"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.

"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!

"Sharing Seems Futile" (P.o.t.D. 7/29/15)

Feeling exhaustion -
Like, "Why even try? This crowd..?
They're wrapped up in self."

"Wore Out" (P.o.t.D. 7/29/17, no rev)

Once again, my shoes
Have been trampled to tatters
By all that walking...

"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.

"Job Worries" (P.o.t.D. 7/27/15, no rev)

Stayed in bed today...
Afraid to face unknown Ways
Of earning good pay?

"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"...?

"Do you...?" (P.o.t.D. 7/25, no rev)

Do you still love me,
Flaws and all - imperfect soul?
Speak true now - do you?

Is Silence Not Enough?

There are events and causes and politics and more that I closet-support.

Because I do not want to publicly broadcast my support, out of fear of being considered a member of the cause instead of an ally...

Because I do not want to post support without being able to defend my views to those who see the post - no desire for flame wars...

Because I do not want to get into long arguments, especially online, with people who have almost alien backgrounds, compared to my own.

Because I'm already stretched thin on time, and I do not want to get drawn in to lengthy research and subsequent documentation to solidify my position, when it may just be ignored by the "aliens"...

Because I do not fully trust the validity of the "news" that is already broadcast around the issue.

As I do not wish to get into lengthy debates, or spend much of my time sifting through news in fields outside of my studies; I opt to be a passive, silent information consumer. I now think before I share, most of the time, and I try to read with a critical eye.

I guess that it boils down to thinking I have no influence over things outside of my hula hoop. If I thought I could sway the masses to change their mind, I'd be more prone to get on the soapbox...

Yet, I feel I work better in the shadows, where I can break my silence, one-on-one with those who I trust and who have come to trust me.

Unfortunately, there's a power juggernaut in our society trying to wreak havoc on all the things I hold dear.

"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.

"Sad Short Stories" (P.o.t.D.7/23/17)

Write a sad story
Using three words! So, I wrote:
"Climate change denied..."

"Finding a Purpose"

Dear Human:

You’ve got it all wrong.
You didn’t come here to master unconditional love.
That is where you came from and where you’ll return.
You came here to learn personal love.
Universal love.
Messy love.
Sweaty love.
Crazy love.
Broken love.
Whole love.
Infused with divinity. Lived through the grace of stumbling.
Demonstrated through the beauty of… messing up. Often.
You didn’t come here to be perfect. You already are.
You came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous.
And then to rise again into remembering.
But unconditional love?
Stop telling that story.
Love, in truth, doesn’t need ANY other adjectives.
It doesn’t require modifiers.
It doesn’t require the condition of perfection.
It only asks that you show up. And do your best.
That you stay present and feel fully.
That you shine and fly and laugh and cry
and hurt and heal and fall and get back up
and play and work and live and die as YOU.
It’s enough. It’s Plenty.

~ Courtney Walsh

"Unfinished House" (P.o.t.D. 7/22/15, no rev)

Paint swathes cross the door
Telling tales about a home
Abandoned, it seems.

"Two Bits" (P.o.t.D. 7/21/15, no rev)

Some two-bit poem hack:
Tries to be writer, he acts,
Tortured by mind wracked.

"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.

"Grill" (P.o.t.D. 7/12/17, no rev)

Licking the charcoal
Like hungry lions, the flames
Cook our food, in heat...

"Organize!" (P.o.t.D. 7/11/15, no rev)

Organize chaos...
Random thoughts, upon the page,
Gathered as the mind does rage.
Anarchy "rules" within the brain,
Never making it easy to train
Intellect's galumphing, dumb
Zoo of wandering, random
Emotions and thoughts.

Thinking about my Higher Power(s)

I have my personal experience that I can relate to. I do not know what other life-forms experience, although people's attempts to communicate their lives can resonate with my own set of memories.

There are a lot of basic experiences that have been repeated over and over, throughout time, that have generated sets of both good and bad responses. Deciding what's good and bad tends to be built on emotional reactions. (I recall a book in the last 20 years that looked at studies of how lack of emotions impaired judgements)

One of the things I love about Buddhist meditation is that it challenges me to form first-hand insights behind my experiences. Similarly, AA's programs says, "Try these behaviors, see what happens, and use that to form your own experience with a God, as you understand him"

A lot of people wring their hands over what others tell them that God is, or, more often... over people telling them Godly behavior and then practicing the opposite.

I think religion does not create a good model of how the physical world works. However, it does do a good job of looking at social interactions, good and bad, through the ages... however, religion has given rise to philosophy, psychology, even history, and influenced other social sciences - and those fields are now coupling with science to give good insights into social behavior and also abnormalities and how they can "break social rules"

So, I claim to be agnostic. If there is a God, it's much more than my personal experience and understanding. Yet, to thrive in this world, it greatly helps to depend upon experiences beyond my own. I.e., I learn from my elders, sharing in their success and avoiding their mistakes...

"Bloom" (P.o.t.D. 7/8/15, no rev)

After rains, flowers
Bloom in pinks, purples, and orange -
Such lovely walks home!

"To Move Mountains?" (P.o.t.D. 7/8/16, no rev)

What words can I say,
Convince them to walk away
From valleys of death?

(Unfortunately,
I feel my words hold no weight,
and so, my heart breaks...)

"Ennio & Dario" (P.o.t.D. 7/7/15, no rev)

Terror hunts me now,
Hinted by my phone's music -
Do I like these songs?

"Trickle" (P.o.t.D. 7/5/15, no rev)

Does your money flow,
Throughout our society?
...Or congeal, like grease?

"Swimming With Sharks?" (P.o.t.D. 7/4/15, no rev)

Why do they hate so?
To survive vicious circles
Of intolerance...?

"Ten Word Autobiography" (P.o.t.D. 6/29/30, no rev)

Enjoys puzzles, games;
Bit cultured...
Many jobs held;
Suffering poverty.

"Haiku Hack" (P.o.t.D. 6/27/15, no rev)

I wrote a poem, see?!
With syllables all counted,
Yet no point was made.

"How We Roll.." (P.o.t.D. 6/25/15, no rev)

Sticky rice, rolled up tight
Upon a crispy, salty sheet of nori,
Snuggling with cucumbers, carrots,
Halibut perhaps - or other fish:
Ingested with the zesty tang of wasabi!

"Two minutes, Twice" (P.o.t.D. 6/23/15, no rev)

Two minutes: Go!
How fast can I type?
How fast can I think?

Of course, my critics
Will tear this idea apart -
Saying where's the flow of ideas..
Silly rule you're using..
and so on..

I do not know what
Will come from the race,
But an attempt to stream,
To bring the thoughts

Talking about what i want to talk about

...and timer rings.

So.. update my phone app,
For the next quest,
And I start the timer again.

Time is trickling past,
Sometimes roaring like rapids -
Eating away at the thread
Woven for my path
By the Three Fates

Time is one of my
Most valuable assets -
If I give you my time,
My attention,
my devotion..

then - damn. two minutes gone again.

"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.

"Bottom of the Can" (P.o.t.D. 6/21/15, no rev)

Disappointing grounds
Made coffee look, taste like tea -
Time to buy a can.

"Night Shift" (P.o.t.D. 6/20/15, no rev)

As rain trickled down,
Sleep swallowed the sunlight time -
Night finds me awake.

"Message to 45" (P.o.t.D. 6/17/17)

Sir, an angry mob
Sits on the lawn, demanding
That you stop tweeting...

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

Happy about rains,
Plants stretch sweet flowers to me
Along walks to work.

"Haikus cry, 'Help me!'" (P.o.t.D. 6/16/15, no rev)

Feeling frustration,
Order mixes with chaos,
And dime poems are born.

"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.

"Feeling Fetal" (P.o.t.D. 6/13/15, no revs)

Huddled in my bed,
Hiding from some simple jobs –
Hindered by my mood.

"Icarus" (P.o.t.D. 6/13/17)

Sol melts the wax glue;
My fine plumage peels off, fast...
This bird falls, stripped bare.

"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.

"Four subject words" (P.o.t.D. 6/11/15, rev 6/11/17)

Pick four words from the environment around you,
And write four fairly simple sentences,
Using them as the subject...

First attempt, following?

"So, I'm in the kitchen,
Typing away at my laptop,
Perched upon the dining table;
And I wonder why I signed up
For a grammar group?"

None the less, I'll give it a whirl,
Using books, computers, television, and the couch:

"As the unread books gather dust,
The television blares in the background,
And the couch sags under his sleeping weight.
Meanwhile, the computers sit idle,
Frozen upon webpages visited hours ago."

Revision - turning this into 4 simple sentences:

"All of the books are covered in dust.
A television blasts the room with sounds and scenes.
The couch sags under his sleeping weight.
Meanwhile, the computer's screen locks."

"Kotter's Groan" (P.o.t.D. 6/10/15, no rev)

My brain is pudding,
My muscles twitch and ache so,
Gray hairs - all speak age.

"Freedom of Speech, or Peace of Mind?" (P.o.t.D. 6/8/15, no rev)

Remaining silent,
The anger simmers, unheard -
Leave the post to trolls.

"Noise Disruptions" (P.o.t.D. 6/7/15, no rev)

Came home to silence,
Set up to start my writing –
Now, noisy house mates.

"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.

"Beauty at Dusk"‏ (P.o.t.D. 6/1/15, no rev)

Bright spot at sunset -
Venus undressing, perhaps
Through bedroom windows?

"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?

"Obsession" (P.o.t.D. 5/29/15,no rev)

Wide awake with words
Swimming like subconscious sharks;
They make me mental.

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...

"Strengthen, Oh Capillaries!" (P.o.t.D. 5/23/15, no rev)

Wouldn't it be nice
If poems flowed from my fingers
Like blood through my heart?

"sleep beckons" (P.o.t.D. 5/22/15, no rev)

Sleep beckons me back
To bed, to dream, to feel warmth,
To hide in covers.

"Under the Heel" (P.o.t.D. 5/21/15, no rev)

I feel such outrage
As the wealthy's money chase
Leaves me desolate.

"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.

"Feeling Dirty" (P.o.t.D. 5/18/15, no rev)

Blood, sweat, dirt and more -
Feels like they’re a second skin,
Not letting me breathe.

"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.

"Oh, the Senseless Death!" (P.o.t.D. 5/13/15, no rev)

'Nother squirrel dead,
Seen on the walk to my house..
Must they cross the street?

untitled (P.o.t.D. 5/12/15, no rev)

Sky crying, leaves tears
On ground - dying leaves stuck here,
Not flying: seeds' gear?

"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.