When TV began to resize our world
my father saw the end of civilization;
“This box is the tomb of reading, doing,
memory, imagination and communication.”
“No!” I said. “It is the birth-womb
of shared knowledge and hopes,
the loom of language, tolerance,
And the death of misanthropes.
Dad never changed his objections
to that toxic pixillated curse.
His elegant deep earth projections
Were aborted before birth.
He lost his right to drive,
lost his confident sensuality,
And though his body was alive,
He struggled with reality.
He lost is his wife of 60 years;
and at night searched in desperation
and sometimes knows he hears
her voice in song or conversaion.
Convicted in his 10th decade
Of breathing too much mining dust,
Of many rules he disobeyed
And unrepentant wanderlust,
He puts on clever acts
to make it very clear
he understands the words or facts
that he pretends to read or hear.
“You were right about TV.” I say,
It shrinks the mind and heart,
spits out toxic babble night and day
Devaluating all words might impart;
It’s knowledge without knowing,
and movement without motion
Mindless reaping without sowing
trivializing genuine emotion.
“Perhaps,” My Dad suggests,
“There are bright worlds to find
pinned like brittle butterflies
to vast dusty walls of mind.”
“Dad! That’s can’t be you!” I say:
“It must be from a blog;
You never talk that way.
You speak only analog.”
“We’re awake,” I say
“We were asleep I realize!
I’ll come again another day”..