The Eternal Moment
I remember the instant it all began;
The start of the multiverse built for man.
The moment of ignition: instantaneous conflagration.
The never ending moment pervading all sensation.
How is there memory? Of what do we know?
Only that the course of the multiverse must flow
Forever in this instant, this single tick of our clocks...
That moment, in the end, is time’s paradox.
The start of the multiverse built for man.
The moment of ignition: instantaneous conflagration.
The never ending moment pervading all sensation.
How is there memory? Of what do we know?
Only that the course of the multiverse must flow
Forever in this instant, this single tick of our clocks...
That moment, in the end, is time’s paradox.
igor
It’s that time of year again (Again? It seems to come around more quickly each year) when thoughts of sugarplums dance in our heads; and, time for me to once again post the poem I wrote for my daughter on a Christmas Eve thirty two years ago.
A CHILD’S SECRET
Written for a little girl who was about to hear a Christmas inevitability...
“Shhh....listen....what is that sound?
The gentle kiss of snowflakes touching down?
The soft, silent slide of runners on the snow?
What is it my children? Don’t you all know?
“Shhh....do you hear a scraping noise in the yard?
You can hear what I do if you listen very hard.
You know this is the night we have all waited for.
Hurry....off to your beds. Close tight your door.
“Go quickly to sleep, for it must be him
With a long white beard hanging down from his chin.
You must all be sleeping when he chooses to show
His red suited roundness at the hearth down below.
“For he is terribly timid, that magical being;
He would fly in a moment if he thought he’d been seen.
But, if left all alone to do his night’s work,
He will labor ‘til dawn with never a shirk.”
My son laughed loudly, “father don’t be a tease.
Just give us our presents; now, if you please.
We children all know,” he said without pause,
“That you are the only, true Santa Claus.”
“Yes,” smiled his sister. The eldest of three.
“It is you puts our presents ‘neath yonder tree.
“Hush,” said their mother, but not too soon.
For eight year old Jessica had just entered the room.
“What,” said my youngest, “you know you’re both lying.”
But I knew she believed them by the tears she was crying.
“Please tell them daddy. What they said isn’t true.
Tell them,” she pleaded, “they must believe you.”
But I saw in her eyes that it was too late.
The damage was done. They had destroyed the child’s faith.
I reached out for my daughter; held her ever so tight.
I knew with great sadness I would remember this night.
I thought back upon my own, too fragile, youth.
I remembered the day that I’d heard the truth.
So I held her and cried, for all we had lost
When first we learned that dad was the real Santa Claus.
I lifted my child, carried her up to her to bed,
Tucked in her blankets, and kissed her sweet head.
“Now you go to sleep. Pay your brother no mind.
What he said tonight was simply unkind.
“I, myself, saw Santa; a long ago Christmas eve.
And, I don’t think he would fail us. He just wouldn’t leave
An important job like his to mere moms and dads.
Now please stop your crying. Please don’t be sad.
“And besides,” (I was trying my best) “he’ll never depart.
For Santa will always live here; in your heart.”
‘Twas the wrong thing to say. I knew it straight off.
I could tell by her sigh; so sad, and so soft.
I walked down the stairs feeling empty inside,
It was as though Christmas had suddenly died.
“It’s all right,” said my wife; ever the sensible one.
“Don’t fret my dearest. What’s done is just done.
“She had to find out. It has always been so.
Now come; off to bed. It’s still Christmas you know.”
So with my heart breaking I followed my wife.
Remembering this same ache from earlier in life.
I lay in my bed wishing for a miracle that night,
For my child in her room, and the child lying next to my wife.
It must have been near four o’clock the next morn,
When I awoke with a start, to the sound of a horn.
I crept slowly downstairs. Do you know what I saw?
My eight year old daughter with old Santa Claus.
“Well, hello my old friend, it has been a long while
Since I last let you see me. You were then still a child.”
“It’s you,” was all I could think of to say.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said smiling, in his own jolly way.
“I don’t do this too often: let folks see me you know.
And, now I must leave you; many places to go.”
So, with a nod and a smile, he just left us there
Staring happily into the shimmering air.
And so, two smiling children flew upstairs without pause.
Sharing a child’s secret....there is a Santa Clause.
igor
December 1986
For Mayo
It’s that time of year again (Again? It seems to come around more quickly each year) when thoughts of sugarplums dance in our heads; and, time for me to once again post the poem I wrote for my daughter on a Christmas Eve thirty two years ago.
A CHILD’S SECRET
Written for a little girl who was about to hear a Christmas inevitability...
“Shhh....listen....what is that sound?
The gentle kiss of snowflakes touching down?
The soft, silent slide of runners on the snow?
What is it my children? Don’t you all know?
“Shhh....do you hear a scraping noise in the yard?
You can hear what I do if you listen very hard.
You know this is the night we have all waited for.
Hurry....off to your beds. Close tight your door.
“Go quickly to sleep, for it must be him
With a long white beard hanging down from his chin.
You must all be sleeping when he chooses to show
His red suited roundness at the hearth down below.
“For he is terribly timid, that magical being;
He would fly in a moment if he thought he’d been seen.
But, if left all alone to do his night’s work,
He will labor ‘til dawn with never a shirk.”
My son laughed loudly, “father don’t be a tease.
Just give us our presents; now, if you please.
We children all know,” he said without pause,
“That you are the only, true Santa Claus.”
“Yes,” smiled his sister. The eldest of three.
“It is you puts our presents ‘neath yonder tree.
“Hush,” said their mother, but not too soon.
For eight year old Jessica had just entered the room.
“What,” said my youngest, “you know you’re both lying.”
But I knew she believed them by the tears she was crying.
“Please tell them daddy. What they said isn’t true.
Tell them,” she pleaded, “they must believe you.”
But I saw in her eyes that it was too late.
The damage was done. They had destroyed the child’s faith.
I reached out for my daughter; held her ever so tight.
I knew with great sadness I would remember this night.
I thought back upon my own, too fragile, youth.
I remembered the day that I’d heard the truth.
So I held her and cried, for all we had lost
When first we learned that dad was the real Santa Claus.
I lifted my child, carried her up to her to bed,
Tucked in her blankets, and kissed her sweet head.
“Now you go to sleep. Pay your brother no mind.
What he said tonight was simply unkind.
“I, myself, saw Santa; a long ago Christmas eve.
And, I don’t think he would fail us. He just wouldn’t leave
An important job like his to mere moms and dads.
Now please stop your crying. Please don’t be sad.
“And besides,” (I was trying my best) “he’ll never depart.
For Santa will always live here; in your heart.”
‘Twas the wrong thing to say. I knew it straight off.
I could tell by her sigh; so sad, and so soft.
I walked down the stairs feeling empty inside,
It was as though Christmas had suddenly died.
“It’s all right,” said my wife; ever the sensible one.
“Don’t fret my dearest. What’s done is just done.
“She had to find out. It has always been so.
Now come; off to bed. It’s still Christmas you know.”
So with my heart breaking I followed my wife.
Remembering this same ache from earlier in life.
I lay in my bed wishing for a miracle that night,
For my child in her room, and the child lying next to my wife.
It must have been near four o’clock the next morn,
When I awoke with a start, to the sound of a horn.
I crept slowly downstairs. Do you know what I saw?
My eight year old daughter with old Santa Claus.
“Well, hello my old friend, it has been a long while
Since I last let you see me. You were then still a child.”
“It’s you,” was all I could think of to say.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said smiling, in his own jolly way.
“I don’t do this too often: let folks see me you know.
And, now I must leave you; many places to go.”
So, with a nod and a smile, he just left us there
Staring happily into the shimmering air.
And so, two smiling children flew upstairs without pause.
Sharing a child’s secret....there is a Santa Clause.
igor
December 1986
For Mayo
The sweet scent of wildflowers silently drifts
across the lea;
The robust, riotous colors fill me with awe.
I behold yet another amazing miracle, shared
with me
By a kind and generous Nature;
And, by she who has given to me
The immutable love which guides my eyes.
The raucous, spirited sounds of a child’s
laughter in the sun
As it bathes her tiny body in its ever comforting
light
And protecting warmth.
The child rushes into my life and my heart;
A priceless gift
Delivered by the providence of her sharing.
Would that I were able to return these gifts
in kind.
The opal moon that follows the pink pastels of
sunset.
The soft silent kiss of a most gentle late
summer breeze
Brushing lightly soft, full red lips,
And sliding serenely over lids closing upon cool
green eyes.
Repayment of love in kind,
Albeit meager recompense for the magnanimity of her
gifts.
I am wholly unworthy of the magic which she has
bestowed:
Yet, somehow, through the virtue of her selfless
giving
I am become deserving.
Which in and unto itself is perhaps the greatest
gift to me.
I can only begin to repay such generosity
With the fullness of my being...that is my entire
life.
Somehow, mere gratitude is inadequate recompense
for these gifts;
For all that I have become is of her doing.
igor
OL’ TOM
It was just after last Thanksgiving, that Ol’ Tom came to stay.
Came wandering into ma’s garden; seems he’d lost his way.
He moved through her squash like Sherman to the sea,
Then found her yellow corn, turnips, okra and peas.
Just about the time Ol’ Tom had taken his fill
Ma looked out at the garden that grows ‘neath the kitchen sill.
She screamed, grabbed her broom, and out the side door she flew
Into her garden, and after Ol’ Tom, and that’s when we all knew
That Ol’ Tom was really in it; just as deep as you can get.
But that crafty old bird just stood his ground. A move we were certain he’d regret.
When ma got there she just stopped and stared; could scarce believe his gall.
Ol’ Tom calmly turned and walked past ma, who was stunned; as were we all.
Pa stood back, just looking on, trying to hide his smile
As that brazen bird strutted past ma; just like an innocent child.
ARRIVAL
OL’ TOM
It was just after last Thanksgiving, that Ol’ Tom came to stay.
Came wandering into ma’s garden; seems he’d lost his way.
He moved through her squash like Sherman to the sea,
Then found her yellow corn, turnips, okra and peas.
Just about the time Ol’ Tom had taken his fill
Ma looked out at the garden that grows ‘neath the kitchen sill.
She screamed, grabbed her broom, and out the side door she flew
Into her garden, and after Ol’ Tom, and that’s when we all knew
That Ol’ Tom was really in it; just as deep as you can get.
But that crafty old bird just stood his ground. A move we were certain he’d regret.
When ma got there she just stopped and stared; could scarce believe his gall.
Ol’ Tom calmly turned and walked past ma, who was stunned; as were we all.
Pa stood back, just looking on, trying to hide his smile
As that brazen bird strutted past ma; just like an innocent child.
We could tell right off that bird had made a wrong move: that ma wouldn’t let him go.
And we all knew that he was in trouble when she reached out, dropped her broom, and grabbed her hoe.
We thought sure that ma would kill him then, and end his treachery.
But ma surprised both us and pa when she got down upon her knees.
She began cleaning up her garden. She ignored Ol’ Tom for a while.
She began to hum a soft, sweet tune, and then we saw a sly smile
Begin to spread o’er her countenance as she straightened each and every row.
She used her hands in the soft, brown earth, and forgot about the hoe.
Then ma did a surprising thing, she tossed Tom an ear of corn.
And bade the bird eat; fill himself, with no fear of retribution or scorn.
Ma then stood up, walked out the gate, and down the path to the barn.
She tossed some seeds upon the ground to show Ol’ Tom she meant him no harm.
That insane bird just looked at ma, then trotted over to the seed.
He bent his head, that trusting soul, and then he began to feed.
And we all knew that he was in trouble when she reached out, dropped her broom, and grabbed her hoe.
We thought sure that ma would kill him then, and end his treachery.
But ma surprised both us and pa when she got down upon her knees.
She began cleaning up her garden. She ignored Ol’ Tom for a while.
She began to hum a soft, sweet tune, and then we saw a sly smile
Begin to spread o’er her countenance as she straightened each and every row.
She used her hands in the soft, brown earth, and forgot about the hoe.
Then ma did a surprising thing, she tossed Tom an ear of corn.
And bade the bird eat; fill himself, with no fear of retribution or scorn.
Ma then stood up, walked out the gate, and down the path to the barn.
She tossed some seeds upon the ground to show Ol’ Tom she meant him no harm.
That insane bird just looked at ma, then trotted over to the seed.
He bent his head, that trusting soul, and then he began to feed.
We all then knew, without a doubt, what ma was about to do.
We thought for sure that bird was dead. I think pa thought so too.
Ma surprised us again; she fed Tom more corn, and called for pa to come.
She told pa to clean out the empty pen, and ready it for Ol’ Tom.
So it was just about a year ago that Ol’ Tom came to stay.
And since that time ma has fed him corn, each and every day.
He’s grown quite large, has Ol’ Tom; a goodly thirty-two pounds.
Why he’s the biggest damn bird in, and around, all of Suffolk Town.
And whenever ma would look at him, she’d a gleam within her eye.
And we all knew come Thanksgiving Eve that Ol’ Tom would surely die.
Pa sharpened his ax up yesterday, and today we have our repast.
We give the Lord our thanks for a bountiful year; for Ol’ Tom at the table at last.
So pass the biscuits Mary. Pass the black-eyed peas, and yams.
And give our guest, Ol’ Tom, an ear of corn, ‘cause we’re all eatin’ ham.
We thought for sure that bird was dead. I think pa thought so too.
Ma surprised us again; she fed Tom more corn, and called for pa to come.
She told pa to clean out the empty pen, and ready it for Ol’ Tom.
So it was just about a year ago that Ol’ Tom came to stay.
And since that time ma has fed him corn, each and every day.
He’s grown quite large, has Ol’ Tom; a goodly thirty-two pounds.
Why he’s the biggest damn bird in, and around, all of Suffolk Town.
And whenever ma would look at him, she’d a gleam within her eye.
And we all knew come Thanksgiving Eve that Ol’ Tom would surely die.
Pa sharpened his ax up yesterday, and today we have our repast.
We give the Lord our thanks for a bountiful year; for Ol’ Tom at the table at last.
So pass the biscuits Mary. Pass the black-eyed peas, and yams.
And give our guest, Ol’ Tom, an ear of corn, ‘cause we’re all eatin’ ham.
igor
ARRIVAL
When the morning sun softly illuminates the meadow; Winter’s chill gently lifted from the air.
It matters not the place at which you have arrived; but, during the journey did you learn to love and share...
igor
It matters not the place at which you have arrived; but, during the journey did you learn to love and share...
igor
ABOUT THE ROAD
We lived in another time and another place,
By a different set of rules.
Not everything that we learned of life
Was taught to us in school.
Some we learned from our brothers
Some we learned from the street.
The best lessons that we learned
Came from the generation they called Beat.
Lessons came from Neal Cassady,
Kerouac and Ken Kesey as well.
They taught us all about the rights of man
And sweet freedom’s smell.
William S. Boroughs taught us wrong from right,
We learned from Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti too
It was they who taught us to rebel against
What we were always expected to do.
We learned from them about the Road;
Its’ unrelenting Siren’s call.
We then learned how to use our thumbs
To hitch from Spring to Fall.
Winter was for the contemplation
Of all that we’d discovered,
And for preparing for the road in Spring,
The paths that were uncovered.
That was a different time,
We were in a different place.
Neither David Bowie nor Elton John had as yet
Waxed so lyrically about the wonders of time and space.
Yes, we were a different generation,
We were very much about the road.
The joys of riding on the thumb; shedding, for a brief respite,
Life’s ever demanding, and oh so heavy load.
Vance Daddi
09/16/2020
I watched the debate (if that’s what you want to call it.) It inspired the following...
THE SOCIOPATH AND THE EMPATH
The Sociopath and the Empath were arguing over Man
The Empath said, “We must nurture him.”
The Sociopath immediately replied, “To Him I’ll do what I can.”
“I’ll cheat him and I’ll lie to him, it’s all than Man deserves.”
“Why must you always act that way?” The Empath quietly observed.
The Sociopath gleefully laughed, “I merely act in the interest that is best for me
“I cannot help it if the rest of the world doesn’t seem to see
“That looking out for number one is the only way to achieve.”
“But,” the Empath sadly noted, “You cause so many to grieve.”
“It’s not my fault if Man can’t stand for Himself and all his fellows.
“I have needs no one understands.” The Empath stood back, said, “There Is no need to bellow.”
“I’ll shout if I like,” screamed the Sociopath. “I’m the only one who needs be pleased.”
The Empath stepped forward, calmly boxed the Sociopath’s ears and said, “Now everyone’s pain is eased.”
daddi
September 29, 2020
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