September 30, 2010
Serenity is a fount of inspiration!
It rained last night and the earth is all wet;
too wet for little feet,
too wet to be absorbed by a single disposable diaper.
So you return the favor and press
drool soaked lips against the window pane,
giving the world outside a sloppy wet kiss,
your diaper drooping below sea level.
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Poets' Dilemma Delight or Just Another Tuesday Night
September 24, 2010
Inspired by the poetry of Billy Collins.
Can't we just mean what we say?
Does each line need to hide meaning?
Why can't we just sit down to dinner
our plates spilling peas and carrots into each other, or
on rare occasions, asparagus lying parallel or perpendicular;
mashed potatoes, mine overflowing, yours barely covered, with gravy;
these beside various pork chops, or as generally is in this economy,
quick frozen chicken breast, fulfilling its duty as the main course;
all without the fork and the spoon doubling entendre?
Is it possible for us to sit on the couch
and watch TV for just an hour or two, commercial breaks included,
just you and I and perhaps a comforter on top and a pillow between
in the glow of thirty-six inch diagonal, non-HD wonder
without it having to mean something before we go to bed,
read a book, snuggle, and sleep?
Is it all meant to mean something
other than what happens in that moment
on the page?
Inspired by the poetry of Billy Collins.
Can't we just mean what we say?
Does each line need to hide meaning?
Why can't we just sit down to dinner
our plates spilling peas and carrots into each other, or
on rare occasions, asparagus lying parallel or perpendicular;
mashed potatoes, mine overflowing, yours barely covered, with gravy;
these beside various pork chops, or as generally is in this economy,
quick frozen chicken breast, fulfilling its duty as the main course;
all without the fork and the spoon doubling entendre?
Is it possible for us to sit on the couch
and watch TV for just an hour or two, commercial breaks included,
just you and I and perhaps a comforter on top and a pillow between
in the glow of thirty-six inch diagonal, non-HD wonder
without it having to mean something before we go to bed,
read a book, snuggle, and sleep?
Is it all meant to mean something
other than what happens in that moment
on the page?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
When I Was A Child
September 11, 2010
Reminiscent of a simpler time.
Gumby,
Gunsmoke,
no one was voted off
Gilligan's Island;
Bozo, Batman (in gray tights);
Dragnet;
wrestling greats Bobo Brazil,
Flying Fred Curry,
The Sheik;
I always lost at marbles,
little league baseball,
Webeloes and Awanas;
yellow Huffy bicycle, banana seat,
sissy bar, chopper handle bars,
no helmet, no pads;
Detroit Tigers on the transistor radio,
Hank Williams on the console stereo;
drive-ins;
station wagon,
bench seats, seat belts not required;
black cherry Kool-Aid™,
fried oatmeal, bread pudding,
both with raisins,
goulash, Sunday pot roast;
weeping willow in the front yard,
cherry on the side, wild apple across the fence,
rhubarb and clover.
When I was four I was allowed
to walk a quarter mile
down the tree-lined road by myself
to play with my friend Ruth.
Reminiscent of a simpler time.
Gumby,
Gunsmoke,
no one was voted off
Gilligan's Island;
Bozo, Batman (in gray tights);
Dragnet;
wrestling greats Bobo Brazil,
Flying Fred Curry,
The Sheik;
I always lost at marbles,
little league baseball,
Webeloes and Awanas;
yellow Huffy bicycle, banana seat,
sissy bar, chopper handle bars,
no helmet, no pads;
Detroit Tigers on the transistor radio,
Hank Williams on the console stereo;
drive-ins;
station wagon,
bench seats, seat belts not required;
black cherry Kool-Aid™,
fried oatmeal, bread pudding,
both with raisins,
goulash, Sunday pot roast;
weeping willow in the front yard,
cherry on the side, wild apple across the fence,
rhubarb and clover.
When I was four I was allowed
to walk a quarter mile
down the tree-lined road by myself
to play with my friend Ruth.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Mentor and the Page
August 17, 2010
One and the same?
The old poet licked his thumb and turned
his crinkling face to face his page,
catechism burning his lips.
Teacher, when will I be a poet?
When all is beauty and grotesque in the same syllable.
When question marks become statements;
commas, colons, and periods the movement
of your chest, your lungs, your diaphragm.
When each breath taken becomes a metaphor
for each breath you take
and your lover merely a symbol for love.
When every heartbeat pumps a slant rhyme.
When what you see is what you hear;
what you smell what you feel.
When every moment becomes a title, each experience a line, all memory a stanza.
The aged wordsmith pricked his thumb and bled,
an inkling of narrative published
on the novice' ear.
But Sir, when shall I become a poet?
When the space between the lines blurs with the ink upon the paper.
When your limbs grow into trees rooted in the heart of the earth
and toner circulates through your veins and your blood speaks from the ground.
When the secrets of the universe are inadvertently hidden
between the lines for everyone to see.
When rhyme needs no reason; no, nor reason to rhyme.
When time is not measured in meter or minutes,
and timeless morphs to cliche.
When your only rush comes from the cutting of words into lines
on the mirror surface of the page to be snorted through a gutted pen
directly to you brain.
The wizened bard flicked his thumb and fingered
the bleached page before which
each penman bows his head.
Father, I want to be a poet. When?
When nothing is sacred.
When everything is sacred.
When black and white are just shades of grey with an e.
When gray with an a is merely the merging of black and white.
When the footnote leads the header.
When your pen instructs the paper
and the poem becomes your teacher.
When your inquiry is no longer when
but why.
In anguish, the young poet selected all.
And when questioned concerning his intention,
clicked “YES” and cursed all to the Trash Bin.
One and the same?
The old poet licked his thumb and turned
his crinkling face to face his page,
catechism burning his lips.
Teacher, when will I be a poet?
When all is beauty and grotesque in the same syllable.
When question marks become statements;
commas, colons, and periods the movement
of your chest, your lungs, your diaphragm.
When each breath taken becomes a metaphor
for each breath you take
and your lover merely a symbol for love.
When every heartbeat pumps a slant rhyme.
When what you see is what you hear;
what you smell what you feel.
When every moment becomes a title, each experience a line, all memory a stanza.
The aged wordsmith pricked his thumb and bled,
an inkling of narrative published
on the novice' ear.
But Sir, when shall I become a poet?
When the space between the lines blurs with the ink upon the paper.
When your limbs grow into trees rooted in the heart of the earth
and toner circulates through your veins and your blood speaks from the ground.
When the secrets of the universe are inadvertently hidden
between the lines for everyone to see.
When rhyme needs no reason; no, nor reason to rhyme.
When time is not measured in meter or minutes,
and timeless morphs to cliche.
When your only rush comes from the cutting of words into lines
on the mirror surface of the page to be snorted through a gutted pen
directly to you brain.
The wizened bard flicked his thumb and fingered
the bleached page before which
each penman bows his head.
Father, I want to be a poet. When?
When nothing is sacred.
When everything is sacred.
When black and white are just shades of grey with an e.
When gray with an a is merely the merging of black and white.
When the footnote leads the header.
When your pen instructs the paper
and the poem becomes your teacher.
When your inquiry is no longer when
but why.
In anguish, the young poet selected all.
And when questioned concerning his intention,
clicked “YES” and cursed all to the Trash Bin.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Serenity's First Birthday
August 6, 2010
I'll miss you when you're gone:
pointy finger
squint your eyes
purse your lips
slobber drool
wobbley dance
crab walking
waddle down the hall
peek-a-boo
numma numma breakfast
yay--clap, clap
I'll see you in the morning
for our walk among the trees.
I'll miss you when you're gone:
pointy finger
squint your eyes
purse your lips
slobber drool
wobbley dance
crab walking
waddle down the hall
peek-a-boo
numma numma breakfast
yay--clap, clap
I'll see you in the morning
for our walk among the trees.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
What You Want
July 26, 2010
Reading the guidelines for a poetry contest, one thing they were NOT looking for was poetry with "I" in every line. I understand their point, but to me it was a challenge.
I do not
want I
to write about I.
I do not
wish to know I.
I do not
care about I.
If I write about I
I may come to know I.
I require inscriptions
about the motions of I;
the emotions of another I;
verses relative to the vast un-I
universe that I reside in.
I desire lines
devoid the sound of I;
I call for metaphor
of anything but I.
Write what I know.
I know I.
At least I think
I do.
Reading the guidelines for a poetry contest, one thing they were NOT looking for was poetry with "I" in every line. I understand their point, but to me it was a challenge.
I do not
want I
to write about I.
I do not
wish to know I.
I do not
care about I.
If I write about I
I may come to know I.
I require inscriptions
about the motions of I;
the emotions of another I;
verses relative to the vast un-I
universe that I reside in.
I desire lines
devoid the sound of I;
I call for metaphor
of anything but I.
Write what I know.
I know I.
At least I think
I do.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Rhyme and Reason
June 19, 2009
What does a blind man see when he dreams? What does a deaf man hear when he reads silently to himself? Poetry can be many things.
Rhyme and Reason
Pictures for a blind man,
voices for the dumb;
recordings for the deaf man,
feeling for the numb.
Rhythm for the paralized,
partner for the solo;
Substance for a hollow heart,
passion for the soul.
Morals for the heathen,
compass for the lost;
roadmap for the dreamer,
living without cost.
Reason for an insane world,
mem'ries once forgot;
purpose for a shattered mind,
beauty that was not.
What does a blind man see when he dreams? What does a deaf man hear when he reads silently to himself? Poetry can be many things.
Rhyme and Reason
Pictures for a blind man,
voices for the dumb;
recordings for the deaf man,
feeling for the numb.
Rhythm for the paralized,
partner for the solo;
Substance for a hollow heart,
passion for the soul.
Morals for the heathen,
compass for the lost;
roadmap for the dreamer,
living without cost.
Reason for an insane world,
mem'ries once forgot;
purpose for a shattered mind,
beauty that was not.
It's Still A Mirror
June 19, 2009
I'm currently taking a couple of college courses, working toward my first degree. In English Composition II we recently read the poem "Mirror" by Sylvia Plath. Somewhere in our analyzation we briefly discussed what a man might see. Well, needless to say, the creative juices started to flow and I thought "what if a man had been the person in this poem?" It may be helpful to read her poem first (click the link above).
It's Still A Mirror
(If Sylvia Plath had been a man)
I am polished and precise. It is
what it is.
I devour what is before me
Regardless of form or fashion.
I just show it like I see it.
My days are spent pondering the wall
that cannot see me.
Now I am a still running stream.
A man stands beside me, searching
for the spring, looking for the outlet.
He could take me or leave me.
He doesn't remember what he saw,
Only what he thinks he saw.
He still sees the youth within the ripples on the surface.
And the terrible fish hangs as a trophy on the wall.
I see the wall more often.
I'm currently taking a couple of college courses, working toward my first degree. In English Composition II we recently read the poem "Mirror" by Sylvia Plath. Somewhere in our analyzation we briefly discussed what a man might see. Well, needless to say, the creative juices started to flow and I thought "what if a man had been the person in this poem?" It may be helpful to read her poem first (click the link above).
It's Still A Mirror
(If Sylvia Plath had been a man)
I am polished and precise. It is
what it is.
I devour what is before me
Regardless of form or fashion.
I just show it like I see it.
My days are spent pondering the wall
that cannot see me.
Now I am a still running stream.
A man stands beside me, searching
for the spring, looking for the outlet.
He could take me or leave me.
He doesn't remember what he saw,
Only what he thinks he saw.
He still sees the youth within the ripples on the surface.
And the terrible fish hangs as a trophy on the wall.
I see the wall more often.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Leaning Tree
January 200?
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.
The Leaning Tree
He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.
He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.
And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.
I wrote this one night while cooking at the Waffle House. I wanted to have something to enter in the Post & Courier and South Carolina Arts Commission sponsored South Carolina Fiction Project and the deadline was only 2 days away. I wasn't able to work on it again until the day of the deadline. I spent all day editing and re-writing, managing to get it posted 5 minutes before the post office closed. I didn't win.
He rode out on Purpose, the gray-white mare he’d left on the farm three years ago when he went away to school. The sun had already been up for an hour, hidden by a ceiling of slate gray clouds. Probably going to snow. His breath hung in the still air like a ghost. The only sound, the muffled crunch of snow under the horse’s hooves. Everyone in the house was still asleep. Spent. Unprepared for the effort of the past few days; stress they thought they had prepared for.
The horse sauntered through the farmyard; past the rusting F150; past the bare clothesline, tiny icicles dripping off the sagging lines; past the dog pens, now empty; through the already open gate to the woods on the other side of the field.
The sweet scent of pine caressed his nostrils like a friendly cat. Purpose gingerly picked her way along the deeply rutted two-track cut by Dad's Ford, the John Deere, and mother nature. The road wound and forked through the forty acres of forest that surrounded the main house and farmyard. He and his three older brothers, all of them moved away from home and starting their own families, had hunted deer and ‘coon and rabbit with their dogs out here. Large mounds of snow-covered branches and roots were scattered in clearings on either side of the road. Dad had said something about selling some of the trees to help pay Mom’s hospital bills.
A year and a half ago he had learned about his mother’s cancer. His first year at State had been more intense than he'd expected, but he kept to the books. Being the first to go to college made him push harder. Now with Mom gone it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Maybe I should just quit. Save time and money. Come home and help Dad.
The two-track rolled out to an open field. Brown and broken stalks poked up through the snow. The bleached gray slat barn was supposed to protect the aging John Deere from the weather, but little mounds of snow sat on top of the huge tires and seat. He had made some weak promises to his father to fix the roof. Animal tracks criss-crossed the whitened field like impatient doodles. A hawk circled over the far end, the future looking bleak for some rabbit or squirrel.
The cornfield butted against the apple orchard. Harvested fruit (the farm’s main source of income for over two generations) was now applesauce or cider vinegar. Large empty crates, stacked rank and file, stood around the perimeter of the orchard; a makeshift fortress. Smaller crates cluttered the orchard floor; some stacked two and three high near the trunks, others strewn about carelessly under the unprotecting canopy of the leafless trees. As a boy, he had learned hard work picking up drops. And he had watched as Mexican migrant workers worked even harder to pick the red ripe fruit for their few dollars; all seemingly content.
Leaving the fruitless trees, the land slowly sloped up. A small ridge—open, unplowed, and left to its own. Dried up Queen Anne’s Lace stabbed the snow here and there. Clumps of dead grasses not flattened by the snow peeked out at the world. A single maple tree stood at the top of the ridge. Three main trunks rose to form a wide canopy. The trunk to his left had been recently struck by lightning, its deadened limbs bent to the earth.
He slid from the saddle to the ground and let the reins drop.
When I was a kid I used to pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and pop to eat out here.
I smoked my first...and last...cigar by this tree. I thought I was so cool, until I coughed my lungs out and puked my guts up.
My back was against this rough bark when Darlene first kissed me. A few weeks later we discovered more than a kiss under this tree.
My hunting dog, Bones, is buried right over there.
Mostly, I just came out here to watch the clouds slide by and the breeze blow the grass.
Yeah, this is where I made my decision to go to school upstate. Stayed out here until it got dark. Mom was so proud that I was going to college. Any college.
And in the shelter of naked branches, he leaned back and wept. For as long as it took, he wept and sobbed. Puffy snowflakes floated down to frozen earth. Wiping his chapped cheeks, he took the reins of Purpose and walked her home.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
A Short Dash
April 15, 2009
Contemplating headstones.
Information minimal.
FULL NAME.
Date born.
Date dead.
In between—a dash.
The race starts with a bang;
cheers of joy and pain
pushing you through the gate.
The crowded pack vies for position;
spikes threaten your calves, elbows your nose.
Ultimately, you race self…alone.
Settling in to a rhythm, muscles warming;
preparing for the stretch ahead,
setting a pace for the miles before.
The course varies, testing entire being:
strength, will, stamina, mental fortitude
stretched, pushed, moving ahead, lagging behind.
Uphill sprints, downhill control;
sand and grass, pine bark and pavement
pounding up through sinew and pore.
Weather, with you, against you,
rain on face, wind at back;
wool socks cover hands in cold.
Home stretch stretching out, every breath
breathed through snot. Face set
finish line, heart racing to the end.
It's a short dash—
defining the name
on the headstone.
Contemplating headstones.
Information minimal.
FULL NAME.
Date born.
Date dead.
In between—a dash.
The race starts with a bang;
cheers of joy and pain
pushing you through the gate.
The crowded pack vies for position;
spikes threaten your calves, elbows your nose.
Ultimately, you race self…alone.
Settling in to a rhythm, muscles warming;
preparing for the stretch ahead,
setting a pace for the miles before.
The course varies, testing entire being:
strength, will, stamina, mental fortitude
stretched, pushed, moving ahead, lagging behind.
Uphill sprints, downhill control;
sand and grass, pine bark and pavement
pounding up through sinew and pore.
Weather, with you, against you,
rain on face, wind at back;
wool socks cover hands in cold.
Home stretch stretching out, every breath
breathed through snot. Face set
finish line, heart racing to the end.
It's a short dash—
defining the name
on the headstone.
Friday, February 6, 2009
appareo epifania
(December 11, 2008)
Don't rush me:
the symbols are all I have left.
What do you mean
“What does it mean?”
The entire poem
is an epiphany.
Don't rush me:
the symbols are all I have left.
What do you mean
“What does it mean?”
The entire poem
is an epiphany.
A Hymn For The Passover Rabbit
(December 10, 2008)
Searching for Fabergé eggs
in the brightly lit graveyard,
adorned in our finest suits
and frilly bonnets
because the hare
was split on Thursday,
one day before Friday
(explain why it's good)
and the chocolate covered bunny bled
paschal coloured dye.
But they were well concealed
in the plastic shredded grass
of pink and green
until Our Lady of Constant Concept-
uality (her stage name
being Madonna) showed up
for the final act and filled
her bloody basket to the brim
with Jelly Belly® beans.
And now it is Sunday morning
and we feast on fatted pig
as sugar-coated chickies ascend
into cotton candy clouds.
Searching for Fabergé eggs
in the brightly lit graveyard,
adorned in our finest suits
and frilly bonnets
because the hare
was split on Thursday,
one day before Friday
(explain why it's good)
and the chocolate covered bunny bled
paschal coloured dye.
But they were well concealed
in the plastic shredded grass
of pink and green
until Our Lady of Constant Concept-
uality (her stage name
being Madonna) showed up
for the final act and filled
her bloody basket to the brim
with Jelly Belly® beans.
And now it is Sunday morning
and we feast on fatted pig
as sugar-coated chickies ascend
into cotton candy clouds.
Down
(July 14, 2008)
Looking down all he saw
was concrete
merely millimeters
from his glazed eyes.
Cracked and bleeding toenails
scratched the rough surface
trying to regain
lost footing.
Calloused fingertips fumbled
for a hold,
grasping at pebbles,
digging in sand.
And his spittle oozed
over dried
and crusted lips
onto the hot pavement.
No one saw or cared to see
or dared to be
the one who cared
enough to lift.
Looking down all he saw
was concrete
merely millimeters
from his glazed eyes.
Cracked and bleeding toenails
scratched the rough surface
trying to regain
lost footing.
Calloused fingertips fumbled
for a hold,
grasping at pebbles,
digging in sand.
And his spittle oozed
over dried
and crusted lips
onto the hot pavement.
No one saw or cared to see
or dared to be
the one who cared
enough to lift.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Road Trip
(January 25, 2008)
Staring through the heat haze
rising from the road in the distance
skewing the view and vision,
wondering when this trip will ever end
'cause you've gotta pee
gotta pee
gotta pee.
And you can't pull over—
there's no trees,
no bushes,
no cover.
And the next rest stop is 55 miles away
with no exits in between.
And the gnawing in your gut
informs you that beef jerky
is no substitute for a full meal.
Wish you hadn't passed up
McDonald's an hour,
a lifetime ago.
And what's that noise?
That rattle.
That hum.
That annoying squeak.
Is my roadside service insurance up-to-date?
There's no way I can fix
whatever that is
myself.
Hey! Was that a lion?
Really. A lion. On a farm.
? ? !
A giant Jesus. Carved in butter.
Hmm.
And why would anyone make
a ball of string that big anyway?
So, where was I going anyway?
Should have listened to mom and dad.
Use the bathroom before you leave home.
Pack a lunch.
Know where you're going. Have a plan. Carry a map. Use the map.
Side trips are fun and educational,
however, don't forget your destination.
Destination.
Vacation.
Relaxation.
Forever R & R.
Am I there yet?
Staring through the heat haze
rising from the road in the distance
skewing the view and vision,
wondering when this trip will ever end
'cause you've gotta pee
gotta pee
gotta pee.
And you can't pull over—
there's no trees,
no bushes,
no cover.
And the next rest stop is 55 miles away
with no exits in between.
And the gnawing in your gut
informs you that beef jerky
is no substitute for a full meal.
Wish you hadn't passed up
McDonald's an hour,
a lifetime ago.
And what's that noise?
That rattle.
That hum.
That annoying squeak.
Is my roadside service insurance up-to-date?
There's no way I can fix
whatever that is
myself.
Hey! Was that a lion?
Really. A lion. On a farm.
? ? !
A giant Jesus. Carved in butter.
Hmm.
And why would anyone make
a ball of string that big anyway?
So, where was I going anyway?
Should have listened to mom and dad.
Use the bathroom before you leave home.
Pack a lunch.
Know where you're going. Have a plan. Carry a map. Use the map.
Side trips are fun and educational,
however, don't forget your destination.
Destination.
Vacation.
Relaxation.
Forever R & R.
Am I there yet?
The Darkened Firmament Is A Blank Page
(October 2, 2007)
…and the stars
of a clear Autumn night
blink and shimmer;
pinpricks of light
in a blue black sky;
tiny dots
as close as the back of my eye,
faraway;
forgotten
in the light of day;
lost
in the blur of city lights;
real worlds,
humungous suns,
fantastic galaxies
that glitter in imagination,
because at the end of the day
of a clear Autumn night
it's all we have left.
…and the stars
of a clear Autumn night
blink and shimmer;
pinpricks of light
in a blue black sky;
tiny dots
as close as the back of my eye,
faraway;
forgotten
in the light of day;
lost
in the blur of city lights;
real worlds,
humungous suns,
fantastic galaxies
that glitter in imagination,
because at the end of the day
of a clear Autumn night
it's all we have left.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Life in the Fast Lane
(July 11, 2007)
…and life oozed past:
every passing year;
month after month;
paycheck to paycheck;
day in, day out;
endless hours, stolen minutes, ticking seconds;
every minute infinity
leaking out at breakneck
stop motion speed.
And at every turn of the hand I think—
There's fifteen minutes of my life
I'll never get back.
…and life oozed past:
every passing year;
month after month;
paycheck to paycheck;
day in, day out;
endless hours, stolen minutes, ticking seconds;
every minute infinity
leaking out at breakneck
stop motion speed.
And at every turn of the hand I think—
There's fifteen minutes of my life
I'll never get back.
A Whisper of Butterfly Wings
(March 6, 2007)
This was another poem I was "requested" to write. One of my "fans" at the restaraunt I was working asked me to write a poem on the "butterfly effect" (look it up).
A rock. A ripple.
A flutter. A flurry.
A touch. A slap.
A first step. A final act.
Lifting a finger.
Moving a mountain.
Random acts of pettiness.
Random acts of kindness.
A lonely man. A family clan.
A woman on the street.
A simple word whispered.
A complex speech shouted from the rooftop.
A mistake. A plan.
Benefiting the good, the bad, the ugly.
World war. World peace.
Heaven. Hell.
Yesterday's gesture.
Tomorrow's conjecture.
This was another poem I was "requested" to write. One of my "fans" at the restaraunt I was working asked me to write a poem on the "butterfly effect" (look it up).
A rock. A ripple.
A flutter. A flurry.
A touch. A slap.
A first step. A final act.
Lifting a finger.
Moving a mountain.
Random acts of pettiness.
Random acts of kindness.
A lonely man. A family clan.
A woman on the street.
A simple word whispered.
A complex speech shouted from the rooftop.
A mistake. A plan.
Benefiting the good, the bad, the ugly.
World war. World peace.
Heaven. Hell.
Yesterday's gesture.
Tomorrow's conjecture.
Musings From a Jukebox
(2006)
Last chance to dance,
lost in the fast lane
going slow:
Stars are faded,
their glitter shaded
by the darkening moon:
No time all the time
standing in a line
of one…
And the music stopped.
Last chance to dance,
lost in the fast lane
going slow:
Stars are faded,
their glitter shaded
by the darkening moon:
No time all the time
standing in a line
of one…
And the music stopped.
Senseless (in memory of Ricardo Bailey who died of a gunshot while just being there for his cousin)
(November 7, 2006)
I had not worked with Ricardo for very long. He was a nice guy; had a good time at work. I closed the restaraunt with him the night he was killed. I think that's why it impacted me so much.
Senseless.
No sense.
Make sense
of the violent,
of violence,
of vile, of bile
scattered on the ground;
shattered on the ground;
splattered on the grounds
that there are no grounds;
it's groundless
on the ground
found
emptied,
unloaded;
lost
life;
left behind
life
found;
fill with sense,
sensation,
cessation of senselessness.
I had not worked with Ricardo for very long. He was a nice guy; had a good time at work. I closed the restaraunt with him the night he was killed. I think that's why it impacted me so much.
Senseless.
No sense.
Make sense
of the violent,
of violence,
of vile, of bile
scattered on the ground;
shattered on the ground;
splattered on the grounds
that there are no grounds;
it's groundless
on the ground
found
emptied,
unloaded;
lost
life;
left behind
life
found;
fill with sense,
sensation,
cessation of senselessness.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Field of Balloons
(December 16, 2005)
And so, he grabbed all the comic book dialogue balloons that appeared above his head and colored them with the worn and broken crayons from the box of 64 (he couldn't afford 120) and filled them with helium to the breaking point and tied them to the antennas of pre-owned vehicles in the used car lot with shoe laces, fishing line, strands of hair in hope…
And the people bought the cars and for the most part just popped the balloons, while others let them dangle and blow in the wind of 55 miles per; though a few—just a few—cut them loose to rise to the clouds and fall wherever dead balloons fall…
* * *
Today's Farm Report has been brought to you by
White Cloud Motors—
“Seeking to Satisfy with Quality”
since 1962.
And so, he grabbed all the comic book dialogue balloons that appeared above his head and colored them with the worn and broken crayons from the box of 64 (he couldn't afford 120) and filled them with helium to the breaking point and tied them to the antennas of pre-owned vehicles in the used car lot with shoe laces, fishing line, strands of hair in hope…
And the people bought the cars and for the most part just popped the balloons, while others let them dangle and blow in the wind of 55 miles per; though a few—just a few—cut them loose to rise to the clouds and fall wherever dead balloons fall…
* * *
Today's Farm Report has been brought to you by
White Cloud Motors—
“Seeking to Satisfy with Quality”
since 1962.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)