Original Poems

languor

 the morning was, and she believed;
 the autumn, shy and reticent
 came timidly to call her name.
 
 the angels fell like leaves in droves
 and she a purple memory lived
 within a house, a home, a dream.

 the languor that comes easily
 can bring us rest, if we but see --
 the morning came, and she believed.
 the sun was 
 a better boyfriend:
 touching her
 the way she liked, and
 at happier times
Original Poems

nano seconds

 we write to show, or to express,
 and we're all different (I guess)
 in how it feels to feel desire
 or when we might see blue in fire. 

 and while I struggle here with rhyme,
 there's others deep in story time;
 or gazing on a lone wind chime
 as it provides its music --

 with precious anniversaries,
 or working through PTSD;
 or even drawing from a well
 of weekend stories we might tell --

 it's been a month for glories, no?
 with perfect evenings, all aglow,
 and for us types who need a fix
 there's even been some good chex mix

 for we, the discombobulated,
 sunsets that we've celebrated;
 breathing in a dawning day,
 or wordlessly pass time away.
 it's hard when you're a pepper
and sometimes you just feel
that we're all on a diet
but you must serve a meal.

for every "new beginning"
comes to us at a cost,
and without mice and wooden spoons,
i know that i'd

be lost
 covid's hit us pretty hard,
 we have to cope in different ways:
 like fixing things as best we can,
 or organizing moving days,

 or bathing in the frosty calm,
 or pausing to do some qi gong,
 or working puzzles about books,
 or paddling through lakes, or brooks

 or watching rom-coms on the way,
 or living through election day:
 we each survive as best we can
 (especially with cats to hand!)
 it's interesting what people do,
 i find it stimulative;
 for using what we have at hand
 enables the creative

 and when the spark is found
 it is a wonder to behold:
 but when the mishaps reappear
 it can get kind of old.
 some write from a lifelong effort to
 address a wrong they see;
 while others find a special space
 in nights with no tv --

 we hope our kids remember
 all the things that we did for them:
 for we make memories, and it
 is better to

 adore them
 so hey, i'm not letting the butter thing go.
 i read and loved this, so you know;
 and Ra, it's not just this month you host:
 it is that i now know the hidden work most.
 so one last look at where we've been:
 at crowded pages, full of vim,
 for golden kisses, warm and right,
 and frozen moonlight walks, last night.

 of prime directives, thoughtfully;
 of melted minds, within the sea
 of things that change our lives, when we
 count backwards from eternity.

 the ashes of dead stars we are.
 and humor can take us as far
 as we can go, when finding faults
 can keep us locked within our vaults
 
 but in the end, it's just for fun:
 i'm sure that i've left out someone
 who wasn't on the master page
 so don't resent me, please, or rage

 if you have read all of this way
 and do not see your blog today.
 i did the best i could, you see
 with all this time insomnia

 gives me

Original Poems

Sonnet Boom

 across the pages, towering and slow,
 the words and phrases, measured and precise;
 the aching, felt first centuries ago,
 contained within a uniform device

 that tells what beats and syllables to use.
 although some variations are allowed,
 some things to add, a few that you can lose,
 pentameter, both lyrical and proud,

 contains within its limits, all the joys
 that human kind can feel, as well as fears
 that join into our hearts' increasing noise,
 this golden mix of love and hope and tears.

   these voices, who could not imagine us,
   that we don't understand, but still, discuss.
 while little we predict may yet come true,
 we confidently state that this or that
 is bound to happen, plain as blue is blue,
 and rarely see we're wearing the tin hat

 that indicates we may be way off base.
 but reinforcement comes: the internet
 is good for that. whatever be your case
 there's someone who agrees, and who'll abet.

 so being wrong's a cottage industry:
 a chance to bark, to posture, and to fight;
 we join into this ill community
 and rather would "be right" than "get it right".

   but all of it's unreal, except the mess
   that comes from words carved out of emptiness

Original Poems

drivel me this…

 we're so unlike,
 we could be twins,
 which does not even
 make much sins,
 but that's just how
 we roll 'round here:
 shoot from the hip,
 then pop

 a beer
 let us look deeply
 into our own blindness,
 examining deeply
 everything we can't see;
 for the sources of our
 problems are many, but
 we remain convinced,
 none of them

 are us
 people who know me, know
 that i'm a crashing bore;
 i prate on endlessly --
 i'm not quite sure what for --

 i cure insomnia, i think,
 with sentences prolific:
 and i know some can soothe with words,
 but mine are

 soporific
 they all called him a monster,
 for having scales and spikes;
 then went back to their safety zones
 of pages, views, and likes

 but he was not a monster --
 he was in fact, refined --
 but words can be most harmful
 when they are least

 defined
Original Poems

susurration

 whisper where the wind blows west,
 murmur as your mind-paths meld
 into yellow yesterdays
 by the vanishing beheld --

 leaves are rustling, and soft
 grows a feeling, undefined:
 susurration, sounds that say,
 you need not leave everything

 behind

 He hears the 
 Words she whispered once
 
 She meant them
 And really loved him

 That one lost autumn

Original Poems

Algorithm & Blues

 Defining yourself
 By what you cannot do
 Is arbitrary in the extreme
 Since the number of such things
 Is infinite.

 In truth, we are
 The sum of all the things
 We do, or have done.

 Worrying about limitations
 Is like worrying about
 Not winning at the Olympics
 When you aren’t even entered.
 The best days we ever have
 Aren’t about how we feel,
 But how others feel, around us.
 If I was an Instagram model,
 And knew daily that
 Thirteen million people
 Saw pictures of my butt and thought,
 “Hey... I like that”
 I’m not quite sure what
 I’d think about anything else.
 Or that I ever would.
 Social media algorithms
 Think I care about odd things.
 Facebook thinks I want to see
 Cheesy morality tale videos.
 I do, but...
 How did they know?
 When I was a kid,
 I used to hear,
 “Never criticize someone
  Until you have walked a mile
  In their moccasins.”

 This was part of
 The popular wisdom of the time,
 Where empathy involved
 The appropriation of slippers.
 
 And culture, apparently.