Urban Letters

We've moved!

2011-03-23T19:46:00.001-05:00

to a cozy new site with an easier to remember name!

Come check it out

I'll be placing an auto forward on this blog afore too long, so take note, make the switch and I'll see y'all there...

Happy Holidays...

2010-12-30T09:48:00.002-06:00

I wish you all holidays of quiet peace, and a fruitful new year.

Thanksgiving Day 2010

2010-11-28T16:49:00.003-06:00

Temperature drops
thirty five degrees overnight
North wind strips the trees
empty bird feeders swing
like broken barn doors.

When the Wampanoag
bailed out the Pilgrims with
berry stuffed venison,
did they sense their doom?

Today’s paper
heavy with Black Friday ads
is our wake up call.

Natural Selection

2010-11-15T17:39:00.002-06:00

A dozen and a half
fat little birds
fluffed against the cold
(58 degrees, after all)
argue over the feeders while
one pissy, twelve year old cat
sits beneath
either accepting
or annoyed;
it's hard to tell which.

Reality Check

2010-11-14T18:19:00.002-06:00

Washing dishes,
a flash of light and color
across a drying grater
caught my eye,
made me think I’d seen
images flickering across
a small video screen.

Perhaps it’s time
to radically
simplify.

Check out my Sis' new blog!

2010-11-13T11:55:00.000-06:00

My dear Sis, acclaimed northwest gardening author Annie Lovejoy, has a new blog - Check it out and subscribe, it and she are gems, indeed!

Annie's Blog

The Sustainability of Happiness

2010-10-28T16:48:00.002-05:00

If you depend upon
someone else
for yours.

If politics rules your roost.

If acquiring wealth
or things
are paramount.

If fame
is what you seek.

If you’ve sought
education
or experience
merely to slake
your ego.

If you do what you do
for the sake
of accolades.

If where you live
or
what you drive,
is how you measure
your value as
a human being.

Then,
you’re
not
gonna
find
it.

In Sickness and In Health

2010-10-28T09:45:00.002-05:00

The prep nurse noted her fragile veins
advised delay, but
she was ready, so,
on she went.

Together for decades,
he could not be with her
in surgery.

Something gave and
she never woke.
For two days
she lingered
on life support;
they told him
he needed to make
a decision.

Knowing she hated it,
he told them to stop;
all of it.

Down in the bright sterility
of the cafeteria,
he was cutting into his chicken when
he felt a hand,
warm on his shoulder.

He knew it could not be her,
not her body;
no one else saw,
she was there
only for him.

She smiled and said,
“It’s going to be all right;”
and then
she was gone.

A love crossing decades
suddenly condensed,
out of time;
in the last possible moment
one thing needed to be said;
“It’s going to be all right.”

Is there anybody out there...

2010-09-08T16:29:00.003-05:00

If there is, I should say that most of my writing energy lately is going into a new food blog, which you can check out right here - And please do!

I've also started publishing more or less done chapters of a new novel titled Once a Fisherman, so scope that out too!

Cheers!

E

Ihr Garten

2010-08-20T12:21:00.002-05:00

There’s a language here,
spoken in color,
texture,
and pattern.

Rock Rose to Rosemary to Oleander;
myriad greens with
bright blooms
interposed.

Zinnia and cucumber,
chile and yucca
painted pot and tree trunk,
purple-blue blossom
against weathered fence board.

Pieces fit together perfectly,
each is perfect on its own.

Bronze bell on maple branch
prayer flags over herbs,
scent of basil redolent
as cold water
splashes leaf.

Even when she is gone,
here,
I breathe her scent.

Flow

2010-08-13T09:01:00.002-05:00

If you told me back in the 60s
that I’d not only drink water from bottles
but have a favorite brand
I’d have said you were crazy.

If you told me that,
after DDT and 2,4,5-T,
Love Canal and the Cuyahoga
that we’d forget all we learned
and fuck everything up afresh
I’d have thought you were nuts.

If, after I tore up my Exxon card
you’d said we’d have one even worse
within twenty years or so
because nobody really did anything different
I’d have said you’re bonkers.

I do so wish that you had been.

Waffle House, Redux

2010-08-12T12:50:00.005-05:00

See, the problem is that nobody really
gives a good goddamn about them people
comin' across the border.
See if we was Canada, it'll be all different.

I'll tell you what the real illegal immigrant problem is;
it's those fire ants.
Them's the real problem,
and look how easy they got here?
Them and the bole weevils...

J.R., you are one dumb sonofabitch.
You're so dumb, you don't know to shut up
when somebody tells you you aughta.
And you're no better;
you just sit there and agree with him.

Aww, come on now, Bud
we're solving the world's problems!
Give us another five minutes
we'll solve 'em all!

Oh buuuuuullshit;
You've had forty five minutes
and you ain't solved one damn thing;
I am done with you two idiots.

See ya tomorrow, Bud.

To hell with the both of you both.

Good Morning, Ivy

2010-08-04T11:07:00.000-05:00

Welcome, tiny girl!
We’ve been waiting for you
but no rush;
you’re right on time.

Your first morning and
you’ve changed things
forever.

I awoke smiling,
perception shifted,
seen through your eyes;
I bet they stay blue.

May the world’s ills be cured.
May it be for you as
it was for me;
a joyous youth
awash in pure tones.

So it shall be, because
you have arrived.

Esurient

2010-06-25T10:42:00.002-05:00

Van Gogh sky,
jagged white
stabbed with black
and grey.

Songbirds nervous as deer
before an earthquake.

Air, muggy and hot, pauses
grave still,
waiting for the balance to tip.

Bromidic

2010-06-24T16:14:00.002-05:00

Back in the day
some Neanderthal was the first
to add spikes to his wheel;
studded leather wristlets
followed shortly.

In my youth, only motor heads had muscle;
now, “CEOs drive Harleys and
wholesome mothers have tattoos.”

On my twelve mile daily commute,
a surfeit of over-horsed idiots
bob and weave in a winnerless race,
striving to wrench
that last free car length
from all the others.

Virga

2010-06-17T11:18:00.002-05:00

It’s 101 in the shade of
the steakhouse veranda;
nobody’s goin’ out there
to dig into a sizzling rib eye.

He sits alone,
just a beater six string for company,
belting out Tejas-tinged blues.

Top down in the parking lot,
I stop for a tune or two.
He pays me no mind,
eyes closed, playing for those
who first shaped the music.

I start to roll and he looks over;
I give a thumbs up and
he smiles, jerks his chin,
starts into another tune.

Texas Rescue Dog

2010-06-17T11:17:00.002-05:00

He weighs nine pounds,
stands ten inches tall
at the shoulder.

Tied to his star-studded collar
a tiny barrel holds
one good shot an’ a half
of Anejo tequila
an’ a Dixie cup.

When some poor sap gets
whupped upside the head
by a tornader, he will crawl
from the wreckage of his doublewide,
and as his eyes clear,
he’ll spot Bandito,
standing tall on a rubble heap
ready to quench his thirst and
make everything OK agin.

Darwinism

2010-06-13T16:08:00.001-05:00

Coffee cups that read
“Caution, contents are hot”

Boxes printed with,
“Do not turn box upside down,”
on the bottom.

Hand guns that note,
“Read manual before use.”

Fish hooks warn,
“Harmful if swallowed.”

Male enhancement pills marked,
“Do not use while pregnant or nursing.”

A hair dryer reads,
“Never use while sleeping,”
and a curler,
“Do not use in shower or bath.”

If this kind of mindless shit
really is necessary,
shouldn’t we just allow natural selection
to do its thing?

Time Lapse

2010-06-05T18:14:00.003-05:00

My eye caught the clock
just as the numbers changed.
I thought, what if
they just kept flipping?

Would it be the end of days,
a flashback,
or just a busted Sony?

If I roll back over,
surrender to sleep,
will I wake up older than time
with all I love
turned to dust?

It’s probably nothing that
coffee and a morning paper won’t cure;
in that instant between sleep and waking
it can give you pause.

X Chromosomes

2010-05-20T13:59:00.001-05:00

I have drifted through life assuming
that one got rid of furnishings
when they were worn out:
This is not true.

I have, over the years, perfected
the Belushi lear; one brow arched high
with the eye beneath squinting,
the effect one of incredulity defined.

When your spouse arrives
out of the blue
with a new couch,
there to replace your beloved nest,
you must never deploy
the Belushi eye.

You may, if you feel so moved,
try to save the rug, and
you might even win that fight;
but forget about the couch,
it’s already gone.

REM Sleep

2010-05-13T14:24:00.002-05:00

In some kind of office building
walls and floors but no colors.
Big windows with lots of light but
I don’t see anything outside.

Someone called my huge cell phone
“cool” and “retro like an old Motorola,”
but I couldn’t bring up the last
number I dialed and the tape with
the names on it jammed and
wouldn’t wind back into the phone.

Walking down the halls I saw
several rooms that I hadn’t cleaned;
I wondered why, when he first brought
me here, he’d dropped me in the middle;
what about all those buildings up front,
shouldn’t I be cleaning those too?

I stole something crunchy and savory and
snuck into a secret place that lead to
all the other places to eat it.
Most people didn’t know I was there, so
I hid the food when somebody found me
to say I had a phone call.

I asked a pretty girl what the occasion was
for the big party downstairs;
she said there were several.
We walked side by side for a bit,
then she ran a few steps to
be away from me.

I tried to get on an elevator
with a person in a wheelchair
but they were gone and
then I couldn’t find it again.

I rode an impossibly steep escalator
up one floor wondering how the hell
I was sticking to it?
I got off through a metal gate and
went right when they went left;
the ceiling was low.
I ended up high alongside the rollercoaster
when the girl with one perfect nipple
came back from the left; she knew
I’d made a wrong turn.
She asked if I had good dope or good booze;
I nodded and she smiled and said
“It needs to be.”
She told me to go up to the roof and
get out there, “At a sort of disco,” and
then I woke up.

Does this shit really make sense
when I’m sleeping?

Graphic Reminder

2010-05-13T14:07:00.001-05:00

Every few months, I like to change my title at The Luthier Community. Most of the time, I do it just for the hell of it, maybe to try and be funny, with something like Chief Executive Floor Sweep.

This month I changed it to Finger Slicer Extraordinaire, with a picture of my left dialing finger. I did it not so much because it’s funny, but as a reminder to me at what seems to be a critical juncture in life, and maybe as a warning to others.

Said finger has a crisscrossing map of scars from way too many cuts. Looking at it right now, I can see 7 nasty ones, and those aren’t all. Most of these came from chisels, a few from knives. You’d think that the first time I had my left hand way up on the shaft of a neck in progress and still managed to cut the crap out of it with a chisel, I’d have become more cautious, but I didn’t. And if you sharpen like I do, well… Fellow woodworkers love my chisels, because the business ends of the blades are mirror bright and sharp as razors. I keep all my hand cutting tools like that. Real sharp tools do a better job and are a joy to work. They also cut the snot out of us when we drop our guard: A ¾” Buck Brothers crank neck has a big handle and a lot of steel; serious heft there; it will go to the bone in your finger in a heartbeat or less.

Like I said, I didn’t learn my lesson the first time, nor the second, not the third. As a lifelong woodworker, I am used to cuts and scrapes and bruises, no big deal. But when the last two have left the tip of that finger without sensation from permanently damaged nerves, I kind of woke up. I wonder now what I was waiting for to finally get the picture, to lose a piece of the digit? Kinda like when friend spoke to me of multiple divorces; “Once, they say it could happen to anyone; twice, maybe even three times, you probably still get the benefit of the doubt. More than that, and there’s pretty much no doubt, you’re the problem.” So, when it comes to unsafe practices, yeah, I’m the problem.

All these power tools in my shop and I cut myself over and over with chisels and knives and scrapers. To me, that finally says, “I respect the power tools, but not the hand tools,” and that’s plain foolish. When I was a working cop, I feared a fight with edged weapons more than I did being shot, so why the hell would I think differently in the shop?

For me, after some soul searching and a lecture or two from Doc and Monica, I realize that 90%+ of my cuts were incurred while carving necks. That forced me to look at how I did it, and the glaring flaws in my technique came out. I was leaning into laminated layers of wood, including some real hard ones, and leaving my unguarded left hand up above the cut, ready to get sliced again. I have revisited how I carve and changed the ergonomics of that process so that I do not put my hands onto so much potential danger. And I bought a pair of cut proof gloves and use one on my left, at the very least, when I work now.

I turned 50 this year. I’d like to be building 30 years from now. I eat better than I used to, get exercise every day, take vitamins, don’t smoke, and drink less than I used to: All of that would add up to an opportunity to grow older with a missing finger or two had I not looked at the big picture, made an honest assessment, and changed a few other things too.

So how old are you this year?

Day 28 - End of the Line

2010-04-28T09:53:00.001-05:00

End of the Line

By the sound of things
it’s a bad place, but
not this time.

You know what they say,
get divorced once and
they’ll give you the benefit of
the doubt, but twice,
well…

And what are your chances
as a two time loser?

There I was, staring down
empty tracks at dust and
blowing tumbleweeds when
you walked out
of the heat-shimmer mirage.

Just like that
the end of days flipped and
life began.
Who knew?

Day 27 - Hopeful or Hopeless?

2010-04-27T21:38:00.000-05:00

Appreciation of War

I posted a quote from a notorious
Louisiana tugboat Captain that read,
“I have no appreciation for war,
although it is a traditional human endeavor,
and I’m good at it.”

In response, a friend wrote,
“War – fascinating subject.
It’s primal as a spinal cord.
The old brain is good at it and
the new rejects it. A source of
conflict in most of us until
the old brain fades away?”

I wondered what Sherman and Grant
hunched over a camp fire with big
glasses of bourbon working would
have said to that?

Day 26 - A Five Times Poem

2010-04-27T21:15:00.002-05:00

Note - Any and all 'missing days' were stuff I reworked and had posted here before in some way, shape or form!

More Than Five Times

I have done really stupid things,
farted in public,
embarrassed the hell outta my wife,
made her laugh.

More Than Five Times a day
I hear somebody say
“did you know you’re out
of ______ roast coffee?”

More Than Five Times I have wondered
just what the hell that idiot driver
is thinking.

More Than Five Times a day
people I meet or greet,
or my critters
make me smile.

More Than Five Times an hour
our youngest would ask from
the back of the car,
“Are we there yet,” and every time
I would answer
“Just a little bit further.”

Day 23 - An exhausted poem

2010-04-23T18:27:00.002-05:00

Shit Sandwich of a Day

It starts as soon as I walk
through the door;
“There’s no coffee lids,
we need to bake 12,000 cinnamon bagels
and there’s not enough
topping sugar; oh, and the AC
isn’t working in the north dining room.”

Non-stop, all day long;
“I need a swipe,” “There’s a
phone call for you,”
“Where’s my raise,” and
“Did you know you’re out of coffee?”

Fifteen hundred dollars in
catering on top of a
nine thousand dollar day
in house with all this bullshit
on top.

After ten hours of this I say,
“I am leaving. I am going home.
I am going to drink bourbon and
I am going to give the ice cubes
to my dog.”

As I do just that,
the doorbell rings;
it’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses:
Of course it is…

Day 22 - Earth piece

2010-04-22T17:33:00.000-05:00

Hale’s Passage

I cross the beach with
boat and paddle
tucked under an arm;
years before theirs were
skin and bone.
Mine is fiberglass.

Dusk settles and storm rises;
south wind meets north current;
white water between beach and island,
windblown froth from
stacked wave tops.

I slip into the fray.
Ferrying out, a mistimed move
spills me; rolling upright I
shake like a dog.

Hurling downstream
an aqueous world,
no telling where ocean ends
and air begins.

Only when I turn back to
the beach do I see that
I have not moved at all.

Day 21 - According To...

2010-04-21T10:59:00.002-05:00

Note: Some days I have used reworked older pieces that were previously published here, so I did not place them here again.

According to Hoyle

There’s a right way and
a wrong way, with
not a lot of leeway between.
But the world’s in Ektachrome,
not black and white, so…

Authority is, so
I guess we have to choose
who or what will be:
Casting a glance around
the present, I don’t see
any one chief doing
that great a job.

Politicians? Definitely not.
Pundits? Please…
Children of a lesser God?

Perhaps the premise begs
clarification: Are we speaking of
Sir Fred or Edmund?
Either way, it speaks to
simply doing the right thing.

Day 18 - To...

2010-04-18T13:30:00.001-05:00

To Ma

Maybe I haven’t taken this
seriously enough, or more likely
I haven’t wanted to confront the truth;
your health scares the hell out of me.

Pop, I knew was coming, had been
for years. But you’ve always been
the touchstone, the grounding rod
of this family.

I can’t really imagine how tough
this is for you; losing body is one
thing, losing mind a whole ‘nuther
ball game.

But honestly, let me tell you what
I see: Incredible guts, strength and
grace in the face of terrible adversity.

I see all the qualities that I pray
I’ve learned and earned.

I will cherish all the days and
when the time comes,
never forget all that you’ve
given me.

Day 17 - Science Poem

2010-04-18T13:06:00.000-05:00

This is a revised version of an earlier work!

Edwin
Born in the Show Me state
the son of an insurance man.
Youthful interests were entirely terrestrial;
jock, fly fisherman, boxer.

In college bloomed a hint of calling;
a frat boy studying math,
astronomy and philosophy.
Among the first Rhodes scholars,
British dress and manners
stuck with him all his life.

Mount Wilson was his home,
the faint glow of omnipresent pipe
reflecting vast nebulae.

In his day, scholars knew one galaxy,
but he saw many.
From the Milky Way to
myriad spirals and ellipticals,
he expanded the universe.

The Hubble Constant revealed
silent stars rushing away at
terrible speed.

His Redshift Distance Law caused
Einstein to declare his galactic fudge factor
the biggest blunder of his life.

His star burned bright,
he was gone at sixty three.
There was no funeral and
His wife never revealed
what became of the body.

Day 16 - A Death Poem

2010-04-16T16:21:00.002-05:00

Death came to my door

But I was in a terrible hurry;
“Listen man,” I barked as
I whizzed by, “Can’t you read?
No solicitors!”

He tried work next; “Look pal,”
I quipped, “I’m sure a lot of people are
coming for me, but not between
eleven and two, OK?”

“What the fuck!” I thundered
at his back door appearance
that night; “Look, find whatever
you threw over the fence and
get lost, I’m watchin’ baseball,
damnit!”

Finally he downed me with
subterfuge; my last words were
those of so many Texas men:
“Hey baby, watch this!”

Day 15 - Deadlines

2010-04-15T09:39:00.000-05:00

Days Like This

They just wear on ya.
I mean, I gotta get up and
pour my own coffee!
Can you believe that?

When it’s time to hit
the easy chair with the paper,
is somebody there to
recline that thing for me?
No, I gotta do it myself…

Yet more frustration!
I hear birds, but I can’t see them
‘cause nobody filled the feeders;
guess I gotta do that too.

Yes, I will have to make my own brunch
if I’m gonna catch the mid-day ball game;
it’s just work, work, work!

Here’s the end all to be all;
I had to carry my own book
to the end table beside my recliner;
incredible!

And don’t even get me started on
all the cat and dog petting
I gotta do today…

Day 14 - Island

2010-04-14T18:50:00.001-05:00

Swan’s Island

Fog is a dimension unto itself;
fog horn is mournful because
it can’t beat through.

Generations of Lobstermen
haul bugs from the sea.
Once called “poverty fish,”
they cannot afford to eat them;
a hard life, harder still
in the worst of times.

Rock and tree sculpted by
wave and nor’easters.
Even in brief sunshine
sweater weather
everything crouches,
hunkered down
awaiting the next storm.

Day 13 - Love and Anti Love

2010-04-13T21:46:00.000-05:00

Feeding the Savage Heart

Rainy days won’t do it,
neither will good tunes
or home-ground coffee.

Wind across tall grass with
only bird song comes
very close.

Mountains, those with
snow year ‘round,
almost do it.

But without M, they’re just
places; with her, they’re
the right place.

Not Love

A long time ago a lover said
“Shouldn’t you be happy and
comfortable?”
I recall staring out a window and
leaving that as my answer.

Comfort and happiness
ain’t love.
Neither is lust or need,
success or failure,
power or social standing;
not a damn thing.

In it for the kids is
a recipe for disaster.
Convenience is a cop out.

In fact, if you have to ask
or tally some kind of score,
you, my friend, have
missed the boat.

Day 12 - Pick Your City

2010-04-12T20:04:00.001-05:00

Spokane

We came from Concord, Mass
from Harvard and MIT,
jazz musicians and killer parties to
paintings of cows and barns on
black velvet.

Driving in from the east, we first saw
the valley, wrecking yards and
The Snake Pit at State Line.

But the smell of warm pine and
blue skies grew on us and
before long we were hooked.

Sure, the Nutcracker with
the Moscow Ballet meant
Idaho, not Russia, but
the winters were sublime and
the summers scented with sage.

Forever in my memory I will
journey north through the Palouse
with the rustle of hard winter wheat
whispering in my ears.

Day 11

2010-04-12T19:08:00.000-05:00

The Last

The last time I
the last glass of champagne
your last chance

About last night…
The last time.

Will we last?
The last glass of milk.

He’s the kind of guy who
would drink your last beer.

I cannot recall the
last time I heard that.

Last in, first out.
Last chance for a thousand years.

This IS the last time
I will speak of this.

P.T.S.D.

2010-04-11T18:26:00.001-05:00

I will not relate the details of
the things I saw as a cop;
I know no terror greater than
the depths humans can plumb.

Over fourteen years after leaving that
profession I still have nightmares
saturated in vivid, real-time imagery that
makes me bolt upright at three a.m.,
sweat soaked and gasping for breath.

They will never leave;
perhaps they will fade over time.
I never know when they will return;
I can only pray that it will not be
tonight.

Day 8

2010-04-09T20:30:00.001-05:00

Chisel

Holy crap, had I known
how many times I
would cut myself
I’d be too scared to wield…

Tokitaru, Marikatsu, Nomikatsu,
Buck Brothers…
Fine steel polished to
a mirror finish, sharp enough to
shave fur off the back of
my hand…

Steel shaving fine, fine curls of
the hardest hard woods with
the greatest of ease…

Nonetheless, my left hand dialing
finger is hashed, an atlas of
amazing and terrifying scars.

Day 7

2010-04-09T20:15:00.001-05:00

Until Now

I have not seen, felt,
heard
anything.

Before you, I was alive but
did not live.

I always felt that there was
one love for me but
I didn’t think I’d find you.

But you found me and
suddenly, life began.

Not born again but
awakened.

Day 5

2010-04-08T13:35:00.000-05:00

Pocahontas

Skies, blue and warm,
suddenly cloud over.

Beauty, lithe and ripe,
runs for her life and
nature follows.

Every creature and the
leaves on the trees
tremble and flee.

On the troubled waters of
the bay, western man
has arrived

TMI

2010-04-05T18:17:00.001-05:00

The youngest walking into the living room,
announcing, “Boy, it’s been a long time since
one of my turds clogged the toilet!”

A pair of panties lying on the floor of the
café, next to a matronly patron.

An extremely large acquaintance offering a
detailed description of inner thigh chafing.

A line worker speaking of
“Glistening gay vampires.”

Politics

Miley Cyrus

Angie, Brad, Sandra, Jesse and
all the other celebrities that I could not possibly
give a flying rat’s ass about.

These are things that I do not need to know.

Weltanschauung, Partly

2010-04-03T16:27:00.001-05:00

Where were my lenses ground;
Am I being of nature
or nurture?

Looking back down many roads
I am not sure that I’m
a better man,
but I think so.

A million what-ifs lead where, exactly?
I’ve cut a shitload of grass;
if the universe trembles each time
I’ve made a terrible mess.

I no idea how many rounds we get;
I grow sober with years.

Judgment ain’t yours,
sayeth The Old One and
brother, he’s not kidding.

Sudbury, Assabet, Concord.

2010-04-03T09:41:00.001-05:00

Norman Maclean wrote,
"Eventually, all things merge into one,
and a river runs through it.”
Long ago and far away from north Texas
I was raised by three New England rivers.

In summer, tourists floated in
rented canoes from the South Bridge
Boat House; we pelted them with
rotten apples from a tall fern fortress.

Fall waters brought first cold;
a whisper of winter
winding its way past
Egg Rock and the meadows.

Skate blades crossed winter’s icy back;
checkerboard hockey games laid out for each age
Geese teeming at the hard bends,
open water a precious commodity.

Spring, rebirth, floods cover field and
forest, water brown and fast brings
new soil with
a promise of life to come.

Poetry Challenge 2010

2010-04-03T08:59:00.002-05:00

Well, it's been a full year since i started writing poetry! Hard to believe, but true, so thanks again to Rob Brewer and Del Cain for lighting the fire!

Robert is hosting another challenge, that being to write a poem a day all through April; this is what started me out on a path I truly love, so maybe it'll so do for you - Go to Rob's site and join the fun!

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/CategoryView,category,PoetryChallenge2010.aspx

Day one's prompt was a lonely poem, so here goes...

Mourning Dove

Even on the brightest morning,
freshly washed blue sky,
breeze ruffling new leaves.
cherry blossoms drifting like snow;
the dove’s call makes everything
turn suddenly gray and soft
as the feathers on her back.

Paper Tiger

2010-03-27T10:49:00.000-05:00

Governments shake and shimmy
with outrage, striving to protect their own;
but the people forgot to submit
address change cards and the names
were all changed to protect the guilty.

Suits stand, belt out the company song;
after calisthenics, they shake hands and
utter power words as the captains
swing the incense.

Politicians mount up for virtual jousting
but, at the point of contact, the mirror shatters:
“We have met the enemy,” they intone,
“and he is us.”
They sip congratulatory juleps as
the lackeys sweep up virtual splinters.

The Grand Ayapoobah takes a deep drag
off a no-filter Camel; he leafs through
The National Enquirer
looking for a sign.

Nearer than we think and
farther than we can imagine,
The Old One sits wondering
what has happened to
the greatest show on earth.

March 5th, 2010

2010-03-12T20:56:00.001-06:00

Born in 1960, I was raised in
the era of space exploration.
I believed that technology
would save us and the earth from us.

Yet here in 2010 we’ve never been to Mars
and Pan Am doesn’t have a moon shuttle.
The space station floating above us
isn’t filled with jumpsuited pioneers.
There are no Dyson spheres or flying cars.
HAL died years ago;
there’s no Rosie the robot maid.

Sagan’s billions and billions of stars
are still up there, but
they’re harder than ever to see.
Under chemical skies and
seas of floating plastic,
the forests still disappear and
rivers don’t reach the sea.

Cities are filled with suicide bombers
disguised as fast food franchises.
The tallest buildings house the
Kings of politics and industry
while famine, poverty, and war
feed on the masses.
The earth tries hard to shrug us off.

I seem to recall that our generation
was going to fix all this, but
we seem to have lost the path, and
evidently we didn’t all die before we got old.

Catfish

2010-03-03T18:12:00.001-06:00

Like a bull bass cruising
the weedy edge of a quiet pond,
she patrols a sun dappled patch
of living room rug.

Your quarries are old and wise;
You will not catch them easily.
The fly selection and cast must be perfect.
There can be no sign of fakery,
or it’s no sale.

Toss a catnip mouse within paw range and
you may as well have pitched a rock into the pond;
she will ghost away with a scornful tail flip
just as he will instantly disappear.

Both want something interesting,
something that honks them off
by daring to invade their turf:
It’s a Bass fly then, a goggle-eyed
baby frog or mousy, who’s appearance says,
“Oh no! I’m tiny, juicy and weak!”

Once fly hits rug/pond, performance is key;
a pregnant pause, one good twitch,
another pause, another twitch
and if it’s all good, they hit
like lightning coming to ground.

That’s a big if, of course;
but then, if you have to catch to have fun,
you’re not patient enough to fish.

Periphrastic

2010-02-20T21:37:00.001-06:00

The writing of a poem,
that is to say
the combining of words
is more difficult than it might seem
especially when it comes to the
right inflection…

Actually, it’s about word choice;
yeah, that’s the ticket,
forget all that stuff I said before.

OK well more to the point,
it’s about being in the right mood,
‘cause you cannot make word pictures
if you’re all grumpy…

Mayhaps it’s the propensity
for inflection and verbosity
the celebration of expressionistic
synergism, the opportunity of…
What the hell was I talking about?

On the other hand,
maybe this just isn’t the day
to figure this shit out…

Feeding the Savage Heart

2010-01-29T11:25:00.001-06:00

Rainy days won’t do it,
neither will good tunes
or home-ground coffee.

Duchendorf said
sunshine did it but
not for me.
Pat got close with
a little hill country,
a little back roads driving
a little of that ol’ top down,
but not quite there.

Wind across tall grass with
a north Texas skyline and
no other sound but birds
comes very close.

Mountains, per M’s definition;
those with snow year ‘round,
those’ll almost do it.

What all of these lack is M:
Without her, they’re just
vignettes; with her, any place
is the right place.

Gaberlunzie

2010-01-23T14:57:00.001-06:00

I’ve a solution to
influence peddling
in D.C.

The problem
is perspective;
we see it as a thing
to be changed,
but its na’ –
It’s a fookin’ addiction...

A wise society accepts
supply an’ demand.

Tax the shit outta ‘em;
make ‘em all Gaberlunzies,
with exorbitant annual fees
to peddle their beads.

Prune the ranks
of the strolling bastards
an’ swell the coffers
in one fell swoop.

Chasing Bird

2010-01-06T09:58:00.003-06:00

Born in in Charleston, his
pop started him on drums at 8,
practicing until his fingers bled
then told him he sucked.

Ronnie Free, but not that style;
he swung with Mose, rhythm
tinged with BBQ and R & B.

By the mid ‘50’s in NYC he was
a cat as cool as menthol smoke,
hangin’ and crashin’ at Hall’s loft
he played with them all;
Mose and Lester, Oscar and
Sonny, Charlie, Woody,
Marian and Dizzie.

One night he was a gone daddy;
hooked on horse, he ended up
in Bellevue just like his hero, Bird.

Cleaned up, he went home
didn’t play no more.
But the bell rang again in
the 80’s and he reappeared,
playing magic like he’d never quit.

Of those years, he said
“It was quite a ride;
I wouldn’t trade it for the world,
but I sure wouldn’t want
to do it again.”

For The Holidays

2009-12-22T17:36:00.003-06:00

No tree fills the house
with the scent of fir, or
carpets the floor with
fallen needles.

No lights hang from
the eaves or the holly bushes.

The Messiah has been played, once
but no others; they may or may not
in the next couple days.

My love and I are both off work
the day before and the day itself;
mom asked what we have planned,
and she said “Oh, read, eat,
be quiet at home,” and then
she smiled and winked at me.

The forecast calls
for sunny and cold,
a perfect Texas Christmas.

We will not go out, nor
stay up late on
New Year’s Eve, and
the next day I will go
hunting up in Quanah.

Now, it is quiet and
the sky is grey, waiting.
Critters strewn about
the bed and couch,
paws cover faces.
Wind tossed Oleander
scratches at the window.

Uncle Fran died two days ago,
as so many do this time of year.

Perhaps, in my fiftieth year
I have caught a whiff
of that melancholy.

Waffle House, 10:45 a.m.

2009-12-21T12:36:00.003-06:00

Where are we getting’ that toilet,
Lowes or Home Depot?
Home Depot, I done tol’ you
and it IS gonna be a present.
It’s gotta be a present, I know that;
you’re gonna put it in the floor too.

It’s been seven years they been married.
It has not been seven years.
It’s been seven years they been married.
It has not been seven years.
I am a’ tellin’ you it has been seven years,
I know it.
You know nothin’ of the kind;
it’s been five years, and I got
proof on account of the dates
on them pictures I took.

Muriel says she wants to get a gun.
Now that ain’t no surprise…
She says she wants to go up to th’ range
and get her one, ‘cause he’s got one.
She just wants a gun so’s she can shoot him first.
Be that as it may, she wants a gun,
jus’ like his.
She does NOT want a gun just like his;
He has him the forty five automatic of
nineteen and eleven –
that gun is too big in every way.
Well then she wants one like that in .38
She does NOT want one like that;
she wants a small revolver and
she aught'n to be smart enough to know.

Well, she wants a gun, that’s all I know;
are you gonna finish your bacon?

Anomie

2009-12-21T10:02:00.001-06:00

Murkan Airlines,
with a wink and a nod,
hauls congress to and fro
for the Holiday Break,
the first order of business being
what to call it?
Christmas is too Christian
and if we serve one,
they’ll all want free drinks.

Guzzling sweet crude and
blood diamonds, the Grand Poobah
flashes a greasy smile,
wipes his lips on his lackey’s paycheck
and rumbles “Ain’t nobody serves ‘em up
better ‘n’ Halliburton!”

Back at Gawd-R-Us,
everybody’s lost their shirts
in Texas Hold ‘Em.
It’s game over man;
Diversity catches the
midnight train to Georgia,
laying low in the mail car.

Town hall meeting is cancelled
due to protest by The Organization of
Those Who Don’t Give a Shit,
seeing as it violates their
constitutional right to ambivalence.

Burglars United beds the Brady Bunch
hoping to get bullets labeled as antisocial.

Bernie Madoff, out for good behavior,
skunks Bernanke in a game of one-on-one;
dusting off his jacket, he quips,
“Enough of this politeness shit,
let’s get down to brass tacks.”

The Me Generation wakes from their slumbers,
yearning for the dry look;
Studio 54 reopens in celebration.

Below the hullabaloo,
Mother Theresa rolls over in her grave
slaps her forehead and mutters
“Christ on a crutch,
what if I was wrong?”

Canus Lapus

2009-12-19T18:26:00.001-06:00

Hangin’ with Pop,
slimmer and
half the weight
of either cat.

Sprawled full length
there’s still plenty of room
for the laptop.
Head hanging ten
off one ankle,
back feet bathed in
warm computer air.

Black and white fur
against crocheted
white blanket.
One eye closed,
one on the bird feeder,
an ear cocked
tracking the kitties.

Now and again a rise,
a big yawn and
a good shake,
then a muzzle stuck over
the top of the computer,
just to make sure Pop
is paying attention.

Ploce

2009-12-12T15:16:00.001-06:00

Kurt Vonnegut said,
“I tell you we are here
on earth to fart around
and don’t let anyone
tell you different;”
true enough, but
there is more to it.

Peace.
Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

More than a day
or a season wherein
we sing words that
perhaps we do not heed:
They are not just songs
of auld lang syne
they are words to live by.

Peace.
Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

Politicians speak of war,
economy, and law;
pundits of a better way:
Zealots know the only way,
if one is to be saved.

Peace.
Let there be peace.
Let there be peace on earth.

I tell you that we
are all here to care
for one another
and for this earth
and don’t let anyone tell
you different.

What Cat Is This?

2009-11-30T10:06:00.001-06:00

A paean to a fat kitty, to the tune, (Of course), of What Child Is This?

What cat is this who lays at rest
On the dog’s bed is sleeping?
Whom from his birth has gained great girth,
And now is fat and furry.

This, this is Orca boy,
Who eats and sleeps and plays with toys;
Haste, haste, to bring him treats,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

Why lies He so all day long,
Rising only for feeding?
Good Christians fear to draw too near
When Becky Boy is feeding.

This, this is Fanger Boy,
The fattest of all kitties.
Hail, hail his furry gut,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

So bring Him kibble, water and treats,
Come feed him in the kitchen;
The bleat, the meow, the switching tail,
Let food and leavin’s surround him.

This, this is Walrus Cat,
Who’s belly is soft and oh so fat.
Scrub, scrub his furry gut,
The Becky, the Walrus Kitty.

Undeniable

2009-11-29T15:48:00.001-06:00

Monique rolls her eyes,
shakes her lovely head, says,
“You are such a boy;”
and notes that
her heart is within.
True enough, but still;
is exquisite wrapping not
essential to the gift?

The Old English root,
brēost, implies
the center of emotion;
and most certainly,
this has never been lost
upon artists across the ages…

Granted, there are other meanings;
the working face of a mine or
an open-hearthed furnace;
sailors breast off a pier,
and mountaineers a peak,
yet…

That gentle swell,
this graceful curve
is not only a delight to the eye
but an ember for the heart.

Ventanas del Alma

2009-11-29T12:56:00.001-06:00

She painted live,
on a river bank
high meadow
or a farm wall
in an Italian village;
the memories
hang on the walls
of my home.

Blue water checked
by current and sun
flows by nodding grass;
deeper green downstream
speaks of slow water
and basking turtles.

Sun slants and falls
on yellow enamel pitcher
and tubes of Grumbacher;
this is the paint she always used.
Brushes dry in a ceramic cup
we bought in Naples;
I built this studio for her.

On our bedroom wall hangs
the one she painted from
a mind’s eye snapshot;
highway turned to dusty trail
wreathed in sage.
Windblown wheat laps
like water in a pond.
Hazy view northward whispers
of the Okanogan.

Above it all blue sky wheels,
turns to gray and black
as the storm comes on.

Change Notice

2009-11-29T11:28:00.001-06:00

May The Old One
grant me
never loosing track…

Of a dropping barometer
the mood of a room
the stillness of sunrise.

Bird song
wind sigh
star light
my lover’s eyes.

Sunlight on water
wind through trees
fragile blooms
clear, sweet air.

water.
life.
love.

Doggo

2009-11-23T11:08:00.001-06:00

Cats have target acquisition
and lock;
“I got tone, I’m takin’ the shot.”
and the best living room
sun puddles are toast.

Bandit hangs ten off the couch
staring at his chewy on the floor,
too lazy to retrieve it.

Birds cluster on the feeders,
wearing leather bomber jackets
and smoking buttless Camels,
talking shit
as you pass.

Cold-stoned honey bee
on the window sill
waiting for sunlight.

Dog day don’t need
an afternoon;
the recliner calls now.

Gimcrack

2009-11-21T14:21:00.001-06:00

Someone broke into the Smithsonian,
stole the Hope Diamond,
but it turned out to be
costume jewelry.

The marble walls
of Fort Knox
are painted plywood;
inside, ragged stagehands
sprawl on a trash-strewn
concrete floor
smoking discount cigarettes.

Humvees don’t fit
through the tunneled out
giant redwood,
and besides,
we’ve already seen one…

Texas oil wells
pump Dr. Pepper,
but they don’t make it
with real sugar any more.

The land o’ lakes
has gone dry,
the butter
churned into
margarine.

There’s no more penny candy
and the free lunch
is a half eaten cheeseburger
left on a park bench.

Law of Parties

2009-11-21T10:59:00.003-06:00

Two men enter
one man inside
two men leave
one man dies.

Democracy wakes on
a crisp fall morning,
heads outside with
a steamin’ cuppa joe
stops at the wood pile,
selects a nice four by four;
it’s time to whack the people
upside the head.

The Parole Board,
recently fitted with shock collars
turns thumbs up,
but Der HairenFuhrer
ain’t havin’ any o’ that;
his finger hovers
above the remote.

He stabs the button and
in a swirl of spasmodic jerking,
their thumbs swing down.

Halleluiah choruses
echo from the capital dome;
the dry look has saved the day
once again.

Thank heck
for mindless automatons;
were it not for the
icy ones and zeroes
sluicing through their veins,
who among us would
make a sound decision?

Nihilarian

2009-11-12T11:52:00.001-06:00

To equate
usefulness
with occupation
is often
sketchy
at best.

That said,
working
loss prevention
at Wal-Mart
may be
an exception
to the rule.

Winter Sky

2009-10-28T12:30:00.004-05:00

Gray that speaks
in whispers of
blue and white.

No bird chatters
no dog barks;
fitful semaphore
of branch on window
the only sound.

They may bear
fog, snow,
freezing rain
or cruel wind.

Everything waits.

Manichaean Slide

2009-10-28T10:55:00.001-05:00

Which side
are you on,
tell me
which side
are you on?

Faith has
always told me
I am
you are
we are all
children of God.

I will not
be categorized
or defined
by stripe
predilection
or view.

It is
I am
you are
we are all
not
black and white
good and evil
right and wrong.

Duality exists
in the hearts
of those
who do not yet
see color:

I am
you are
we are all
of each other.

And that is
as it should be.

Isn't It Byronic

2009-10-28T10:46:00.004-05:00

In my days,
I’ve been called
many things,
among them;

moody,
funny,
taciturn,
brilliant,
stupid,
grumpy,
comedian,
loose cannon,
artistic,
antisocial,
elitist,
and
nuts.

Thankfully,
there's a single word
to express
all that.

Orwellian

2009-10-27T15:57:00.001-05:00

Nutbaskets create
the largest ammo shortage
in twenty years;
they think Obama
is comin’ for their guns.

Legions of the brain dead
shy from flu shots
fearing a syringe
full of mind control.

Right wing extremists
systematically eliminate
moderate politics and faith.

Our towns are
endless strip malls, where
Megachurches preach
the gospel of selfishness.

Communities and schools
don’t teach; it infringes upon
our right to be dumbfucks.

Good neighbors are neither
seen nor heard.

Chris Rea said it best:
“This ain’t no upwardly mobile freeway,
oh no, this is the road to hell.”

Bonding

2009-10-27T10:49:00.002-05:00

I was in the solo stall
of the men’s room at work
contemplating natural process
when they walked in.

Two brothers,
perhaps four and nine;
They surrounded the pissoire.

In voices of satisfaction and joy,
I heard this exchange:

“We’re peein’ like men!
Are you peein’ like a man?”

“Yeah, like men!”
(Now singing sweetly)
“We’re manly, manly men
we’re peein’ like men,
manly, manly men!”

“Now it’s time to belch!”
(Several heroic efforts follow)

“Alright, buddy,
that’s enough belching.”

“OK, then it’s time to fart!”
(And the little one does.)

They carefully
washed their hands
and returned together
to the world outside.

Hagiography

2009-10-22T14:31:00.002-05:00

Would we know a saint
if we saw one?

Mother Theresa
in the bowels of Calcutta
tired, gray, dressed in rags
doubting her faith;
would we know?

Francis
on Mount Verna
in the midst of a
forty day fast;
would we know?

John in the desert,
stinking hair shirt
with locust breath
and crazy eye;
would we clutch
our wallets
and hurry away?

They will be found
in jungle huts
desert wastes
and decimated villages
and have very little to do
with graceful spires
bejeweled halls
or comfortable privilege.

North Rim Grand Canyon

2009-10-20T16:43:00.001-05:00

We worked the lightning strike
overnight and finished it
late the next afternoon;
just before dusk
the next storms began building.

I’ve seen nothing
more violent than
monsoon season
storms over the canyon.

Clouds mount to
dizzying heights and merge;
puffy white goes grey
then black, green,
and purple
bruise tones…

Our pilot is likely
out of flight time and
cannot get us the fuck out.

Wind gusts pick up
brush and small trees
spin them crazily away.
The air is suddenly
forty degrees colder.

Then it goes quiet,
the smell of ozone
charged menace in the air.

Surrounded by walls
of storm cloud
closing in fast
the only light
a shaft of setting sun
from the west.

And from there comes
the faint thrum
of a chopper.
It grows louder;
our ex Vietnam evac pilot
has said to hell with regs
and come for us,
but it will be close.

As the big Bell 214
skitters toward us
the wind comes
from everywhere;
Jeff has removed the doors,
to reduce the wind’s effect.

He hovers a foot off the ground
looking straight ahead,
focused on not crashing.
“Get in, now,”
is all he says
and fourteen of us do.

I wind up in the copilot’s seat
slip on headphones
and look left.
Jeff’s hand relaxes
slightly on the cyclic
and instantly
we are flung airborne.

Looking down and right I see,
lit by that narrow shaft
of sunlight and
surrounded by the storm,
the faces of my cohorts
we left behind.

Hopi Country 1981

2009-10-19T13:20:00.001-05:00

I had a two hundred dollar
seventy three Toyota Corona
faded pastel yellow
sanded rust spot
and primer grey.

I headed south in April
from Washington State
to Grand Canyon.
Cold giving way grudgingly
to desert warmth around
Kanab, Utah.

I cut east through Glen Canyon
rolled into Page, Arizona
ready for a cold beer.

Time on my hands
I chose southeast over south,
heading toward Canyon De Chelly.

North of Ganado,
a noise from the engine
grew slowly louder;
a little more oil,
a few more beers
took care of that.

West on State Hiway 264
across Kearns Canyon
First and Second Mesas
headed for Tuba City.

Somewhere in the middle
the engine sound swelled
to crescendo; steel shards
in a clothes dryer;
screams of overheated,
under lubricated metal
thrown in for good measure.

Between Hotevilla –Bacavi
and Monekopi, I coasted
to a stop
dead in the water
miles from anywhere
on a road that knew
about one car an hour.

A trucker stopped first
and allowed that he was
a pretty good mechanic.
I turned it over and
he smiled grimly, saying,
“Brother, you’re well and truly fucked.”

Next came a traveling salesman
who didn’t like my ragged look;
he left promising
to call my boss at the south rim,
but never did.

I sat on a sleeping pad
admired the rocks
listened to the wind
smelled sage,
mountain mahogany
and dry soil.
Next to me sat
a bottle of wine
and a .22 pistol.

Pulling the cork
with a knotted shoelace
I took a long pull,
stood, racked the .22 and
channeling Bill Mauldin
covered my eyes
and shot the Toyota twice
in the nose and put her
out of her misery.

Barratry

2009-10-19T11:07:00.001-05:00

Buying or selling
what you are
in the name of
supposedly
honorable service
is about as low
as one can go.

Unbelievable
in fact.
Gotta be deluded
jaded
numb
or dumb

The question ain’t
why are some people
so smart;

it’s
why are
so many
so dumb?

Vis Major

2009-10-13T10:53:00.000-05:00

It’s evening, we’re alone,
the kid’s at work
critters outside

I sneak to her place
on the couch
snatch a kiss

She smiles.
I stroke a hip and
another kiss
then a gentle caress
of her cheek.

That’s when
she pulls back,
nose wrinkled
and says,
“Ewwww,
you’ve got onion hand!”

Three hours in the shop
a shower and
a hot tub and
they still reek.

I Dreamed

2009-10-10T21:24:00.002-05:00

I went back in time
and saw
the Grateful Dead play
in Boston
thirty years ago.

I was surprised that
they didn’t see
my modern ticket and money
and wonder aloud.

I sat on the floor
and watched.

Garcia played a guitar
with sympathetic strings.

His fingers moved with
subtle shifts and pressures
and made the music happen.

He asked me
to hang with them
smoke some hash
and party.

I am not sure
what it all meant
other than that
I was raised
in the 60s.

Letter To My Younger Self

2009-10-07T21:17:00.000-05:00

Dear Eben;
it’s me,
AKA,
you in thirty years.

I am sure you’re wondering
why the note:
Fact is,
I’m just feeling old and grumpy.

Now, I ain’t gonna make you rich
or save you from heartache.

That said,
I am gonna tell you
some important things,
so pay attention:

You do not know everything.

It is not all about you.

You’re wrong about faith.

Love is a two way street.

And last but not least,
being a good person
is the most important thing
you can ever do.

Hale's Passage

2009-10-06T13:49:00.003-05:00

Boat and paddle
tucked under an arm,
I walk down the beach.
Many years before
theirs were skin and bone
mine is fiberglass.

Dusk settles, storm rises;
strong south wind meets
strong north tide;
the half mile of ocean
between beach and island
is whitewater;
windblown froth off
stacked wave tops.

Sealed in
I slip into the fray.
Ferrying out,
mistimed moves spill me;
I roll upright and
shake like a dog.

I hurl downstream
in an aqueous world,
impossible to tell where
ocean ends and air begins.

Only when I turn back
toward the beach
do I see
I have not moved at all.

Dog Fight

2009-10-04T19:53:00.001-05:00

On August 7th, 1942,
Pug Sutherland and
Saburo Sakai met
in the sky over Guadalcanal.

Sakai and his cadre
escorted bombers tasked with
attacking the U.S. naval invasion;
Sutherland and his fighter squad
were defending.

Having downed the
lead bomber, Sutherland was
attacked by three Zeroes.

Sakai came upon this scene and
was astounded by the grace of
a single Wildcat fighter
fending off three zeroes.

But, since two of those were
his young wingmen,
he waded in.

They fought long and hard
Sutherland’s Wildcat absorbing
incredible damage;
back and forth they dueled
broad axe against rapier

Sakai closed in for the kill, but
Pug hit the breaks and
Sakai slid by into
Sutherland’s sights.

He did not fire;
His guns were jammed by
a cannon round from
the bomber he
had shot down.

Sakai regained the six
saw that his foe was
badly wounded, but
Samurai duty prevailed.

As Pug pulled into a climb
Sakai shot him down.

Sutherland bailed out and
endured a day of greater terror on
the enemy held island but
was finally rescued.

Sakai went after more enemies and
found too many; a tail gunner on
a dive bomber shot him
through the head.

Half blind and delirious he
heard his mother’s voice
telling him which way to fly;
Five hundred miles later he
landed safely on Rabaul.

Both recovered and
returned to combat, but
they never met again.

Pug was killed in a
training accident in 1949 off
the Florida coast.

Sakai never flew again.
He renounced violence and
opened a print shop.

He went to America and
met his former foes including
the tail gunner who shot him.

Of the conflict, he asked
"Who gave the orders for
that stupid war?"

After a U.S. Navy formal dinner
given in his honor,
he died at 84.

Just before his death he
said "I pray every day for the souls of
my enemies as well as my comrades,"

Copyrighted © 2009 Eben M. Atwater - All Rights Reserved

Thunderdome

2009-09-25T17:46:00.003-05:00

Glenn Beck says
Obama has put us
on the road
to fascism.

Kerouac hears
and rolls over
in his grave.

Glenn wants
his country back;
his zombie throng
howls for blood.

Ginsberg hears
and his nervous
leg syndrome
returns.

Glenn asks Auntie
“how do I get in there?”
“Easy,” she sneers,
“Just pick a fight.”

“Thunderdome!”
he screams;
“Two men enter,
one man leaves!”

Obama smiles
even though
death threats
against him
are 400% higher
than when The Shrub
warmed that seat.

The ashes of
murdered abortion docs
moan in disbelief.

Beck lunges
with a chainsaw
but the Prez has
a brass whistle
that only Glenn
and a few other
local dogs can hear.

© ~ 2009 ~ Eben M. Atwater ~ All Rights Reserved

Dunraven Pass

2009-09-23T15:40:00.002-05:00

A snarl of cars says
that the tourons have found grizzlies.

We stop to restore order
stepping out in crisp USPS greens.

The bears are foraging
in the meadows about
three hundred yards below the road.

The tourons crowd the road edge
cameras and binoculars bristle,
a danger only to themselves.

Then I see
maybe fifty yards above the bears,
a man with a camera and next to him
a young boy.

Deciding how to get them back alive,
the man picks up a stick
and snaps it in two.

The closest bear is easily a 600 pound male
he turns instantly toward the sound;
his eyesight is poor but his sense of smell excellent
He is scanning.

The crowd hushes;
even tourons smell danger.
Grizzlies usually don’t attack humans
but they sure will eliminate a threat.

I hiss at the man,
“Listen to me;
do exactly as I tell you.
Don’t turn your back on him.
Don’t run. Walk backwards,
slowly, towards me; do it now.”

As they start to move, the bear
gets target acquisition and lock
he is facing them, ears back;
This is not good. Even uphill
He can sprint at thirty miles an hour.

This day, this amazing stupid shit
and his terrified son live.
When he gets to the road
I ask him “Why did you do that?”
He smiles and says,
“I wanted to see how fast they could move.”

Gone Baby Gone

2009-09-21T14:22:00.002-05:00

I watched the movie
I shouldn’t have.
I was a cop.

I understand
that things happen.
I know it’s real.

I’ve seen
smelled
heard
known
too much
about what
humans do.

So have the kids.

Anything can recall it.

Pain
nausea
fear
hopelessness

I couldn't do it now.

Be Afraid

2009-09-21T12:05:00.001-05:00

Movers n’ Shakers from the right side
got together last week,
to talk about things to come.
They picked straws too see who
their next fearless leader would be.

Huckaby swung the biggest straw,
followed by Palin, Romney and Pawlenty.
Afterwards, they all signed a fat contract
to become the New Four Horsemen;
(Sarah didn’t mind the gender slip).

They called it The Values Voter Summit.
Their quivers were stuffed with magic arrows
to shoot down abortion,
safeguard religious liberties,
and slay same sex marriage.

‘Oh boy!’ I thought when I heard the news;
‘Somebody finally narrowed things down
to the stuff that’s really important for our
next government to stick their noses into.’

Good Evenin'

2009-09-20T18:33:00.001-05:00

One day, long ago and far away,
I decided that I could play in front of people,
but the fact is,
I was terrified.

The guy I was gonna play with
had been at it for a while;
He looked at my fear and said

“Do you know how many people
think they can do this and never do?
Never forget that you’ve got the balls to do it
and it’s their privilege to hear you play.

That was some thirty years ago
and I have been playing live ever since.

Now, every time I do it,
I paraphrase Ray Wylie Hubbard:

“Sometimes we're sloppy,
We're always loud;
tonight we're just ornery
and locked in the pocket.”

Ether

2009-09-19T18:26:00.003-05:00

An interviewer once asked Kris Kristofferson
which of his songs were his favorites;
he answered, “The ones where all I did
was hold the pen.”

In my life, I have written
maybe two good songs,
and a few poems.

Of course, I have written
far more than that...

What the good ones share is this;
none of them were really mine.

David Allen asks,
“When you have a great idea,
did it exist before you thought of it?”
The answer is, of course it did.

All we do is
pull them out of the ether.

Death Becomes Them

2009-09-17T12:46:00.005-05:00

Some kill varmints for the sake of killing;
squirrels, chukkas, and the like.
I won’t blast tiny, furry beasts,
but I can appreciate the concept;
there are some creatures that need to die…

I’d start with the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
As for how he’ll meet his final end,
how about a quick trip to the microwave;
pop goes the weasel!

Next comes the Snuggle Bear;
he gets a .223 right behind the ear as
he hovers oblivious over a load in the dryer...

Then it’s time for the Charmin Bears
(Why are there SO MANY bears
in shitty advertising anyway?!)
And yes, as a matter of fact,
I AM gonna whack ‘em right between the eyes
as they shit in the woods.

And last but not least,
Charlie The Tuna:
Sucker that he is, he bites
on a Skok's Bonito Deceiver
tied on a #1 hook;
sorry, Charlie…

Prep Shift 6 am

2009-09-16T10:18:00.001-05:00

Strawberries
naughty as a heart shaped
bed with magic fingers.

cantaloupe
sherbet cool, rusty orange;
they cut funky
even if the knife is sharp.

Honeydews
vintage ‘50’s mint green;
Persians dry them to
spike the aroma and taste.

Each grape
a tiny sunset at sea;
dark purple almost black
fades to red, orange and
pale yellow.

Lemons in your face brash;
anything that color
must have grande cojones,
and they do…

cucumbers,
cucumis sativis,
slice ‘em thin and
dry ‘em for bong hits.

Red onions lie in wait…
go ahead, cut us up;
you’ll taste them in the throat
without ever taking a bite.

Basil rolls over,
compliant to chiffonade
scent rich as new paper money.

First Ladies

2009-09-15T10:33:00.001-05:00

Miiyuki Hatoyama, the wife of Japan’s new Prime Minister,
says her soul flew on a UFO to Venus as she slept.
She noted that it was “Very green,”
but didn’t clarify whether that meant physically so,
or in the environmentally awareness sense.

Rumor has it that South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford
was on the same flight; now he’s in deep kimchee again,
having lied about Argentina. His First Lady was incensed;
“You mean to tell me the sonofabitch lied about an affair
just to hide a trip to Venus!?
Aren’t you bastards all from Mars, anyway?!”

First Lady Michelle Obama gently shook her head
while weeding the White House victory garden,
and smiling a Mona Lisa smile.

France’s first lady declined to pose nude again,
noting that “That’s not in keeping with my new schtick…”

Meanwhile German First Dude Joachim Sauer
looks annoyed, as if someone holds a small turd under his nose;
“Vas? I am a Quantum Chemist! I got theoretical shtuff
whizzing here und there; I have no time for this crap!”
Angela smiles and nods and pats his arm affectionately.

All the while, in the background, Delbert McClinton sings
“Ain’t no doubt about it, she’s the same kinda crazy as me.”

What Up, Greek Titans?

2009-09-13T15:38:00.003-05:00

Socrates’ banished poets from his republic
‘cause they ‘portray falsehoods and
appeal to our emotions and baser instincts
in a corrupting manner.’

Plato agreed, adding that those pesky poets
were ‘only good for promoting petty emotions,
like anger and lust and love.’

So what the fuck, Fathers of Philosophy?
You egocentric pogues
puffing and preening
about your rhetorical prowess,
you got the nads to pan poetry?
Say WHAT?!

Last time I checked,
the primary definition of rhetoric
is ‘the undue use of exaggeration
and bombast’: Further down that
list comes ‘the art of prose’ and the
‘art of influencing the thought
and conduct of an audience…’

And you fuckers wouldn’t let
us into your playhouse,
laying claims of baser instincts,
you dust farting windbags?

Where I come from we call a spade
a fucking shovel:
You rubes didn’t dis us ‘cause
of baseness and crudity;
you did it because you knew full well
that we'd smoke you gilded lillies
at your own game.

Suck down some hemlock
and ponder that, you posers.

La Familia Vigiano

2009-09-12T15:58:00.001-05:00

Like his father
and his father’s father,
John Vigiano Jr.
joined the NYFD;
his brother Joe
the NYPD.

John Jr. was given
his Grandfather’s badge,
number 3436;
only those two
wore that shield.

Their dad,
retired with throat cancer,
spoke with his boys
every day they worked.

On the afternoon of
September 10th, 2001
he talked with John,
and the next morning,
with Joe, who told him
what was happening
and that he was headed there.
Both calls ended
with father and sons
saying “I love you.”

Both sons died that day.
They were 34 and 36 years old.

Chia Obama and the Neuticles

2009-09-02T13:44:00.000-05:00

Great band name?
Killer independent film?
No, it’s advertising!

Wondering what’s wrong
with the world today?
Look no farther...

For only nine ninety five,
you get a terra cotta bust
vaguely resembling El Presidente
that grows bright green hair.

You better pick your afro daddy
‘cause it’s flat on one side;
ch-ch-ch-chia!

If that don’t float your boat,
how about Neuticles?
Faux testicular implant for
for your neutered pet.

Does your pup suffer from nad envy?
Put an end to that sad shit today
with Neuticles!

My fucked up country
according to the ad folks;
I think I’ll keep her!

Bandito Lyle

2009-09-02T13:31:00.001-05:00

My pup looks like Lyle Lovett,
an unruly doggy fauxhawk
topping his mop

Tejas born and raised,
him up on his pony on his boat
probably makes good sense

In my mind’s eye,
seven pounds of Shih Tzu
leads an adoring Large Band,
strummin’ a vintage Gibson SJ.

Tapping the toes of custom Luccheses,
he is resplendent in
black piped, white western suit
and matching Mike’s Tom Mix hat.

Crooning into a Shure 97
he winks at the girls,
eye fur carefully trimmed.

I’d buy good tickets
for that show.

Lester W. Polsfus

2009-08-13T14:40:00.001-05:00

A chunk of four by four
became the guitar
that made rock roar.
The Les Paulverizer,
overdubs, delay, phase,
multitrack recording.

Duets with Mary Ford,
Les Paul Now,
Chester and Lester,
Monday nights at Iridium
with Lou, Nicky and John.

Always a player,
a spirit like his,
so rare.
Ninety four years
we were blessed.

Vaya con Dios
old friend.

Dans Les Herbes

2009-08-12T18:03:00.008-05:00

In the weeds,
dans le merde…

In restaurants from
Mickey D’s to Le Bernardin,
they know what it means.

It can happen because of too many customers, or
you may know exactly who caused it
sometimes even before they do.

One can fall in, or start in.
The best day
can go to shit
over one bad plate,
one burned sauté.

Once you’re in, all you can do
is put your head down
and work like hell.
You might get out, you might not.

Some get scared, some get mad
some go to the bathroom
and never come back.
But everyone will
get caught by the beast.

Critter Haiku

2009-08-12T13:53:00.003-05:00

Rat dog snores on couch
cats slumber on floor and shelf
I can't resist them

In a Mirror, Darkly

2009-07-31T18:35:00.002-05:00

Have you checked your reflection lately?
really checked it
staring intently
when no one else is at home?

No disruption
so you can stare
for as long as it takes?

If so,
how do you look?
Who do you see?

I did today
it gave me pause
but I am not entirely unhappy
with what I saw.

All the life that I thought
had been excised,
was still there.

What I thought I had become
was not quite there yet
though there were signs...

In the end
I can be hopeful
of what may be,
wary of what has been
and perhaps smarter
for having seen both.

Why Newspapers Fail

2009-07-29T15:30:00.000-05:00

I have been a fool,
believing that journalism
is the reporting of news.

Eyes wide open,
I find that it is actually used
in its pejorative sense;
unmistakably slanted,
sloppy, superficial writing
done solely to further
the sociopolitical, monetary, or religious
plans of the overlords.

When times get tight
the first thing to go is substance,
leaving us with lists of who killed who,
who screwed who, who’s pretty and who’s not.

And they seriously wonder
why we’re not interested anymore?

Dumbing Down

2009-07-28T11:24:00.001-05:00

A fledgling poet,
I learn slowly but surely
to pare down,
to say only what must be said.

In that vein, I search for a word
to summarize the ills of our world.

I find it in menticide,
the systematic undermining
of a person’s beliefs, attitudes, and values.
It comes from the Latin for ‘mind killing’

As Walmart and X Box replace
market and entertainment,
Starbucks and You Tube replace
neighborhood and community,
computer and television replace
conversation and reading,
We become one close-knit world of idiots.

Let The Day Begin

2009-07-26T15:29:00.003-05:00

She was a nice girl from a close, loving family,
a cheerleader and National Merit Scholar in high school.
At nineteen, she managed a local grocery store and by 23,
all the stores in the area.

Happy, successful, popular and positive
she had a wonderful life right up to the day
that some asshole introduced her to cocaine.

For her, like so many,
coke was a siren song that could not be ignored.
Overnight, life changed from dream to nightmare.
She lost her job in a little over a year
but being resourceful business woman
she knew she could sell coke
and maintain a lifestyle and a habit.

She was not the kind of girl to be
satisfied just stocking the produce aisle, so to speak
she was more interested in wholesale volumes.
This is when, as a narcotics Detective in
the local drug task force, she came onto my radar.
The smallest thing she slung was an ounce;
she could be counted on right up to kilo weight,
with consistent and impressive quality.

We caught her in a roll up from street level.
Once we knew what we had, we took our time
made several buys from her, had things well sewn up
before we smashed through her front door
and put things to an end for the time being.

She was polite, friendly, honest and still had a sense of humor
although she had segued to shooting the shit
into her veins to get her required dose.
Of course, it didn’t get her high any more
it just kept her from feeling as shitty as she would
if she tried to stop.

She understood that we’d be taking her house
and her car and that she would be going to jail.
She was a perfect adversary; smart, accepting of the risk
willing to take responsibility for her actions.

She was out in something less than two years,
on good behavior, of course.
I became aware of her again when all of a sudden,
familiar patterns of sales and weight and players
reestablished themselves.
I knocked on her apartment door one day
she was genuinely glad to see me, still friendly and cordial.
We spoke honestly, and I told her I’d be after her again.
She smiled and nodded and gently patted my arm,
saying “I know what you have to do.”

I asked her why two years hadn’t cleaned her up
and she blushed and shook her head, saying
“Because I know it’s still there…”
I left my card, and feeling really badly, left.
The shit was killing her quicker than either of us knew.

After that, she paged me now and again, and we talked.
I told her how dangerous the business was.
She agreed and explained that this was why she always
kept a “Coke Boy” around; a non-aggressive young man
almost equally addicted, whom she got stoned in exchange
for company and tacit protection.

She now had a bald spot on the top of her head
from her tearing her own hair out
in frustration and pain when she could not
raise a vein to poke. The last time we spoke,
I told her I was afraid someone was going to kill her.

About a week later, we overheard a call for patrol,
a Trouble With a Guest report at a local hotel,
that prompted the well experienced Officer
to call for the Sergeant shortly after his arrival,
with a tone of voice that chilled us to the bone.
With cop sixth sense, I looked at my partner
and said “Oh shit, it’s her.”

It was: Someone had bashed her brains out
with a champagne bottle and left her in the room
taking her money and her coke. Of course,
it ended up being her little coke boy
that we eventually arrested for murder.

The night we found her, I searched her apartment
feeling angry and sick and responsible.
Sixth sense sent me to the stereo.
I opened the CD player and found a disc by The Call.

The first song was called Let the Day Begin.
I punched it up and listened to the chorus;
Here’s to you my little loves, with blessings from above
now let the day begin.
Here’s to you my little loves, with blessings from above
now let the day begin, let the day begin. let the day start.

I took the damn disc, put it right in my pocket.
I own it still, that exact same disc.
I still feel chills down my spine when I play the song.

Tag, yer it.

2009-07-23T17:08:00.003-05:00

My friend Dave tagged me with the following challenge: Come up with a set, (or sets), of four things that have something in common. There is no restriction on the number of sets, but you gotta come up with original topics and then tag someone else. I am tagging Del Cain and Steve Mann via Facebook, (They're fellow poets, they aughta bite on this...

Here is my four:

Sid Abel
Ted Lindsay
Igor Larionov
Brendan Shanahan

What are they and what's their connection? They are Detriot Red Wings Wings who won Stanley Cups! And yes, wings twice in a row is purposeful - They were wingers, as opposed to centers, defensemen, or goalies.

Sid Abel was the third member of the legendary Production Line with Ted Lindsay and Gordie Howe. Igor Larionov was one of the first of the famous and hugely talented Russian players to come to the NHL and succeed, at 31 years of age. Brendan Shanahan is the epitome of a grinder; not flashy, maybe not famous, but always there, scoring consistently, and a tough two-way player.

Twisted Esoterica

2009-07-16T11:53:00.001-05:00

Do birds whack off?
Are cows romantic?
If mosquitoes have the largest wangers,
do the blood sucking ladies
equate foot size to shlong?

Do bees even have knees?
How does one quantify a cat’s meow?
Is wherever birds of paradise live
exactly that?

When dogs bark together,
are they talking, or is it more akin
to the seagulls from Finding Nemo
calling “Mine?”

What exactly should I do
with your drift, were I to catch it?
And if you really hope to say,
then why the hell don’t you?

Are crazed bitches really rabid?
Do bastards truly not have moms?

Where did ‘Bless her heart’ come from,
when what is really meant is
‘She can’t tell her ass from a hole in the ground?’
And what shall we make of someone
who really can’t tell that difference?

When the cows come home,
do they know they’re there?
Just how much of a chance
does a snowball in hell have?
Has anyone ever really amputated
a body part just to spite their face?

Why in the hell would a bird in the hand
by worth two in the bush when all they’ll likely do
is poop on you?

And finally,
if it really don’t beat all,
are we in trouble?