The earth’s a complex, integrated whole,
each part entwining in a common waltz.
And in such systems backups have a goal—
“Enable full recovery from faults.”
When chestnuts died, the birds found other homes.
When pigeons died, raccoons found other eggs.
Extinction’s cold, destabilizing foams
cannot collapse a house with many legs.
But pavement is a desert, hard and dead;
suburban lawns are barren for a bear.
A farmer’s field will bring the wheat to head,
but other creatures only perish there.
We celebrate our tower growing tall,
but all the while we undermine its wall.
Tag Archives: Poetry
Dopamine
Their eyes—intently luminous—reflect
kaleidoscopes of pixelated light.
Frenetic echoes afterward project
on shuttered eyelids, sparking in the night.
With urgent fingers, frantically they clutch
and click controllers, keyboards, screens and mice,
the never-satisfying fruit of much
rehearsal, constant thought, and streamed advice.
Their voices burst in shouts of rage or joy
at new achievements, leaderboard defeats,
each loot box, headshot, killstreak, skin, or toy;
the feedback loop continually repeats.
Their wallets, grades, and spouses know the score:
“I think I’ve got the time to play one more.”
My Father’s Epitaph
My father was a complicated man.
A surgeon, pilot, seminary grad,
he used the opportunities he had
to overcome the life where he began.
(Depression-era broken home; my gran
divorced his cheating, alcoholic dad).
Conversion, war, then Harvard, marriage glad,
five children—much he did in short a span.
But middle-age provoked a darker turn.
He left his wife though teaching Sunday school
(his father’s lessons he forgot to learn),
for years wrought pain, lascivious and cruel.
But grace abounded; guilt began to burn,
till Twilight Mercy Found a Grateful Fool.
Maker’s Lament
His fingers led the quill’s familiar dance,
ensnaring thoughts in sinuous lines of ink,
unwitting in his ancient scribal trance
that Gutenberg so soon would break the link.
Her fingers passed the shuttle through the warp,
transmuting garb of sheep to that of kings,
accustomed to the music of her harp,
unwary of the song an engine sings.
Their fingers summoned visions from the mind,
with brush, and stencil, pen, and Photoshop,
illusionists astonished now to find
an artificial artist heist their crop.
Of all creation, humans are the head;
but what remains when human art is dead?
A Bedtime Prayer
God, the time to sleep has come for me at last;
this day, though blest, has been a weary one.
Both pain and gain I had beneath the sun,
and now I close with thanks for what has passed:
You gave me breath to walk, and work, and sing.
On wicked words and deeds, please, mercy show.
You gave me light to see, and know, and go.
I wanted more; I could have had much less.
You gave me hope, enduring in distress;
above all things it kept me fighting sin.
You gave me love—of beauty, kith, and kin,
delights enkindling love of You, my King.
So many were your perfect gifts as through the day I pressed.
With gratitude I gently go most sweetly to my rest.
A Morning Prayer
God, your brilliance lit each photon that has shined.
You wove spacetime. You framed the human mind.
Your might assembled every quantum mote,
and heaped up stars like sand, and formed my throat.
And though you’ve bound the universe with death,
today again you’ve filled my lungs with breath.
So speaking now, I kneel as I rise.
I place my hope in you. You hold my fate.
The Bible says you’re holy, loving, wise;
Muhammad says you’re merciful and great.
But me, I’ve never seen you with my eyes;
I only know to cling to hope and wait.
So lowly, weak, uncertain, full of sin,
I’ll worship, serve, and sing as if you’ll come again.
Goliath’s Final Challenge
Day dawned on Elah, and Goliath strode
onto the field. Three-hundred pounds of bronze
were buckled on him, and the armor glowed—
portentously reflecting rising dawn’s
most thirsty reds. The armies of the LORD
had watched this happen every day (like pawns
resigned to death), and still the mighty sword
and spearhead weighing forty pounds had not
yet lost their fearful newness. Thrice he roared
to gather silence for himself, then shot 10
his widespread hands into the sky, and once
again his blasphemies began their hot
assault.
The Song of Uka
Note: I’ve written a few poems about World of Warcraft, okay? Stop looking at me that way. The events in this poem actually happened as described. While leveling in WoW Classic, I got camped by a higher level Shaman who ran away immediately as soon as a similarly-leveled opponent came along. It was originally posted to Reddit where it received no love at all (sigh). I have mixed feelings about the enormous amount of time I put into WoW; it was very much an addiction, but perhaps not totally devoid of merits, though certainly not worth the many costs. I permanently deleted my WoW account (along with almost all my video games and social media) in May of this year. (DL, Dec. 10, 2022)
Uka the Shaman, mighty and bold,
Like Vol’jin, and Zekhan, and Thex.
He’s stronger than you if you aren’t very old,
So watch out, he’s ready to flex.
One pleasant day in Hillsbrad they say
He found him a 32 warrior.
With “Calooh! Callay!” he entered the fray,
Just right for a 41 shaman.
The battle was hard (that clutch heal was timely),
But finally he finished his foe.
Pleased with himself (he’d battled sublimely),
He spit on the corpse he’d laid low.
Then he sat on his raptor on guard for the fallen,
To show he was better than him.
As soon as he rezzed he set straight to brawlin’,
Then spit on his corpse again.
Over and over, he conquered his man,
(Though sometimes it was a close shave).
He teabagged and laughed, a jovial fan
Of the prowess of Uka the Brave.
Then all of a sudden a 41 rogue
Sapped the shit out of Uka the shaman.
It was then that he felt it was time to prorogue
His fight with the dangerous warrior.
Fighting a warrior is one thing you see,
When his level is appropriately low.
But fighting a rogue the same level as he
Takes more plum than he’s willing to show.
The rogue kicked his ass (right away so they say),
And poor Uka, he rezzed in the bushes.
Then fast as he could he scurried away,
Like manure that a bulldozer pushes.
Adventurers all, remember this tale,
Whenever you feel overpowered.
It’s better to fight those who are bigger and fail,
Than be a pussy like Uka the Coward.
Driven
In Riyadh drivers are a fact of life.
Domestics, Ubers, taxi men—they steer
the expat hordes and every mother, wife,
and daughter to their destinations here.
They come in droves from countries down the scale,
from Pakistan, and Bangladesh, Nepal,
and India—impoverished men who trail
the highways at another’s beck and call.
Each time I walk, I hear the taxi horns,
each plaintive beep, “Please white man, share your wealth
with me.” For fourteen hours, from early morns
and through each night they spend their life—and health.
I sit in back, while they the front are given.
My conscience knows who drives and who is driven.
What is a Star?
What is a star?
The gleam above me in the night?
It isn’t really in the sky.
It is in fact behind my eye,
triggered by a beam of light
that struck a nerve and touched my brain.
A wave of such and such a height
has stroked the synapses of sight—
a process I cannot explain.
But nonetheless the star I see
rotating on the neural plane
by memory can be called again.
(It’s shining still inside of me.)
If eye and brain are not a star,
and neither is a memory,
then neither can the gleaming be.
—David Lohnes
July, 2014