Blue Fog

Like fog creeping over mountaintop,
running wispy fingers
slowly
through branch, parting leaves--
soothing, seducing,
lulling unsuspecting ridge to sanction passage.
Saturating, consummating, consuming,
then vanishing to phantom misty memory.
Dull void.
Sad silence.
Bare

Barren.

THE MAVEN - a poem written by my dad

THE MAVEN

(a poem that doesn’t ask the question: “Do mites have ears?”)

by

Severt Score

Once upon a dead mite’s ear was found a dozen dead bacteria,

Twelve microscopic corpses on that arachnid on the floor.

As I spied that dead arachnid I wondered what kind of whack did

Dispatch that tiny creature to the land beyond death’s door.

What sent that little mite on to the land beyond death’s door.

                         Tell me that, if nothing more.

Was it some miniscule mugger or a commercial de-bugger

That made that mite expire -- something he’d never done before?

Was it victim of a swatter? Did it die from lack of water?

Did it starve for lack of food because to buy it was too poor?

Was it victim of starvation because to buy it was too poor?

                         What dispatched it through death’s door?

Was it gout or was it dropsy? Should we ask for an autopsy?

Should some wise forensic wizard probe this mystery to the core?

Could some wise police detective help us gain the right perspective

In the matter of the demise of the mite upon the floor?

Could he find an explanation of that body on the floor?

                         At least that, if nothing more.

We went up to New Haven and retained an able maven.

(“Maven” is a Yiddish word for one who knows the score

And can go without confusion straight to the right conclusion.)

He had been solving mysteries for thirty years or more.

Expert in forensic medicine thirty years or more.

                         Oh, that maven knew the score!

Well, he came down to our city to pursue the nitty gritty

Details of the mystery that made our brains so sore.

He was persistent. He was thorough. He carefully turned each furrow

As he plowed through all the evidence -- o’er the facts did pore.

He left no stone unturned -- o’er all evidence did pore.

                         Oh, that maven knew the score!

Oh, whatever did that cop see? Naught was found in the autopsy

But the dozen ear borne corpses that we told about before.

All he found in the inspection was a petered out infection --

Just a dozen dead bacteria -- only that, and nothing more.

Only twelve deceased bacteria on the ear, and nothing more.

                         Just a dozen, three times four.

Well, it seems that each bacterium had succumbed to some strong serum,

But not before the arachnid was a corpse upon the floor.

Given sooner that same serum might have conquered each bacterium

In time to save their tiny host and snatch it from death’s door.

Given sooner might have saved it from passage through death’s door.

                         Now it’s dead upon the floor.

Or perhaps some stronger sera could have conquered the bacteria.

Some powerful medications might have held some hope in store.

But saddest words of tongue or pen, as the poet said, are “It might have been.”

And what might have been did not occur, so it hit the floor.

For want of stronger sera the arachnid hit the floor,

                         Stiffer than a two by four.

Can you tell us, clever sleuth, relentless stalker of the truth,

If you find this kind of germ when a mite’s ear you explore,

Does twelve seem an average count, or what’s the usual amount?

When a mite’s ear you explore, is it less or is it more?

Quoth the maven, “Never more. Sometimes less, but never more.”

                         Quoth the maven, “Never more.”

“To find none is always nice. I’ve found a dozen once or twice.

“The usual number I have found is in the range of three or four.

“Six or seven is not so strange, but three or four’s the usual range.

“I have found twelve but never more when a mite’s ear I explore.

“No arachnid has ever more when its ear I explore.”

                         Quoth the maven, “Never more.”

The view out Grandpa's window.... I'm so thankful for my dad's poetry, as it offers a means to glimpse the world through his eyes. I hope my children will come to cherish this heritage of humor and creativity.

Looking for more poetry by Severt Score?  

Check out the Norwegian epic, Gunder.

GUNDER - a poem written by my dad

GUNDER

by Severt Score

March 20, 1984

On the Gaula River's south bank,

between Støren and Singas,

a cave so deep and dark and dank

makes you shudder as you pass.

With mouth between two wooded knolls

it winds beneath a rocky hill.

It once was home to many trolls.

Some say trolls live there still.

There three hundred years ago,

on a cold midwinter morn,

by a burning pine knot's flickering glow,

Gunder the troll was born.

Young Gunder was not pretty

and Gunder was not cute.

His face was rough and gritty

and he had a lengthy snoot.

But that young troll was healthy

and he soon became quite spry.

He learned moves that were stealthy.

He pulled pranks that were sly.

Each night he'd join his ugly friends

along the river's banks.

At farms and towns around the bends

they'd steal and play their pranks.

Just before the night was over,

before the sun lit up the sky,

they all scurried for cover

but no one told Gunder why.

The other trolls would sleep all day

in the cave so dark and deep,

but Gunder kept on with his play.

He had less need for sleep.

In the cave he only had the trolls

to pester with his pranks.

He kept it up without controls.

Of course he got no thanks.

At last they said, "We've had enough.

Gunder has to leave us

so that with all that pesky stuff

he can no longer grieve us."

One troll grabbed him by the leg

so quickly it made him shivver.

They stuffed and sealed him in a keg

which they tossed in the river.

The currents took poor Gunder

up into Trondheims Fjord.

There the sailors on a schooner

hauled the soggy keg on-board.

The captain said, "Get busy!

No time for this old junk!"

With the sailors in a tizzy,

Gunder sneaked into a trunk.

Of that trunk's destination

Gunder knew not one iota.

Via the New York Station

he was shipped to North Dakota.

He thought his new home would be fine.

He might well have been afraid.

There was a lot of sunshine.

There was very little shade.

He would have hid throughout the days

if he had only known

that when touched by sun's direct rays

many trolls will turn to stone.

Gunder, reclining happily in St. Cloud, MN

A handwritten note on the hardcopy of this poem my dad gave me reads:

". . . your great grandfather, Ole Score, came from a går called Skårvold in the Støren district, southeast of Trondheim. Your great grandmother, Sigrid Klefstad, came from Trondheim. It is part of the legend of the trolls that some of them would turn to stone if touched by the direct rays of the sun."

My dad is not only a poet, but also an artist, sculpting all sorts of creatures out of rocks, epoxy, and various other found objects. This poem is based on a true story. I know because I have had the pleasure to meet the real Gunder. When I met him in northern North Dakota, of course, he had already turned to stone, so he was unable to verbally verify the story. The mischievous twinkle in his petrified eyes, however, said it all. This poem is the explanation of how Gunder came to live with us in the Lutheran parsonage of Fairdale, ND.

Instead of coming out of the closet, I'd like to invite you into my closet... and while you're at it, take a gander at my underwear drawer!

Realizing that I haven't been a reliable blogger, I'd like to say that's going to change--that from here on out you can expect to see something new from me every day or every week or at least every month. Such a promise, however, would be like a dog vowing not to linger long enough to sniff the territory he just marked. Nature is nature and A.D.D. is... what were we talking about?

I'll never forget that moment in junior high English when I was first introduced to the concept of the "Stream of Consciousness" narrative mode. It was like a tiny glimpse of freedom in the stifling linear world of traditional education. I might have grasped how profound that moment was, had I known then what I've come to realize in recent years of "dealing with" and researching my own kids' learning challenges. As I came to grips with the fact that one of my children had all the symptoms of A.D.D. (which is harder to spot than it's more obvious cousin, A.D.H.D.), I also had to admit that I fit the description to a tee (and that coping wasn't getting any easier with age).

My brain doesn't process things quite as "efficiently" as the brains of others may--efficiently for the results that traditional academia is seeking, that is. I take detours to check out alternate possibilities (lots of detours), which means it may take me longer to get from point A to point B. When I get there, however, I usually have a web of connections that incorporates other tangent points; and, even though I may be slower, I think a web just might be stronger than a single thread. Some "Stream of Consciousness" literature seemed to reflect that web-spinning way of thinking that felt most natural to me.

As much as I can count my differing mode of operation as a gift that has allowed the birthing of some of my most creative ideas, I must admit that in other ways it is also a disability. What good is it to have heaps and heaps of ideas if one is too disorganized to ever see any of them through to fruition?

In preparing for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month http://www.nanowrimo.org/) which is only days away, I've been trying to find all the story ideas and files I've compiled over the years. I've dug in boxes and file cabinets and drawers and closets, and plugged in external hard drives and zip drives. I've read notes that were typed on an old word processor, scrawled on restaurant napkins, and incorporated into old journals. In spite of all this searching, the two ideas I thought were developed the furthest are still nowhere to be found. All is not lost, however... in this process of searching, I've stumbled upon gems that I had totally forgotten about:

-- treatments for feature films that have held up over the time--I'd still like to see the movies described therein

-- old poetry, both mine and my parents'

-- short stories and plays

-- articles and books clipped and saved for possible adaptation...

I'm not going to fool myself that this will be easy to sort through. It's quite the overwhelming task. Those who live close enough to have been in my house in recent months can attest to the fact that what was supposed to be "Spring cleaning" has drug on into Summer and now Autumn with little evidence of an end point. I hauled boxes out of closets in order to sort through everything before putting it back in the closets, and now my closets are the only areas of my house where I would feel comfortable entertaining guests. Oh, my sock and underwear drawers are super-tidy now, too, but I'm not sure what that has to do with entertaining guests. It does, however, bring up an interesting quirk of mine that I have admitted to few:

My sock and underwear drawers are a sort of barometer of my psychological well-being. If I'm depressed and have essentially "given up"--as I sometimes do--I will start shoving undergarments into the drawers unfolded. If, on the other hand, I'm hopeful and my self-esteem is intact, I treat myself to the neatest, most orderly (nearing O.C.D. levels, I will admit) storage of my unmentionables (which, I just mentioned... sorry 'bout that.)

I am taking hope, however, that since I was able to organize my eating and exercising to the point that I've lost 1/4 of my previous body weight and dropped a bunch of pant sizes since the beginning of the year, I CAN discipline other areas of my life as well. At some point in time, I may have to ask for a little help from my friends. The number one way you can help me is by holding me accountable. Feel free to bug me. To prod me. To remind me of what I said I was going to do. If you haven't heard from me for a while, that doesn't necessarily mean I'm off making good progress on a project... It might mean I'm tangled in one of my A.D.D. webs and need to be reminded where I was headed.