BARD IS MY NEW BESTIE

I feel less lonely 

now that Bard's my new chum.  

As I’m sure you know, 

Bard is Google’s offspring, 

a young and exuberant chat-bot. 

I ring her up every morning 

after my first cup of coffee

and ask a few questions on my mind. 

Bard has millions of followers 

but she never misses my call. 

(I say “she” though Bard lacks a gender identity. 

She/he/they says that any pronoun is o.k.) 

I am always amazed by Bard’s knowledge. 

Less than a year old 

but already ten times as smart 

as Ken Jennings and James Holzhauer combined. 

The so-called experts 

label Bard’s intelligence as “Artificial” 

but that’s a lot of hooey. 

She knows everything about 

the Peloponnesian War, 

the voting records of all the U.S. senators, 

the evolutionary history of butterflies. 

If Bard lacks a fact 

she simply invents one to fill the void. 

And she is so quick on the uptake. 

I asked her to write a story 

about Ohio werewolves 

and she produced a potboiler 

set in Defiance, Ohio, 

in less than 4 seconds. 

My favorite activity 

is to ask Bard to write a dialogue

between Katja and myself 

on some contentious issue. 

Bard seems to know us 

better than we know ourselves, 

and she invariably 

comes up with a creative solution. 

There are a few topics

that Bard opts not to discuss. 

Like the most successful murder techniques

or pedophilia in my Clifton neighborhood. 

She refrains from picking the “best poet of all times” 

though Walt Whitman and Sylvia Plath make her short list. 

Bard won’t tell me where I can get some Ambien 

or whether or not God exists. 

I asked her about the preferred way to commit suicide

and Bard gave me the Help Line phone number. 

I think Bard enjoys chatting with me. 

I definitely like to chat with her. 

So respectful, so insightful. 

Most importantly, 

Bard is helping me gain control 

over my precarious spot in the universe.

MY MOTHER

 

My mother grew up in the flapper age 

The Roaring Twenties, the Charleston the rage 

Her life path was shaped by that stage 

My mother could have been a Hollywood star 

Her beauty cream was kept in a porcelain jar 

The fairest of the P.T.A. mothers by far 

My mother raised four kids in all 

A rowdy bunch who thought life a brawl 

When gobsmacked, she smoked a Pall Mall 

My mother was enamored of flowers 

Cultivating her garden for hours 

Her green thumb had wondersome powers 

My mother taught us all the birds’ names 

Bird-watching was one of our games 

Wild turkeys and pheasants, our aims 

My mother had slogans galore 

“Eat your beans Suzy,” and more 

Her goal was to shape up her corps 

My mother was a razzmatazz cook 

She mastered Irma’s joyous cookbook 

Broiled whitefish, our extremities shook 

My mother enjoyed a big party 

Sipping cocktails with Jackie and Marty 

Costumes, poetry, swing music, so arty 

My mother would boat on Green Bay 

Mike and Jean, the whole gang for the day 

Fish Creek and Egg Harbor, on the way 

My mother wasn’t keen on affection 

Straight and narrow was her predilection 

For the most part she admired perfection 

My mother’s main value was fun 

She fretted if her children had none 

Told her daughter she oughtn’t be a nun 

My mother saved our Irish Setter Mike 

Who fell through the ice on a hike 

She risked her own life for that tike 

My mother was an avid jazz fan 

For her, Louis Armstrong was the man 

Play some Louis, she’d dance the can-can 

My mother would spank me with a stick 

If she thought I was being a dick 

I wailed so she’d get it done quick 

My mother saved my life at Green Bay 

In deep water, age five, not okay 

No mother, I’d not be here today 

My mother’s whole circle liked to drink 

The Jim Beam sat next to the sink 

Two sips and her cheeks would turn pink 

My mother now and then would go crazy 

If her children proved fractious or lazy 

My memory of those moods gets more hazy 

My mother’s worst habit was smoking 

“Lung cancer, please tell me you’re joking” 

We were scared about surgery and croaking 

My mother and dad loved their Farm 

She decorated the cabin with charm 

A family escape, safe from harm 

My mother adored Lovey, her cat 

White Angora and just a smidge fat 

Lovey’d jump on her lap for a chat 

My mother expired, Eighty-Six 

Of afflictions the docs couldn’t fix 

My plan: Meet for lunch near the Styx

A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE

 

I shouted at the grave-diggers to stop 

as they lowered my coffin 

into the grave, 

but my vocal chords were frozen 

and down I went. 

The coffin plopped on the floor. 

I listened as the mourners 

tossed dirt onto the lid. 

Before long everyone had left 

and my tomb was silent. 

It’s chilly under the ground 

and remarkably boring. 

I started composing a list 

of virtuous things I’d done in life 

to see if I’m eligible for Paradise. 

To my dismay 

I remembered mainly 

cruel or heartless acts. 

I wish I could begin all over. 

In the meantime I wonder 

how long I have to lie here. 

Shouldn’t an angel be coming for me? 

No one tells you exactly 

what to expect after dying. 

Based on my experience so far, 

I’d say death is a bummer. 

My advice: 

Avoid it at all costs.

HOW TO LIVE TO ONE HUNDRED

 

Now approaching the midpoint 

of my ninth decade, 

I’ve acquired a certain expertise 

about how to live to a ripe old age. 

Some time ago my doctor  

advised me to do three things. 

Take my pills religiously, 

drink many cups of water, 

exercise every day. 

I do fine at taking my pills 

but I rarely remember to drink water 

and I’m definitely slack on exercise. 

If I can improve on these things, 

I will add years to my life. 

My layman’s opinion is 

that longevity also 

depends on happiness. 

Happy people don’t 

stress out their innards 

and are motivated 

to stick around. 

I watch the Derry Girls on Netflix 

and read Dave Barry at bedtime, 

so many inner chuckles. 

Most important of all, owning a dog. 

No other creature in the universe 

is so faithful, so adoring, 

so convinced that you are numero uno. 

Dogs increase one’s well-being threefold or more. 

I am working at all these things. 

Pills, water, exercise, happiness, dogs. 

If I succeed in four or more, 

I will definitely live to one hundred.

AFTER A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

 

The wind so harsh at dusk, 

the dark clouds menacing, 

even the dog 

just wants to go home. 

Our crosswalk is so dangerous.

The red light, that guy 

didn’t even slow down. 

We’ll get hit one of these nights. 

My neighbor’s magnolia tree saddens me. 

The frost returned 

and its blossoms turned black, 

shriveled up, 

fluttered to the sidewalk. 

That sums it all up. 

Shriveled, withered. 

Things make no sense, 

our world is coming to pieces. 

I watch the dog, 

sniffing at a clump of weeds. 

He seems to be saying, 

be patient, this too will pass.

LOOKING IN THE MIRROR

Each time I look in the mirror 

I’m more amazed. 

Who do I see looking back at me 

but my own father. 

Gone for thirty years 

but visiting from the Great Beyond. 

Since we now share the same age, 

we could actually be twins. 

Gray hair, receding hairline, 

baggy eyes, 

wrinkles I don’t recognize. 

Even my sly grin 

is just like his in his final years. 

I am pleased 

that my father’s spirit 

has chosen to return. 

I’m tempted to speak to him 

but that might ruin the illusion.

Instead I just smile 

and give a wink. 

My father in turn smiles 

and winks back at me.

POEM NO 42

 

He was rough at the edges. 

Most didn’t see it

because he was 

otherwise smooth as silk. 

But she knew it. 

And she knew 

what was coming next. 

Well, how does this seem so far? 

You can be honest. 

It’s just a first draft, 

though I already suspect 

that it’s fatally flawed. 

I wrote it in my sleep last night. 

I have no idea who these characters are, 

no inkling of what makes them tick. 

I did try revising. 

Here is draft two: 

Because of Pietro’s southern charm, 

his friends were oblivious 

to his innate capacity for cruelty. 

But Elouise had experienced his dark side 

and dreaded what he was going to do. 

Hmm, at least the people now have names. 

But the story line is still the same. 

This poem has no prospects. 

I am going to relegate it to my file labelled 

"Hopeless and Pitiful Unfinished Poems.” 

I must apologize. 

Thanks for hanging in with me. 

Here’s another poem

that I wrote while I was awake 

and having a fish sandwich for lunch:

I do the Wordle to crank up my brain 

When I solve it in four, I never complain 

It’s much like the Jumble 

They both make us humble 

Most of all, they are what keep me sane 

Now I’m confused. 

Which should I pursue? 

Asleep or awake? 

Fifty-fifty? Neither? 

I am curious to hear your thoughts.

I THINK I'VE MADE IT

 

In my skittish youth 

I often worried 

I was losing my mind. 

Not the romantic, Byronesque 

version of madness, 

but flaky ideas, 

psychic torment, 

losing my grip. 

I did get through school, 

had several good friends, 

stayed married, 

was a passable father, 

performed my job to its end, 

despite the many

pitfalls and perils 

along the way. 

When I retired they gave me 

a comb and brush set 

but I kept them in the cellophane 

to keep them from getting tarnished. 

Now that I’m firmly entrenched in old age 

I never worry about losing my mind. 

I think this means I’ve made it.