The old silphium plant,
Found in
ancient Cyrene,
Had some
qualities Google
Brought up
on my screen.
Seems its
seed pod was used
To increase
certain pleasures
And was
thereby considered
Among Nature’s
treasures.
Now this
seed pod was shaped
Like a
Valentine heart
And that may
be how
Valentine’s
Day got its start.
Or perhaps
that’s a tale
Or an
out-and-out lie,
Manufactured
and shown
By some
sneaky A.I.
But no
matter the origin,
Hope your
heart’s full,
Regardless
of if
You believe
in this bull.
Think of your life
Before Amazon came.
At gift-giving time,
You had no one to blame
If the present you purchased
For a certain date
Wasn’t mailed out in time
And arrived much too late.
It was all on your shoulders -
The shopping, the wrapping;
Too bad if the calendar
Caught you out napping.
Now you click on the site
And you order away
With your gift, in a day or two,
Well on its way.
Impersonal? Yes,
But it gets to the door
Without much of the hassle
You dealt with before.
An occasional gift
Sent in old-fashioned style
Makes me marvel that someone
Went that extra mile.
My husband, who wanted a change
On his
phone, thought that he would arrange
For a
different Van Gogh
Since, as
screen savers go,
Such a
choice isn’t really that strange.
So he
searched for some art to replace
What he had
and to fill up that space
And what
came into view
Was so
lovely, he knew
It was
something that he could embrace.
When he
showed it to me and our son,
Right away
certain doubts had begun,
For the
question was raised
After one
real quick gaze*
If the work
was one Van Gogh had done.
The Museum
(Van Gogh) did reply
To my
husband’s request, with a sigh.
What you’ve
sent us, alas,
No
inspection would pass
For it isn’t
Van Gogh, but A.I.
*by my son –
I was as clueless as my husband!
My brother and I, reminiscing,
Realized we’ve
an impossible task,
For as we’ve
gotten older, with facts that we lack,
There is
nobody left we can ask…
Like the age
that our grandparents lived to
Or the
circumstance when each one passed.
We each had
our thoughts but they didn’t line up,
From the mem’ries
we both have amassed.
There are
records and photos and treasures
Which attest
to important events,
But the
questions which no one can answer
Will forever
be kept in suspense.
It’s a little bit warmer,
Much better
than colder,
For time’s a
transformer
And thus, I
am older.
We’re subject
to weather
Beyond our
controlling
And, lone or
together,
There is no
cajoling
Since Nature
likes toying
With our
expectations
And, though
it’s annoying,
We make
adaptations.
The heaviest
jacket
Is not what
I’m wearing.
This cold,
we can hack it,
But I am
preparing
For temps to
start crashing
Once we
think we’re past it
As Nature,
eyes flashing,
Will once again
blast it.
In a Paul Simon song
Called “Old
Friends,” an exchange
Mentions how
being 70’s
“Terribly
strange.”
When he
wrote those lyrics,
Let me
underscore,
Simon’s age
was, believe it
Or not, 24.
Most folks
in their 20’s
Or decades
way past,
Have no clue
just how long
Their own
vigor may last
Since we,
each of us, age
At a
different pace.
Some may
carry their youth;
Others don’t
hold a trace.
Yet Paul got
one thing right,
For we must
rearrange
Thoughts of “old”
as we age
And it’s
terribly strange.
Watching the Olympics
Does provide
the perfect view
Of athletes
doing all the things
You couldn’t
ever do.
A triple
axel or a quad,
A backflip
or a grab
On skis or
skates or snowboards,
No one with
an ounce of flab.
Whether
skeleton or bobsleigh,
Curling,
hockey, Nordic, luge,
Every type
of competition
Highlights
skills not short of huge.
So it’s nice
to eat some popcorn
And relax,
in from the cold,
With the TV
turned to Italy
And races
for the gold.
To marvel at
competitors
And hear
their praises sung
For the
feats beyond your talents,
Even back
when you were young.
