30 Poems in 30 Days (Redux)

1-13 (thirteen already???)

He knew this time
that when she left
she left for good
because she left
the door wide open.
In that moment
opened wide
possibilities
did not outweigh
the pain inside.

3-7

Ekphrastic Hopper*

You'd think it was paint by number
so sharp the lines so banal a subject--
lighthouse on the Maine coast

of indeterminate season anytime
from August to April anywhere
from mud soft to hard freeze don't

let the color trick your eye it might
be some halcyon day in-between
nor'easters a frolic between fulsome

coppery skies and great white pileup,
rime on the rocks and of course
that house a fortress needing walls

thick and heavy that matte sky so blue
breathless and oppressive, leaning
on the earth the uneasy windows

watching Casco Bay, the great spill
of Atlantic beyond what the eye sees.

*Reference

1-9 The VA

There are no words that I can say,
That will make life's badness flee away.
I wish that I could to you fly,
To help you work underneath your sky.
But we are destined to be apart,
And for ever to be distant.
So instead I will sooth your heart,
And be your Virtual Assistant.

1-14 asmr

ticky tippy tapping
crinkling of wrapping
sand sliding in a glass
wind rushing through tall grass
a murmuring
of murdering
intent with sherlock holmes
brushes nails and combs
sounds bridge the great chasm
a cerebral orgasm

2-12 - Behold!

Never shy on his first try,
armed with his own two hands,
foolhardy, he sets to work.
Fruit of two opposable thumbs
and a highly developed telencephalon,
smart monkey says: behold!

There are many sights to behold
going out on a limb, for a try.
Gotta activate your telencephalon
while keeping both hands
safely inside. Remember: without thumbs,
smart monkey cannot work.

But giddy gaga, woozy wobbly woo, this won't work,
barmy words make for sestinawrecks to behold!
Wrecks, even when funny, rarely receive the thumbs
up, so just give up, don't even try!
A smart monkey closes the shop, hands
over his humbled telencephalon...

But a humble telencephalon
this monkey does not have, so to work
he goes, and he says: "all hands
on deck!". Works to produce a thing to behold,
and though it will take many a try,
bashes his head. Nevermind his sore thumbs.

Breakneck daredevil, look now at his thumbs!
Must be twisting and squeezing that telencephalon
hard, going for the last drop of juice. Just try
to picture, this incatious madcap hard at work,
his desktop a spreadsheet, a sight to behold.
Really, who'd have thought he'd try his hands?

Faster and faster, a maniac, hands
furiously typing, by themselves, 'till thumbs
come right off, now little bloody stumps. Behold,
however, how he still goes on, telencephalon
now in full auto, full drive, full forward, hard at work.
Monkey sees, monkey does! Shame won't foil his try.

All it takes are hands, no shame, and a telencephalon;
For as olden thumbs have thumbed, "what a piece of work is monkey."
Behold, then, smart monkey's first try.

I have no shame.

3-1

I called her 'St. Joan'

True, she heard unseen voices, but was mostly 'cause she smelled of ash.

3-2

Two Week Summer Job

Summer in Fayetteville wasn't
so bad that year,
walking door-to-door and
doing my best to sign folks
up for the special information
service that was nothing
more than a modern way of
saying selling encyclopedias,

The main thing that sticks
in my mind, though, was how
slight the variety in the sprawl
was...trailer park, trailer park,
Pantry, Red Barn, Circle K,
a multitude of little strip malls
that usually had nothing but
pawn shops, bars, and actual
strip clubs sitting in them,

No time off to speak of, though,
which I really only felt on the
day I stopped for a break from
walking my daily trek, (I forgot to
bring my better shoes; toes aching
inside their plastic-and-canvas wraps)
sat and lisstened to the crack of
ball on bat from cages attached to a local
arcade and putting range, the scent
of their varnished surfaces
wafting just barely across the lot
to toy with the taste of my
chocolate milk. Odd, but not
unenjoyable.

1-10 a haiku prayer.

Lord make me patient
So that I may better deal
With her absences.

2-13

there is a kind of thought,
which isn't task oriented,
or survival oriented,
or anything.

empathy and awareness,
accidents of evolution,
self-fulfilling prophecies for destruction
of the meek.

think too much, feel too much...
looking inside (and inside the outside)
weakness? maybe, sometimes.
too often, seen as handicap,

so much of what makes
humans human
mocked, taken lightly,
taken for granted.

yet try for a human tribe
without those who
think too much, feel too much...
just try.

Reference #1, Reference #2

Originally posted in writing live

1-15 syllables

Frayed edges frame nothing special, but something special to me.

3-8

Jazzette

She falls to the chasm of cacophony soothed by tenor madness.

3-9

is here.

3-3

Another Snow Day

The rattling of mini-hailstones woke me; they sounded like breaking bones.

1-11

Is here...

2-14 - An epistle

To whomever finds this note,

I leave this journal in hope that something can be learned and changed.

Day 1:

Each year, it is the same.
I have barricaded myself inside with large quantities of food,
but still they come, in through the television.
The voices. The music. Driving me mad.
Any sarau can turn out to be one of their trojan horses.
I resign myself; I can't stop them, I can only endure.
At least I have Netflix.

Day 2:

They are out on the street tonight, making noise.
Wiggling their bodies, clearly mad.
Their war drums can be heard from a distace,
beating to the ancient tune of some fertility goddess,
or maybe some drunkard god.
Horns and cavacos can be faintly heard,
but the voices,
oh the voices.
They are loud as they go by, unintelligible,
laughing and shrieking in turn.
At night, I cover my ears and surround myself with the power of music,
playing some good old-fashioned rock 'n roll.
Just keeping myself sane, another day.

Day 3:


I walked outside during daylight and saw the destruction.
(It's safe to go out; they are all sleeping.)
I saw broken bottles and tiny cuts of glittery paper in every possible color,
like a rainbow left on the street.
You can spot other survivors like me. They walk by with
dark spots under their eyes, restless.
Others have some strange energy to them, going nowhere, their minds
on auto-pilot. Those poor bastards don't realize, but it's too late for them.
I look through the blinds and see beautiful women walking by, chased by men.
It's a contagion. They multiply too fast.
Every night there is less of us, and more of them.
When will this madness end?

Day 4:

There is no hope.
The drums are too loud. The music is maddening.
I wonder where everyone has gone. My booze is missing, too.
Yesterday they came back with happy faces,
without a single worry in the world. Even if they have so much to worry about.
I cannot win. Might as well join them.
One last fight.
To remember the old times.
I remove my top hat and monocle, and prepare my liver.
Carnaval, here I come.

(I'm not too sure this is a poem, but...)

Originally posted in Teach-in Write an Epistle.

1-16

he was armed with words
and shielded by wisdom he
said nothing at all

2-15

sharp distance between
wakefulness and sleep,
he lies in wait listening,
looking for all the meanings
of the song.
straight light comes to
take him away;
on he rides, to the heart
of the sunrise.

____

Heart of the Sunrise

2-15b

Sun shining, high,
yellow bright,

If only for a day,
let this mood be;
let it stay. Stay

for a day, if only.
If we could, just be...
Please, let it be.

____

Mood for a Day (love playing this on the guitar...)

Originally posted in writing live

1-12

There was an old geek called 'Mute,
Who sometimes must dress up in a suit.
Tomorrow he flies,
Through Scandinavian skies,
To meet a big cheese called Knut.

3-4 Sampson

I saw him, for a moment,
between the spectacle of
the feast and the scheduled
entertainment for the evening

Tall and broad, he was, and
unbending even under the heavy
fetters about wrist and ankle,
stepping slowly but surely into position

"What's this?" I asked of my neighbor,
who laughed and told me of the sport
they made of the former champion
during their nightly gatherings

Downtrodden enemy or not, I wasn't
in the mood for the belittling of a man
blinded and chained, and made my mind
to go before the taunting of the beast

I paused and shook my head, but smiled
at how tender he was with the child
who guided him, my last look of his bearded
form was him framed in the doorway.

3-10

Why Isn't It Spring Yet?

Kleenex Kleenex, my kingdom for some juice and mentholated cough drops.

2-16

They fall like domino pieces, but viruses will not win the day.

1-13

Inside the calmest,
Of us, A battle rages.
Bathed in cytokines.

3-11*

You're So Vain

I wouldn't call you a dirty old man
your interest is well interesting
to me and I enjoy examining
your predilections and peccadillos

if only in my imagination
where you might be any eclectic dream
or nightmare but torrid interesting
enough to sustain even entertain

a thought or two or three as the day shades
carelessly past hours we shall keep most
discreet those quiet little reckonings
and oh my skin is going flush and rich

in fiction for the narrative pleases
me it pleases me if only until.




*Lannet

3-5

There once was a woman who had greasy fingers
From playing with a meal; she liked when it lingers
“Dish me up a plate.
Don’t make me wait.
But I like discerning between the food and the ringers.”