Pometry

Pometry

copyright © 2020 Glenn R. Wichman

I have not really been writing much for the last 10 years.  But occasionally a poem slots itself in my brain, and when this happens I generally put it in a Facebook post.  But that's not an easy place to go back to find the poems, so I decided to gather them up and put them here.  I might add more if any come to me.  Note that the first set of five poems are by 5 different authors, only one of whom is me.  Credit is given to the others.  Also the intro to those poems was written the same time the poems were, so they reflect a reality of 2010, and reality has shifted significantly since then.

Five Poems About Nothing -- 2010

Recently, my father has taken up writing poetry, and occasionally he emails a poem out to some close friends, for our entertainment or sometimes for feedback. Yesterday, Dad intended to send out his latest poem to a small group including myself, my brother, two of Dad's old colleagues and a former student. But, as seems to happen so often to us all, he sent out the email forgetting to attach the MS Word file. So we all got an email with the subject line "new poem", but a completely empty body.

My brother responded to this with a clever limerick. Bob Stein responded to that with his own ditty, a parody of Home on the Range. At that point I of course had to get in on the fun, so I added a sonnet to the conversation. Larry Means responded with some free verse. I showed all of this to my wife (who had not been on the recipient list), and she added a response of Suessian anapestic tetrameter. If anyone would care to brave a Haiku, I think that might complete the set.

So, without further ado, five poems about nothing:

There once was a poem from my Dad

To find it would drive someone mad

No copy was sent

There was no attachment

In the end we were all very sad

- Russell Wichman

Oh give me a verse

That's Perfectly Terse

That wastes not a sigh or a sound

Where never is heard

A superfluous word

And I'll show you a poem that's not found

- Bob Stein

This morning my computer made a "ding"

Which indicated new mail in my box

A poem from Father! This was just the thing

To raise my spirits high up off the rocks

Anticipating something truly fine

A limerick or sonnet or haiku

I double-clicked the bolded subject line

Thus opening a window shiny-new

Beginning at the upper-left I scanned

Across that wide expanse, to lower-right

But every pixel that the window spanned,

Like polar bears in snow storms, shined in white

My new-found joy thus from my bosom snatched:

My father's poem was sent out unattached.

- Glenn R. Wichman

I sat with my mind drawing a blank

as I was trying to understand

"what is the reason for the arrow of time?"

and "how is nonlocal entanglement possible?"

Fortunately an email arrived from Harv.

It announced a new poem.

Expecting to a pleasant respite for my struggling mind,

what did I find but a snapshot of my minds' blank.

Thanks Harv!

- Larry Means

After a hard day of work, my mind starts to roam

To more pleasant things -- perhaps a Harv poem?

So I go on my way and arrive at the door,

Putting purse on the table and shoes on the floor.

"Sit down," says my man, "You need to see this!"

"What is it?" I wonder; "Is something amiss?"

I look and see nothing except a blank screen;

I furrow my brow and think, "What could this mean?"

And then my man shows me, much to my delight,

A limerick, a poem, a sonnet -- just right --

All answ'ring Harv's email sent out in a batch,

Which promised a poem, but 'twas unattached.

I look at the list of the names on the line,

My heart sinks a bit, and I start to whine

Because it is clear that I wasn't included

In the mailing that Harv had today extruded

From his brilliant brain. (Even though he forgot

To attach the poem which could be read not.)

The end of my story deserves no pshaw:

Harv, please don't forget your daughter-in-law.

- Nina Wichman

No Words for Colors -- 2010

He was born colorblind

And as he grew

He came to understand that his friends could perceive things that he could not

And he thought

he understood what he was missing

He listened well whenever someone was talking about color

He thought he had an idea of what red was

He thought he had an idea of what yellow was

He knew there was more to it than he could see

But he didn't know how much more

 

One Spring morning, he awoke

Wiped the sleep from his eyes

And he could see in color -- just like you and me!

And he saw red

And he saw yellow

And he realized

That there really are no words for colors

And everything he thought he knew

Was wrong

And he was overjoyed

 

He ran out into the street

From house to house

From friend to friend

And they shared his joy

And he tried to talk with them about everything he saw

He tried to talk about color

But he found that there really are no words for colors

So he spent a long while gazing around himself, in silence

And the glory of the light of the universe danced within his eyes

 

Then he slept

And he dreamt

Of the unimagined beauty that had surrounded him all his life

That he didn't know was there

 

The next morning, he awoke

And his vision had regressed

His world was not in color

It was a washed out field of grays

And it came to him that his world had always been a washed out field of grays

He just never realized it before

 

Days and weeks and months and years went by

And the miracle never recurred

And sometimes he would curse God

For giving a gift just to snatch it away

And sometimes he would thank God

For granting him

One unspeakably glorious day

The Most Powerful Force in the Universe -- 2011

For I tell you

That if you have whimsy

But the size of a mustard seed

You can say to this mountain,

"Move from here to there!"

And it will turn into a daffodil.

Highway 61 Relocated -- 2011

U.S. Highway 61 runs 1,400 miles from Bob Dylan’s home state of Minnesota, along the Mississippi river to New Orleans.

 

This poem is not about that highway.

 

California State Highway 61 runs 6.9 miles from Oakland to San Leandro, through Alameda. 

 

This poem is about that highway.

 

East on I-80

Surrounded by the gunmetal grey latticework

Of the doomed eastern span

Of the old Bay Bridge

 

Interchange to 880 South

Horizon filled with shipyard cranes

Like a row of giant steel horses standing at the edge of the bay

 

Exit to State Highway 61

Keep a weather eye out for the signs

A maze of passages weaves in and out

Among the cement pilings that gird the freeways and light rail

 

Merge right

Ship yards, freight yards, oily dirt and weeds

Chain link and razor wire

Graffiti-spangled plywood

Nailed over doors and windows on long-forgotten walls

 

Merge left

And suddenly we descend

Surrounded by the brightly-lit yellow-green tile

Of the Webster Tube

Deep beneath the water we bottom out and rise

 

Emerging onto quiet streets

Lined with sycamores and magnolias

Corner grocery stores and malt shops

Gingerbread homes painted in cheery shades

Of every color you know

 

This is my island.

Is it childish of me

To think it may be magic?

 

La ballade de M. Grenouille -- 2012

Jean-Jacques Grenouille was a bullfrog

His skin was shiny and slimy

His evenings were spent in a peat bog

With three other frogs and a limey

Trochaicly Hip -- 2013

Quoth Gunga Din from India (not Siam):

“Trochee is a better foot than iamb”

 

Status Update, November 20, 2013 -- 2013

Spent the day in the vast California Outback

Baker and Barstow, Boron and Bagdad...

A dozen dying desert towns between Bishop and Blythe.

Familiar vistas and lots of time to think...

Being thankful for what I have does not preclude

Mourning for what I've lost

And I have lost much since I was last haunting this quadrant of the universe

My new life overtook the old before I could say goodbye

I have five years of desert tears that I have yet to cry