Naturally Resourceful

            Foggy today.

Not outside.

Expecting nothing

of this Sunday

that cannot be named,

securely crated and/

or mass produced.

Must everything be ahead of schedule

in such a small time?

At least our brains are stocked up front

for processing and Random Access
Memory.

There are no explanations for this,

but go on...

Name what you need.

Struggling to say, 
assembly by poetry is perhaps 

helpful to visualize intangibles i.e.

physics and such phenomenona

as aspirations...try.

It could be, most simply, 
about physicality-

that my nose is out there, 

too far to see transparently
or cross-wise.

I do feel exposed, but that is not it
either.

The dull light doesn't care about mood

or money. Funny how we do...

A penny for my thoughts.

O yes, it was reconciliation.

Counting the change

in the air.

Painting by Friedrich Preller the Younger [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(unnamed)

It is magic
and you cannot stop me
from saving myself
from a worn out hex
bestowed onto to me.

It is energy (also chi)
and used methodically
to end this mean curse
in-heir-antly placed
I may live
by breaking.

It is healing,
helping myself,
or magic.

It is not about you.

It makes
me better.

It is the art
of magic.


Artwork credit By Internet Archive Book Images, Ladies Home Journal 1948 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Day

That was the day

the day we won't forget.

Why this day, they may ask.

This was the day that marked a change.

Back in the day, we used to say

Earthquake weather, which means Danger 

or Forgiveness.

You could smell it sometimes, 

the magnanimous brink in the air,

yet the ground remains stoic so we are lucky.

Like the time we lived, when we shouldn't have.

When we fell into the chasm of misery only to fly out 

                                                   with Joy.

That was the day we never went back 

the same way.

It tasted new but felt like always-

                                         even if just briefly. 

Art by George W. Joy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Civil War: the sequel

By milk and money, gluttony we have made

The Hero and so much more ground to cover

to fight for

By now this calcified, meaning mummified idealism

hollows in its armoured vest-ments

The Wars never end, unjustly change coordinates

Artwork By Cobb, Darius, 1834-1919 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Civil War trompe l'oeil) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The cure

Like most people,

I know more than most people.

Taboo topics, like religion and politics

have no place out of doors,

less is more-saying wise.

Opinions, as I have said before, are canned 

goods, homemade tastes better.

Did you notice the leaders need more followers?

I have no doubt their pantries are stocked. 

Perhaps taste requires focus.

Pickling causes swelling. 

All people only recognize five objects at a time, 

so how would leaders know a lover from a hater

up front?

Or a pickle from a cucumber...

Precisely my point. 

There is no crime in popularity contests,

pretty packaging by poll, you follow?

Me neither. I will walk away

and say nothing about knowing 

anything about anyone

anymore.

Unless I thought my opinion may be expired

until I checked the label noticing a 

dangerous dent

where it says 

Homemade Poetry

concentrate.

Photo By Bruce Bisping, 1953-, Photographer (NARA record: 1888360) (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lay me down

A head on pillow

hits the bed

again

and I confess it is useless

that I pray without membership

all men taste like forbidden fruit

so some nights I try just a little lullaby 

words work as stuffing say, softer,

consoling, comforting to tuck in tight,

granting the priceless gift of deep sleep

and hibernating potential 

in the conversation of dreams

possibly something snuggled 

warm with want

lays a head. 

Artwork by Jules Pascin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Coffee Table Book

As a little girl I remember the living room, 
        the smoked glass paneled hexagon coffee table 
with the abalone ashtray 

always full.

This table back then was the media center, for the TV Guide and 

disheveled stacks of various magazines;

Rolling Stone, Glamour, Woman's Day, Better Homes and Gardens,

Guitar, and Cosmo-always had the cover covered,

censorship-I guess since it always said something about sex.

I rarely saw her read them, she just threw them on the stop sign table 

day after day.

Along with sticky spilt drink rings and bits of green leaves, 
          there were tiny straws always there too,

and I could never find any tiny drinks 
          in the fridge despite looking

day after day.

They were collectors of clutter.

I remember taking all the magazines, 
                sorting them into music and beauty,

by month, bindings all lined neatly

and of course reading the Cosmo.

I also played library 

with my stuffed animals before they were all

taken away due to allergies. The animals, not the books.

I got them all back, I wasn't allergic to them, it was just dust.

Back then I decided I must become 

a magazine writer-No I would own my own!

I am no Oprah though, I remember her before she was 

her Own woman with an over-sized magazine I have never seen

on any coffee table. Square or round.

We cannot all be famous,

but we can all become anonymous.

When I learned about air-brushing, angles, and trending topics,

I thought I must become a librarian-antiquity-my own library (with a ladder)!

Then Google and Amazon got around collecting and distributing rare

and hard to find literati-poor little she already too late. 

I worked at a bookstore when I was 16.

I implemented a used book exchange, 

I met a man named Adam Walks Between Worlds, I learned

floristry and barista services, he was brutally murdered.

It was not the job I sought. I did not want to check, sell, stack, dust, sort,

I wanted the words only, the cover, my name, and sex, permission

to express succinctly what I believed in me. 

A better home and a garden, possibly
a new edition of Cosmo-logical, not politan.

Alas, I am only a famished writer who wants 
real words in an unreal world. 

Some sex up front.

Sneezes are similar to sex.

some dust is okay but no clutter

or stop sign tables

to bring me back

there believing in limitless opportunities 

for those with life experience

with a loss of words,

like, Bless you.

Painting By Adrien-Henri Tanoux, Afternoon coffee (1888) 

via (Christie's) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.