Opera Schmopera

For her birthday one year, my wife and I took my Mom to an Opera Dinner at Sotto Sopra Italian restaurant in Baltimore, MD.  The 6-course meal with live operatic performances throughout the evening is a real treat for opera lovers.  Since we were going to hear arias from a variety of operas, I wrote this poem on her invitation.

THE OPERA FROM HELL
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

When we first started out I wrote une poeme,

To celebrate going to see La Boheme.

Then the season got changed and they booked a new story,

So I wrote a long verse about Il Trovatore.

Then that one fell through, and it made me get crotchety,

Tryin’ to develop a rhyme for Pagliacchity.

Once more they adjusted, and once more I needed,

To come up with something that works with Aida.

But they did it again, (now it’s getting pro-forma),

So I started all over a-rhyming with Norma.

Well son of a gun, now, and ain’t it just charmin’,

They’ve revised the damn thing – and this time it’s Carmen.

Those bastards, I wish they would all go to Hell-o,

They switched it and scheduled a night of Otello.

I’m blowin’ the opera house up, cause I’ve gotta

Re-write the whole thing – now it’s La Traviata!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Love, Brazilian Style

My wife loves Italian food!  In fact, she says, "I may not be not Italian, but I'd be willing to convert!"  But for Valentine's Day in 2000, instead of Italian, I decided to take her out for a Brazilian feast.  Here is the poem on her invitation.

DIA DOS ENAMORADOS
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

You've often confessed that you'd like to convert,
But just for tonight, Dear, that plan we’ll subvert.
We’re staying away from all things Neopolitan,
But don’t worry none, we’ll still go cosmopolitan. 

But….

It’ll be vinho tinto instead of chianti,

And caipirinhas, not asti spumanti.

Tonight it’s churrasco and not scaloppini,

And a nice feijoada, replacing linguine.

So….

This Valentine’s Day we’ll be dining in style,

To that great samba beat that makes everyone smile.

And with someone we love, and with food we adore,

Tonight “mio amore” will be “meu amor”!

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, SWEETHEART!!!!!

Long Live The King

I wrote this on August 16, 1977 – the day Elvis died.  Don't know what inspired me to write it; I wasn't a huge Elvis fan or anything.  Guess it was a slow day at work and the spirit just moved me.  But for some reason it's still in my head after all these years.  So it seems appropriate to write it down on the 35th anniversary of his death.

IN MEMORY OF ELVIS
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

For Elvis the Pelvis we all deeply mourn.

Without him, Rock’n’Roll might never've been born.

Way back in the ‘50s the whole world was ready,

To hear him sing Hound Dog, and Tender, and Teddy.

We miss him already though he’s just barely gone.

We cherish the memory of his hips and his song.

We’d all love to tell him, “Dear Elvis you’re great!”

But for Elvis the Pelvis, I’m afraid it’s too late.

He passed away August the 16^th, they say.

His feet move no more; his guitar’s put away.

It’s tragic to think of The King in the ground,

When they cover him up so he can’t make a sound.

No songs can be heard from our hero’s sweet lips,

No motion is seen in his legs and his hips,

"Oh Elvis, dear Elvis, won’t you please make us cry?"

No, Elvis the Pelvis is singin’ in the sky.

Gone Coco-nuts

One year my parents took a vacation to Hawaii with my Aunt Millie and Uncle Leigh.  They had a such a great time that they didn't want to come back.  After hearing their stories, I wrote this poem for Mother's Day.

A MOTHER'S DAY FANTASY
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

It was lo these many years ago, in May of ninety-seven,

On a sojourn for a fortnight to a little piece of heaven,

That our mystery begins where the Pacific currents churn,

For Bob and Pat went off that day and never did return.

Perhaps their ship's been wrecked on an atoll in Polynesia,

Or some coconuts have bonked them causing mutual amnesia,

Or the sun has baked their brains and made them both non-compos-mental.

For what else could cause the Stones to give up all things continental?

One eye-witness said she saw them on the beach and acting silly,

Drinking something from a conch shell with some folks named Leigh and Millie.

And another said he spied them lying naked on the sand.

They had big smiles on their faces and they looked relaxed and tanned.

But they never did resurface and their trail has now grown cold.

The investigators did their best; (or so we have been told.)

My guess is that they're living on a beach out in the boonies,

Where the tourists think they're natives - and the natives think they're loonies.

But whether they're on Maui, or Lanai or Molokai,

Or they've run off to Oahu or retired to Kauai,

You know that they're in Heaven in their new home by the sea. 

Sounds like Paradise, Nirvana, and Utopia to me!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY 1997!

Whither Mankind?

My Dad was sort of a lay philosopher who used the term "whither mankind" to describe his thinking about the human condition.  He read layman's books on science and metaphysics just because they interested him; and would use that knowledge to try and find the common ground between the physical and the spiritual worlds.  He was always great fun to talk to about pretty much anything. And I sure do miss him!


QUESTIONS, QUESTIONS
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

Questions unanswered and mysteries unsolved.
Unprovable theories and facts unresolved.
Whither mankind?  Understanding one's wife?
And just what the heck IS the meaning of life?

Dilemmas like these are what prey on your mind.
You seek and you search, but no answers you find.
Quantum mechanics?  Do animals think?
Was Australopithecus really The Link?

What started it all?  Whence the whole human race?
What existed before the existence of space?
Big Bang?  Steady State?  Or divinity?
Is there really a God?  And is He a She?

So many ideas, and when you retire,
Your brain can pursue the eternal quagmire.
New issues to ponder and questions to beg.
Like which DID come first – the chick or the egg?

The Fountain of Youth

Can't remember what inspired me to riff on Einstein's famous mass-energy equivalence formula. This one's got one of my favorite words, "defenestration," in it.  But please don't hold me to the physics!

THE ULTIMATE VACATION

Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

Our concept of time is subjective, you see.

(Don't ask Albert E. to deny it.)

He said, "Square MC and you're bound to get E."

With curved time and space. Do you buy it?

By squirting through wormholes and other phenomena,

At speeds that are faster than light,

You can travel the distance from here to Andromeda,

And get home by bedtime – last night!

The key to this matter is acceleration,

Thus greater velocities seek.

It's an intergalactic defenestration,

A window in time, so to speak.

If you leave here tomorrow and come back today,

You're not moving quickly enough.

The trick is to get back last week, so you borrow,

From all that primordial stuff.

If you save up the years and the months and the days,

They'll increase at a logarithmic rate.

You can lay by the pool and absorb the sun's rays,

And actually rejuvenate.

So go on a cosmic vacation each year.

Don't the travel brochures sound divine?

By taking a luxury cruise without peer,

You can always remain twenty-nine.

Baby It's Hot Outside!

The temperature today is supposed to reach 100 degrees... again, with a "heat index" of 105-110.  In honor of this sweltering summer, here's a poem I wrote several years ago during a similar heat wave. (With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.)

IT'S NOT THE HEAT
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

Once upon a noontime sunny,

Overwhelmed by sweat a-runny,

Rolling down my brow and off my nose.

Ice-cold latté gently sipping,

(A vain attempt to stop the dripping,)

Drip, drip dripping; seeping through my clothes.

Then I spied a lovely lassie.

'Quick! Come up with something classy!'

Screamed my re-fried brain that steamy day.

But my mouth intoned stupidity,

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”

She glanced at me… and quickly walked away.

Upscale Mongering

Since my Dad also wrote poetry, our back-and-forth greeting cards often focused on the topic of, well, writing poems.  I gave him this one on Father's Day in 1995. If you've forgotten what was going on in the news that year, read on...

HOW HARD CAN IT BE?
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

How hard can it be to write a verse

That's warm or wise or witty?

For you and me it takes two secs

To pen an intelligent ditty.

So who are these guys that write the crap

That's stocking all the shelves?

They must be washed-up seasonal help

Like Santa's laid-off elves.

Say, maybe you and I should start

A business writing cards.

A highbrow venture of the mind

For two um...mortal bards.

We'd never stoop to age, or sex,

Or fishing, golf, or drinking.

We'd stick to wordly topics

So our cards would get folks thinking.

Of course it might be tricky

Using Chechnya in a rhyme.

And Bosnia-Herzegovina

Just might take a little time.

It's kinda tough, but I found a way

To make a rhyme with Cali –

But we'd need a big eruption

Or an armed revolt on Bali.

Well then, there's always Castro

and the goings-on in Cuba.

A well-constructed verse might say

That he's their...uh...Grand Poobah?

I've tried to rhyme with Clinton

But my efforts really stunk.

And when it comes to Gingrich, um...

Aw screw it - let's get drunk!

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY 1995!