I emerge from my cocoon, born upon the shore of a small tree surrounded lake. A late evening light glows in the sky as tree swaying wind moves delicately through branches, and gently touches my face. The sound of water trickles itself through the threshold of quietness. Before me, you lie petaled with blossoms by your side. I approach, and you smile open to me. Taste, I hear. So I taste, and find myself at large in the immensity of a womb seeded with stars, then once again descend into being. Glorious Angel.
Tuesday, February 14, 2023
Get Small
I’m thinking about some of the things that I’ve said,
so as letters I’m writing form words in your head,
it’s possible that they may not make much sense,
perused here and now in your own present tense.
Thus, their reading can cause you to ask yourself, why?
Then, while searching for answers, to look to the sky,
the planets, the stars, and the expanse of it all,
so that when you look back, you might find yourself, small.
So small, in fact, that you can stand on each word,
as soft sounds found pleasing resound, and you’ve heard
all the words and the sounds that resound when said
by those, one supposes, who live in your head.
Consider word rhythms, and what they can do
in terms simply written, and rhymed just for you.
Consider rhymes written, with words in between.
Consider this content like you know what I mean.
Then, as you consider these things in your head,
perhaps you'll take one more thing yet to be said
into consideration, as our course has been set.
A plan has been hatched, and a wager is bet.
Invest yourself now, and the attention you pay,
to laughter hereafter, then be on your way.
Sunday, January 29, 2023
Go Fish
Imagine yourself on a bay, in a boat;
riding each swell as you sway while you float;
fishing and wishing away with each cast
that lines will soon find fish you’ve wished for, at last.
And when, now or then, such a fine fish is landed,
imagine how far, if StarKist was your brand, did
that one sorry Charlie, your fish, have to swim
for you to catch on, reading this rhyme of him.
As you will see, there will be more suggestions
regarding retarded things, like stupid questions.
Take them to heart, in friendship, and in jest.
Well, that's just one more thing I'd like to suggest.
With respect to love, and why some people hate,
there’s this one little thing I've been thinking of late.
When I say 'in jest', do you hear, and ‘ingest’
the content, exactly, of what is confessed?
Can we still be friends, or will it end our beginning
when you find something fishy is wished for by sending
essences in questions, suggesting the same,
lest they cause indigestion by invoking their name,
like the fish, or the brand, or the stand that you take
on the boat, still afloat, in this rhyme as you make
your way through sea spray to the last pinned in line
to see if the sea has your fish yet defined?
If you tell your friends about me, tell them how you think I am.
Describe me like Angel would, “Frootloops, like Toucan Sam”.
Then, tell them what I said when I say, “Who do you call friends
when you are calling all your enemies, anemones with fins?”
as if that means clownfish aptly describe who to oppose,
and by suggesting, invest them in thought that means you chose
to wish those fish their endings by bending words in line
like this. Of course, the mission of these fishy words is mine,
and what I mean by writing is to invite people to cast
their lot, all that they’ve got, into an ocean of thought, vast
and endless, saint and sinless, as each universe is made.
In essence, the quintessence of a children’s card game, played.
So, having played the game we’re playing, now you must decide
here within this sphere, how universes will collide,
because with each collision a decision must come and pass,
regardless of which fish you wish for, tuna, trout, or bass.
Look
I'd like to show you something I've been working on for a while.
Friday, January 27, 2023
I Run This Town
I run this town, I’ll have you know.
Although I tend to run real slow,
I run at dawn. I’ll run until dark,
from my front lawn, through Perryville Park
to Perry Point, and by the Pier
in a dense fog, when skies are clear.
So, speaking now for just a minute,
as if my world had you within it,
of where we'd be, my world and me,
within this whispered poetry,
and see that we'd be bound by just
time, this rhyme, our faith and trust.
Each morning, I run myself blue in the face.
I run myself all the way through the rat race.
I run until I am completely out of breath,
and I’ve learned that I can run myself to death.
So stop right now, or follow through
step by step. First one, then two
feet advanced by chance or choice
will give a focused mind its voice.
You may run, but you cannot Hyde,
so park it here, and share the ride
vicariously, as if Boston's Globe
were projected upon your frontal lobe.
Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts.
Yesterday I wore short slacks,
and knew I needed a new shirt. See,
the one I'd worn was torn and dirty,
so since I'm not a real bright fellow,
I picked a tight light shirt, quite yellow.
In fact, it acts as an alert
to passers by. Why? My new shirt
illuminates my gait, and jogs
the sight of those who drive in fogs.
There are things I cannot say
due to events of yesterday.
I cannot say that you should run
for love, or money, or just for fun.
I cannot say where you should go
to get away from all you know.
I cannot say who, what, why, how
you go. I surely don't know, now.
All that I can say as one
runner is, I have to run.
Nimble minds, accumulate.
Cumulonimbus clouds crowd the sky,
as runners fly by, staccato cadenced,
and sweet sweat fragrances the air.
Somewhere on the ground, a sound
stops time in its tracks, and traces of faces
are drawn on dented cement pavements.
Curb your enthusiasm. Time marches on.