"Technical Evolution" (P.o.t.D. 3/26/15)

There was a time...
Before calculating devices,
When stories around fires reigned.

There is a time...
Men and tools are so tied together,
Struggles 'gainst this stream are vain.

There will be a time...
When computers become self-aware,
No longer needing these men.

"Whispers" (P.o.t.D. 3/22/15)

Secrets lay unsaid,
Hidden under many words
Given so freely.

"Light Up My Life!" (P.o.t.D. 3/21/15)

My neighbor's flowers
Are little sunbursts, alive
With rays and colors!

"Carpenter at Work..?" (P.o.t.D. 3/18/15)

Pondering our lives:
Hardness, surface, depth, and grain
Like some woods we stain.

"St. Paddy's Limerick" (P.o.t.D., 3/17/15)

I arrived early at the movie site,
Forgoing getting a quick breakfast bite...
Stayed quite busy throughout the day,
And many options I did weigh,
'Til I ended up playing at Game Night.

"On the Court" (P.o.t.D. 3/16/15)

With a wink and a gracious bow,
The lad offered his hand to the girl,
To take her onto the dance floor
Where they'd go round and round in a whirl.

By the fourth dance, she was laughing
As they tried to move in East Coast Swing,
Even though he had no lessons...
What's absurd? He also thought he'd sing.

She gave him points, though, for trying;
So, he offered his hand to the girl,
As he pulled out a diamond ring -
From there, 'tis a secret, what unfurled...

"Words With W" (P.o.t.D. 3/13/15)

We wield this whip,
To work, work, work -
For what money
Or career perk?

"Cats'... Bird... March... May... Start?" (P.o.t.D. 3/10/15)

Today's poem will be a string of words:

Cats chasing errant little birds...

Posts and tweets galore
Spewing from Austin's floor -
Music and film and computer madness
Leads to citizens feeling badness...

March is upon us, with rain and cold
And so many events, good as gold -
Rodeo, basketball, and fest
Makes me feel this month is best...

Well... May is quite awesome, too,
With the academic events,
Like the state one-act-plays,
And the end of college days.

All that started from cats,
What, then, would be sparked from dogs?
Or, if you're more esoteric wizards,
You could play with goldfish or lizards!

Ready..?
3..2..1.. Write!

"Accumulate" (P.o.t.D. 3/9/15)

It rains upon me:
Water falling, tasks undone -
Both pool into floods.

"Time ticks by..." (P.o.t.D. 3/8/15)

Time ticks by...

Happy - lying beside my love,
Watching minutes weave and wander
Through their periodic patterns -
Palindromic time: 10:01, 12:21, 1:41;
Repetitive time: 10:10, 12:12, 1:11 -
And on and on, they cycle through...

Time ticks by...

I study mathematics,
She studies Roman classics -
Was this love bound to happen?
...or is it "Fated to Fail"?
Then, as sweaty summer ends,
So ends our brief relation.

Time ticks by...

The sun rises later today,
As we add an hour, in our way.
"Spring Forward" will cause missed meetings,
And confusion from clock readings...
Of course, a host of Facebook posts
Bemoan our time loss, through their roasts.

Time ticks by...

We are but one week away
From the century's Pi Day -
So much fuss now being made
Over time just so arrayed...
Seems so faked, so I ask "Why
We write numbers 'cross the sky?"

"Ogres are Like Onions"

My contradictions
Derive from many hobbies,
Diverse and yet mine...

"Sing a New Song" (P.o.t.D. 3/5/15)

It's a tough challenge
Writing a new poem, each day -
Think before I say...

"Delusions" (P.o.t.D. 3/4/15)

Bubbling up from within my core,
Thoughts bounce around my head, in war.

From where do I draw my life's power,
When crisis looms upon the hour?

Is it through talking with my friends
Upon which "Solution" depends?

...Or praying to something above,
Source of unconditional love?

Maybe following set of rules
Is key for my base kit of tools...

Then, while walking back to my home,
Thoughts of undead did slyly come.

Am I a vampire, like disease,
Drawing life out, with fatal bites?

Or maybe a lich, living through
Arcane studies, learned in dark nights?

Could I be some sort of foul ghoul,
Feasting on flesh, in carnal rites?

'Tis not literal life effects,
But treats others as "things we fight"...

Then, the whisper comes, in my mind,
On the solitary night walk -
"How'd I survive, sixteen years past?
Am I embedded in matrix,
Or implanted with small machines?"
...So my mind wanders, in weird ways...

"Haiku on Frustration" (P.o.t.D. 3/1/15)

My mind disconnects
From hunger and lack of sleep,
Making poems so hard.

"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.

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

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 sew a few dramatic kernels,
That grow images, not 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)

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

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

I speak from my humble abode, in rhymes:
No car, No house, No tough guy - these aren't mine
To offer in these, your most 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)

Helicopter whirling
Outside my door makes me pause,
Mumbling 'bout the State.

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

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

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

Some times, the moments
Escape distracted poets
While they play with rules.

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

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

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

I'd like to write poems, play games, and relax;
Yet cash flow 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 -
The play thru poetry is a hindrance, a block,
That keeps me confined, preventing my mind's 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 frustration.
I question what help I've tapped into,
Or if I'll ever climb out of this oubliette;
It just feels like I've not arrived yet.

Memories of yesterday's poem,
That talked of failed expectations...
You'd think I'm in some mid-life crisis,
But I doubt I've lived even a tenth of my life.

This just feels like a Goth's whine -
"Drink deep the troubles in my blood!"
Honestly, as long as I'm not thinking
About where I'm at, or how 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 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)

Expectations.
They can cause much more trouble
Than the rewards that they promise,
Especially if they go unfulfilled...
Some times, for years at a time.

If I'm a free spirit,
Floating through life,
Moment to moment,
With no chains linking
Past deeds to future rewards -
Then... then... then I live
Without worry, in each
Moment lived so free.

Yet, the chains do bind,
The past does promise,
And the people do predict
"Great Things" to come
Because I did so well
At the challenges undone.

In school, I was a scholar
Who excelled,
Who bubbled to the top;
I competed in science, in math,
And a smattering of other fields,
Usually ranking in the top three,
Across the state as well as locally.
Was this why my class voted me
"Most Likely to Succeed"?

So, a quarter of a century later,
I'm not a rocket scientist,
Nor a genius computer programmer.
Instead, I sell beer and smokes,
Earning eight dollars an hour...
My inner voice trilly chides me:
"Such a disappointment..."

I know we can measure
Success by other metrics.
Even so, they're coming up short:
No marriage, no house, no kids,
No savings, no car,
NO... No... no...
American dream,
Perpetuated by a culture
Thru song, film, and print
Over and over and over again.

There's a part of me,
Fed by futile frustrations,
That wants to turn my back
On what the man on the street
Considers a successful life.
That bit whispers in my ear,
At night, when I lay down in trouble,
"Give up everything,
Seek Enlightenment,
Become a monk"...
For a humble life
Is an honorable life.

"Foreboding" (P.o.t.D. 1/27/15)

Like a deflated balloon, sucked by kids,
Looking for some new sounds in their voices;
My spirit crashes to the ground and skids.
My Dad's simple request tastes like poisons.

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

Do I remember the car wreck?
"Sadly, no..."
Or maybe "Gladly, no!"

I vaguely remember the troubles
We would have, fastening seatbelts...
And that the Pinto was the epitome
Of a teen's hand-me-down first car.

Actually, the finer details, like color,
Escape me about that car.

That morning, I hear that it was foggy out,
And I think we were running late for school -
I want to say I was still half-asleep.

I think I was nodding off in the car,
As we plowed thru the pea soup,
Passing on a curve,
When, even after swerving,
We T-boned a Cadillac!

My brother's right leg was fractured three times,
And would never grow longer -
He wore a cast for six months or more.

My forehead hit the windshield -
I always thought that I went thru it -
So my six month ordeal was
A plastic surgeon digging glass shards
Out of my forehead, as they resurfaced.

Still, I don't remember the crash -
Just another moment of coming to,
In a hospital bed, with concerned family
Calling me back to consciousness.

Even though I'm scarred 30 years later,
I have long since forgiven my brother -
Well, I do tease him with "90 by 40":
90% scar tissue by the age of 40".
Still, the wreck has faded into the fog,
A memory that I choose not to have.

"A Countable Union" (P.o.t.D. 1/25/15)

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

"Pensieve Play" (P.o.t.D. 1/24/15)

Grabbing a fistful of ideas,
I gingerly pull an image
From the twisty tangled net
Of my memories and mistakes.

Trying to sew order,
I line up the facts,
And apply a little logical glue -
Hoping my conclusions still ring true.

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

I find myself mincing words,
Just to get a bowl of pho out of xenophobia;
Or maybe find a little lip in liposuction...

When I saw details of Charlie's recent heart attacks, and need for surgery, and so on - part of me thought, "Don't make him suffer in ICU - perhaps, it's time for him to go home to God"
It felt callous of me, yes, but these lives of ours are not meant to be forever.
I have lots of excellent memories of Charlie (and his cookies), and I hope to see him again, some day, on the other side. Until then, the best way I can remember him is to carry forward the positive parts of his legacy.

"Selfies" (P.o.t.D. 1/22/15)

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)

Even though we're doing the best that we can,
We have to work with crumbling crayon
On a crumpled old newspaper
Fished out of the trash,
With a faint odor of dead bass...

You see, not everyone's given the same tools -
I can't assume your life has been easy,
Or that your events mirror my own.

I may be wrong.
This may not be my best.
Fear pulls me back,
Saying, "If you don't try,
Then rejection's not..."

Everything feels half-finished,
half thought out in a
whimsical improv,
passed through once,
to be forgotten tomorrow.

(Oh, but I am saving these,
Perhaps to revisit one day)

A lot of projects started,
But not "colored in";
Life is full of distractions.

Where's the punch?
Where's the shock?

Mine's not a life with abuse,
Or with fights with authority,
Or with trauma...

Oh, but there is that little demon, addiction;
And there is that touch of insanity;
And maybe something can be learned from that
Impending failure, dogging my heels through the years...

I write this, as a conversation with you,
Instead of trying to hijack your mind's pilot
To paint a vivid scene,
Telling your senses exactly
What they are experiencing.

My defeatist says a far better poem
Would be in five stanzas,
Each describing your basic senses -
The colors in your eye,
The tones in your ear,
The textures upon your skin...

If I want to work at it,
To make it a little more memorable,
Then I'd add a meter and a rhyme
To fence the stanzas in,
Lest they run wild.

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.

Alas, thus ends this first draft.
Maybe I need to rub the crayons' crumbles,
Along the newspaper's crumples,
And see if I can make
A modern-day shroud of Turin,
Remembering the fish I ate last night?

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

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)

How do you convince
Leaves to fall, to separate?
With time, bonds decay...

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

The drops drip... drip... dripped...
Brewing black, bold, blessed bliss -
Bean's nectar, so loved.

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

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

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

As he walks - along that spike, his muscles would rip -
Is this the fate of Achilles, in his famed trip?

Cutting it out, with surgery, was not advised;
Instead, stretches, from a worksheet - that was prescribed.

Even armed with these exercises, there's no motive to pursue...
Alas! The pain grows worse, more constant - the yoga is now due.

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

The wind whispered while winding its way
Around the sentinel tombstones;
Yet the silence made it deafening
For naught would speak in beastly tones.

A month ago, cold earth clods crumbled
Upon her corpse, laid to rest amidst
Frogs burping, squirrels chattering, and birds chirping -
All just asking, "Why silent, good Miss?"

She had a gift of beastly whispers,
Where, through grunts and squeaks, she could divine
What needs, that before, the animals had to defer;
Finding them to be furry friends, oh so fine!

Her death was ghastly and happened suddenly
Through the actions of her employer,
A museum caught up in greed and gluttony,
When they learned she was a betrayer.

You see, she was tasked with building collections,
But she balked at expanding the ecology exhibit.
Her fear of loneliness won out, and she warned them,
Of traps and poisons that would freeze them forever...

A question lingers on today's whispering wind -
How did the museum find out, how'd they win?

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

I spent my youth in a small Texas town;
Finished school, and then I was Austin bound.
Once I got there, so many things to do;
Dabble here, dabble there - how the time flew!
Took fifteen years to earn a cap and gown...

"rain drops" (P.o.t.D. 1/14/15)

So, you got a little wet?

Rain drops soaking
Through your shoes
...and socks...
...and soul.

You raise a flag of hope,
Or good old surrender,
As you open the umbrella -
Knowing full well
That shelter only protects
Scalp and skull,
But not the bottom of your sole.

Who's to say that
'Twas a falling drop
That made you turn
Away from the rain,
And the life it brings;
Towards a hunched back huddle,
Hoping for far less humidity?

It could have been
An army of drops,
Pooling their resources,
To present a blocked passage
And an opportunity
To seep through the splits and cracks,
That you did not know
Were at your feet.

Your mind is so set on getting somewhere;
You forget to appreciate the journey
And the wonder of water everywhere.
It's there in the clouds,
Masquerading as unicorns in form...
Or the puddles and creeks,
Gathering the squall back to the sea...
Or even in transition,
Touching you without a second thought.

Confucius on planning

"If your plan is for 1 year, plant rice;
If your plan is for 10 years, plant trees;
If your plan is for 100 years, educate children."

- Confucius

Sandman: Season of Mists toast

"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."

- Neil Gaiman, "The Sandman: Season of Mists"

I missed the bus, to check out the workshop on "manifesting my New Year"

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