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    The April 2012 Um-Yangian

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    The April 2012 Um-Yangian

      By Steve Lavigne

      Copyright 2012 Steve Lavigne

      Fork and other poems

      The Unpublishables

      From the author of “Fork and other poems” and “The Unpublishables”, this new collection is the “best of” from the April 2012 PAD (poem a day) challenge. Quirky, unique and intriguing, these poems are sure to make you think, move you (one way or another) and amuse.

      Table of Contents

      100%

      not an urn or homer

      parenthood equals childhood squared

      paris

      you are 10, I am 45

      I remember

      holiday season

      something scientific (this way comes)

      the page a day

      my most important memory

      everyone says it’s the end of the world

      I remember teaching you

      a way with words

      science fiction and fantasy

      the hero with a thousand faces

      korean bbq

      on talk like a pirate day

      I spent the morning with myself

      let’s extrapolate

      let’s just say

      for years

      I think hamlet

      the love governor

      storefront of the heart

      the 5 year old

      don’t you hate it when

      you were always

      the trouble is

      no problem

      tree

      the surprise preemie

      about the author

      100%

      nothing is,

      Yoda says,

      and he should know

      dying and everything

      and still doing the ewok boogie.....

      100%

      everything is,

      Yoda says,

      and he should know

      Master and everything

      of all that oneness,

      feeling the flow,

      future, past and present

      an already has,

      is and will be kind of thing…

      and he knew, too, the young one,

      the journeyman, the apprentice,

      that lost searcher

      and finder

      in the embers of dearth –

      a father, a symbol, a pictured

      ideal from nothing into

      nothing,

      the constant motion of the universe

      observed in perfect

      stillness,

      darkness

      suddenly

      bright

      and you find yourself

      making your way

      to the exit

      emptiness

      and everything

      one big

      w(hole).

      Not an urn or homer

      but still

      before my time,

      the red headed

      beehive hair

      high school

      hottie

      and the flat top

      smirking

      boy

      look happy

      in their photograph.

      We had just assumed

      it was normal,

      parents going gray,

      a bit worn,

      like the before and after

      portraits of presidents

      until after the move

      south,

      shorts and visors

      waving away our concerns

      each with an arm

      sticking out the door

      of a golf cart

      speeding away

      into the sunset –

      their favorite homemade

      christmas card

      greeting.

      Parenthood equals childhood squared

      means you get a second

      secret

      childhood in your children’s secret

      childhood

      and not “in” as in “through”

      like the lousy parents who have to

      share everything – the one kid

      always responsible

      for nixing the entire class over

      and over again –

      you know who you are….

      And not “in” as in “care”

      like the mediocre ones who always

      let on and slip

      down the royal road to riches, and scamming

      and shaming by the savvy little

      investors playing

      those fools like this little piggy

      going to the rigged market,

      wheeee!…

      Oh no! It’s the screaming

      “you don’t understand!”,

      door slamming victory cry

      of the truly righteous

      c squared p as in proud parents

      who never, ever get suspected

      of being the secretly cool ones,

      the ones who know

      you have to go on different rides

      the second time

      around

      your

      Disneyland.

      Paris

     

      and you had

      just finished

      posing,

      the franc discussion

      about to begin

      but halted

      by your silent stare, furrowed

      brow, huge pouty lips

      and those ears -

      your ears, bright, bright red,

      the charcoal sketch unveiled

      and you suddenly

      realized

      that you had

      become

      a caricature.

      You are 10, I am 45

      and oh, the solemnities I wish to bestow

      upon you -

      heaping, drowning you

      with what my father might have called

      chestnuts,

      tomes you should read,

      rebukes, remonstrations,

      all the weight of my discontent

      on your fragile bird frame -

      but I resist the vase,

      the glass frame enclosing

      and linger in the wild swaying

      of your wonder,

      smile sunflower

      bright

      and is there something

      in you knowing

      this dark silhouette always

      over your shoulder,

      this somber south of a compass

      always behind you

      singing

      keep your face to the sunshine

      singing and singing

      and you will not see the shadows

      singing and singing

      into life

      a little girl

      dancing, twirling

      under the tweezers of a pointing

      finger and thumb

      frilly flower skirt

      so much in motion

      as to seem

      perfectly

      still

      I remember

      her first picture,

      we called her jellybean,

      just a glimmer of light

      in shadow

      on a computer screen,

      and now,

      all day

      she sits

      in the dark,

      our jellybean, a

      Really

      Adept

      Diagnostician-

      Identifier

      Of

      Lingering

      Often

      Growing

      Insinuating

      Shadows,

      The rest is her story

      Holiday season

      Born of uncertainty

      in the darkness

      of the shortest and coldest

      day of the year,

    />   we seek family

      and stand with strangers

      needing the warmth and light of

      these little suns -

      all of our giving and receiving

      a grand gesture to the universe

      that we understand

      that all that has been given and all that has been

      taken away

      now stands in the balance

      and this small holy re creation

      is all we know and all we can know

      of spring and hope

      and pray that this

      not be one long, last

      unending

      winter.

      Something scientific (this way comes)

     

      I once thought science

      was the antithesis

      of poetry

      confusing the language

      of science

      with its process

      and intent –

      for I had once imagined the impossible

      myself two things at once in two places at once

      and this once lasting forever

      until being defined by love,

      much as the wave particle duality experiment

      proving Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle-

      but now I know that everything is so much more than

      appearances,

      that affects and effects of every other on other

      in a continual process of change

      are the music and rhythm of a universe

      that only some

      can hear

      but all can feel

      in the one wrong or right word in the one wrong or right place

      of a poem that

      changes the world

      much as

      dark matter comprises 83% of

      what’s the matter in a universe

      full of Newton’s laws, evolutionary theory

      and all those vibrating extra dimensional

      strings of possible universes

      expressing itself

      in so fragile a thing

      as the wings of a butterfly

      flapping in a poem

      all chaos and beauty

      and truth

      The page a day

      calendar quote

      which I’ve kept on my wall

      for years, keeps telling

      me there are three kinds of luck-

      one I’ve translated as breeding stock,

      genetic, who the hell are these people

      I’ve grown up with my whole life

      kind of thing,

      another,

      is the kind you make yourself

      through your “thoughts, words and deeds”,

      oh, thank god for that one,

      the third one, however, is “heaven luck”,

      the one that’s been stuck in my mind like an itchy

      scab for years, I mean who knows,

      I tear down that stupid yellow sheet

      and the whole wall collapses,

      or worse, I spill coffee, have to take an extra laundry trip

      and voila, end up prematurely mortuaryified –

      I keep thinking, stalks of wheat

      if they could,

      would they curse the scythe,

      and if our reaper were like a real guy

      would I, should we, curse him, thank him,

      pity him, is that “cool book” I never read,

      the Tibetan book of the dead,

      like some kind of etiquette guide

      and why is it that every time I pause in my work

      I look up and see that “heaven luck” again

      and what did I want myself to learn when I put

      that damn thing up –

      that if I didn’t have bad luck

      that I would really

      be dead

      or dying

      from having

      no luck

      at all …

      My most important memory

      and the words that seem like magic

      no longer whispering unexpectedly

      from behind my right ear-

      I so wanted to convey to you

      without greek myths or

      platitudes

      the hospital, my seeing you

      seeing me -

      our first long look of recognition

      and the only line of my poem

      the taut cord between us

      and someone always placing in my hands

      a smiling scissors

      Everyone says it’s the end of the world

      and it’s not the “we’re good guys so we’re outta here

      before things get really bad”

      christians,

      resistance is futile

      muslims,

      we’re special, really special, chosen people

      jews,

      or even the rinse and repeat

      hindus

      who’ve won the contest,

      (although Kali might be able to make a convincing case) –

      No, you can see it

      in the care

      reality star doomsday prepper

      grandma takes

      as she prepares her non-perishable feast

      for her self defense students

      from the Y,

      that it’s the try without trying,

      sitting under a tree, no fabricating,

      who would a thunk it, underdog,

      tortoise crossing

      the finish line first -

      hey, I see sick and dead people –

      winner of all winners -

      siddhartha

      and we’re all buddhists now

      living each moment 

      in a constant 

      meditation

      on the impermanence 

      of a flawed

      end of the world

      universe.

      I remember teaching you

     

      how to make

      pancakes from scratch,

      white flour on your blue shirt,

      pants, the counter, the stairs,

      go for it, I say

      and white dot

      the tip

      of your nose,

      scrambled eggs,

      a bit crunchy, of course,

      you had to try it

      one handed,

      just like

      your father.

      We pack as much as we can,

      you searching the house for

      whatever it is you feel

      you’re leaving behind.

      It’s only 2 hours, I say, and

      you’ll visit on weekends,

      and you have friends

      there too.

      I remember you

      walking away from the car -

      I guess you forgot the hug,

      how we used to cook breakfast together,

      you were probably just

      all excited

      about school and

      whatever else

      you expected

      to get mixed

      up in.

      A way with words

      Speaking with you I am often

      at a loss for it,

      the quick flint strike of

      cogitation never quite

      catching until after the fact

      has fled

      my spark burning down

      the trees

      holding the nests

      of your thoughts

      and oh, how I long for those just

      right conversations

      after you leave

      and I am sitting alone

      in the dark

      remembering

      the almost eskimo kiss

      of foreheads,

      the buhdda-like

      eye slit smiling

      hands clutching navels

      as if our laughter

      might spill out too much

      of whatever it is in there

      that we came from.

      Science fiction a
    nd fantasy

      discuss relevant

      social issues and mores

      from safe distances

      choose wisely alien geek

      blue boobs or technology

      Haiku, we bless you,

      Tanka, you're welcome couplets

      make it fit just right.

      The hero with a thousand faces

       

      All of humanity, he said, shares powerful mythologies

      which express themselves throughout history

      in our endlessly repeating stories – gilgamesh and enkidu,

      the iroquois creation myth, 21st century

      sci fi and fantasy …

      Otzi, the iceman, and I couldn’t agree more

      as we sit on the couch, feet up

      watching endless reruns of Buffy the vampire slayer,

      chuckles becoming guffaws

      as we get progressively more and more drunken,

      the awkward silence as we look away from each other

      when the mechanical man appears on screen

      explaining to the little boy,

      eye gears glistening,

      that all he ever really wanted

      was to go beyond

      his programming,

      that somehow, someday 

      he thought

      he would have learned

      what it meant

      to become

      a real father

      Korean BBQ

       

      Homemade kimchee … Hot!!!

      squid, leggy octopus, piles of seasoned

      and unseasoned meats

      ready to be grilled on the burner in front of you,

      soju, crown royal,

      never pour for yourself,

      always offer to pour for someone else,

      you must do it correctly, left hand under your right sleeve,

      and never show the bottom of your glass

      to an elder or your superior,

      it is very, very rude,

      Karaoke! – everyone must sing, of course,

      pick your song,

      kumbae – means bottom ups toast,

      oh, you just got a new drink,

      that’s too bad,

      drink up,

      Korean businessmen use drinking as a tool

      to determine if a potential business partner

      is trustworthy,

      you should still be the same person sober

      as when you are really, really drunk,

      hmmm, it’s bad form to leave so early,

      you would not want to do that,

      so tell me about your small town

      in the midwest,

      and how do you like it here

      in the big city?

      On talk like a pirate day

      Said Bill, my dear friends what I fear,

      The boss will catch on and then hear

      It’s not a stutter

      It’s “wench” I mutter

      The rest of the days of the year

      I spent the morning with myself

      no blurring music or babel

      to distract

      and it was not easy

      until I found a rhythm

      and comfort in the washing

      of my feet,

      the casual enlightenment

      of inspection -

      new hairs sprouting

      yet again

      in unexpected places,

      the past and future

      with me, as always,

     
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