THE SUNNY SIDE Revised 9 September 2007

THE SUNNY SIDE

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OF luminaries that you see, I'm one
Of them: that bright star that they call the sun,
Which rises slowly to its height, at noon.
The other is the one they call the moon
(In Latin: Luna), gendered feminine
In myth, and, in the Pantheon, my twin:
A mystic goddess known for lunar tricks
She plays on lovers, poets, lunatics
And others subject to her fickle moods—
In cities or suburban neighborhoods,
Where housewives medicate their monthly blues
With tranquilizers or a shot of booze,
While husbands cruise a little slower down
Dark side streets, hoping they can paint the town,
While they enjoy forbidden mischief of
A carnal kind—though not what we call love.
The husband moralizes who's to blame
But, by degrees, he palliates his shame
And buys his wife three roses the next day
Instead. She had a headache anyway
That night. Meanwhile, the melancholic broods
Alone, in attic or in haunted woods—
Where night owls shriek, while forest demons play
Till dawn—when Reason once again holds sway
Over the acts of passion and the will
To make the moon's enchantments nearly nil.
Diana was her name in Roman lore—
Selene in the Grecian days of yore.
Among her many names, my virgin Sis
Was also known in Greece as Artemis—
The maiden goddess of the hunt, with bow
And arrows she deployed to fell a foe
That angered her—for she could not abide
A violation of her woman's pride;
And those who caught her naked at her bath
Or scorned her hunting skills incurred her wrath—
As when Adonis made a boast that he
Had better skills at hunting game than she,
Proud Artemis—according to Greek lore—
Had that vain hunter trampled by a boar.
Or when Actaeon saw her in the nude
One day, she punished him for being rude
And prurient. For, hiding, he could see
Her unembellished femininity,
So that her female charms—her thighs and bust—
And more!—were objects of a mortal's lust!
Now since her anger knew no mortal bounds,
She had Actaeon eaten by his hounds;
For changed by Artemis into a hart
His hounds pursued him—and tore him apart.
And so the mortal hunter learned too late
How quickly woman's pride can turn to hate:
As when a woman scorned in love today
Files suit in court to make her ex-love pay;
And if he has a house in Malibu,
With stocks and bonds—she'll claim them as her due.
That's only proper, in her reckoning—
Though all he ever wanted was a fling.
And yet, to give the tender sex their due,
Most women would prefer to love than sue;
And if they're given even half a chance
At love, a woman's bound to choose romance
If possible. For most would rather swoon
From ecstasy beneath a silver moon
Rather than wage an alimony fight
Under a courtroom's cold fluorescent light—
As lawyers for the wife attempt to show
Their client has the right to all the dough.
Yet it's a losing battle all the way—
If one intends to keep the wolf at bay:
For by the time the verdict has come in,
Both parties lose—and just the lawyers win.
For hunting is all right as a blood sport
Of goddesses, but not when played in court,
Where both combatants have just feet of clay—
While each side tries to make the other pay.
And thus Diana too has greater fame
Today for chaste romance than hunting game.
Even now, in modesty, she can be seen
With bashful blushes adding to her sheen,
When, basking in my cool reflected light,
She shyly beams and makes your evenings bright
And sometimes magical. And if, by chance,
You have a lover, you enjoy romance
Beneath Diana's mystic canopy—
A wiser liaison than one with me:
For Cynthia (Diana's Grecian name)
Is Goddess of a more enchanted game—
One played more slowly—with retarded haste
(Since Cynthia is known for being chaste;
And, hailed as Artemis or as Selene,
She's coy—whatever the romantic scene be);
For basking in the moon's reflected glow,
You slowly take the risks that lovers know
Are worth the prize that they are aiming for—
The fabled coupling of romantic lore—
As when Marina on a moonlit night
Conspired to obtain the royal plight
Of young Gregorio. Although we scoff
At stage plots such as Boris Godunov,
Because we think, "It's only Pushkin's play,"
Still lovers love the same romantic way
Regardless if in Russia or in France—
For lovers need some moonglow for romance.
But though you need a bright moon up above,
It serves as but a setting to your love:
Just like a drop cloth in a stage romance
That changes scenes for each new song and dance.
Perhaps the lovers sing in ecstasy
Beside a waterfall or raging sea
(The River Nile if it's a classic play—
Niagara Falls for love scenes of today):
And yet, no matter how the waters rage,
The couple stand upon a wooden stage—
Reciting lines in poetry or prose
On cue, while keeping their rehearsal pose;
So that regardless how the waves may pound
In paint, the lovers stand there safe and sound,
As do the lovers on a Grecian vase,
Whom art has fixed in an eternal gaze.
So let them sing their passion as they will—
The lovers seem to stand forever still;
As when the music of the mandolin
Is strummed, enchanting lovers at an inn
Who, captive in each other's haunted eyes,
Plan rendezvous before their passion dies.
But in the meantime they're content to stay
Transfixed, and hear the melodies that play
Around them as the music of romance—
And soundtrack of their captivated trance.
So, as the moon beams brightly in the sky,
All lovers vow the pleasures they deny
Themselves, while seeing in each other's eyes
The promise, merely, of their Paradise.
But I am more than background to a vow—
I am the promise and fulfillment now;
And not alone the prelude to a kiss,
But Love's possession—and its present bliss!
For in the time I'm climbing down to set,
You relish all of me that you can get—
As if a Roman candle blazing through
The skies in darkest night had dazzled you:
As on a summer night, when just a child,
The lakeside fireworks once made you wild
With childish merriment and wondrous glee—
And joy in such a sparkling revelry.
Yet fireworks will disappear from view
In seconds, while my rays can still renew
Themselves in all their strength and golden glow
To melt the ice and make the rivers flow
Again. And soon December's winter scene
Of white is covered by a vernal green;
While trees that stood once barren and quite bare
Now canopy with leaves a reading chair
On which you sit and read your favorite book
Of poems—to the music of a brook;
And as you listen to a robin's call,
The scene seems picturesquely pastoral
And quaint—as if depicted on a stage
Or in a painting of the Golden Age.
But anytime that you have seen the sun
Another Golden Age has just begun!
You're glad to see me up there in the sky,
And greet me, awestruck, when the clouds pass by:
As if, in mortal gloom, when you see me,
You catch a glimmer of eternity:
As when a prisoner in chains will nod
From weariness, but looking up, sees God
In an epiphany of cloudless sky—
Or hears Him in a distant seagull's cry.
And though you're hustling off to work, you pause,
Entranced, like children seeing Santa Claus.
And in the morning, waking with a chill,
You're pleased to see me rising up the hill
Above the little houses that you know:
I paint them with my luminescent glow.
Just like a Roman chariot, ablaze,
I ride the skies and brighten up your days:
As if a chandelier inside your room
At night were lit to chase away the gloom,
And after you have turned the light switch on—
The room's ablaze and all your gloom is gone.
So melancholy moods are turned to cheer
And darkling thoughts, illumined, are made clear.
For as I chase the darkness and the night,
I give you warmth just as I give you light:
As when a fire's lit beside your bed
In winter, and it warms your uncapped head,
While making such an effervescent glow
Around you you forget your former woe—
And all the day's frustrations are set right
In the bright flames of the flickering light.
So as I rise above you in the skies,
I warm your skin and brighten up your eyes.
Then shuffling quilted blankets off your bed,
You wriggle under satin sheets instead;
And stretching all the muscles of your frame,
You bask in all the glory of my fame—
As birds antiphonally peep outside
The news that winter's reign will not abide.
The heavy quilts now lying on the floor,
You're happy you don't need them anymore.
They look like monuments of bygone days
Of frigid mornings, far from summer's rays—
Like prison garments heaped up in a jail
The moment that the jailbird's freed on bail.
The prisoner's as happy as can be
To know that very soon he will be free.
Informed of his release, he does not stay
Behind to fold his prison garb away.
So blankets on the floor are not your care—
For you're too busy planning summer wear:
And lying there you dream of all the fun
You'll have just staying outside in the sun.
Then thinking of your wardrobe for that day,
You vow to store your winter clothes away
At once! And quickly getting out of bed
You rummage through your summer clothes instead
(No need for overcoats and cardigans
When short sleeve blouses give completer tans).
Now searching every drawer inside your house,
You find at last a scanty chiffon blouse
Beneath some wools. And taking the chiffon
From out the drawer, you quickly put it on
And stand before the mirror as you view
Yourself transformed in image—and made new!
You like the emerald green and see it fits
You better than the wool your grandma knits
All by herself inside your attic's damp
And musty bedroom, with a tungsten lamp
To light her as she guides each woolen thread
In place—until she doses off in bed;
And, as she slumbers, she imagines you
Attired in her knitted shirt of blue,
With argyle socks to match her color scheme—
But that, of course, is only in her dream.
For by the time she wakes you'll be already dressed
And gone before she gets your long johns pressed.
You hate to hurt her feelings but it's plain
You'll never wear her fusty clothes again—
For she's as old as winter's hoary frost,
Which now you bid farewell at any cost!
Then thinking of your outdoor tennis courts,
You dump your corduroys and put on shorts!
It's true, your doctor said to take it slow,
Yet summer's here and—out the door you go!
You just recovered from your winter cough,
Yet once outside you take your jacket off
And scamper through the streets in wayward haste—
Like life were short, with little time to waste
On planning your activities that day.
The sun is shining, so you must make hay
At once. It's true it's only morning, yet
The sun is rising fast and soon will set!
The tennis courts are full—but still you run
To anyplace where you can feel the sun!
You find a grassy spot where you can lie
To greet the sun beneath a clear blue sky.
Entranced by music of Rachmaninov
On your iPod, you cannot get enough
Of summer's cloudless dome and solar rays,
And start to dream of even warmer days
When you can strip down to your birthday suit:
Because a suntanned bum can look so cute
When you disrobe before your lover's eyes
At night and show you're with it—summerwise.
But in your eagerness to see me shine,
You may imbibe too much of me—like wine,
Which flatters all your virtues with one glass,
But having more will make you look an ass;
Which, for a beast of burden, might be fine,
But for a human, rather asinine
And not respectful of the etiquette
Of men—or even of a household pet.
As when a man emboldened by his wine
Invites his sexy neighbor out to dine;
But after dinner, having drunk some more,
He's not as able as he was before.
And fumbling in his pocket for his key,
He starts to quote the Persian poetry
He knows by heart—at least the only line
He can remember after all that wine:
"A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou,"
He slurs, and looks at her, and wonders how
He's able to unlock his own front door—
Much less to give her what she's pining for.
For having drunk too much of that sweet grape,
He can do nothing with her charms—but gape;
And as his distraught lover starts to weep,
He says he's sorry—and falls fast asleep.
His miffed date sees him wheezing in his bed
And wishes he were wide awake—or dead.
She wonders why he had another drink
And risked to put his manhood on the blink
Like that, when all he had to do was stop
At two or three—then switch to soda pop.
She thinks the Friday evening a waste,
Since she reserves just Sundays to be chaste,
And feels she could have done as well that night
Out flirting with a prim medieval knight
(The dainty kind who gayly stir their tea
And chat about a cookie's recipe).
And so proportion is the Golden Rule—
If you remember what you learned at school.
A thermostat that has been set too high
Can cure a cold but leave one feeling dry.
It's like a tenor reaching for high C,
But singing it he mars the melody—
Because he only tried to win applause
And sang a concert aria that was
Not written for an opera house at all—
But for recital in the concert hall.
So concert-goers wish that they were deaf,
Because the note as written was an F
Below the C—but even worse than that,
The singer missed the C and hit B-flat!
So you can have too much of a good thing,
And croak a song when you intend to sing—
As when you gargle medicines of choice
Rare herbs—you wake to find you've lost your voice!
For bromides are not all that they may seem—
And often nightmares follow a sweet dream:
As when in blissful slumber you embrace
A woman dressed in pearls and scented lace,
Only to find just after you have kissed
Her lips, she's changed into a snake—and hissed!
So though you're happy to be seeing me,
I'm not entirely what I seem to be.
Pretending to be sunny, nice, and warm,
I really plan, instead, to do you harm:
As when a grifter sells you merchandise
That's damaged, and it's worth but half the price
He sells it for. Too late you realize
The buyer should beware before he buys!
And so it is with those who worship me,
My glow is only half of what you see—
As when a Dr. Jekyll's human side
Becomes the diabolic Mr. Hyde.
So though I seem to have a sunny smile,
Don't be deceived—that's just my summer style:
As when you tumble for a fashion plate,
Your heedless love for her may turn to hate.
Her summer wardrobe makes her look so chic;
Her fashion swimsuit makes you take a peek—
And then another one—until you find,
Too late, that summer love has made you blind—
As when a motorist obstructs his sight
By driving straight into a glaring light
Along a bumpy road. The "road" is "love"
In the analogy I'm thinking of—
The woman is the obstacle to sight—
For when you see her you do not see right,
Since you see just a contoured bathing suit,
And not a woman—but forbidden fruit
To taste. And though you look at her, your eyes
Don't see a person—just her rounded thighs.
Now some may call it lust—not love at all.
But that is just semantics if you fall
For someone in one day—and all it took
To fall for her that quickly was one look.
But anyhow you see it is okay
For you—since you can't see straight anyway.
Your friends will tell you that you've lost your mind—
Or that you temporarily are blind.
Yet afterwards, though you regain your sight,
You still remain a victim of her spite:
For having paid for all her costly frills,
You're working three jobs just to pay your bills;
By then she's found herself another guy:
He loves her madly—and you wonder why!
The reason that she left, she doesn't say—
Instead she sends you one more bill to pay.
And though you're glad she's now another's pet,
There's little joy in paying off your debt;
Which, adding interest to it in arrears,
You might remit, in full, in thirteen years—
Assuming that you don't get burned again
Next summer in the same romantic vein.
And it's the same when you see me above:
You're thrilled to see me and you think it's love
And give up everything to be with me—
Though I am not what I appear to be.
And by the time our love affair is through,
You'll find I've been more false to you than true—
And quite a disappointment once you're wise
Enough to see right through my poor disguise.
For underneath my smile I'm hot and mean—
And burning holes into your sunshine screen.
Yet you don't ever think of it that way
When you enjoy your summer holiday.
But as you sip your lemonade and laze
Outdoors—you're subject to my harmful rays;
And if you're throwing frisbees on the beach,
Fair skinned or not—you're never out of reach;
Or water skiing on a placid lake,
I'm cooking you just like a piece of steak;
But not until the setting of the sun
Will you perceive the damage that I've done!
Regardless if the water's nice and cool,
My solar rays will harm you—as a rule.
Yet it may take a while for you to feel
The damage—when your skin begins to peel:
As when an ancient scroll within a grave
Will fast dry out when taken from the cave.
It's true I may be far up in the sky,
But in the summer months I'm not that high
That I can't see you frolic down below
While cheering me for melting winter's snow.
Then, making up for all those frigid days,
You worship me and all my solar rays—
As if I were a deity above
Whose sacred sunbeams radiated love;
And in atonement of drear winter's ice
You give your bodies as a sacrifice,
Which being born again in summer's thaw
Are resurrected now without a flaw!
Like flowers springing from the earth in May,
Your newborn bodies make a grand display:
The guys just love to show a sculpted chest—
But gals fill out a swimming suit the best!
For after months of giving up french fries,
They want to show the world their shapely thighs.
So it's a sport of who is watching who—
But you forget that I am watching too!
And whether on the beach or on the grass,
My gaze is like a magnifying glass!
You want to make it look like you've had fun
By staying out for so long in the sun,
So others see you next day, saying, "Man!
"You're looking great—and what a lovely tan!"
But as you bathe, supine or on your tummy,
Your skin is drying out—just like a mummy!
And it's a foolish way to show your pride
By showing that your skin is solar dried.
For even Egypt's mummies never mated
With spouses once their skins were desiccated!
It's true that now you're looking tan and fit—
A clone of Paris Hilton or Brad Pitt.
And if, by chance, your talent is as good
As is your tan, you're fit for Hollywood
Celebrity. For if you go that far
To tan your skin—you're sure to be a star!
(At least that's how you are inclined to think,
As you dream in the sun—and watch it sink.)
But soon the day will come when you will learn
That what became a tan was once a burn.
And yet, by that time it might be too late
For you to change your radiation fate:
For ultraviolet rays may be the cause
Your doctor finds your skin has thermal flaws.
See—every time you go out for a swim,
I give you dermabrasion on a whim;
And if you knew the damage to your skin,
You'd try to find the beauty that's within
(A faithfulness to family and friends
And hope for righteousness that never ends)—
Instead of staying outdoors in the sun,
Until you cook your skin to look well done.
It's better cooking hamburgers that way—
Or barbecue them on a holiday.
And teppanyaki steak, well done, is fine
When you go out at evening to dine.
But what's the point of cooking your own skin
To satisfy the narcissist within?
It's true you may be looking for a tan—
But causing cancer is my final plan.
So if you want to give your skin a boon,
It's better tanning underneath the moon.
Besides, regardless if you are a prude,
You need no caution bathing in the nude
Beneath Diana's harmless ebon skies—
Safe from the sun and lustful prying eyes.
Meanwhile forget that odd and silly notion
That all it takes is to apply some lotion
And you can stay out in the sun for long.
For one day you may learn that you were wrong—
The way a bird learns, once outside her cage,
The smiling cat was really full of rage;
So while escaping from the pussy's jaws,
Her feathers are all shredded by his claws.
And though she flies just like she did before,
She doesn't look the same way anymore—
Although in view of the alternative
Scenario, she's lucky she's alive:
Yet in her frazzled state she wonders how
She ever could have trusted that meow!
And so—returning to our argument—
You'll wonder where your youthful glamor went
At your next birthday gathering. You'll see—
Though thirty-eight—you'll look like eighty-three
Years old. And as you study how your face
Has aged, you'll recognize how commonplace
The caveats I'm speaking now will seem—
More so when you remove your facial cream:
As when an alcoholic, hooked on gin,
Looks old compared to his teetotal twin.
Although the twins are both of the same age,
The gin has left its marks, as on a page
That's written over in the blackest ink—
And every stroke the record of a drink:
Because of too much time in a saloon,
The brother's skin resembles a dried prune.
It's like a grape that, once the harvest's done,
Becomes a raisin dried out in the sun.
And so the whirligig of time exacts
Revenge, as Shakespeare said—and as the facts
All show: As when a child abused by all
His friends becomes a hateful criminal.
Or like a lover, after settling down—
His girlfriend's chronic smile becomes a frown;
And every joke that used to make her laugh,
Now rattles her—the way a polygraph
Exam will discompose a two-time thief:
He knows his guilt will give him no relief
From all the questions that are asked of him,
And that his chance of passing is quite slim.
But though he's soaked in sweat, he tries his best
To make it seem as if his mind's at rest
And that he's innocent—although it's clear
To the police he cannot hide his fear
From them. Then later on, he starts to wilt—
When polygraph results confirm his guilt.
Just so, the wife is out of humor now
And finds less pleasure in her marriage vow
Than when she swore it on her wedding day
In a disordered state of mind—and gay
From all the moonshine liquor that she drank
To celebrate. Perhaps her mind went blank.
Or else she thought her church vow was a joke
Designed for country girls or village folk
Who never dreamed that there was more to life
Than being just a mother or a wife.
Now, like the two-time thief, she cannot hide
Her glaring guilt as a reluctant bride.
But she is bound in wedlock to this man—
Until she finds an even better plan.
Meanwhile she's careful to remain composed
And keep her truer feelings undisclosed.
Aware of duty, she designs a scheme
To play the perfect wife and make it seem
She tries to please her husband every day—
Behaving always in a spousal way,
While making sure she has the upper hand—
Just like a witch without a witch's wand.
In such a manner spousal vows can change
Too quickly into something rich and strange.
Where once she could not stop from holding him,
As wife she cannot cease from scolding him
At every opportunity she gets—
Reserving her affection for her pets:
As if he were a naughty child in need
Of criticism for his every deed;
Or like a prisoner with ball and chain—
Whose every move makes clear escape's in vain:
No matter how he struggles to get loose,
His heavy chain reminds him it's no use:
And so the more he struggles to be free—
The more he suffers his captivity.
Thus though he wished for sweet domestic ease,
His spousal bond is lived like a disease;
But where for other ailments he is sure
Of remedy, his marriage has no cure,
Except the one he vowed with all his heart—
That only death would either of them part.
That's just the cure she thinks of in her bed
At night—since she prefers her husband dead.
Once innocent—she's now all fraud and guile;
Protesting love—she's plotting all the while!
Perhaps she has a lover on the side
And planning to become the rival's bride.
But that will have to wait another day.
For now, it's plain, her husband's in the way:
As when a wealthy uncle makes a will,
And relatives think every deathly chill
Will be his last—and they can hardly wait
To sing a Requiem to mourn his fate.
The wife is understandably forlorn—
Because her husband's not yet dead to mourn.
(The way his wife would like to show her grief:
By showing it—but hiding her relief:
As in a melodrama when a wife
Laments the spouse she butchered with a knife.)
And she would feel much better if she gave
Out invitations to attend his grave
(Though she would do her very best
To hide her joy—and beat her heaving breast
Instead, while making a convincing show
Of histrionic grief and widowed woe).
If he were frail, she'd pray for him to die,
But he's still young—in best of health, and spry:
So when a skater is too good to beat
Fairly—the lesser athlete learns to cheat;
And though she's not as good upon the ice,
Her friends will maim the other—for a price!
Perhaps the wife is pushing things a bit—
But she just wants to make the pieces fit,
As in a puzzle: with each piece in place,
The pieces somehow fit to make a face
Or show a landscape of a starry night.
If every piece is put together right,
The little pieces in the puzzle show
A portrait—or a landscape by Van Gogh.
But, piece by piece, a puzzle takes more time
Than she allows for her domestic crime.
Impatient now, and knowing he's her dupe,
She plans a special flavor for his soup
And finds a way to make her husband sick
With bowls of chicken broth and arsenic
Well stirred. Her spouse's spirits are too low
To realize that he is dying slow.
The husband meanwhile curses as he frets
About his future life and past regrets.
Infatuated by his first romance,
He gambled on his heart and took a chance.
He knew he had to win at any cost
And so risked everything he had—and lost!
The stakes were high, but when he saw her eyes
Of green, he felt the gamble worth the prize.
He thought his hand had held a royal flush,
Because she practiced how to sigh and blush
And flatter him to stoke his self-esteem—
The way a pussy purrs when lapping cream.
Like when he mentioned Marilyn Monroe,
She said he was her Joe DiMaggio—
But she was more: for unlike Marilyn
(She said) she was a virgin—without sin
(The way a grifter with a sale in view
Would swear a 50s Ford was almost new—
And an ideal investment for the cost;
Although you learn that you've been double crossed
And find it needed parts to be brand new,
With costly tires—and an engine too!).
Thus fooled by his wife's lies on their first date,
Too soon he chose to make the shrew his mate;
And on his knees he begged her be his spouse—
So she could be the mistress of his house:
And she became the mistress, it is true,
But of another man—or maybe two.
No doubt her perfect teeth, pearl white and straight,
Convinced him that she'd be the perfect mate
For him. Her rosy lips made him believe
He had a rosy future with his Eve
(As Adam felt when he first saw his rib
Before she gave in to the serpent's fib).
Her painted face inspired him to paint
A mental picture of her as a saint.
No less considered was her ideal weight,
Which made him think she'd make an ideal mate
For life. Then, too, it was her flawless skin
That helped him see a flawless wife within;
While looking at her two firm breasts, right then
He made a firm resolve to look again.
And thus, by due consideration of
The facts, his heart told him he was in love.
He saw her made-up face and powdered cheeks
And he made up his mind in just two weeks.
Perhaps because she had an upturned nose,
He turned to her and started to propose.
Most likely, it was her two shapely thighs
That made him overlook her bold-faced lies
Of chastity. For how was he to know
About her ten affairs with other beaux?
Assuring him of words she'd never say,
He thought she was another Doris Day—
Defending her virginity from men
Who never questioned "if" but only "when"
A woman would give out. For she would balk
At language lovers use in pillow talk—
Or in the intimacy subsequent
To being wooed and courted by a gent.
One time she swore to him convincingly,
The strongest word that she would say was, "gee";
As when she said to him once, "Gee, I hate
A man who wants to kiss on the first date."
Too late he learned that what she really meant
Were words like "love" and "work" and "true" and "rent":
Four-letter words that she would never say—
Since she preferred to make her lovers pay
(Though she was never too particular
About the men who filled her cookie jar;
Or if their clothes were made of silk or wool—
Provided that the cookie jar was full).
She never cared to "work," and often said
That "love" was something to be had in bed
By men who had the dough. It's likewise true
She never had the "rent" when rent was due;
And if the word meant anything at all
To her, she thought it meant the musical:
For she was fond of seeing Broadway shows
Attired in her most expensive clothes,
Including now and then a miniskirt—
Though she resented men who tried to flirt
With her, and always acted with surprise
At those who ogled at her shapely thighs.
For she was modesty personified.
Yet there were parts of her she couldn't hide,
She said, no matter how she dressed, although,
It's true, sometimes her neckline was too low.
It wasn't that the girl was vain or proud,
It's just that she was stacked—and well endowed.
At least that was the argument she used
To justify her claim she felt abused
By men who wanted her for just one thing—
Although she wanted more than just a fling
In bed: she wanted a relationship—
With heartfelt conversation and a trip
To some exotic island, or to France—
To spice the conversation with romance.
Yet in the meantime she was able to
Forget romancing when her rent was due,
And was quite willing to be coaxed to bed
As a romantic token—or for bread.
A knowing lover might have been perplexed
A modest girl could be so oversexed,
And adding up the figures, two plus two,
Would ask himself, "Now who's abusing who?"
But such a question never comes to mind
When love is ever faithful, true—and blind!
For when he gazed into her greenish eyes
These were plain facts he didn't realize
Until too late. By that time he had paid
For all the promises that she had made
To him in jest—in order to deceive
And trap him. Yet he wanted to believe
That all her gilded words were truly meant
As spoken—in a voice so innocent
That even Hamlet would not hesitate
To make this faux Ophelia his mate
For life; though Shakespeare would no doubt agree
With Puck's wise words: "What fools these mortals be!"
Thus soon the judge pronounced them man and wife—
And he became quite ill from spousal strife.
This paradigm of manly health and verve
Would kill himself—except he lacked the nerve
For anything except to sit and stare
And mumble riddles in his rocking chair,
Like, "Why do good men suffer?" In his robe
And slippers, he would mock God's ways—like Job.
But unlike Job, whose hope was just as faint,
God never cared to answer his complaint
And probably has other things to do
To maintain justice in the human zoo
Than intervene in every person's plight
And sunder who is wrong from who is right—
As in the parable of goats and sheep,
Where saints rejoice while all the wicked weep.
And so the husband lacks an advocate
At home to save him from his spousal fate
And other complications of the plot
Of man and wife tied in a marriage knot.
His friends all wonder what became of him
And his fat wife, who used to be so slim.
And yet no matter how she looks—he's worse:
Before he needed love, but now—a nurse.
The lover, once impetuous and bold,
Now looks a relic of himself—and old:
As when a new-built cottage that for lack
Of care begins to look more like a shack!
And this is what misguided love can do—
Like cleaning fingers in a jar of glue.
Now take a woman who gives all for love—
Her man is faithful till he starts to rove
A bit, and other women tease his eyes,
Now eager for a firmer bust—or thighs
That stretch out longer from the knee
Or are not flabby from maternity.
He wouldn't call his flirting by that name,
But once a woman signals back—he's game!
He sees her on the street or at the mall:
The bust is nice—but soon he wants it all!
He tells the woman so—without finesse,
And just as eagerly she answers—yes!
For though to be a sex toy isn't good,
That afternoon she's in a loving mood—
And every woman has a woman's right
To signal yes or no to a bold knight
Who flatters her. Or—if she's so inclined
That day—she has the right to her own mind
On how she should be treated. Then she'll scold
A wayward knight for daring to be bold
In taking liberties with her—and ball
Him out: "That is not what I meant at all."
(For those who think we poets steal a lot—
I took that quote from T. S. Eliot:
For Prufrock, after marmalade and tea,
Is doubtful if a lady will agree
With questions of a sexual intent,
Or say, instead, that—that's not what she meant.
He never asks, for he's meticulous
And shy—and fears to look ridiculous.
Regarding "Eliot" and "lot": my rhyme
Is perfectly okay—it's called "eye rhyme.")
Now, luckily, this fearless knight of arms
And thighs has all the necessary charms
To make the woman see it's really best
To flirt—and let the man do all the rest.
They go to a hotel to have a fling—
But not before he hides his wedding ring.
Meanwhile the wife remains at home and cooks
And darns the husband's socks and types his books—
So he can be promoted in two years
And shine before his family and peers.
To her a happy marriage always meant
To help her husband till retirement—
Until one day she picks up his cell phone
And finds out she is not the only one
Who sent love messages to her dear spouse—
But many more have sent them to the louse.
The wife is sore—but what is there to do?
She has a child at home—or maybe two;
And with the children came some extra weight
She didn't have before—on their first date.
The wife is willing to acknowledge that
She's gained some weight—but doesn't think she's fat.
It's true her derriere sticks out a bit,
But she loves creamy pies—and cannot quit!
She can't see why her husband starts to roam
For hamburger when he's got steak at home.
The husband meanwhile knows that she's caught on
When he discovers that his cell phone's gone.
He searches everywhere throughout the house
To locate it—but dare not ask his spouse
For fear it might arouse suspicion in her.
He doesn't say a word while having dinner—
Instead he waits for her to bring it up;
And as he passes her his coffee cup,
He wonders if she'll fill it to the brim
Or hurl the scalding coffee pot at him—
The way he's seen it done on TV shows
Or in the movies, when a woman throws
A bag of frozen pork chops at the head
Of a priapic stud she's caught in bed
With someone else. She calls the jane a whore
Then curses him while storming out the door.
But this is life—where folk don't have a clue
About the words to say or what to do.
So she keeps humming softly to herself,
Then takes the sugar bowl from off the shelf
And, humming still the same old tune,
Stirs sugar in his coffee with her spoon.
But she keeps stirring, like a restless wind—
As if his cell phone stirs inside her mind.
He knows she's found it and will use it soon
In court—but at a time that's opportune
To her. Meanwhile she's willing to pretend
Their spousal covenant will never end.
And yet their love is different than before—
For he's now sleeping on the basement floor.
And since their future doesn't look so bright,
The husband thinks up ways to end his plight
Before the situation is made known
To neighbors and to colleagues that his own
Beloved wife is now estranged from him—
So making hopes for a promotion slim.
Divorcing her would be the best way out—
But too expensive. So he starts to doubt
And wonders if his money's better spent
Insuring that she died by accident.
For accidents will happen—even more
When one spouse tries to even out the score.
Perhaps that's why, wherever one may roam,
Most accidents occur inside the home.
He wouldn't hurt a fly (though a cliche)
So plans to kill her in a painless way.
It's true that turning on the radio
While bathing is a shocking way to go—
But she was always a true music fan,
And it's far worse to die by strangling than
From an electric shock while listening
In her bath to her favorite crooner sing.
Indeed, a CD player is a good
Idea—to put her in a tranquil mood
With compact discs that she enjoys the best—
The perfect soundtrack to her final rest.
(Dear Reader, at this point—with due respect
To you—I feel compelled to interject
A comment: As you read, please be so kind
As to excuse the author. Keep in mind
That these are not my thoughts—I just relate
The thoughts that fester in a maddened state
Of one who, in his lust, now feels so trapped
By a dull marriage that his mind has snapped
And, unable to think clearly, gives in
To homicidal fantasies—and sin.
And with that brief disclaimer, I'll now write
Of further thoughts he had—to your delight.)
So as the husband plotted, he began
To choose a singer that would suit his plan—
One who would soothe his wife while in the tub
And beguile her as she begins to scrub,
So when the vocal part begins to soar—
She will not notice him come in the door.
He thought of all the singers that she liked
To listen to at home—or when they biked
Together in the gym. She couldn't stop
Herself from listening to soulful pop—
Like Whitney Houston or Shania Twain.
(They doubtless would alleviate her pain,
Assuming that her agony would last—
In case her dying wasn't very fast.)
She always cherished Streisand, and would get
Romantic when she heard Sinatra: yet
What better way to go than with a yawn
Inside her bathtub, as Celine Dion
Croons from a CD player—on a shelf
Nearby—the high notes of "All by Myself"?
That way the husband reasoned in his mind
That he was being cruel to be kind:
As when police find corpses in a house,
And match the DNA found on a blouse
A suspect wears. He claims those were no crimes—
Although he stabbed his victims forty times:
Because despite the crime scene's grim facade
Of death—he brought his victims close to God:
And though he butchered them with his steel knife—
He gave the victims' souls eternal life!
Or when a doctor eager for divorce
Concludes if he lets Nature take its course,
His wife will suffer from the pains of age
And that her body will become a cage—
Imprisoning his wife without relief:
Her future travail causes him great grief
And guilt. So to prevent her misery
He'll murder her—and set her body free.
So all her earthly trials will soon be over—
And he'll be free to marry his new lover.
By such antitheses of homicide
The husband mortifies his moral side,
And mental reservations are in vain—
The main thing is to spare his victim pain:
Because although he wants his wife to die,
It's very clear he wouldn't harm a fly!
And though he knows he can't give up his main
Objective—still, he wants to be humane
While killing her. That means it must be done
Without a rope, a hammer, or a gun
That criminals might use. So taking stock
Of other methods, an electric shock
Appears to him the quickest way to go—
If the electric current's not too low!
And if the murder plot goes just as planned,
He'll knock the CD player from the stand
That holds the soaps and shampoo for her head—
And quicker than annulment she'll be dead!
Of course, it'll look as if the wife turned on
The player by herself—and she'll be gone
Before police authorities arrive
To interview the spouse who's still alive—
The husband! Intermitted by his tears,
He'll tell the facts—and of their happy years
Together, when they made a perfect pair
At home. Now that she's dead, he doesn't care
To go on living. Crying he's to blame,
He wonders if he'll ever be the same,
Now that the one love of his life is gone
And he has no one he can lean upon.
Besides, it's all his fault that she's now dead—
Because he should have been at home, instead
Of outside jogging. And with sobs of grief
He'll justify the credulous belief
Of the investigators who are sent
To gather details of the accident.
And as they leave his home well satisfied
With his narration of events inside
His bathroom, the police will hesitate
A while, in order to commiserate
With the untimely loss of his dear wife,
Concerned that grief might overwhelm his life
Or otherwise preoccupy his mind:
For there are still small children left behind
He must consider—since they need a mom.
And though he's grieving now, he should stay calm
And not let sorrow get the upper hand—
For he is all his children have now. And,
If only for their sake, despite his pain,
He should consider marrying again.
At least that was the way the husband thought
About it when he felt so overwrought
He couldn't think straight: not the ideal time
To trade in stocks—or plan a perfect crime.
But reasoning is never any use
To cheat a market crash or hangman's noose,
Once Reason has surrendered to the Will
To try to scam a profit—or to kill.
It's true that conscience can prevent an act
From happening: But with a little tact
Our conscience can be made to see that it
Is better temporarily to quit
And to return to work a later time—
When once the person profits from the crime.
Because the husband knew he'd gone astray,
He sent his conscience on a holiday;
For it was rather inconvenient
To do the deed without his heart's consent.
Since conscience often follows human need,
His conscience winked—and then approved the deed.
To colleagues and to neighbors on the block
The wife's electrocution was a shock—
But even more to her when, in her bath,
She learned her husband was a psychopath—
Which didn't give her too much time to act
Before her homicide became a fact.
For she had just begun to scrub her skin
With soap when the CD player fell in,
As if it tumbled from the bathroom stand
(Though really pushed in by her husband's hand);
And as she saw it fall in with a splash,
She felt a buzz just as she saw a flash—
And shrieked in agony before she ceased
Her cries. And so the spouse became deceased
Before she had a chance to file a plea
For a divorce on grounds of cruelty.
The reader will forgive the pun on "shock,"
Above, as part of the poetic stock
Of tropes a poet has in vast supply
To make a reader laugh—or sometimes cry.
(There may be some who missed the pun—and so
I ventured to repeat the pun below.)
As for the mordant humor of my verse—
It is the poet's task to reimburse
A reader for the effort that is spent
In reading, by a little merriment—
And sometimes sex—so by artistic skill
To pack the moral in a sugared pill:
As when a biblical blockbuster shows
Ten sexy dancers taking off their clothes
To illustrate how even naked skin
Cannot seduce God-fearing men to sin.
And those ten dancers, with no clothing on,
Illustrate the fall of Babylon
And how all pagan power is in vain—
While also being sure to entertain
The movie fan with women in the buff—
Because a moral lesson's not enough
To teach a moral lesson when it's true
That moralists require pleasure too.
Thus movie patrons get their money's worth
By seeing Christians teased by pagan mirth;
And though they're titillated by each scene,
They're pleased to see religion on the screen.
In the same way, I sugar-coat my theme
With caustic humor and a rhyming scheme,
While varying the rhythm of each line
To make my verses sound less saccharine
Than if I kept only iambic feet—
And gave each foot the same accented beat
As in both lines above, whose even scan
Would sound sing-song and too pedestrian.
Replace "only iambic" with "just five
"Iambic" (feet) and readers see that I've
Insured my rhythm is more flexible
By substitutions that are lexical
In kind, but that affect the rhythm too—
As I have shown my reader hitherto.
Note how "iambic" and "accented" break
Iambic rhythm for the rhythm's sake.
And so my sugar-coated style can teach
A moral more than if I tried to preach—
Because the moral that I teach below
Is one some readers may not want to know.
In sum, the reader can appreciate
The sure vicissitudes of love and hate.
In our examples, spouses sadly learned
That those who play with fire will get burned.
And irrespective of the kind of flame
It is, they get burned deeply all the same:
Because regardless if it's a solar fire
In summertime, or burns caused by a wire
Of an electrical appliance in
The bath, the burns get underneath the skin—
Just like an old romantic flame will burn
Her lover's heart who pines for her return.
For love of any object in excess—
However good—can harm you nonetheless.
Thus even water, though it's pure and cool
To drink, can drown you in your swimming pool
At night—if you decide to take a dip
While spaced out on a psychedelic trip.
And too much education in a school
Will only make an educated fool
Pretentious to himself and to his friends.
They know he's still a fool—though he pretends
He's better than they are because he knows
Most classic poetry and modern prose.
Yet though he has a doctorate degree,
He feels as clueless as when he was three
And he knew nothing of the birds and bees—
Or Hell and Heaven or his abc's.
And all the education he has got
Since then has tied him in a mental knot—
Like a magician with an iron chain
Around his neck—who knows escape's in vain,
Although he used to think that he could please
His audience—and free himself with ease.
Thus, too, our varied stratagems and all
Our cherished goals seduce us to our fall:
Regardless how we plan—or figure it
Can be forestalled—our doom is definite:
As when a malefactor digs a pit
To kill his neighbor—and he falls in it
Himself; and, as he lies there, in great pain,
He sees that all his scheming proved in vain;
And that same pit—dug on an evil whim—
Becomes the grave they use to bury him.
This is the Law of Natural Rebound—
Whatever goes around soon comes around,
Although it comes with new significance—
Transformed and nurtured by experience.
For all our worldly loves will not abide
For long. And though we choose the sunny side
Of life, it's true that even as we sit
Secure, and basking in the benefit
Of our good fortune for a time, we know
That all our happiness will end in woe.
Thus pampered children leave their parents' nest
Once they have passed a final high school test.
Their childhood passed in plates of bread and jam—
Now all they care about is an exam
That guarantees their academic place
In the top rank of the scholastic race,
Which they must run as best they can—to beat
A classmate and advance to the next meet.
And if they've earned a high percentage score
For college, then they look for something more
From life—while Mother wonders what became
Of her sweet babies. Though they look the same
As they did yesterday, the difference
In age since they were infants is immense.
But that's a difference that's unperceived
Until the parents face the issue—peeved
Their little darlings, whom they longed to see
Grown up, have now outgrown their family
As well as their hometown. In fact, they need
Just cash and a perfunctory Godspeed
For their matriculation out of state—
As Mother sees her nest dimidiate
(That means to be divided by a half—
I used an inkhorn word here for a laugh).
The parents hardly know just what to do
Now that they are a family of two
Instead of four. The quiet in the house
Disheartens both of them. So each spouse
Endeavors to fill up the time as best
They can—in order to feel less depressed.
The wife dusts off the pictures on the wall,
While her spouse mends the stairway in the hall—
And as he replaces a wooden stair
He finds a cufflink that his son dropped there
Two years before. The father contemplates
The link for several seconds, and debates
What he should do with it. He clasps it in
His hand, while smiling with a stoic grin
As his wife hums their daughter's favorite song—
And he reminds himself he must be strong.
The parents putter round the house as best
They can, despondent but convinced they're blessed
With children that have made it on their own—
Although they feel abandoned and alone.
They never learned to use email and hope
Their children will address an envelope
To them and send it off. But weeks go by
And no letters come—so they wonder why
The postman can't locate their home, or how
They'll receive mail from their two children now.
But other mail arrives—though it's all junk
They throw away. So now they're in a funk
That's even deeper than before. They ask
Themselves how can it be such a big task
To write a letter and to post it in
The mail and send it to one's next of kin?
The parents never went to college and
For both of them it's hard to understand
How college life can educate the mind
To leave one's past and family behind.
And as they languish in their house—alone—
The parents long to hear the telephone
Again. The daughter calls one day
And hears that Mom or Pop has passed away;
The children return home, in disbelief,
And then alleviate their parent's grief
As best they can. They stay a while and then
They pack their bags and say goodbye again,
While the survivor murmurs one more prayer—
To fill the silence and dull a despair
That will not go away. The parent's son
And daughter are both gone when day is done—
Before the parent shuffles off to bed
To nurse a sadness or a private dread
That's never put in words—but bears the mark
Of the emptiness that sprouts in a dark
Bedroom. The parent is surprised to find
How difficult it is to be resigned
To aloof children—or to lose a mate
One loves to the vicissitudes of Fate:
Yet whether it's a person's daughter, son,
Or spouse, the same end welcomes everyone
Who wagers on the die of human hope—
Aspiring in love, but cramped in scope:
And it's the same as when the sun above
This bitter earth requites our foolish love.

RDC 9 September 2007

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