Blog Archives

Fair Sky Warning

The sun set on down
And the sky went black
My heart broke in two
I’ll never get you back
The sun soared up
And the sky shined blue
I’ll remember those times
Giggling alone with you
A new noon jumped in
The temps broke so hot
Will 67 find a new love?
One never knows, like as not
The storms roared over the horizon
With a new day dawn undaunted
Who wants to dance with me—
Our spins, dips, and reels most flaunted
Pages of my blank open book flip and turn
Write your name down, maybe this time I’ll learn

Fog and Fireflies

The fog rolled in
And left me insufficiently clear
The reason for the day
Was made overwhelmingly dear
13 crashed the truck
9 angels departed Midland
The Vladomyrrs remain stuck
With Ares flames fully fanned
Then the sun rearose
Warming our sad refrain
Hope akindles slowly
For our brothers in Ukraine
The fog rolled out
And we’re left with tears anyway
We wish you brighter hopes
On this too-dark St Patrick’s Day
Wait for the fireflies to wing you evensong cheer
Pray that soon all brothers can live in the clear

Along rue de Whimsy

Is it true bubbles make things better,
Like a sunny day doesn’t hurt;
Like a lithesome newly met lady
With a surprising yielding tight skirt?

Or, regard granite-rendered shoulders
Attending a chin suitably cleft.
But, then, the storm is awash the bulkhead
And all Joy has upped and swiftly left.

Can you tell me the way back to happy?
Or, the land over near next to not bad?
We all need a Springtime vacation
From this our time melted into so sad

Paris plans wrap their Arch,
But the Old Caesar is so very dead.
And I can’t abide those self-gilded Trumpettes—
I’d very much rather someone else instead.

Magna Laude will discover une baguette,
As I count the steps to the third etage:
Gray, overcast, with a soft Parisien rain—
All cares forwarded to Le Voice Message.

Is it true bubbles make all things better,
Like a sunny day doesn’t at all hurt?
Salut, Soleil, comment ca va?
Our days grow short, time to be alert.

Into The Subjunctive

Adjectively speaking;
Your place or mine?
Eyes careening in depth—
I line your profile into the divine.

Verbing strives insistent;
Efforting to the new day:
P’haps time for some laundry.
He coughs, I think, we say.

Nouns are overwrought;
Clasp this aging hand.
Child graduates and works,
Writing promises in the sand.

Present so imperfect:
Get your damn shot!
Why bleach your mask?
Nicole gives it all she’s got.

Is the past really simple?
Comment-allez vous?
The earthling hopes for answers,
But priest, poets, and politicians never ever speak true.

Grammatically challenged
While Logic Impaired.
The World spins on axistically.
If you ask me, we’re all scared.

Glass To Glass

A life grown smaller
Measured from glass to glass
Sunny days dimmer now
What horrors new shall pass?
Granpa passed today
The next soft soul rising to a sure heaven
Awaiting the next kickoff
Are we kneeling for our unseen clerk in 7-Eleven?
A chippy bite of merlot
Chartreuse green simmers in our glass
September signals the Fall
What horrors new will pass?
Matriculated on yonder Austin hill
Pray for the new generation
While preen we old and spent—
A history mitered in misty veneration
Are you masqueing this year?
Can’t we just get a pass?
Tiring of this asterisked year—
What new horrors are to pass?

Hey Mom, Hey Dad

Hey Mom, hey Dad
I have some news,
It’ll make you glad:
Lilly’s finished college,
She’s done with school;
Has bunches of job offers
And she’s still nobody’s fool—
Aint she something!

Hey Mom, hey Dad
There’s a little more news,
But this may be bad:
It’s about your eldest son;
There’s spots on some x-ray;
Nothing more to be done—
For me, it’s always something.

Hey Mom, hey Dad
I’ve something to say,
Hope you don’t get too mad:
I hate it you two weren’t around,
Seeing Lilly born, happy and growing;
See life worth living per every pound—
And that’s saying something!

Hey Mom, hey Dad
I guess I’ll go now
To face my own version of jihad;
Meet looming troubles on the yon side of living
With the grace to see the better in all,
Or at least yield to loss with a heart forgiving—
I hope this all meant something.
By Mom, Bye Dad

[I’m fine. Xray verse for poetic effect.]

Meet Me Once Again

Always wisht for a ‘grand affaire’
A love that rattled and shattered and grew
But only stolen glories and dried up hopes
And always the remains: ‘oh, how I’ll remember you’

Now guilty grey outcount the callow brown
And real age looms large in my mind
And alone with my picante Bordeaux
A joke portion remains of grace that one can find

Without pretense or malice aforethought
I plead you risk a newer pain
Join my foolish tilt at aged windmills
Meet me once more again

A riverbank, a hilltop, or bar
Your house, my house, running train
Restaurant, cemetery, or banquette
Meet me once more again

No promise of happily ever after
Just attentive present conversation
A chance to explore old embers
Or bury a youth’s spent intercession

A promise of ‘la grand affaire’
A love that filled and shattered and grew
Meet me once more again
Are all daisies really better when blue?

Morninglory

So, well…yes
I suppose, I must confess
That I’m just a single simpleton
Never a race I have entered have I won
Not even a single one
Not one
But, once upon a time:
I shall venture with this little rhyme
(Or, maybe a true life’s story)
Of a friend aurora’d in golden glory—
Shall we call her Morninglory
OK then, M’glory
Twas in the frozen North,
Anchoring away such and so forth,
I chanced to follow a fellow swabbie into a shop
Where hot hip transfers are pressed onto one’s top
And oh, my heart did stop—
Full stop
Alas, of course, such a joy couldn’t last
As it happens: the many-many years have passed:
Morninglory had her own full Life’s path to travel,
As I sailed after green seas and trod flat rutted gravel,
Witnessing some dreams coarsely unravel,
Bang, the gavel
Now, upon these here internets
Where youngish oldies can place new bets,
Allowed I was to restart with a believed spent story
And became friends again with my Morninglory—
Never again to be sorry,
Never sorry
So, a Winter wish to all readers of this raggedy rhyme, and so-so story,
That your wishes come true and you again find your own Morninglory

Theoretical Storms

Theoretical rains
And supposed storms
I know it’s crazy
What odds and a thought forms
When you’re old and lazy
And now it’s just all slowness and pains
And they’ve stopped reading your porms

Lightening displays
And rumbles cross the street
I say watch it
Listen for the sax down beat
You know you’re gonna catch it
But Young Turks loom over newer days
And they’ve taken over your old seat

Suspended sunshine
The streets return a cleaner dry
Come on, let’s go
It’s time to take another try
Lace it up and hit the do’
Kill off two miles and don’t whine
If your goal is to really fly

Virtual Railfanning

I find myself caught in the mist between maybe and the maybe not,
With this shredded rudder and a jib which fails at its level best.
Is life always so testable? Please let it be multiple choice—
As fat fingers reach for another glass filled to its crest.

Now with passing rains that’ll never leave any trace,
We’re all a part of this same tired joke—
All of us punching the tattered line;
Whispering guffaws our parents wouldn’t have dared spoke.

Randomness lingers without offering any answers;
Hope smugly rises, then fades like a chimera.
There’s a late train passing thru Folkston—
COTU waves warm and deeply into the camera.

Passion calls bravely:
No one ought respond.
Remember the days of Doctor Who
And those wished-for nights with Amy Pond?

The poem yearns for some fulfilling reason;
Something clever, poignant, worthy of being read.
Ha! Good luck with all that—
I’m virtually going back to Ashland VA instead!