Poor Person Baton

There’s a sad little woman
with a cardboard sign
standing by the off-ramp
pretty much rain or shine.
The sign says “god bless you”
but I never look too close.
She wears those long dresses
that say I’m a child of god,
you an forget about my legs.
When I miss the light
and have to stop
I hold up a bill and she trots over
“God bless you, god bless you”…
Whoosh I’m gone.
When the light is green
I go sailing by, next time say my eyes.
Or we try a daring hand-off move
like passing the poor person baton.

Dead Air

Dead Air
The circus sounded louder, before it came to town.
The trumpeting pachyderm I was to ride, deafening.
But listening from the wings of the not-so-Bigtop,
The small town crowd made anxious sounds,
Then delighted gasps, to see me astride the tiny beast,
My red high tops dragging lightly through the sawdust.

Judging the beauty of little girls needs quiet.
Not the angry feed of mothers, charging backstage
To rescue little also-rans through the band room door.
Experienced masters of such ceremonies pretend
We do not hear their shame.

But the loudest sound is the tick, tick, tick
Of the song that ended while I was gone.
This room, this Studio, must never be silent.
Can they hear my panic as I bring the air
Back from the dead?

The left hand

I am a fan of the poetry of Billy Collins. The following stanza is from a poem titled Piano Lessons

I am learning to play
“It Might As Well Be Spring”
but my left hand would rather be jingling
the change in the darkness of my pocket
or taking a nap on an armrest.
I have to drag him in to the music
like a difficult and neglected child.
This is the revenge of the one who never gets
to hold the pen or wave good-bye,
and now, who never gets to play the melody.

Predicting the next 5,000 days of the web

Kevin Kelly, speaking at one of the TED conferences, takes a stab at predicting the next ten years of the web. The video runs about 20 minutes. Begins with the first lesson of the web:

Have to get better in believing the impossible.

And his summary has a nice mystical feel, for those that lean that way:

There is only One machine.
The web is its OS.
All screens look into the One.
No bits will live outside the web.
To share is to gain.
Let the One read it.
The One is us.

A single chair in a room full of corrugated memories

I’ve always believed poetry is where you find it. On a billboard. A T-shirt. Or a blog. And the best blogs are personal and honest. From Dave’s Window:

“Everything is packed, the house is quiet. Stacks of boxes clutter the once-beautiful Morris manse, and the only thing connected to the outside world is my trusty laptop. The dog’s at my feet and I’m having coffee. It’s a sad day, the ‘last stand’ at the house my wife and I shared.”