"Cooking Chocolate Oatmeal" (P.o.t.D. 7/31/15, rev ???)

Just toss them off my brain,
Like so many fractured fragments from
The simmering coffee pot shattered...

Strange ideas percolate,
But now lay splattered
Across some cheap tile knock-off.

How does one arrange the ideas,
When the yarn is unravelling
And all the tender nerves are frayed
By long days at work, slaving away?

Am I in the quaint kitchen,
Cooking up ideas and schemes,
"Mincing words", if you will?

Stirring the sauce,
Sprinkling spices in,
I try to concoct a good story...

...but it feels like a recipe for disaster,
Like the wrong memories
Are getting jammed together,
Leaving me with a pickle of a poem -
Overcooked by leaning too heavily
On an extended meal metaphor.

"Thursday Morn" (P.o.t.D. 4/23/15, rev ???)

I come to, after a long nap, barely listening
To "Henry V" playing on the radio at 5 a.m.

Realizing the game on my phone needs attention,
I putter around there for two and a half hours,
Burning former alliance members, to train more troops.
I don't know when I'll commit to a war.

I go in to my room, to get dressed for the day,
When the end table between the beds collapses,
Startling my new room mate awake.
I take five minutes to reassemble it all from the wreckage.

I make my way to a long-forgotten AA meeting,
Where I'm greeted with hugs and hellos all around.
Ten years ago, I committed to fight this inner war;
And I've reassembled my life from quite a wreckage...
Not on my own power, though,
But with the aid of quite a community,
And powers unforeseen, well outside of my control.

Now, I'm home again,
To eat, do laundry, shower, clean,
And perform various other chores and commitments,
That I may find myself in a better place,
To awaken again, to stirring words and undampened courage.

"Over the Rainbow" (P.o.t.D. 3/25/15, rev ???)

Red -
For the blood, sweat and tears sacrificed,
Fighting the dark demons in those first days...

Orange -
Color that my blood turned
After a decade of Austin decadence,
Masquerading as an attempt at a degree...

Yellow -
Glad to be pissing clean and clear,
Despite severe damage done in that one year,
With much less toxins for organs to fear...

Green -
Always striving for more green,
I'm surprised it's not abundant
With far fewer drains that I've seen...

Blue -
Saddened, after another decade;
Because goals go unrealized,
And life still feels like a struggle...

Indigo -
I don't know?

Violet -
Feeling like royalty,
For that second decade
Still had unexpected promises fulfilled.

"Failing..." P.o.t.D. 3/14/15 (pi day!), rev ???"

Right now, this moment, I find myself asking, "Why?
Why did my well of wonderful words run dry?"
Probably running around too much, running myself ragged -
So, it becomes a chore of Epimetheus, pulling thoughts jagged...

Fail:
I'm Unsure of the Greek boulder-pushing guy,
And I'm Forcing the second rhyme.
I'm not even checking syllable counts,
Let alone, their stress patterns.

Stressed indeed -
A full plate before me,
Yet so little money
To get feed?

Fail again?
Beating ourselves up over stuff contrite,
Leads to mental blocks when we try to write -
Still, we win?

I see an insanely busy week ahead...
Maybe I could write much much more,
Yet I must also find my way to my bed.

"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?"

"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...

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...

"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?"

"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.

"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...

"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...

"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...

"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.

"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.

"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...

"The Mind-Killer" (P.o.t.D. 5/13/16)

Fear lurks in the shadows of my brain,
Just waiting to eat me alive again.

A poem percolates, simmers, and stews
All but devoid of today's news...

Like an ostrich tasting dusky desert sand,
The ideas feel so blocked, perhaps banned.

I want to write, but I know not what to write about;
Leaving me to throw incoherant tantrums
Where I jump up and down and incoherently shout...
As it all boils down, some juicy bits I hope to trim....

"What can I do?" (P.o.t.D. 2/13/16)

What can I do?

When the world seems to be splitting apart at the seams,
and poison runs freely through its streams...

Then there's a current in the culture,
dragging the poor people under,
as sthey become brainwashed by the media and selfish rich...

maybe not so extreme,
but that's how it seems...

Two decades ago, my interest waned
While society thought it was entertained,
By the next horrific news item, the next big thing -
Still, CNN gets the ratings
From the huddled masses
Glued to their TV sets.

What I really want is a good bedtime story -
Just a tale that can ease me into dreamland
And block out the nightmares around me.

I'm drawn in by instrumental music,
And Visual Effects Spectaculars...
Maybe, it's a yearning for magic,
Instead of the mundane,
And I recall reading
My Mom's Library of King and Xanth in the 80's -
Enjoying the word play,
The crafting of mysteries...

These days, I look forward to games galore,
And the crazy tales in store,
When rolling dice,
Not always playing nice.

I doubt that I will revise or edit this piece;
Although I might consider slapping a low-filters warning upon it?

What can I do?

I can read books or watch movies from the library,
Or even upon my computer or my phone.
I can call my friends and family,
Or take time the sift their emails
Out of the detritus that fills my accounts -
So much junk worn down to one-page wonders
From companies and web sites through which I wandered.

It's so easy to peck away at the keyboard,
Or even just copy and paste,
Or maybe even just like and share,
And, with one click, send it everywhere...

That was my original idea, tonight -
To dust off the laptop, and clean out the mailboxes;
Getting some chuckles from so many minutiae.
I'm glad that I reached my Dad instead,
And talked out some of my fears and hopes and more.
He only slipped into lectures, a couple of times in the hour call.

What can I do?

I can write a long rant,
Or maybe this half-poem,
Expressing my health concerns,
And my lack of romance,
And the career dance...

Yes, there are times I wish upon a star,
For a better life, in which I can go far...
Yet, I can sleep quite well at night;
Because I disavow myself
From watching the media fright?
Or, because of the drugs prescribed
For leveling out my bipolar flight?

I prefer not to be whipped into a frenzy,
Yet I worry such blissful ignorance
Can land me as a stranger in a strange land -
Unable to comprehend or understand
How the coddled masses
Dealt us such a spiteful, hateful hand.

What can I do?
What do I do?

I've tried to curtail my Facebook shares,
Recognizing that they're so much gossip,
And their background research is so rare.

It is rare, too, that I spend money on movies;
But that's more likely
Because I have so little money to spend.
I do give up eleven dollars a month,
To cut out the ads from Spotify,
And customize my play lists...
It pleases me greatly that many customers
Compliment me upon my ambient airs.

After that phone call with my father, this evening,
I took some time to publicize my playlists -
If you have Spotify, and are intrigued,
Try searching for the four lists
Whose names start with "JB's"...
Maybe that's a bit of my pride playing out.

I claim to be an introvert,
But I still want to be immersed,
and feel the pulse of culture...
So, despite little to no TV,
And the very rare trip to see a movie,
I keep the radio going,
And I volunteer,
And play my games...

It just seems like small moves
To keep away the boredom, the loneliness,
The hermit's life that I court.

What can I do?

...to feel love,
instead of hate?