We Were Younger

 

We were younger and optimistic 
              for our nation and planet.

 Pessimism is newer, 
              painful and useless.

I am in pain
              seeking a cure. 

We Were Younger

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2022 :: We Were Younger :: 2202

 

Hope Cemetery

Do a double-take.
Read this sign again: “HOPE Cemetery"
—clear, bold, and large.

Is it not true?
With death, unanswered questions become answered questions. What remains for hope's good work? 

Hope Cemetery

Bob Komives

In life, hope has much to do.
I can live with hope to lose weight, but pallbearers will know: I did or I did not.

You and I might hope to get rich.
Will we?—a boring, unanswered question. Did we?—More interesting, perhaps, but—simply—"no" or "yes." If alive and already rich, we hope to stay that way. Yet, beneath a tombstone, such hope likely turns to smile or frown.

As to afterlife
(no matter our belief and hope) we can agree nobody looks around heaven and says, "I hope I get to be here."

In quandary I asked clear-thinking friends for help. One suggested I misread the sign, but I have faith in the quality of my double-take.

"Perhaps the message in the name is for us—not them," said others. “As we pass by we remember those who have passed away, but we should also remember to treasure each day, appreciate our ancestors, our heritage, the continuity of life.” I like these thoughts but have difficulty calling them hope.

“It is obvious”, said another, “the graveyard is for jerks, scoundrels, miscreants. Our hope is that they will stay dead.” I try to be open to this view, but—as a city planner—I think of how such intentional land use would destroy tourism and real estate value.

I warm more to a suggestion that resident graveyard hope need not be profound. “Mundane items that haunt us while alive may persist into our grave. For example: 'I hope I remembered to turn off the gas on the stove.' " That thought may well hit coffin-nail on the head.

But yet another suggestion 
allows me to puzzle no more:

  In HOPE Cemetery, hopes do co-mingle.
  Both the living and the dead hope
      to be remembered well,
      to be remembered clearly—
    remembered
      by those who once explored and opened paths
      that remain open before us,
    and remembered
      by those who will advance or retreat
      0n paths we leave behind us.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2018 :: Hope Cemetery :: 1613 

If I Were a Perfect Cat

If I were a perfect cat,
   good as good can be,
would I breed and feed a neighborhood of kittens
   and teach them to love and worship me?
Perhaps I would,
   but I would be selfish--
   I would not be as good as a good cat can be.

 

If I Were a Perfect Cat
Bob Komives

What is lovable about my master?
   I call him Mister Supreme.
Yes, he took me in;
he fed and sheltered me--
   but that is easy enough for the all-powerful.
Indeed, he is good to me--
   but that he should be.
He has that obligation.
It is he who chose to bring me in,
and he who expects me to be the perfect cat.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2017 :: If I were a Perfect Cat  :: 1707

After A Long Pause

As often happens,

someone asked how he became so successful.

He smiled.

I owe it to advice I got from my uncle as I boarded the ship to leave the old country.

Never say never or always;
people can always prove you wrong.
Seldom say sometimes or maybe;
people may at times find you timid.
Be moderate in all things,
lest you grow old too quickly.
Yet, never be excessive in your moderation,
lest you forget what it is to be young.
On Tuesday and Thursday
be sure to look before you leap.
Other days,
do not be he who hesitates.
Know that he who has no rules is yet to be born;
he who has no exceptions has yet to live.
Take ownership of your future
or of your past
never of both.
Finally,
repeat good advice by the whole
and live the best advice by halves.

As often happens,

after a long pause,

someone asked his opinion of the weather.

After A Long Pause

Bob Komives

Fort Collins (c) 1994 :: After a Long Pause :: ,9424

Benches of Hercegkút

           Yes, these are pretty flowers.

Does not every village have such flowers?
We have two hundred simple houses,
two hundred root cellars,
three hundred wine cellars,
and two simple churches;
but no castle,
no museum.
Everyone will wonder why you wandered by.

           
           

           Yes, this is my bench.
Does not every village have such benches?
We sit in front of our houses,
in front of our fences,
facing out,
along the walk,
looking over our flowers to the street,
looking after each other,
watching for you.
Can there be village without benches?
Why have flowers but no bench to sit on?
Why have neighbors but no benches for them to
      wander by?

           Yes, I sit here when my work is done.
Should not everyone have such a bench?
I sit here to rest,
speak to my neighbors,
enjoy my flowers and today's best story.
I speak here from my wisdom,
from my prejudice.
I sat here with each of my babies on display for
      all to see.
I teach each grandchild to sit here,
say hello,
and kiss an elder's hand.
I watch,
and I remember to tell my neighbors who has
      come by while they were hard at work.
I return your smile,
answer your greeting,
and wonder why you would have no bench yet
      have interest in mine.
Here, fifty neighbors pass on bicycle and foot
while the others stand hard by their work or sit
      upon benches to look.
They will wonder.
They will wonder until I tell them why you wandered by.

Benches of Hercegkút

Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: Benches :: ,9716    

Life is Rough; Life is Good.

From branch quite alive
this beautiful leaf falls to its death
to be reborn as nourishment
for same branch,
old tree,
new leaf. 



Life is rough
and life is good.
Land is rough,
but land is good.

Waters get rough
and harm us,
yet water is good;
it enlivens us.


Our past taught hard lessons
as it brought all that is good.

 

From branch quite alive
this beautiful leaf falls to its death
to be reborn as nourishment
for same branch,
old tree,
new leaf.






Life is Rough; Life is Good
Bob Komives




Fort Collins (c) 2016 :: Life is Rough; Life is Good. :: 1609

Untitled, 4-Lines

When morning is singular

amid beauties too numerous

let me be humble

let me be proud.

Untitled, 4-Lines

Bob Komives 

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2015 :: Untitled, 4-Lines  :: 1502

Shadow of Our Photographer

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

How many people have come here
once in one lifetime?
          from other continents and this,
          from down the road a bit,
          during summer of 39 or Autumn of 93,
          before or after,
          to look at this mountain and that valley,
          to walk a few steps on this trail,
          to take this photograph
          that sits in how many albums
          showing familiar figures
          who stand before known stone and tundra,
          and showing unknown figures
          who take the same picture.

Shadow of Our Photographer

Bob Komives

I have come thirty times.
First, from a thousand miles and forty years away.
Now, through twenty years from forty miles.
Each time I stand in awe
of this public beauty and my private privilege,
and, for a moment,
each time I imagine all who have shared them.

Sometimes,
far from here,
among strangers
enjoying separately a common experience,
I think of here
and want to ask if we have it in common too
--a memory that would make us kin.

I have never braved that question.
But, here, today,
I will ask you about a distant place I once visited.
For if we share two places
we will meet for the first time as old friends.

No matter your answer,
we will go separate ways
to add like photograph to like album,
to write, perhaps,
a note about this place,
and include, perhaps,
something about the shadow of our photographer.




 

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins  © 1995 :: Shadow of Our Photographer :: ,9905

For The Creative Day

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

Yes,
we are passionate about our project.
We are passionate not because we presume
that we,
finally,
are the ones to save our imperfect species
     and threatened planet,
but because it is our turn.
It is our turn
to save,
beautify,
improve,
and enjoy
our brief time and changing world.

For The Creative Day

Bob Komives

Every generation,
each century,
each millennium
challenges our species and our planet,
because our species and planet challenge each other.
Our 21st Century is at once both unique 

     and no different.

Abundance,
we have stolen it, produced it, consumed it, wasted it,
leaving residue of pleasure and guilt.

Nature,
the living world of which we are but a small part,
we threaten with crassness and calories.

Technology,
we embrace, but seldom understand it;
we connect through it while feeling more disconnected;
we demand that it move us faster

     while we dream of  slowing down;
and  for every fear it erases we discover new anxiety.

Mortality,
we know more about it than our ancestors
but seem to find it harder to accept.

Yet,
every depressing hour calls out for the creative day
     that we insist on having.
Seasoned
we are by trials.
Inspired
we are by beauty,
     generosity,
     sensitivity,
     resilience,
     the creative optimism of others
     that we find humbly reflected in ourselves.
In well-seasoned optimism
we acknowledge struggles,
share joys,
encourage each other--
     among others.
As we marvel at how much we have in common
we celebrate our differing skills.
In fond, artistic union
we celebrate
     what we make audible of  what one sees,
     and what we make visible of what one hears.
 

Fort Collins © 2014 :: For The Creative  Day  :: 1403

Shaken, Wander-on.

  

 

I walk the bank of the river.
Watch
          fishermen, 
          boats,
          and swans. 

Cross, continue, away from center. 

Shaken, Wander-on

Bob Komives

 

Curious, I wander on
         toward a smokestack,
         a long-vacant lot, basketball hoops, high fence. 

 

Beyond, 
         unclearly, a large church,
         clearly, a lower building attached and well-maintained, 
         music,
         a sign:
        "Music School". 

At the corner, right turn.

The church, now clearly, in disrepair, 
         windows broken, grounds overgrown, facade pocked. 

Door,
         to my surprise, 
         open.

I peek inside. 
          into  great, dark space,
          theater lights,
          portable wall covered with drawings,
          a dozen people illuminated as at a campfire,
          one who speaks.

I do not go in, but step back
         to notice symbols above the door.

Further back,
          I now see no church, no Christian church.
          
I see that I see a Jewish synagogue. 

Back at the door,
          motioned in by a man,
          awed in the dim by two tiers of balconies
          the immense space under dome, 
          a canopy, Hebrew scripture on tablets above,
          
All in severe disrepair,
          light through towering broken windows,
          a floor that feels like dirt under foot.

Knees weaken
          with thought of those who once worshiped here. 

Distracted, haunted,
         my heart, eyes, ears wander on.

Challenged now by the man's presentation,
          strange language, 
          the drawings,
          a paper hand-out.

 

This was, 
         this is
         the Győr Synagogue—completed in 1870— 
         This is
         the beginning of an effort at restoration.

Shaken, I wander on. 

To pass another building,
         renaissance revival in form, 
         painted pale yellow with little care,
         metal ramp to the street,
         a sign that says
         this is no more than a storage place for a chain of stores. 

But then, 
         above eye level,
         on the face of this mysterious building, 
         a dark plaque,
         new enough to shine against dull yellow. 

I step back, look up
         knowing in my heart what the plaque will tell me.

With the help of a dictionary and a learner's Hungarian:
         This is, indeed, a storage place,
         the place to store the Jews of Győr in 1944, 
         before their journey to Poland—five thousand to their death.

Shaken, I wander-on.
Shaken, wander-on. 
Shaken, wander-on. 

poem by Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2016 :: Shaken, Wander-on :: 1616

Beauty's Laws

Beauty's laws we partially know

by their refusal to obey our own
unwilling to be always sensible
nor nonsensical
humble
nor august
Each is silent, yet articulate
simultaneous, but free of babble
timeless and immediate

Beauty's Laws

Bob Komives

 Fort Collins © 2007 :: Beauty's Laws :: 0702

CLICK to see as part of one of several graphic and poetry triptychs.

Quandary, If Obvious and Necessary

..

Quandary, if obvious and necessary,
is not quandary but matter of fact.

Ponder:
how breeze be more vast than its meadow,
   yet meadow be much more than its wind;
how river be greater than valley,
   and valley greater than water within.
how mystery multiplies within and around us
   if in science we explore each nook and space.
And child, neighbor, lover, friend:
how our embrace holds far more than meaning;
   yet meaning holds all we embrace.

Quandary, If Obvious and Necessary

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2003 :: Quandary, If Obvious and Necessary :: 0304

Will Archaeologist Dig Us Up?

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

We inter kitchen waste in our garden where it helps us produce
        tomatoes,
        lettuce,
        and beans,
which, in turn, make garden debris and kitchen waste for us to bury where they will help us produce
        tomatoes,
        lettuce,
        and beans.

 

Will Archeologist Dig Us Up?

Bob Komives

 

With burning banned and land fill filling, we should match production to our rate of decay. We do not. Our garden rises. Every fifth year we add three and one-half inches of timber around rising vegetables in our risen soil. Elsewhere in our yard the rise is subtle. Our house sinks without moving. Patio and walk descend to become pond and river, while culprit flowers and lawn look innocent.

I never understood why archaeologist must unearth cities, dig down, and further down through past city below, into lost civilization beneath, to disinter them, bring them up and out, from oblivion into history. I did not understand until I noticed my land grow upward at millennial pace toward burial of my home—obscuring:
        noble purpose,
        romance,
        our sense of good citizenship
        in burial of garbage
        where
        and when
        we live.
Our commandments are noble and moral, are they not?
        Live with our garbage!
        Make it useful!

        And, in turn,
        Fight erosion!
Erosion robs soil and nutrient—carries them away as spoil and pollution. I do seek to prevent erosion—have supported its prevention by others. Lately, however, as I inter bucketfuls of kitchen waste I unearth questions:
    Will archaeologist dig us up?
        with purpose?
        by accident?
    How tiny is that likelihood?
        for this era?
        my neighborhood?
    Or, is erosion the only likely future,
        humble accident,
        ignoble story
    that may keep us above oblivion?

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2003 :: Will Archaeologist Dig Us Up? :: 0302

November Trilogy

November Four: Steamed-over Window

November Four.
At random point
among countless droplets
a large drop has formed.
Trailing clarity above,
consuming droplets below,
it grows,
accelerates,
descends.

November Trilogy

Bob Komives

I saw it as a dark stripe,
one among a few
in bright translucence
on steamed-over window.

Now,
I notice it to be a slit,
a narrow window,
inviting attention
into a slice of the world outside.

Looking elsewhere along the glass,
I see nothing,
a diffusion of light,
a confusion of focus,
encouragement to give attention inside.

Now, distraction,
peripheral movement
beyond a transparent stripe.
I look through to a place
that is nowhere else a place.
Something sits there,
something stands there,
something happens,
somebody passes,
something inspires a thought.

With the thought
attention turns to reflection,
back through translucence
to a place
and a moment
alone
in me.

Until,
beside me,
I notice again the glass.
My stripe has faded,
gone from transparent to translucent.
A few over-sized droplets
hint at where my view had been.

Now,
nearby,
unpredicted,
another drop,
another slice of clarity,
new place outside,
new thought inside.
Translucence becomes transparent.
Thought becomes reflective.

In these countless droplets
I find rare reflection of everyday mind.

.

.

November Five: Below The Ankles

November Five.
Alive in a long, warm autumn.
A walk across the college campus.
Feelings of being over-dressed and over-aged.
A day to look around.

Who wears his cap bill-back?
Of which tribe are he and she and they?
Who wears her cap bill-front?
Of which tribe are she and they and he?
Can I trust conclusions from years of observation?
The Bill-fronts have come back
(from near extinction)
to dominate.
Have they prospered by conversion?
in-migration?
propagation?
war?
No matter the explanation,
a more obvious observation:
    the hat on my head is popular
    only among dermatologists.
Conveniently too warm,
I stow hat into pocket
and join the inconspicuous tribe
(yet populous tribe)
of No-bills.
This humble act pulls my eyes down
to where I happen to notice feet,
two, three pairs of feet,
walking and standing
(to my surprise)
on the thonged sandals I know as flip-flops.
Surpised,
pleased,
these artifacts too avoid extinction-
after tenuous years of survival
inside a few shower rooms,
outside on lonely July beaches,
and, of course,
here on a warm November day
on my two feet.
They survived verbal abuse
from cross-foot-sandal tribes,
from friend and family.
During its ascendance
the cross-foot became more rugged,
more varied,
expensive-
kicking humble flip-flops from the landscape.
But today I see three,
four, five young women of fashion
wearing sturdy, expensive flip-flops.
They signal a re-born trend,
and acknowledge me as leader.

I walk off campus,
more alive,
newly aligned,
and rejuvenated below the ankles.

.

.

November Six: Indian Summer

November Six.
Closed up,
gaps filled,
steel in our resolve,
food in our tins,
ready for months of eating from pantry,
we are seduced
to go back out
open up
to the heat outside.
Overdressed again for morning.
Underdressed again by evening.

Warmth and sun after an autumn-dark frost,
we call it Indian Summer,
not knowing why,
but surely a tribute:
     we give worthy names to glorious times.
Indian Summer lingers this year,
three weeks at least.
Each day is too short to be borrowed of summer.
We steal it from winter.
And, oh, what reward for thievery!
The more we steal
the briefer our penalty.
Except,
until,
we begin to admit our winter worry.
Having postponed complaints of snow and cold
we worry about the inevitable onslaught
that must build in anger and severity
each pleasant day it is kept away.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to fear of snowless winter
confused trees,
expectant garden,
open land,
too exposed,
too dry.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to wanting a spring
that we know must follow winter.
Oh, Indian Summer:
      we love you.
      You are warm and illicit.
      We always welcome you.
      We thank you for this beautiful afternoon
      and for this perfect evening
      when you may sneak away
      and stay
      until you hear us petition
      for our seduction
      next year.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: November Trilogy :: 0206t