The price of pliability?
We sink into penury
All for a speaking slot
At UNGASS in NYC
They’re at it again
Another talk shop
Deals on the side
We are sold out
They wax eloquent
Mouthing platitudes
Promising data and gold
Doling mining rights
They return, all smiles
Frequent fliers, all
Praising themselves
Lining up for the buffet
A Gemini artist married to a Libra mathematician?
This will end badly, a relationship that defies regal ambition.
The naysayers laugh for we are opposite in many ways.
I can lose myself in my work and paint canvasses for days.
My libra mathematician likes statistics, it is his powerful tool.
I cannot understand algebra, statistics once made me a fool.
But we eat our beef, mashed potatoes with warm bread.
And we do not talk shop, so our marriage moves along ahead.
A Gemini artist married to a Libra mathematician is insane.
But we have been married for over fifty years so this is plain.
Although I despise math, and he does not cartoon, paint or sing.
We have many commonalities, and laugh at the same thing.
We raised three daughters who understood the beauty of this.
Depending upon the problem, they sought answers for their bliss.
Asking the Gemini when playing and whimsy was the answer they wanted.
If it was a logic question or a math problem, for Daddy they hunted.
they called it mercy,
the white coats and clipboards,
a room with thick walls, sterile,
and him sitting there—
eyes like rain-soaked concrete.
Florida sun spilling in
too bright, too harsh,
as if to spotlight the damage,
to make sense of the silence,
the soft snip of scissors
cutting away at whatever was left.
he used to play cards, talk shop,
had a sharp way of cussing,
could laugh till his belly shook—
but now, he was hollowed out,
stitched up like an old doll
left to the attic dust.
in the end, they called it 'care, '
as he sat there, vacant,
a chair in a room with no light.
his name was two steps,
it took him
half an hour to walk one hundred feet
to the chow hall,
I was a child, twenty years old
and it shook me to my very core.
It’s perhaps accident, chaos
Happens to rhyme well with Davos—
A talk shop of the world
Where bales of wisdom’s heard,
A shop known for big talk
Nonstop and round the clock,
Where every voice is virtuous!
____________________________________
Happenings |22.01.2023| limerick, humour
Poet’s note: There might be paucity of snow in this ski resort, but not of sound bites in this talk shop called World Economic Forum. And after A to Z deliberations they all go back to their old ways. Perhaps this is why this year’s WEF at Davos seems to have lost some of its old shine, which sundry god-men tried to make good with some pious talks.
I’ve sipped my tea then let it fester
Now I search in vain for a wrigleys extra
The seminars over but I’m stuck to my seat
Preferring death to the “meet and greet”
Just how does ‘one’ learn to talk shop
stop...(look, listen)
then thoughtfully digest?
Press the flesh
feign genuine interest
On a range of subjects I loathe and detest
Sparkle (effervesce)
Then work the room like a stale breath sex pest
You’re oozing B eau as you move through the room
Your Pink shirt and pin stripes pre-ordained in the womb
Your hairline
your i-phone
your chin like a shoe
Still when I grow up I’d like to be you
There is a light
over my head
it follows me
wherever I go,
that light is Jesus.
I know it's there
for I feel His
presence, His
hand covers me,
to protect and
shield me.
Someday I'll reach
glory land, walk
those streets of
gold and sit
down with the
Saints of old
and talk shop
with them,
like I never
did in church.
Listening to old
Jonah telling me
about his time
spent in the belly
of the great fish.
How little David
felt when he
was out there
facing the giant
Goliath.
Oh what a time!
it will be and
I thank my Jesus,
for His light over
me and for my
salvation He gave freely.
wrote 9-16--08
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