A bit trite and a bit short, but this will have to do today. An Irish stout has designs on my mind!
Adrift, but found
my course plotted
without my ken,
without approval.
Yet when my course
pointed me to
where I'm now,
I found this port,
suited me just fine.
47/100
Twice in two days my wife has caused me to take a good photograph. Yesterday it was, “whale! there!” and I snapped the photo that graced today’s poem. It was one of those point-shoot-hope-you-have-it-pointed-right kind of things. Today almost occurred the same way. She pointed to a swooping bird and asked, “Is that an eagle?” Yes, it was, and thankfully I resisted the urge to zoom in with the telephoto. I don’t think I could have captured the bird otherwise. Better to zoom in the editing phase. (Thank you, digital darkroom!) Not that I didn’t zoom, but the above photo represents only 50-60% of the original.
In another poem I’ll try to convey this weird feeling I have that a pretty decent vacation isn’t going that well. This moodiness infects me on quite a few vacations, and I joyfully welcome all the times I just seem to go with the flow and have a great time, despite inevitable setbacks. It seems enjoying yourself takes precedent to enjoying the vacation. Today, I’m just trying to capture today.
Another paradisiacal day
surrounded by memories,
good, bad, indifferent.
golf, tantalizing money suck;
couldn't do it now anyway.
constant gray weather
wearing her down,
then wearing me down.
whales! no, just rocks.
but birds: familiar,
strange, tiny, grand.
trip's end trips up more
often than not. "What
do you want to do?"
"I dunno. What do you?"
Bumper-to-bumper others
live out their dream while
we duck into breweries.
No dinner plans almost
equals no dinner. "What
should we do tomorrow?"
46/100
I wasn’t going to publish this, but I have nothing else to post.
“Come,” they say, “let us get wine, let us fill ourselves of strong drink; and tomorrow will be like this day, great beyond measure.”
—Isaiah 56:12
Everybody has plans until they get hit for the first time.
—Mike Tyson’s original quote, 1987
I didn't have plans,
assumed life just carried on
unchanging at its core. Her
"I
want
out"
paralyzed me, uprooted
me from where I'd planted
myself: in challenging soil,
yet gamely trying. She saw
it similarly, acted where I
could not: shook my dust
from her sandals, moved on.
A younger she healed me or
I healed myself while
healing her, perhaps,
unable to address what
drove her to like me at all.
"Rapacious" said those
gossips around me.
"You lucky bastard"
from some friends.
We parted semi-friends
permitting my truer healing
with my truer partner, this
time with eyes open, no
longer encumbered by
thinking tomorrow mimics
today. No longer presuming
it will last. No longer secure:
I take nothing for granted,
stay present today instead of
presuming tomorrow.
45/100
Man, I hurt. My accident of three weeks ago has left me two stiff knees, broken bones in both forearms, assorted pain I think is more broken bones in my hands and wrists, and perhaps a strained tendon in the ankle which rolled. My shoulder hurts from what I suspect is bursitis, and if I told you how it occurred doing nothing you would shake your head. The minor but ever-present ache in my right hip seems almost superfluous at this point. All of this inspired this poem.
New pains attack daily.
Old ones settle in like
fringe relatives who won't leave.
Memories don't fail, they
crowd each other out.
Challenges also pile up,
sapping desire to grapple
'yet again' with those never-
ending tasks which repeat.
But....
Small moments harbor
poignancy unfelt in youthful
years. Sunsets seem
more magical, plants
more interesting. Good meals
sustain constant pleasure.
Music, books span decades!
Undoable projects, now doable.
Time? Alternately your
friend, your enemy.
44/100
It’s…a poem. Conceived while driving 35mph around turns, barely speeding up on a short straightaway, then braking for the next set of chicanery.
Rumble Strip
Rumble, grumble, rumble strip.
Tell me I've transgressed.
Painted lines define my limits
but frankly, I protest.
Sometimes you hide between
those lines, sometimes you
sit right on them.
We won't discuss your shoulder twin
who keeps me on all roads.
On this mountain highway,
full of twists, of turns,
it's not too likely I'll nod off,
bored, but still you're stern.
Worse than my car's lane-keeping
notes, which shrilly scold just me,
you warn each transgressing car
so non-discriminately.
I'll mention briefly how you blind
when rain sits in your grooves:
when puddles bounce bright sunshine
into my eyes--so rude.
In short, your presence seems
quite useless on this twisting mountain road.
Why don't you haunt our cities,
and quit this useless scold.
43/100
An in-person reaction….
colors add nothing
to dim lighting
dark wood panels
evoking creepy scenes
of disciplinary
sessions. Spa-like
ambiance collides
with strict Catholic
teachings. "how
many days will you
be staying with us?"
Bars (plural)? Sure,
tolerated then, now.
Amoral 'cosmic
travelers'? More
problematic. Why
wonder about your
nightly bill when
surrounded by such
groovy wonderfulness?
42/100
Stuck on this raft
of my own making.
Floating life's river,
ostensibly like you
but it's not great
over here. It's not
'copacetic' or 'hopeful'.
I'm hitting shoals while
you sail freely. This stretch
doesn't measure up.
41/100
This one’s a definite work in progress and likely an opening act for something much larger, perhaps joined to another couple I’ve written lately.
"Smoke 'em if you've got
them," and baby, do we.
Fires ravage more than
brush, trees, meadows.
Fires ravage lives, plans,
communities. Where smoke
lies, fires burn: why don't
I see smoke in my mirror
each morning? Where's
smoke as I gaze on my
love? Doesn't smoke
envelop me when when
I read or hear headlines?
How can I see out of my
car, encountering those
who lack driving skills?
How can we see our dawn
when fires surround us?
Our world's on fire,
yet we bemoan smoke.
40/100
Everything poetries
around me. Words pool
at my ankles, crowd
my shoulders, cry,
"Use me! Use me!"
Barely can I focus
on those here before
another set taps me
on my shoulder to
get my attention.
I'm a stenographer
in this crowded room
of strange voices.
39/100
all the voices in my head 