Summer Solstice Sounds Of Muses

by Gerard Sarnat


Rodgers had infinite talent -- but limited soul.

Hammerstein had infinite soul – but limited talent.”

-- Stephen Sondheim on his mentors


Benjamin Blaze was born on the longest day of the year

where it’s incandescently hot in Davis, CA listening to corn

grow high as an elephant’s eye in the university student garden.


Per usual when we drove up to stay with my son’s family,

on Ben’s third birthday the two of us woke early before 5:43 sunrise

while pond frogs croaked, crickets chirped, his parents tried to sleep in.


This particular morning Coachie abracadabra pulled out and demonstrated

how to use a simple nutcracker brought north to crack open walnuts

we’d picked from surrounding trees on a previous visit.


Of course, one backstory has to do with the elaborate soldier Nutcracker

(now sadly broken) Bubbe bought him at a San Francisco Symphony

Tchaikovsky performance the previous Christmas.


The current plan is to separate shells from the meat he’d mix

into our scrumptious pancake batter – just like locally-grown, personally

harvested black and straw and boysenberries added in the past.


A farm boy in training alongside a farm girl mama, he really enjoys hearing

me belt out Oklahoma, which musical’s lyrics surprisingly had stuck

since last sung 60 years ago with Mother who accompanied on the piano.


Although Benjie’d only met Mom once as a newborn at her centenary

two years before she died, he always spoken warmly, referring to

“Great Grandma Rhoda’s stool she gave me and used when she was little.”


Ending our celebration picnicking on the community commons

before setting off amazing Rocket Copter Slingshot LED technicolor flairs

following 8:35 sunset, we all cuddled then tucked boychick into bed.


Afterwards, I returned to an ongoing yawnfest project scavenging

sixty years of LCohen’s discarded dross, looking for rare golden nuggets

of wheat winnowed amidst a depressing amount of chaff.


Apparently only post struggling for decades with dozens of false-start

Blue Raincoat drafts, becoming newly maniacally laser-focused OCD -- accounts

suggest a change-of-pace selfish, offensive artist –- that masterpiece took shape...


Evidently, Richard Rodgers was a creative genius able to knock out melodies

in minutes, but Oscar Hammerstein struggled to produce what I consider wonderful

(if at times a bit schmaltzy or middlebrow) poetry --even at my humbler level


I learned to work hard to earn brief bursts of recognition, recommit effort

required to sustain improvement plus proportionate public reward: still widely

if less prestigiously published, is this septuagenarian losing such ruthless energy?

Gerard Sarnat is the prize-winning author of four collections plus work that’s been published in magazines and anthologies including Gargoyle, American Journal of Poetry (Margie), Main Street Rag, and New Delta Review. Harvard/Stanford educated, Gerry’s worked in jails, built/staffed clinics for the marginalized, been a CEO of healthcare organizations and Stanford Medical School professor. Married since 1969, he has three children, four grandkids. For Huffington Post/other reviews, readings, publications, interviews; visit


August 2018

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