By Tommy Clarkson on the Winter 2021/2022 Edition
Time
I wear upon my wrist
a watch bound by a band.
How utterly misleading
it’s the clock that binds the man.
Hold it
My camera takes a moment
and makes it hold its breath,
while we continue posing
’til all scenes have left.
It’s all perspective
How far is up?
Is there really down?
How long is far?
How big’s a town?
How huge is large?
How small, petite?
How wet is damp?
How clean is neat?
To some, “Just that,”
they quickly say,
while others quibble,
debate and bray.
But, I for one,
care not a whit
to argue such –
a smidgeon bit!
Babbling
For languages, one needs a flair.
English, for some, is quite tough.
But chatting around the whole world
would be the most heady of stuff!
Let’s climb the Babel Tower
complete with all of its rungs
and when atop this challenge
speak in a many tongues!
Of course, I must know Latin
along with ancient Greek.
They’re both important bases
for others I need to speak.
And yes, I must speak Yiddish,
Czech, Russian and some Thai
and, perhaps some smooth Italian,
to make the ladies sigh.
Cantonese and fine Mandarin
might, in China, be of help.
(And let me murmur Mermaid
while with them in the kelp!)
French of course and German,
Gaelic, would be a hoot!
And when up north and chilly
t’would be nice to speak Aleut.
A chat with a Tasmanian
might really be quite fun
or, maybe a bit of Zulu,
while sweating in the sun!
Now, how about Cambodian
Portuguese and Persian,
some Turkish and some Arabic
(I’ll try most any version).
Korean, yes, and Polish
and then some Japanese,
Malayan, Dutch and Saraiki
And lastly, Javanese.
This task is not an easy one
nor for the faint of heart.
So now I’d better shut up
and with this task do start!
Counting
One is a number, that is for sure.
Two is its double, simple and pure.
Three’s a bit odd, with one always out
Four is much better, of that I’ve no doubt.
Five’s more than a little, like cranky old three
With one couple, one couple – and then there is me!
Then what do we find, but numeral six
Three comfortable couples with no one to nix.
Next lucky old seven raises its head
To speak ill of it, tears would be shed.
Eight is just four – but all with fine mates
Great for a party; swell for fun dates.
Nine would be fine but it’s twice four point five
No number for which, many do strive.
Finally we’ve reached that solid old ten
And as to my counting, in Latin, say fin!
Little’s solely simple.
In fact, what’s hot?
What’s cold?
What is the age of being young.
And really, what is old?
So life is not just black and white.
It’s assorted shades of gray,
Which we discern these tints and hues
Every single day.
Stormy
I heard the pitter patter plunk of the numbing drumming rain.
With the same incessant sounding of its pounding on the pane.
I stared at drops that smeared and steered around a long stuck stain
And watched world distorted with my muddled puddled brain.
Journey
Like a leashed man,
bound to a strong-minded dog,
too often,
my life has been led by my heart.
It’s taken me to,
and through,
puddles, brambles
and the occasional piles
of human refuse.
How much of this path
has been of my choice?
How often
that of others?
Does one take credit
for the joys,
ignoring trips and falls
as mere caprice,
or happenstance,
of life?
Was this tripping trek,
actually
of my choice . . .
or that of others?
Reality
Raggedy wings had
the motley old crow
but two more they were
than man’d ever grow!
Happy who we are
Chicken cackle.
scratch and cluck.
Be yourself
not a duck.
Fate I
You stand so calm with big brown eyes.
They took your only coat.
The price you pay to be a sheep.
You should have been a goat.
Home is where the wall is
A door is a wall that isn’t there.
A window’s a hole in the wall in the air.
A floor is a ceiling of walls on the ground.
A corner’s a pile of walls in a mound.
FATE II
The plight of the humble pea,
is super sad, you see.
He and his peers.
in their pod group,
know that at best,
they’ll end up soup.
My Hero
He spit in the eye of convention
and scoffed at the world’s “absolutes.”
When “expected” he then took contention
With structure and thinking minute.
He’s not be a pawn of committee
nor yes man to some oligarch.
Life’s for seeing and doing and feeling.
Not settled or scheduled or stark.
—
Tommy Clarkson is a bit of a renaissance man. He’s lived and worked in locales as disparate as the 1.2 square mile island of Kwajalein to war-torn Iraq, from aboard he and Patty’s boat berthed out of Sea Bright, NJ to Thailand, Germany, Hawaii and Viet Nam; He’s taught classes and courses on creative writing and mass communications from the elementary grades to graduate level; He’s spoken to a wide array of meetings, conferences and assemblages on topics as varied as Buddhism, strategic marketing and tropical plants; In the latter category he and Patty’s recently book, “The Civilized Jungle” – written for the lay gardener – has been heralded as “the best tropical plant book in the last ten years”; And, according to Trip Advisor, their spectacular tropical creation – Ola Brisa Gardens – is the “Number One Tour destination in Manzanillo”.
