Take a load off

Shame on the pointless ponderer

                       whose head grew too heavy

dizzy mind map wanderer

                       enticed not by common sense

busy beaver built levee

Stuck in a rut

plant your butt

Condemn the lazy chair inventor

                        who created a place of rest

a couch for his brain to grow even more

                        putting lack of experience to the test

Backseat driver

idle kaniver

So in a nation full of sitters

we've sat in vain judgement

blaming the doers as the quitters

cross-legged, pointing fingers, elbow bent

Scapegoat herder

Jaw jabber

Those planners, thinkers, fact formulators

never do, or make or creates

but instead ideate, re-sit-uate, idea incubate

proposing possibilities about probable states

Fast talking

no walking

A nation of sitters

with notions of jitters

who can't sit still

unless they take a pill

caffeine Willies

nervous Nellies

Image photo by Pierre Petit [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons of Hector Berlioz, (1803-1869).

Sunny days with Purple haze

It must be that Jimmy knows all

we rely on his revised rigging

we can clearly see through tiny glasses

which are crumbled all around

as you said that which is built

must tumble to the ground

Eventually, 

on these long dogged days

stretching Pacifically 

horizontally both ways

You start by digging ditches

building by removal

connecting the channelled groove

each speck to spec, welding by will

And for the portcullis

a molding of macrocystis

do reserve some kelp for the keep

confounding those criss-cross-walls

one strand at a time

one per postern

a grain delay

water wise

These masonry molds of ornate turrets tell

a chivalric tale, a creation of deterioration

With a gypsy white washed beechwood to etch

windows, bars, doorways-all notably notched 

deleterious dimensions

of modern medieval convention

Wet cement won't hold

unless the tide turns down

the daily grind, of rise and fall

testing the outer castle wall

The sun casts long poles

from the towers to the South

the flood plain fills spreading

its frothy water line

Evermore, 

in this phase

of sandy daze

and purple UV rays

 

Seeing the forest for the fantasy

I have watched like an arrested witness,
                                                   I have observed, from inside the bubble,
silenced from interruptions,
                                                   the echoes of my thoughts reverberating,
muffled and bouncing, hollow all around me.

A slip, a fall, down a tumultuous trail that unwinds,
                                                  sucked through a straw of destiny's tube.
If you can conceive it-
                                                  you should believe in burst bubbles,
suspended amid weightless fantasy
                                                  land, ushered by passing spires,
reality-threatening a poke
                                                 around the rocky fables.
Wishes evaporate into splashes,
                                                  hope heavy plummets,
hydrogen bound heavy,
                                                 drowning in carbonic dead wait-
Oh, if you could see the view-
                                                  if you only knew...
Up the boughed birch the searcher barks,
                                                 mocking today while dangled legs,
pins pricking shins begins,

                                                 Dreams fall as rain in bulging bursts
drop-
lets,
where mystic wishes, with thin traces leave wisps and wishes,
                                                  elements evaporating before my eyes,
rolling on and back.
                                                  Walking on wine,
Turning truths into tales,

                                                 Deep, in the fabled forests of immaculate youth.

Composed 6/7/15.
Image By Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (From: 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Waterfall Fairy, from 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921. 

The weight of the world

My pockets are empty, no rocks for my swim today
I am armed still with each of these quartered limbs

The rope swing resembles a gnoose, or a snake
the mongoose was always me, miss identified

Eucalyptus tendrils squeeze out mentholated breezes
calling the monarchs, two come to court, tagging up in streamers

Perched in the sappy pines a murderous row becomes a mob,
volume and black plagues grow from the chain mail gang

Humming while hovering over a well, the nectar inebriates
bird and bee still in recovery, stalling in their stupor mid-air

The drum roll of wind, corralling the dead, noting the tenor of leaves
swirling in symphonic disharmony, sloughing and buffing scales

Laser beams between tall pillars scorching the dirt, releasing the
essence, crushing the spice revives, in particulates burnt alive

The serenity of the lakeside: The tranquility of Tantalus
eternally reaching, mute preaching, still teaching all of us.



Image credit:By Extemporalist (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Going along with Grandpa

I liked it when we walked around the block,
talked shop, nothin' doin', smelling grass in the sunshine.

You told me silly rhymes, fishing for my giggles,
which grew like weeds, like me, you said, a daisy.

That song you sang about the starving old lady, now seems sad,
she had 49 kids...Instead, it made my mouth melt for gingerbread.

And I still sing that stinkin' Navy song, that is even more racially wrong
about a girl from Yokohama then along came a Joe asking 'bout Tokyo.

(I rolled my eyes, I despised it,
but I memorized it, just a bit)

Your tassle-toed loafer swagger, in your plaid pants pleated a la putting pose.
The flagstick handle for a fuschia shirt on fire, your tongue pinned to cheek.

Dewy Sunday mornings were the best you said, when people pray
I caught you looking up too. It wasn't for the ball, after all.

Sometimes I can still hear your pocket change jangling and muffled
against your copper chain bracelet, I hear the handcuffs of ghosts.

After all this time I thought you were just entertaining me,
showing me to build fractals, but you were really gardening, planting seeds
                                                                      growing the chance of epiphany.

Prismatic Proliferation (Haiku)

                                                   Perfect

                  Refraction of  Incandesence

                Shining   ∞   Multiplicty

Image credit: Dispersive Prism, By Kelvinsong (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Times are a changin'

It's high time
climate change be seen NOT
as a problem of neglected ecology,
but of maligned chronology-NO-
that's the result,
the problem is this;
We equate ice cubes melting in water,
which creates displacement, a delusion,
with polar ice caps melting in the ocean,
which destabilizes our centripetal inertia.
The top no longer spins the same.
The bottom not quite pinned in place.
Reliable gravity keeps it all nailed down,
sucked in our atmospheric skin.
Astronauts must drink with straws.
I'm no rocket scientist, but I KNOW
plastic bags are not melting the ice caps.
That's just hot air, toxic agitprop gas.
Some Scientists and Astrophysicists,
have hypothesized;
a gravitational shift of gears
to centrifugal velocity,
changing the years.
Do you know what that means?
It's heavy.
When science finally solves the riddle,
they'll find that Time has slipped away-
while the plates pushed ahead,
volcanoes plumed and spewed,
major quakes are cued,
and the floods pour in,
then the aftermath...
Adding up the data (to date), the evidence shows
a climate change, (yet evidently no one knows)
whether the change in weather
is a climactic conundrum
for environmentalists and green thumbs,
for horticulture or a culture of horology...
What we would do if today's date is no longer true?
It's now May 48th, in the year 2032.
I thought you knew, Time was never True.

Composed 6/2/15.

Image by NASA taken 4/20/2013, Saunders Island, Greenland, Baffin Bay.