Raising Powers
Arithmatic
and a rhythmic
air of measure
err of cryptic.
Numbers fact you
numbers mask you
numbers freak you
numbers seek you.
Fear fear fear fear
ffeeaarr ffeeaarr ffeeaarr ffeeaarr
fffeeeaaarrr fffeeeaaarrr fffeeaaarrr fffeeeaaarrr
ffffeeeeaaaarrrr ffffeeeeaaaarrrr ffffeeeeaaaarrrr ffffeeeeaaaarrrr!
Exponential
multivision
incremental
indecision.
Plus, or minus?
I’m feeling wrath.
Why times fourteen?
I’m dating* math.
*Poetry isn’t poetry when you have to explain it but with this one, I take exception. This poem is about my fear of, hatred of, inability to perform, and scaredy-catness about arithmetic. This fear was embedded during childhood when my dear, kind, but frustrated father tried to help me memorize the multiplication table (I felt as if I were a victim of the Spanish Inquisition) and when Mrs. Smith (the meanest fourth grade teacher ever; and, she had blue hair) made me go to the chalkboard and perform equations — all of which were laden/leaden with errors. (Let me just say that the dog ate my homework a lot that year.) So, at the age of 62, I signed up for a self-paced math class…and…I find that it feels a little bit like Gretel felt when she took Hansel’s hand and they walked towards the witch’s house made of candy. I know I will escape both the “evil stepmother” and “the witch.” Thank you, Hansels out there…for holding my hand with your eyes, for reading this, for caring. (Bonus: An aria from the opera “Hänsel und Gretel” by Englebert Humperdinck: www.youtube.com/watch?v=91h8uxAUOKI.)
