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

Which Type Are You?

Clickety-clack! The sound harkens back

memories of mechanical metal keys

first machine to employ QWERTY

key striking, punching, and forget erase

manually pushing a rubber rod to that place.

Ding, Grind, Return!

(O how white paper makes ones stomach churn)

Ribbons tangled knotting little girls hair

happy letter circles post erect- sans care.

Will children tomorrow ever learn

of this odd thing called “carriage return”.

An olden device from yesteryear

( used by Lord Shakespeare-

 to the youth it would appear)

“A typewriter dinosaur?!

I think I’ve heard of that before...”

A dying art-

or relic part,

a Remington treasure

Underwood of heavy measure.

Oh-to bear the cursed weight

of a writers' heavy fate...

Ashes are just spent pages

From the notes of thin typing sages

Poets words have been lost

their precious pages tossed

aside as irrelevant tools

written by poor ancient fools…

But if the Poet is dead,

if  what may be written should no longer be read

will his secrets die too?

Although you cannot buy a typewriter brand new-

they are still used in funeral homes, like bodies stored,

and gainfully employed in the maternity ward

A picture can be repainted, but new layers don’t erase,

all that existed in the first place.

Out of ink, there was a problem loading,

use pencil or pen, technology not so foreboding.

A writers' day is done

if he can inspire no one

by tools of any kind

if a reader he cannot find

To type, text, jot and scratch-

Inspiration, words, ideas to catch,

"Thou art privy to irrelevant tones"

with these archaic words, one moans.

Stretching keys and word count is not prophetic

instead singing off tune, a non-meaning lyric.

Compose, Post, Draft, Send, Share-

How you write I don't really care...

This divine write, to right

to say, to mean, to express, and share the light

Is a beautiful mysterious thing

I can still hear the typewriter sing

Ding.

Image By Bain News Service, publisher [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Virtuoso Reality

Image by Scheffer, Victor B. US Fish & Wildlife Service via Wikimedia Commons 

Virtuoso Reality

A poet is a painter
who uses only black
and white and
in-between
the lines
where
form is placed
and lost
delicately staining
the inaccuracy
of vision through the haze
wandering a minds maze
where
wonton thoughts
race mazes
blazing trails
on a quest for truth
seeking a map
of the mind
only to find
where
truths treasure
seeks shelter
waiting to be seen
a picture painted
an image waiting
for the objective observer
you
to exact, form
design and blur
where
muted meanings
twisted tones
hereditary hues
the artistic amalgamation
of a pigmented portrayal
is expressed and etched
a reflection
in windows and mirrors
upon your accessible canvas
where
a picture becomes a poem.

Composed 9/20/14