From Lewis Carroll to Today

In my youth, I learned a segment of a poem written by Lewis Carroll.  It comes from his most famous work, “Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, published in 1872. That brief snippet of the poem has stayed with me these many decades.  But the poem, in its entirety, seems to offer an analogy to the politics we oysters have chosen for ourselves. 

 

The Walrus and The Carpenter

 

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Tomorrow - A Poem

I Can Almost See Tomorrow

In that time before the light

When the world is almost awake

The wind is gentle as if it too sleeps

The noises I hear are those made by man

For nature has not yet stirred from its rest

In those times, when all seems like peace

I can listen to my heart

And not my head

Wouldn’t be great if we could all see

Tomorrow

We would know what is important

We could choose what to forget

Strangers in their rush

Could pause and chat with us

If we only knew what was tomorrow

But tomorrow has not come yet

Its music unwritten

It is still for each of us

To add our lives to make it real

We each have a note to play

But in that time when the world is almost awake

When the wind is gentle

When I can listen to my heart

And not my head

I can almost see tomorrow

Another Poem -- Sitting, Looking East

Sitting, Looking East

The sky is confused

It doesn’t’ know what it should do

There it sits, gray and foreboding, and light and blue

As the sun continues to move westward

The lake, before me, ripples from the breeze

There are calm reflections along the quiet shore

While Palm branches dance in the wind

A small alligator glide’s to and fro

In the distance a rumble of thunder sounds

As two clouds collide in the confusion

It is as if they are bullies

Fighting to dominate the sky

I think about this sky of mine

Oh, the things it has seen

The gods, Mercury and Apollo, and more

Taking us to the heavens

But what have we learned in all these quests?

What have we gained?

We’ve lived millenniums – and more

But has humanity changed?

I am told Cain killed Able in a jealous rage

And Jacob was cast into a well by envious brothers

As I look around I see the same today

Why?

We see ourselves as virtuous

But are we?

Really?

I wonder, with little hope of an answer

The sky is confused

And so am I.

A Poem for Today

Ode to the Past

The light grows dim

As the evening sun gleams its last light

Storm clouds pass over

Extinguishing what little remained

I settle myself in an easy chair

To wait for the night

Life has taken its toll

As the path was rugged

It had been so narrow at times

I could barely step

So steep,

 I clung with curled fingers and toes

Oft though it had opened wide before me

As I moved with great speed

So much speed I missed the grandeur

And all the greatness it offered

There were times it seemed not a path

But a vast river flowing towards the sea

And I a single fish

Struggling to reach home

Always I seemed to be alone

But as I consider now my course

I realize it was never so

I was never alone

There beside me was my family

Friends led me along the way

Always forward

And God watched and waited

In this journey, I’ve seen great things

And petty things as well

We all struggle to understand ourselves

As we try to know the unknowable

Soon enough night will arrive

Its stars a reminder of lives well lived

The moon casts it reflected glow

On all the world cloaked in silence

To Fly

To Fly

A child sees the world as new

Every day is filled with wonder

Why is the sky blue?

What Monster creates the thunder?

All these questions, and so many more

Too soon they grow and the world becomes old

No longer is there magic in the air

Their world is smaller, they do as they are told

But why?  Is that fair?

Growing up leaves so many answers untold

For some, just a few we all know

The answers don’t answer the questions so bold

What is on that other side of a rainbow?

Can I touch the moon, so cold?

They look to the sky and wonder why

Why do birds fly?

Once Upon a Time in the NFL

There was a time, oh so long ago

When the NFL was racist, I wish it weren’t so

A time when only whites, or an Indian or two

Could carry the ball for just a little dough

Thorp and Achiu, or Matsu and Triangles -- okay

Nitschke, Butkus, Vanzo, and Hall

Were all allowed to touch the ball

But Washington, Motley, and Brown need not apply

Then begrudgingly society changed

The barriers came down and blacks changed the game

The dynamics, the action, the excitement increased

Until their Championship became Super.

But now it seems the times are changing again

With a league that no longer sees equity the same

It’s still about money and a fleeting short fame

But I see the racism grow in this brutish, tough, game

Waiting for Paint to Dry

The dawn invites a beautiful day

Cool, with a breeze from the south

Chilled by the night, over the gulf

It will be a pleasant Sunday

The saws hum, as boards are trimmed

As the sun begins to warm the patio

It is Palm Sunday, a day to remember

There is so much to remember, so much to forget

Finally, the cutting is through,

The wood, primed and ready

The paint glides on, brightening its host

It is as if it were any day, but it is not

It is Palm Sunday, a day we remember

A day we forget

We remember the Christ, riding triumphantly

As the throngs cry out Hosanna

But those same crowds just days later

Cried out for Barabbas

How fickle and petty we humans

How arrogant and assured

Are we in God’s image?

Or is God in ours?

It is Palm Sunday, a day I remember

A day I reflect

As I wait for paint to dry.

Questions

It starts as a low rumble

You can’t quite place its source

It’s like the sound of a distant train

As the big diesel engines pull up the grade

And their sounds reverberate through the canyon

Soon the low rumble rises up to a deafening roar

As the power and energy seem to grow beyond the possible

Then with all the fury it can muster

It surges past, almost pulling you from your feet

In a flash, it is gone and you are left to wonder

Anger is like that… It comes, it flashes, and then, hopefully, it is gone

But why?

Why must we give into anger?

What do we lose when it comes, what have we lost when it goes?

Can there be nothing to calm the anger?

Today we are a nation of angry people

We are inflamed at the injustice of about everything

Or we are outraged at those who are inflamed

We condemn, we belittle, we bemoan

For it always they who are wrong

When did we trade our sanity for the absurd?

Why did we stop our reasoning to choose hate?

Where did we thing we would go, to find peace?

Who are we that we are always right and they wrong?

What will change this state?

Fragility

Things are fragile in this world of ours

They bend or break as if afraid

I wonder why these things unbraid

Why do we build stuff like this today?

Why, oh why, do we shatter this way?

If, ~~ Rudyard Kipling

It has been a while but I think it worth repeating one of the best poems ever written by a father to his son.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I.

If you can keep your head when all about you


Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;

If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster


And treat those two impostors just the same.

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken


Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings


And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings,

And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew


To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you


Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"



If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute


With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!