|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
What are these objects in your frames?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Why must they gotta be the same?
Cars and busses, traffic lights
Bicycles and motor bikes
Crosswalks, signs, and steps and stairs
Fire hydrants everywhere
Boats, planes and parking meters
Tickets, fines, misdemeanors
Why are you so fond of these?
Why are palms the only trees?
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
The pictures trapped inside of there
Oh captcha squares, oh captcha squares
Depict a world so bleak and bare
Arid, bland, unaesthetic
Barren, drab, unpoetic
Sterile, cold, antiseptic
Unconcerned, apathetic
Somber, sad, and desolate
Woeful, bland, pedestrian
Weary, grim, dreary, hopeless
Grainy, gray, out of focus
It doesn’t need to be this way…
Many things could fill your squares
Why not fill these things in there?
Tambourines and castanets
Bass trombones and clarinets
English horns and piccolos
Harpsichords and xylophones
Fiddles high and Irish whistles
Jingle bells and finger cymbals
5-string banjos, mandolins
Saxophones, accordions
Desmond Tutu and Mandela
Cassius Clay, Cinderella
Charlemagne and Genghis Kahn
George and Ringo, Paul, and John
Twain and Edgar Allan Poe
Wayne and Brando and Monroe
Ida Wells, Frida Kahlo
Steinem, Parks, and Ferraro
River Thames and stormy seas
Winter wrens and bumble bees
Cyprus, ash, oak, fir, and pine
Sassafras, willow, and lime
Daffodils and magnolias
Marigolds and begonias
Cabbage, beets, and potatoes
Carrots, beans, and tomatoes
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
If your pictures must remain
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
How aboutcha change the frames?
Captcha circles, captcha suns
All the captcha olygons
Wiggly captcha twiggly lines
Twisty captcha twiny vines
Captcha diamonds, captcha hearts
Captcha clovers, moons, and stars
Captcha ribbons, Captcha lace
Captcha colored string bouquets
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
We understand you're here to stay.
Oh Captcha Squares, Oh Captcha Squares
Just be more creative, OK?
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
a child's kite
lifted by the breeze
as expected
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
He lived in four little rooms
locked behind the door.
And the night shined through
where a light shined before.
A red flame burned ashen gray,
lying on the floor.
So you move yourself along.
And grind on down.
And scrape the path you drag around.
Stumblin’ on the way.
A new day with no grace to say,
starin’ down the ground.
They’re softer lies to swallow
when you’re drunk.
Or when you’re full of faith
and barely saved.
It’s only things that fade.
And leave impressions in the dark.
And demons in the haze.
Sunlight burns night away,
and darkness into day.
So sing inside your walls.
And make the lamps low.
And watch the white screen glow,
black on grey.
The words that you say.
And drain yourself away.
Another night burned white by day.
I beg you Darkness, come again!
Are you fated?
Or are you led?
Well either way the moon will grow.
And spread out wide across the snow.
Piled high and ploughed.
Raised between the lines.
And layered across the years.
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
The grandfather on my mother's side was a cheapskate.
A real cheapskate.
One Christmas, he gave me a used paperback book.
Something like “Jimmy Plays Baseball.”
It was written for a 7 year old child, and I was considerably older than that.
Still had “5 cents” written in pencil on the first page.
No foolin'.
Asked he, “You ever read that one?”
Replied I, “No granddad. Can’t say I have. Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I hated going to visit them.
In the row house in Baltimore city, where my mother grew up.
(‘Balmer.’ ‘Balmer, Merilan.' “How you doin’ hon?”)
Me and my sister sitting on the wood floor in the living room.
Positioned dead eyed to the manger on the mantle.
Given board games to occupy our time.
My father loved talking to him, Leo, Leo Groeninger.
Because he was brilliant.
And he knew everything about everything.
A sedentary encyclopedia on the spectrum.
His second wife sitting dutifully next to him on the couch.
My mother sitting in a chair, the only one left in the living room.
“Maybe you kids would like to play checkers, or Parcheesi.”
But he had one saving grace:
His German potato salad.
The real thing.
Made with ham fat.
Five pounds of ham fat.
Or bacon, if you didn't have any ham fat.
Damn that stuff was good!
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
Now I lay me down to sleep
Alone upon these empty sheets
Of paper lying on the bed
Side table clock says 5 a.m.
Oh dark of night, I beg thee stay
Keep the morning light at bay
Oh dusk beloved!
Oh dawn be damned!
Me pull the curtains tight again
And only this I have to show
These tries at rhymes
Turned tales of woe:
Of sticky socks
On stinky feet
Sit ankle bones
Prop broken knees
‘Neath pasty thighs
With muscle pains
Crooked back
And shhit for brains
Tired eyes must take their rest so
Leave behind this manifesto
For the rights
Of righteous minds
To get their forty-winks, sublime
Después de la fiesta
While they take la siesta
Sun sets low
On the horizon
But lo, the sun set also rises
O’er every heart and soul supine
Crouched behind their window blinds
Who heave a sigh
At yet another
Evening pass without a slumber
All perchance to dream is lost so
As tonight is now tomorrow:
That is all
And with that said
I take me self to bed again
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
As we did the month preceding
This the next department meeting
Time and time without a reason
To be present or to listen
For there’s nothing on the floor
Beneath us different than before
It was the last time that we met
As everybody knows and yet
Again we sit around the table
Top our seats but still unable
To understand why we should read
Another memo from the Dean
Of students who have never met ‘em
Or her or maybe better, them
For whom the Chair is working under
Standing in the room, we wonder
How’d it ever get to this
Friday morning’s foolishness
Of faculty who should know better
Than to debate what doesn’t matter
That they’ll only misconstrue
The points they’re missing when they do
Interrupt each other speaking
Words better spent in classrooms teaching
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
One time when I was in nursey school, Miss Shanahan had everyone sit in a circle and one-by-one say what we wanted to be when we grow up.
It was what you’d expect…
Doctor
Firefighter
Astro naught
Truck driver
Race car driver
Veterinarian
Police officer
Movie star
Baseball player
Actress
Princess
Detective
Engineer…and the like
Then it was my turn:
“What do you want to be when you grow up Bobby?”
I thought about it a minute, and said
“God.”
That threw her for a loop.
There was no braggadocio.
No narcissism, no conceit, no misplaced pride
I didn’t think I had a shot at it or anything.
Just seemed to me it would be the top job.
Can’t blame me.
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
It's because of the bacon.
Yeah, it looks good on the menu, sitting there at the rim of the plate. Glistening. Archetypally ridged and ruffled. Positioned perfectly next to the eggs over easy, the pancakes, buxom and buttered, the sausage links, dwarfed but respectable.
Net, the Grand Slam holds its own. At $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas), it's still a bargain. The eggs are fine. The pancakes are as good as any. The sausage links are, you know, OK.
But the bacon... The bacon b-a-con. A swindle, a masquerade, a false promise, a double-cross, tissue-thin, gossamer, anorexic, nervous (nervosa in Spanish), frail, skittish, fragile, and afraid. Overcooked, ipso brittle, short crust, and crumbling. Try to cut a slice, and "snap-chink!" Chips fly everywhere. The knife (if you use one) smacks the porcelain. The fork is stunned, helpless; its tines useless as the spoon.
"Crack!" Oh, I'm sorry ma'am. I didn't mean to do that. Do you want me to brush it off your plate? Hey, a little piece went in your salad, a bacon bit. Do you like bacon bits? I think they're good. And there're not usually made of real bacon."
What are you gonna do with your eggs now? The Grand Slam doesn't come with toast. Everybody's looking at you, waiting to see your next move. "Yeah, I like to mix eggs with my pancakes. You don't do that sometimes? Really? It's good. You want a bite? No? OK..."
It's not the cook's fault. What's he supposed to do? He can barely see the damn things on the grill. Can't blame the waitress or the shift manager. The pigs are probably regular size. You can't expect the stock holders to take up pitchforks. What do you want for $5.99 ($7.99 in select areas)?
That's why I stopped going to Denny's.
Note: The person who lived next store to me growing up invented bacon bits for McCormick. True story.
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
Dear Fate,
I hate you.
I detest you.
I despise you.
I loathe you in ridicule.
I reject you outright.
You are no good Fate. I am sure of it.
Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
I guess you’re right Fate.
Thanx for the tip.
Thanx for the insight.
Thanx for letting us know in advance.
You are elusive Fate.
We cannot pin you down.
You elude our scrutiny.
You evade our inspection.
You fail to meet the most elementary criterion of science.
We cannot prove you wrong Fate.
Good for you.
But you are wrong Fate.
Always wrong.
There are no paths to unfold.
No destinies to fulfill.
No predetermined series of events.
Things are not supposed to be as they are
Things are not as they are supposed to be
We do not abide by your counsel.
You got that Fate?
You are Calvin’s bread and butter.
He your bastard child.
Predestined like the rest of us
Preacher of kismet and reprobation
Of freedom in bondage to sin
Why the conundrum, Fate?
Things are confusing enough as they are.
Why do you trifle with us?
Why do you veil your objectives?
Do you delight in your trickery?
Snicker at our bemusement?
Grin and chuckle at us, hapless and unaware?
You are despicable Fate.
Yahweh at his worst.
More ruinous than plagues of grasshoppers and locust.
Even death of the first born child.
You void all human experience.
All the bravery, all the grandeur, all the malice; all the trials and tribulations.
All but labors in futility.
And you knew it all along.
Didn’t you Fate?
And another thing, Fate:
You are not a mystery.
You are neither strange, nor cryptic, nor enigmatic.
You are a bore.
There is no wonder in predestination.
No puzzle to be solved
No secrets to reveal
Que sera, sera.
You offer us nothing Fate.
Free us from your grasp.
Leave us our volition, our discretion, our Will.
Let us try and succeed.
Let us try and fail.
Leave us to our own devices.
Leave us alone.
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Robert Schatz Poem
Once there was back when
In the history of “then”
‘Fore the “be” began
In these days of yore
The people lived before, for
There was nothing more
‘Twas a different time
When the latest lagged behind
“Is” had not arrived
None of then’s events
Happened in the present tense
That had not come yet
Language done ‘em in
As their “be,” already been
Never to begin
Now was not "to be"
Then, verbs ended in “-ed”
All done, already
Trapped in simple past
People didn’t sit; they sat
Didn’t sh_t; they shat
But then’s now’s not when
Life was yesterday to them
It was today back then
We do what we does
Not in history because
Past ain’t what it was
Copyright © Robert Schatz | Year Posted 2024
|
|