office balloon

A half-deflated balloon
decorated with

colorful stars and
“You’re So Special”

tethered to its cubicle

now
bobbing and weaving

now
drifting listlessly in

currents of stale
recirculated air

its metallic surface
reflecting the

bright
white light of
office fluorescents

“I don’t make mistakes”

“I DON’T MAKE MISTAKES”

“I don’t make mistakes!”

Hmmmmph!
arrogant, ballsy fraud.
Elitist, cock-sure punk.

The claim
itself a mistake
waiting to humble
the utterer of lies.

Pop the balloon
of ego
(or is it id?).

Beat the
empty piñata
there’s no sweetness within.

Drink the curdled milk
soured by
time in the slow
heat of ignorance.

Remove the clothes
made dirty by
the ejaculation of foolishness.

Wash clean
the soiled
soul.

Rinse the body and
dress it in the clean
fresh clothing of
righteous humility.

Walk out into
the quiet morning of
birdsong
welcoming you
to a new life
where others sing
your praises,

as you practice
patience
for the mistakes
of others,

when they look
fearfully to your
criticism
only to find

the warmth
of the sun,
blue skies of kindness
green grass of compassion

in the welcoming embrace
of
forgiveness and understanding.

I was born….

I WAS BORN

I was born in 1960. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  I will turn 60 in 2020.
I turned 20 in 1980. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  I will turn 80 in 2040.
I turned 40 in the year 2000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

All of my present has been
neurotically ricocheting
back and forth between
my past and my future.

I turned 40 in the year 2000.
When I turn 00
I will return to
what I was
before I was born

At peace.
At home.
In total oneness with
existence and nonexistence.

the writing blahs

The hand lies
limply on the page

Pen flip-flopping flaccidly
insipid, impotent inspiration

Desire, a
vacuous turncoat
betrays me

What to write.
What to write?
What To Write!

nothing.

Speaking in Tongues

 

evangel-lies #9 sm

SPEAKING IN TONGUES

(based on 1 Corinthians 13:1 NIV)

“blah blah blah

blah blah blah blah blah

blah blah blahblah,

blah blah blah blah blah,

blah blah blahblah blah

blahblah blah blah

blah blahblah blahblah.”

So,

blah!

Night Rain

Night Rain

Splashes and Rivulets.
The rain dances then flows
washing, cleansing the
streets and sidewalks
by lamplight
while the city sleeps.

The sins of Winter
washed into the gutter and
time moves slowly.
I stare impatient
by the window
waiting for repentant Spring.

LOL 2

Another poem – this one’s about laughter itself.

Laugh Out Loud 2

Laughs Like Potato Chips

Laughs are like
potato chips
you can’t eat just one

Ha is not as infections as haha
or hahahahaha…
You can’t have tee without the hee
or teeheeheehee

It’s harder to grin
from one side of the mouth
easier with both

If you laugh without sound
you’re in very much danger
so wheeze, grunt, snort or chuckle
laugh until your weak in the knees

If the belly stopped after one shake
when it shakes with laughter
you would die

lots of laughs
are better than one
and laughing out loud
is better than death

LOL

There is a long proud history of bawdy humor in literature of all types including poetry.  I’ve decided it’s time I give it a go at low brow humor.
Laugh Out Loud

Body Music

Farting is the sound
of the body’s marching band.
Its trumpeting brass,
thunderous drums, and
the delicate squeak of the clarinet.

Gaseous humors
released from within,
expelled with force or
slipping out through the cracks
in a hissing wind.

Grand multi-sensory experience –
whether earthquaking, embarrassingly obvious
or silent and deadly;
a bowel-shaking satisfaction
will always make you smile.

Polite society is no place for me.
Let the face bunch up in laughter
and let the ears tingle.
LET IT RIP! (and of course)
pass the nose-plugs please.

for more laughs….
http://mentalfloss.com/article/52419/11-literary-fart-jokes

Inspiration In Unlikely Places

Temple of Industry 2009

My ears tingle from
the klatter and klang
Sturm und Drang…..
orchestra of rust
….. in…..

A concert hall of corrugated steel
over block walls
under a steel frame roof
blown by the wind
in a symphony of sound,
a joyful noise unto the Lord

The abandoned temple of industry
a holy shroud
baptized by peeling paint
once wet… shiny… new…
now cracked and broken
hardened by life
dry… damaged…
decay from neglect
a slow discard of memories
….. soon forgotten…..

Now the doors are thrown open
“Free Admission!”
“Welcoming All Worshipers!”
a gathering of misfits, undesirables and homeless,
insects, rodents and birds…
the garden within.

The heart finds redemption
in this arcane recital,
hallowed and profane
within the unsuspecting shell
… of shadows and shades.

Sturm und Drang

the forgotten valentine

THE FORGOTTEN VALENTINE

Hearts and candy
Baked goods, cards and flowers
A saints holiday,
… the saint would not recognize.

Pagan cupids,
fleshy child-like innocents
with winking mischief,
ready with arrows and bow
to slay the expectant heart.

…… while other hearts
go unfulfilled
longing for companionship
like dry ground longs for rain.

… and winged cupid’s
in their flawed judgement
fly by… mocking
… saving their arrows
for the select few
and not the ones in need.

Laundromat

LAUNDROMAT

Chattering women
gossip pretentiously
each is right… each is self-assured of her rightness
even if they do speak in the tongues of angels
ignorance and distance.

I, huddled in the far corner by the door
recently propped open by a newcomer
transporting her laundry from car to machine
unaware of her effect on others

Cold winter air flooding around me
chilled to the bone
impatiently waiting
unable to escape
trapped in my domestic duty.

In 07minutes I will be able to carry
the cold, damp, freshly-washed garments and
deposit them into a warm dryer
to tumble and fluff then fold
and afterwards,
finally, leaving for the quiet solitude of home.

How cold is it?

WINTERS COLD

Winters cold lunges
clasping onto the unwary passerby
winters icy grip claws furiously
looking for any weakness

The traveler, wrapped in soft cloth
armor of futility
shuddering and struggling to keep out
the frigid beast

Winters cold, unrelenting in its search
finding exposed skin
like a wild animal, shakes it’s prey
tearing and biting the blood-filled shell of life

The traveler….. gasping, heart beating rapidly
slowly stiffening as the last vestiges
of warmth reluctantly flee
the beast boldly triumphant

….. until…..

The traveler ducks into an open door
homes welcoming hearth & warm familial remedy
the winter beast rears up wounded and repelled by warmth,
releases its hold then roars into the night
searching for a new victim

 

[in memory of the bitter cold of almost two weeks ago when temperatures here in Akron, Ohio literally rivaled those of Antarctica especially when factoring in windchill]

new untitled poem

(untitled) 1/29/19 1AM

… with bigoted clam-shelled-shut heart
pinched accusation and fervent digit all gesticulation…
… their unctuous moral fortitude, no reverence for creation
razes the standard none can achieve
happy to fail, happy to fall
into the boiling cauldron of righteousness…
… reason lost.

Who will avail the good, decent, compassionate
and forgiving soil?
… planting seeds to each grow its own kind
fruit bearing and fruitless
watered by streams of untethered acceptance.

Virtues are best left in deep shadows
where they are not exposed to the light of…
… haughty self-aggrandizement,
bleached by self-promotion or discolored by false humility…
… left in the heavy darkness when eyes close
and sound fades to sleep…
… perchance to dream.

 Anatomies of Pain #2

Choices

in memory of Rod Geiser December 2018

Choices: How Long Does It Take A bullet To Kill?

Choices: Years
It takes years of modeling behavior and molding thought
inspired by wrong perceptions and misplaced values

Choices: Months
There are months of despair
Choices: Weeks
There are weeks of frustration

Choices: Days
Persistent anger for days

Choices: Hours
Decisions made over the course of hours
Choices: Minutes
Actions taken over the course of just minutes

Choices: Seconds
It takes only a second to fire a gun

Choices: Instantly
In an instant the bullet will pierce the body

Choices
…and the destiny of shooter and victim
are irrevocably changed.

Choices
Change MUST come
Politically
Socially
Culturally
spiritually

Choices
Choices I must make
Choices You must make
Choices We must make
The time is NOW.

… on… a new baby….

I created a couple of Haiku’s to go with this favorite non-traditional Christmas song.

Heard the baby cry
Neighbors gently hush back to sleep
Thin walls breathe hope

Young woman, young man
Their Christmas gift arrived early
Joy all season long

 

… on… winter….

Winter has been a favorite season of mine for a long long time.  The things I always liked about winter were the cold, ice, snow and wind….   But winters have been milder (thanks to climate change) so I find them less enjoyable than previously.   Looks like we’ll have a “green” Christmas – for at least the fifth year in a row……  I remember when Christmas’s were always “white” with snow.   Oh well, that’s life.  Last week we had some snow so I was able to get out and enjoy it for the couple of days it lasted.   Today’s image is proof of that.

When winter comes
Its cold dark embrace beguiling
We search for warmth

Wind howls coldly
Wrapped in sweaters of warmth
Hide in hovels

Winter Storm

Winters Solstice
Boldly we soldier on
Bring On The Night

Light only flickers
Dancing a tarantella
A dark long night-scape

In the northern hemisphere Christmas is also closely aligned with the Winter Solstice – the darkest time of the year when days are short and nights are long (unlike my friends in the southern hemisphere where this is the beginning of summer).

In honor of the Winter Solstice here is some music by the underrated Tin Hat Trio.  The track is titled THE LONGEST NIGHT from their recording Book Of Silk.

… on… the macro verse….

I’ve long been fascinated with macro photography.  It’s so hard to do it right.  And I’m usually too lazy to carry a tripod around so I’ve never really bothered.   But lately, as my previous post shows.  I’ve started getting into the so-called groove of close-up and macro imaging.    I still don’t use a tripod – all handheld – so the number of useable images are limited.

This morning was a beautiful frosty December morning and I decided to go to a local park close to downtown and only about 5 minutes from my apartment.   Here are two of the images I was able to use from this morning along with two new haiku.  Hope you enjoy them.

Les Bébés Congelés

Frosty mornings
Inhale a crispy frozen breath
I gasp, in love

Whiplash wind storm
When I am lost you bend me back
See what’s behind

Whiplash Bend

The music moment is provided by the Tindersticks.    Their song FROZEN from their recent album – The Something Rain.

… on… a thousand fading stars….

Night comes darkly
Bringer of dreams and nightmares
Floating in space

A Thousand Fading Stars

Flash of excitement
A thousand stars fading from view
Dreamers wake to light

Your music moment is by Mazzy Star – FADE INTO YOU
from their 1993 album So Tonight That I Might See.

… on… 3 new haiku attempts….

Squirrel sky highways
wires crossed to connect
away from the road

Pursuit Of Nothingness

Autumn breathes In Moods
Warm days, cool nights and waterfalls
Time dreaming TWIN PEAKS

Concretism

Driving brings limits
Destinations form in the soul
Spirits need no roads

 

… on… the wasteland….

“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

~ T.S. Eliot
Wasteland #1

WASTELAND #1