My friend Glenn,
Grew up in Post Falls Idaho, population thirty thousand.
Heart attack, 60s.
Can’t drive through without thinking of him.
My friend Ben,
Passing through Ritzville Washington, population sixteen hundred.
Car crash, 30s.
Can’t drive through without thinking of him.
My friend Rachel,
Endless rolling Washington wheat fields; popuIation unknown, I got James cranked.
Moved away, 40s.
Can’t drive through and listen without thinking of her.
Dry wheat fields,
they’re itching my eyes.
They’re all gone.
EPILOGUE.
My friend _____,
Leaving soon.
___ ______ ____ ____
____ _____ ________
My eyes, my heart.
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
7.25.2018
POEM : ODE TO WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS.
Dreamed a dream, a little dream.
A little dream with cold ice cream.
No, not ala mode cold
Ice cream with something fresh, not old.
Like apple, berry, something sweet.
Please, I beg, keep out the meat.
With that creamy ice I’d like to try
Nothing more than fresh warm peachy pie.
A little dream with cold ice cream.
No, not ala mode cold
Ice cream with something fresh, not old.
Like apple, berry, something sweet.
Please, I beg, keep out the meat.
With that creamy ice I’d like to try
Nothing more than fresh warm peachy pie.
7.22.2018
POEM : DATE NIGHT.
The morning is new
Smell of fresh brewing brew
Possibilities endless
And the negative doubts friendless.
Hey! I say to her,
I totally had this thought occur:
We’re married quite a few years?
We should celebrate by switching a few gears.
And by gears, how about a date night, I suggest
For a night or two, or six months might be worth it to invest.
I’ve got some ideas supreme, and you know my ideas are worth hearing,
As our middle age we’re going to start nearing.
What you have in mind, Dear?
She says, your ideas I wanna hear.
You thinking an island, lake, south Zimbabwe?
Or a different special place every other day?
I like your thought, I said,
A place with a nice comfortable bed
Then we could backpack along a warm ocean
And close out the day with applying each other with lotion.
For the sunburns? she asked with a smile
Uhh, yes? I said with a smile of guile.
And we could eat exotic vegan foods
Served by super hot shirtless happy dudes!
I’m in, she said, totally sold.
What’s the next step, steal cash or gold?
How we gonna do this thing you mention?
I said trust me, I got this, with all conviction.
I got it all worked out and okay,
Except for the financial bit, that’s for tomorrow or another day,
And the kids, I have an idea, I said.
If we left them here, they might be fine and maybe not dead,
There’s a good chance they’d survive six months on their own
Unless they got sick or broke a big important bone.
But we’ll leave phone numbers somewhere they’ll find
Just in case they get into a superbad bind.
I wonder, she looked at me sadly,
If we oughta downshift this idea, just in case it were to go badly.
Well, I said, they’re your kids as well
You might be right, we want them to grow up alive and swell.
So here’s what we do, I said emphatic
We go out for a week that leaves us ecstatic.
I’ll find a jet to fly us to New York City
Maybe Moby could meet us and sing us an electro ditty!
Excited, she jumped into the idea:
a stopover at Chicago pizzeria, then Miami tortilla,
a new Boston IKEA.
The possibilities are grand!
Ticket prices fo charter planes we scanned and planned,
Man, those things ain’t cheap, surprising!
Private jets run big bucks, my income need upsizing!
Do we really need all those stops? She suggested.
No Dear, I said, but you’re worth everything I’ve invested.
Still, she said, the children’s college funds drained
Could leave their futures a little tiny strained.
Dear, I stated with adoration and love.
To our children, you are an angel hovering above.
So we did some more date night fantasy downsizing
Just a little, we’d lose not much, just maybe one percent of the romanticizing.
New York City gets boring after a while,
And Paris, I’ve heard, isn’t that fun or worthwhile.
Let’s hop a bus to a state close by, I suggested!
Think of all the travel time saved, we’d be super well rested!
You’re a genius, she kissed me hard.
You’re more than okay, you big tub of pig lard.
The children giggled as they observed with interest piqued.
When do we leave? they shrieked-squeaked, curiosity tweaked.
You’re not going. I said with final authority.
You’ll stay here, that’s it, one against four but I’m still the majority!
She looked with pity at their tear stained faces dirty and pathetic.
I knew what was coming, my face turned apoplectic.
They’re not coming with us, Dear, our vacation week is us adults only!
She turned, her warm heart annoyingly so; Dear, she murmured, they’d get a little lonely!
So, I said, now, we’re staying in-state, and let me guess, less than a week?
Oh my love, she said, a week minus six days is the minorest tweak!
I ran the math on this statement and it seemed more our speed,
Especially when I took a speed-read of our bank statement deed.
Okay, I agreed, we’ll do a night to remember!
Better than the best Jolly St. Nick 24th of December!
We’ll eat like a dozen tortillas each at a medium-price restaurant,
Or better, at that cheap one over on southeast Belmont.
Let’s do it, she said, I’m so on board.
You’ve done so much, she continued, you leave me totally floored.
Let me make the arrangements, hubby dearest,
When it comes to making reservations, sometimes my head’s the clearest.
Okay, I said grumpily, thinking of Riviera beaches,
And wishing a child or two would get eaten by leeches.
But oh well, I thought, it’ll be a memory to make,
Just me and my wife on a romance date we’ll take.
We’ll hold hands and skip through some puddles
We’ll dance in the rain and warm up with cuddles.
Just the two of us, we’ll eat three trays of appetizers
And get back late, if we gave the children enough tranquilizers...
...tranquilizers? She said, are you insane, honey bunny dearest?!
Your ideas aren’t always the brightest or clearest.
We can’t give them tranquilizers to help them sleep long!
That would be so completely and totally wrong!
Tranquilizers cost so much money, honey!
If we’re ever gonna get to Europe, we can’t be funny with our money, ya ninnynunny!
There’s only solution, she shrugged, to our date night situation:
That’s to take a look at the numbers, a people re-evaluation.
Am I hearing you right? I inquired.
You’re saying the children’s presence is going to be required?
That’s what I’m saying, my Love of This Life,
She said, This Life, I’m yours, next life maybe someone else’s beautiful wife.
I chased her down and tackled her to the couchy.
The children ganged up and jumped us both, making me grouchy.
They shrieked and squealed and piled into the car
For date night; away we drove, not very far.
A family, we sat together, loud and noisy, in the intimate cafe,
Me and my wife, separated by children in disarray;
I leaned around, stretched my arm out and squeezed her thigh surreptitious.
I like you, I said, and she smiled and moved my hand higher, sneaky ambitious.
Date night,
It could end up alright.
Thank goodness it’s only one night.
Anything more would be too much of a fight.
Bedtime now, I’m sleepy Dear, turn off the light?
Smell of fresh brewing brew
Possibilities endless
And the negative doubts friendless.
Hey! I say to her,
I totally had this thought occur:
We’re married quite a few years?
We should celebrate by switching a few gears.
And by gears, how about a date night, I suggest
For a night or two, or six months might be worth it to invest.
I’ve got some ideas supreme, and you know my ideas are worth hearing,
As our middle age we’re going to start nearing.
What you have in mind, Dear?
She says, your ideas I wanna hear.
You thinking an island, lake, south Zimbabwe?
Or a different special place every other day?
I like your thought, I said,
A place with a nice comfortable bed
Then we could backpack along a warm ocean
And close out the day with applying each other with lotion.
For the sunburns? she asked with a smile
Uhh, yes? I said with a smile of guile.
And we could eat exotic vegan foods
Served by super hot shirtless happy dudes!
I’m in, she said, totally sold.
What’s the next step, steal cash or gold?
How we gonna do this thing you mention?
I said trust me, I got this, with all conviction.
I got it all worked out and okay,
Except for the financial bit, that’s for tomorrow or another day,
And the kids, I have an idea, I said.
If we left them here, they might be fine and maybe not dead,
There’s a good chance they’d survive six months on their own
Unless they got sick or broke a big important bone.
But we’ll leave phone numbers somewhere they’ll find
Just in case they get into a superbad bind.
I wonder, she looked at me sadly,
If we oughta downshift this idea, just in case it were to go badly.
Well, I said, they’re your kids as well
You might be right, we want them to grow up alive and swell.
So here’s what we do, I said emphatic
We go out for a week that leaves us ecstatic.
I’ll find a jet to fly us to New York City
Maybe Moby could meet us and sing us an electro ditty!
Excited, she jumped into the idea:
a stopover at Chicago pizzeria, then Miami tortilla,
a new Boston IKEA.
The possibilities are grand!
Ticket prices fo charter planes we scanned and planned,
Man, those things ain’t cheap, surprising!
Private jets run big bucks, my income need upsizing!
Do we really need all those stops? She suggested.
No Dear, I said, but you’re worth everything I’ve invested.
Still, she said, the children’s college funds drained
Could leave their futures a little tiny strained.
Dear, I stated with adoration and love.
To our children, you are an angel hovering above.
So we did some more date night fantasy downsizing
Just a little, we’d lose not much, just maybe one percent of the romanticizing.
New York City gets boring after a while,
And Paris, I’ve heard, isn’t that fun or worthwhile.
Let’s hop a bus to a state close by, I suggested!
Think of all the travel time saved, we’d be super well rested!
You’re a genius, she kissed me hard.
You’re more than okay, you big tub of pig lard.
The children giggled as they observed with interest piqued.
When do we leave? they shrieked-squeaked, curiosity tweaked.
You’re not going. I said with final authority.
You’ll stay here, that’s it, one against four but I’m still the majority!
She looked with pity at their tear stained faces dirty and pathetic.
I knew what was coming, my face turned apoplectic.
They’re not coming with us, Dear, our vacation week is us adults only!
She turned, her warm heart annoyingly so; Dear, she murmured, they’d get a little lonely!
So, I said, now, we’re staying in-state, and let me guess, less than a week?
Oh my love, she said, a week minus six days is the minorest tweak!
I ran the math on this statement and it seemed more our speed,
Especially when I took a speed-read of our bank statement deed.
Okay, I agreed, we’ll do a night to remember!
Better than the best Jolly St. Nick 24th of December!
We’ll eat like a dozen tortillas each at a medium-price restaurant,
Or better, at that cheap one over on southeast Belmont.
Let’s do it, she said, I’m so on board.
You’ve done so much, she continued, you leave me totally floored.
Let me make the arrangements, hubby dearest,
When it comes to making reservations, sometimes my head’s the clearest.
Okay, I said grumpily, thinking of Riviera beaches,
And wishing a child or two would get eaten by leeches.
But oh well, I thought, it’ll be a memory to make,
Just me and my wife on a romance date we’ll take.
We’ll hold hands and skip through some puddles
We’ll dance in the rain and warm up with cuddles.
Just the two of us, we’ll eat three trays of appetizers
And get back late, if we gave the children enough tranquilizers...
...tranquilizers? She said, are you insane, honey bunny dearest?!
Your ideas aren’t always the brightest or clearest.
We can’t give them tranquilizers to help them sleep long!
That would be so completely and totally wrong!
Tranquilizers cost so much money, honey!
If we’re ever gonna get to Europe, we can’t be funny with our money, ya ninnynunny!
There’s only solution, she shrugged, to our date night situation:
That’s to take a look at the numbers, a people re-evaluation.
Am I hearing you right? I inquired.
You’re saying the children’s presence is going to be required?
That’s what I’m saying, my Love of This Life,
She said, This Life, I’m yours, next life maybe someone else’s beautiful wife.
I chased her down and tackled her to the couchy.
The children ganged up and jumped us both, making me grouchy.
They shrieked and squealed and piled into the car
For date night; away we drove, not very far.
A family, we sat together, loud and noisy, in the intimate cafe,
Me and my wife, separated by children in disarray;
I leaned around, stretched my arm out and squeezed her thigh surreptitious.
I like you, I said, and she smiled and moved my hand higher, sneaky ambitious.
Date night,
It could end up alright.
Thank goodness it’s only one night.
Anything more would be too much of a fight.
Bedtime now, I’m sleepy Dear, turn off the light?
7.20.2018
POEM : WHEN I WAS A KID, KID.
When I was a kid,
I did everything right, I did, I did.
Said proper things almost always,
Like ‘you’re welcome, thank you, and another jelly donut, please.’
When I was a kid, I was so good to be around.
A more delightful child could rarely be found.
That’s how I remember those things
Ah, the rush of memories my childhood brings.
I’m an adult now and way bigger than you
Because I obeyed my parents, I grew, and grew, and grew.
Every time they said do this, do that!
I said of course, I’ll do all my chores, a rat a tat tat!
They’d ask me once to do my choring
And if I recall, never once did I call them boring.
See, as a big person now,
I remember things exactly right,
Like how I used to say perfect prayers beside bedside at night.
Did I do everything a child should do just as it should be?
Whose to say? well, since you’re asking me, I’ll set the truth free.
I probably made mistakes,
Like leaving sharp end facing up on garden rakes
- Poor Grandma, sorry!
But really, the way I remember my days as a child
Is how I did it all perfect, and never ever was wild.
Did I ever do anything wrong?
Maybe twice, but didn’t last very long.
See, I’m super big now, and you’re a still a tiny kid.
So when I tell you all these things that I did.
You’re gonna have to trust me that I was super good at being a little child person,
Like you could be now, except I spoke proper grammar one hunnert percent and hardly ever used cursin.
There wasn’t the gramming of insta post racing
Or the chat snap post making of photo book facing.
Social meed wasn’t around when I was a kid
To share with the world all that I did.
So when I tell you all the true things about me,
Trust me and don’t read my teenage about me diary, you see, you can
Believe me that all I say to you now
Is exactly how I did it right, pretty much exactly almost how.
So when you do something wrong kid, when you misbehave,
When you’re a naughty, imperfect whiny kinda grumbling knave,
Trust me when I say I was the opposite,
I wasn’t like that, totally not, not one little iota or bit.
I managed childhood quite well,
And washed my hair good so I wouldn’t horribly smell.
I never peed on the potty seat
And I volunteered to help mom handgrind the wheat.
I said yes mommy, yes daddy dear,
Shall I clear everyone’s plates, it’s no prob, I’m really quite near!
In fact, shall I hand wash the cups and the delicate dishes,
Are there other chores you need done or tasks your heart wishes?
Dad, I can do four or five loads of laundry,
And mom, should I rewire the track lights, I’ll give you a good deal, how about for you...free!
I jumped in to tackle with both feet
My ego in check and initiative discrete.
Merely doing what needed to be dones
Because I was a child, like you now, daughters and sons
I didn’t grumble or mumble or fret or frown,
I knew those would let mom and dad dreadfully down.
I swept and I mopped and I made dinner for many
And accepted no earnings or pay, not a single bent penny.
I was a kid, and I did what had to be done,
Even the things that weren’t very much fun.
When my parents said ‘mow the yard,’
I said ‘OK, and then can I do another chore that’s even more hard?’
If there was a problem I had,
It was being too obedient a lad.
Children, doesn’t that sound like a fun problem to possess?
To be the best kid around and a little more, not less.
Cause being a kid is following orders exact
I think that’s how I remember what I tried to enact.
Please don’t ask my parents about when I was a kid.
Their memories are not always right about what I didn’t or did.
Just trust me when I say,
‘When I was a kid, I did things so perfect in every way.
Every day.’
Remember to not ask my parents about me.
I did everything right, I did, I did.
Said proper things almost always,
Like ‘you’re welcome, thank you, and another jelly donut, please.’
When I was a kid, I was so good to be around.
A more delightful child could rarely be found.
That’s how I remember those things
Ah, the rush of memories my childhood brings.
I’m an adult now and way bigger than you
Because I obeyed my parents, I grew, and grew, and grew.
Every time they said do this, do that!
I said of course, I’ll do all my chores, a rat a tat tat!
They’d ask me once to do my choring
And if I recall, never once did I call them boring.
See, as a big person now,
I remember things exactly right,
Like how I used to say perfect prayers beside bedside at night.
Did I do everything a child should do just as it should be?
Whose to say? well, since you’re asking me, I’ll set the truth free.
I probably made mistakes,
Like leaving sharp end facing up on garden rakes
- Poor Grandma, sorry!
But really, the way I remember my days as a child
Is how I did it all perfect, and never ever was wild.
Did I ever do anything wrong?
Maybe twice, but didn’t last very long.
See, I’m super big now, and you’re a still a tiny kid.
So when I tell you all these things that I did.
You’re gonna have to trust me that I was super good at being a little child person,
Like you could be now, except I spoke proper grammar one hunnert percent and hardly ever used cursin.
There wasn’t the gramming of insta post racing
Or the chat snap post making of photo book facing.
Social meed wasn’t around when I was a kid
To share with the world all that I did.
So when I tell you all the true things about me,
Trust me and don’t read my teenage about me diary, you see, you can
Believe me that all I say to you now
Is exactly how I did it right, pretty much exactly almost how.
So when you do something wrong kid, when you misbehave,
When you’re a naughty, imperfect whiny kinda grumbling knave,
Trust me when I say I was the opposite,
I wasn’t like that, totally not, not one little iota or bit.
I managed childhood quite well,
And washed my hair good so I wouldn’t horribly smell.
I never peed on the potty seat
And I volunteered to help mom handgrind the wheat.
I said yes mommy, yes daddy dear,
Shall I clear everyone’s plates, it’s no prob, I’m really quite near!
In fact, shall I hand wash the cups and the delicate dishes,
Are there other chores you need done or tasks your heart wishes?
Dad, I can do four or five loads of laundry,
And mom, should I rewire the track lights, I’ll give you a good deal, how about for you...free!
I jumped in to tackle with both feet
My ego in check and initiative discrete.
Merely doing what needed to be dones
Because I was a child, like you now, daughters and sons
I didn’t grumble or mumble or fret or frown,
I knew those would let mom and dad dreadfully down.
I swept and I mopped and I made dinner for many
And accepted no earnings or pay, not a single bent penny.
I was a kid, and I did what had to be done,
Even the things that weren’t very much fun.
When my parents said ‘mow the yard,’
I said ‘OK, and then can I do another chore that’s even more hard?’
If there was a problem I had,
It was being too obedient a lad.
Children, doesn’t that sound like a fun problem to possess?
To be the best kid around and a little more, not less.
Cause being a kid is following orders exact
I think that’s how I remember what I tried to enact.
Please don’t ask my parents about when I was a kid.
Their memories are not always right about what I didn’t or did.
Just trust me when I say,
‘When I was a kid, I did things so perfect in every way.
Every day.’
Remember to not ask my parents about me.
6.14.2018
THE DAY IS WRONG.
The mountain is dead
Little exaggeration
But it feels empty.
The roads we have run
Trails we have walked often
It is too quiet.
Upside down today
The day is leaving, like you
Days come around though.
Sun comes tomorrow
That’s good I guess, for the heat
Heart weight big today.
Change is tough, and dumb
But it’s good I hear, painful
And tears are not bad.
Streaked cheeks meant you love
To know how much, good thing,
I can imagine.
Mountain floats away
Isn’t anchored without you
But it will balance.
With a little time
A lot of time, memories
Stories in its earth.
Always missed, you all
You all have a hill, and hearts
With spaces waiting here.
You will find more hills
And mountains and trees; a home
Happy home you’ll have.
We will see you there
Six hours, road trip, coffee stops
Leave a light on late.
May goodness and fun
And fresh experiences
Brighten your new town.
We will text, phone, fax
And come visit, sometime soon
The mountain is sad.
It will be happy
Again, but today is wrong
Mountain’s not right.
The night will roll on
And the day will start again
New lives will begin.
Photos to be shot
Memories to be made lots
New discoveries.
This is sad, but not
It is, but it will dissolve
Into happiness.
But tonight, sad hill
You’re missed, loved, remembered lots
The day is wrong now.
A day askew, tears.
A mountain, real off balance
A moon, pale and sick.
The sun is coming
And winter too, it’s pretty
Thanks for the years, you.
Real good times, lots, yes
Equilibrium we’ll find
A new normal, yep.
Remember the years,
Sometimes remember; thank you
And we love you lots.
Nighty night, Joe peeps
May your slumber be peaceful
And your days real fine.
We’ll anchor things here
So the mountain is ready
When you come again.
The day sunshiney
The hill in place again firm
Always a light on.
So the day is wrong
But you are strong, so are we
Trying hard to be.
Happy we are, most
For your new fun times ahead
Best for you, the best.
The mountain is here
So are we; maybe halfway
We can meet someday?
Until then, say ‘onward!’
Best of all to you, the best
Do well, smile, eat lots.
We’ll see ya real soon
On mountain, or somewhere else
It’ll be real great.
With high affection
We send everything good
To you all, much love.
From our mountain high
To you in Joseph, your home
We love you so much.
Little exaggeration
But it feels empty.
The roads we have run
Trails we have walked often
It is too quiet.
Upside down today
The day is leaving, like you
Days come around though.
Sun comes tomorrow
That’s good I guess, for the heat
Heart weight big today.
Change is tough, and dumb
But it’s good I hear, painful
And tears are not bad.
Streaked cheeks meant you love
To know how much, good thing,
I can imagine.
Mountain floats away
Isn’t anchored without you
But it will balance.
With a little time
A lot of time, memories
Stories in its earth.
Always missed, you all
You all have a hill, and hearts
With spaces waiting here.
You will find more hills
And mountains and trees; a home
Happy home you’ll have.
We will see you there
Six hours, road trip, coffee stops
Leave a light on late.
May goodness and fun
And fresh experiences
Brighten your new town.
We will text, phone, fax
And come visit, sometime soon
The mountain is sad.
It will be happy
Again, but today is wrong
Mountain’s not right.
The night will roll on
And the day will start again
New lives will begin.
Photos to be shot
Memories to be made lots
New discoveries.
This is sad, but not
It is, but it will dissolve
Into happiness.
But tonight, sad hill
You’re missed, loved, remembered lots
The day is wrong now.
A day askew, tears.
A mountain, real off balance
A moon, pale and sick.
The sun is coming
And winter too, it’s pretty
Thanks for the years, you.
Real good times, lots, yes
Equilibrium we’ll find
A new normal, yep.
Remember the years,
Sometimes remember; thank you
And we love you lots.
Nighty night, Joe peeps
May your slumber be peaceful
And your days real fine.
We’ll anchor things here
So the mountain is ready
When you come again.
The day sunshiney
The hill in place again firm
Always a light on.
So the day is wrong
But you are strong, so are we
Trying hard to be.
Happy we are, most
For your new fun times ahead
Best for you, the best.
The mountain is here
So are we; maybe halfway
We can meet someday?
Until then, say ‘onward!’
Best of all to you, the best
Do well, smile, eat lots.
We’ll see ya real soon
On mountain, or somewhere else
It’ll be real great.
With high affection
We send everything good
To you all, much love.
From our mountain high
To you in Joseph, your home
We love you so much.
5.18.2018
POEM : I MET A MEAN MAN TODAY.
He just had a look
A look not good
A look like
mean
scowl
rawness.
I tried to smile
but he wouldn’t have it.
He’s mean, man.
Hey mean man,
I smiled again.
This time I got something back,
good!
But then distraction;
a child ran up, a smelly one,
and I forgot about the mean man
and I said hey whatcha want?
to the kid,
and they wanted something, maybe some food, but I was busy so I said wait til your mom’s around she can help you tomorrow,
and next thing I knew the mean man was watching and he didn’t have a good look,
he had a mean face, like a face that
is haggard and wary.
and not to be mean, but he hadn’t shaved in a while and it was not a good look.
I didn’t know for sure how mean he might be until another kid come up.
My knee’s bleeding and it hurts!
he cried.
Okay, we should amputate it,
the man, the mean man said.
Trying to be funny.
Stupid.
How do you amputate a knee?
He smelled a little funny too,
like not funny flower smelly,
but funny bad breath, sweaty armpit stink smelly.
The kind of smell only mean men have.
I glared at him to show I wasn’t afraid.
You can’t back down with the mean ones. Another kid crawled up.
The mean man snarled at him.
I cringed inside, but matched his expression; ya gotta stay strong.
Apparently this babe wanted a book.
The mean man took away the Eric Van Lustbader and gave him an Eric Carle instead.
Mean.
Let kids figure out what literature they like, right?
This dude, he just stands there looking like he trying to look all cool.
Trying to stand tall, but you know he packing extra pounds, probably from all the extra calories you get from being mean.
I try to give him a break.
Maybe he’s tired.
Maybe he’s having a bad day.
Maybe his kids are really horrible.
But no;
I sneak a glance again and I can totally tell. This dude is mean through and through.
Should I hit him and nicen him up?
I lift my fist a skoche.
He does the same.
I relax, ya gotta deescelate the situation sometimes.
He lowers his too.
I gotta leave.
Hain’t gonna be friends with this uncool cat.
I shake my head and turn my back,
a subtle brush off.
Infuriatingly, he steal my move.
Kids yelling for him. Or me? One of us.
Gonna jet. Apparently he does too.
To be mean man’s kid.
Awful. Poor children.
Gotta put it behind me.
I got my own to worry about.
Come on!
I snarl at the children.
We gotta go! What’s taking you so long?
Not gonna deal with the mean man again. See! He’s already rubbing off on me.
No more mean man.
Not gonna see him no more.
Nope.
Not until we get back,
when I pass by the mirror again.
A look not good
A look like
mean
scowl
rawness.
I tried to smile
but he wouldn’t have it.
He’s mean, man.
Hey mean man,
I smiled again.
This time I got something back,
good!
But then distraction;
a child ran up, a smelly one,
and I forgot about the mean man
and I said hey whatcha want?
to the kid,
and they wanted something, maybe some food, but I was busy so I said wait til your mom’s around she can help you tomorrow,
and next thing I knew the mean man was watching and he didn’t have a good look,
he had a mean face, like a face that
is haggard and wary.
and not to be mean, but he hadn’t shaved in a while and it was not a good look.
I didn’t know for sure how mean he might be until another kid come up.
My knee’s bleeding and it hurts!
he cried.
Okay, we should amputate it,
the man, the mean man said.
Trying to be funny.
Stupid.
How do you amputate a knee?
He smelled a little funny too,
like not funny flower smelly,
but funny bad breath, sweaty armpit stink smelly.
The kind of smell only mean men have.
I glared at him to show I wasn’t afraid.
You can’t back down with the mean ones. Another kid crawled up.
The mean man snarled at him.
I cringed inside, but matched his expression; ya gotta stay strong.
Apparently this babe wanted a book.
The mean man took away the Eric Van Lustbader and gave him an Eric Carle instead.
Mean.
Let kids figure out what literature they like, right?
This dude, he just stands there looking like he trying to look all cool.
Trying to stand tall, but you know he packing extra pounds, probably from all the extra calories you get from being mean.
I try to give him a break.
Maybe he’s tired.
Maybe he’s having a bad day.
Maybe his kids are really horrible.
But no;
I sneak a glance again and I can totally tell. This dude is mean through and through.
Should I hit him and nicen him up?
I lift my fist a skoche.
He does the same.
I relax, ya gotta deescelate the situation sometimes.
He lowers his too.
I gotta leave.
Hain’t gonna be friends with this uncool cat.
I shake my head and turn my back,
a subtle brush off.
Infuriatingly, he steal my move.
Kids yelling for him. Or me? One of us.
Gonna jet. Apparently he does too.
To be mean man’s kid.
Awful. Poor children.
Gotta put it behind me.
I got my own to worry about.
Come on!
I snarl at the children.
We gotta go! What’s taking you so long?
Not gonna deal with the mean man again. See! He’s already rubbing off on me.
No more mean man.
Not gonna see him no more.
Nope.
Not until we get back,
when I pass by the mirror again.
5.14.2018
POEM : REST STOP.
The temp was 86, I reckoned.
Call of sweet ice caffeine to me beckoned.
My cool dude sons, I told
We gonna get some drinks, super duper cold.
This would be time well spent, I knew
Me and my boys make quite the crew.
We’d chill and chat and talk about Leonidas
And tell stories about creatures that could potentially bite us
One was excited to talk of Athens and Sparta too.
One was not and would rather play peekaboo.
where there’s a way there’s a will
And where’s there’s this guy there’s a pill.
Strolled into the conditioner cooled place
Thump thump Ace of Bass smile to my face
Boys, we gonna hang in here a real short while
You be good for pops, please go the extra mile?
The seven nods, the one-year toots
Old guys look up, mustachioed cowboy coots
Little fists my chest for YES
Relief immediate I have to confess,
We gonna chill guys, I firmly say
Boy look up: I obey dad, pretty much almost every day.
So here the plan
Clock go tick tick man
We keep a low profile
Then we leave after a little while
I order my drink while one boy starts math
The other one, I notice, needs a bath
But his help is immense
As he shakes my wallet of dollar and cents
Set him down to the floor,
He make a run for the door
Hey you buddy! I shout!
That whole low key thing, what that about?
He looks around frantically, frenetic concern
That his whereabouts I’ll soon completely discern
I already have, certainly so
Because I am dad, and I told him no go.
His eyes scan the coffeehouse place
And search for a comrade kinda face.
He sees a middle age man
And swiftly devises a plan,
Waddling over to overstuffed chair
He points and he grunts like an underfed bear.
His Morse code bleeps and dot dashes
Are too incomprehensible for the man with mustaches.
I stalk over to both parties of men
He wants outside, I explain, but that’s somewhere he’s already been
Boy puffs and he huffs and he gets super mad,
But I remind him again of who is still dad.
You’re not escaping from here,
I remind him.
Your mind is bright but your memory is dim.
I win, I win again, I win all the time,
And whoever you bribe, will take more than a dime.
He listened real close , well most
except for two teen girls to whom he could boast.
In line they stood for some afternoon treat
A beverage to nullify eighty six heat.
He attracted their attention with focused intention,
His plan was something I’d rather not mention
But involved a loud thunder from down under,
His diaper shaking, almost ripped super asunder.
They giggled and chuckled and smiled at him.
That was all needed to blow kisses to them.
Low profile! I hissed.
The idea was that we’d never be missed.
He laughed and climbed up out of my lap.
Please oh please I breathed; maybe a nap?
Upon the communal table we shared
He laid down his plumb body and head blond haired
Stretching out to full length on back
He gathered lungs for a vocal attack
Attack of the singing boy song
Who might ever think it to be very wrong?
Well, when a profile presence tiny is what you’ve desired
But singsonging diaper poet instead is what has been hired
Then the table dancing song sing diaper man
Is simply not on the list of good plan, no nuh uh man.
I turn to help other son with some numbers
Instead make mistake and brain feeling dead or under deep slumbers.
The escape artist sees a break and makes it happen
Irrepressible spirit no thwarten or dampen.
He runs to a friendly 20ish fellow
Who perhaps seems appropriately mellow.
The year old criminal marches up to this millennial cool dude
With the moxie and grace of a hipster elite attitude
And picks up his juice bottle and keys
With nothing so much as a please
I race over and redact them from dirty fat hand
And scream what did you super not understand?
He cries for a while
But five seconds after with apparentless guile
He smiles and points to the newspaper stand.
Look I say but don’t touch.
If you do, I won’t probably like you more much.
He obeys letter of law and leaves the Wall Street Journal alone
But begins scampering up newspaper RACK to climbing skills hone.
He gets up ten feet or so,
Stops to smile at me far down below
I shake my head and sigh with sadness
I thought we’d relax here, but it’s simply been madness
My drink is melting in sad little plastic
I thought this would be some relaxing fantastic
I reach up high to lift him all the way down
He disagrees with decision and scowls noisy clown frown.
But back at his seat he sits content
With a book that cost a buck ninety-nine cent
There’s animals in it and pictures of cows too
He lets the whole place know that chickens say cock-a-doodle-moo
But he tires of that whole reading scene soon
And begs and screeches for a knife or a spoon
Cause the best soundtrack for relaxation
In this beautiful nation of creation
Is to drum the beat of your heart
With something loud and noisy and do your part
To fill a room with huge massive noise
And remind everyone you’re not of those demure quiet boys
We finally at last do start to depart
I mentally list what to purchase at the grocery mart
As I drag him out under my arms
I remember a picture of sweet orangutan farms
And consider the notion of a donation far across the ocean, but ixnay this mental deliberation as a no-go motion
This child is funny and dirty and a little wild too
And has trouble remembering that monkeys don’t moo.
But I am fond of him most of the times
Even when busy with non-felony crimes.
I juggle a backpack some books, and squirmy big little him
And he grabs the lid of my drink by the broad icy brim
With grubby fingers he yank and yink
Too late instincts react as my heart sank and then sink.
He pulls the straw fully all out
And draws his arm back, five feet or so there is no doubt
He winds it around like a big league thrower
This boy who sprout up faster than a big weed grower
And he snaps the straw like a personal challenge or dare
With a laugh, a toot, and an air of what do I care?
The coffee drops fly in slow motion
Like a tidal wave from the deep ocean
I don’t stop to see where they land
Because customers won’t understand
They’ll growl at me and say why didn’t you raise him cute?
And before I’ll reply, he’ll cackle and smile and make a big toot.
So we’ll fly out of there really fast
Before I’m beat up and wearing a cast,
And I’ll remember so well, fleeing pell mell
This relaxation hour of coffee shop h-e-l-l.
And know that he’ll sleep super good tonight and be well rested
After another full day of dad battle-tested...
...oh no, please tell me he didn’t just drink half my fully-caffeinated coffee...
Call of sweet ice caffeine to me beckoned.
My cool dude sons, I told
We gonna get some drinks, super duper cold.
This would be time well spent, I knew
Me and my boys make quite the crew.
We’d chill and chat and talk about Leonidas
And tell stories about creatures that could potentially bite us
One was excited to talk of Athens and Sparta too.
One was not and would rather play peekaboo.
where there’s a way there’s a will
And where’s there’s this guy there’s a pill.
Strolled into the conditioner cooled place
Thump thump Ace of Bass smile to my face
Boys, we gonna hang in here a real short while
You be good for pops, please go the extra mile?
The seven nods, the one-year toots
Old guys look up, mustachioed cowboy coots
Little fists my chest for YES
Relief immediate I have to confess,
We gonna chill guys, I firmly say
Boy look up: I obey dad, pretty much almost every day.
So here the plan
Clock go tick tick man
We keep a low profile
Then we leave after a little while
I order my drink while one boy starts math
The other one, I notice, needs a bath
But his help is immense
As he shakes my wallet of dollar and cents
Set him down to the floor,
He make a run for the door
Hey you buddy! I shout!
That whole low key thing, what that about?
He looks around frantically, frenetic concern
That his whereabouts I’ll soon completely discern
I already have, certainly so
Because I am dad, and I told him no go.
His eyes scan the coffeehouse place
And search for a comrade kinda face.
He sees a middle age man
And swiftly devises a plan,
Waddling over to overstuffed chair
He points and he grunts like an underfed bear.
His Morse code bleeps and dot dashes
Are too incomprehensible for the man with mustaches.
I stalk over to both parties of men
He wants outside, I explain, but that’s somewhere he’s already been
Boy puffs and he huffs and he gets super mad,
But I remind him again of who is still dad.
You’re not escaping from here,
I remind him.
Your mind is bright but your memory is dim.
I win, I win again, I win all the time,
And whoever you bribe, will take more than a dime.
He listened real close , well most
except for two teen girls to whom he could boast.
In line they stood for some afternoon treat
A beverage to nullify eighty six heat.
He attracted their attention with focused intention,
His plan was something I’d rather not mention
But involved a loud thunder from down under,
His diaper shaking, almost ripped super asunder.
They giggled and chuckled and smiled at him.
That was all needed to blow kisses to them.
Low profile! I hissed.
The idea was that we’d never be missed.
He laughed and climbed up out of my lap.
Please oh please I breathed; maybe a nap?
Upon the communal table we shared
He laid down his plumb body and head blond haired
Stretching out to full length on back
He gathered lungs for a vocal attack
Attack of the singing boy song
Who might ever think it to be very wrong?
Well, when a profile presence tiny is what you’ve desired
But singsonging diaper poet instead is what has been hired
Then the table dancing song sing diaper man
Is simply not on the list of good plan, no nuh uh man.
I turn to help other son with some numbers
Instead make mistake and brain feeling dead or under deep slumbers.
The escape artist sees a break and makes it happen
Irrepressible spirit no thwarten or dampen.
He runs to a friendly 20ish fellow
Who perhaps seems appropriately mellow.
The year old criminal marches up to this millennial cool dude
With the moxie and grace of a hipster elite attitude
And picks up his juice bottle and keys
With nothing so much as a please
I race over and redact them from dirty fat hand
And scream what did you super not understand?
He cries for a while
But five seconds after with apparentless guile
He smiles and points to the newspaper stand.
Look I say but don’t touch.
If you do, I won’t probably like you more much.
He obeys letter of law and leaves the Wall Street Journal alone
But begins scampering up newspaper RACK to climbing skills hone.
He gets up ten feet or so,
Stops to smile at me far down below
I shake my head and sigh with sadness
I thought we’d relax here, but it’s simply been madness
My drink is melting in sad little plastic
I thought this would be some relaxing fantastic
I reach up high to lift him all the way down
He disagrees with decision and scowls noisy clown frown.
But back at his seat he sits content
With a book that cost a buck ninety-nine cent
There’s animals in it and pictures of cows too
He lets the whole place know that chickens say cock-a-doodle-moo
But he tires of that whole reading scene soon
And begs and screeches for a knife or a spoon
Cause the best soundtrack for relaxation
In this beautiful nation of creation
Is to drum the beat of your heart
With something loud and noisy and do your part
To fill a room with huge massive noise
And remind everyone you’re not of those demure quiet boys
We finally at last do start to depart
I mentally list what to purchase at the grocery mart
As I drag him out under my arms
I remember a picture of sweet orangutan farms
And consider the notion of a donation far across the ocean, but ixnay this mental deliberation as a no-go motion
This child is funny and dirty and a little wild too
And has trouble remembering that monkeys don’t moo.
But I am fond of him most of the times
Even when busy with non-felony crimes.
I juggle a backpack some books, and squirmy big little him
And he grabs the lid of my drink by the broad icy brim
With grubby fingers he yank and yink
Too late instincts react as my heart sank and then sink.
He pulls the straw fully all out
And draws his arm back, five feet or so there is no doubt
He winds it around like a big league thrower
This boy who sprout up faster than a big weed grower
And he snaps the straw like a personal challenge or dare
With a laugh, a toot, and an air of what do I care?
The coffee drops fly in slow motion
Like a tidal wave from the deep ocean
I don’t stop to see where they land
Because customers won’t understand
They’ll growl at me and say why didn’t you raise him cute?
And before I’ll reply, he’ll cackle and smile and make a big toot.
So we’ll fly out of there really fast
Before I’m beat up and wearing a cast,
And I’ll remember so well, fleeing pell mell
This relaxation hour of coffee shop h-e-l-l.
And know that he’ll sleep super good tonight and be well rested
After another full day of dad battle-tested...
...oh no, please tell me he didn’t just drink half my fully-caffeinated coffee...
5.07.2018
POEM : SWEET.
To some super ear-sensitive types
They may prefer sandpaper for wipes
Rather than listen to what I will mention
They treat with condescension.
They don’t care for the noise
Pots pans chainsaw noisy toys
the chug chug riff of heavy metal
Heart and stomach to unsettle
Me, with love I’ve loved it
Cause I totally got it and sometimes get it
Some people enjoy rare dimes
or stamps or cars or snorting limes
Metal’s an acquired taste one might call snobby
Others might call tasteful, says my man Virgil James Bobby.
My love of metal began a tale of two bands
Cassette tapes could count on one hands.
Some started with classic, like Zeppelin Led,
or British new wavers big Diamond Head.
I began with two bands, both long haired,
who had looks apparently parents they scared.
I learned about one from a film, Iron Eagle
PG13, watched at 12, wasn’t very legal.
One Vision was the name of the song,
Vocals, guitars, sweet Dio, nothing too wrong
Except the monster-ish imagery on their album covers
It was very too scary for my little sweet brothers.
The other band I’ve haven’t spoken of yet
Wore the sweetest spandex you’ve ever seen I bet.
They sang about the devil and how they revel
In sending him below, no snow, what they call the fire pit level.
Yep, to hell with evil is what they sang a lot
I’d save up my dollars and their albums I bought.
Dio and Stryper were the names they used
I could spend my life singing for them, I so often mused.
They’re way so cool with their operatic voices
And their taste in clothes shows some interesting choices
The guitars were heavy and the drums were thunder
They were cool long before the Office crew at Mifflin Dunder
Until one afternoon at the bookstore of the Bible
I won’t write its name to avoid legal libel
Let’s just say it was a Christian Bookstore in a little tiny town
Owned by a friendly big lady who rarely would frown.
I found a tape on VHS
Rent it for three bucks, or perhaps even less.
Twenty-four hours is what you’d get,
So I raced home quickly to watch every bit.
The movie had a name called Hells Bells
Great name, because it’s a name that grabs you and totally sells.
Sold me, I popped it in the video tape players
And started listening to the rock music naysayers.
See, this vid was about the evils of rock and roll
And how its evilness would kinda suck up your soul.
It did its job totally not well, and listening to it I felt so swell
Because for its message I totally fell,
And with pen and paper and the rewind remote
I took careful notes on the bands I should note.
Def Leppard U2 and Bon Jovi I think were a few of the many
That I went on to spend more than a pretty few penny
So Hells Bells the video helped me out a little too much
And what I mean is it got me in touch
With the super great bands I wanted to know
It helped my musical education super fast grow.
I’d rent it again and again for a night at a time
To learn more how rock and roll was a crime.
My love for Stryper at one point did peak
As many more artists I’d discover and seek.
I moved on to Prince and bohemian Queen,
Sometimes a few tracks by the weird brothers Ween.
At some point Stryper disbanded and were no more
Though they lived forever in MTV lore
But Michael Sweet decided to go it alone
Like Keith Richards if he ever went solo Roll Stone.
Mike started a tour with Jesus Northwest
With DC Talk, Newsboys, and the best of the rest
For twenty-five dollars if I remember it right
My bro, my sis and I left for the night.
We watched all the bands sing and dance and twirl around
The noise was big and the speakers had sound
Finally, the ultimate event I’d waited forever for
At one point in life I could think of nothing to want more
And when I finally saw Mr. Sweet perform,
I was a little let down by his haircut and style so norm
Nothing stands out, but he played some song
He might have played an encore, but not very long.
I guess it was fine and it was a bucket list thing,
Bruce Dickinson scream, another man sing.
I got a picture with him, I clearly can prove
Although there’s lots he could really improve.
It’s done, it’s over, though some hard stuff I love still
But not the Stryper stuff that’s run of the mill.
I’ll take some pre-Black Metallica and loud Deafheaven
As long as it’s cranked to just under eleven.
Down of a System and Soulfly’s cool too
Though not too comforting for the lambs at the zoo.
Farewell to innocence, to Dio, to Stryper and full length spandex
I’ve got something better, my wife whose nickname is Becs.
She’ll occasionally listen to metal with me
And leave after a while to let me be me.
Rock on.
They may prefer sandpaper for wipes
Rather than listen to what I will mention
They treat with condescension.
They don’t care for the noise
Pots pans chainsaw noisy toys
the chug chug riff of heavy metal
Heart and stomach to unsettle
Me, with love I’ve loved it
Cause I totally got it and sometimes get it
Some people enjoy rare dimes
or stamps or cars or snorting limes
Metal’s an acquired taste one might call snobby
Others might call tasteful, says my man Virgil James Bobby.
My love of metal began a tale of two bands
Cassette tapes could count on one hands.
Some started with classic, like Zeppelin Led,
or British new wavers big Diamond Head.
I began with two bands, both long haired,
who had looks apparently parents they scared.
I learned about one from a film, Iron Eagle
PG13, watched at 12, wasn’t very legal.
One Vision was the name of the song,
Vocals, guitars, sweet Dio, nothing too wrong
Except the monster-ish imagery on their album covers
It was very too scary for my little sweet brothers.
The other band I’ve haven’t spoken of yet
Wore the sweetest spandex you’ve ever seen I bet.
They sang about the devil and how they revel
In sending him below, no snow, what they call the fire pit level.
Yep, to hell with evil is what they sang a lot
I’d save up my dollars and their albums I bought.
Dio and Stryper were the names they used
I could spend my life singing for them, I so often mused.
They’re way so cool with their operatic voices
And their taste in clothes shows some interesting choices
The guitars were heavy and the drums were thunder
They were cool long before the Office crew at Mifflin Dunder
Until one afternoon at the bookstore of the Bible
I won’t write its name to avoid legal libel
Let’s just say it was a Christian Bookstore in a little tiny town
Owned by a friendly big lady who rarely would frown.
I found a tape on VHS
Rent it for three bucks, or perhaps even less.
Twenty-four hours is what you’d get,
So I raced home quickly to watch every bit.
The movie had a name called Hells Bells
Great name, because it’s a name that grabs you and totally sells.
Sold me, I popped it in the video tape players
And started listening to the rock music naysayers.
See, this vid was about the evils of rock and roll
And how its evilness would kinda suck up your soul.
It did its job totally not well, and listening to it I felt so swell
Because for its message I totally fell,
And with pen and paper and the rewind remote
I took careful notes on the bands I should note.
Def Leppard U2 and Bon Jovi I think were a few of the many
That I went on to spend more than a pretty few penny
So Hells Bells the video helped me out a little too much
And what I mean is it got me in touch
With the super great bands I wanted to know
It helped my musical education super fast grow.
I’d rent it again and again for a night at a time
To learn more how rock and roll was a crime.
My love for Stryper at one point did peak
As many more artists I’d discover and seek.
I moved on to Prince and bohemian Queen,
Sometimes a few tracks by the weird brothers Ween.
At some point Stryper disbanded and were no more
Though they lived forever in MTV lore
But Michael Sweet decided to go it alone
Like Keith Richards if he ever went solo Roll Stone.
Mike started a tour with Jesus Northwest
With DC Talk, Newsboys, and the best of the rest
For twenty-five dollars if I remember it right
My bro, my sis and I left for the night.
We watched all the bands sing and dance and twirl around
The noise was big and the speakers had sound
Finally, the ultimate event I’d waited forever for
At one point in life I could think of nothing to want more
And when I finally saw Mr. Sweet perform,
I was a little let down by his haircut and style so norm
Nothing stands out, but he played some song
He might have played an encore, but not very long.
I guess it was fine and it was a bucket list thing,
Bruce Dickinson scream, another man sing.
I got a picture with him, I clearly can prove
Although there’s lots he could really improve.
It’s done, it’s over, though some hard stuff I love still
But not the Stryper stuff that’s run of the mill.
I’ll take some pre-Black Metallica and loud Deafheaven
As long as it’s cranked to just under eleven.
Down of a System and Soulfly’s cool too
Though not too comforting for the lambs at the zoo.
Farewell to innocence, to Dio, to Stryper and full length spandex
I’ve got something better, my wife whose nickname is Becs.
She’ll occasionally listen to metal with me
And leave after a while to let me be me.
Rock on.
5.05.2018
POEM : HOMO FOMO.
Humans; the Latin is homo
Humanity; a feeling we share is the one called FOMO
Fear of missing out
Feeling we all know about
The dreadful lurking horror
That life may have something morer;
An event we’ll forget about
Until Instagrammed later from friends who gotta post I tout, no doubt;
How it was so awesomeous lit
And none should have missed it, not one moment original minute or bit.
But you did, you missed the big thing
And everyone knows it, ya big ding a-long ding.
My little bro Jonny, big muscled blonde and best aerial shooter maybe
Was once a wee chunk of a big-headed baby
Who could totter and teeter and crawl and climb,
but he couldn’t walk, despite a mile-long smile sublime.
The older he got,
the more people thought,
“Will the boy ever walk?”
Mom, dad quieted this talk
informed the teachers and helpers and weigher-in inners
That he would stand tall and move
When he felt he was ready to groove.
He creeped and he crawled and he blubbered along,
his roll-poly body and gargantuan voice singing a song.
On four limbs he moved hominid style
Moving along though it took him a while
Was he developing correctly and quickly?
Probably not, I thought, my poor brother sickly.
He moves like a tired and crippled old horse
A horse with no legs or limbs, of course.
But someday, I knew and believed
He would stand up and commit to performing the deed;
The deed to propel him to succeed, to lead,
One foot and then the other in front of another.
And when that finally occurred
The memories of when he didn’t would be blurred;
None would care or bring to mind
The lateness with which he walked like the rest of childkind.
Did he miss out on those early years of tottering on twos?
Did it cause his future to have much to lose?
The things that we miss are a reality reel
And a reminder to simply enjoy the real that is the real deal;
To not dwell on what was wasn’t or where we weren’t,
But to be grateful for what we did actually experience and learnt.
There will always be lessons we learn very soon or too very late,
and sometimes it feels like ugly claws of fate, which we all often hate.
But we learn what we learn and we keep moving in a direction ,
Even if the direction seems wrong because of a poor people’s choice election.
We can’t be everywhere for everyone for everything and stamp every visa,
And we’ll likely never meet every girl with the middle name Lisa.
There’s stuff we’ll miss out on and that’s okay,
So better to try and simply enjoy every day.
Humanity; a feeling we share is the one called FOMO
Fear of missing out
Feeling we all know about
The dreadful lurking horror
That life may have something morer;
An event we’ll forget about
Until Instagrammed later from friends who gotta post I tout, no doubt;
How it was so awesomeous lit
And none should have missed it, not one moment original minute or bit.
But you did, you missed the big thing
And everyone knows it, ya big ding a-long ding.
My little bro Jonny, big muscled blonde and best aerial shooter maybe
Was once a wee chunk of a big-headed baby
Who could totter and teeter and crawl and climb,
but he couldn’t walk, despite a mile-long smile sublime.
The older he got,
the more people thought,
“Will the boy ever walk?”
Mom, dad quieted this talk
informed the teachers and helpers and weigher-in inners
That he would stand tall and move
When he felt he was ready to groove.
He creeped and he crawled and he blubbered along,
his roll-poly body and gargantuan voice singing a song.
On four limbs he moved hominid style
Moving along though it took him a while
Was he developing correctly and quickly?
Probably not, I thought, my poor brother sickly.
He moves like a tired and crippled old horse
A horse with no legs or limbs, of course.
But someday, I knew and believed
He would stand up and commit to performing the deed;
The deed to propel him to succeed, to lead,
One foot and then the other in front of another.
And when that finally occurred
The memories of when he didn’t would be blurred;
None would care or bring to mind
The lateness with which he walked like the rest of childkind.
Did he miss out on those early years of tottering on twos?
Did it cause his future to have much to lose?
The things that we miss are a reality reel
And a reminder to simply enjoy the real that is the real deal;
To not dwell on what was wasn’t or where we weren’t,
But to be grateful for what we did actually experience and learnt.
There will always be lessons we learn very soon or too very late,
and sometimes it feels like ugly claws of fate, which we all often hate.
But we learn what we learn and we keep moving in a direction ,
Even if the direction seems wrong because of a poor people’s choice election.
We can’t be everywhere for everyone for everything and stamp every visa,
And we’ll likely never meet every girl with the middle name Lisa.
There’s stuff we’ll miss out on and that’s okay,
So better to try and simply enjoy every day.
5.04.2018
POEM : BOX ISN'T DEAD YET, MAN.
To knock the box is common
Prolific form; the geometric norm of college dorm
Seasoned chicken ramen;
The opposite of sarcophagus holding Tutankhamun
When biz consultants diss,
They look at box and say what is this;
Think OUTSIDE it, Mr or Ms or Miss,
Stupid thing with their outside the box think
Is the idea that an interior box thought make an idea sink;
Make you sound smart to say ‘think outside the box,’ man
When what you should do is think outside, period; now that’s a smartman plan.
The rap, the bad kind boxes get,
The bit about sleeping in it
People throw fit, I don’t get,
Thousand buck for sleep mattress foam
Some fellas roam and make house for their dome with the box brown of a dozen recyclables for DIY home
Can they sleep deeper and avoid night terrors Sandman and Reaper?
Mattress versus Box, truly a Bat v. Superman deal
The mental equivalent question of a super delish homey cooked meal.
Who’s better and what’s best, the best place lest your undeads heads needs a rest?
Arrest you they might if your box is set wrong;
In front of a fire station, for example, they’d call you a ding dong.
But who is the bigger dong ding for money poor spent,
On a million dollar mattress, that’s where your retirement went.
Could you be happy with some bags or a box,
Or could you ever think it might rocks to think INSIDE the box?
When all flock to think outside,
Perhaps that’s the time to abide a Lou Reed ride on the inside side that’s so far inside you’ll have a cozy place to hide,
And to think, man, cause when mainstream is outside then outside’s the new inside and upside is the new down;
But don’t run from convention,
Just try a little internal infernal mental rearranging convention;
A promise to self; a mirrored look
That says whatever sleep nook or choices you took,
The deliciousness you cook or readings from book...
Let them be yours and thine own alone as you decide in your own personal brainial crainial throne.
Like what you like and choose what you will
It’s the joy of deciding yourself that will give you the thrill.
So when all are bashing the simple box,
Remember, that sometimes the inside of the box is simply what rocks.
Prolific form; the geometric norm of college dorm
Seasoned chicken ramen;
The opposite of sarcophagus holding Tutankhamun
When biz consultants diss,
They look at box and say what is this;
Think OUTSIDE it, Mr or Ms or Miss,
Stupid thing with their outside the box think
Is the idea that an interior box thought make an idea sink;
Make you sound smart to say ‘think outside the box,’ man
When what you should do is think outside, period; now that’s a smartman plan.
The rap, the bad kind boxes get,
The bit about sleeping in it
People throw fit, I don’t get,
Thousand buck for sleep mattress foam
Some fellas roam and make house for their dome with the box brown of a dozen recyclables for DIY home
Can they sleep deeper and avoid night terrors Sandman and Reaper?
Mattress versus Box, truly a Bat v. Superman deal
The mental equivalent question of a super delish homey cooked meal.
Who’s better and what’s best, the best place lest your undeads heads needs a rest?
Arrest you they might if your box is set wrong;
In front of a fire station, for example, they’d call you a ding dong.
But who is the bigger dong ding for money poor spent,
On a million dollar mattress, that’s where your retirement went.
Could you be happy with some bags or a box,
Or could you ever think it might rocks to think INSIDE the box?
When all flock to think outside,
Perhaps that’s the time to abide a Lou Reed ride on the inside side that’s so far inside you’ll have a cozy place to hide,
And to think, man, cause when mainstream is outside then outside’s the new inside and upside is the new down;
But don’t run from convention,
Just try a little internal infernal mental rearranging convention;
A promise to self; a mirrored look
That says whatever sleep nook or choices you took,
The deliciousness you cook or readings from book...
Let them be yours and thine own alone as you decide in your own personal brainial crainial throne.
Like what you like and choose what you will
It’s the joy of deciding yourself that will give you the thrill.
So when all are bashing the simple box,
Remember, that sometimes the inside of the box is simply what rocks.
5.03.2018
POEM : ANNA WINTOUR.
Green and red
go together, I said.
She looked and shook her head:
“No way, it’s May, Christmas is five months past dead.”
How about purple and pink? I said with apparent success.
Head shake no; “that is an earthquake of massive color mayhem messness.”
Should I roll my jeans up, or maybe my sleeves, I asked.
Was one of many stylistic queries to her I tasked.
Am I my brother’s keeper?
a question of which few are deeper.
It wonders of the responsibility we bear to those we adore
And how to help when their fashion sense is less not more.
To her the question was posed
A question straight on the nose:
Is your brother a fashion wreck?
No, she said firmly; not with me on deck.
She looked after my style,
For time, and times, and half a time, and then a little more while
All my life, from childhood little to childhood big,
She gave suggestions for style that people would dig.
Or maybe not dig, but at least not laugh at her brother,
It made another, her mother, the mom of my brother,
Happy to see; not happy to see her son fashionable,
But joyful to see her daughter’s positive actionable
To look out for each other is a parent’s dream
To watch your kids kind and get siblings’ backs
To know they’re in good hands with each other
In big things and little things too,
The important little things that preserve dignity
Building opposite of bickering enmity.
To help a brother out the door
With colour combos that don’t make an eye sore,
It was an ongoing battle
And again and again, she leapt to the saddle
“I’ll guide my bro,” she said.
“My big one, with colorblind eyes in his head.”
Thanks sis for the help in the pasted.
Some of your tips and suggestions might even have lasted.
You could have laughed with many others.
But you didn’t, and helped me keep some druthers.
Green and red, purple is tough
So many colours, pretty but rough.
Rough for some of us with the condition,
A little one no more I’m scared to mention,
That makes colors tough to see,
At least certain ones, for people like me.
So if you’re like me and some colours aren’t there to your eyes
And people inform you they are there, and make you surprise,
Then I hope you have a sister like mine,
Who can help bring out your own unique style divine.
go together, I said.
She looked and shook her head:
“No way, it’s May, Christmas is five months past dead.”
How about purple and pink? I said with apparent success.
Head shake no; “that is an earthquake of massive color mayhem messness.”
Should I roll my jeans up, or maybe my sleeves, I asked.
Was one of many stylistic queries to her I tasked.
Am I my brother’s keeper?
a question of which few are deeper.
It wonders of the responsibility we bear to those we adore
And how to help when their fashion sense is less not more.
To her the question was posed
A question straight on the nose:
Is your brother a fashion wreck?
No, she said firmly; not with me on deck.
She looked after my style,
For time, and times, and half a time, and then a little more while
All my life, from childhood little to childhood big,
She gave suggestions for style that people would dig.
Or maybe not dig, but at least not laugh at her brother,
It made another, her mother, the mom of my brother,
Happy to see; not happy to see her son fashionable,
But joyful to see her daughter’s positive actionable
To look out for each other is a parent’s dream
To watch your kids kind and get siblings’ backs
To know they’re in good hands with each other
In big things and little things too,
The important little things that preserve dignity
Building opposite of bickering enmity.
To help a brother out the door
With colour combos that don’t make an eye sore,
It was an ongoing battle
And again and again, she leapt to the saddle
“I’ll guide my bro,” she said.
“My big one, with colorblind eyes in his head.”
Thanks sis for the help in the pasted.
Some of your tips and suggestions might even have lasted.
You could have laughed with many others.
But you didn’t, and helped me keep some druthers.
Green and red, purple is tough
So many colours, pretty but rough.
Rough for some of us with the condition,
A little one no more I’m scared to mention,
That makes colors tough to see,
At least certain ones, for people like me.
So if you’re like me and some colours aren’t there to your eyes
And people inform you they are there, and make you surprise,
Then I hope you have a sister like mine,
Who can help bring out your own unique style divine.
5.02.2018
POEM : WEEKEND.
It is morning, an early dawn, a week ahead.
Time to get up,
we gently shake the sleeping creatures.
We leave in sixty.
Two grunts, a groan, some other sounds.
A roll over, blanket pulled high.
Time to get up,
we firmly nudge the slumbering beasts.
We leave in fifty.
A grunt, two groans, some smelly sounds.
The blanket wrapped like mummy arounds.
Time to get up,
we kick the creature beasts, avoiding head.
We leave in forty.
A moan, a sigh, a cry so deep.
A stretch, a vicious stare:
You awake me? Oh, how do you dare?
Stumble through toast and water,
Fall into socks and maybe clean undies too.
We leave five minutes ago, we yell!
Murderous glance we give, with love of course, these kids we’d never sell.
So out the door we races
A weekday conquered, see our victorious faces.
If lucky, we have most children
And some food to eat.
A diaper or two, and of course seventy-two books and some sketch pads.
It is morning, an early dawn.
We roll over sleepily and look at one another with love.
Time to not get up,
we grin.
It’s the weekend, we need not be up til who knows when.
Our eyes close with delight
and savor the delicious slumber of light sleep-in sleep.
All is content,
Where did the stress and worry went?
A time to slow down and relaxes
Not deal with stuff like schedules, finances, and taxes.
TIME TO GET UP!
The beasts viciously assault our sleeping bodies.
WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY?!
Time to get up,
we gently shake the sleeping creatures.
We leave in sixty.
Two grunts, a groan, some other sounds.
A roll over, blanket pulled high.
Time to get up,
we firmly nudge the slumbering beasts.
We leave in fifty.
A grunt, two groans, some smelly sounds.
The blanket wrapped like mummy arounds.
Time to get up,
we kick the creature beasts, avoiding head.
We leave in forty.
A moan, a sigh, a cry so deep.
A stretch, a vicious stare:
You awake me? Oh, how do you dare?
Stumble through toast and water,
Fall into socks and maybe clean undies too.
We leave five minutes ago, we yell!
Murderous glance we give, with love of course, these kids we’d never sell.
So out the door we races
A weekday conquered, see our victorious faces.
If lucky, we have most children
And some food to eat.
A diaper or two, and of course seventy-two books and some sketch pads.
It is morning, an early dawn.
We roll over sleepily and look at one another with love.
Time to not get up,
we grin.
It’s the weekend, we need not be up til who knows when.
Our eyes close with delight
and savor the delicious slumber of light sleep-in sleep.
All is content,
Where did the stress and worry went?
A time to slow down and relaxes
Not deal with stuff like schedules, finances, and taxes.
TIME TO GET UP!
The beasts viciously assault our sleeping bodies.
WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY?!
4.24.2018
POEM : THE WIPERS ARE BROKEN.
Free yourself from intimidation,
The wise said with elucidation
‘Imagine that important person naked,
who has eaten a pastry that was baked.’
It is a leveler, a democratizer, an image of equality
That works magnificently, yet it seems to me,
to go one step more
And bring us to a similar level of floor,
We might also remember
That all, born in January through December,
Once wore diapers
And needed assistance from wipers
Or else they went naked and bare butted
Their dignity intact and ungutted.
But as the philosophy book reads
That begs and asks and pleads
To remember that everyone poops
Digesting what was ingested, from breads to broccolis to soups
For every leader on high
Still lowers their fanny with sigh
And a grunt and a cough and a push and a toot
Whether delicate angel or big hairy brute.
They do what they must,
With no grumble or fusst.
A normal part of being
Like walking or breathing or seeing.
So if someone seems important and mean
Imagine them eating a bowlful of bean
And sitting later on their important throne
With a gasp, a sigh, and a moan
That is horrible to imagine, but sometimes you must
To remember that all are equal, and all turn to dust
We all once had diapers or something thereof
We were all once wiped and taken careof.
So be nice and stand proud,
Don’t be intimidated by those who are loud,
And remember that those who act like a grump
Still are human and make silly noises from their rump.
The wise said with elucidation
‘Imagine that important person naked,
who has eaten a pastry that was baked.’
It is a leveler, a democratizer, an image of equality
That works magnificently, yet it seems to me,
to go one step more
And bring us to a similar level of floor,
We might also remember
That all, born in January through December,
Once wore diapers
And needed assistance from wipers
Or else they went naked and bare butted
Their dignity intact and ungutted.
But as the philosophy book reads
That begs and asks and pleads
To remember that everyone poops
Digesting what was ingested, from breads to broccolis to soups
For every leader on high
Still lowers their fanny with sigh
And a grunt and a cough and a push and a toot
Whether delicate angel or big hairy brute.
They do what they must,
With no grumble or fusst.
A normal part of being
Like walking or breathing or seeing.
So if someone seems important and mean
Imagine them eating a bowlful of bean
And sitting later on their important throne
With a gasp, a sigh, and a moan
That is horrible to imagine, but sometimes you must
To remember that all are equal, and all turn to dust
We all once had diapers or something thereof
We were all once wiped and taken careof.
So be nice and stand proud,
Don’t be intimidated by those who are loud,
And remember that those who act like a grump
Still are human and make silly noises from their rump.
2.12.2018
BOY IN CHAIR.
Cross-legged blond
lounged in coffee chair comfort
scribbling with a finger on tablet.
sunlight drafting through windows
a February afternoon
three groups of solitaries.
Blond boy, leg-crossed artist;
a blonde woman on business;
an Irish Viking, long descendant
of Porthos; iced coffee and
punk stickers on laptop,
buried in something digital.
a cross-legged boy blond,
drawing oblivious,
a one-two punch of soul and Lilith
Fair soundtracking.
a fair-headed boy squirming
an athletic ballet of gestural
art-making and focused
purpose.
"I made a mistake!"
he says, tears welling.
"I used purple instead of blue!"
It's digital,
I say.
Press Undo.
lounged in coffee chair comfort
scribbling with a finger on tablet.
sunlight drafting through windows
a February afternoon
three groups of solitaries.
Blond boy, leg-crossed artist;
a blonde woman on business;
an Irish Viking, long descendant
of Porthos; iced coffee and
punk stickers on laptop,
buried in something digital.
a cross-legged boy blond,
drawing oblivious,
a one-two punch of soul and Lilith
Fair soundtracking.
a fair-headed boy squirming
an athletic ballet of gestural
art-making and focused
purpose.
"I made a mistake!"
he says, tears welling.
"I used purple instead of blue!"
It's digital,
I say.
Press Undo.
10.27.2017
I AM I AM I AM A GERTRUDE STEIN.
oh summer is dead.
now is the bleak grey night, plus
hot cocoa with straws.
___
a time to focus.
a time to be aimless.
that is the dance.
5.18.2017
DAYS OF RAIN.
days of sun and rain
days of dark and pain
always mountains to climb
never knowing heights others have to scale
every adult I see facing enormous challenges,
I imagine them as children once.
children who should have possibilities and adventures
and tools and support for the tough ascents
my heart is ever sad for those with seemingly unscalable mountains,
and I want to race back in a time machine and figure out what will help them get through
and over
and around the tough ranges.
one thing I know; I know with so much certainty, is that I don't
imagine myself ever having regrets over
listening to too much music,
or
being kind one too many times to one too many persons.
I think it's tough to go overboard with those things.
____
Chris Cornell 1964-2017
days of dark and pain
always mountains to climb
never knowing heights others have to scale
every adult I see facing enormous challenges,
I imagine them as children once.
children who should have possibilities and adventures
and tools and support for the tough ascents
my heart is ever sad for those with seemingly unscalable mountains,
and I want to race back in a time machine and figure out what will help them get through
and over
and around the tough ranges.
one thing I know; I know with so much certainty, is that I don't
imagine myself ever having regrets over
listening to too much music,
or
being kind one too many times to one too many persons.
I think it's tough to go overboard with those things.
____
Chris Cornell 1964-2017
7.20.2016
POEM : "BOULEVARD"
So I've been working on this poem I really super want to share with you. It's inspired by a lot of experiences and people, but it's totally mine. This is just the ending. Let me know what y'all think! Here's the last bit as a teaser. Of my poem that I did write myself:
____
What do you think? Again, I wrote it myself. It's about, like different options and stuff, I think.
Please feel free to pass along your honest-ish opinions about my original work that I'm very proud of, as long as it's positive and doesn't point out any non-existent flaws (they're not there), and then share share everywhere!
____
Somewhere ages and ages ago:Two boulevards diverged in a forest, and I-I drove the one less traveled by,And that has made a lot of difference.
____What do you think? Again, I wrote it myself. It's about, like different options and stuff, I think.
Please feel free to pass along your honest-ish opinions about my original work that I'm very proud of, as long as it's positive and doesn't point out any non-existent flaws (they're not there), and then share share everywhere!
2.08.2015
PERIPHERAL VISION(ARIES)
Echoes of fusses and grumbles
cries of wishes and mumbles
Wallets too flat
arms glucose and fat,
green-eyed monster step-aunt gnat.
Pearls not found,
success not renowned.
Satisfaction not bound
to the people around
who have too much frowned
Oh, look!
a playground!
cries of wishes and mumbles
Wallets too flat
arms glucose and fat,
green-eyed monster step-aunt gnat.
Pearls not found,
success not renowned.
Satisfaction not bound
to the people around
who have too much frowned
Oh, look!
a playground!
1.26.2015
THE MOST UNMETERED AND BRAZENLY POOR RHYMING IN THE HISTORY OF EVER AND FOREVER.
Of course they should learn mathematics and placeholders and zeroes,
but also the heroine's journey, three-act structure, and a bit about superheroes.
Of course they need to learn about Lincoln, Anthony and Margaret Meade,
but also to write like Silverstein, rhyme like Seuss, and plant like Appleseed.
Of course they oughta nail those ABCs,
but more important, get lotsa dirt on their knees.
Of course they'll learn about Newton, Curie, Galileo,
but also how to get along, be kind, and politely say No.
Of course they'll learn about cells and photosynthesis and motion,
but also to throw a ball, take a fall, and study the ocean.
Of course they'll learn the theory of 12-note scales and harmonics and a sense of rhythm more than their dad,
but also the genius of Bird, to be light on the feet, and how to sing louder than dad.
Of course they'll learn to take tests and sit straight and know the Great Lakes,
but also to mix smoothies and slurp shakes and perfect the making of corn pancakes.
Of course they'll figure out how the Romans ripped off the Greeks, and note the idiocy of so many wars, and memorize the Ages of Silicon, Iron, Bronze, and Stones,
but also absorb the importance of building on what has come before and making it better, constantly asking questions, and embracing why Beatles trump Stones.
Of course they'll learn the skeletal system and healthy diet and looking after themself,
but also to run fast, hike hard, and intelligently discuss Elf.
Of course they really should get those sentence diagrams down,
and the names of all the African countries, and the phylums of every South American lifeform, and remember that two plus two usually equals four...
...but also to maybe question whether there is a conceivable universe or exception where two + two equals...more than four. Four plus more.
Maybe every day, every single day,
should have lots and lots...
...of play.
Play hard, universe.
If you're really big,
or really little,
or in between,
And listen to some good tunes while you're at it.
À bientôt.
6.28.2013
THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE (MINUTE OF RIGHT NOW : A RHYME FOR MY SON ON HIS THIRD BIRTHDAY).
-Edit-2.jpg)
Today, my son is three.
Soon I will be
a hundred and free.
I said here's what you gotta know:
You always try,
and it's alright to cry.
Looks grow old,
books keep you warm in the cold.
Leopards can change their spots and bears go moo,
check for toilet paper when you enter a loo to go poo.
Be a skeptic, not a cynic,
if you can't think of a word, make one up…like "Ninik."
Climb the stairs in tall towers,
in the sad times, find beautiful flowers.
You're human and the moment is now,
so rejoice that yer not fattened-up Tillamook cow.
Fight for what's right
and be a kind, jolly knight.
Laugh really hard
and avoid pork and lard
and you might live long
with heart in your song.
Dress up, and be a kid,
no matter the age,
you'll be glad you did.
Remember we love you like the fine human you are,
you're a unique little fella, you've set a high bar.
There can be only one.* Of you.
So always be that.
You.
Joseph Ivan Long
(a.k.a. your Dad, a.k.a. Highlander McLong).
*strangely, I am not in favor of human cloning
____
I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them.
- Mr. P. Picasso
(I find him a kindred spirit, because my optometrist would likely concur that I am better at thinking than seeing).
.jpg)
.jpg)
Mercury Rev
A Drop in Time
Joseph Ivan Long
(a.k.a. your Dad, a.k.a. Highlander McLong).
*strangely, I am not in favor of human cloning
____
I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them.
- Mr. P. Picasso
(I find him a kindred spirit, because my optometrist would likely concur that I am better at thinking than seeing).
.jpg)
Two birds in the distance flyThey land and they settle down,SomewhereA year is just a drop in time
.jpg)
Mercury Rev
A Drop in Time
All Is Dream
2003
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)