Poetry and Prose
I don't pretend to be particularly great at writing poetry, but I occasionally go through periods where I write a bunch of it.
This Menacing Cage
04/24/2023
During the rare times of quiescence
That I garner on this loud Earth
I sit myself down
upon the ground
And open my heart to mirth.
First, I must take a day’s journey,
the cityscape shrinks in my wake,
It’s a pilgrimage
right to the ridge
Where my dried out soul may slake.
Lungs re-inflate with nurturing air
Once wan skin regains its hue
the smile oft adrift
begins to lift
upon joy nothing can subdue
Bathing in nature’s sweet solitude
Just myself and all the wildlife
Only nature can assuage
the menacing cage
The menacing cage called modern life
Going Sane
08/27/2022
I walked into the diner with a .45
With the intention of killing everyone alive
Grabbing the cash and stealing a car
Then driving off some place really far
I sat at a table to gather my nerve
Go over my plan and just observe
When she walked up saying, ‘What’ll it be?’
I felt something change inside of me
The depth of her eyes was so serene
It chinked off the dirt & made my soul clean
My eyes watered up - it was hard to breathe
But I managed a smile and ordered the #3
I walked into the diner with a .45
With the intention of killing everyone alive
I walked out of the diner with a new life
And the phone number of my future wife
I Wasn't Always This Old
08/24/2021
Elephant skin is setting in
right below my eyes.
The cracks and slides
of living a long life
are creeping up the sides.
​​
My elbows and knees
are sharp enough to cut down trees,
skin sticks up like jagged ice.
And please don’t mention
the pains begging for attention
after long and sleepless nights.
All that being said,
I’m glad I’m not dead.
Which isn’t exactly the same as
saying I’m happy to be alive.
But it is an odd contrast,
living life so fast,
for someone who’s still shocked
that he’s old enough to drive.
The Dividing Line
10/02/2017
Where is safety from insanity, a barrier
from flying bullets?
A little place to crawl into that still
lets me live a life?
A bubble
A nook
A tight place to squeeze and
look out from underneath, but still, somehow
live a life?
A community in solitude, solace in compounds,
an anti-social hole without a drop of misanthropy.
Snug
Warm
Safe.
Filtered from the unfit.
When does this desire cross the line dividing quaint rural life and paranoid recluse?
Urns Nor Stones
08/14/2017
The body gets buried
Or else it gets burned
But where goes the mind,
And everything learned?
What of the Self?
The thoughts and the essence?
Too simple to speak
Of mere evanescence.
Decades of disposition,
Tailored and honed,
Cannot be contained
By urns nor by stones.
How could a world of individuals,
Unique in all ways,
Fully extinguish,
In this mortal ballet?
My Son On
the Keys
08/12/2017
The correct notes played,
the little mistakes.
Straight back
Hands raised
-Striking.
Filling our house with rag,
now it’s classical,
now it’s jazz.
Now it’s something he made up.
All the players
the world has seen,
With these same notes,
These same keys,
And he makes something up -
something brand new,
heretofore unheard.
An ocean finding a new way to wave.
An apple falling like never before.
It’s all black and white rectangles to me
But to him,
this eight year old boy,
it makes sense.
Zimpuktoo Lands
08/14/2017
A large green world,
A larger black sign,
The words, “Go away” thrice underlined.
Very clear orders,
Written in red,
I should have left but landed instead.
I’m not sure why,
It was a dumb move,
Very dumb in fact as this poem with prove.
Within a few seconds,
I changed my mind,
But it was too late for I had no time.
Because I was gripped,
By a huge hand,
Why oh why oh why did I land?!
Raised in the air,
Dangled over teeth,
Rancid breath rising from the mouths beneath.
Starting to worry,
Wanting to scream,
I opened my mouth and started to … sing!?
What was I thinking?
Was I at all?
All the I knew is I didn’t want to fall.
Lowered down a bit,
To meet his eyes,
He and the giants were all in surprise.
I’m no real singer,
But I can get by,
When I hit the high-G they started to cry.
I kept on singing,
They kept on bawling,
Setting me down with tears still falling.
Pool sized drops,
Crashed around me,
Then once again, I hit the high-G.
This time though,
I didn’t know why,
They screamed so loudly I wanted to cry
I thought my sweet lyrics,
Were causing the tears,
But it turned out I was hurting their ears!
They fell down hard,
They grabbed their heads,
I took my chance and quickly fled!
At my very top speed,
I flew away
Right passed the sign that I should have obeyed.
Tribelka Skwoon
07/30/2017
A short flight away from empty Blugwunn,
Slightly closer to a giant orange sun,
A little to the left of a dying moon,
Floats a planet named Tribelka Skwoon.
Now, Tribelka Skwoon is covered in hordes,
Who’ve divided their land in accordance to fjords,
It’s a little confusing, when at first you hear
But look at a map and it becomes clear
…. kind of.
The fjord to the North is called Tribelka
While the Southern fjord is known as Tribelkaa.
The Eastern one has been named Tribellka
And the Western fjord is labeled Tribellkaa
Their names are quite similar till they’re pronounced,
Because a double ‘A’ is quite loudly announced,
But when one ‘A’ sits sad and alone,
It takes on the sound of a broken trombone.
If you can burp, the double ‘L’ is for you,
Because, to say it, that is what you must do.
One L is boring, really nothing to report,
It sounds like an L, —Well, an L with a snort.
Now that you know, go back and re-read
Pronouncing the names is a doable deed,
It may strain your tongue or vocal chords,
But now you can visit the Tribelka Fjords.
Grey, Grey Beach
11/06/2015
There’s a place where I meet you,
A place I am not sure can exist.
I go there slightly post-slumber,
Under skies of muted myst.
A grey beach stretching to infinity
The pale waves are static, soundless.
Birds overhead, slightly slow motion
Though their flightpath seems quite boundless
Only a thin line of light
separates the sky from the sea
Like a barely open eye,
the horizon squints at me.
You appear as a distant dot
The only real color in this land,
Flowing so softly, as if submerged
but advancing on the sand
We're pulled to one another
Like black holes in the twilight
Anticipation sedates me further
then everything goes white
I wrap my arms around you
but you are only chilled air,
When down upon me, a soft breeze,
I imagine it is your hair.
A kiss like a whispering statue
standing in a vacant sanctuary,
Down to the ground, moans fill up
this once barren estuary
Hands I see no hint of
warm my unclad flesh throughout,
Coming together near this sea
Leaving no fear of drought.
Collapsing supine and panting
Slowly fading from all the grey,
Eyes re-opening slowly
Finding loneliness on the bay.
Grey fades,
Darkness rises,
Body falls,
Body lands…
Back in bed, tangled in sheets
The sound of the city grates my ears,
The cars, the sirens, the screaming, the barking,
The source of all my fears.
Reaching for my glass of water
but my cold hand slips on by,
Looking back at the night, I wonder,
were you the ghost... or was I?
Verbal Disease
10/21/2015
By day so freely from my lips
come jests and statements so foul,
Seemingly more manufactured
Not in my brain but in my bowel.
No red flags nor error codes
alert my mouth to at once cease,
Like a clueless, even excited,
dispenser of some verbal disease.
But by night, Oh, regret filled night!
The utterances persistently replay,
Rolling around in guilty sheets
Choking on words I can’t unsay.
My Heart to
Overwinter
10/21/2015
Aching in the chambers of my heart
but far outside as well,
No liquor I’ve imbibed
Nor poison I’ve tried
Begins to extinguish this Hell.
When the empty spaces inflate themselves
with the intention of my soul to sinter,
Such twisted shadows cast
Through present and through past,
That bury my heart to overwinter.
So often wrought with mental toil,
So anguished is this mind,
So little proof
of your faithful Truth,
while viewed from this brain; unkind
Dwibble
07/24/2008
Alone at his work desk
Dwibble twiddles his thumbs
All day, everyday he sits
Until his butt cheeks go numb
No contributions to make
No real work for him to do
Dwibble sits and stares
Until each workday is through.
One work day Dwibble slept,
His brain realized it preferred dreams
It told his body to keep napping
It obeyed him, so it seems
Too asleep to eat or drink
Is much too asleep to live
With his death you could say
His resignation Dwibble did give
It was called natural causes
By the paper and those who adored him
But you and I know the truth
Poor Dwibble died of boredom
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