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.

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Some of these things are outdated or no longer used-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