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?
The earthling hopes for answers,
But priest, poets, and politicians never ever speak true.
While Logic Impaired.
The World spins on axistically.
If you ask me, we’re all scared.
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
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.]
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
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—
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,
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
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
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
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
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!
Shouldna kissed her fast
Shouldna thrown that glass
Shouldna taken the road less traveled
Shouldna known to let it all pass
Shouldna went along
Shouldna stayed up all night
Shouldna trusted to chance
Shouldna let her pass from all sight
Shouldna made my point
Shouldna made it hard stick
Shouldna thought it’d all work out
Shouldna been quite so dammed thick
Shouldna trusted to luck
Shouldna gone to ground
Shouldna flown to LA
Shouldna left the lost and found
Shouldna quit my job
Shouldna ever let her go
Shouldna mustered out
Shouldna did so much blow
Shouldna listened to the gods
Shouldna listen to the Oh So Wise
Shouldna left New Orleans
Shouldna slammed shut both my eyes
Shouldna been born when I was
Shouldna believed in the mardi gras
Shouldna drown in the sorrow
Shouldna disbelieve in the power of tomorrow