Alan Walowitz Verse-Virtual 2018 February

February 2018

Occasionally, I get coerced into going to Meditation or to Yoga, where my wife hopes that I’ll embrace self-improvement. I’ve never got much past “Introduction to Self-Awareness” --in fact, I’m the first whoever’s failed that class. However, something might be seeping in through that thick skull of mine. “String Theory” is a poem that comes directly out of one of those experiences. The second poem was a kind of poetry exercise I gave myself, but it does contain my version of a spiritual lesson. For more sparkling spirits, go to alanwalowitz.com.

String Theory

When the wise Bhante Wimala tied this Sai Sin bracelet
round my wrist, he called for protection and peace,
then chanted the traditional Buddhist blessing
as if he really meant it,
which, unlike me, is the only way he knows.

Ever since, I’ve had a throbbing back,
a digestive tract that hardly works at all,
and an aching heel
that would make Achilles’s mom
feel pangs of guilt all over again.

Bhante, I said, let us untie and start again,
since, despite your best intention, these strings,
wound and bound so well, won’t work.
Now, more Jewish mother than guru, he avers,
Alan, leave them be. Things could be worse.

Me, I bowed my head, if not in obeisance,
at least out of respect, for what I can’t embrace
but find, of a sudden, I’ve come to own:
The peace and protection of knowing for sure,
no matter how ungraceful, I’m growing old.

A Poem Beginning and Ending with Favorite Advertising Slogans from Childhood

1
Hires Root Beer—Made with roots, barks, herbs:
Sixty years a long time to recollect in tranquility
the wish that this might be so.
That in some canopied forest, trees are stripped,
roots reclaimed, and herbs collected,
all to be swirled in a barrel by Old Man Hires
and turned into this sweet elixir of hiccups and dreams.
Though turns out after all these years, getting and spending
is what I’ve much preferred
to time spent banished among the trees.
Too many bugs crawling up the bark,
strange creatures burrowing deep in the roots,
herbs hard to find and then dangerous to eat,
and worse, no cars allowed, no soft drinks
or coffee bars, no wi-fi for free.

2
What else is there to do each day,
time weighing me down,
gas hovering around two bucks,
Starbucks at every turn,
and every turn fast food to dream upon?
There are ladies at the counter
but nary a word will pass our lips
no matter how close we stand.
Still, I leave a tip in the paper cup and nod
that nod that says as much of who I am
as I ever want to let on.
Though much like the child is father to the man,
and this, itself, so long misunderstood,
promises now to make me new--
if only there is time left to learn:
7-Up--You like it; it likes you.

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