Which Way is Straight?
Spring had returned to the town of Wilmette
Yet some were not sharing in its merriment
For in the village, within a dew-washed verdure
There lived a young lass who could no longer endure
To her all the beauty of the Midwestern plains
Were hardly enchanted than, frankly, mundane
As she yearned for a sign, for a revelatory sight
Of an omen to lead her away from her plight
That a comet appeared in the heavens afar
And the meaning was clear: “I’ll become a star!”
Now the orbs of the heavens are a bit mighty leap
But the lights of the stage are within mortal reach
Where the life of the stage is the stage of all life
All bathos and pathos a mere playwright’s device
So, the young lass named Linda, for better or worse
Set forth towards the stage having found her life’s worth
The sense of direction comes from where we are born
It guides birds to the south and salmon to spawn
It’s an innate guide, a compass for our soul
That points the direction to a desired goal
he sense of direction comes from where we are born
It guides birds to the south and salmon to spawn
It’s an innate guide, a compass for our soul
That points the direction to a desired goal
Such as a fish in the shallows, to avoid being eaten
It knows the currents flowing to where waters deepen
Or an Andean shepherd roams free from surprise
For it knows the peaks for his place to surmise
And for those of the Plains when lost in their lives
Head straight till they see something they recognize
So it’s therefore, by nature, when Linda navigates
The first question she poses is: “Which way is straight?”
Hollywood’s important but it lacks the literary torque
That attract actors to the Theaters in central New York
Linda’s day came swiftly and along she would take
Great dreams of high drama on her needed escape
As the sun arced in the sky with it’s carefree abandon
Linda sailed towards her fate in an old station wagon
Through hills, towns and forests, for one and a half days
She coursed through the veins of our Nation’s highways
Though she balked at each turn that lay in the road
As being, somehow, a detour from her original goal
She obliged with the flow of the interstates
And arrived as a blessing at the city’s gate
New York is crafted on a Cartesian grid
Yet finding one’s way is no easy bid
But Linda, with some math, planned her attack
And crafting her route on an extrapolated path
But the ranging extent and the city’s hurly-burly
Was grasping her attention and dooming her quest early
Through stardust she drove though it was daresay a pity
Her daze-made decision to cover every inch of the city
Along her path were footlights, clearly to be seen
Which shone as bright spotlights in red, yellow, green
Her instincts lead to a stature but alas not to see
That the Statue of Liberty lacked an acting academy
And to a majestic temple where after a fiery recitation
The audition proved useless in the Grand Central Station
But her goal remained and she felt little remorse
Of crisscrossing the city on a futile course
In time she heard her fate on the radio play
Of Dire Straits “Lost and Lonely Every Day”
It was ten years ago when the sun on the plain
Rose to say we’d never see poor Linda again
A lady in Yonkers once saw the projection
Of a disheveled young girl who needed direction
A man in Queens told of a worried girl
In a beat-up car on a world-win tour
‘Twas a sad tale how it all came to be
Of acting a life on an endless journey
So quick into legend and impressed on our minds
When the story appeared in the New York Times
And the mystery to most was not of her quest
But a peculiar question she expressed
Because in all the sightings, they all relate
That she simply asked them: “Which way is straight?”
Delete Mom (Alternative 1)
My mother developed a cancer
And one sad day she died
I dealt with her passing quietly
In the only way I knew how.
There were many things to put in order
Things to sell, items to save, and stuff to discard
Without thinking, I went to remove her contact from my phone
My phone responded with a crisp display: “Delete Mom?”
I stared at the screen and was filled with anger
From levels of feelings where I had never gone before
I was incensed being asked that question by a mechanical device
How could her passing be treated with such unfeeling objectivity?
I chose Cancel and kept her listing on my phone
Perhaps I’ll try the number in some time of need
And if they’ve reassigned the number
I’ll explain why my call is not a misdial
And perhaps we can talk about my mother
An Odd Ode(Un apprezzamento della dignità)
Could nature with more care adorn
Upon the fleshy, ovoid, female form
Those thoracic, tumular, mammary mounds
Of queenly grace ‘neath a nipple’s crown
(Allegri richiami a una folies bergere)
Giggly, jiggly, bouncing bowls of jelly
A shuffling swing to a steamy Merengue
A twisting fling spins the pair with tassels
Into rotating orbs that solidly bedazzles
(Un giocoso apprezzamento)
As sirens give rise to an ultimate vex
Of endless displays of curvaceous convex
The endowments ensure, whether great or if small
That the attraction for one that carries over to all
(La fine, con l’amore per il seno.)
A fraction day’s play
Narrator: It was maturing evolutions discretion
To allow this wailing confession
Of recombinant genes befitting a fool
And a tale of jesting Nature’s rule
Doctor carrying the new born escorted by a nurse to the postnatal womb in the hospice
Doctor: Hey ho nurse, listen to this bastard’s bawl
‘Tis quite unlike the other’s near siren call
Premature too, nature’s failed in miscarriage attempt
But all human fruit either ripens or circumvents
Now take this devils work, wart-o-the-womb
Smother its weeping in clean sheeting
Then off to a cradle’s tomb
Nurse: Yea, but erase from thy tongue such works of rave
We must find better words for this beginning nave
For how many else can claim such a birth with grace
As sneezing a blob of mucous into a lover’s face
Narrator: In nursery, parents find in what they see
In the lone cry keeping all others awake
The inspiration to issue the life-long decree
That from henceforth on thy name is Ear-Ache
The father, alone at home, standing above the crib, muttering
Father: Hmm … not worth what’s invested
(Little lad’s a little queer)
But so young and yet so destined
For the life of an engineer.