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.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘We All Aspire To Be Assholes’

Not really an asshole, but he does work in showbiz.

 by Larry Brody

NOTE FROM LB

Once again, I feel that I must remind you. Every word in these poems is true, one way or another, and these poems all are part of a search – not necessarily successful, I admit – for a larger truth. The event described in this one shook me to the core when it happened. Now it just seems like, “Oh. Yeah. Right.” Oh those crazy, zany aspirations!


We All Aspire To Be Assholes

“We all aspire to be assholes,”

A Hollywood friend says to me.

“Megalomaniacs! Misogynists! Creeps!”

Twenty-five years ago my Hollywood friend

Was young and hopeful, his face open and

Smiling and naive. Now his blonde

Hair is dark, his look tight, mouth rolled like a snail.

I can’t tell if he has closed down because he

Let out too much of himself, or because

Too much of too many others got in.

We swap stories of other executives’ selfishness,

Arrogance, and dirty deeds. Then he leans back,

Thoughtful, looks past me, out a wall-sized window

With a Wilshire Boulevard view. “A few years ago

I worked at Disney,” he tells me. “They’ve got a

Good one there. The boss works seven days a week,

Has a slogan: ‘Don’t work Saturday

If you can’t work Sunday too. We had a meeting

One Sunday afternoon. Him. Me. Three other suits.

I was putting together a Davy Crockett series,

And needed a corporate level decision. Nothing

Creative, just whether or not something would be

In keeping with the Disney image. A decision only

The boss could make. The five of us discussed

Things, and then, suddenly, the boss nodded off.

He was asleep at his desk! His chin rested on his

Palm, his eyes closed. Sssst, he was gone,

Like a tire without air. The suit who was talking

Stopped in mid-sentence. We looked at each other.

I nodded toward the boss. ‘Should we…?’ No one

Said a word, but all three suits shook their heads.

We sat silently for a minute…Two…Three…Four…

Then, with a sputter, the boss shook himself,

And his eyes opened, refocused just like that.

Immediately, the suit who had been talking

Resumed exactly where he’d left off.

The boss listened, said something wise, made his

Decision, and our meeting was over. We filed out, and

Another group entered so the next meeting could begin.

He hadn’t missed a beat! Didn’t even

Know he had fallen asleep!

Oh yes,” sighs my Hollywood

Friend, “he’s a good one! Twenty years younger

Than I am, and the man I always wanted to be.”

I nod. I sit silently. My Hollywood friend

Has a job to give out, and I need it.

We all aspire to be assholes,

No matter how much—or how little—we know.

###


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: ‘Zarathustra Came Down From the Mountain’

My uncle’s ’55 Olds Holiday 98. Except not turqoise. And his had 4 doors & never went near a Palm Tree in blustery Chicago

 by Larry Brody

NOTE FROM LB

Here’s a family memory. About God, of course. I mean, God’s family, isn’t he? Well, he was, once upon a time anyway, right?


‘Zarathustra Came Down From the Mountain’

Zarathustra came down from the mountain

Bearing the news that God was dead.

In my mind, I see him at the wheel of

A ‘55 Olds, like the one my uncle had,

Turquoise and white, chrome like lightning

On each side. Zarathustra, of course,

Being cool, drives a convertible, and in

The back seat, under the hot, Godless sun,

Are the two tablets of Moses, the originals

That he shattered when he saw what the

Israelites had done. Zarathustra’s news is

Impressive, but not nearly as hot as his style;

Shouting and ranting work every time.

I long for the days of proclamations,

Of declarations of beginnings and ends.

I long for the days of men going to mountains,

And finding the one great and true way.

I long for the days of my childhood,

In my uncle’s ‘55 Olds.

###


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: ‘2 Short Takes’

“Poetry in motion…woo hoo….”

 by Larry Brody

NOTE FROM LB

A couple of short poems. Or at least they feel like poems to me. Notice that I said “poems” – a couple of times – instead of “poetry.” As what follows should tell you, that’s just my false modesty.


Spring Break

Life demands.

Life teaches.

The eternal semester!

With tuition constantly on the rise.

No scholarships are given,

And no student loans.

My last professor was a demon,

And the final was straight from hell,

But there’s no dropping out of the program,

As we all learn too well.

###

Having Answers Is Embarrassing

After years of searching, of believing only in the quest,

Having answers is embarrassing.

My unexpected knowledge seems infinite,

Perfect, wondrous in its wisdom,

And I hem, haw, and stutter with pride.

When this happens, the Navajo Dog

Laughs and rephrases the old questions

In ways I cannot understand,

So the hunt can begin anew!

###


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.