So, here it is, tax day, again,
The end of that extended time that
Many beg to do the homework that remains
Even after school has ended
(For some, not all, of course,
Because there are classes in session even now
And Friday night’s lights and Saturday’s contest schedule beckon),
And once again, many have waited until the last to submit,
Fearing the fees and fines as they once feared the Fs that
I am pretty sure bedecked some of their report cards–
Which is to say
Not at all
Until suddenly and sharply

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They say
That nebulous they
That so many say they
Hear but so few say
They are among, that they,
That the kids in this day
And age can barely play
Except upon their screens, though they
Themselves will scarce look up. (Okay,
I’m no better for this than they
Are, as is as clear as day,
Since I use a screen, myself, to say
What I will to my angst allay.
But I see so many in the fray
Of life, proceeding day to day,
And, yes, it’s not untrue that they
Spend great parts of every day
On screens–although, again, they
Are not alone in doing so, but, hey,
We’ve got to find bad things to say
About the ones succeeding us, claim decay
In what they do and are so that we may,
Perhaps, feel better for our past heyday–
Just as was done for us. We must relay
That baton from our own parents’ day
As they did theirs, and thus assay
To keep them in their place, make them pay
For what they never purchased.

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I sometimes look back at my old work
Read over what I wrote when I was before
And realize just how big of a jerk
I was. That I’m not such anymore
I’d like to think but better know
Because I am less than I was.
Such is the way things often go,
The reason, of course, “Just because.”

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Dare I still lift my voice to the despite
Of Stupid God when, in plain and open sight,
Its cult will rise and with no sense of fright
Assail who speak such words as they disdain?
Dare I lift up my voice in that refrain
To which I return often in the pain
Of hearing Stupid God by many praised
When they by tree-borne rope would have them raised
Who have not argued yet are not so crazed
In that ill worship as are they? Dare I
Let yet another day of this pass by,
This making of the world a filthy sty
Fit not for foulest swine, a reeking cess
That sucks at heels and hinders all progress?

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Instead of sitting staring at the screen,
I should take pen in hand and ink a page
Or more than one. If I do truly mean
To make myself a writer and assuage
The guilt I feel, give voice to the rage
That swells between my arms–too thin and weak
To do much to avail against a cage–
Then I cannot let myself be so meek
As to withhold my voice. Of fear I reek,
I know; I smell myself. Yet I am keen
To make of myself more, and I will seek
Some way in which my value can be seen.
But I cannot command that others look
At what I scribe on screen or in a book.

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When they are gone who should be here,
I keep the porchlight burning clear
So they can always find a way
Back to our home, by night or day.

When I accept that they have left,
And home of them has been bereft,
I then will let the light go out–
But only when I have no doubt.

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The stacks of books and magazines rise high,
Each thing that’s piled upon them seeks my eye,
And I lament that I must oft pass by
Some well-worn volumes. Long they’ve graced my shelves
And gathered hand-oils and dust to themselves,
Those mines in which a glad mind often delves,
Those comforts, blankets shutting out the cold
Of which the world has plenty. I had sold
Myself to their devotion young; now old,
I scarce sustain that practice I enjoyed,
The ritual rereadings that upbuoyed
My soul–but I am not by this annoyed,
For though I seldom visit anymore,
I know with them I’ll never find closed doors.

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Even in showing utopian futures–
For example
Those shining Starfleet days to come
With concertos played and plays performed
A shining-headed captain tooting his flute–
It is only the older arts that are seen
Unless there is some pop-point to be made
About kids these days and their newfangled ways

It must be remembered
“U” comes long after “dys,”
Something familiar from dictionaries and thesauri
No few writers have all too clearly used,
And it’s not likely the lawyers were lonely
Being sent away

Even,
As rarely,
When new arts are made
To feature in those hopeful futures,
Think of where the poets appear
And consider if it is not the case that
Another Chixulub is ready to form

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