(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.