No time for your rhyme

There once was a lyrical poet who rhymed,

intrigued by this technique he was so inclined,

to share his lovely rhymed verse-

now a decrepit olden time curse,

considered both uncouth and passé.

He continued to muse anyway,

and quietly pray that one day

someone will say, “Today, a rhyme is ok-

for children, but is certainly no Monet.”

But he won’t hear that last part,

believing his poetry is truly fine art.

His inspired poetic zeal,

lacked serious public appeal.

Born in the wrong time,

for silly old rhyme, 

not one publication with any imagination

gave a standing ovation-overall his narration,

they judged unscholarly and just juvenile-

mockingly, shockingly, straight into the slush pile.

All adverbs aside, this method of poetry he tried

and plied, still too proud for his own pride. 

All the while-

that he strung those rhymes in denial,

he believed his old poetry was in style.

Until one day, the rejections too many

more than the poems. So with his last penny,

he thought and bought a last wish at a fountain,

“If from rhymes I must abstain, making my poetry plain,

Instead,

I'd rather be dead."

And without any further adieu

his last dying wish came true. 

Image by Friedrich von Amerling [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Las Olas para dias...

Way way

d

o

w

n

South                             West

Perhaps we are un poco loco

As Latin lingo-goes

Spanglish by the seashore

Where-Donde

Las Olas-The Waves

peel like Naranjos

Nobody I know though

peddles oranges under freeways

These days

D

o

w

n

Here, where El Sol, warms the soul

holding sway

in the Santa Ana way,

winds                                Offshore

salt air beckons to play

Building castles made of sand

stuck on Land

Breaking-Ruptura

frothing white mane in charge

liquid glass breaks at my feet

but See, the Sea, El Mar-La Mer-Las Olas,

-faces holding-                           Up

     o      l      n        along,

R       l     i       g

settingtogether  a  l  o  n  g

-Venus and her Sun-

hugging our vast horizon.

Composed 5/21/15.

I come bearing water

I need not see to believe-
this presence of Ganymede.
We were led to learn,
our blue planet Earth-
was alone soaking in saltwater.

But you showed yourself-
Ganymede.

I rose early too, like those stargazers,
eager to see what they wanted us to believe
was a Blood Moon-
but she was just blushing,
rosy from her fullness.

Like Eos at Dawn,
there you were again,
in the company of dead poets,
attending the school of contemplation.

Rising first, in rings around dreams,
taking lullaby swings, at gravity-
Who thinks nobody is looking-
thirsting for Truth.

Fixing the future, diving into their divinity,
stuck swimming in the stars;
unable to reconcile, to beguile or even manage
a simple smile to reconcile but choose denial,
Ganymede.

Composed 5/21/15.

Image By NASA/JPL (http://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/catalog/PIA02278) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Ganymede from Voyager 1, March 1979.

"O Radiant Dark of Shallow Day"

Are you the Pitch

that chases me down

Intoxicating night

Are you made of Tar

a molten menace of martyr

in a Pilgrims' plight

O Holes in haloed glow

the other side of Man

Lunar eclipse

Am I now Prey

stalked in marshy fear

Fight or Flight

Am I Bound

leaden in black

Blind sighted

O Past the meridian

shrouded We rest

sleeping Tight

The insatiable appetite

Whet by Moon Shine

"The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hand."-Frederick L. Knowles

The title of this poem is a fragmented quote extracted from George Elliot (a.k.a. Mary Anne Cross) "The Spanish Gypsy", 1864-1868.

Image taken by Jon Sullivan, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Nov. 2002, "Some sort of moon like thing".

Desert jungle oasis

Those giant birds of this paradise,
un-avian but drop their crap from above
just the same, in blotched sidewalk sticky stains.

Cropped up next to the potted ficus tree,
standing stunted and crouched, growing secrets,
roots rumpling the road, the earthworm escapes.

Under a coup of crows a murderous decree,
griping at gardeners, doing it wrong, in screams-not in song;
debating from up the pine tree, deciding fate over me.

Street-side Mexican fan palms, loitering all lined up,
doing the parka wave in the warm Santa Ana wind-
their ponytail fronds off to the side, flowing with Latina pride.

The asparagus fern wrapping around the bamboo reed
reminds me of a skinny girl, with a boa around her neck,
vegetating in creepy anonymity, slowly, in sensual proximity.

The mix and match, flourishing in this desert soiled patch-
strung along the same line as glorious grapes-the passion fruit vine,
takes over-zealous, rebellious wrath, where the wine was to grow.

All entwined, they never mind forced artistry molded in clay.
Sharing the little that is there, absorbing the disarray
that makes chaos, bloom better than any gardener could plot.


Image By Hardyplants at English Wikipedia (Own work) [Public domain], Giant Bird of Paradise via Wikimedia Commons.

A Ladies Little Toolbox

Screw it.
I will open that can of worms
and nail him to the wall!
                               But I should get hammered first.

No-Stop-Safety (pins) first!
Goggles, masks, closed toed shoes-I mean
steel toed boots-
not for kickin' it-get with it.
Smooth like ultra fine paper with carbine thousand grit
sides, kept in vice grips, to wrench the ruler,
usurp and pry
hinging on spring loaded braces, it snaps back
Watch your digits!
He thinks I'm nuts already,
and will likely bolt anyway,
                               whose to say, I'll be level-
headed, flat out about it,
not Phillips, no need to needle-
nose, double plying, retrying,
rocking the ratchet in need of repair-
what a pair-
the dynamic duo of Lieutenant Duct Tape and
senior sidekick Sgt. Major Super Glue,
which will work just as darn
goody goody two shoes,
whichever tool
you choose to use.



Image By M338 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

From Mo Money to No Money

Every time I peer
                                        deep into the chasm
                                        of raw dead skin in leather folds,
the vacuum issues a harsh scold,
                                        demanding my attention,
                                        ordering my devotion!

I only consent to exhale marked with a scowl-
                                        in private resignation,
                                        abetting the crime
followed by a hollow growl.

Puppet masters play heart strings-
                                        hear the beat, bass tone of guilt.
The tempo tells, chanting, incanting, vexing
                                        your blind habits,
will fall into place.

Stringing us along as though
                                         it knew the way to love yet gives
nothing in return.

Keep the change.

Forget counting all the beans.

What does money have to do with
                                         ways and means?
                                         It buys excuses.
Material dreams are for oxymorons.

What I've found in that narrow slit of wallet-
                                          where the green flags marked camp,
are unopened drawers, little opportune doors, windows cracked by the panes
                                           so the air can return,
                                           recirculating the wealth.
Who knew?
I'd be richer without you.



Image By Unknown or not provided (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.