Month: March 2019
Poem of the Day – March 21
You can lose your money,
You can lose your temper,
You can lose your mind,
You can lose your sense of direction
You can lose track
Of almost anything.
Once I lost my balance
On the edge of a mountain cliff
And fell thousands of feet.
Once I lost my appetite
For no apparent reason
And ate nothing but rice cakes,
Because they have no taste.
Once I lost a favorite pen,
And couldn’t write anything
But notes to myself
Which made no sense.
I’ll gladly lose myself in ecstasy,
Once I find its hiding place.
Someday I’ll lose weight,
But not until the bacon
In the refrigerator is gone,
And the chocolate chip cookies
Have disappeared.
Proust became famous
Searching for lost time.
But how do you lose time?
Does it hide somewhere,
Along with single socks
And books you always
Meant to read but didn’t,
Because you watched TV.
Is it in the dark recesses of the closet,
Or under the bed,
Or has it simply diffused
Like an odor, into the air?
You can have too little time,
Or too much time,
But you can’t lose time,
Because anything lost,
Can surely be found.
© Dennis Hathaway
[return to POTD index]
rDay Fourteen-Hundred-Fifty-Seven: Dogs of the Day
How Fake Reviews Are Manipulating You Online
Some of you are probably familiar with my rants around fake news and lies in politics and about social media manipulation. Our household has also been apprehensive and takes great care around online product and entertainment reviews. Today, the How-To-Geek takes on the latter.
rDay Fourteen-Hundred-Fifty-Six
Poem of the Day – March 20
My wife asked me to repeat what I had said,
A common occurrence she blames on muddled speech
Although I suspect that she doesn’t hear things clearly,
Some impediment in the sensory apparatus
Gone undetected by tests at the audiologist’s office.
If I have to ask again, she said, I’m going to kill you.
But how would she do it? I’ve watched enough TV
To know that it isn’t easy to commit a murder
Without leaving evidence of your culpability.
DNA on fibers, drops of sweat, fingerprints, blood.
There’s no gun in our house, and even if there was
I doubt that she’d use it. It wouldn’t be her style.
The knives are all dull, but she could
Smother me as I slept and say that my heart,
Which beats from time to time with imperfect rhythm
Had given up, although I think that the forensics people
Would discover the signs of foul play.
She could join me on a mountain hike
And give me a push me when I stood close to an edge,
But what if I survived, a hopeless invalid,
Or what if no opportunity presented itself?
She could poison me—the Russians know how!
But where would she get that fatal drop of whatever,
And how would she keep the fact of it from coming to light?
No, better to stay in the realm of fantasy,
To let the warning linger in air of our relations,
Which can be kept happily intact through the simple
Act of speaking in a strong, clear voice.
I’ll try, but if she wants to have the knives sharpened,
I’ll make sure to stay on my guard.
© Dennis Hathaway
[return to POTD index]
rDay Fourteen-Hundred-Fifty-Five
First day of the year that feels like winter might be over …
Poem of the Day – March 19
The famous rock and roller sang,
You can’t always get what you want,
But do you really know what you want
Before you know what you can have?
A friend said, if you keep pointing fingers
You’ll eventually point at yourself.
Is he a savant, a philosopher disguised
As an ordinary man, a man whose
Ordinary mind turns up a nugget
Of truth, or is he a fraud, exciting
The gullible with pronouncements
So silken they’re sure to have once
Been sow’s ears.
You can get what you want
If you want nothing, or only a little.
A practical policy, though unpatriotic.
Didn’t somebody say, I want it all.
Is that person to be admired? Or pitied?
We’re cajoled into buying things we
Never imagined wanting, things we
Don’t need, things that will make our
Lives more difficult, although we won’t know it.
There’s the rub. What we want is knowledge,
The knowing that pricelessness is a concept
Of ridicule in the circles that may come near,
But will never open to let us step inside
And see everything we’ve always imagined
We wanted, everything that will allow us
To eagerly peer at reflections of ourselves,
To smile and say, And this is all.
© Dennis Hathaway
[return to POTD index]
rDay Fourteen-Hundred-Fifty-Four
Temp hits 45 and the sun shines. Meet a Main Street corner habitué and his dog; discuss weather, motorcycle audio systems and his friend’s Harley. Walk home in the warm afternoon sun.
Poem of the Day – March 18
Empty spaces to be filled,
Shelf with books and art objects,
Drawer with socks and underwear,
Closet with shirts and pants,
Car trunk with shopping bags,
First aid kit, hiking gear.
But what of the hollow spaces
In the mind where facts echo,
Where opinions rattle like loose bearings,
And the light is so dim one has to grope
To find the way to the door.
© Dennis Hathaway
[return to POTD index]