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.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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