June o6, 2o13

   Okay, I promise that this is the last of this silliness for a while. I'll get back to the longer poems soon.

Mo Better Random (W) Rites

There's a rogue sparrow
dancing on the lawn!
I don't know what he's

happy about...
he's a damn sparrow.
 
Simply put, everything is simple.
No more complicated than
Einstein's theory of relativity:
"If it ain't relative to me,
I don't want to hear it."

 

Morning has arrived... again.
And tomorrow (if we're lucky)
it will do exactly the same thing.
But wouldn't it be nice next time

if it arrived just a little bit late,

rising from a different direction,
riding a mountain bike?

I never loved you
I hope you know that
I only pretended to
to give you a good reason
for leaving me

 

I tried counting peanuts
to fall asleep
but the elephant
in the room
eat ‘em all
now I'm wide awake

The problem with Human Rights,
every damn human being thinks

he deserves them.

 

I was afraid of this

when I should have been
afraid of that

 

I was thinkin’ ‘bout you

but then again
it could’ve been
you were thinkin’ ‘bout me
                   —Quantum Philosophy
—rrw o6-o6-13

 

June o5, 2o13

   I do a lot of Facebooking... write a lot of "little things" that aren't always poetry... just random thoughts. And that's what I named them, Random (W)Rites. Here's a sampling.

Random (W)Rites

 

One

I appear to have the Bubonic Plague Blues today.
My negative thoughts are running a temperature
of a hundred and seventy-five. The sweats of regret
are taking over... I've developed a chill in my future,
a runny nose reality. I've been under the influence,
emotional storm front, my whole, sick life. No cure.

 

Two

There are lies you tell your friends
the ones you quote your enemies
the fibs you speak to yourself
when truth is just too painful
and boring to bother with

 

Three

Something’s burning. I know it’s not love.

 

Four

Damn, morning already. Thunder

and lightning. A very wet rain
my alarm clock. There's no snooze
button on the weather. My plan to ride
the bike to the grocery store… put on hold.
My writing continues, though. Lately, I've
been practicing my typos and punctuation
errors. Getting good at it. Almost up to par
with my spelling and grammar mistakes.
Believe me, it's difficult to maintain
the purity of an illiterate mind.

 

Four (Bicycle Built for One)

I am painfully aware of your absence. So’s

my bicycle. It sits in the corner bleeding air
from its tires, and weeping sprocket-grease
tears on the carpet. If its spokes could speak,
they'd ask me about you. I’d refuse to comment,
pleading a fifth of Jack Daniels to incriminate myself.

 

Tomorrow, I’ll take my bike on a long trip.

Maybe he'll forget (for a while) that you
use to ride on the handlebars and laugh
as I peddled the three of us up that long,
deep grade near the Duck Pond.

 

I remember a summer’s day, warm but

not unpleasant. A Devil’s Head thorn
carved its way into the front tire,
the tube gasped then went flat. You
always blamed yourself… “I shouldn’t
ride on the handlebars, I’m too fat.” But
you weren’t. No heavier than a leaf, 
a rebellious, spring leaf that always found
a path to the pond water, or landing on
the back of some transient duck that just
stopped by for a cooling splash.

 

I won’t go by way of the pond  tomorrow.

Too many memories for my Mountain Trek.
You know how he gets when his wheels
start turning in the wrong direction. We’d
be out there all day… looking for you.
—rrw o6-o4-13

June o4, 2o13

   I get busy during the day and forget to post here. Well, that may not be totally true. I suppose I get busy writing a poem or smoking or watching TV as an excuse for NOT writing on my blog. I need to stop that. This next poem I thought about yesterday... and didn't get around to writing it today. Another thing I shouldn't do. I should write as soon as the idea comes to mind. The picture/poetry is always too small on the blog. However, if you click on it, you can see a larger version of it.

How to Live Forever

 

There are structures much stronger than mine

made of brick and mortar, concrete and steel,
able to resist the temperamental fits of nature
and man. They stand firm for what seems to be
forever. I wouldn’t mind that, a body created in fire
and not molded from mud. But a plastic bag?
Now, we’re talking longevity, and he’ll probably  
outlive us all. Quite sturdy, pliable, reliable he is,
adrift through life at the whim of the spring and
summer winds, no cares, no woes, he just does
what he’s told. Oh, but then again, wind! A powerful
beast that uproots trees, reduces tall buildings
to piles of debris. And don’t forget time, patient,
persistent time. She kills, destroys, annoys without
consideration for the years upon years it takes to whittle
us down, or for the human sadness she causes. No, I’d
rather not be wind or time. Both are too unkind. I’ll settle
for flesh and blood and bone and spirit, which, as I hear it
from my knowledgeable friends,  just doesn’t exist. But that’s it!
The spirit! No one sees it, smells it, hears it… can harm it. If
living ever after is your goal, a kind, gentle spirit is the way to go.
—rrw o6-o3-13

June o2, 2o13

   I started this one late last night and finished it (?) this morning and afternoon. I spent a lot of time on the graphic for this one too. Here's the thing I've learned about writing:
1. Things must change
2. Never think a poem is finished
3. Never be afraid to junk the whole mess and move on
4. ALWAYS look for new ways to say what you want to express

Full of Moon

 

I’m full of moon tonight

filled with rain and sparrow smoke

 

Full of shadows clinging tightly

holding on to what is left of me

 

On a shelf below the leaky sink

I think I hear the kitchen knives 

 

the coffee cups and herbal teas

mourn the crumpled tinfoil day

 

We are afraid they softly whisper

too afraid to greet the night

 

Without our coat and scarf and hat

and leopard-spotted gloves to match

 

At midnight phantom joggers

thump the Earth to death

 

Bobbing lights and pale

white runner’s breath

 

Sometimes the moon is not enough

for them or me

 

The stars so very far away

from me and them

 

Once in a while I ache for emptiness

for hooded nameless crows

 

To come along and gently kindly

peck the world blind
—rrw o6-o2-13

June o1, 2o13

   I follow American politics pretty close. Often enough I get angry at our public officials always arguing and never getting things done. This poem is about those feelings.

 

 

Magdala

 

We looked for stones to throw

but didn’t find none
so, we settled-up for slinging mud
the morning rain had brung
when the summer comes
we’ll make due with dust
if there’s nothing else to toss

 

gotta punish the weak

beat down the strong

do yaself a favor

crucify the saviors

Psychology Philosophy

Biology Religion

Science Tradition

Welfare Warfare

greedy Corporations

 

just burn it all

burn it up good

no matter what the cost

Ya gotta FIGHT against

the tyranny of rational thought

—rrw o6-o1-13

 

May 29, 2013

   This one was written very fast... sometimes things work out that they just come together enough to say, "Hey! This is a poem!" It's a conglomeration of a bunch of ideas, experiences that I really didn't take notice of when they happened. But I sat down to write this poem and they ALL came rushing out. So this poem is about a month worth of experiences... not ALL the experiences, but the ones that (for whatever reason) stuck to my mind:

 

 

Morning!

 

Wow! Up early! Outside already... hot, black coffee

and the insane sounds of morning birds...  almost awake.

Another cigarette, I guess, I know I NEED to quit. Yet,

there’s something quit comforting about nicotine

and smoke, lighting up, breathing in and hopefully

breathing out… not knowing all the while the difference

between the two.

 

The spring winds threaten rain… but not this early.

They just sigh a bit, tickling the fresh, green tops

of the parking lot’s trees, fiddling with the little stubs

of hair magically appearing from the inside of my ears.

I’m getting old… er and none the wise… r.

That’s why I smoke unfiltered Lucky Strikes,

drink the cheapest brand of coffee I can find

and waste my life away sitting on curb, in an ally

trying to reason with the mentally ill wildlife nested

above my head.

 

And poetry! What must I do? Is it really necessary

to climb on the back of Che Guevara’s motorbike

and go traipsing about through the Amazon jungle?

Must I stop at every mining camp and village hut

to preach the gospel according to Marx, Lenin, Ringo,

Paul and George?

 

Or is it enough to stretch my illiterate, long legs

out across the monochrome page and bitch about

that fucking one-eyed squirrel staring at me

from the tree across the way. Not sure who

is staring at who(m?). Not sure the squirrel

is really there… not sure I’m really here.

But I must be. Who else would write this

dumb-ass poem?

—rrw o5-28-13

 

 

 



May 27, 2o13

MEMORIAL DAY

   It's been an eventful MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, but you'll need to go to my PAGES to read all about It. Here, you'll find my poem commemorating the occasion:

To The Dead

Memorial Day

Monday, May 27, 2013

 

Here’s a toast to the dead,

for the ones who never came back,
the ones who died in the blood and mud
of foreign lands, in the oceans  wide,
the jungles thick, the skies lit-up by tracer rounds.

 

Let’s raise our glasses for the lads and lasses

who made it back home without a scratch,
not a bloody wound  or festered sore to be seen.
Their scars do appear, but only in dreams.

 

And let us salute the absoluteness of war,

the life of death, domestic, abroad.
To the end of all bloodshed, a vow that we swore
so many, too many times before.

 

Let’s praise the corpse; hell, why not praise them all?               

Billy and Bobby, Sally and Sandy, Martin and Paul;
on withered legs escort them to their graves.

And when we’re through, jump start the good ol’ barbeque.
Yeah, let’s chug a few down for the glories of war.
“To the dead, the dead!”  We drink once more.
—rrw o5-26-13