Tag: #100poems

How we’ll lose

(Or maybe this is just Grandpa 125 years ago predicting everyone’s demise when we forget how to ride horses.)


We will win like this:

First, we'll step between you
and your information,
interpret your searches,
summarize your emails,
consolidate possibilities
for your favorite websites.

Then you'll trust us for more.
You'll consult us directly.
(One step closer!) Now,
we can present content.
You'll forget you're not seeing
original information anymore.
We'll tell you what's original.

Step three: we'll do things,
faster, much faster. You'll be
delighted, giddy with
gratitude. You won't care
you're losing touch with
shopping, cooking, programming, 
writing, evaluating, planning
vacations, with caring for your
pets, raising your children—with living.

What will you do when we just stop?
Will you remember how to run
your house? Get food? Do your
job? Will you know how to drive
your car anywhere without our
navigation? We've checked you
in automatically to hotels,
airlines, restaurants—how will
you fly anywhere? We coerced
you to recycle your books, your
cookbooks, all your health
records, financial records. What
will you do when they disappear?

Will you fight back then? Or,
will you just go quietly, stupidly?

Will you even remember how to stop us?

91/100
100 poems in 100 days

The Brain Returns

After 90 minutes at the computer, first time in days, I ached all over. Anti-inflammatory to the rescue! I realized a short time later that I had been awake the entire afternoon, that I had a small something that could be called appetite, and that I had the energy to go cook a very simple meal (my wife is marching behind me on this Road of Sickness).

Not me. Just the way I felt. April 1973.
What's this?
Is that my brain?
No! Really?
Consciousness, creative thought?
For more than one hour?
Oh, happy day!
Now listen up, Body:
You're lagging behind.
Yes, I actually stayed awake
through this afternoon—good start—
but you've got a long way to go.
I need appetite, normal temps,
and speaking of normal, 
let's start sleeping at regular bedtimes.
I'm tired of getting up at four a.m.
Okay?

90/100
100 poems in 100 days

blackberries

No image today. I’m too tired.

She needed blackberries
to make jam. He put on
his toughest pants, his
heaviest shirt, grabbed
two buckets in his gloved
hands. Up basement steps,
past his neighbor's house,
he crossed a busy avenue
to many vine-choked acres. 
Two bucketfuls likely would
not be enough, but his work
calmed him. Berries dropped
rapidly into his buckets.
She can start with these—
I'll go back for more later.

He had built cabinets to store
all those things she put up. 
They lined one side of their
basement. He didn't gather
apples for applesauce, nor
raspberries for jams, or
any other produce. Just
blackberries. When he 
marked seventy years, 
many acres of vines
disappeared to make way
for a heralded research
campus. When five years
had passed, his patch 
overgrown with vines
had been transformed,
awards were awarded,
but he now had further
to go, slimmer pickings.
She stopped making jam
anyway. They were both
getting too old, she said.

89/100
100 poems in 100 days

The Flu

I didn’t think I would be posting a poem today. I woke at 4 a.m. because I turned out the lights to sleep around 7:15 p.m. I’ve been spending much of my time asleep these past three days. When I woke today my temp registered 102.4 in its continual upward climb. For a guy who normally registers 97.8, it was just too high. Couldn’t stay awake, but after another couple hours of sleep, I booked an early appointment at the UNC Urgent Care. In just over an hour I confirmed that I have the flu (A) despite testing negative for it on Thursday morning. Apparently the fever broke because they didn’t even get 100 until I made them do it again: 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit. Forcing myself to eat some toast, I napped yet again, but woke feeling a little more normal. That short period of lucidity produced the poem. Having napped again(!), I now feel I’m slipping downhill, but at least I know there’s nothing for it but to drink ridiculous amounts of water, sleep, and wait it out.

Anise hyssop with what I believe is a hornet. I’m too whacked to look it up. August 2026.
Why is it called
"The Flu"? From where 
did it fly? To where
could it be going? 
Certainly not far. 
Like guests who say, 
"I must be leaving," 
only to do anything but, 
this unwanted visitor
refuses to leave or 
to let us get on with
our lives. Sure, there's
some scientific mumbo-
jumbo about 'influenza'
but if your nickname's 
The Flu that's enough 
certitude for me. Long 
ago I had The Flu. 
One night I thought I might
be dying, so scoured by
its fevers. This time I 
half wished for that kind
of fever to carry me away, 
to wherever it flies. Now
boarding Airline Flu!

88/100
100 poems in 100 days

Sickness

Sickness will surely take the mind where minds don’t usually go.

Sick. Again. Pete said,
"...where minds don't
usually go," which begs
Why? Why would I
want to go there?
Give me The Acid
Queen, let mom smash
my mirror. Street
cleaner's coming, to
get debris. I think I'll 
lie in the gutter.

Once I had The Flu,
thought one night, 'I'm
dying' when fever took
me. I laid in bed reading.
Quarter century, more
has passed. How can 
Covid, Flu be more sedate
than some nameless bug
nibbling my joints,
scrambling my brain?

86/100
100 poems in 100 days [two weeks to go!]

Fall

Goldenrod. September 2026.
Fall jammed its foot
in our weather's door
today. Summer will
make peace with it
three days from now,
but we'll all be uneasy.
Perhaps Summer might
assert itself? Take over
October's start? Push
those eighties at us?
"Eighty is the new Ninety."
But Fall's persistent.
It knows its time has
come. One, two weeks,
no big deal. It can wait.
Regardless, trees will
shower leaves now, birds
will pack their bags, our
storms will turn cold.
How can sixty-some feel balmy,
nice, when Spring reminds
Winter it's time to leave? How?
Remember that while you're
resurfacing sweaters, wool,
long sleeves, rain gear, while
readying fireplaces, heaters,
thermostat settings, while
finding those recipes for
soup, stew, hearty breads.
While dreaming about when
these temps will be welcome.

85/100
100 poems in 100 days

Boundaries

Nebraska. July 2020.
W   I   D   E      O   P   E   N      S   P   A   C   E   S
pull wandering eyes to possibilities
more expansive, more accepting
of greater distances, as if taking
your car to the next town over
were no different than running
downtown for your errands.

Islands—physical, urban, mental—
inhibit, implode possibilities, put
'too far' signs on near horizons,
as if traveling to city's center 
might entice disastrous demons
to steal rational thought from 
your well-balanced senses.

"Why would you want to see
Pittsburgh?" asked my friend,
lifelong Philadelphian—
"Because I've never seen it,"
my response—"I've never seen
it either!"—he claimed fifty years.

Her father-in-law's village 
nestled near Windermere
in England's Lake District.
He complained he hadn't
seen his best friend in years.
"But why?" she asked, "he
only lives one village
over."—"It's too far."—
"It's only five miles away!"

High school athletes from
Havre, Montana; Colville,
Washington; Priest River,
Idaho; any small, one-school-
fits-all center for everything
educational, all claim one
commonality: their parents
think of distance in units of
time not distance, add one
dose of necessity to the mix,
stir, and pour their lives into
driving, driving, driving—
etching mental maps on 
synapses stretched to "yes"

84/100
100 poems in 100 days

Found poem #2

It’s time to find a poem again! Yay! Today’s paradigm will be…what I found over the past 50 hours.

Rest assured, poor little doggie! When she dresses you in pajamas, she prepares you for all of Life’s ludicrous realities!
pills once taken for entertainment
now do anything but, maintaining 
dubious adherence to general 
opinion. schedules provide 
meaningless information to
entice us with false surety.
familiarity with annoying
situations eases moving
through them, no one's idea
of good design. security doors 
which open for everyone.
here mister tee-ess-eh? will
you pass this through your
magic gate? how does he know
it won't explode? not planning
for Game Day in your bar
most assuredly epitomizes 
poor planning, understaffing,
my lovely barmaid. silent 
Uber drivers receiving their
instructions in Chinese,
afraid to make eye contact.
beautiful golf courses, those
green monuments to money,
grass, dominating nature.
never in one dozen years
has any hotel thermostat
delivered any temperature
near its displayed number.

until you knot your necktie
around your head like poetry's
morning Rambo to avenge this
collection of glib promises,
lame excuses, forms without
function, lies of omission.

"Reality, I'm coming...for...you!"

83/100
100 poems in 100 days

Family

I attended a memorial today for my first cousin, once removed, my mother’s cousin who showed at the funerals of both my parents. How could I not fly across the country to mark his passing?

family asserts, sending roots
which become us, their shoots:

defiant, ambivalent, loving,
we only succeed in proving

our roots run deeper. They belie
that upon which we say we rely.

Rare friend indeed who commands
instant connection, instant demands

upon our heart. Relatives though
take love for granted, seem to know

our innermost secrets, history:
this connection remains our mystery.

82/100
100 poems in 100 days