Acknowledgment

If I had known how long I'd live
I would have shown more care
in finding reasons to forgive
the donors of despair

for empathy extended earns
(if nothing else) respect
a need for which innately burns
within despite what sect.

Out with the Old

Let's have some new clichés. – Samuel Goldwyn

The clan of cliché
doesn’t mind the decay
destroying our chances for new things to say

these wasters of ink
apparently shrink
away from the pleasure of getting to think—

your prose can be prime
if you take the time
to try and jot lines that are somewhat sublime

the best thing to do
is read what comes through
and make sure the paper is soaked with just you.

Unhook

Relating thoughts poetically
to people raised phonetically
is harder than it sounds at first
they seem to be genetically
disposed to hear the worst,

for matter biologically
condemned to chronologically
decay will seldom think of time
or any other concept logically
(especially in rhyme).

Idio(ma)tic

I play the role I have to play
to keep at bay the fakes that pay
a grudging cent while wads are spent
on leeches meant to implement
their clever brains to triple gains
but effort wanes and then these pains
employ their clout to lounge about
while we without are forced to doubt
our value and the work we do
in bondage to the foolish few.

Not Quite Right

I wish Bob Church was still here
his witty wisdom we held so dear
and it seems that at least once a year
his ghost brings a smiling tear.

Sundown

Receding rays refraction reveals
the churning of uncaring wheels
desertion of arcane ideals

dispersing demolition dust
turns the twilight sky to rust
as red as an illicit lust

filled heart before it's drained
for dreams are seldom (if ever) attained
or infrastructure sustained.

Gifts

At first he's a Power Ranger dressed in red
of course I'm the Bad Guy filled with dread
and just when I tell him "You've beaten me, stop!"
he says "I'm a froggie that goes hop hop hop."
so I playfully tell him that frogs like flies
then with a mischievious look in his eyes
he jumps around flicking his little pink tongue--
there's no cure for aging like time with the young.
At two he can grasp what took me years to learn
and I'm wondering how far this kid will go
when suddenly he's shooting me with a gun,
within him I see imagination burn
so brilliantly he can change the world we know
but for now, let's just have some old fashioned fun.

Nits

There's always something broken
over-utilized or bent
there's always some infraction
we're reluctant to repent

but why should less-than-perfect
ever give us cause to pause
perhaps our darkest defect--
we focus on the flaws.

Whatever

For three years in a row it's reigned
as something utterly disdained
yet everyone employs this word
when too lethargic to be stirred.

Solstice

Winter's first day
aside from the gray
is our longest lapse without sun to belay

the imminent pall
that's stalking us all
awaiting the passage of seasons to fall.

Exchange

On Christmas, as kids, we risked the peril
of parental wrath to sneak a peek
at brightly wrapped presents that made us feral
enough to wildly shred and shriek
but now, it’s just like a worn-out carol
that drones for its allotted week
and trudging through the stores I’ve prayed
for somewhere to return this jade.

Anon

There’s talk of the world ending again
this time it’s the big one (or so they say)
as preachers spout apocalyptic verse
the masses scan the heavens for a sign
but none is seen and life grinds on the same
epiphanies (it seems) are hard to find.

When looking back through history you’ll find
a duplicate scene again and again
the future and the past are both the same
concerned with what the stars might have to say
but soothsayers are reluctant to sign
the prophecies they’ve hidden in their verse

Haul

There is a great deal, in the writing of poetry, which must be conscious and deliberate. In fact, the bad poet is usually unconscious when he ought to be conscious and conscious when he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him “personal”. Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

—T. S. Eliot from Tradition and the Individual Talent (1917)—


Another trove of treasure found
with sturdy covers firmly bound
I’ll dive into these shining dreams
to scavenge anything that gleams;
this trek has been a constant quest
to find an overflowing chest
of precious gems that sparkle bright
with glaring facets of delight
from kingdoms I have never known
that beckon me (as timbers groan)
beyond the continental shelf
to finally see outside myself.

Focus

Illumination all depends
on what we wish to see
for even through the sharpest lens
incensed incredulity

can make the most perceptive blind
or the wisest one a fool
our greatest asset is the mind
don't ever dull your tool.

Resuscitation

Dichotomous
describes the us
I always thought we had
indignity
invades the me
that's suddenly quite sad
enormous rue
exudes from you
I know my faults are trying
but if we care
we may breathe air
into a love that's dying.

Making an Effort

I’ve never been so tired
or felt so damn alive,
I’ve wallowed uninspired
but now I long to thrive
forgetting I was mired
and barely did survive.

We seldom face the facts
until it’s time to die
our peevish pride retracts
and we at last see why
the greatest of our acts
is learning how to try.



***Hi all! Boy this year surely flew by, but as it draws to a close I get a bit tired looking back. This week has been extremely busy including a visit from our local TV station’s morning crew delivering 2 dozen cupcakes we won in a holiday cheer contest. Of course the clincher was my grandson Westin pouting for a cupcake in the picture we entered on facebook. You can check it at WTEN on their page.

Tonight the whole main street area around our diner is having a ‘Winter Mixer’ – so we will be open for dinner (normally breakfast-lunch) and are having live acoustic entertainment as well, provided by myself and Tom and George from the bands 3 of a Kind and The Rogues. These two guys have jammed together for 40 years and they are super talented and really harmonize so well with each other, I get excited to just listen to them, now I’m honored to participate. Last year was the first such event and it went over so well, it should be even better this year with milder temps and no snow. Then my wife and I get to clean up, get out of there who knows when, and get back up at 4 am to open for Saturday – whew.

Christmas wasn’t always my favorite holiday as my late mother’s drinking and misery really seemed to escalate then after my parents split, I think in some ways it symbolized the failure she perceived her life to be. I’ll never forget coming home one day just before her 40th birthday and she just sat sobbing uncontrollably clutching a book to her chest so tightly her knuckles were white. I later found out from my sister it was her yearbook and I couldn’t help wondering how her life had scarred her so badly because she never spoke of it, at least that I know of. I miss her terribly but feel the chains of previous misfortunes finally starting to loosen. Unfortunately this time of year is heavily tied up in memories and bad ones can really spoil the mood, but I choose to savor the ones from youth when she was vibrant and healthy. She’d set up her manger scene on the mantle and I’d help bake cookies, oh the smells! She really was such a loving person and that is how she will always be remembered by me.

I want to thank everyone that has stopped by and for all the encouraging comments; I truly hope you and yours have a chance to make some memories worth keeping this year and for years to come. Peace.***

Icing

Dough can be formed
it’s just sugar and flour
that needs to be warmed
with a little raw power

vanilla mixed in
plus butter (yum yum)
with a moppet’s grin
is where love comes from.

Shucks

Conglomerates control the corn
unconcerned with who’s a husk
they only sniff when stalks are shorn
for monetary musk,

oblivious to growling guts
and sunken, hollow eyes
they cultivate unyielding ruts
with hopes the price will rise;

these moguls of the upper tiers
could care what cause is born
our voices fall on deafest ears—
conglomerates control the corn.

Reversible

My ignorance is my weakest chink
and perhaps my best defense
if I don’t know what others think
who cares if it makes sense?

Ground Swell

Incorporation doesn’t stop
with those that wallow at the top
they want a world where everyone
will rush to get their bidding done,
their boards convene with one intent
to pilfer every penny spent
by those that have no choice but buy
the plastic promises they ply;
but now the ones who have it rough
it seems, at last, have had enough
their anger spills into the street
to jar the balance of said ‘elite’
the grazing of the golden calf
should easily be cut in half
provided it’s not melted down
with every self-appointed crown.


***The first year of this blog I wrote a little ditty using an earthquake prone area as a metaphor for social injustice which now seems a bit prophetic considering the 'Occupation' - hmmm***

Enrichment

Good luck improving your lot
the weary world is running low
be happy with what you've got.

Convinced you're such a have-not
when millions have nothing to show?
Good luck improving your lot

forgetting the frozen sot
with nowhere warm to go,
be happy with what you've got

not teeth consumed by rot
that starving children grow,
good luck improving your lot

before you fill your plot
and lose your chance to sow.
Be happy with what you've got

that you even get a single shot
to let a needy person know
you'll help improve their lot--
be happy with what you've got.

Loafing

We've all had breakfast to go
in boxes of various types
that said, I want you to know
about one of my biggest gripes
the foul offense I hate the most
is trying to stomach soggy toast.

It comes from the toaster hot
and crispy to be assured
but pulled from the box it's not
some radical change has occurred
it's damp and limp, a mushy joke
not worthy of soaking up golden yolk--

just think of what we've acheived
as a race, the list is immense
but is it to be believed
this problem is too intense
and hopes of mobile breakfast are dead
for want of a piece of toasted bread?

Most Important Meal

Ice cold pills
with steaming hot brew
bye bye ills
for an hour or two
and then perhaps a spot of food
to help improve my morning mood.

Urbanism

The curbs are low and worn
the granite crudely shorn
in this town where I was never born,
a legacy of rust
and long forgotten dust
awaits the fools that blindly trust
the scavengers of scorn
that just this very morn
sought perches to adorn
on pillars of concrete
that frame the indiscreet
surviving in the street.

Snug

Freedom isn’t free
but why the lofty fee
conception comes without constraint
isn’t that how life should be?

Our minds should be immune
to any hateful tune
toxicity that tends to taint
our outlooks much too soon

resulting in the chains
that pinch some vital veins
the stifling self-imposed restraint
we trade for social gains.

Waxing

As finite fuel is burned
the wick becomes concerned
with how far it must go
to keep that healthy glow.

Execution

The Satrap’s frame was corpulent
(he seldom had to move)
his servants were quite diligent
maintaining every groove
they scurried all about the tent
in hopes that he’d approve
their work before he faced the crowd
to claim the head that he’d been vowed.

Assassins are a tricky sort—
a blade that’s up for hire
may kill another just for sport
if that’s their true desire
but often they’re the last resort
for cowards that aspire
to covet someone else’s lot
by plying an atrocious plot.

The gathering was set for dawn
to keep the Satrap cool
he paused to stifle one more yawn
then said “Where is the fool
that promised when his sword was drawn
my target’s blood would pool?
Such failure is a foul disgrace
and now his neck shall take her place!”

The axe man towered dark and slim
and resting on one arm
his scimitar looked deadly grim
impatient to bring harm
to anyone whose private whim
opposed his Master’s charm
the pitted blade was ample proof
that no offenders stayed aloof.

The Dark One was brought out in chains
that dragged across the ground
his passive face showed little pains
the crowd conveyed no sound
the only noises – clanging strains
that ricocheted around,
and a buzzing fly oblivious
to all of this official fuss.

“BEHOLD!” the Satrap loudly cried
from where he perched on stage
“The craven killer that denied
your Satrap’s righteous rage,
deliberately he stood and lied
about the war he’d wage
my chosen victim continues to breathe
which really makes my anger seethe!”

The silent crowd remained sedate
they’d seen this scene before
the tyrant would pontificate
and then he would implore
those listening to never hate
enough that they ignore
his needs as soon as they were voiced,
such graciousness should be rejoiced.

Meanwhile, just outside the town
some phantoms stalked a dune
Verona wore a worried frown
she knew that very soon
to save the man of dark renown
she’d challenge a platoon
her only fear? Not death, you see
but that her lover won’t go free.

Her lookouts signaled – time to ride,
the dark one bent to kneel
they thundered forth and hit full stride
while bristling with steel
the executioners eyes grew wide
he stopped his blade to wheel
and join the bloody fight
but a whizzing arrow felled his might,

acute confusion claimed the day
the shaking Satrap ran,
Verona made it through the fray
and now she had to plan
on how to snatch the keys away
from the jailer of her man
when much to her surprise she found
he stood before her, wrists unbound.


***Well this is part VII of the Desert Saga - here's a link to part VI which has links to previous chapters. Enjoy!***

Intermission

I'm certain of which strings to cut
to make your puppet fall
I'd really love to do it but
I haven't got the gall

it seems I'm just too nice a guy
to interupt your show
be thankful my true motives lie
in getting up to go.

Portent

You've had your time to rest
and now they're coming from the west
they fill the winter sky
these harbingers of hell that fly
on wings as black as night
to fill our mortal souls with fright
there'll be no more delays
it's time to face the final days.

Reprogrammed

Amos the android could be quite beguiling
he practiced the premise of unrehearsed smiling
his circuits were coded to simulate life
to learn from both pleasure and strenuous strife
constructed of alloys that made him eternal
he knew to find truth you search by the kernel
without the depression of living to die
he began to unravel the riddle of why.

A movement sprang up inspired by his writing
which cautioned against the futility of fighting
and once people started to heed what he said
they found their aggression was easily shed
all flags were torn down and nations disbanded
the concept of freedom was vastly expanded
a world where redemption was finally supplied
by an android named Amos who never knew pride.

Seconds

I had soup with my grandson yesterday
it was quite an amazing treat
it filled me up in a special kind of way
and I even got to eat,

his celery became a green dinosaur
his carrot a crocodile
while I stood basking on the shore
in the radiance of his smile;

such silliness was so sublime
who ever would have guessed
that my weary days of wasted rhyme
could be so truly blessed

and although time will play its tricks
by moving much too fast
I’ll binge on these few precious ticks
as long as they may last.