Sunday, May 24, 2015

Chasing our tails



The problem with the pursuit of happiness
                                     is that it is;
                                     a toil ridden sweaty hot pursuit,
                                     a source-less slippery stench,
One that chases after happiness forgot it's too fast to catch.

Instead we chase our tails, catching a whiff
of a finish line reminiscent of balderdash.

As school children, we are taught in P.E.
                                    that running is healthy,
being faster is better, stronger and longer are nonpareil-
                                    little champions know about the first loser.
While perfecting running on empty in inalienable circles-
                                   where spirals suck you in.
The starting line begins,
                                    when we race time.
We play tag, choosing the easiest one to get,
                                    then let the others worry about “It”.
When we graduate into adulthood,
                                    recess and foot races are no longer requisite,
we only exercise our volition
                                    when we are being chased, 
as the object of hot pursuit.

So many wonder if they chose the wrong path that leads
                                     to a dead-end having no thru exit.
All of our roads are dead-ends.
So many are sick and tired 
                                     of being sad and fat.
Anchored with obesity to our happy oblivion,
                                     sedentary, leaden with obligation,
dwellers in the city of Circumstance,
                                     in slums with condemned hearts-
they should move-
                                     but are often frozen in icy ennui.
One must be cold before searching for fire.
Burning bridges from Discontent on the way out,
                                      a one-way ticket is the only available option-
blurring what's left of a vacant vista, right-
                                      no longer
where you left it.
The right of hot pursuit,
                                       is just an alternate route.
You must know what you seek,
before Happiness gives you a peak.


Image of painting by Giulio Romano [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Mars chasing Adonis from Venus's Pavillion.

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.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

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.












Friday, May 15, 2015

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.



Gravitas

For every poem I put here, there are four more never shared, around six never written and twenty-seven partially thought out. For every word...