Critical Poetry—Mary Gribble (San Marino, CA)                                        For more highly critical verse, see Critical Poems.    
 

My father, who was the first Republican Chairman of the largest county in Texas, would be upset to know what his post-war Eisenhower innocence has wrought. My dissidence is not new, clean, and fresh from the crate, but long burning. To borrow from the late Senator Proxmire, "Wrong, wrong, wrong! A postcard my daughter bought me taught, "Never underestimate the power of very stupid people in large numbers."  I am still livid over Americans allowing these rattlesnakes into our White House, to appoint other rattlesnakes to represent our country—a horror story.  I feel the ground giving way as Bush and company's ( pre-9/11 planned) invasion of Iraq becomes stupider and bloodier with no end anyone can predict.  I cannot sleep at night thinking about the George Bush mess.

One Afternoon

Connections worked for her but not for me;

arches and stone steps were old hat to my friend.

I loped along, a peasant, unconnected.

We opted for a spring lunch on the court,

a terrace where it could be said

that Linus and Al munched orange and liverwurst.

The ambiance of Cal Tech can seduce

whatever consciousness slips through its doors.

At lunch, we spoke of conflicts in our church —

a million perfectly good dollars

to build impressive gothic arches, no

fundraiser for health care for the homeless.

Connections, we thought, had been the thrust:

to best attract parishioners, impress.

She wound up her salad, I my soup

with wonder if God indexed connections.

Departing through the dining room, we saw

a wheelchair and small frame which bitter chance

had bent beyond enduring, yet endured.

"It's him!" she said, "a real celebrity."

"Why yes, it's him," I whispered back in awe.

Down more stone steps we agonized his name,

connecting what we saw with what we knew.

At last I blurted out, "It's Hawking."

"Steve", she recalled, and the name connected

with From The Big Bang to Black Holes  and on.

His following can fully comprehend

this physicist with cruel holes and bangs,

still rules his spirit boundlessly,

to be superbly here — and connected.

Q: Why do not we have a proverb this wise in America?
A: Anyone still sitting up and taking nourishment knows why.

Arab Proverb

(A fool may be known by six things)

(One) Huff and puff of anger without cause;

 the pointless outburst dwarfs all other flaws.

Pontificating with no goal in mind

(Two) Testing voice each time you are inclined.

A change without improvement (Three's The Pits);

today's progress is custom-made for fits.

Inquiry without object (Number Four)

The ancients could not tolerate a bore.

To put trust in a stranger plays roulette.

The Fifth one says, "Forget Give. Think of Get!"

Mistaking foes for friends—short cut to tears.
The Sixth says , "Scrutinize who buys your beers."

You Won’t Miss Me None

No time for rhyme, no poetry,

The Bushite days cry urgency;

"Us, waste your money? Say no more;

Our power rests on who keeps score;

best give up hoping what could be."

America's failed destiny

our PR flop no mystery,

What's Wrong explodes in noisy roar,

no time for rhyme.

When US voters at last see

to stumble upon history,

I'll quit their case and waste some more

time writing rhymes, which hit the floor,

but until then — until I'm free,

no time for rhyme.