Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘King of Kings’

NOTE FROM LB

Going all Biblical on you today, but not sure why. Maybe because a holiday that many people treat with a sort of religious reverence is coming this week. Maybe because I’m trying to escape these troubled times. Or because I’m looking for a way to face them.

Yeah, I’d like to think that.


King of Kings
by Larry Brody

I like to fantasize that in a previous life

I was King David, the sweet singer of Israel.

You know, the slayer of Goliath,

The Lord is my shepherd guy.

Little David had everything.

He was handsome. He was talented.

He was macho.

He was a king!

Of course, everything went to shit for him,

When he got old. Hundreds of failed marriages!

Children who kept trying to kill him!

Infirmities that kept him in bed for years!

So now that I think about it,

Why do I want to have been the big “D”?

Probably it has to do with all his sins,

A ton of them. And how after each one

He would fess up and beg God for forgiveness.

This is the Old Testament, mind you,

With a God who lay waste to whole cities,

Wiped out first-born children without a qualm,

Hell, even flooded the whole world!

But old David would ask for forgiveness,

And, presto, God would say, “Sure.

You’re forgiven. All is well.

Water under the bridge, my favored son.”

As long, that is, as David took his punishment.

Oh yes, the Lord forgave, but the Lord

Always made David pay.

That’s what all those rebellions and betrayals

Were about.

So I’m out here, living my current life,

And thinking, hey, once I was David,

Forgiven and punished,

Punished and forgiven,

Time after time after time.

Only what I’m really doing is praying,

For that same forgiveness,

And the strength

To take my punishment

Like a king.

###


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘My Mother’s Last Words’

NOTE FROM LB

No Navajo Dog today. No showbiz. No philosophy or religion. Just a remembrance not of but from years gone by.

Mothers! Ya gotta love ’em, right? And they’ve gotta love you.

And yet….


My Mother’s Last Words
by Larry Brody

My mother’s last words to me were,

“I love you,” over the phone. She spoke liltingly,

As though singing a song.

My mother was in Chicago, getting ready to die,

And I was in L.A., trying to live.

Both causes seemed vain. My mother had been

Whole and hearty only weeks before, with a

Suspicious spot on her lung, no more,

And I was in a city and a business and a way of life

That already had dropped me down for what I’d

Thought would be that last shovelful of earth.

But, “I love you,” she sang, and she meant goodbye.

In spite of all the motherly years, all the motherly deeds,

Good and bad, appreciated and resented, wanted and

Refused, I never had really felt loved by this

Cigarette-voiced, overwhelming woman.

No hug, no gift, no sign ever meant anything to me

But her own overpowering needs.

This musical “I love you,” though, was different.

It struck a chord that resonates within my body

Still. It bounces and swings and rocks like the

Best gospel song. It celebrates a whole world,

And gives a Mahalia Jackson soul to both the singer

And her audience of one. I didn’t know she could

Do it. I didn’t know she had that sound inside.

I didn’t know I could enjoy her music so much.

My mother died three days after singing that melody.

I live on in L.A. As I rise and scramble and

Seek my own song, I know at last that she loved me,

And as I feel the elation of the music, I know I loved her.

###


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘Great Spirits’

View down the Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts driveway. >sigh<

NOTE FROM LB

The image above was supposed to be of the last time I saw the Navajo Dog (although I didn’t know that’s what I was seeing) walking down the driveway. But when I looked at the file this morning, well, somehow she’d left the picture as well.

Magic is real…but that’s a song for another day.


Great Spirits
by Larry Brody

Since the Navajo dog and I stopped speaking,

Shortly after she trotted down our mountain

And vanished down the road to the next Astral Plain,

I’ve pretty much decided to hell with intermediaries,

I’ll go right to the source.

We’re talking the Great Spirit here, that’s right.

We’re talking God.

I speak to Him daily,

Usually in the shower,

Sometimes in the middle of the night

When I’ve been awakened by the insecurity and panic

That are a part of this kill-or-be-killed, law of the jungle

Situation now playing at your local theaters as life.

God’s an upright guy, as we used to say.

He always answers quickly—too quickly sometimes,

For me to comprehend.

Always, though, I believe.

God doesn’t confide in me. He doesn’t tell me His plans.

He doesn’t really answer my questions either. But

He does tell me when I’ve already gotten the answer for myself,

Whether what I’ve figured out is right or wrong,

And He laughs a lot.

Punishes, too. Just because God forgives,

Doesn’t mean He doesn’t kick ass.

They say virtue is its own reward,

And while that still isn’t something I fully

Comprehend, I know that talking to God is too.

With it comes a great feeling of peace.

Once you lose the illusion of having control over your life

You gain the ability to ride out the storms.

God is my shepherd, that I don’t doubt,

But just between you, me, and — yes — Him,

Sometimes I really want the Navajo dog.

###


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘A Father-Daughter Chat’

NOTE FROM LB

All in all, I think I’ve gotten pretty good at the writer thing, although there’s still a long way for me to go. What I’m really hoping, though, is that someday I’ll get the hang of this being-a-parent business.

Someday:


A Father-Daughter Chat
by Larry Brody

“Know what I think of you, Dad, really think?”

My twenty-five year old daughter said to me.

“No, what do you think of me, sweetie, really think?” I replied.

“All you talk about is yourself,” she said.

“All you write about is you.

Your feelings, your desires, your needs,” my daughter said.

“All I know is me, my desires, my needs,” I said.

“Then I think you’re very self-centered,

Even selfish,” she said.

“My parents are dead,” I said to my daughter with a sigh.

“I didn’t know them.

Not their feelings, their desires, their needs.

And certainly not what I wanted to know more

Than anything. Their dreams.

They didn’t share,” I went on. “All they gave me

Was some ‘Mommy’ stuff, with a very few

‘Daddys’ thrown in, and those are just masks we can all wear.”

Another sigh escaped me. Still, I plunged on,

Determined to give her a real answer.

“My parents are dead,” I said again,

“And I didn’t know them, don’t know them, never will.

Because of that, I may never know me.

By not knowing their why I may never learn mine. Because of that,

I often feel very lonely, and very confused. And

I don’t want you to feel the same way.

I want you to have more.

I want to give you a gift I never received.

The gift of the man I really am.”

“There you go again,” my beautiful little girl said.

And it was her turn to sigh.

###


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: I Dreamed I was the Messiah

Did you know Confucius was this cool looking?

NOTE FROM LB

Unlikely as it always has felt to me, I’ve spent a significant amount of time working with people in China. Teaching, mostly, and even being called “Maestro” by important men and women who have been my students there.

This strikes me as pretty damned mystifying, but there it is. Delusions of grandeur, do you think? So do I. But here’s one of the results of such a delusion:


I Dreamed I was the Messiah
by Larry Brody

I dreamed I was the Messiah,

Speaking to the multitudes.

The amphitheater was glorious,

Carved out of red rock that stretched upward ‘til it kissed the

Blessing we call the sun.

No television ministry for this son of God!

No electronics! Only the real—the dirt, the mud, the clay.

I heard the earth talking, calling me home, but first I had a message to give.

Direct from Our Father Who Art it came,

Rolling in like a wave, gathering a glistening sea strength

That crashed over parched desert so secretly alive.

“Repent!” I kept thinking, like all the Revivalists and

Medicine Show saints.

But, “Forgive,” is what I said.

My gaze rested on each of my listeners. Millions, there were, but

I saw them one by one. And as I looked, I understood their

Harsh lives. Their pasts, their presents, their futures revealed

Themselves in each tiny gesture, each etched line, each

Mournful sound. I knew each man’s hunger, each woman’s despair.

I lived my congregation’s fear, and its anger, and its greed,

And felt every cause, every reason, every excuse push at me

In a backwash of hope.

The pain knocked me to my knees. The red dust filled my nose and mouth.

No breathing for this son of God!

Yet still I spoke only the real.

“Forgive,” I said,

And awoke, desperate, sucking in air. I gulped it down into my

Belly, turned to look at my love still asleep.

Awakened, I knew I was no son of the Big Father,

Yet still the dream was real.

We are all Messiahs, dying for all Mankind’s sins,

Even while we struggle to rise beyond the dirt, the mud, the clay.

We are all Messiahs, who must learn:

“Forgive.”

###


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘The Scientific Method’

Ah, the wonders of quantum mechanics! Gotta love entanglement theory, amiright?

NOTE FROM LB

Recently someone asked me about my wife. He wanted to know “what kind of person” she was. For me, being a writer means – among other things – always trying to use the fewest possible words, so my reply was brief. “Her hobby is quantum  mechanics.” Which immediately brought to mind this related contemplation:


The Scientific Method
by Larry Brody

“The observation of a phenomenon

Alters that phenomenon,” so say the

Ph.D.s. “Anything that can

Happen, will. Light behaves like a wave,

Or a particle, or neither, or both, and

Life flows, or spurts, or neither, or all.”

To those who say you can be all you want,

Benevolent laws of nature say, “Amen.”

To those who say to abandon all hope,

Malignant orders say, “You bet!”

In a time—all times and none—and a

Place—all places and nowhere at all—with

Nothing—and everything, lest we forget

—To believe, I find strange comfort

In this new truth: I am at the mercy of the atom.

Quantum physics reigns.

###


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘I Have Gone To The Mountain’

Found on the interwebs but I think I’ve lived it as well.

 by Larry Brody

NOTE FROM LB

A couple of weeks ago I posted about Nietzsche’s immortal character Zarathustra “gone to the mountain” in my uncle’s ’50s Oldsmobile. Today I’m going to close my eyes and reveal my own climb, in which no vintage car plays a part. I’m nervous about how personal what I’m revealing here is so, please be, you know, gentle…


I Have Gone To The Mountain

I have gone to the mountain, pursuing my dream.

The climb was long and treacherous,

And took many years.

My quarry was cagey and tough, with no

Desire except to elude, and its tracks

Would appear and disappear seemingly

At random. The mountainside was steep,

With few handholds, and more than once

I fell. At last I cornered my dream,

Trapped it in a blind canyon, just below

The mountain’s peak. Now I have what

I sought my whole lifetime.

Now I have Gwen.

###


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.