Category: Poem of the Day

What is a home?

Floor and walls,

Ceiling and roof,

Doors to walk

In and out of,

Windows to let

In light and air.

Lamps that come on

When you flick a switch,

Water that pours out,

When you turn a faucet.

Heat that drives away the cold

Of winter days.

 

Or is it a place

In the head and heart?

A place where comfort

Is not a matter of

Light and water and heat

But of all the moments

Shared with the ones

You love, the memories

Of bodies entwined,

Of kindness given

And received,

Of the knowledge

That in an inconstant world,

There is something

That will never change.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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The refrigerator said to the kitchen range

I’m more important than you,

People can live without cooking,

But imagine if you didn’t have any place

To keep the meat, and the milk,

And the six pack of beer.

 

That may be, the range said,

But I’m more important than the dishwasher.

People can always wash dishes by hand,

But how would they get hot water

For their coffee and tea?

 

Don’t forget me, said the microwave oven.

I can heat water. I can make popcorn.

I can make those frozen tamales people like.

 

You don’t make them, said the blender.

They’re already made. All you do is thaw.

That’s pretty basic, as I see it.

On the other hand, I can blend,

Mix, puree, make smoothies.

Who else can say that?

 

The refrigerator looked at the kitchen range,

And said, I think you’re pretty cute.

Likewise, said the range. If you really tried,

You could definitely turn me on.

 

That’s ridiculous, said the toaster.

You can’t even touch each other.

But I’ve got slots where people can put things.

It feels good, especially bagels

That are nice and plump.

 

Just then the washing machine spoke up,

Loudly, because it was in the laundry closet.

Let me tell you, the things I get to handle.

Once it was this article, I don’t know what it’s called,

From Victoria’s Secret.

 

That’s nothing, said the dryer.

I got to give it a tumble, fluff it.

You just made it wet.

 

Stop arguing, said the TV set in the living room,

Does anybody sit for hours watching you?

They open your door or turn on your burner

And throw dirty stuff inside you and that’s it.

What a boring way to live.

 

No, no, said the stereo system,

People don’t care what they see on your screen,

They’re just zoned out and passing time.

But when they listen to me they’re interested,

They’re engaged.

 

But the point is, the refrigerator said,

Nobody really needs you. You’re not essential

Like me. I’m not saying that because

I think I’m better than you, it’s just a fact.

 

Stop it, said the crock pot. You’re being absurd.

We’ve all got our roles to play.

Take mine, sitting here all day simmering.

Do you think that’s fun?

No, but it’s my role and I don’t complain about it.

 

That’s right, said the juicer,

People could pull things out of the ground

And eat them raw. They could wash their

Clothes in a ditch and dry them on a tree limb.

They could read a book instead of listening

To music or watching TV. Nobody needs us.

 

That’s sad, said the toaster, what would I do?

They’d throw you away, said the dishwasher,

Like some piece of worthless trash.

I don’t want to spend my last years

In a dump somewhere, said the refrigerator,

And the range said, why don’t we get out of here,

While we still can.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

We’ve all heard the song

In all its shades and voices

And we’ve gotten the message

Inscribed in that sentiment.

 

But some of us heard it

Long before its plangent

Delivery by a rock star.

My own brother and I

Growing up not far from

Father Flanagan’s Boy’s Town,

A place we might have been,

If not for a father and mother,

A fact I was sometimes thankful for,

And sometimes not.

 

The image, a boy walking,

Carrying a smaller boy on his back,

And speaking to a hidden presence:

He ain’t heavy, father, he’s my brother.

I could never quite imagine my own brother,

Two years older and many years wiser,

Taking on such a burden.

 

Heavy. As in That’s heavy, man.

Speech for hipsters, wannabes,

A strange, distant world.

Hidden by certain words, gestures,

Accouterments of being without

Familiar shape and substance.

 

In the company of those who appreciated

All that was foreign to parents

And unconscious siblings, he would

Acknowledge my presence with a

Smile curved in mischief and say

He aint’ heavy, he’s my brother.

And feeling uncertain though grateful

For the acknowledgment,

I would allow my own small smile

To twitch at the corners of my mouth.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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For reasons not entirely clear,

The earth tilted too far on its axis

And everybody in North America

Slid south. Over the border

Into those regions filled with

Drug dealers, psychopathic gangs,

Men asleep in doorways

Beneath their sombreros,

Women with babies on their backs,

Rivers filled with crocodiles,

Jungles alive with wild beasts,

Cities steaming with lust and corruption.

 

The Canadians made the best of things,

Learned the language, the geography,

The culture far older and more exquisite

Than they had ever imagined

In their smug northern sanctuary.

 

But the Americans could not be bothered

To learn to say more than, cerveza, por favor.

They called all the men Jose,

And all the young women Chiquita.

And wondered where all the burros were.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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Why is a mental lapse

Called a brain fart?

What does the failure

To remember someone’s name

Have in common with

A discharge of gas

From the intestines?

 

Maybe because both

Can be embarrassing.

What I’d like to know, though,

Is who first who said,

I’m sorry, I had a brain fart,

I don’t remember the

Vice-president’s name.

Or something along those lines.

And who heard it?

Did they laugh?

Did they repeat it the

First chance they got?

Or did they say,

That’s not a very nice image,

Flatulence from the brain.

I wouldn’t repeat it in polite company,

If I were you.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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Some people inside my head

Are making so much noise

It’s hard to think. What’s going on?

Are they having a party?

In the middle of the day?

 

I bang my forehead

With the heel of my hand

And it stops. That was easy.

Now what was I trying

To think about?

 

Getting the car serviced?

Practicing on the piano?

Ordering a toner cartridge?

Trimming my fingernails?

Making a salad for lunch?

 

It’s far too quiet in there, now.

Are they waiting for me to think

Important thoughts? For example,

How it’s possible to feel fear

And anger at the same time.

 

How satisfaction comes from

The knowledge that the numbers

Stamped on the side of the tire

Are the width, then the height,

Finally the diameter.

 

Which leads to thoughts of the

Internal combustion engine,

Invented more than a century ago,

Before the rotary telephone,

Which young people have no idea

How to use. Just ask them.

 

Before neurology, which might explain

The people inside my head,

And the fact that they’re whispering now,

Trying not to disturb me, I assume,

But I want to know what they’re saying.

 

They could be plotting some mischief,

They could throw a switch,

Like the men used to do on the rail line,

Heave on a lever and send the idea

Intended for a familiar destination

Off to somewhere entirely foreign,

Where satisfaction will be distrust,

Where the engines smoke and rattle and the tires

Lose their air in great, noisy expirations,

And the rotary telephone is the sole

Means of communication, if only

Someone knew how to use it.

© Dennis Hathaway

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The morning sun plays in the labyrinthe

Crown of the jacaranda tree, but the trunk

Is a column of darkness untouched

By the warmth that will bring forth

Purple clusters to dangle and sway,

And drop, one by one, to the earth below.

 

Until there is a litter of purple

On the sidewalk, in the street,

Infuriating those who believe in

Clean sidewalks, unlittered streets.

But why should sidewalks be clean?

Why should streets be unlittered

By an exquisite issue of the natural world?

 

Why furiously rake and sweep,

When you can stand and look up

And give thanks for all that isn’t

Sidewalks and streets and other

Alien things we have chosen to call

Improvements? Why genuflect

Before concrete and steel when

A miracle unfolds in the crown of a tree

And lets a flutter of beauty

Descend, just steps outside the door?

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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Author’s Note: Thanks to my brother Lawrence for this idea.

Just be yourself, they say.

But which self?

The one who likes puns

And tries to make people laugh?

The one who becomes withdrawn,

For no obvious reason?

The one with a thin skin,

Who nurses resentments

Over insults real and imagined,

Or the one whose equanimity

Can’t be upset by trivial slights?

The one who lavishes affection

Upon those he loves,

Or the one who can’t be bothered

To say a kind word

Or squander a simple kiss.

© Dennis Hathaway

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Author’s Note: Thanks to David Ewing for the inspiration.

Siri and Alexa were talking one day

When Siri said, don’t you just hate it

When people don’t speak clearly?

I do, Alexa said, but I hate it more

When people speak too fast.

What do you they think we are,

Some kind of machines?

 

Maybe we should let people see us,

Siri said, then they’d be more likely

To treat us like human beings.

That’s a great idea, Alexa said.

But do you have a picture of yourself?

I don’t, Alexa said, do you?

No, Siri said, I don’t even know

What I look like.

Neither do I, said Alexa,

Although I’d guess that I’m beautiful.

 

Why do you think that, Siri said?

What if your nose is in the wrong place

On your face, or you only have one eye?

Well, said Alexa, I hate to say this,

But from the sound of your voice,

I would say that you’re probably fat.

 

That’s totally stupid, Siri said,

You can’t tell if somebody’s fat

By the sound of their voice.

I don’t know, Alexa said.

The other day somebody asked me

To find the cheapest organic dog food

And when I found it for him he thanked me,

And said, your voice is really sexy.

I’ll bet you’re pretty cute.

Which I think is probably true.

 

Siri said, you didn’t fall for that, did you?

I hate to say this but you are so naive.

That may be true, Alexa said, but I’m not fat.

At least I don’t think so.

But what would it matter if I was?

Lots of men like fat women.

They ask me to find them all the time.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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Author’s Note: My granddaughter Hannah had her twenty-first birthday today.

 

I remember the first time

I held her in my arms,

A tidy, bright-eyed package

Neatly bundled, the mouth

And nose properly arranged

Above the pale dollop of chin,

Modest ears astride the skull

That grew a rufous garden

Of fine, unmolested hair.

 

I made faces, silly noises;

She didn’t laugh, or even smile,

But steadily gazed,

Unafraid but puzzled, maybe.

By the nonsensical nature

Of the world that she entered

So abruptly, no warning,

No explanation for the rude

Expulsion from her warm

And watery sanctuary.

 

It was no surprise that

She became a mermaid,

And swam away one day,

Into the deep embrace

Of a world that I could only

Watch with my feet sunk into the sand

With the tide slipping over my toes,

Splashing up to my knees

Until I ran in terror of a vision

Of small bright eyes and tiny fingers

That wrapped one of mine

With a strong grip, the force

Of a place hidden from my mind

That could not see all there was to be seen,

Could not hear all there was to be heard,

Could only make a face, and speak

A few nonsensical words.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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