Archive for November, 2015

Say What!

November 27, 2015

Below is my latest poem, a satirical look at some pitfalls of communication.

 

Say What!

By Martin H. Levinson

 I

Say “Have a nice day” you’ll be taken to task

for not saying a great day or one that will last,

whatever you say may be misconstrued

so say precious little, merci beaucoup.

II

To put words in writing is palpably worse

than talking to people and here is the curse,

when you write something down farewell the excuse

you misheard heard what I said, j’accuse! j’accuse!

III

Nonverbal messages shun and negate

they confuse other humans which isn’t so great,

stay stiff as a board when speaking with others

except in the case if those others be lovers.

IV

To downgrade the chances of being misread

die and have people connect with you dead,

but beware this device is subject to fail

for they say in forensics the dead can tell tales.

Vive la France

November 15, 2015

Vive la France

By Martin H. Levinson

 

I’m a cartoonist, a rocker

a petit bourgeois

in the Bacalat Theatre

with je ne se quoi,

opposite moi, Charlie Hebdo,

Jean Jacques Rousseau,

enjoying an evening with

Gallic bon mots, a

glass of Bordeaux, over

one row, Denis Diderot,

telling another Enlightenment Joe,

enough is enough, you got to

get tough on those who

play rough to get what they

want. Albert Camus says

they must be on meth if

they think we will bend

think we will break.

Vive satire, Voltaire is

on fire, penning Candide,

an irreverent read, do you

think he should die for

the merde in his screed?

The Marquis de Sade

who is taking a soak

says pain can provoke

orgasms in folks but

shooting’s no fun when

it’s done with a gun, we

beat back the Hun and

we’ll defeat you.

Veterans Day 2015

November 11, 2015

Below is a poem I’ve composed to honor those who serve and have served in America’s armed forces.

The vets are all gone

who fought the Battle of Saint-Mihiel where

the American Expeditionary Force captured

fifteen thousand Germans and D-Day and

H-hour entered the military lexicon alongside

shell shock, synchronize your watches, and

camouflage, a term practically unused in

English before the war but soon bested by

whatever English had to offer as doughboys

prayed they were invisible to German snipers

with their scope-mounted Mauser rifles and

far from the frontline when the mustard gas came

slithering across no-man’s land through the

barbed wire into mud-spattered craters seeking to

kill and maim those in its chemical path, a road

not traveled by American aviators who dogfought

their way to glory engaging eindeckers and

dreideckers in rat-a-tat bullet-filled French skies as

the meat-grinding slaughter went on unabated

below among Heinies, Tommie and Poilus in

trenches from Switzerland to the Channel with

no room to maneuver but lots of room to be massacred

by machine guns and mortars when you went over the

top to face the enemy who would later counterattack

and become snacks for maggots as the only way

forward was to charge automatic weapons and heavy

artillery pouring down shrapnel and high-explosive

projectiles from heavens switched to hells above

and it would have gone on forever but Woodrow

Wilson got us into it and we

went over, to make it over,

spelled the difference

over there.