Do Not Think Me a Pundit

 

 

 

 

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2024 :: Do Not Think Me A Pundit :: 2401

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 

Yes, Yes I Was

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2017 :: 1708

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

Ode to Bollard

Oh, Bollards; Oh, Bollards.
Pillars of my community.
Through old-town alley and downtown street,
past art and fun,
in winter cold and summer heat,
you guide me,
protect me.
For my comings out and my goings in
you keep me out of harms way.
Ode to Bollard
Bob Komives 
Yet,
do I notice?
do I say?
“Thank you, Bollard,”
or even:
“Bollard, good day!”
No, Bollard; No, Bollards.
At least,
not until this morning
when you helped me walk 
to museum (that has genius on display),
to old town's square, 
then
by that place of playful children.
You kept me from 
traffic's hazards,
ugly's dumpsters,
then guided me on 
to hardware store for errand of the day.

Oh, Bollards; Oh Bollards.
Where buildings loom tall and cubical,
(where straight streets abound)
you too stand straight, 
but
short,
humble,
round.

Oh, Bollard; Oh, Bollards.
While you are too noticed and familiar 
to
Canis 
lupus 
familiaris,
you are visibly invisible,
unfamiliar,
ignored,
alien
to
Homo
sapiens 
sapiens.

Oh, Bollards; My Bollards.
Pillars of my protection.
Please take notice of my notice;
please accept my affection.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2015 :: Ode To Bollard  :: 1504

Cyclist's Reflection

Datelines
Place-lines
Signs

... September twenty-nine ...

"Brandon Gap"

"Nine Percent Decline" 

Precious are moments and places

where

when

agony turns well to pleasure

Cyclist's Reflection

Bob Komives

                          Fort Collins (c) 2016 :: Cyclist's Reflection :: 1612

I Want Egy Száraz Vörös Hosszúlépés

I Want Egy Száraz Vörös Hosszúlépés

Bob Komives






Balázs told me
Hungarians almost always drink soda with wine. 
I now know how to order it.
The drink is such common knowledge 
it does not appear on a menu:

Egy nagy fehér (or vörös) fröccs 
2 portions of white (or red) wine with one of soda in a large glass

Egy kis (vörös) fröccs 
1 portion of (red) wine & one of soda 
in a small glass

Egy (fehér) hosszúlépés (a long step)
1 portion of (white) wine with two of soda 
in a large glass

Later I discovered
I need to specify
whether the wine is to be 
dry (száraz) or sweet (édes). 

Egy Száraz Vörös Hosszúlépést Kérek.



























poem by Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1993 :: I Want Egy Száraz Vörös Hosszúlépés :: ,0x30

Yes, Yes I Was

Yes, Yes I Was
Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2017 ::  1708

The Bicycle :: :: an ode to fun

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

          The bicycle is a kind machine.    
          It will take you up any road up any hill,
          if, indeed, your muscle will.

          Then coming down, with your muscle toned,
          your bicycle will do it all alone.

                Yes, it will--
                     while you sit still.

                                    Yes, it will.

The Bicycle
                                                                                    an ode to fun

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1994 :: The Bicycle  :: 9416

If Twenty-Miles-Per-Hour Caused Cancer

If twenty-miles-per-hour and faster
were proven risk for cancer,
speed would be disease.
We would attend seminars on slowing down,
preach against moving too fast,
and mourn too-many of our too-speedy loved ones.

If Twenty-Miles-Per-Hour Caused Cancer

Bob Komives

Speed limits would be posted in journals
but unnecessary along our roads.
Sixty-one would be minimum legal age for sprinting.
Health food stores would sell slowing vegetables
harvested by nearby, slow farmers,
and, as well,
they would sell speeding herbs
believed, in certain cults, to grant immunity. 

If twenty-miles-per-hour caused cancer
the word “automobile” would be old-fashion,
a quaint mistake of inventive evolution
on the road to the all-weather Sport-Utility Chair.
the trendy, Hand-Made, Low-Gear Bicycle,
and, of course, the Humphrey:
     Hybrid Horse-Horseless buggy
     fueled half-time by stew of its own manure.

Fort Collins © 2007 :: If If Twenty-Miles-Per-Hour Caused Cancer :: 0711

If Everybody Could Draw but Few Could Hug

If everybody could draw but few could hug
we would appreciate the art in a beautiful embrace,
Michelangelo would be gone from memory
and from the Sistine Chapel.

If Everybody Could Draw but Few Could Hug

Bob Komives

We would express powerful emotions with sketches on our shirt sleeves
and buy shirts only if their sleeves were drawable.
Tatoos would be do-it-yourself and erasable.
Hugs would be flaunted by the rich who can afford them,
enjoyed by the poor who can’t sell them,
and envied by the middle class
who can’t save them.

Fort Collins © 2007 :: If Everybody Could Draw but Few Could Hug :: 0710

“Cordless”

Perhaps you, as I, are puzzled by the lack of clarity
in the much-used word, “cordless.”

If the word “cordless” means “without cord”
I drink from cordless beer mug,
eat cordless bananas,
write with cordless pencil.
Eve and Adam were cordless people.

"Cordless"

Bob Komives

If “cordless” means “once-upon-a-time-had-a-cord”
the rest of us are cordless people—
crazy people, if we speak of “cordless screwdrivers.”
For, I have owned dozens such tools,
but not one with a cord—
       except the day I attached a string to one
       for fear of losing yet another down the well.

If “cordless” means “empowered by battery”
I almost understand the term.
My wristwatch is cordless;
I can’t wind its spring.
And, though my camera has a wrist cord,
it too is made cordless
by double-double-A cells.
I now have several friends
       with somewhat cordless automobiles,
and one with a kind-but-cordless pacemakered heart—
But, as of yet, only robots are truly cordless people.

If, after all this puzzling,
you share my conclusion
that “cordless” means “meaningless”
we can only wish somehow to have enjoyed
       this cordless waste of our time.

 Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2007 :: "Cordless" :: 0709

Midnight Hailstorm

.  .
I write


.  .
unnerved


.  .  .  .  .  .  .
under ping-ponging skylight



.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
bicycle helmet out of reach

Midnight Hailstorm
June 8-9, 2011

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2003 :: Midnight Hailstorm :: 1103

Cliché Cliché

____     Each cliché is true;

____     every cliché is false;

____     always;

____     never;

____     above all;

____     whenever;

____     every other time.

Cliché Cliché

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2002 :: Cliché Cliché :: 0218

Renovation

 

Renovation

Bob Komives

Hammer, pound, ten-penny nail.

 

Board

cut  

paint

pail.

Pipe

fitting

duct

tape.

Dust

plaster

undo

make.

Muscle

finesse

precision

eye.

Lift

pull

screw

pry.

Order

mess

disorder

clean.

Count

draw

stand

lean.

Nuts

bits

apron

gloves.

Callous

cuts

nudge

shove.

 

End today, tomorrow again.

 

Crosscut

rip

break

mend.

Strip wire

wind tight.

Black to black,

white to white.

 

Climb ladder, two-by-four.

 

Crowbar

pencil

chisel

door.

Hangers

drivers

inches

pound.

Levels

bevels

squares

round.

Eight-penny

too many

too short

too long.

 

Measure twice; remember wrong.

 

Joist

hoist

tacky

dry.

Smooth

moist

give-up

try.

To frame

and sheathe

to trim

and bend.

 

Length to width to end again.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2002 :: Renovation ::0215

co-posted on Komivesian Economics

It is a Decrepit Back Porch.

It is a Decrepit Back Porch

Bob Komives

Squirrels live in my back-porch roof.
It is a decrepit porch that should be torn down,
but they do not wish to leave.
Their grandparents grew up there.
(Tradition is important to squirrels.)
When I complain to them
they complain to me.
They chatter at me
for the aunts and uncles I took to corn fields.
I protest,
life for squirrels must be nicer in the country.
Besides, I say,
you pay no rent and you scare my cat.
They protest that I do not spill enough cat food;
they must import peanuts
from the yard of my neighbor who feeds them.
So, why don't you live over there, I ask?
We tried, they say,
but we got lazy
forgot the skills:
climbing poles,
scaling wires,
defying owls,
climbing fences,
flying tree to tree,
limb to limb,
fence to tree to wire to porch.
Some debates cannot be won.
It seems
my decrepit back porch keeps squirrels sound,
alert,
and around.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2002 :: It is a Decrepit Back Porch :: 0209

Leaf On My Floor

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

You, leaf on my floor,
inside my house,
in through my door,
you, done with your work,
unwanted leaf,
get out!
out to my fire to burn!

Leaf On My Floor

Bob Komives

 

I, boot on your stem,
bend,
blood to my head,
stop,
kink to my back,
feel,
guilt to my heart,
smile,
time to rethink.
          
You, leaf on my floor,
found under foot,
blown through the door:
I know
generations of your ancestors
helped my tree
make energy from sun,
grow,
give out seeds
and give me beauty;
I know
this year's beauty included you.
     
I, months ago,
        said to a friend,
       look at the beauty in that tree leafing out.
Weeks ago,
       I said, look!
       look at the beauty in that tree turning red.
Hours ago,
       I said, look outside!
       as leaves fell beautifully in autumn wind.
Now,
       some class of hypocrite am I
       to treat a leaf on my floor
       as clod of waste to put out the door.
 
If this were a just world
I would be found guilty of leaf slaughter
or reckless abandonment,
imprisoned in a cell
where I could see no leaf,
no tree,
no change of season;
in a cell so clean
it could never know you
nor twig,
nor seed,
nor speck of fertile mud.
           
I, blood into my heart,
guilt out through my head,
pride straight up my back,
say, come now,
dear Leaf,
dear Retired Leaf.
I take you up from my floor,
back through my door,
to beneath our tree
and set you gently to rest.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2001 :: Leaf On My Floor :: 0107

A Glass House In Santiago

I see a picture,
read the text:
a glass house in Santiago,
eight-foot-by-eight-foot,
a Chilean glass box
in which I see a beautiful actress
living her life
an artful experiment
in easy view of public gawking.

A Glass House in Santiago

Bob Komives

She bathes and eats,
eliminates,
shower without curtain,
water closet without closet;
undresses and dresses
without recesses
from which to display her privacy
for public eyes
in city center
with walkers and riders
passing by,
coming to,
and lingering.
I read that she takes in visitors,
but see no mention of her lover.
I read it is a project,
art and science,
an exercise
of freedom
of expression
to measure how we act and feel
about her particular
and our more general
right and respect of privacy.
I value the art,
'wish I were there,
but quibble with the science.
I would build one hundred glass boxes,
she would live beautifully in hers,
a plain person would live in every other,
burning toast,
getting influenza,
a joyful letter,
tragic phone call,
or bad dream
received and tended to
in open view
of people bored enough to watch.
Or, if one hundred is too many,
I suggest they build one more,
just another one beside her,
another glass house
with me inside,
to look her way
for science sake
for facts that prove the obvious.
For this is my hypothesis:
by several standard deviations
and in every respect that occurs,
my glass house of privacy
earns more respect than hers.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2000 :: A Glass House in Santiago :: 0002

Long-Legged Women (of Székesfehérvár)

As long-legged women upon
........ long-heeled shoe
come walk their way through
........ reconstruction
their up-shallowed skirt-hems over
........ down-deepened tan
invite my blood to
........ feel seduction,
till purposeful paces under
........ pertinent voice
announce their course has
........ their direction,
and long-legged women upon
........ long-heeled shoe
have walked their way past
........ my corruption.

Long-legged Women

(of Székesfehérvár)

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1997 :: Long Legged Women :: ,9714