Sometimes, we need, Mozart, some violin
Of a sonata, of a joyful concerto,
Sometimes, we need Bach, his genius
A cello concerto, a cantata,
Music, it is known, softens morals,
Sometimes, we need, Wagner, Berg,
A ride, a charge of the Walkyries,
We need Brahms and his symphonies,
Sometimes, we need, Sibelius, his genius
His symphonies are treasures under the snow,
Sometimes, one needs, Mozart, Debussy,
We need a clarinet concerto, or a sonata,
Music, it is known, softens morals,
Like the sea, and distant voyages,
Sometimes, we need, Bach or Schumann,
To find peace, to distance one’s sorrows.
Going through a closet,
I was quite surprised to find
Several shopping bags of t-shirts
That my son had left behind.
While looking at them, one by one,
I realized they portrayed
His entire growing up, through college,
Starting in first grade.
The school shirts featured P.S. 6,
Then Wagner Junior High,
With a special few from Stuyvesant,
Where high school years flew by.
Another group had characters
From movies or TV –
Pee Wee Herman, Austin Powers
And the Simpsons’ family tree.
There was Beavis, there was Butthead
And the South Park kids, as well
As World Series shirts and Yankees;
(We’re New Yorkers, you can tell).
Favor shirts from his Bar Mitzvah
Nestled near the travel trove –
Shirts from Scotland and from Israel,
Plus some places where we drove.
Then the final category,
From his favorite billiards hall,
Where the hours spent resulted
In those plaques upon his wall.
As a grown-up and a parent,
His collection’s surely grown,
But I love these sweet reminders
Of his younger self I’ve known.
I freely admit I love classical music,
And please don't think me a snob
If I keep my composure
When I mention composers
As Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Schumann,
And not Ludie, or Wolfie,
Or Petie, or Bob.
And a symphony simply cannot be enjoyed
At just any old time of the day.
I can't listen to them
Prior to seven p.m.,
And I don't mean to brag, but I couldn't be dragged
To a Wednesday or Saturday matinee
Of a ballet by Bizet or Massenet.
My taste in classical music, you see,
Is eclectic, but not meant to shock.
I choose Strauss for the schmaltz
Of a polka or waltz,
And Chopin is my dude when I crave an etude,
But I do tend to doze in my seat in the loge
Through an opera by Wagner…
Or more Offenbach.
She talks incessantly of Opera,
my nervous systems not listening,
it’s desperately trying
to connect to her voluptuous body,
neural cells hum like eclectic cars.
I cannot think at all of Mozart or Wagner
I am mesmerized by her sexuality,
even more so
as we are alone in a rushing crowd.
Incurious commuters hurrying
to catch impatiently waiting trains.
She knows, of course she knows,
women always can sense
that moment
when the drama and tension
gets musically explicit.
I am wondering
if we will get to the third act,
or will we run out of erotic steam,
jump the shark right here and now,
leave with a weak wave and
a promise?
Like this, the music crescendo's,
or indecisively dies
with a much truncated ‘goodbye’ aria.
We really rather love our Mr Wag.
A bag of music, music in a bag.
Such masterpieces did he once produce.
We listen every day to Mr Wag.
Oh such a man, a wit was Mr Wag.
Oh what a dish of gifts, oh what a bag.
A Ring he made for us to hear, not wear.
The Nibelungen sent by Mr Wag.
So Rheingold was the first from Mr Wag.
And then we had Walküre in the bag.
The Ring then brought us Siegfried as the third.
The fourth one's hard to say, dear Mr Wag.
Could cause some difficulty, Mr Wag,
for Götterdämmerung is in this bag
and can be hard, this Götterdämmerung.
You see that “o” and “a” there, Mr Wag?
There's also that name here, oh Mr Wag.
We say as Vahgner, and it's in the bag.
So “Wag”, you see, is “Wagner”, that OK?
For that word's in the bag now, Mr Wag.
(16 Jul 2023)
Race 2
Same old going down
Graves of men now silent
Nowt much happening here
Just dead bodies buried
After being riddled blasted
Russians killed by Ukrainians
Prisoners mostly of Wagner
Sentences cut lives now cut
Politicians bathe in blood
They had quite a run
Still race in Part 2
Race 1 was a loss
No victory only death
Plus injuries and ruin
Battlefield injuries extreme
It's fine there's time
So much time here
Satan has all the time
In the world
Wait and see
Eventful War Book 2
Nick Armbrister and other writers
William Richard Wagner
whose music still causes a stir
Much like the spread 'Marmite'
loved or loathed never trite
A CHRISTMAS PRAYER POEM FOR 2020
Exiled to our homes,
We sit, so many of us alone.
Outside, in a world a whirl,
In which darkness and fear swirl,
We peer for your light,
A respite from our soul’s blight.
In his mountain cave, a grieved,
You appeared to Elijah in a breeze.
Young Mary in the midst of her chores
Surprised by the Angel’s word.
Shepherds startled from a drowsy watch
By the Angels exultant shout.
We seek for that which so many long,
A “Glory Hallelujah!” song.
As this year ends,
O loving God, send
Us the reprieve which we seek,
In the One born so humble and meek.
Whose word set straight the crooked road,
And valleys and mountains laid low
In which the lion and lamb peacefully lay,
And children and asps safely play.
Our world awaits your loving embrace,
May your peace fill our dwelling place.
© 2020. By Robert Charles Wagner.
It rained this morning until this moment,
now the birds are singing! A blessing.
It’s not much of a tune, kind of repetitive
and it could use a base accompaniment.
In fact, to be honest, the birds
are kind of annoying.
Once they get going all together, it’s like
a Wagner opera – never ending.
Wait, it’s raining again. Sweet pitter-patter
What a blessing.
Its stopped raining.
the birds are back and louder than ever.
Too many darn blessings this morning.
Slow-burning fuse
A sad day first heavy rain going into mist
it is not an outdoor day, but I had to pay some bills
which was not spiritually uplifting.
This is a Wagner day, never cared for his music
one has to lean to the far right to appreciate
this sort of substantially handed music,
I’m waiting to go home it has been delayed again
now it will sometimes be next week.
Portugal is famous for being a friendly country
but there is an underly of hatred that manifest
itself when we read so many women get killed
by their husbands every year.
Resentment is a rumbling volcano that explodes
and lava flows down burning houses and
the woman who got in the way.
God of changing changelessness.
God of endless surprises,
confounding the confoundless.
You are the God of Paradox,
revealing to children, that,
which you hide from the learned.
Those mortals you touch,
utterly transformed, Divinely
refereeing matches between
angelic wrestlers and mere mortals,
Jacob becoming the limping Israel,
Moses’ staff raining down plague,
terrorizing those who terrorized,
the vanquished becoming vanquishers.
The angel adorned ark, the
secret weapon of your Covenant,
the enslaved now the rulers.
Shepherd royalty, blossoming deserts,
lions at peace with the lambs,
children playing with cobras,
Angelic announcements
a Virgin conception of the
God/Human who serves
but refuses to be served,
creation murdering the Creator,
the Dead not remaining dead.
Divinely bestowed paradox,
abundantly planted in history,
who am I to question You
about a broken left ankle
on the Eve of my retirement?
(c) 2019, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
My feet suspended
from the end of the
foot rest of my recliner.
Socks gently removed,
your hands warm the oil,
softly, tenderly massaging its
mysterious healing properties
into my dry heels,
my weary arches,
my sore soles and toes.
Your reflexology of love
simultaneously, lovingly
massaging my soul.
(c) 2019, The Book Of Ruth, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
You look at me confused,
haunches poised to
leap upon my lap.
Eager to slobber my face
with kisses, and for
your ears to be scratched.
I stop you, arm extended,
with a strongly articulated, “No!”
Initially, you look confused,
then hurt wondering
what wrong you have committed.
I smile, and pet your head,
my smile conveying, “It’s alright.
Not yet, but soon.”
You turn, and hop up
on the leather couch,
turning three times,
and plop into the nest
you created, and, sigh.
© 2019, The Book Of Ruth, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
The semi-trailer sits at the farm,
a gift from your dad,
holding everything we own,
except some of our clothes,
and that of our sons,
and Pampers.
Homeless, my pride beaten down,
humility or is it humiliation, it’s master.
Your pride is not a self-consuming
passion, the first of an
ever-growing realization
that I’m not the educator of our family
but a merely a student
learning at your feet.
Your pride is measured
in our sons, in our marriage,
our homelessness not a
defeat, but a mere fact.
Your own family’s past,
family falling upon family
during times of difficulty and duress,
defines what is important.
Shuffling between families’ homes
an inconvenience of love,
not acts of desperation.
As long as we and our sons are together
no longer is home narrowly defined
to structures above or below ground,
but only defined by relationship.
You are at home in our homelessness.
(c) 2012, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
no more ringing
in my ears always
being Quasimodo
screaming about
the bells
i set my house
phone ring tone
to play a MIDI
Wagner Ride
of the Valkyries
and my cellphone
wake up alarm tone
is Bach's cello
bourree which
peacefully draws
me from my sleep
but the machines
at work later take
over so yelling
becomes
the norm for
speaking so
now i adorn
headphones
after work
to muffle
the rapid
discharge
of shots
at the shooting
range
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