REALITY BITES:
New candy? Snack?
Those little video shorts
which interrupt my sci-fi show?
Philosophical stance?
Exclamatory response to events?
New television show?
Those little pieces of my
memory which seem to be intact?
Everything said
Resonates with poetry.
Meanings double upon
meanings, symbolism
wearing various guises.
Language delivering
beyond expectations.
English's beauty.
37/100
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
