of the west seems mythical,
an impossible fiction,
but it's not.

A joke!
snarling Bostonians exclaim,
dismissing western winters,
where valleys are already verdant and alive.
The laughter rings out,
not from those huddled 'round a Franklin stove,
not from some hermetically,
defiantly,
expertly sealed suburban Cleveland home.

No!
That laughter is mine,
and it emanates from the patio,
out there in the yard,
out in the February sun.

2-18-19

Things I Taught Today (2-12-19)

Fractions,
Kindness,
Responsibility,
The word is "your,"
Listening,
How to find evidence in text,
Following directions,
Teamwork,
Using evidence from a text when writing,
Failure happens,
Learn from failure,
Honesty,
The word is "their,"
Integrity,
How to add details from a text to an essay,
Independence,
Dedication,
Don't write in the margins,
Geology,
Patience,
Self-respect,
Um, evidence?

Determination,
The word is "there,"
Punctuation,
No one is perfect,
Especially me,
Margins,
Punctuation.

Perseverance,
Humility,
Parts of speech,
Confidence,
The word is "you're,"
Accountability,
Punctuation?

Punctuation!

Humor,
Public speaking,
History,
Time mangement,
Did I mention not writing in the margins?

Acceptance,
Empathy,
Manners,
Sportsmanship,
Commas not comas,
The word is "they're."

Margins, man, margins...

You know, your typical socialist agenda.

2-12-19

Limericks These Days (2-1-19)

There was a young lad whose poems were bawdy,
People complained that they were too tawdry,
So sad to hear,
You don't know Ed Lear,
And I'm sorry that this one's not naughty!

2-1-19

Be My Velveeta (1-30-19)

Roses and violets and undying love,
All songs where an angel is sent from above.
And while we're at it,
Those earnestly spoken,
The songs where the singer never seems to be joking.
He stops singing and speaks,
Right straight from the heart,
Like, "Girl you know it's true,"
Ew!
Don't even start.

Shakespearean pronouncements,
And Rom-Com junk,
Every movie in which,
Gosling's a sensitive hunk.
All the dribble and drabble,
And saccharine prattle,
Apologies, Benatar,
But love is not a field of battle!
It's beautiful,
It's human,
But explain to me, please.
Why do we insist on love stories dripping with cheese?

1-30-19

Dusty Form (1-22-19)

'Tis the realm of wordy, nerdy,
Hirsute English professors,
Infatuated with Yeats and Poe and Plath.
Seuss, as well, if you ask!

Prone to pithy pronouncements and,
Obscure references,
Entirely and arrogantly,
Moribund.

So, why bother?
Uninhibited thoughts and images,
Continually crawling from my brain,
Keeping apace and cleansing my,
Soul.

1-22-19

Misty Morning Hop (1-25-19)

A song plays in my head while I run,
Up before the sun,
Stuck on a loop from the soup of my mind.

On a morning like this,
With the mist,
In the fog,
It has the perfect cadence and time.

But strange thoughts make me laugh,
And the miles pass,
While the lyrics and the scene create chaos.

Zombies sing Zeppelin,
as they lurch in the park,
All alone in the dark,
I can't help if my imagination is boss.

1-25-19

Never Be a Zen Master

High aspirations,
Looking for zen,
But this human condition,
Has me wondering when.

With a smile I weather the storm,
I want to bend like a reed,
That could be the norm,
If only my soul were freed!

I try to walk the path,
That leads to calm resolve,
It's a funny kind of math,
That will help me to evolve.

It takes constant effort,
But I fail all the time,
And in that there is a comfort,
To make mistakes is no crime.

6-6-19

Un-Grateful

I feel I must confess,
Blasphemous though it may be,
(Especially in Northern California),
But it's hopeless,
I tried.

Really.

I'm convinced that I am,
In truth,
Too sun-drenched,
Too dehydrated and desert blown,
Too desiccated to be Dead-icated.

Just not enough mellow in this fellow.

Maybe I was infected at birth,
Imbued with the callow pop dust of SoCal,
The sugary sprinkles of glittering lights,
And palm trees.

Too many peaceful easy feelings,
Not enough fog,
Or bluegrass,
Or acid,
Or revolution.

Too much Topanga Canyon,
Not enough Haight-Ashbury.

The Grateful Dead are lost on me.

Give me bouquets of begonias,
And magnolias,
Let me make ripples in still waters,
These things make sense.
Trouble ahead and behind,
I understand.
I see the allure,
But the secret in the music,
I don't hear it,
Not like Jerry's Kids did.

And do.

The Dead,
Indeed,
Keep on truckin'.
They will get by,
But alas,

I do not have a tie-dyed soul.

6-4-19