DEATH CAME ON TUESDAY

Reading Saturdays WSJ, there's an article on a new bio of Martin Gardner, a mathematician, logician and weekly columnist whose hobby was debunking fraudsters.
It also mentions this logical fallacy, which I have shamelessly stolen and dressed up for my Episcopal Church friends.

But I would ask you, is this really a poem? If so where's the dif btw poetry and sparse chopped up prose? (In defense, I might mention last Thursday I heard readings from Richard Blanco, last January's Inaugural poet. He read for an hour and 20 min, and there was not a rhyme or an iamb to be heard.)
Anyway;


DEATH CAME ON TUESDAY


While about his Crusade, the Immortal I, the Knight of Lore, met his Lord’s man upon the way

"Has my Lord called for me, servant of the doomed?"

"Sir, He has not. Tho He sent me. He bid me hear your Peace."

"Why speak I my Peace when my Lord has not called for me?"

"Of that, He bid me say He will upon call upon thee, on a day by the end of next week."

"Which day?"

"He will not say. Like a thief in the night, my Master’s word is he shall come upon a day, but a day of which you shall not know."

"Why so?"

"He has not told me, Sir. I believe he enjoys a mans folly."

"Is it folly to avoid one’s doom?"

"All men surely think not, Sir."

The Knight of Lore, the Immortal I, thought so;

"I believe, by reason, he cannot come on Saturday, for Saturday is the end of next week, and if he has not come by Friday then I will know he comes on Saturday, which defies his word."

"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"And further by reason, he cannot come on Friday, for as we know he will not come on Saturday, and if yet I live on Thursday I shall know he comes Friday, which again defies his word."

"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"And by greater reason, by logic, such holds true for every day of next week. It is proved he cannot come a Saturday, nor can he a Friday. On Wednesday I shall know he cannot  come a Thursday, by Tuesday so of Wednesday, by Monday of Tuesday, Sunday of Monday and by today not tomorrow."
 
"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"So it is proved, by reason, by thought, by logic, my Lord will not come. I have nothing to fear, and for no reason I shall not say my Peace.
And as for you, nuisance servant… I bid you leave me on my way."

"As most men do, Sir."

MOTHER NATURE'S KID

I've been re-writing this for more than a week and it's good enough. A bit Suessical, a bit pompous, but enough.
In a meditation on learning poetics (meter, rhyme, poetic forms) it occurs to me it seems like learning to tie sailors knots. Boy Scouts all learn to tie knots.
Yet, instead, like amateurs, who can manage OK with jute, hemp, or clothesline, accomplished poets can do the same with strands of thin gossamer spider web, or thick wound base harp strings.
They don't klunk, they sing easy.
A distinction I've yet to claim.

MOTHER NATURE'S KID
           (inspired by Micheal J Bugeja)

Climbing uphill to blueberry fields
My son takes two steps to catch up with my one
From lifes trials and horrors I have tried to shield him,
Yet what harm can a day picking blueberries weild?

"I have heard that some bears often come to this patch."
"Bears?" asked my son, tipping his head to scratch
His young mind dreaming awe, like he wanted to greet’em
I said,
"There’ve been tracks seen ‘round some of the bushes they’ve eaten."

"Not to worry," I added, "For while Nature seems close,
Yet she’ll stay far away, out of reach, not to fear,
I doubt there’s a chance there are real bears near."

"Real bears!"

We ascended the hill to a lush boundless field
When our path split to arms boasting Nature’s great yield
Where backdropped by views of blue mountains off south,
I can already taste Nature’s gifts in my mouth

"This bush looks picked over," so we walk on some more.
Then in jest with a start I quick stop and I point

"Look here, bear tracks!"
  Kid looks "?"
"Oh, no, just a dog. Thery’re a dogs, just my joke."

Then when we arrive at the rise of a knoll
I give my son all we had brought, just a bowl
For blueberries

And we reach out,
We reach out and pick berries, blue berries
Plump berrys, purple berries, blueberries
Toasted sweet by sunbeams sent by late summer’s sun

Some we eat, some yeah!
Some we put in the bowl, yeah yeah!
Some go straight in our mouths. "Mum h’eah!" he says
"Mum-yah!"

Soon my fingers are purple, and so are my son’s
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his hands
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his shirt,
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his face
Like a purple blue minstrel
"Yeah, blueberries!"
"Blueberries yeah!"

While gathering I began to explain things to him

"You know, it’s such a pleasure to pick fresh fruit, fresh food.
Sometimes we forget how important it is to find local fresh food
So much of what we eat is packaged, transported thousands of miles
Preserved, salted or frozen without nutrition or flavor

Sugar added, chemicals added, preserved with BHA
And pesticides, pesticides! Pesticides will make you sick
You’ll get cancer from pesticides!

"In third world countries," I continue, "So called third world countries,
Actually the two-thirds world countries if you really know what you’re talking about
People eat incects all the time. ‘Good source of pro-teanne!’
That’s what an old woman I used to rake leaves for to used to say
Sometimes, when I accidentally inhaled a gnat
"‘Good source of pro-teanne!’"

But he’d stopped picking berries and stared agog on his arm
Where a lady bug crawled, slowly crawled, without harm
Just above his elbow.

"Look, Daddy, buggy!"

She was small, a red dot, like a candy you see on paper in dime stores
Or a strawberry truffle too royal to be dipt in chocolate
Sweet red delicious black spots
Made full, bursting full, from the harvest of aphids on blueberry leaves
Just as we have become from the fruit

My eyes rose skyward, and I gathered in awe for the flavored rainbow of our land
The spinach and kale vistas of our majestic forests virgin
Candied by the early lemon yellow leaves of Fall
By mountain Autumn’s tart raspberry stripes
By spooned over clouds of white cream
Floating on a blueberry yogurt sky

O wondrous Mother, your suckling bare breasts are ever so close
Yet tauntingly, ever, just ever that far out of reach
That the unnatural store shelf is just always the closer

Mother, will you not feed us?
Mother, why Mother, Mother, must you taunt us like so many weaning babes?

Then my dream was disturbed by my giggling son,
So I turned back to hug him, at first finding him gone
Till I noticed him deep in blue bushes care
Where he held up his arm, his pink arm now was - bare

"Look Daddy, I ate the bug!"

"Alright. But don’t tell your Mother."