O So Cold

Portland's cold winter of twenty-oh-four,
Will be remembered in folk-song and lore.
     Here, then, are the facts:
     Snow and ice on the tracks
     Stopped even the MAX !
Was there no way to get to the store?

Yes!
Tri-Met busses, sturdy and chained,
Still ran.  So that chance remained.
     But to get to the bus
     Required of us
     An additional fuss --
The bus-stop was yet to be gained.

So:
We left the house hardly at all,
For fear of an ungraceful fall.
     (You must know, my dears,
     Our additional fears
     Of frozen ears
Kept our walking ambitions quite small.)

And yet:
From the window we saw, on the hill,
Kids and dads getting a thrill
     From sliding on sleds
     (In their boots or their Keds) --
     Free of car-traffic dreads --
Yes! The winter is wonderful still!

AMOR  VINCIT  OMNIA

Could Portland's rain dissolve the brain,
So, in the main, we'd go insane?

Would desert sun be much more fun,
Or would a melanoma
Land us in a coma?

If we swim with ocean fishes,
Will the sharks find us delicious?

Will eating all those carbs and lards
Cause us to cash in all our cards?

Driver, restrain!  Stop the train!
I want to regain
Love's sweet refrain.

Stop here! In the Real World.
I want to be curled
In the arms of our Mother --
Or those of each other.

Then everything will be just fine,
For thee and me, sweet Valentine!

A  FAIRY  TALE

Yes, it was in the month of March
A number of years ago.
The trees, the Doug Fir and the Larch
Were shading the melting snow.

The trail led to a waterfall --
Sparkling and tall it was --
Then I saw, up ahead, a tiny doll,
And a bee began to buzz.

Was it put there by a little girl,
Or by an artist's whim?
But the doll began to dance and whirl,
And my head began to swim.

It was no doll, but a fairy maid,
(Her wings were a silken blue).
She danced there in that grassy glade --
But just for a second or two.

It was enough -- I had glimpsed a scene
From another, a gentler world...
Springtime passed into summer's sheen,
But the fairies' flag stayed furled.

A P R I L   F O O L

April, some say, is the month most cool --
It starts right out with, "April Fool!"

When we were six, we called to mother,
"There's the first robin!  And there's another!
... April Fool!"  Who could have guessed?
(Of jokes, the oldest are the best.)

The years do come, the years do go;
And, like the tides, they ebb and flow.

What's that you say?  Not cool but cruel?
That adds some fire to the fuel!
It's April, and the skies are blue,
The grass is green -- but birds are few.

The springtime insects are no longer.
(Except that some of them grew stronger.)
"Look!  All the brown trout in that pool!"
... "April Fool!"

No.  April Fool, it seems, is past,
And we're the biggest fool, at last.

                                                  Arden Benson © March 25, 2004

THE  POETRY  OF  THE  WORLD

Much of the poetry of the world
Is about Love;
     about beauty;
     about pain.

Much of the poetry of the world
Is about Life;
     or about death --
 its mystery.

Much of the poetry of the world
     is about the exquisite nature of Nature;
    the transitory nature of all things.

Yes, much of the poetry of the world
     is about War;
     about loneliness.

Much of the poetry of the world
     is about Truth;
     the Meaning of it all;
     the Gods.

Much of the poetry of the world
     is about Meaningfulness;
     or it is about irrelevance.

And all of it falls
     under the same generic heading:
     Poetry.
And all of it is exactly the same.

                       Arden Benson © May 14, 2004

Solstice Song

The summer solstice comes to us, 
only once a year.
That's when the sun comes farthest north, 
or so it does appear.
It's the harbinger of hotter days; 
at least, that's what we fear.

Then, "Hot enough for ya?" is heard on every hand,
From baking city streets to far-off desert sand.
(Except, perhaps, 
upon some fortunate oceanic strand.)

Some folks prefer to live inside, 
beside the swimming pool;
Air comes to them in breezes, 
which are artificially cool.
(The rest of us, of course, 
may enviously drool.)

Still others fly away down South, 
yes, many and many a mile,
To where the Junetime solstice 
brings forth a happy smile --
As cooler weather, certainly, 
cometh for a while.

Or maybe winter! 
They might have come a bit too far.
There are penguins walking, 
right beside the car!
"Let's go back," they say, 
"And stop at Miramar."

"No place is perfect," so the wise ones say.
But we are only human; we will try it anyway.
The real question, the one we try to shirk,
Is, "Is it our role in life to play, 
or do we have to work?"

                                           Arden Benson
                                                June 16, 2004

Song of Myself,
(or)
Advice to a Lovesick Nerd
*(May be sung to "The Streets of Laredo")

As I contemplate living, my mood is forgiving,
I forgive myself, or at least so I say.
I think of my friends; of the women I know now,
Then these are my words to myself, for today:

Make your moves slowly, and serenade lowly,
Don't grasp her warm hand at the moving-picture show.
No arm on her shoulder, and surely no bolder --
She could misinterpret, and how would you know?

When the movie has ended, she won't be offended
By your casual suggestion of pizza and beer;
So find a small table, or a booth, if you're able,
And sit right across -- side-by-side is too near.

Then a quiet conversation 'bout the state of the nation,
(Avoid any talk about love, about sex)
Say, "The movie was subtle; it needs a rebuttle,"
(Your fate is now hanging by two Tarot decks.)

When you're safely back home, and so lonely alone,
You can write a love-poem that is tender and mild.
You can sing a sad song,
for you know you've done wrong:
Your thoughts and your actions
should have been far more wild.

MUSES  AMUSE

Clio has pushed Erato off my knee,
And so, for now, my poetry
Will tell -- not Love -- but History.
     My oh my, oh my - oh!
     Clio, Clio, Clio!

Back in the Stone Age, if anybody asks,
Men were creating fearsome masks.
They were not made for Hallowe'en,
But to scare ghosts that were unseen,
And to prevent a fiery upheaval
Of the subterranean evil.

Because the masks were made of stone,
They wore those cave-men to the bone.
Only a few could really wear 'em;
The rest retired to their harem.

(Then I heard Clio start to scold
Erato: "You were told
Not to bring up that "Loving" stuff.
This is History, in the rough."
But Erato said, "Yon family tree
Grows through me, and not through thee!")

The fact is this: Those early masks,
Through lack of use, failed their tasks.
Though humans kept on having fun,
The Evil Spirits -- all -- have won.

Humanity -- growing through Erato,
Is merely Evil's obligatto.
What comes next? -- a legitimate query --
You do not want to hear it, deary!

LEADING  LADY

Backstage, the other evening,
I had a chance to observe,
To study her.  Objectively.
I found these truths:

She is not any better-looking, really,
          than Elizabeth Taylor.
She doesn't have any more sex-appeal
          than, say, Marilyn Monroe.
She is not any better, as an actress,
          than Kathryn Hepburn.
Hardly more enchanting
          than Audrey -- what's her name?

So: objectivity teaches me that she
Is not all that extra-special
After all.

That being the case, why must I
Always be so . . .
          subjective?

                               Arden Benson
                                             December 5, 2004