Making friends should
be easy, but it's not.
Casting them aside?
Much easier: just
leave; stop calling;
move away. Soon your
life will be pristinely
friendless. No one to
mess up your agenda of
uninterrupted nothingness.
36/100
YESTERDAY’S poem!
I wrote it while flying cross-country at which point food and drink became more important. The clock kept ticking. By the time dinner had finished, it was nearly time for bed, and I just plain forgot the poem. (But will he post one tonight?…)
Sing, Muse!
Come, Muse! Grace
these cells laden,
encumbered, bracken-
masked, alone
Swing Inspiration's
sword, cut these bonds
which cruelly imprison.
Sing! May these cells
quiver for joys just
now birthed, for new
connections made,
for purpose kindled,
for feelings restored.
35/100
Bubbles
Severely compromised
immune systems
require bubbles for
environmental
safety. What will
protect us from our
world's toxicity?
What bubbles have we built
which protect? Which ones
trap us in noxiousness?
34/100
Sparks
Missing my old choir buddy who died last December. He always, always, stayed deeply involved in life. In his 80’s, having just beat his battle with cancer, he trained for our local crisis hotline and began counseling the suicidal and the abuse victim. Anyway, thought of him today in mass, and this poem began.
Why his clarity, his ocular spark,
so near does death's shadow creep?
Others, with near-dead eyes, long
encumbered by that dark shadow,
seem to have surrendered. What?
Something. That spark, that signal,
that engagement. Oddly, we note
both say similar words: "I'm
ready to die. Take me, any time,"
but our engaged example
has said it all his life.
33/100
simultaneity
The Lord will keep your foot from stumbling.
—Psalm 121:3a
Simultaneously he believed
in volition and predestination.
Quoting popular humor he noted,
"No single raindrop believes it's
responsible for the flood."
Ever drops of his life accumulated
Submerging possibilities until
his life-as-sailing-bark found
only one harbor, only one course.
"Certainly I could refuse that harbor,
this line," he thought while
he beat course straight for it.
32/100
Poem #31
Whew! Made it! Tied up with my poet-compatriot.
Where do they come from
these words, thoughts, strung
together, willingly
or not?
Loquacious parents,
spouting words treasured
for oddity, scarcity, for
impact?
Reading voraciously,
"anything, anything!"
never passing chances
to look up unfamiliar
nuggets?
Listening to my
erudite professors,
my pompous friends,
my intellectual
media?
Or do they pop
from somewhere beyond
experiential ken,
lexical amino acids making
newness?
31/100
I sat in morning’s glory
A recent sit on the porch yielded too many “morning” poems for one day. Herewith…
I sat in morning's glory:
Sun on my left shoulder.
Squirrels, possessed, scampered below,
imitating smaller chipmunks.
Finches swooped from roof
to feeder, then returned.
One belligerent wren whistled
insistently. Towhee sang softly,
Wren's backup singer.
Suddenly bird-laughter through
dense pines. Pileated woodpecker
taunted from his shadowy
safety, hidden. Sun limned
dawn's clouds, painted our laurel.
I wondered: could daytime meet
My morning's grand promises?
30/100
Riches unspendable
In an effort to write a 31st poem be the end of July 31st, I offer up this wacky little number. It suggests to me I’ll rewrite it one day, but I think it plays well enough to post. Let me know if you agree; let me down easy if you don’t!
Buckaroo Banzai in dimensions eight,
Cannonball Run, pray for roads that are straight.
Diamonds Are Forever, but memories fade.
Old age resembles a slip into shade.
Memories clamor over thoughts for today
They seem truly meaningful, but never play
With younger crowds climbing Memory's stair
Who'll discover old age when they're least aware.
Experience once built riches to hold,
But today their accrual equals fool's gold.
I live in this land of depth, of meaning,
Until I slip off into Life's last evening.
29/100
To John Brunner
Joh Brunner’s The Shockwave Rider sought to show a near-future version of what constant change would look like, basing this premise on Alvin Toffler’s non-fictional book, Future Shock. In the process, however, I’ve believed more and more that he foresaw what our society has turned into 50 years since the book was published.
You wrote of youths walking
tightropes over alligator pits,
spectators screaming, "Fall!
Fall!" all for "fun," for
'cash considerations.'
Do you recognize us now,
John?
Show after 'reality'
show trumpets screaming
contestants. We live through
damaged people baring
their emotional problems
all for prize money, that
get-out-of-jail-free excuse
for any type of boorishness.
Inevitably it creeps into
our society where it's okay
to scream at someone if
it's justifiable. John,
we discover in your story
that everyone breaks down,
no one has privacy, that
drugs keep us happy, docile,
that society breaks into
cults curated for profit,
that criminals run what
seemed to be our
government.
Do you
recognize us now, John?
28/100
Yards
We live secret lives hiding
behind masks of mutual
pleasantries as we walk
our dogs, stretch our legs,
work quietly in our yards.
But these yards keep secrets
poorly. They reveal us to our
world more clearly than
we could ourselves.
Eastward my neighbor's
carefully curated lawn,
shrubs, flowers give way to
substantial but well-contained
wildness, trees, vines, anything
which chooses to grow there.
"He bites off no more than
chewable, this one," says
his yard. "He values order,
beauty, ornamentation.
His dogs bark freely—why not?
They come when he calls, they
serve him. Who needs more?"
I cannot see his front yard:
perhaps something deeper?
I think not; well-maintained in
back means more so in front.
Southward lies bare minimum.
Years ago, ten or more, she
planted irises 'round her
mailbox. Nothing else blooms, front
or back, which can be seen from
street or another's yard.
In back lies one small patch
of grass, some flowering trees.
Hidden deeply in vine-shrouded
solitude lurks her tool shed,
never visited, never needed.
Twice each month she brings
in mowers to keep her lawn
in check. She limps to deck,
to her car. I surmise once
someone else lived with her
who took more interest.
Northward lies ambition,
community, family. Just
prior to pandemic's pause,
its yard under new management,
benches appeared around
one fire pit. Party lights
dangled between trees,
firewood racks popped up
along their back fence,
which received repairs
inside one year. Next they
tore off rotten wood, remade
their basement, attached
two decks amazing for their
sturdiness, their beauty.
"When Jesus comes back,
those decks will still be there,"
he told me. No lawn appeared
in back after previous residents
let chained dogs wear it down.
Instead, frisbee golf came. Camping
gear occupied some space.
Everything about it screams
"Family! Friends! Comfort!"
Here? Our yard underwent
metamorphosis as I allowed
'natural' grass to grow unchecked
until I realized its invasive
nature. Then, shaggy
unkemptness gave way
to nothing-but-garden.
Its haphazardly located plants
reveal how poorly my dreams
get realized. Our back yard,
torn asunder by summer's
torrents, reveals how ill-
conceived our landscaper's
plans, leaving nothing but
soil to wash away...while
revealing my trust in what
others promise me. Now,
unwanted green strangers
laugh at me: "Go ahead,
pull us up! We have more
numbers, more patience
than you. We will prevail."
And so they shall. My yard
says, "Good intentions,
poor follow-through. Perhaps
some sense of romance."
27/100
all the voices in my head 