So, I ended up with 2 poems today, but no poems tomorrow... guess I have most of the day to ponder what tomorrow's poem will be?

"Just another night" (P.o.t.D. 1/31/15 rev 1/31/17)

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 sow a few dramatic kernels,
That grow images? I'm 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 rev 1/31/17)

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

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

I speak from my humble abode, in rhymes:
"No car, No house, - these shiny things aren't mine
To offer to you, in your 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 rev 1/30/17)

Black choppers whirling,
Outside my door, give me pause,
Mumbling 'bout the State.

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

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

Some times, these moments
Distract us wrangled poets
Whilst we play with rules.

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

"Time Marches On" (P.o.t.D. 1/29/15 rev 1/29/17)

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

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

I'd like to write poems, play games, and relax!
Yet no cash 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:

Playing thru poems is a hindrance, a block,
That prevents my mind's healthier 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 frustrations;
I question the help I've tapped into.
Memories of yesterday's poems,
Talking of failed expectations...

You'd think that I'm in some mid-life crisis;
I doubt I've lived even a smidgeon of living.
This feels like a Goth's dramatic whine,
"Drink deep the troubles in my blood!"

Honestly, as long as I'm not thinking
About how my life's 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 my 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 rev 1/28/17)

If I could be a free spirit,
Living in the moment
From moment to moment,
With no chains linking
My past deeds to future expectations,

THEN...
Then...
then...
I live!
...without worries, in each
Moment lived so free.

Yet, Chains do bind!
The past makes promises
And people predict
"Great Things" to come,
Because I did so well
At my challenges undone.

In school, I was a scholar
Who excelled,
Who bubbled to the top.
I did quite well
In science and math.

Was this why they voted me
"Most Likely to Succeed"?

Twenty-five years later,
I'm no rocket scientist
Nor a genius programmer.

Instead, I sling beer and smokes,
Earning a paltry eight dollars per hour...

My inner voice trilly chides me:
"Such a disappointment..."

On another set of scales,
I'm coming up short:
No marriage, no kids, no house, no car,
NO...
No...
no...
"American Dream"
Perpetuated by Big Media
Over and over and over again.

...and paranoia would have me believe,
That I'm my friends' disappointment, too.

Fed by these futile frustrations,
I want to turn my back
On our measures of success.

I hear whispers in my ear,
When I lay down, troubled:
"Give it all up,
Find the Tao,
BE...
Be...
be...
One, like the monks.
A humble life is the best life."

"Enervation..?" (P.o.t.D. 1/27/15 rev 1/28/17)

I'm a depleted balloon, sucked by kids
Who wanted high pitches in their voices;
My spirit crashes without air, and skids.
My Dad's simple requests taste like poisons.

"Recollecting the Wreck" (P.o.t.D. 1/26/15 rev 1/28/17)

Do I remember the car wreck?

"Sadly, no..."
"Gladly, no!"

Shawn and I had troubles with the seatbelts,
In that old Pinto
That was his teenage car.

That morning, it was foggy out.
We were running late for school.
I was still half-asleep,
Nodding off in the passenger seat.

As he plowed thru the pea soup,
Passing on a curve,
A Cadillac came at us, head-on!
Shawn tried well to swerve
Alas, there was still a crash...

Shawn's right leg broke three times,
And would never grow longer.
He was in a cast for six months,
And he needs shoe mods, today.

My forehead hit the windshield,
So my six month ordeal was
Digging glass shards out, as they resurfaced.

Still, I don't remember the crash -
I barely remember the E.R., hours later...

The wreck has faded into the fog...

"A Countable Union" (P.o.t.D. 1/25/15 - no rev)

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

"Sandy Tears" (P.o.t.D. 1/24/17)

Challenge: In 30 words or less, write a poem about one of my dreams...
---------------------
In plain sight,
Dreams hide,
Like clouds drifting.

Why forget dewdrops
Left on nights' webs
That vanish
In morning?

Beauty unfolds, gently -
Lotus or onion - layers many.

Aware or asleep,
Pebbles snatched from my grasp.

"Mincing words" (P.o.t.D. 1/23/15 rev 1/23/17)

I find myself mincing words:

Can I get a bowl of PHO using xenophobia...?
Do your shoulders SAG when we disagree?
IF we RENT the old rules, are we still different?
Will it BE very LONG to belong?
What will be ATE, using this list of statements?

Or can we find some LIP through liposuction...?
Does this MAN have a clue on how to be romantic?
Maybe, perchance, in BED, if I'm obedient...
What HARM is ON us, if we're in perfect harmony?
Will I find MOM in the momentous?

My challenge to you, dear reader,
Is to mix all the pieces together
And add some dashing bits of your own,
To see what you might create...
I offer to you, these ingredients:

Pho, Sag, Rent, Be, Long, Ate,
Lip, Man, Bed, Harm, On, Mom...

I don't know why my mind is mulling over this, but... here goes:
Suicide, assisted suicide, and abortion could all be considered self-centered acts; because "the killer" is deciding when to end a life, usually to prevent prolonged periods of pain for "the victim"...
Instead of allowing nature to run it's course, we are (usually) denying "the victim's" associates an opportunity to be near in the declining time of "the victim's" life. Said another way, "the killer" is going forward with decisions that ultimately put them at ease (if they succeed) at the expense of others' grief cycles.
---------------
However, there is the "prolonging life artificially" argument - at what point can we decide to turn off any assistive technology (like respirators or feeding tubes or...) and allow nature to run its course? Also, are there any medical conditions severe enough, in the present and future pain and discomfort that they cause their subjects, to justify an end of life scenario?
Here, the self-centered nature changes, where the associates are acting self-centered, in a fashion, by placing their joy and happiness at keeping a "victim" alive, and yet the victim is dealing with much discomfort.
------------------
This is one reason I like the idea of living wills, even though I still need to get one. I, personally, would prefer to be kept off of life support, if the situation were to arise, partly because I don't want the high medical costs it incurs and partly because I don't want to prolong suffering, if I can avoid it.
------------------
Note: I realize that suicide is not the same as assisted suicide, and they are not the same as abortion.... but I do think they share some common arguments?
Hopefully, now, I can get some sleep...

"Selfies" (P.o.t.D. 1/22/15 no rev)

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 rev 1/22/15)

A sketch is begun with crumbling crayons
Upon a crumpled up, old newspaper
That was fished out of the city trash cans
With a lingering odor of dead bass.


"Well, not everyone's handed the same tools -
I can't assume your life has been easy,
or that your events will mirror my own."

"I could be wrong.
This could not be my best.
Perfectionism tugs me back, saying,
'If you don't try, then rejection's not...'"


'We don't want your excuses!
Give us a grand masterpiece!
It matters not what uses
You're denied by your caprice!'


"Everything feels half finished,
half thought out in a whimsical improv.
It's passed through but once,
to be forgotten tomorrow and tossed aside.
A lot of projects started,
but not "colored in";
life is so full of distractions."


'We want poems with more drama!
Stop with all of these dead ends,
Even though your mind's in trauma
That writing's a red herring...!'


"Mine's not a life with abuse,
or with fights with authority,
or with relationship stresses and trauma..."

"Oh, but there is that 'little demon', addiction;
and there is that touch of bipolar insanity;
and maybe something can be learned from
all that impending failure dogging my heels through the years..."


'We are not pleased with your poem,
Even though you use sevens!
Be like Bill - five feet and rhyme,
So angels sing in Heaven!'


"I write this, as a conversation with you;
instead of trying to hijack your mind's pilot
by painting a vivid scene, engaging the five senses:
vivid, popping, colors in your eyes,
tones, like a waterfall, in your ears,
smooth and rough textures upon your skin...
it's hard to convey crumbles and crumples..."


And, yet, in my head: 'Meter!
Rhyme! Alliteration! Forms!
Stray too far, and no leader
Be ye, even of new poems...'


"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."


Not sure if it's finished, or needed more,
The paper's balled up, and kicked to the curb.
Dissatisfied, he left, feeling so sore...
So many nubs of crayon now dispersed...

Perhaps, we should rub our crayons' crumbles
Along the trashy newspapers' crumples;
To try to find a modern Turin's Shroud
Of last night's fish and shrimp we had devoured.

"Drunken Sonnet" (P.o.t.D. 1/20/15 rev 1/20/17)

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 rev 1/19/17)

How does one convince
Falling leaves to separate?
Bonds decay, with time...

"Coffee" (P.o.t.D. 1/18/15 rev 1/18/17)

The drops drip... drip... dripped...
Brewing bold, black, blessed bliss.
Bean's nectar, savored.

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

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

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

Walking on that spike, his muscles would rip -
Was this like Achilles, in his famed trip?

Cutting it out was not doctor-advised;
Instead, various stretches were prescribed.

Even so told, there's no motive to pursue...
Until the pain grew worse and yoga's due.

"The Curator Whispers" (P.o.t.D. 1/16/15 rev 1/16/17)

What a wind whispered, while winding its way
Around the graveyard's sentinel tombstones!
Yet still, a silence made it deafening -
No animals would speak in beastly tones.

Just a month ago, cold earth clods crumbled
All over her corpse, when laid to rest 'midst
Frogs' croaks, squirrels' chatter, and birds' sad chirps;
All simply asking, "Why silent, good Miss?"

Her gift was to speak in beastly whispers;
Whereby, through grunts and squeaks, she could divine
What needs animals had, prior deferred -
Making them be furry friends, oh so fine!

Her death was ghastly - happened suddenly
Through fiendish actions of her employer,
A museum caught up in gluttony,
When they learned she had become betrayer.

See, she was tasked with building collections,
Yet she balked at filling the science hall.
Her fears of silence won; she warned the beasts
Of traps and poisons that would freeze them all...

Questions linger on the whispering wind -
How'd the museum find out, how'd they win?

"Three Schools" (P.o.t.D. 1/15/15, rev 1/15/17)

Spent my youth in a small Texas town;
Finished school, then I was Austin bound...
So many things to do;
How my errant time flew!
Took fifteen years to earn cap and gown...

"Raindrops" (P.o.t.D. 1/14/15, rev 1/14/17)

Raindrops soak me through my shoes, socks, and soul...

Umbrella raised in hopeful surrender -
Though my scalp stasy dry, walking soaks my soles.

Was it an army of drops, or just one,
Through which my childhood rain play was hindered,
And joy was sucked from my innocent soul?

While walking wet, it seems despair has won;
Yet, as the water cleans, hope is rendered.

The cold, dark, and wet storm leaves a world wan.

"Deadline" (P.o.t.D. 1/14/17)

"Deadline" wooshing past -
I want to write; yet sleep, too...
Tonight's time to write?

"Writer's Remorse"(P.o.t.D. 1/13/17)

It can be so rough:
Day in, Day out, writing poems -
My brain just wants sleep...

"Wary of Triggers" (P.o.t.D. 1/11/16, rev 1/11/17)

Tiptoe 'cross the floor on eggshells,
From fear of finding shards of glass
That have stung, cut, crippled, and felled
Clumsy ogres who walked so rash.

Under each phrase, even each word,
Lies great pains - gentle souls' triggers!
Can I avoid those hidden hurts?
Perhaps... with careful word pickers...

I hope to bring peace to our Earth,
Where folks do not lash out and hurt
Those who come from different births -
Perhaps, there, all could soar like birds.

"Seven Hours Passed" (P.o.t.D. 1/10/17)

Looks like 7 hours await,
But will some coffee, before,
Serve as possible dream bait?
In 7, I wake, with more...

...

well.
3 hours...
and Awake!
As brain stumbles,
Sub-conscience mumbles,
"Your business plans call -
Away! To the computer!
Search to find a better career!

...

Now, 7 hours are almost passed.
Only half got spent in dreams.
3, I gave to computers -
Scrolling through Facebook, instead
Of an earnest career search...
Because...? I fear new careers?

OK.. I'm off to eat and meet!

...

Now, Upon my phone, I breed frogs...
Then, I spend time to write blogs,
Some inventory logs -
Scared to look for jobs...
My, how sloth robs...
My heart sobs...
Tears fall...
Stalled...

...

Since I work all through the night,
Morning jobs give me fright...
I'm addicted to caffeine
I know from the headaches mean...

"Loneliness Laments" (P.o.t.D. 1/10/14, rev 1/10/17)

Ennui on and off in waves,
Mind ponders dark paths to graves:

"Forsaken by men and God -
Foreigner I, just a fraud!"

I'm adrift upon this sea,
Empty space all before me...

As I feed the pity trips,
I lose sight of culture's scripts!

Still, I feed, pulling these words,
Pecking at keyboards, like birds...

And my soul becomes shattered,
As hope gets beat and battered.

"Malnutrition" (P.o.t.D. 1/9/17)

All we want,
Yet nothing we need:
Lives built on junk food, junk news,
Sow discord's bad seed
And we rot...

"The Addict's Toll" (P.o.t.D. 1/8/17)

Lurking in the dark corners of my soul
Lies a hunger growing out of control...
I'm afraid that it will consume me whole.

"Fifteen Weeks..?" (P.o.t.D. 1/7/09, rev 1/7/17)

Let me describe for you, a lovely rose:
Its scent so sweet - it just tickles your nose.
Vibrant reds attack your eyes as it grows;
Each petal peels away with soft breath blows...

Velvet sheets crumble 'tween rough fingertips;
Impaling thorns stick out 'long the long stem.
Bedecked with drops of August morning dew
Rained upon it with this summer's dawn drips.
Ants line its lower leaves -- breakfast for them?
Not one sound stirs this scene 'tween I and you --
Taste these words, like honey along your lips.

Reclining now, under summer's bitter heat,
Our rose, she does bend, stoop, wilt, and wither.
Summer's gone, petals fallen -- lone stem remains;
Ethereal was that bloom, now long gone.

"Stormy Sea" (P.o.t.D. 1/3/17)

Thoughts adrift upon a stormy sea
With strong winds a-pushing my racked mind
Through differing paths - none of them, me.
"Sit, in solemn silence", and peace, find...

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