The Color of Piss

May 8, 2010
OK. This officially brings me up-to-date.
This poem, believe it or not, is based on a teaching of Christ. It's not what goes in a person's mouth that defiles them, but what comes out. Matthew 15:1-20 and Mark 7:1-16.


I believe
you can tell a lot
about a man
by the color
of his piss.
It's not orthodox.
It's fundamental truth:
a man's piss
don't lie.

Knew a man once
while in the Navy,
been up all night
drinking Bud in a can;
had to piss in a cup
next morning to prove
other substances were
not in
the system.
The cup held a nice
amber shade
with a half inch head.

This other fellow
been around the block--
a few times--
said everytime
he whizzed
burned like hell.
Had ulcers, too,
or something--
gut felt like barbwire
flossing his insides.
Not sure
of the final prognosis,
but his whizz
had a faint
reddish-orange tint.

There was a guy
worked hard,
did his best;
double shifts
got the best.
B complex
seemed to help
(Red Bull wasn't around yet,
but has a similar outcome).
Came out of the men's room
proclaiming
“My God!
My pee
is neon yellow.”

I am
lately drinking
more water.
Clean water.
Spring water.
Filtered and unflavored.
My urine
is getting clearer
and clearer.

Happy Birthday Bush

March 18, 2010
The last of the assignments from Creative Writing 238 (which I passed with a resounding A). Instructed to stroll about campus in teams of four and find objects out of place. I found a birthday streamer under a bush.


Birthday streamers
     damp from dew and rain
     draped about the ground around me,
     clinging to the earth
          like a sheer silk nighty,
     mingling with my roots,
     becoming one with the mulch:

          carelessly planned,
but I do appreciate the thought.

Participation Anticipation

March 16, 2010
Still another Creative Writing assignment. Write a sound poem--inspired by sound, about sound, play with sound. This one is fun to read aloud.


Let the assignment begin.

Hear the pencils
skritch, scratching
patching together words,
words of a kind
two of a kind
words that rhyme.
Hear the clock click
tick tocking
tick mocking
my heartbeat
a new beat
from my seat
in the front
front, frontal lobe,
sighing
trying
to brainstorm,
storm my brain
with new not C
thoughts.
A muffled cough
a snuffle soft
throws me off
track
ing the line of reason
and rhyme,
what was it this time?
Time
time keeps on
waiting for the moment,
the long awaited moment,
the moment that started the moment
I entered the room.

Pencils down.

Instruction in Omelette

March 16, 2010
Another fun little assignment from Creative Writing 238. Write a poem giving instruction for making or doing something. Bon appetit!


The question of which came first
     is irrelevant:
you need to start with eggs.
Open them carefully,
     avoid the jagged pieces of shell
     that may slip through,
into a clean bowl.
Beat vigorously, whip emphatically
     into a frothy foam
     in which albumen and yolk,
     white and yellow
are inseparable.
Peel an onion--
     white, yellow, red--
     the choice is yours.
Slice this onion.
Chop this onion.
     The tears are unavoidable.
Set aside.
Place a teflon coated pan
     upon the burner--
     medium heat.
A little oil to lubricate,
     form a layer of protection
          from the hot surface,
     impart a little flavor.
Gently pour the beaten mixture
     into the heated pan--
     allow it to form--
          slowly.
Layer upon layer of shredded cheese--
     cheddar, mild or sharp,
     maybe mozzarella or monterey jack.
Heap onion,
fold,
slide to plate.
Enjoy.

…a set of Ginsu® steak knives—ABSOLUTELY FREE!

March 15, 2010
This was an "assignment" from Jim Lundy, emcee of Monday Night Poetry and Music (aka Monday Night Blues) held every Monday at 8:00 at the East Bay Meeting House. He challenged us to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object. I researched Ginsu® steak knives, they have a website, they are still available.


I am at rest,
     set in my appointed slot
     set in the block of wood
     set upon the kitchen counter
     set for service.

Hold my ergonomically designed handle,
     perfectly balanced,
     in the palm of your hand;

let my stain and rust resistant
     stainless steel blade
     do the work—

     gliding over sinews,
     releasing hot juices.
          Another slice?

My serrated teeth,
     that are never in need of sharpening,
     chew the flesh,
     part it as I pass,
     its tenderness no match
     for my razor sharp          wit
                                            ness,       ness
     my cutting power.

I have served,
     you are satiated.

In time,
     the local law
     find me set,
     set within
     the twenty-fifth fatal wound.
     Film at eleven.

To Everything There is a Season Suite

February 22, 2010
This started as an assignment in Creative Writing 238: take a cliche and give it fresh life. I had picked from the list "freezing to death" and wrote a poem. I liked it. I wanted to do more. So I dug out other seasonal cliches (or not so seasonal) and created a pastoral suite. The suite itself is cliche with my usual twists. From consummation and birth to the hereafter. Oh, how cliche.


Spring Has Sprung

Spring has sprung
          in a bed of love
          to the flow'ry bed
Spring has come.

Springs are sprung
          in an upstream swarm,
          a race to become
Sprung into one.

Spring has sprung
          in a seed that's sown
          to sprout and to grow,
Springing to one.

Spring! Sprung!
          fountains of the deep
          waters have broken—
Springing son.

Springs are sprung
          on the hands of time
          to the infant mind
Spring is one.


Dog Days

of summer moons
          howlings
          barkings
          yippings and yappings
          at silent sights and scents

of sniffing this and that
          and the other
          fresh smell
          stale odor
          butt hole
          connoisseur of pooh
          and all things aromatic
          master of the olfactory

of humping legs
          and pillows
          and oversized teddy bears
          anything with
          fur and four legs
          in heat

of pissing on trees
          and fences and
          grass and tires
          whatever presents
          itself as being worthy
          of being pissed upon
          for the pleasure of pissing
          piss piss piss

of chasing after
          cars
          cats
          tails
          sticks and balls
          tails
          cats
          cars

of laying about
          with nothing but
          to nip at fleas
          snooze and dream

of summer moons


Leaves: Much To Be Desired

The crowns of the deciduous morph from green to brown in varying degrees and stages of gold, pumpkin, and rust, signaling the end of endless days, portending the approach of cold and frost. From a distance, the colors mix and blend: a panoramic landscape destined for desktops and calendars.

Dun branches and twigs clutch each changing leaf, holding it high until, fingers splayed, it lets go to reach for something higher.

Now they're scattered all over the lawn. They need to be raked and bagged. Even with gloves, blisters form before the first pile is crammed and compressed into thick brown paper bags. It's only natural to want to jump in.


Freezing To Death

…his breath
                              hung in the air
                              like a ghost.
The heavens likewise with stone gray expiration
entombed the barren countryside.

His arms
          wrapped about his torso
                    like winding sheets.
Tree limbs creaked
                    like old bones
          in the flurry.

His feet
buried in his boots,
frigid markers in the snow.
The ground experiencing the last stages of rigor
interred the pastoral setting for a seasonal eternity.


Hope Springs, Eternal

Better than Hot Springs, Eternal.

Dr. Preacha Man

February 22, 2010


He done rip
dat bandaid right off
an' he done wash dat spot
wi' de water
an' he scrub an' he scrub
'til I want
dat he scrub no more
'cause de tears
dey come pour out
'til I feel
I 'bout drown.
Den he put de sav
all up on where he scrub
an' de sav
it feel so cool
an' it make dat place
dat he scrub feel right.

An' de tears
dey still be comin' down.

in the bar, after hours, full of promise

February 1, 2010
This was as exercise on setting in Creative Writing 238. From two lists, one of times, places, weather, the other of mood or atmosphere. The exercise was to select from each list and to suggest the mood by the setting. My selections compose my title--"in the bar, after hours" and "full of promise."


Stale smoke in the grand mirror
embraces bottles yet to be opened.

The clink of a coin in the jukebox
signals a change of rhythm.

Balls click click in the rack;
another game begins—

last call lights
constrict pupils,
but your eyes
are wide open.

This woman on the stool
beside you
couldn't be more beautiful.

Write Me a Poem

January 11, 2010
Found this one in a worn pocket notebook of mine.


Write me a poem;
write me a poem.
Write me the words
     that I want to hear.
Put it in words
     that are nice to the ear.

Write me a poem;
please write me a poem.
I don't care what it says,
     it's the thought that counts;
how long doesn't matter
     it's not the amount

of words that you write in a poem.
Write in my poem
because it's my poem
     and nobody else;
because it's my poem
     I don't care if it sells.

So write me a poem—
just write me a poem.
It's a need that I have.
     I don't understand why,
but the poem fills a void
     with a thought, a laugh, or a cry.

So how about it—
you going to write
     me a poem?

The Cleansing Power of Fire

November 2, 2009


I wept until I could weep no more.
          The rainbow did not
          appear in the sky.
          The ground was still rock hard.

I cried out so loud my vocal cords were raw.
          The wind did not
          blow or breeze.
          The trees did not yield their fruit.

I beat my fists bloody against the wall.
          The stars did not
          hold the answers.
          The earth continued to move.

Where else can I go?
Who else can I turn to?
          Let it burn.

Do Not Deal Harshly With My Tender Lambs

(Psalm 18:4-24)
October 14, 2009


What happened to your heart
          when your baby (insert name here)
got sick and cried all night,
unable to tell you what was wrong?

How did you feel
          when your child (__________)
bruised their knee or
scraped their elbow,
and came running to you crying?

Where did your mind go
when that bully,
where-are-his-parents, brat pushed
          your boy (__________)
on the playground?

Why did you think
what you thought
when that no good,
holding-my-tongue, boy broke
          your daughter’s (__________) heart.

Stir up and recall the feelings you get
when you see the faces on the posters
at WalMart, when you hear an Amber alert.
          They all have names.

Arouse and remember the emotions that arise
while watching crime drama or the news on TV
about child abductions and pedophiles and
oh, what you would do if you had five minutes alone with them.

Whose face
do you see
at the mention of
infant mortality,
diseased babies,
beaten and abused children,
child porn,
children used as drug mules,
“adoption” slavery,
my God, how could this be,
this is the twenty-first century?
          God knows their names.

You (__________)
are His children.

Epic grams: A Word Picture Book for Adults

Here are some epigrams.


CAUTION!
These poems contain highly concentrated language!

My Poems
I'm just feeling my way around the elephant.


Commentary on “My Poems”
The elephant is an elephant, regardless.


Jesus
The whole elephant.


Christ
Simply divine.


The Glory of God
I can't see


Listen
sometimes a tune
          hummed
sometimes a word
          spoken
cool of the day
still of the night
connection


Sharp Truth
I've come to the conclusion
that my happy delusions
are more of a fatality
than the pain of reality.


False Humility
i


True Humility
You.


Violence
Silence
VIOLENCE
silence

Cobweb in the Church Rafters

August 11, 2009
The inspiration actually came from a cobweb in church. I kept seeing this cobweb from week to week in the steel beams and ductwork and conduit, all painted black, of our church sanctuary. Our worship service is fairly modern with stage lighting and songs/graphics on two large screens, and the lights would make this cobweb glow. And for several weeks it was as if the Lord kept pointing it out. It made me laugh.


A single thread
of dust clothed cobweb
cluttering a corner of the ceiling
     of the sanctuary;
stretched
from one indeterminate spot to another;
glowing in the spotlight
amidst the twinkling dust motes;
swaying in the breeze
     of air conditioning

in                                   the light             and out of
bending, curving                                   moving in the darkness
like an optic fiber                                 hidden, invisible
carrying the light                                  in the dark

this fine filament
eluding the scientific mind
     from being
     recreated;
its tensile strength and elasticity
unmatched in the material:
yet, the flick of a finger,
the wave of a hand
can cast it down.

Someone needs to dust.

Advice to J. Alfred Prufrock…

July 24, 2009
This was written while I was taking English Composition II. We had read T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and the discussion centered mostly on the sexuality of the poem. I was intrigued by the second half of line 121:
"Do I dare to eat a peach?"

from God:
     Taste and see
     that the fruit is good.
     Just don't eat the fruit
     from that tree.

from the serpent:
     Has God said
     thou shalt not
     eat a peach?

from a Puritan:
     Thou shalt not eat of the peachtree,
     nor the fruit thereof;
     lest thou become as one
     of the fruiteaters
     who bare not fruit.

from a nutritionist:
     0g fat
     cholesterol, 0mg
     0mg sodium
     dietary fiber, 3g
     go ahead

from Hamlet:
     To eat or not to eat: that is the question:
     Whether 'tis favorable for the tongue to satisfy
     With the savory juices of this sweetest of fruit,
     Or to ingest the fibrous flesh and
     To suffer in the end? To eat: to squat;
     More and more; and by squat to say no end.

from Freud:
     You are titillated and fixated
     upon your mother's breasts.

from a poetry critic:
     To Prufrock,
     the peach
     is merely a metaphor
     symbolizing a sweet life
     that is unattainable,
     since you rouse to reality when
     “human voices wake us” (line 131).
     Therefore,
     whether you dare
     or no, you will not.

Listen

July 18, 2009


sometimes a tune
     hummed
sometimes a word
     spoken
cool of the day
still of the night
connection

In the Dark

July 13, 2009
Seems like everyone who came to Jesus in the New Testament did so out in the open, in the streets for all to see.

Every head bowed,
     every eye closed;
confession is made
     to the All-Knowing Lord
who speaks everything
even to himself.

Now if the light is hid
on the hill
and no one's around,
does anyone hear
knees hitting the ground,
or the sound of the silent
prayer? Who cares
if you meant it or mean it,
as long as you come clean;
     it's really a personal thing.

But we're told
to drink of the cup
that's held
and passed around the company
of friends, of strangers, of
God knows who.

Why does anyone else need to know
my business, my religion?
We don't speak of these
at the table.

So I will
bow my head
and close my eyes
because when I do
you can't see me.

Remuneration

July 9, 2009


No one makes money writing poetry.
Well, someone eventually does gain:
a publisher, some critic, an estate—
someone.

But after you're dead
and can't come back
to defend or explain.

No, really. It was just
about a tree.

I was not on drugs
when I wrote that.

I was more perfectly sane
than at any other time in my life.

If you don't get it, don't worry.
I didn't write it for you.

Watching My Husband Dress

(to me from my wife)
July 1, 2009
I wrote this from Lynn's point of view. She said I nailed it.


I like to watch my husband
     dress for work;
everything is always done
     the same.

It starts when he's shaving.
I don't know why
but that just fascinates me.
Pulling the razor
over the curve of
his neck
with self assured movement
to the line of his beard
under his chin
scraping away the day-
old stubble.

When he tucks in his shirt
     zips his fly
               notches his belt
                              I hate him—
the notch has moved in.
I don't want him to lose
his Buddha belly. It's just big enough.

As he looks in the mirror,
adjusts his tie and
arranges himself,
he is so focused.
I feel that if I interfered
at any time
during this entire process
he would push me aside.

Purpose Driven Poetry

July 1, 2009


I want to write poetry that
               praises my God;
               rejoices in right,
               illuminates wrong;
               awakens the soul,
               revives the spirit,
               stirs emotions,
               challenges the mind,
               makes sense;
               breaks fallow ground,
               waters the barren soil,
               and grows;
               feeds the hungry,
               gives drink to the thirsty,
               uplifts the arms that hang;
               makes old men remember,
               young men desire,
               women weep;
               doesn't make sense;
               causes leaders of white-washed tomes
                              want to take me out and stone me,
               pisses off professors
                              of logic, and reason, and apologetics;
               pleases my God.
I want to write
poetry.

My Calling: God Spoke in the Shower

July 1, 2009


God spoke to me today
while I was in the shower
washing my hair.

Tell of my love.

I covered my head and my face
with my arms
and I wept.

David was a prophet.

A Postmodern Psalm

July 1, 2009


I will not dread global warming,
          For my God is the Intelligent Designer.
I will not panic over a world pandemic,
          For my God is the Great Physician.
I will not feel threatened by atomic attack,
          For my God is my Star Wars Defense.
I will not be terrified of nuclear winter,
          For my God is my Fallout Shelter.
I will not be held hostage by terrorists,
          For my God does not negotiate.
I will not be paralyzed by global recession,
          For my God is my Financial Advisor.
I will not be intimidated by any energy crisis,
          For my God is my Everlasting Fuel.

I'm Back

Well, it's been almost a year since my last post. I stopped because I was looking into sending some of this stuff I call writing to other publications. In my research it appeared that publishers were looking for previously unpublished material and that even an unheard of blog was considered publication. So I stopped. I just finished a Creative Writing course at Trident Tech and apparently that applies if you are attempting to be published on the web, cross markets (books, magazines) should not be a problem.

So, let's try this again.