Maury Bynum - A Life Well Spent
Maury is one of Chicago's most often heard poets. He started adult life as an engineer but having equal parts right brain he ended up in the collectible textile business, (that's about the only way I can describe it.) If you want to know more about his daytime business we'd suggest you contact Maury directly. His poetry speaks for itself!
maurybynum@textileconservators.com
Poet's Path
Do not attempt to walk
The path of the poet;
You cannot--
Nor in fact may he
Relive those times
(Or wish to?)
When he sat down the words
Which then exposed his soul.
My Prayer
What prayer could I offer
(Do I dare to ask more?)
And how could I direct my plea?
And what, if I knew
Was much better for you,
Could I possibly ask for me?
I ponder the question:
"What boon do I seek;
For what could I possibly sue?"
There's little I lack--
I should give something back.
The prayer that I offer:
"Thank You!"
Read Books
Will I ever read all the books I've bought?
Probably not!
But then, I hope I read the ones I ought.
What of the rest? Have they a reason?
They gather dust and hold down shelves.
Which ones will I read this season?
Which of them must read themselves?
The road to hell's not paved with good intentions;
Its littered with books and bad inventions
And time ill spent and
And wasted thought--
I hope I read the ones I ought.
Say It!
No one ever wrote a poem Without something to say To himself or to another How he felt about the way That he thought that things were workin', Or they weren't, or shouldn't be And the reason for the rhymin' Was to help himself to see What his soul was a' sayin' Or was tryin' hard to say, For he couldn't seem to say it In a more conversant way 'Cause the message wasn't comin' through The way he thought it should; So he said it with a poem-- It's the only way he could.
Do It!
My hair is gettin' shaggy. I've got a three day beard. My butt's always draggy. My shirt's a bit dog-eared. My pant's crease long departed. My check book's not correct. Last week's work's hardly started 'Cause I've lost my self respect. My business boom is busted. My future is in doubt. My bath tub's over-crusted. My clean undertware's run out. I've bearly got a nickel That some folks want to collect. My cash flow's at a trickle 'Cause I've lost my self respect. After such a dreadful story There's just one thing left to do; To pick up all the pieces, To start the game anew! Shine my shoes and press my britches Finish what needs doin' next. Go to work! Forget my bitches! And regain my self respect.
Think Ink?
I don't seem to find the time to do The things I know that I ought to, Yet often wake up late at night And find the time to think and write. I should take up pen and ink And write the thoughts I ought to think-- But better still than ink or thought 'S to do the things I really ought!
Pay?
I sometimes lie awake at night And try to purge the urge to write. Oft' spurned, I've learned in light of day, That writing poetry don't pay!
Bale
When I was young, As I recall, My father's friends Were mostly bald. From this, I guess That I would say, That I'd expect To end this way. Now, getting old, I here declair That I enjoy My shock of hair.
Soneone Out There?
(For Eanna Flanagan) Is someone out there listening? Does anyone out there care? Within all of the galaxies glistening Is there really someone out there? We wonder, while watching the heavens And exploring an accretion disk's spin, If someone from our past Or our future's out there And if he's a foe or a friend, Or someone with an ear for tomorrow Or attempting to hear the dim past, With the deafening clang of creation's big bang And how long the vibrations do last. We learn from the quantum mechanics About waves and about photon's flow. Within an atom's phalanx Is there someone that we'd like to know? In the scope of cosmic dimensions, Within both the huge and the small, We'd love to find someone to mention Where there may really be no one at all!
A Modest Proposal
Are you aware Of the tense situation, The greatest disaster To confound our nation; It isn't AIDS Or pot or coke Or the national debt Or the banks goin' broke Or the drop-out rate Or urban blight Or toxic waste Or anthricite Or the balance of trade Or the ozone layers But the unfair treatment Of our FOOTBALL PLAYERS! Why do schools descriminate? --no admission, no aid-- To some aspiring scholars Who didn't make the grade, Or somehow failed the standard Through no fault of their own-- They ought to be admitted And given a big loan! Yes! They should be admitted So they can whet their call-- If not within the classroom, At least LET THEM PLAY BALL! "Why should a student learn to read?" The coaches often scoff. "You never saw an Auden In a pro-football playoff!" Or an Elliot or Einstein Or Beetoven or Bach. Where's the need to learn to read When he can be a JOCK?" For here's the disaster, The terrible shock! "One must learn to READ 'Fore becomin' a JOCK?" So, now I'm suggesting A working solution; A modest proposal For a new institution; 'Don't know what to call it, For its a new kind-- That builds-up the body And mangles the mind! We won't call it "School", For there sure is no need For anyone ever To learn how to read, And won't be dismayed 'Cause the Coach and his Aide Both make more money Than their President's paid-- For who really cares That one can't read at all-- As long as he's able To carry the ball. -------------- Soon our social malaise Will sure be resolved As the boobs at the tubes Get our problems all solved With their shouting and burping And vast intellect, They've gained for our nation Unbounded respect And hope for the future-- All rosy and bright (At least 'till the playoffs On Saturday night).
Memories
September's chill Awakens in me dreams Of nights when we'd lie still beneath the stars On some far, wooded hill. We'd watch the fire; The wisps of smoke caress the trees, We would not talk for hours, For words won't speak of these, Nor may they tell the best That deep breaths tend to tell, Of times long-set to rest And some frost-covered hill.
Symbols
Words say little. Talk tells less Than simple symbols Well-read do express. They communicate Real things-- A wink, a hug, a pluck At the heart strings When listened to, Will tell us more Than all our verbiage And all we've swore'-- They bare the soul More than mere word; I bite my tongue At what my eyes have heard.
Missing You
Once my heart was not so heavy-- My spirits not so low. Now the lady who once loved me, To my love she now says, "No!" She's better off without me Or so she seems to feel. I hope that now she's better-- But my acheing heart is real! Someway, maybe, I won't miss her; I'm not sure exactly how But my heavy heart reminds me Just how much I miss her now!
Fall's Time
(Someone with one watch always
knows what time it is; someone
with two is never sure! A clock
that's stopped is right twice
a day.)
What time is fall, anyway?
One mute clock is true
twice each day;
Someone with two
Might not know what to say,
When asked the time.
If he thought he knew,
He might decide to stay;
To wait
'Till time was right
To go.
He might say
He really didn't know
What time it was at all--
Time doesn't need a clock
To know its fall.
BRRR!
Cold does seem To sap my strength; To drain the juice That helps me think; To make me weak-- To soon to tire; To seek a kind, Congenial fire Away from most That I've begun-- Cold makes me want To rub the sun.
Cold and Cars
Cold and cars communicate In different ways than we. Cars will often hesitate And take us to our dates to late --The cold seems to agree! Human schedules are often made When time is near' to late-- We mortals rarely pause to ask, "Will cold and cars cooperate?"
Snow
How'd you get ther So soon this year? You're in my hair! How'd you get there? My beard's white-- Over night! I'll do my best But I'll need rest. To soon to go. To soon the snow.
The Trip
As the dreams that have not faded Fan the embers of my mind, I remember In'jun summers And the youth I left behind And the columns of the corn-shocks Standing guard upon the past, Like the golden leaves of autumn, Once so green but not to last. Sweet reminders of my childhood, Bitter-sweet and passing on, Like those golden leaves of autumn You and I will soon be gone. Don't bemoan the seasons passing Or berate the cycle's worth. We and the leaves return to nature To enliven mother earth. As with the leaves and us, so nations Sprout, mature and fade-- Its the trip--not the destination-- For which all things were made.
AHOY!
The halyard's broke', The charts are lost, Familiar ports are far from me. I start anew a voyage On a strange and stormy sea. I hear the shoal-buoys bell-- Its sound so indistinct-- Do I heed its ploy or think I hear its call so clear That in the fog I set sail Against the tide, Again this fall And naught to fear...(?) Another call-- Another year.
Time
Time's not defined by the speed of light Or the pace of a braying ass Or the rate of a car Or a twinkling star-- But how quickly our pleasures do pass!
All Work Copyright 1998 by Muray Bynum
All rights reserved
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