"Just another night" (P.o.t.D. 1/31/15)

2:03 a.m. finds me awake, 'gain.
I thought I was working tonight, but noooo!
I made an effort, to show that I can,
Alas, the worker I would replace showed.

Putter around with my armies, thru my
Phone app, lost five hundred thousand, like that!
This makes me question, "What's the point, and why?"
Alas, that won't save them, as they go "Splat!"

What's the value of a poem that journals?
Sure, it can work for a prompt, but then what?
Can it sew a few dramatic kernels,
That grow images, not stuck in a rut?

There I go 'gain, talking in meta-words
When I ought to be "entertaining birds"...

"Errant Knight" (P.o.t.D. 1/31/15)

"Let me be your knight in shining armor!"
'Why, when you have the time, to armor shine?'
"I can save you from your troubles, amor!"
'My love life will be fine, don't need your whine...'

The trouble with dating? Imperfect roles.
Movies paint these rosy pictures of love,
In their chase for ratings, without real goals -
Yet some can only offer a peace dove.

I speak from my humble abode, in rhymes:
No car, No house, No tough guy - these aren't mine
To offer in these, your most troubled times.
Perhaps this poem is my attempt to sign,

"I wish I could just wave a magic wand -
Solves no problems, because magic is gone..."

"Composing Haikus" (P.o.t.D. 1/30/15)

Helicopter whirling
Outside my door makes me pause,
Mumbling 'bout the State.

Guitar plucking, too,
From roommate in other room -
TV's on, unseen.

"Damn it, Damn it, Damn!
Poem's not cooperating!"
Moments slip through hands...

Hunkered on laptop,
Pecking at keyboard and brain,
Jumbled thoughts swirl 'round...

Some times, the moments
Escape distracted poets
While they play with rules.

"Time Marches On" (P.o.t.D. 1/29/15)

Time marches on, the second hand spinning -
Each moment gone, feels like I'm not winning...

Half-finished fences are my seen symptoms
Of a disease that plagues all my rhythyms...

I'd like to write poems, play games, and relax;
Yet cash flow crushes me, weight 'pon my back.

When worried where I shall find my next meal,
Retiring becomes a much smaller deal...

...I do not feel like finishing these lines,
Or sticking to meters and rhymes,
Or staying coupled in ideas and thoughts -
The play thru poetry is a hindrance, a block,
That keeps me confined, preventing my mind's unlock.

I still make feeble attempts to play within the lines,
But, it's so hard to keep at it...

Life is full of futile frustration.
I question what help I've tapped into,
Or if I'll ever climb out of this oubliette;
It just feels like I've not arrived yet.

Memories of yesterday's poem,
That talked of failed expectations...
You'd think I'm in some mid-life crisis,
But I doubt I've lived even a tenth of my life.

This just feels like a Goth's whine -
"Drink deep the troubles in my blood!"
Honestly, as long as I'm not thinking
About where I'm at, or how events are linking,
Then I am fairly happy...
I do still play fun games, I do still write,
And I'm slowly, oh so slowly, trying to set life right.

I wish that the seconds didn't tick so,
That life's candle didn't burn our wicks, lo...

...and the clock marches on, with its tickings,
and life proceeds, bringing me, my lickings.

"Expectations" (P.o.t.D. 1/28/15)

Expectations.
They can cause much more trouble
Than the rewards that they promise,
Especially if they go unfulfilled...
Some times, for years at a time.

If I'm a free spirit,
Floating through life,
Moment to moment,
With no chains linking
Past deeds to future rewards -
Then... then... then I live
Without worry, in each
Moment lived so free.

Yet, the chains do bind,
The past does promise,
And the people do predict
"Great Things" to come
Because I did so well
At the challenges undone.

In school, I was a scholar
Who excelled,
Who bubbled to the top;
I competed in science, in math,
And a smattering of other fields,
Usually ranking in the top three,
Across the state as well as locally.
Was this why my class voted me
"Most Likely to Succeed"?

So, a quarter of a century later,
I'm not a rocket scientist,
Nor a genius computer programmer.
Instead, I sell beer and smokes,
Earning eight dollars an hour...
My inner voice trilly chides me:
"Such a disappointment..."

I know we can measure
Success by other metrics.
Even so, they're coming up short:
No marriage, no house, no kids,
No savings, no car,
NO... No... no...
American dream,
Perpetuated by a culture
Thru song, film, and print
Over and over and over again.

There's a part of me,
Fed by futile frustrations,
That wants to turn my back
On what the man on the street
Considers a successful life.
That bit whispers in my ear,
At night, when I lay down in trouble,
"Give up everything,
Seek Enlightenment,
Become a monk"...
For a humble life
Is an honorable life.

"Foreboding" (P.o.t.D. 1/27/15)

Like a deflated balloon, sucked by kids,
Looking for some new sounds in their voices;
My spirit crashes to the ground and skids.
My Dad's simple request tastes like poisons.

"Recollecting the Wreck" (P.o.t.D. 1/26/15)

Do I remember the car wreck?
"Sadly, no..."
Or maybe "Gladly, no!"

I vaguely remember the troubles
We would have, fastening seatbelts...
And that the Pinto was the epitome
Of a teen's hand-me-down first car.

Actually, the finer details, like color,
Escape me about that car.

That morning, I hear that it was foggy out,
And I think we were running late for school -
I want to say I was still half-asleep.

I think I was nodding off in the car,
As we plowed thru the pea soup,
Passing on a curve,
When, even after swerving,
We T-boned a Cadillac!

My brother's right leg was fractured three times,
And would never grow longer -
He wore a cast for six months or more.

My forehead hit the windshield -
I always thought that I went thru it -
So my six month ordeal was
A plastic surgeon digging glass shards
Out of my forehead, as they resurfaced.

Still, I don't remember the crash -
Just another moment of coming to,
In a hospital bed, with concerned family
Calling me back to consciousness.

Even though I'm scarred 30 years later,
I have long since forgiven my brother -
Well, I do tease him with "90 by 40":
90% scar tissue by the age of 40".
Still, the wreck has faded into the fog,
A memory that I choose not to have.

"A Countable Union" (P.o.t.D. 1/25/15)

Given integers,
Use half to count the first set...
Then fourth, then eighth, then...

"Pensieve Play" (P.o.t.D. 1/24/15)

Grabbing a fistful of ideas,
I gingerly pull an image
From the twisty tangled net
Of my memories and mistakes.

Trying to sew order,
I line up the facts,
And apply a little logical glue -
Hoping my conclusions still ring true.

"Mincing words" (P.o.t.D. 1/23/15)

I find myself mincing words,
Just to get a bowl of pho out of xenophobia;
Or maybe find a little lip in liposuction...

When I saw details of Charlie's recent heart attacks, and need for surgery, and so on - part of me thought, "Don't make him suffer in ICU - perhaps, it's time for him to go home to God"
It felt callous of me, yes, but these lives of ours are not meant to be forever.
I have lots of excellent memories of Charlie (and his cookies), and I hope to see him again, some day, on the other side. Until then, the best way I can remember him is to carry forward the positive parts of his legacy.

"Selfies" (P.o.t.D. 1/22/15)

Paint our pretty pictures with pink pastels...
Shades from light to dark, showing our skins' bark -
Captured couple in cute, awkward posings -
So candy-coated - the picture's "loaded"
From film to Facebook, for future fan views.

"crumbling crayons" (P.o.t.D. 1/21/15)

Even though we're doing the best that we can,
We have to work with crumbling crayon
On a crumpled old newspaper
Fished out of the trash,
With a faint odor of dead bass...

You see, not everyone's given the same tools -
I can't assume your life has been easy,
Or that your events mirror my own.

I may be wrong.
This may not be my best.
Fear pulls me back,
Saying, "If you don't try,
Then rejection's not..."

Everything feels half-finished,
half thought out in a
whimsical improv,
passed through once,
to be forgotten tomorrow.

(Oh, but I am saving these,
Perhaps to revisit one day)

A lot of projects started,
But not "colored in";
Life is full of distractions.

Where's the punch?
Where's the shock?

Mine's not a life with abuse,
Or with fights with authority,
Or with trauma...

Oh, but there is that little demon, addiction;
And there is that touch of insanity;
And maybe something can be learned from that
Impending failure, dogging my heels through the years...

I write this, as a conversation with you,
Instead of trying to hijack your mind's pilot
To paint a vivid scene,
Telling your senses exactly
What they are experiencing.

My defeatist says a far better poem
Would be in five stanzas,
Each describing your basic senses -
The colors in your eye,
The tones in your ear,
The textures upon your skin...

If I want to work at it,
To make it a little more memorable,
Then I'd add a meter and a rhyme
To fence the stanzas in,
Lest they run wild.

I've given up on this poem,
The one you're reading now -
The mathematician in me
Is screaming for better order and structure;
While the storyteller
Is chiding me for the
Excessive director's commentary.

Alas, thus ends this first draft.
Maybe I need to rub the crayons' crumbles,
Along the newspaper's crumples,
And see if I can make
A modern-day shroud of Turin,
Remembering the fish I ate last night?

"Drunken Sonnet" (P.o.t.D. 1/20/15)

By the Old Gods, I do solemnly swear,
"I am a happy drunk, without a care!
Bitterness ends with the beers' hoppy tastes,
Friendships and loves are not to be my wastes!"

Which of those Nameless Ones did then take note,
Encasing my mind with a madness coat!?
I did rant and rave, claiming no harm done,
My war was lost, though my battles felt won.

Unhinged thus, I faltered and I stumbled -
Incoherently, began to mumble...
"Just one more drink will help me clearly think -
Why'd I drink, and not pour it in the sink?!"

"I can do practically anything -"
That's how my mania will try to sing...

"Falling Leaves" (P.o.t.D. 1/19/15)

How do you convince
Leaves to fall, to separate?
With time, bonds decay...

"Coffee" (P.o.t.D. 1/18/15)

The drops drip... drip... dripped...
Brewing black, bold, blessed bliss -
Bean's nectar, so loved.

"..the diodes in my left side.." (P.o.t.D. 1/17/15)

"This last year, I began to have pains,
Shooting through my right leg," He complains...

They shot some x-rays, and found a bone spur
Encased in his ankle - the mangy cur!

As he walks - along that spike, his muscles would rip -
Is this the fate of Achilles, in his famed trip?

Cutting it out, with surgery, was not advised;
Instead, stretches, from a worksheet - that was prescribed.

Even armed with these exercises, there's no motive to pursue...
Alas! The pain grows worse, more constant - the yoga is now due.

"The Curator Whispers" (P.o.t.D. 1/16/15)

The wind whispered while winding its way
Around the sentinel tombstones;
Yet the silence made it deafening
For naught would speak in beastly tones.

A month ago, cold earth clods crumbled
Upon her corpse, laid to rest amidst
Frogs burping, squirrels chattering, and birds chirping -
All just asking, "Why silent, good Miss?"

She had a gift of beastly whispers,
Where, through grunts and squeaks, she could divine
What needs, that before, the animals had to defer;
Finding them to be furry friends, oh so fine!

Her death was ghastly and happened suddenly
Through the actions of her employer,
A museum caught up in greed and gluttony,
When they learned she was a betrayer.

You see, she was tasked with building collections,
But she balked at expanding the ecology exhibit.
Her fear of loneliness won out, and she warned them,
Of traps and poisons that would freeze them forever...

A question lingers on today's whispering wind -
How did the museum find out, how'd they win?

"Three Schools" (P.o.t.D. 1/15/15)

I spent my youth in a small Texas town;
Finished school, and then I was Austin bound.
Once I got there, so many things to do;
Dabble here, dabble there - how the time flew!
Took fifteen years to earn a cap and gown...

"rain drops" (P.o.t.D. 1/14/15)

So, you got a little wet?

Rain drops soaking
Through your shoes
...and socks...
...and soul.

You raise a flag of hope,
Or good old surrender,
As you open the umbrella -
Knowing full well
That shelter only protects
Scalp and skull,
But not the bottom of your sole.

Who's to say that
'Twas a falling drop
That made you turn
Away from the rain,
And the life it brings;
Towards a hunched back huddle,
Hoping for far less humidity?

It could have been
An army of drops,
Pooling their resources,
To present a blocked passage
And an opportunity
To seep through the splits and cracks,
That you did not know
Were at your feet.

Your mind is so set on getting somewhere;
You forget to appreciate the journey
And the wonder of water everywhere.
It's there in the clouds,
Masquerading as unicorns in form...
Or the puddles and creeks,
Gathering the squall back to the sea...
Or even in transition,
Touching you without a second thought.

Confucius on planning

"If your plan is for 1 year, plant rice;
If your plan is for 10 years, plant trees;
If your plan is for 100 years, educate children."

- Confucius

Sandman: Season of Mists toast

"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."

- Neil Gaiman, "The Sandman: Season of Mists"

I missed the bus, to check out the workshop on "manifesting my New Year"

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