4:30 AM isn’t too late to stay up cooking up something. Looking at a blank screen that is begging for some input. Frustration mixed with the expectation that maybe something will materialize. The fridge calls, the wind howls, and the cell beeps its updates. But where is the actual blank screen? It isn’t really the glaring blue screen the burning bleary eyes stare at. Instead, everything the chattering mind registers as uninteresting and unworthy of poetry. Poetry. What is it anyway? You know it when you hear and see it, yet a poem cannot be defined or adequately explained. And poetry doesn’t feel like it’s contrived. Yet, how many have sat behind keyboards or blank papers or parchments with quill in hand, waiting … Hours fly by. Whiskers get heavier. The pot becomes rounder and softer. Coffee doesn’t help. Maybe a sedative? Impatience settles in like ticks on a mangy dog. The feeling that there just isn’t enough time nags you like a dripping faucet. But like old faithful, the pressure builds until the feverish tapping of keys.
Monthly Archives: December 2021
from the stocking to the counter, the razor-sharp knife slices the head and tail off watch it bleed, mouth waters The Christmas house, rooms scented orange peel and date-pit chickory sip by the golden regal tree, starburst section squirts blood-red red from orange, green, and gold Big Ben chimes the end, but it lingers more than the eyes or senses combined the child shall lead on to the next whose blood atoned
edgy like a raging wedgie got my shorts in a wad, ride over you roughshod i can be a clod a bull in a china shop give you a karate chop - chop-chop, so you better stop it - it's time to drop it ...understand? before i get outa hand and i blow a gasket putting you in a casket a-tisket a-tasket go to hell in a hand basket best not risk it don't be a sh*t biscuit when my temper goes south i use my potty-mouth (*cuz i'm low on wit but i'll never admit it) opening a can-o-whoop-ass yours will be grass you better not trespass on me, who you can't figure i got a hair-trigger thinking my boys are bigger no tact or diplomacy cuz i'm crapulent, u see? gives me flatulency a leaky one i'm no fun tear you a new one so yuz better run
Now is all we ever know Its frame defines my home— as the eagle swoops to feed, I clasp this silly poem. Centered in my breath— observant, discovering now— before & later, I surrender— unrest, I won’t allow. Today rotates today tomorrow never comes remaining with my timeless now diminishes problems Why can't this be my best? Why can’t I choose it so? I can — I will — I make it now. My cup does overflow. There’s only one thing needful before all tasks, attempt, inhabiting the present scope from where I'm not exempt I cannot control another to see life differently, but I can change my point of view and from others' eyes, be free.
The concept of God isn’t farfetched.
Consider how our technological society is becoming faster.
Now we have quantum computers and artificial intelligence.
Scientists are planning to inhabit mars about twenty years from now.
Science once scoffed at the idea of prayer, seeing it as hocus-pocus or the useless practice of uneducated, powerless people.
They thought of wireless connectivity the same way, but it’s now becoming available worldwide. 5g technology is pushing its debut. So prayer isn’t so fantastic.
Communication with an unseen entity doesn’t sound implausible, or that we can transmit and receive with our built-in wet-ware device is not incredible.
The natural and supernatural prove to be closing the gap between each other.
The physical is the metaphor for the spiritual.
Everything happens with an unseen idea, whether making a chair, chewing on dinner, taking out the garbage, traveling to Mars, using silicon chips to talk to your significant other, or asserting that God is dead.
The innate supernatural realm of the spirit is infinitely greater than our most advanced technology.
Everything depends on what we already have built into us.
A farmer’s market and gift shop
shelved with overpriced bric-a-brac
a diversion for a winter afternoon
for two out of tune lovers, present
to their dissonance.
a handmade Amish sock monkey
by its jocular expression
provided an explanation
for the mismatch, for you see
the silly monkey jumps from tree to tree
never content where it is. Maybe
(it reasons) the palm before
has sweeter fruit – but then
sees the one ahead.
To catch the squirrelly thing,
put a sweet in a hollow coconut shell
with a hole just large enough for its hand
to enter. When it grabs the candy, it makes
a fist wider than the hole
used to enter the nut
the greedy thing won’t let go
tethering it to the coconut
chained to the ground.
We bought two sock monkeys.