The Confession of an Obsession

Since a poem is a perfect place

             in which to hide a secret

it just so happens to be the case

             that nobody's found it yet

A place in which to utter

             a covert illicit little truth

as discreet as melted butter

             not to be uncouth

but it's later than due time

              to admit to one and all

I am guilty of a crime

              I will confess without stall

I'm enrapt in a torrid love affair

some juicy details I will share

The smell I cannot resist

which may have led to this tryst

I constantly search and obsess

it is a purely pathetic weakness

that saps me dry

but I will always try

Amassing more and more

until I find what I'm looking for

This infatuated relationship

                is a one way street

while there is companionship

                we will never actually meet

I dream of cuddling in bed

                under covers where a little light

is pointing to where I just read

                 and could go on all night

Igniting my mind

                 into a frenzied passion

an addiction of this kind

                 one should try to ration

Time and devotion

with the notion

that you'll never have enough

room for more stuff

if you keep acquiring books

yet still one obsessively looks

since solutions are often found

on pages that are bound

lasciviously labeled as Fiction

which is just a categorical diction

My endless reading is a search

                     to find how much one can know

a library perhaps is my church

                      stretching one's brain to grow

but a book can also be called a spell

                      some are innocent and some evil

by the cover you cannot tell

                       the influence is one's own will

caving under printed pressure

                       but as long as you enjoy the ride

or maybe find a buried treasure

                        I will no longer try to hide

This minor flaw in my character

Just ask the narrator

Where in my own life story

Tells not for glory

But to assert aloud

that I am proud

to admit I am a bibliophile

and my 'To Read' pile

is at least a mile

it should take me a while

to read them all

so I really shouldn't fall

for another book sale

until I finish my latest epic tale.

Image By Burnett, Alexander. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

                   
                 







          

Out of the Blue

When you said you were blue
I never knew
you were just sad and stuck deliberating
about all the bad and not really suffocating.

Well Krishna's skin is blue
so it might just be true
it happened from blowing into the flute
but that assumption is not that astute

That hipster Elvis chose blue for his suede shoe
a sexy single he hoped it would imbue
inciting romance and style
which he donned with a snarled sexy smile

And all poets love using blue
choosing it for anything they want to
it's a flexible, moldable rhyming color or tone
like those windstrewn, pesky violets I bemoan

A misunderstanding just blew
to shreds all you thought you knew
an erroneous translation
but a colorful mutation

(When getting married and your feet are cold
Don't forget that blue thing and something old
and something borrowed which to hold
blindly doing as superstition told)

Painting pictures with words
with the imagery and sound of blue birds
on one's shoulder, singing while in flight
poetically framed on pages once all-white

Most people claim it is their favorite
even Mother Nature decided to split
a blue for the ocean and another blue for the sky
the two largest of Natures Earthly supply

Separated by seas and philosophies
members of fractured colonies
share on their flags the color blue
at least over half of all of them do

Blue is used as a symbol in Psychologically
evoking of trust, confidence and honest authority
A plan needs a blueprint, the architect will say
Even Picasso was obsessed in his own way

Science found a way to make blue light
but now it's toxic and keeps us up at night
possibly harmful to our sight
good or bad who knows what's right?

It makes us calm and often cold
it is also found on some types of mold
Painters mix endlessly to get the proper color of night
Black and blue are the marks of a lost fight

A favorite choice for toothbrushes
your anxiety it supposedly hushes
A color mosquitoes cannot resist
despite being added to the squished list

Designated for both Smurfs and Jeans
but not even a tint of it on Navy Beans
And that Willy Wonka's Violet too
wasn't ever really the color blue

The brilliantine blue of a peacock feather
Or the blue on a butterflies wings or whether
you have blue eyes
all of these are pretty tricks, optical illusions  or lies.

(And I just cannot help but say
even my Russian Blue cat is actually grey,
but that poem was already written another day
and the name is just a name anyway)

Being blue-blooded once meant nobility
now its archaic, a symbol of frivolty
Blue can be seen only in the short wave-length
precisely and only in 470 nanometers of strength

The number of shades in English for blue
did you know totals at least sixty-two?
Not even adding Prussian Blue in the mix
of which there are as many as thirty-six .

And my deepest gratitude for getting through
this entire poem all about blue
I tried not to waste your time
with this elongated rhyme
In fact from this poem you could accrue
a lot of useless knowledge too-
at least about the color blue
so I truly, bluely, sincerely, thank you.


Image of painting via Wikimedia Commons, (Public Domain) by  Franz Marc (1880-1916) "Large Blue Horses".







 

Shoulda, Woulda, and Coulda

Shoulda, Woulda and Coulda*

Shoulda, Woulda and Coulda often complain

             while riding aboard the dinghy named "Fret"

Tangled in knotted refrain and regret

             avoiding the rip current of Change, the rudder is set

"Why not? What could go wrong? What is there to fear?"

             -are not the questions the three dared ask 

Then crewmates, Maybe and Might, forecast the outcome is unclear

             when bravely charting unknown water. And advised, ‘Leave doubt   

             in your wake when what you already knew the right way.’

As a Shoulda,

             Woulda

              or a Coulda, undoubtedly decided against, anyway.

Doubt and Worry pacing swab the deck,

              they claim its always slippery

Advising all to watch their step!

              This soggy pair prefers to predict catastrophes

Neither of these two will ever see past their four soggy feet

              To see some parts are already dry.

              "Not to fear, we've already been here! It's just like deja-vu!"

              "Pirates prosper by fear!"

But these words were gibberishly unclear and did not adhere

               to Shoulda

               Woulda

                and Coulda, trying to avoid their fretted fates.

Shipwrecked again off the Sea of Regret,

                moored in the ebb of murky vacillation

The lull of consistency, and eerie calm of sunset

                 foreseeable outcomes; one man's island destination

Lo’ on the horizon-a glimmer of light, a sparkling sight

                  a beacon, a bright idea, that maybe, might just be

                  up ahead, not so far, where the future is blinding bright,

                  past the buried benthic and what they Coulda not see, turbidity

                  and Shoulda done with what they Woulda had,  passed the possibility...

Shoulda and Woulda just missed a chance-

                  Coulda did nothing but complain

"What good is trying anyway-the path ahead is just happenstance"

                  So these three, bravery thieves, confidence takers,

                  deal breakers,

                  adventurous fakers,

                  remorse makers,

Coulda not comprehend, nor

Woulda they try to even extend

                   a helping hand to assist another

                   while occupied in their druthers,

and Shoulda patched the holes or learn how to swim.

*This poem was inspired by Eugene Field's poem "Wynken, Blynken and Nod". 
*Image of painting (oil) by Maxfield Parrish, 1902, "Wyken, Blynken and Nod"; [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Metallurgy

Forged and tempered
condensed under fire
morphed and reduced
pressurized and pupled
sardonic sap ooze
intense with vision-
nary-a mans' hands
mother of molten invention
Creationist
Industrialist
Building with erect
magnetisms strings
Come and Conquer
with rigid out lines
straight and arrow
piercing certitude
fall in line
blurred beings and things
blending tornadoes
structural heaps
painted windows
look the same
archaic beasts churning
chugging with spent desire
laced with sepia tones
antiquely reminiscent
of times gone by
stories trapped in parallel tracks
stopping at no stations
for souls places
thrown from its determined path
screaming shrieks of fire
boasting in blasts
barrelling nowhere
and everywhere in between
mocking anthropology
and days that shall pass
in concrete jungles
the lions share
essentially barren
scrapped to metal
ore never to remain
one and the same.




Image By Hieronymus Reusner; Franciscus Epimetheus (Chemical Heritage Foundation) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Pandora (1582) 

Deed of Trust

We need tangible evidence
I was Here
Yours and Mine, between a fence
divides-or so it would appear

An apparition of ownership
Show me proof
stamped passports on lifes' trip
permanent shelters roof
squatters in refrain
draping the blind
boxing up pain
folios filed for someone to find

Piled and stacked in the archives
condensed for space-
How many lives
leave just this inky trace?

Illegible orders of Legality
Protecting acts of Perjury
Insuring civilized Morality
(forestalling fatuous worry)
Stained and signed as true
leashed in language, in black or blue

Your Name on the blotted line
as it says right here
(acquired this year)
that's Yours and this is Mine

A house, a car, husband or a wife
credit cards of the indebted life
my interest low, with rates on high

numerically figured dollars with time flies by

Save your wealth
Plan for the future, Learn from the Past
Protect your health, 
a stone is cast...

The stories are the same
Hansel and Gretel of the fairytale
if You and I were instead the name
leaving our moneyed paper trail

These precious paper treasures
acquired or borrowed
temporal needs, passing pleasures
carbon copied or dittoed
verified and proven, seeking restitution
as Possessor of said Property
indebted stay of execution
bartered pages of equality

scrolls through antiquity
long labours of lost legacy
smudges and smears
seen through ink blurred tears

Ancestry evoking ancient history
made from fibers of the family tree
linking lineage
from cleared forests
kinfolk of foliage
cherry picking the best, tossing the rest

Breaking the bow
swinging push and pull
I live Here now
Now void and null

But against me someone makes a claim
(with the wrong name)
This is what you owe!
(Please) Pay the balance before you go...



Image courtesy of Wikimedia, (Public Domain) By Orange County, NC (County Courthouse) 'February 13th, 1804 Marriage certificate'

Fruit Cake

A phenomenon
or so they said
What does that even mean
but surreal
hyper cognizant
carefree and currently
on the Pineapple Express
a subarctic flow
riding a-board
flimsy-flappy metal wings
waving to resistance
strapped in between
that I dutifully volunteer
taking the bumpy path
turbulence cloaked with care
we will get there
jumps jacks and jerks
brace and buckle up
Folks
terrential terrestrial
walking on water
a prevention of petulance
generational circumstance
companions of Will and Able
who facilitate the festivities
with Candy Canes and Christmas Cheer
recycling the seasonal year
a salvation per annum
the shedding of a starry tear
of remembrance
lightening striken resemblance
a resurgence
witnessing the same anew
in glorious saturated pools
reaching shores of home
on board ships of self
who face
into the wind
cut with embrace
on a haphazardly hemispherical
holiday
with fruit cakes
served best
in the Pineapple Express
Remember who you are
when you're no longer the old you
looking back-steadfast
miles between the tips and the roots
reaching tall, trying not to fall
whining against the wind of weary
who pushes too far
and gets carried away
in the Pineapple Express.



This image is of a Norway Spruce branch with three developing 'Pineapple Galls' caused by an aphid. Provided via Wikimedia Commons (Public Domain) by Rosser 1954.

(In)Security

Who are the meek

Who only see the bleak

Whom we are told

as they shrink old

shall be heirs to the Earth

but do not know its worth

Whose silence is golden

with footprints heavy and beholden

waver their doubts

while their inner voice shouts

snickers and sneers

when gathered amongst peers

self-doubt casts out

the need to belong

Whom are all wrong

Who are posed in preposition

hanging in there by a thread

breathing in the toxic air of dread

hearing the loudest voice

falling for the fallacies

Who makes the choice

to glance in the mirror

projecting prisms of fear

Who do not see the good

Who have misunderstood

the value of life and self-worth

were gifts given to us at birth

which grows interest

in those whom feel most blest

doubt is a dump

a fetid hump

an intrusive and destructive

conniving ally-bearer

of the blinding white lie

twisted tongues tell tales

but the proud prevails

Whose sacred truths

are not spent on the youths

Who hide among the flock

afraid to step aside and walk

to the beat of ones own drum

waiting for confidence to come

Who is just a heartbeat away

unafraid to speak up and say

I wouldn't want me any other way.

Photo (Public Domain) By Vinc3PaulS (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

It's a cryin' rain...

We had a gentle storm

(not quite the norm),

It was only visiting, meaning no harm,

not intending to cause alarm.

She softly blew in-

without making a din.

Tip toeing in, tapping outside

whispering wind unable to hide

Blessings for the desert parch,

weather comes in a March,

lining up for a show

as Natures spigot sets the flow.

Today, as we can unclearly see

just kissing full droplets, delicately.

She's in no hurry-

too warm to flurry,

in this tropical geography,

of maternal meteorology.

Silently saturating,

drip irrigating, saving,

seasonal wrath,

for a different path.

Anger saved for another place

as we accept her gentle mist in trace.

Rolling down cheeks,

pointing out leaks,

dripping from the eaves,

quieting the leaves.

Sparkles glittering on the grass

prisms of tears reflecting en masse.

Composed 12/5/14.

Image of painting by Robert Henri [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "Misty Paris" 1890.

If I was there (as pictured)

You

can see

The Forest

                                                                                                                        Over there-

Hills bent like knees, folded and prickled with trees, textured tones of green shadowed by their own darkness unseen. Lush in mossy folds of exploding ripe oxygen with spores sparking their sperm of wild plumage fans its layered feathers blurred in flight, this sight you can see-

Wherein,

          fawn and stag trample broken arms under hoof…a trail, a scent, a nymph of notion. (Not I)

                                                                                    Smoke of an obscured roof floats billowing

a periwinkle blanket of Big open skies under Venus’ belt, who tucks in the sprawling landscape-or tries. Soaring in sacred circles on the crown of canopy raptors released, flying cage free.

Blurs of sweeping leaves, fingertips brushing the panoramic pastels, strokes of infinite-wait-

What-

Was

That sound-                                                                                                 Did you hear?

Just a raccoon, bat, owl, opossum, puma or deer…falling down-playing dead, maybe.

Things echo in cathedrals.

Sounds are carried, strung together in symbols, the pin drops but the sewers eyes are sewn shut.

Fears flourishing outlined with dread.

Can you see? Inside, where the trees hide and words disappear-I cannot see, I was not here.

Image by Anna Ramsburg, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service via Wikimedia Commons, (public domain).

The Mourning of Day

Morning all day

furrowed in grey

Under the weather,

scents of wet leather,

                      splashing in puddles getting the mail.

Slapping drops smack-

in an aerial attack

stinging flesh of face

in which We are Out of place

                        amidst hurling whetted hail.

Sullen skies abide,

concrete curtains hide

the radiant sun,

sharing warmth with none-

                         displaced by mist and gale.

Trumpets pipe passing by

panes, whistling on windows, leaves fly-

blurred in the forgotten hour,

fixed and framed in a seasonal shower,

                          setting the stage for a winters' tale.

Image photo by Terry Korte via Wikimedia Commons (Public Domain), 2006

A Difference of We

You check the radar                                                    I look at the sky

             who knows how far                                                   dreams and wishes fly

You balance the books                                                I devour them

            catching corporate crooks                                           counting sins condemn

You write checks                                                        I scribble poetry

            as a mirror reflects                                                       only what one can see

You make cash to spend                                             I make heads and tales

You whom I depend                                                               especially when my plan fails          

You swig beer to relax                                                I gulp coffee to think fast

           tense about some tax                                                    calculating the past

You who have jumped from a plane                           I have only danced in the rain

You can sleep late and snore                                      I rise early and fall fast

            on the couch, chair bed or floor                                  blinking the hours past

You want to erect and build                                       I like to break things down

             happy when the schedule's filled                               happy to get out of town

You are often confused by me                                   I have figured out and see

            alone is the only free                                                   add it up-in summary

            Plus the prose                                                              Less the cons

            as a duck one knows                                                   about a bevy of swans

You are growing older                                                I am aging slightly

            getting bolder                                                              forgetting politely

You are left                                                                 I am right

            romance bereft                                                            passionless night

Perhaps growing apart,

is my newest work of art.

Adding it up is where I'll start,

this analyzation of the heart.

Our desire to be free,

results in a different kind of We.

=

0

Image "A Difference of Opinion", 1897 (Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts) by Lawrence Alma-Tadema [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Road Rage

I found this small torn out article (below) from an unknown date (1950's?) stuffed and saved amongst my grandfathers stories, he had a unique sense of humor. I will transcribe the story below the image.

(CHELMSFORD, England) -  "A motorist, cigar in mouth, honked his horn at the mailman whose bicycle blocked his way to the stoplight.  The mailman, outweighed but not intimidated, stared back.

Then the fun began before a fascinated noontime crowd here Monday.

First the motorist edged his car forward and nudged the mailman from his bike. The cycle fell over.

The mailman turned around and kicked both headlights on the car.

The driver stalked from the car, walked over to the bicycle laying on the road, and jumped up and down on its wheels, bashing in all the spokes. Then he returned to his car. 

The mailman, who had watched all this impassively, kicked in the car's foglight-a cruel blow to England. 

The driver got out again, raised the bike high above his head and dashed it to the ground.

The mailman leaned over, took the tire pump from his bike and thrust it through the car's windshield. 

The motorist surrendered.

With cigar belching smoke, he got back into his car and drove off.

But the mailman wasn't finished. As the car went by, he kicked a dent in the door. Then he picked up his disabled bike and walked off.

No one knew who the two men were. And neither of them said a word throughout the whole affair."  

Auto accident image from Wikimedia (public domain) National Photo Company, 1923.

Gray Stray

I have this cat, he's a Russian Blue.

But everyone that has cats knows that's not true,

because as felines profess know-it is they who own you.

He's not even really blue, more of a grey,

but his silver coat shines in a certain way

in the afternoon light of any sunny gold day.

He showed up one day where I now live,

asking for any extra love I could spare to give,

though hardly desperate and still quite furtive.

Sure it started out so innocently slow,

an outdoor kitty, but inside he's soon allowed to go-

he's on my bed right now-I just know!

He has a smoky cough and missing part of his left ear,

yet even with his claws and flaws, to our family he’s quite dear.

He’s even learned some English within the first year here!

He likely has a sorted past.

His walk is any gait but fast.

We will never bother to ask where he was last.

He's the first of his kind upon my lap,

always kneeding to take a nap.

His purr melts my heart like sweet honey sap.

He's not a lean, skitzo, or hyper thing,

yet I have caught him imagining,

chasing his tail or lion-dreaming.

He must just smell that certain human look,

common to those ones who often carry a book,

because he knows they will always find the coziest nook.

Perhaps some of the cats we label as “stray”-

actually know their way,

but didn't have the words to say,

"I think I'll find a different home,

and until I find the right one I'll roam-

I hope I find one that has a decent flea comb.”

He's the other sock in a pair

the other cats he likes to taunt and scare,

as for me, he loves to just sit and stare.

It’s for sure,  I've never been loved more

by a furry thing with legs of four.

His Cheshire smile and blocky head I simply adore.

I don't think his nine lives will be enough.

When he reaches number 8 it will be rough,

(even though we both like to act tough).

Yet while he's here to help me every day,

laying on my stuff in that innocent way,

or scratching the furniture in bursts of play,

I'll worship him for the gift of daily smiles,

ignore the wafting back yard mystery piles,

and be thankful for his cat walk across miles,

where he found his matching human pair,

one that likewise does not yet have gray hair,

he’s my gray stray with a tryst, my feline affair.

Where Are You?

Are you moving?
              or just re-locating?
I hope you remember
              to pack all of you...

Or perhaps that's exactly
              what you've hoped to have left behind-
of course starting over
              is nothing truly anew.

Maybe you just need a vacation
              or a change of view
perhaps try re-decorating
              with things that are not really you.

Just don't set up shops
               or make your bed with security blankets-
the stock you take
                fluctuates in interest.

Why do we bother
                 to clean
pick-up, dust and preen?
                 Oh, how these routines are so boring!

Perhaps that's why we travel and plan-
                 do all that you can
Change it up, try something new-
                 feel free to live richly
and take it all in.

But as you lay
                 down your precious head
wherever you choose to keep your bed
                 rest assured you're always home
no matter where-
                 how far or long you may roam.



Image by William Merritt Chase via Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain. "Young woman before the Mirror" circa 1900. 
                 

A Sense of Commonality

Curious creatures
born with some sense
an uncommon menagerie

Included in these features
are those special moments
reminded by a stimuli-of the sensory

It's all quite clear-unless it blurs
the gift of gab is worth 2 cents
but for you, my friend, this is free

To taste sour grapes
to hear bitter words
to touch a note
or smell a rat
...feeling beautiful

When something smells fishy
our red flags are raised
whispering intuition

a bit o' Irish Banshee
a taste for success unphased
in a buzzing world of commotion

To know is to see
these senses rapture and amaze
an idea is just a nonsense notion

A pure heart will set you free
thoughts will make you crazed
lost in perpetual motion

seeking truth
hiding from reality
throwing caution to the wind
letting ourselves go
and letting ourselves go...

Let's try to be sensible
subdue this striking sensation
lost in sensitive reflection

Senses good and terrible
heightened by emotion
give us invisible detection (upon closer inspection)

When one is weak the other is able
to take charge and overrun
coming to conclusions

Are there really just these five
to remind us we're alive?
There seems much more we can derive

What about a sense of style?
The tact of a genuine smile
An air of calm, nothing for denial
a sense of humor or beguile
uncommon senses are undeniably worthwhile.


Image By Annie Swynnerton (http://sladept.com/artist/swynnerton) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "Sense of sight" 1898.

Using Bold

Using Bold

To grab the words from thin air

Hold them and put them there

to step out and permanently say

it is such and such a way

to jump deep inside

instead of hide

and face the face of one's mortality

infallibly

Food for thought is not always tasty

but our reactions still often too hasty

To be a writer it is brave

to the consensus you are a slave

and good writing is never easy

in fact some have made me queasy

But writing is still where I find

truly a piece of mind

Like a dentist I plaster and polish

wrestle and wrangle pull and push

to get a perfect smile

it takes a while

More than ideas are in my head

although I've been told the Art of Poetry is dead

I still see poems everywhere, through teeth in combs

and propped on chairs, words tangled in hairs

So I take to poems to let them out

rarely stopping to edit or doubt

Does this word even go?

Only the poet should know...

often I get it all wrong

out of tune, like this song.

Form and convention is sometimes a bore

All the devices and metaphor

This must follow that, trying to do the math-

what was the order? I'm off the beaten path

I think I used improper composition

or was it my terrible diction?

Either way before you go 

there's something secret you should know

A poet never wrote for fame

for the muse, it's just the way the words came. 

Image By Okeyes (WMF) (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

   

Awesome Autumn

Fall is when-

night is up

early.

A seasonal flare,

triggered trees in

flames.

Waving their flags-

to snowy surrender.

Warning warmly,

of Winters wanton wrath.

The air is crisp-

brittled and bundled,

nipping at numbing noses.

The sun briefly visits,

in cool fading interest,

bowing to the Wind

conducting the colorful chorus.

Dying leaves

stray and wander

in drifting decay.

Stockpiled and strewn,

tokens of child’s play.

Crimson, copper, coral,

tangerine, apricot, peach,

amber, saffron and shades of blonde;

Mother Earth blazing trails,

spilt her prismatic palette,

all over the canvased

November sky-

for no rhyme,

or reason,

Autumn is a lovely season.

Image by Digital nick, "Autumn in Slovakia", Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.