A Non-Poem About Poems

    When I told a dear friend I was heading out to NYC for a couple days with my daughter, she said, "be sure to write a poem about it!" Well, I can write for days and days, but a poem it will not be. This writer knows how to rhyme, knows how to join long strings of words but poetry is so far beyond me that the thought makes me go pale.
    My two-and-a-half-year-old grandson knows some poems that I have recited to him since shortly after his birth. Three poems by Robert Louis Stevenson I have committed to memory have become "Po" to him - what he called them when he was just starting to speak. They are the whisperings of a Grammy to her little man when the bedtime books have been read and he's still not drowsy enough for sleep. They are the stories that he has memorized and can correct me when I misplace a word. They feel antiquated in the contemporary time of touch screens and drones and social media, but he loves hearing about the anachronistic worlds of backgarden swings, grazing cows and a little boy's persistent shadow. He listens intently, considers the lilt of my words and finishes most sentences, further cementing the prowess of his memory.
    Grammy recites Po the way the warbler whistles his tune - deliberately, precisely, and with rising and falling tones. If anyone else were to read them, would they remember to add that pause, the half-gasp of surprise, the slight whisper at the resolute end? Little man will someday commit things to memory. I know this because I was 8 years old when I first read "The Swing" by RLS and decided to memorize it. What made me do it, I cannot recall, but I have never regretted the time I spent to learn it by heart. It isn't a marketable skill, it won't win me any friends or even social accolades, and it is probably only impressive to a little guy who thinks the only good stories live inside of books. But to have a tiny and tidy story that is exactly the same every time is a valuable thing. You never know when a kid will need a small story to while away the time, or to get the eyelids drooping and there's not a book in sight.
    Poems written for children are a lost art in the literary world. They are reminiscent of 19th century England, or colonial Ceylon. Perhaps poets these days don't think children worthy of rhyming verse and stanzas. I can tell you that rhyming prose is a natural for kids who are starting to read. It naturally aids the memory to have a mnemonic twin at the end of every sentence. It is true that poetry need not always rhyme, but sometimes, the rhymes the thing. Where there's a rhyme there's a reason. And a rhyme in time saves nine.
    When my little man cuddles into my lap, for those precious minutes when I can smell the freshly-washed scent of his hair, feel his soft hands reaching out to hold mine, then I feel him relax as I step into the first stanza of "A Friendly Cow" while he hugs his stuffed animal friend Cow. The busyness of the day, the challenges and accomplishments become distant memories as we both breathe deeply and allow our eyes to close just a little.

The Great Unraveling

    There's an old adage: "Never write a blog post when you're reeling from bad news." Actually, that's not an old adage at all. I just made it up. But nonetheless, it probably isn't a good idea. It probably also isn't a smart idea to hang laundry out to dry that is threadbare or torn. It will either be an eyesore or at the very least inspire disdain or disappointment. So, here goes.

    This afternoon has brought many worries and notions that would qualify as bad news. The environment is a shambles; our problems with global climate change have only begun. An organization I have belonged to for more than a decade is losing membership and facing a rapid decline. So many things have happened on the political stage that I regularly have responses that range from laughter to fright to rage. A project on which I have worked for nearly two years, and still continue to work on, might be reaching a dreaded and fatal end. (I have to be vague here, unfortunately.)

    What does one do when structures around them seem to crumble and smolder? If abridged history is to be believed, Nero strummed his lyre while Rome burned. The musicians on the Titanic played on even as the massive ship went underwater. Even Job, when God was smiting him did nothing at all.

    I wonder why my thoughts turn to inaction when all I ever want is to "do something!" 

    Tonight, I watched the film "The Two Popes" which did nothing to quench the simmering fire of discontent that I was feeling. Even Pope Francis, the anti-pope who eschewed the carnival of finery, and embraced the prisoner and the poor, had his moments of doubt and pain. I thought this film would finally expose the myth of the red Prada shoes, but instead it delved into a dark time in Argentina's past. (Didn't see that coming.) The story wound to a time when Father Francis, then a simple Jesuit priest, faced his own demons and had to walk with them. He had failed people by the very act of trying to help them. Did he drop his arms in defeat when he should have raised them in defiance?
    Is there ever a time when inaction is the best action? Perhaps time is the surest cure in those situations when problems threaten to drown us. Perhaps calm is the only way to stay above the rising tide. Perhaps it is then that we float.