I was brought up in the shadow of (and named after) a dead hero, my mother's
brother. I daydreamed myself as great in every way. Too bad, reality constantly
interfered. I suppose I have my share of talents and abilities. But that
doesn't count much when you are supposed to be the best out of 6 billion in
every human endeavor. What set this poem going besides waking up at 2:40 AM
probably with a sugar overdose, was listening to Stokowski's orchestration of
Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor last night. No way, no way ever I could
even imagine writing such music. That was not my lot in life, as so many
other lots weren't. Perhaps my entire orientation has been wrong. Is it
resignation, or should I accept Candide's final viewpoint on life? And my
grandfather, Saul, once urged me just before one of his operations to read
Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard. For me a life lesson largely ignored
for so many years and nowhere near fully learned yet.

19 April 2006  3:00 - 4:00 AM
Vain Ambition's Cure

Is poetry better than prose?
I'm quite sure that nobody knows.
Should poems have meter and rhyme?
Yes, I think, most of the time.
My poems are witty and light.
I find that they're easy to write
Why then have I not won a prize?
They're not that good I must surmise.
In any case I should feel great.
For anything I can create.
I can't compose like Bach or Brahms.
My lectures don't inspire psalms.
My science is mid'ling to fair.
I don't build or even repair.
I can't paint a portrait or draw.
I'm not fit to practice the law.
I neither can heal nor can cure.
My visage excites no allure.
In swimming, in biking, or track.
I find myself back in the pack.
I'm not shrewd and cannot play poker.
My humor is just mediocre.
Yet I have no cause to complain.
My life's filled with more joy than pain.
And though my skills are far from great 
Its enough to appreciate.
The great things that others can do.
And most of all how I love you.