"Is not..." (P.o.t.D. 8/1/15, no rev)

This...
Is not.
A poem seen
By all I know,
Gathering comments,
So few and far between -
Which begs the question,
"If it is not,
Then why write,
When naught
Read?"

"Oh! The Travesty!" (P.o.t.D. 7/30/15, no rev)

With much iced tea imbibed,
And a plate of fried foods devoured,
I leave Buffet Palace,
Not suspecting my walk will sour.

A block away, I fart,
And some liquid makes its way out -
Oh, how ashamed I feel
As I now walk soiled and pout!

It could just be old age,
Even just eating the wrong stuff;
Yet it darkens my day,
And makes my five block trek so rough.

Now, sitting at my home,
After quite the cleansing shower;
I wash more of my clothes,
This won't ruin tonight's game hour!

"Six by six" (P.o.t.D. 7/28/15, no rev)

Why am I still awake?
'Cause I procrastinate...
I don't feel inspired,
Or have a writer's fire...
I often think in scenes,
Instead of wordy things...
So, this is what I write,
Before I snuff bed light...
Hope for a vivid dream,
Brought by coffee and cream...
Yet, I feel I'll soon sleep,
No memories, I'll keep.

"Unfriended" (P.o.t.D. 7/26/15, no rev)

She lingers in my thoughts, a resentment
That subtly preys upon my peace of mind.
I am perplexed why she left no mention
When she cut off contact in ways unkind.

"Give Us Room" (P.o.t.D. 7/25/15, rev 8/13/17)

We do not wish to be cast as unique,
Separated by perceived difference.
We do not like being afraid to speak,
Set off by those who think we make no sense.

It's just common ground, with you, that we seek;
'Fore we can shed our fears and our pretence.
'Tis fair treatment of the humble and meek
To be allowed room to "get off our fence"...?

"Nothing Gained" (P.o.t.D. 7/24/15, no rev)

"Pick up the pebble, playing 'pon my palm."
Swish! Snatched at too slowly, securing zilch!
Even with nothing, you remain so calm -
A Zen master, not flustered by failed filch.

"Seed Cycle" (P.o.t.D. 7/16/15, rev 7/25/17)

The flowers' petals have fallen away,
Leaving tiny green seed pods in bunches
That will grow into red berries one day
To become many hungry birds' lunches.
What will happen next, is Nature at play -
"New blooms, far away" - those are my hunches.

"Ode to Beginner's Mind" (P.o.t.D. 7/15/15, no rev)

Most days, my mind is like an empty vase,
Free from all sorts of bother and worry.
Without clutter, life is easy to face,
And I don't run amuck in a hurry.

"Cutting Cuts" (P.o.t.D. 6/22/15, no rev)

Cutting up in the kitchen
Cuts short my labored thoughts...

Cutting off his corn -
Cut to the chase -

Cutting hurts...
Cut deep,
Cuts.

"Roadkill" (P.o.t.D. 6/16/16, no rev)

A twisted skeleton
Beside busy highway -
Umbrella abandoned
When fierce rains made it splay,
Upward, outward, useless?

A corpse lays in the street -
Server's black cash apron,
Tossed away in the heat
Of mad furies from work,
When she was called useless...

So much trash, scattered 'round;
Relics of our culture
That one day will be found
By descendents, for sure,
Who cast us as useless.

"Writer's Lament" (P.o.t.D. 6/14/15, no rev)

The desire is an ashen ember -
Dying bonfire in the summer night -
As painful weariness draws out the tears
Sacrificed upon losing writer's fight.

"Times Unjust" (P.o.t.D. 6/12/16, rev 6/12/17)

Life has lost its luster,
Dulled by bickering fights,
Choosing from a menu
Chock full of bad diets.

Love tries finding its roots,
Cracking my stone-dead heart...
Bile rises instead
Choking on rocks apart...

This is a feeble piece -
Written, mindless, above -
Attempting to capture:
'Despair!' 'Ennui!' '...enough...'

Please, forgive, if you will -
Revile, if you must -
Poems written in anger
In these sad times unjust.

"Oh, Thank Heaven!" (written for contest: "Sandwish") (P.o.t.D. 6/6/15, no rev)

Sandwiches at the 7-Eleven
Live for only two days, or perhaps three,
Before they're written off to some heaven -
At least, that's what the dumpster divers see...

I could say, "Oh, so much more...", but, "Alas!"
By working there, my words face an impasse.

"Navigating Highs and Lows" (contest entry) (P.o.t.D. 6/2/15, no rev)

The summer that I just turned twenty-four,
A bipolar episode crossed my door...

Now that I have somehow turned forty-two,
I have learned tricks to appear sane to you.

Eighteen years of suffering strange mood swings
Has led to much pained wisdom that each brings.

"Chocolate Chips" (P.o.t.D. 5/31/15, rev 5/31/17)

I hide deep within the wings -
And life's crazy show goes on -
Manipulating some strings
That create effects brazen...

Will I step into spotlights?
Or remain unheard, unseen,
Masked by shades - dodging brights...
What has Fate cast that I've been?

acrostic... (P.o.t.D. 5/24/15, no rev)

Am I awake, or a sleeping zombie?
Nothing spins my mind like thought tornadoes -
Growing such grand replays within my head -
Enter people telling me that I'm wrong,
Reasoning with flawed logic, emotion...

Seems like science is under such attacks
Everywhere I look, without mercy,
Eroded by popular opinions
That won't face up to lining up the facts.
How has the wool been pulled over our eyes
Every day by snake-oil debaters?
Saddens me, that this - this is our culture...

"Sixth Street Saga" (P.o.t.D. 5/20/15, no rev)

Before the clock had struck barely past ten,
A painted up tart waggled her loose tongue,
And a fray spilled out from the seedy den
Over all the damage her words had done.

For them to regain order and control,
The cops passed through the crowd, on razor’s edge,
Binding and cuffing and bumping heads ‘til –
They wound up Plopping dozens behind bars.

As the wounded's anger fizzled and itched,
A palpable foul cloud permeated
The jail’s grid, leaving all on razor’s edge,
Wafting like a toxic substance, heated.

Hours later, the tart still drank at the bar,
While the angry men fumed in the dank cells
And the police kept the streets, under guard.
She’d make no money that night for “a nail”.

"Changing Our Tunes" - contest - The last analog generation (P.o.t.D. 5/19/15, rev 5/19/17)

When I was ten, and my brother fifteen,
We'd wage war with plastic models reworked.
His flagship? A SR-71
With a launching bay for a small fighter...
That was '82, when we played vinyl.

The summer I turned nineteen, I played games,
Like Battletech, at a fantasy con,
With friends I had met a few weeks before
Through BBS networks, across Dallas...
'91, and walkmans still held some sway.

I was 28, living like Spartans
With roommates who would play lots of board games.
Strange that no computer was always on,
We couldn't afford that necessity...
2000, probably CD's last years.

Now, I'm 42, though youths would not know
How that's the "Answer", because they don't read
Anything beyond their Facebook news feed.
Alas, I find myself playing phone games...
Today, we download and skip radio.

"Catatonic Conundrum?" (P.o.t.D. 5/15/15, no rev)

Falling into a deep slumber,
No dreams appear, no midnight thoughts
Of me gently sawing lumber -
Oh, but that's a low, growling snore,
And there's plenty of that in store
Which I still do not remember...

It's sad that I no longer dream,
As dreams are icing on the cake,
Irish tea with decadent cream:
Food for my poor beleagured soul -
They help rest my mind, make it whole,
Give insanity a good trim...

I hear tale, that I do mumble
As my mind in its restless rest
Does blindly wander and stumble.
I feel I cling to waking hours,
And even when upon my bower,
As reflex to talk, I grumble.

"Hallmark" (P.o.t.D. 5/10/15, no rev)

Is it another Hallmark holiday?
Mothers and fathers and lovers and more
Are sent cards, given dinner - loved this way...
Hopefully, it does not feel like a chore.
It would be nice to be thankful each day,
Alas, we forget, most days, to be sure.