"Physical Therapy" (P.o.t.D. 2/27/15)

It is amazing:
A few stretches... a massage...
And I sit sans pain.

"Pondering Poetic Form" (P.o.t.D. 2/26/15)

Yesterday...
I was stumped on how to proceed,
So I looked up poetic form,
In wikipedia -
A nice, little knowledge repository -
And learned about villanelles.

However, there's some lingering discussion,
Bouncing around my brain,
Trying to separate poetry from prose.

These days, poetry is often free form,
Without rhyme, or meter, or other structure;
But it still picks up a rule,
Here and there,
To focus on pieces,
Instead of an over-arching story.

There's no entry requirement,
Where the words form a haiku,
Or sonnet, or villanelle, or limerick -
No entry fee of just so much assonance or alliteration...

For all I know,
The next line in this poem could be:
asdl;fjaoijea;slkaj
- A cat or cockroach crawling across the keyboard.
Even that has structure, though,
For you can plot where the cat's feet,
My fingers, landed.

Also, a little can be said
Of breaking sentences up,
Before their punctuation marks -
Where I want the reader to linger
And digest some small truth,
That might well be missed,
Mulling over a novel.

Poems become all the more powerful,
Read aloud, by their authors,
Adding inflections and emphasis
To the parts, to the refrains,
To little bits of everything.

"Distracted: A Villanelle" (P.o.t.D. 2/25/15)

Too much interferes with my sight,
Pastimes by which my life is based
Leave me alone, that I might write.

Fox news is flooded by the Right,
Leaving in my mind, a bad taste;
Too much interferes with my sight.

Playing board games, many a night -
Some chide me, calling this a waste.
Leave me alone, that I might write.

Tugs 'tween work and play are my fight;
My mind, in pleasures, is encased.
Too much interferes with my sight.

That I could scribble through the night,
Awake, to books, when my mind raced.
Leave me alone, that I might write.

In poverty, do I, "Dude, abide!"
My debt, I wish would be erased -
Too much interferes with my sight.
Leave me alone, that I might write.

"Winter in Texas" (P.o.t.D. 2/22/15)

Winter falls upon
Our fair city of Austin,
Some trees' leaves are gone.

"Prelude to Rest"

What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with the world?
How come there's such a disconnect?

...I'm going to take a nap now...

Maybe a good rest will give my mind a cleansing...

"Out of Ink"

Just a fragment:

"My pen is spent.
Will it rise again?"

Yes, I think everyone should have access to quality education.
However, I don't think our current system has enough qualified educators to meet the demand. I also don't think students can afford to foot the bill, if we want to attract educators with good pay and good technology. So, part of me wonders, how are we going to pay our teachers?
Education is a field that I don't think meshes well with profit-driven capitalism.
Just thinking aloud... (It's possible a similar scenario could be in health care, and quality doctors)

"Murmurings of a Madman" (P.o.t.D. 2/15/15)

Probably playing with pink poinsettas
Plagues people with petite poisons...

Christmas came early, crowding out
Halloween and other holidays, honored not...

Just throwing out some alphabet lines,
Thinking of my friend Cat and her "rhymes" -
Alliteration and assonance all about 'a'..
..or the other letters are fair game, too.

In a gaming mode with this poetry challenge -
I was trying not to write about writing... oops.

Part of me was thinking of creating
An adventure with another cat,
Alas time is ticking away,
Adding to the challenge,
"Can I write 'one off's', from the cuff, and
Still squeeze a good day's rest,
Between two work nights,
While creating something worth reading?"

I'm limiting myself, I think,
By writing so rinky-dink,
Sacrificing style and structure
Just to crank out another piece...
With many more amassed,
Still waiting for their first revisions.

I feel comfortable writing about writing,
But the results feel so void of content,
So lacking of narrative, yet one more
Bit where I'm in the meta-writing,
Without making good writing.

I'm tired now, though,
And going to go to sleep;
Hoping I can summon Dream, and gain
A collection of exquisite images
That stretches my brain's notions of poetry...

"Don't talk with strangers" (P.o.t.D. 2/14/15)

Sipping on his coffee, reading paper,
He steals a glance at the Goddess nearby...
His mind's been knocked senseless by her beauty,
He is stunned, unable to say a word.

I imagine it's all gone for the best -
Who's to say talking with her, in stunned state
Would not lay a bedrock of half-truths, lies
Building a house of cards, to topple soon.

He had never seen her before that day,
So biology was running amuck...
Despite what the films portray, in their dreams,
Comments from strangers are just plain harassing.

"Cloak of Fears" (P.o.t.D. 2/13/15)

All wrapped up in a cloak of fears,
Trudging becomes a rough challenge.

Acute pain travels through the leg,
Making it move like a dead weight.

While trying to treat the numbness,
Money just slips through the fingers.

Living from paycheck to paycheck,
Not sure how to now recover
Lost hours, sacrificed, one night dark...

Does the cloak cover up the tears?
Does it conceal the limping gait?
Does it add to the cash dumbness,
Or prevent going on a lark?

Stark reminder of mortal bounds,
Fears grow acute, as they surround.

"ode to archie" (P.o.t.D. 2/12/15)

Another day is upon me, meaning
I pause as I write - my mind is scheming.
Oh, how I'd love to take you, dear reader
On grand old adventures, as your leader...
As I slide around on the chair,
Hoping not to "go nowhere"
Not to bore you
With my Spartan life
Abandoning rhymes, meters, punctuation

i become archie as the stream opens up
half listening to mehitabel
as she also opens up

i could be a faithful cockroach
transcribing all of her words
true down to the letter
but no
i want to go on a flight of whimsy

i wonder if i am immortal
able to withstand our atomic holocaust
lurking in the background
wielded by korea or isis or

i do not think i am going to die
more likely i am not
prepared for when i might die
no burial plot
no life insurance
no partner to ease my pain
when this body i leave again

there is this lingering thought
that i look for what i sought
in a past life reincarnated
i was not always a cockroach you see
and i should look for what karma surrounds me
is there a lesson trying to be learned
in my abyssmal state of abject poverty

Brought pack into the present,
By peeling off dead skin,
I nod at archie, circa 1930
And he waves his antennae
At Bean, circa 2015...
Although I do not really think
I was archie -
Something can be said for emulating
His style, His character, His adventures;

And, in this scribbled end, I again note
Talking about, the form of a poet.

"That is Not What You Meant..." (P.o.t.D. 2/11/15)

'I heard you say, "I'm doing the dishes".
Yet, your actions show you've other wishes!'

"How can you defend sitting on the couch,
Screaming at me, right now, like some old grouch?"

'Those dishes are just sitting in the sink -
Postponing them just strengthens what I think...'

"Don't tell me that you are sleepy and tired,
Drinking that much tea has got you quite wired!"

'Did you leave the plates soaking in water?
'Cause scrubbing off crusted food is harder!'

"Why do you keep harping on today's chore?
Living with you's like living with a bore..."

'Wait! What are you hinting at? What'd you say?
For sex and fun, the plates we can delay...'

"Destructive Distractions" (P.o.t.D. 2/10/15)

The thought, dominant in my mind,
Blotting out all, besides its kind
Is of intense pain, centered in my right thigh -
It feels like stabbing needles...

I can not think, for too long, on poetic form
Before another jolt brings me back - to forewarn?

I can hear the clock ticks, ever marching on
I feel a neck itch, begging to be scratched...

It's all me, me, me, right now -
I'm so wrapped up in the aches and pains;
I'm only vaguely aware of talks in the Ukraine.

Yesterday, there was a brief glimmer, writing about the cat -
A forlorn desire, to write without wearing the Jody hat.

That's the challenge, really, you see
Not to write about me, me, me -

To create a world fantastic, or sci-fi, or other
With enough clarity to appeal to another...
Yet, hold the ring of truth,
Not just whimsies on the screen.

Writing about writing again - that's another fallback;
Like status updates that only say,
"I'm checking my Facebook feed, see!"

This poem started crippled,
With pain interfering at every turn,
And trying to follow forms of rhyme and meter,
And now, digressing on how to write...

Perhaps tomorrow,
The pain will be less,
The form - not so followed -
And the Scene laid before you all
Without the little devil constantly criticizing...

Pain in my leg (and now back) jumped a couple of orders of magnitude. Can't even tie my shoes.
Waiting in the emergency room, right now...

"The Meadow" (P.o.t.D. 2/9/15)

Slipping through the shadows,
Its coat as dark as night,
Its green eyes all alight;
The cat owned this meadow.
The mice trembled in fear,
Knowing it was so near...

"Revert to Haiku" (P.o.t.D. 2/8/15)

When in doubt, haiku!
A simple form, oft abused...
Mastery is tough.

"What Rhymes with Pain?" (P.o.t.D. 2/7/15)

pain
insane,
makes me "Wane" -
I can't explain
the physical drain...

"Picture This..." (P.o.t.D. 2/6/15)

Capture a moment
With camera expertise
And no Photoshop...

"Dad's disappointment" (P.o.t.D. 2/5/15)

Did I disappoint Dad?
He never says so directly,
But the hints are in his hopes:

"Why don't you get a car?
You can't live on minimum wage...
You are capable of so much more..."

He wants the best for me,
And he knows I can do so much better;
He's stuck by my side
In some truly tough situations.

So, I get wrapped up in guilt
About my slacker lifestyle...

"No whining" was a slogan he had
On a placard hanging on a wall,
And it is so appropriate.

Don't wish for a better job,
Or more mental stability,
If I'm not going to take the steps
To leave my "local happiness maximum".

Some people spite their parents
From futile teen feuds.
Not I, though... some times,
I think my teen years were happy years.
Dad went to bat for me,
And my school finally recognized
Academic excellence,
Through awarding me
The first letter jacket therein.

...

I just want to scream,
"How did I accumulate
This Karmic crap of a life?!?"
Experience says,
"It's because you're easily distracted."

Even now...
If I can't finish this poem
In five minutes flat,
Then it's an epic failure.
Faced with doubt on which direction
To lead it, I slide into commentary -
"OK, whining..." -
And in my heart, I feel that's a cop out,
Detracting rather than adding
To the punch of the poem.

...

I spent a summer working with my Dad,
In the high-tech industry -
He was Elder Bean, and I was Chick Pea,
And my brother got to be known as Garbanzo.
It was a fun job, and I learned some technical skills,
And Dad would pick up my lunch tab,
When going out for lunch was the engineers' wills.

My brother pegged my Dad's gift to his sons
One Christmas, with a hand-crafted set of puzzle blocks.
Our childhood had been liberally sprinkled
With games and puzzles and science magazines,
And we were probably the first kids to play with PC's...
My Dad is an engineer, and he succeeded
At passing on that love of "how things work".

When I tried to take myself out,
With a month's worth of Depakote pills;
My Dad sat by my bed side,
Through the month of coma and recovery.
We talked it out, and really tried
To understand why I did what I did.
Actually, my Dad spent many a night
Over the next ten years, treating us
To dinner and a movie, once a week.

...

Chronological order at play,
Or should it be a buildup of impacts?
I think I meta-write these comments,
If ever I make it back to do edits...

...

When I was running through the mental hospitals,
For the fourth time,
I could not comprehend my Dad
Telling me that he might have to cut off contact -
Because He'd always been by my side.
Heck, the first time in the hospitals,
He was the one who convinced me to go in.
I trust my Dad, when I can not always trust myself.

So, when it sounds like my Dad does not approve,
I die a little death,
A realization that I am not doing the best that I can;
And maybe it's time to get off of the couch and move...

#Take5toBlog : 5 sentences talking about mental health on Feb 5th :
The scary thing about being bipolar is that I crave the manias. Even though most projects get left half-done, if that, the mind's over-active state fools me into thinking I'm getting lots of stuff done. It's also hard to remember that the unusual elation and sudden conversations can be quite scary for those who fell in love with me when I was normal (sedate) or depressed. Back to the first sentence - mania can feel amazing when you're in the middle of it, and I want to keep it going and going; but the danger is the increased risk-taking to do so and the disappearance of moderation and self-control. I am thankful that my medications are effective at reeling my mind in from the 10,000 distractions, without turning my mind into a "slug on ice" (my feelings when I tried Depakote before)..

"Stripped" (P.o.t.D. 2/3/15)

White birch sentinel,
Bark stripped bare, in neighbor's yard;
Its leaves spread 'cross mine.

"Getting Older" (P.o.t.D. 2/3/15)

Twisted up in strange pretzel shapes
To minimize leg's muscle aches,
Sleeping so that mouth's drool drains out
On my side is how that comes 'bout...
Just a couple bad signs of age.