Made in America

Made in America

We use some odd gadgetry,

primarily based on utility-

but sometimes things don't follow the plan-

especially when it comes to innovative man.

Some of these things are outdated or no longer used-

but oh how they continue to keep our simple minds amused.

For writing you can't beat a simple pencil-

it forgets and never bleeds, a perfect utensil.

But what about the ideal eating implement- the spork?

Preferred at picnics and in prison -it scoops both beans and pork.

The umbrella is great for rain-

but in the wind becomes a useless pain.

A fluffy scarf wrapped around your neck-

out in the cold it covers this small speck.

TV trays are really portable tepee tables-

used for much more than food and fables.

A trampoline is hopping fun-

until someone gets hurt and it's done.

For girls nail polish and lipstick are pretty paints-

but considered sinful by the Saints.

Boys chase balls and lift weights

Just hoping to score more dates.

Used books are better than timeshare-

But often include dog ears, markings and a funny air.

An analog watch will never go to sleep-

your time it will always keep.

Some people take pleasure in a silly rhyme,

after all -it passes the time.

Image By Makaristos (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

1st published 10/25/14.

Don't Get the Fax Machine

What is this Generation Gap

but a simple Leap of Faith?

You know how it goes,

these things sometimes skip,

trip and blunder our brains.

The Concept of Change

is quite strange

after all

it’s hard to understand

thingy-majigs, do-hickeys,

tech-no-ology and such.

Magically transforming words into air

or so, that's what my grandfather thought…

Is that what He is supposed to Believe?

That this mail comes through the trees?

Telephone poles and wires really-

not the pigeon type of messenger birds, silly!

This fancy fandangle thing,

that like a phone will ring-

it is called a ‘facsimile machine’.

Didn't Graham Bell teach you anything?!

It answers without words, taking pixelated note;

thinking, churning-you mean pictures now float?

They're all just dots

like coded language, recorded spots

(and although I continued to try to explain

stretching this bridge-span causes great pain.

And since my message would not go through

I tried an older language he maybe knew)

Ignoti mulla cupido*

Beati pauperes spiritu**

Deus ex machina?!***

Major e longinquo reverential****

I’ll not forget the Father that was Grand

as Father time keeps waving his hand.

I carried your weight in Irons and Wood.

You always knew I would turn out Good.

The genes you left me were of durable supply,

Even still after all these working years gone by

I still try to understand you the best I can-

what it was being a heroic and honest man

who marvels at the little things

like why the fax machine rings

if you’re not supposed to Answer it?

It is a perplexing device, I admit.

In Latin:

* The unknown does not tempt

**Lucky are those of a poor mind

***God out of machine

****Viewed from a distance, everything is beautiful

*Latin:The unknown does not tempt
**Lucky are those of a poor mind
***God out of machine
****Viewed from a distance, everything is beautiful



Image credit:By Quadissimus (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Family Jewels

A note about my daughter-who just found out

the family jewels, are really hers.

Delivered from the chrysalis of my conception

she is now breaking her shell,

timidly stretching her paper wings;

dandelion dreams reaching for the sun.

A mothers eyes see all around

the way she stares, intently noting

what not to be

come to be carried 

wandering like the dandelion star

resting in the budding garden of youth

fluttering with the whims of a wind

Her weightless wishes float.

Yet I cannot catch them all,

and some wishes may fall.

But she may just find her signature piece

in my opulent, overflowing box of beads.

Glimmering gems and jaded jewels

are for many women magic tools

(I watched her peach plastic knuckles round,

silk-woven skin searching for just the right one).

But Mom's old treasure box has none...

(My own crackled reptilian talon

clawing among the scraps)

Mothers fumbly fingers needle the necklace,

a meticulous malady, a mission to immature

an unbrandly new manifestation.

Elated with our fine creation,

two of a generation,

and a broken jewelry bead box.

"This choker rocks!"

Restrung,

just for the young.

Image By William McGregor Paxton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

A Quake Among the Giants

Natures touch is both gentle and fierce.

Homo sapiens trample on her back.

The thick skin impossible to pierce.

Solid as rock, thick as steel, our foundations crack.

The ground on which we solidly stood,

now that the trees wave like flags in the wood,

footsteps coming-the sound is not at the door-

arising and building from somewhere in the floor-

Swelling, surging and rolling thunder,

rooted from somewhere deep down under-

Before a blink-balance be gone!

Nothing stable to hold on-

One snap, a jolting crack and painful flinch-that's enough-

to call our humanely dominant bluff.

But No! Twelve long seconds more.

A fear that shakes your literal core.

No longer on solid ground.

Nouns fly all around.

Pressure and combustion build.

Things made to contain-now spilled.

Propane filled rockets burst into the air.

Silent and vacant birds beware.

Buzzing bumbling bodies make their way through the five o'clock rush,

but on October 17th it became a Bay Bridge crush.

The epic series of the World stops dead-

"We're having an earthquake!" The announcer said.

Before it all went black-

It moved like a whip, I sat upon the crack.

Given the quake its title name-

‘Generalissimo San Francisco’-lame

because nestled in the Santa Cruz mountains yields no fame-

those hippie hermits know how these things go-rollin’ with it.

After the rumbling came the rains,

cabins on stilts and muddy rubble,

the busy city, bricks and fissured feigns.

Those mountain people burst their bubble-

As Kipling reminds, it's in our ability

to winsome and lose, but rebuild without pity.

Many survived to tell

about this quake and all it fell.

For those that like me who dwelt in the trees-

Not a front page picture-

but would history please acknowledge Santa Cruz

and admit though poor before, she had the most to lose.

Named accurately- it was the 'Loma Prieta' quake.

To whom shall I address this change in namesake?

Since I was a passenger on this crazy ride

Not living in the Bay Area, it chaps my hide!

Photo Credit: Author (my shirt-all I got from a 7.9 (8.1) magnitude earthquake?! Oh and my life)

A Good Nights Sleep

Sweet Slumber

Well hellooo there!

(a sheepish greeting)

How I've missed you,

longed for you,

deeply.

Not a late hour passes

I don’t desire

to succumb to your hypnotic powers

but your absence leaves me weary and drained

at the pits of night

I religiously wait

ritually for you

in blankets warm embrace.

With eyes tight shut

I can almost see you now

ghostly taunting in and out

a world of matter

There you are!

Please stay!

Please come more often!

This fleeting hibernation

of breath seeking rhythm

wincing against defiant lids-

reminding me- There's work to do!

Please don't go!

Feature image By Book author is Mary Ries Melendy, MD [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Shall I Try Another Time?

As a bird of prey with keen honing eye

                                              All seeing

confidently commits to the kill

                                              knowing after all

He can fail.

Grasping and gasping for air, falling-

Still-                                       soaring in circles,

subdued in submission.

Resigned to a risk,

                                               not for Nothing. 

Tenacious talons will tell

                                               He keeps hunting around,

as a matter of life and death

                                               never quitting...

An intricate, symmetric web design,

a netting of nightly nuisance,

the magical machination of the arachnid,

                      in sinewy fracturable strands-

in an encrypted complex pattern.

So the spider must re-do, re-sew

                                                His yarn anew with each moon,

re-fabricating a miracle, laying his labyrinths,

never quitting…

Beyond prepositional propositions:

To fish is not to catch-To want is not to need-

To have does not necessitate-The gravitation pull of greed-

As a means to an end-Let us pretend-

We could not fail- in Our personal tale-

needing revising, strategizing, 

                                                 Meaning, 

intention,                                  Willful suspension...

Tick-tock the clock, the pendulum of idleness

pity us cursed humans

we sway so easily, steady she goes,

                                                  resigned in rhetorical routine.

A regular beat, monotonous, sonorous,

                                                 the triangle rings in our ears,

resounding all hollows, our bell may toll,

                                                 heavy in our burdens of want.

Reverberating need-pangs of truth

To strive or quit-To stay or split

persist and exist, to opt out-to prefer never

to quit again                              or die

trying

another time?

Feature image used by Dave Menke [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, US Fish & Wildlife

A Wild Hair

Once

I grew a hair

upon my

chin

& remembered

& recognized

& recoiled

seeing a mere mammal

Both of us-We know

how these things grow

Us the inconsequential mortal

& all its wild tortious things

That come and grow

Not that

You

or I

should care

about an unruly heir.

Image by By Detroit Publishing Co., publisher. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Growing Old While Waiting In Line

Growing Old While Waiting In Line

I find myself shrinking with fear,

trembling a touch making contact-in the eyes,

peering through the windows,

beyond the fragile glassy panes.

Shuddering at the cataract reflection-

noticing my naked youth

while waiting in line...

Patience reminds

Your turn will come

when this wait is done

my eyes avoid noticing

further running to a spot

liver on the empty face

of my spotted analog watch

hands fidget childishly

feet shuffle deliberately

I don't have much time

My heart thumps wildly,

Primate pounding fists-

I am Alive!

Discontented rumblings remind

of a scent, a smell, a pale zest,

for Life in this free Time

a penny for my thoughts

with inflation of receding interest

-I ponder-

What's is it worth?Is this the cost-

Of time well spent?

Tic-toc goes the clock...

Perpetual seconds elapse

When we are born do we know?

The time of our death?

Slipping glasses on bridges

rose colored reflections

of what used to be

fitted with sagging drapes

can't hold on to it all-no Time

to hold back- the time Now

replaced Impatience for Pabulum

to do, to have to do

and why not do?

Yet I see through porcelain

dentistry, the hollowed

gum smile, a knowing wink

(flinching blink) I smile back

knowing I'll make it

(on Time)

while waiting in line…

Painting by Karl Aegerter "Waiting in Line". Image from Wikimedia By Taxidermized (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons