"thinking about SXSW" (P.o.t.D. 2/28/17)

As spring approaches,
There are scurrying roaches
Sipping on mochas...

"Physical Therapy" (P.o.t.D. 2/27/15, no rev)

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

"Distracted: A Villanelle" (P.o.t.D. 2/25/15, no rev)

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.

"Matrix Mash-up?" (P.o.t.D. 2/24/16 rev ???)

As I watch the map
Twirl and Swirl
Behind the forecaster,

A memory becomes dislodged
From decade distant days
Spent in hospitals of state:

"How much sunlight will we see?"
Like it's metered out for me,
And there's not enough energy

To fuel my madness,
To keep up the charade...
A la "The Truman Show"...

Are they trying to intrude
In my chaotic little world,
Spinning 24/7, with threads unfurled?

I wonder what is real,
What is fancy,
What lies behind the scene?

Sometimes, the surreal
Becomes so, so real,
That my mind does reel

And I find myself asking,
As events become taxing,
"Did I ever come out of the coma?"

"Emotional Roller-coaster" (P.o.t.D. 2/22/17)

Picking at my poems,
Hoping to find happiness:
In dismay, I rage...

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

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

Sleep has become my career's Achilles Heel...?
If I'm not getting enough, then my mind rebels...

"Prelude to Rest" (orig 2/21/15, rev 3/29/17)

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

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

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

There's this bit of me that just wants to bare my soul, and be cleansed of my transgressions. Thankfully, I don't naively trust Facebook enough to do that here.
Now, if the right friends called, I might share with them?

"Auto-correct poem" (P.o.t.D. 2/18/17)

Shall I compare thee to this winter night?
I'm so happy to see my son on the bus to my house
I'm so single I can't believe how happy this Sunday was
I'm not going on a Saturday night but I'm not going on Facebook
I'm not going on Facebook
I'm so single
I'm not sure how I am but I'm still interested and there are a few things that I've been looking at and I am interested
I'm so single I can't believe how I am so single
The only way you could have been able would be a better app

This week, I've made some poor choices; and I'm not sure how easy it will be to repair the damage. I'm still sober, but I don't think I'm acting sanely.
I'm reaching a tipping point, where I have to ask, "Do I want to hold on to my old (mostly night) schedule built heavily on games? ....Or do I pursue a career where I don't feel comfortable with meeting the work expected of me?"
I'm rebelling, because I don't want to be stupid, boring, and glum - processing forms all day, 6 months out of the year. Yet, it's an opportunity to improve my finances, and to free up my fall.
I just don't want to give up my old lifestyle, in order to make sane schedules around my new career.
Oh, and I decided to back out of SXSW volunteering last night. I like doing it, but I don't like the amount of time it takes out of my schedule...

"Bipolar blues" (P.o.t.D. 2/15/17)

My mind took a turn
At tearing apart my life...
Why won't I just sleep?

"Destiny's Leaves?" (P.o.t.D. 2/11/16 rev 2/11/17)

Youth's fair and fine leaves
Ride with the wind, as the bus
Trudges long its course...

Poems plucked from children,
Posted above riders' heads
To read and digest...

Spaghetti roads or
Spaghetti hair? Images
Of tangled skeins there.

Little do I know
From what branch I pick these lines -
Life's veins intertwined...

Thin delicate rib
Of a moon, or fingernail,
Or bowl in the sky?

Colorful reward,
To gorge, on poetry bus,
With nine rhymes, not one -

To be distracted
From a dull, brown life, riding
Round the town, head down,

Looking at the phone,
At senseless memes, in long lines -
Shadows of poems, See?

Let me look at leaves,
Left in the loft of the lift,
'less I leave, listless.

"That is Not What You Meant..." (PotD 2/11/15 rev 2/11/17)

'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...'

"The Meadow" (P.o.t.D. 2/9/15, no rev)

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, no rev)

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

untitled (posted to Facebook 2/8/14 rev ???)

What words are percolating,
colliding in passing...
some times sticking,
other times flowing?

What ideas power that current -
distant memories of this morning,
or random conjectures
of tomorrows,
marching into the cement
of actual experience,
or fading away
from physics falsely found facts..?

what is that you say? Whimsy?
Like so many other scribbled notes,
I try to begin in the meta-,
A sign perhaps,
That I am scratching at vapors,
Not at all sure what's happening
Right now, Right here,
In the Present Moment.

Then again,
Maybe I want to stoke
The creative fires,
And let loose the imagination,
To try to glimpse those alternate realities,
Where pigs DO fly,
(...and women ask me on dates, for a change...)

And...
Like that, I suddenly want to end it, and post it.

"Silver Pins?" (pub 2/7/16, rev 2/7/17)

Our minds became hollow, empty vessels,
Drained of all sparks, with brains swept up in news
Faked by the paparazzi media...

Try as I may, my senses sucked mine dry
Through flimsy skin, plugged up ears, clamped shut eyes.
Our hearts evacuated long before -
Leaving behind travesties of lives sore.

My hope - it still exists - is that one day,
Our vacant existence will replenish
With love's fires, that we'll find silver pins
Hidden under all the straw mens' toothpicks.

Let us slay charming vampires and werewolves -
Diseases poisoning society,
Plucking my mind from day's vitality...

"what rhymes with pain?" (P.o.t.D. 2/7/15 rev 2/7/17)

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

"Picture This..." (P.o.t.D. 2/6/15, no rev)

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

"Traveling" (Poem noted thru Jack, subbed in as P.o.t.D. 2/5/17)

"What is this infatuation
With travel,
All about?"

---------------

Jack Edward Martin: 'I must say though, that this is actually a lovely little poem you created:'

Tap. Tap. Tap...
(silence)
"mrr mrr mrr... Hah!"
Rattatat tat! Tat!...
...sounding like a machine gun,
his fingers flew over the keyboard,
as he gave words
to his divine inspiration,
riding it like a Florida surfer...
Sentence after sentence flowed on to the screen...
...and then, 20 minutes later,
the thoughts slowed to a trickle,
to a "Tap. Tap. Tap...."
...and stopped, again.
Some would say,
"A wise man would pause here,
and review what's been written,
tweaking it ever so slightly
to add fluidity
to those awkward phrasings -
all a 'Head Fake' to try to reconnect with the Muse."
However, he was determined to get a chapter written tonight,
and would plow forward,
adding gristle to the editing mill planned for the morrow,
just hoping beyond hope
he could meet his editor's impending deadline.
He didn't care that what he wrote was disjointed -
not well connected at all,
and laying the seed for tons of weeds around that mill.
So, he pecked at the keyboard,
like a pigeon looking for
kernals of truth in a barren field.
Were the similes and metaphors evocative enough?
Only time will tell...

Jody:

What if Christ has returned,
Yet not to be crucified...
But to die in anonymity
From suffering a life, unloved?

Shawn's reply:

The Christ has returned
Many, many times
Loved and despised,
Hated and feared,
Carried on high amidst cheers,
Every life lived,
All the trillions in history,
Are shattered shards of a mirror;
There is only One.

"The Giving Tree" (P.o.t.D. 2/4/16 rev 2/4/17)

Perhaps the birch bark's a delicious treat
For buzzing, gnawing, insatiable
Insects, stripping it bare of its black bark.

We leave it to creak in the winter cold,
Bereft of fall leaves - 'White now, bark no more.'

"When it creaks, does it, like a treant, speak,
'Give unto me shelter from this harsh world?'"

I walk on, to face chill winter's harsh winds;
Leaving the birch rooted in its sorrow,
"Perhaps its bark will grow back, tomorrow?"

I shiver, glad that the tree stays rooted,
"What chaos and turmoil could it create,
Branches swinging, scratching, at all us beasts?"

About dating site profiles...

What is this infatuation with travel, all about?

--------------------

Or.. why the over-used statement, "looks great in blue jeans or a black dress"?

"Stripped" (P.o.t.D. 2/3/15 no rev)

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

"Getting Older" (P.o.t.D. 2/3/15 rev 2/2/17)

Legs twisted up in strange pretzel shapes
To reduce their nerve and muscle aches.
As I sleep, drool drains out
Wet pillows are all 'bout...
Just a couple bad signs of old age.

"Food for Thought" (was "Unfinished Media Meanderings?" (P.o.t.D. 2/1/16))

Like a steadfast woodpecker
Meticulously digging at my brain,
The clock beats out its seconds
In its Chinese Water Torture refrain...

'Do I want to write angry words,
Railing at Flint's dirty water,
Or suicidal open mics,
Or psychopaths for President?'

Just a slice of the "news",
Eating Facebook pizza -
Quite a bit unhealthy
If gorged on each minute,
Of each day, all these years;
Leading to drying up
Of desensitized tears...

Drifting, I focus on the color orange.
I wonder, "Will my Longhorn spirit show?
Will I wander down a mental alley
With a decadent, sweet, innocent fruit -
Rolling beside me, and yet unaware
That soon, it will be skinned and devoured?"
Most of the adjectives I am drawn to
Seem to be visual - colors or fruits...

Or hard to make rhymes with...

How I thirst for metaphors,
Twists of words deep in my brain;
Awaiting the woodpecker,
Or possibly Pink Floyd's worms...

I want to listen to the bards,
Instead of the clock-knocking birds,
Or the silence of stores so bare.

So, I plug in my phone
And blast the tunes so loud,
Hoping musical noise
Will find a buried home
That attention allows
To become my mind's toys.