Poetry Interlude

Reminder

Just because I gave birth to you doesn't mean I understand you.
I never wanted a boy, didn't know what to do with them.
But God saw fit to send me you anyway.
Perhaps it was good for both of us.
You weren't too fussy or rambunctious--
   a sensitive boy more interested in books than ball games.
You were reading things I didn't understand when you were ten--
   --science, science fiction, philosophy, and I don't know what else--
   but you always had trouble with people.
You needed to learn to care and to have a discerning heart.
I could give you that.
You might be some wizard writer working on great things
   and I'm proud of you.
But in the end, if you learn to listen and be wise and be kind to your sister
   I'll have done my job.

I won't forget, Mom.

Poetry Interlude

I write this stuff every now and then. Enjoy or ignore as you see fit.

The internet is little but image management—

black and white facts or opinions or jokes

posted in bright, moving colors.

Yet such things do not move me

Those moments come only with real presence:

actual flesh, real blood, sensuous touch.

Or sometimes those moments are solitary--

--a moment between me and my head

--or a shiver of wind in a landscape of the real

--or a tremor of recognition in a book

when I see myself in plain words on the page.

A hundred public “happy birthdays” suffice to a point

yet in the end, it is the private message

the unseen kindness that matters.

The technologists keep promising the magic

of the real, and people keep craving it

awaiting the virtual real

instead of seeing and loving the actual real

all around them.

Perhaps someday they will get there and

millions will share

sunsets…

quiet moments…

landscapes…

restaurants…

…with those they love without really being there

Those of us who already live in our heads

will have reality at yet another remove

from the experience in our heads

Maybe it will feel the same

Maybe we won’t know the difference

Maybe the new real will be no better or worse than

the old reality we were born to live.

Some claim we’ve been living this way all along:

always at one remove from reality

because we cannot experience it directly:

a Platonic shadow dance forever beyond our grasp

The world is too strange and hurtful and wondrous

to think that way.

At this moment, at this blurring border between

ever-receding reality

and ever-approaching dreams

I can only assume that this world is real

It deserves to be enjoyed and appreciated as it is

(or as we perceive it to be)

and lived as if it all matters.

/b

3/26/14

A Little Poetry for My Friday

Morning Music

The CD is as old as a friendship gone bad.

The case was cracked and lost

And the songs occasionally skip a beat

   like memories made deliberately sketchy through time and wear.

But I still play the tunes

   even though they show my age

   and reveal a sentiment I scarcely share anymore

Because once upon a time, when I heard them,

I was happy.

/b

10/18/13

The Opening of a Million Doors

A poetic diversion for your consideration. I needed to stretch my creative muscles a bit. Enjoy.

The Opening of a Million Doors

Bart D. Leahy

It seems we live a million lives, not one

Each time we make a choice the future shifts

Yet outcomes from our choices aren’t undone

Those futures spread like seedlings cast adrift

Let’s say I’d stayed at home instead of left.

Or never went to college or improved

In that life all my dreams would be bereft

Of challenge or of intellect that’s proved

Or maybe if I’d stopped and lived for love

I could have lived a life that’s poor but glad

Yet that’s a choice I felt impatient of

And chose to live for what my writing had

We make our futures different, you and me

With each small choice we change who we could be.

9/8/13

In Honor of National Poetry Month...

I don't write poetry often, but I had a moment, so here ya go. My apologies in advance for any hyperlinks added by Blogger. The original had none, and I'm not sure what to do to eliminate them.


Internet

Across the world
Across the wires,
We speak it all
And never tire
Of jokes and jabs
And jibes and jerks,
Of subtle knives
To do the work

We read each other’s
Thoughts to sleep
While others try
To stalk and creep.
To hide our thoughts
The only way
Is shut things down
And never play.

Yes, we’re social
True enough
But somehow empty
Too bad, that’s tough.
We want to know
What others think
But when we learn
We want to drink

Silly species,
The human race:
Machines advance
We don’t keep pace.

/b
4/14/13

Potpourri CXXIII

It's been a bit heckish this week, what with the water heater flood, car repairs, and bookcases needing replacement. However, on the plus side, the ever-fun Dr. OZMG sent a care package of chocolate and Cheez-Itz to start the weekend off on the right foot. (THANK YOU!!! <3) With my senses of equilibrium and humor restored, let's see what's lurking out there in Cyberland, shall we?

First up, from the folks at Science @ NASA, a video and brief explanation of a rocket destroying a "sun dog."

Here's a different perspective on why the space program isn't going anywhere anytime soon (Note: might require tinfoil hat to appreciate properly).

Speaking of OZMG, she also referred me to this NPR story re: science writing and communicating. Does she know me or what?

If you have the wild urge to read and buy one of the books reviewed on my site, I'd appreciate it. I got a "showing concern" email from Amazon.com noting that I haven't sold anything yet. Boo.

From Doc: a Palm Sunday poem by T. S. Eliot. Warning: serious brains/thinking required.

From the Washington Post, via my AIAA news feed, a story about the Airborne Laser successfully shooting down another target during a test run. We just might need this someday.

From The Onion: NASA scientists start planning approaching a girl.

And that's all he wrote. Have a good weekend, all!

Trojan

It is presented before your gates
silent and brooding
an unexpected gift from the gods:
A work of deep thought and scholarship,
of fine art and science,
truly an impressive thing to behold.
The outward appearance of a stallion
impressive in size
crowned with silver and fine ornament
But within lies your true danger,
a dark violence well concealed
and wearing the false colors of peace
Inside are smaller thoughts
meaner intentions
darker aspirations
mad chaos
shields and swords.
If your dreams speak truth to you
you will send this gift away
for fear of what it will unleash
For once you bring the stallion within your gates
it can only bring destruction
and all its true horrors will be revealed
In the places you feel safest
In the places you know best.