White Elephants and Missing Persons

Before this month slips into history and the long days of summer beckon, I have to call attention to the fact that April, with its erratic days that veer from cold and rain to tranquil warmth and sunlight, with its abrupt displays of green and other hues that confirm the earth’s endless cycle of renewal, is National Poetry Month.

I’ve written poetry since I was in college, but almost never with the intention of seeing it in print. I once read a poem I’d written at a weekly open-mic night, but it didn’t tempt me to become a regular at such affairs. I don’t like the word therapeutic as used in connection with creative writing, because it reeks too much of self-help nostrums, but I can’t think of a better one to describe the positive effect the arranging of words into some kind of poetic form has on my mental state, even if I don’t expect those words to be seen by anyone else or the state of sang-froid to persist forever.

A couple of years before the Covid pandemic propagated images of harried nurses in protective gear and patients hooked up to ventilators, the approach of the ninth decade had led to thoughts of mortality and musings about what my life had been about and how I might best spend the rest of it. I dashed off a few poems and the act had some calming effect on those mental jitters. I shared them with my wife and a few friends, and the responses were encouraging enough that I embarked upon a project of writing one poem a day for a year. I contacted more friends, relatives and acquaintances, and ended up with a list of about two dozen amenable readers. A poem in the inbox every day, to read in whole or part or just send to the trash folder.

The project didn’t last a year. One day, near the beginning of the sixth month, I sat staring at the blank document on the computer screen, waiting for the sprouting tendrils of an idea. Even the first word of the first line. I did other things, and came back to that blank document several times during the day. I was like the two characters in Waiting For Godot, ever hopeful but destined for disappointment. Maybe that writer’s block, or mental void could be blamed on the pandemic getting underway and making everyone nervous, or maybe I had simply run out of anything to say in the poetic form. But lately I’ve gone back to read them again, and I find many of interest not for their lyrical or conceptual brilliance, but for what they reveal, in a mostly metaphorical sense, about my feelings at a certain time. So I’ve decided to share a few before the month expires. Feel free to stop reading now, or anywhere along the way. Of course I won’t know unless someone tells me, but even then I won’t be offended.

Note: I didn’t do any rewriting beyond correcting my sometimes indifferent spelling and punctuation.

WHITE ELEPHANT

When I saw it in the front yard,
I wondered who was responsible.
The neighbor who complains,
When I park in front of his house?
My brother, to whom I've owned money,
For many years?
Unknown persons who want to cause trouble,
Just because they can?

Should I give it something to eat?
Should I give it some water?
Before I could decide,
It had eaten half the leaves off
The privet hedge and jacaranda tree,
And trampled the bromeliads
And left a hairy deposit of dung
In the middle of the sidewalk.

I wondered if it was really white,
Or if someone had painted it.
(people do that, you know)
It seemed neither friendly nor unfriendly,
But I wasn't ready to get too close.
Discretion, as Falstaff wisely knew,
Is the better part of valor.

I called Animal Control, and described the situation;
The person told me that they deal with animals,
Dogs and cats and such, not personal problems.
I called the city zoo and the person asked me
If I had been drinking, or taking drugs.
Was that any of their business?
As a last resort, I called the police,
And the person told me that it didn't sound
Like a crime was being committed.  
They advised me to call Animal Control.

By that time it had eaten the succulents and cacti 
And was poking around for more:
What would be next? 
I got a head of cabbage from the refrigerator,
And tossed it out into the yard--a distraction!
I sneaked around it to open the gate,
Then sneaked back and sat at the window watching,
Waiting for it to leave.  Finally it did.
Where did it go?  I don't know.
It's somebody else's problem now.


THE CREATION

On the first day I created light,
Because I was tired of fumbling in the dark.
On the second day I created the sky
So there would be something to see with all that light.
On the third day I created the earth,
Because the sky doesn’t make much sense without it.
On the fourth day I created the sun
And moon and bunch of other stuff.
On the fifth day I created the birds
And the animals of the sea,
Although I had second thoughts
When I heard the crows trying to sing.
On the sixth day I created the animals of the land,
And I thought to myself, This is it.
I could sit back and admire my work,
Which wasn’t perfect by any means,
But pretty darned good.  However...
All those birds flying around the sky,
All those animals traipsing over the earth,
All those fish swimming in the ocean
(A stroke of genius, if I say so myself,
an animal that can breathe underwater.)
It all replaced the nothingness,
That had bored me practically to death,
But shouldn't it be admired and appreciated?
I couldn’t rest yet, I had to create one more thing.
But what would that be?
Another fish?  Another bird?
Another animal so strange that
The other animals would flee in terror
When they got a good look at it?
I decided to sleep on it, decide in the morning,
Even though a small voice in my head
Advised me to leave well enough alone.


THE MERMAID

I remember the first time
I held her in my arms,
A tidy, bright-eyed package
Neatly bundled, the mouth
And nose properly arranged
Above the pale dollop of chin,
Modest ears astride the skull
That grew a rufous garden
Of fine, unmolested hair.

I made faces, silly noises;
She didn't laugh, or even smile,
But steadily gazed,
Unafraid but puzzled, maybe.
By the nonsensical nature
Of the world that she had entered
So abruptly, no warning,
No explanation for the rude
Expulsion from her warm
And watery sanctuary.

It was no surprise that
She became a mermaid,
And swam away one day,
Into the deep embrace
Of a world that I could only 
Watch with my feet sunk into the sand
With the tide slipping over my toes,
Splashing up to my knees
Until I ran in terror of a vision
Of small bright eyes and tiny fingers
That wrapped one of mine
With a strong grip, the force 
Of a place hidden from my mind
That could not see all there was to be seen,
Could not hear all there was to be heard,
Could only make a face, and speak
A few nonsensical words. 


MISSING PERSON

I went looking for myself
In all the usual places,
The bedroom, the kitchen,
The garage, the front porch,
That corner of the living room,
With the ragged chair and tarnished lamp,
Where I read a book or just sit,
And think about things that
May or may not matter.
Who can tell?

I called my name but got no answer,
I looked for clues – a dropped sock,
A toothpaste tube uncapped,
A coffee spill on the counter,
A magazine open to an article
About blind people who believe
They can see. You might say they're crazy
But it makes perfect sense to me.
What is any belief, but atoms
Racing willy-nilly through the
Snarls of the mind?

I dialed a number for the police department.
But there was an invisible crowd in front of me,
Willing to wait hours to complain
Of noisy neighbors, of stolen bicycles,
Of dogs and cats acting suspiciously.
I decided to hang up and call 911.
Wasn't my missing state an emergency?
I imagined the conversation.
Was this missing person kidnapped?
Do you have reason to believe this person is
In imminent danger? The tone unkind,
Even hostile, making me feel bad
For the rest of the day, perhaps longer.

I decided to go in person.
There was a counter and a woman
In uniform who looked bored or indifferent
Or both. I told her I wanted to report a missing person,
And she gave me that look that police give you,
Making you want to blurt out a confession,
Whether you've done anything or not.
She took her time finding a form
And a pen. She arranged them in front of her.
Your name? she asked.

Why did she need to know that?
But I was trained to obey authority,
And I told her, along with my address and telephone number,
Facts that could used against me,
Although I didn't know exactly how.

The name of the missing person? she asked.
I told her, and she started to write then stopped.
That's the same name, she said.
I agreed. She said, you and this missing person
Have the same name?
Yes, I said, I'm the missing person.
I could tell from her expression
That she was trying very hard
To mentally process the situation
That had developed, no doubt unexpectedly,
Relieving her boredom, transcending the typical
Idiocy and depravity.

I waited for her to tell me to go away,
Or threaten to arrest me on some charge,
Related to wasting a law enforcement officer's time.
But she didn't. She studied her form, then asked,
How long have you been missing?