The answer to my prayers

A year ago this May,
in fact, upon this same very grey day-
something came over me I found could say,
in no other way but to portray, as I still do today-            jotting, plotting, jolting, revolting

my madness as some sort of poetic art-
which is why I decided I had to start,
listening to my heart,
and do my part-                                                                  despite not making the cut

by un-bardly and barbarously writing this blog,
Captain's log, composing                                                    my maniacal inner dialogue-
which is more of a moonstruck monologue,
as a way to clear the hazy daze of a mental fog.

It has been like a wild child,
often haphazardly styled,
but mainly harmless and mild,
like those old pictures                                                          of frozen smiles filed

away for another day, in a chronicle or journal thing-
that sometimes may happen sing, or carry a certain catchy ring-
whispering words watching my darkness
led to the pot of gold,                                                           heavy and enlightening

in view, which I always knew-
but fear too frozen to pursue,

that terror all told, it may be true-
that this is the best I can do.

Looking back at my utter lack
of skill or talent-I gave it a whack, took an honest crack-
yet this jumpy soundtrack blares-I have no knack
for poems or neat nifty nick knacks like paddy whacks   -nor any patience for yackety yaks.

But what do I care. I will likely still dare-
since no one is even aware that I blare-or knows it is there-
or here, (hear) this little voice from somewhere-dark
musing and muttering about idle cares and personal affairs,
                                                                                            has answered my unphrased prayers.

Doing the math

A good belly laugh adds a minute.
A warm embrace, easily a whole day.
TV wastes years, so do tears.
Alcohol, cigarettes, digesting
things we can't pronounce, revenge and regret,
their price-I forget.

A day to do nothing but play, just wishes and kisses.
A few minutes with a poem, Hi-ho-Hum.
Working at Someones Expectations Inc.
(offers no benefits or retirement).

The sun.
The ocean.
Negative people.
Settling or stagnancy.

Let's see...
Plus or minus, more or less,
Failure, I mean Opportunity
I'm about even with karmic destiny.

This is totally life.


Image By Bhakti Ziek (provided by the author) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Smoke inhalation

Desire

is a fire

that goes out

when it's not stoked.

Man

started fire.

A fire

does require

your full attention once lit.

Flare-ups. Smoke signals. Errant sparks.

Women 

tend the fire.

Desire 

is combustible

unless retardant is applied.

Burned. Back-fired. Scorched.

A fire

Does indeed need both fuel and freedom and air.

As lightning steals its rightful thunder

We extinguish

Without an ignition point.

Image by Carl Svante Hallbeck, (1826-1897) of Sweden [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wet Dreams

I have been sleeping with the devil, I think.
Those that love me, tell me I'm sick.
I know they are right no matter how hard I try to fight,
to untangle the snarled lines that implicate
the heat of day and deep chasm of night,
He lives there.
At first I wasn't sure it was Him-
being so dark- you know.
After arousing amid a wet,
slimy, stone cold pillow,
my hair plastered to my neck-
strangling me-
two swollen and asphyxiated eyes
on a greenish white face looking at me
in the bathroom mirror,
confirms my satanic suspicions.

The furniture looks the same-set in its ways.
My leaden limbs ache- relentlessly shivering in quakes.
Did the dresser see me
dancing in my delirium-
must have been a dream,
since the coffee table
pleads the fifth, cowering
when asked about the black and blue
marks, bruises on my shins
it lies. No burning desire,
I shiver in icy aloneness,
tossing aside those awake-
turning down and still- not dreaming
while I burned, I feel-
He stares at me lovingly, and I know,
I have been sleeping with the devil.



Image by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825), The Nightmare [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Audubons Avian Apology

Upon landing
on a jutting branch of discourse,
detailing drawn conclusions
about the man Audubon,
whose prayers for atonement
have been answered by History.
Poised on perches of frozen time,
not Alive
but trapped in the net of your aim, in-site-
full in vibrant colors, beyond the pale
page, he breathes Life back
as a meticulous Apology.
Focused in on the bird of your prey,
the hunters ring goes unanswered.
Only your breathe from breast
rises and falls,
occupying the empty space
where song climbed the trees
to view against the stoic creamy white
of fantasy, belief must be made,
making believe those shiny black beads
a birds eye view.
Can see you too, it doesn't fly away
choosing to pose and stay anyway-birdbrain;
choosing to fight or take flight-a man-of-kind.

It was proposed in some sacred text,
birds are the messengers of god(s),
while we're down here pushing,
bumping into each other, invading
our shrinking space, while up high
in the sky a letter forms
in the shape of peace.
V is for victory, not peace.
A thousand winged unit of velocity.
We are all going the same place-
says the pastoral preacher from his
High chair.
There-Those are our gifts to share,
in this righteous affair where
carrier pigeons take note-yet
the message was lost in translation.
We are just learning the sign of a circle,
showing us where water and meat reside,
hiding from hunters, take cover
the raptor hovers, screaming for you, Audubon,
to look up at the heavens,
blinded by the light, cocked-eyed
with a loaded gun.

Image of John James Audubon featured in The Popular Science Monthly, September 1887, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Feature Image (top) By James Audubon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The sound of light

What do you want from me?

                                                                                               I want to ask-

                                                                                               but don't want to hear

                                                                                               a reply

This is my friend bearing gifts-

                                                                                               she won't stop offering,

I cannot accept-                                                                      is she senile?

Is it the same thing over and over again?

                                                                                                That would be nagging.

No, I don't know where you're from

and cannot tell by your accent                                                If I could guess,

                                                                                                I'd say Light-

I'd be a slight right.

In the dark you're so loud!

                                                                                                There's more room to stretch,

                                                                                                 and stand out.

Will it ever stop?                                                                     Brightly, 

                                                                                                                I hope not.

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

What's the Matter

I am an unstable lepton seeking opposition.

I had a chance to be an undiscovered pentaquark.

And, like you, I prefer symmetry in my fractals.

And am particularly attracted to magnets.

What's the matter then?

Gravity bums me out.

It’s constantly micromanaging, like Time itself-

read on the face, I've seen the circle of life,

but I prefer triangles.

I think wealth should be calculated

by Karmic Score divided by Faith.

The way it looks,

I will get to watch

two Haley's comets pass, elapse

(in my little blinking life).

I used to live at the seashore,

where there are 1,440 waves

that break every single day.

And even though I move around,

(often in circles)

and am not there to see the crash,

I know those waves are still

breaking

(without me).

Nobody can remember what it is to be an American anymore.

America isn't even 500.

Didn’t we manufacture ancient history (yet)?

Monsters make earthquakes.

Geologists think about flatware.

Their i's bigger than their plates-

the I in inertia, that is.

And anthropologists are making strides,

measuring footprints in lieu of the gait.

I never want to grow out of my imagination,

I'm waiting for flood pants to be back in style.

I've accepted my death is nothing personal.

I am not sorry,

(anymore).