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
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
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
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
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
Chipmunk flies into
air: ah, it's a sparrow!
Eats seeds as before.
25/100
A funny thing happened when I started writing my poem for today. Halfway through a different poem said, “No, write me instead!”
A true tale….
I once read a book
where every distinct idea
received its own line,
prose as poem,
purposefully presenting them
in bite-sized pieces.
I remember it because
at sixteen years
I learned about infinity
this way, how
one infinity can be bigger than another.
Before this, I had thought
"Infinity is just Infinity,"
never dreaming
"it" should be "they,"
never considering
they could be quantified
(kind of).
"Think of all the numbers on a number line,
how they go on to Infinity.
Call it Set A.
What if we add one to Set A?
Call it Set B.
Set B must be bigger!"
"Think how a number line goes from Zero to One.
If you go halfway from One to Zero,
then halfway again,
and so on:
obviously you'll never get to Zero.
It's an Infinity, but...
since it's contained between Zero and One,
just as obviously it's smaller
than the infinities we discussed with Sets A and B."
My mind was blown. No
wonder I took psychotropics.
What else could I do to
fill the spaces it had made?
23/100
Rainy day,
peanut butter on
whole-grain toast,
lentil soup.
Waterside cabin,
fried eggs,
syrupy pancakes,
bacon dikes the syrup.
Chore day interrupted by
grilled cheese
sandwich
dipped in ketchup.
Warm breezes,
cold-cut sandwich,
cheap potato chips,
airborne laughter.
Hot-off-the-grill
basted shrimp,
salt-air seasoning,
rosy sunset.
Fully packed car,
open road,
charcuterie lunch
eaten while driving.
Opening Day,
roasted peanuts
(shell on),
Yuengling Traditional Lager.
Salty tears,
wedding bells,
niece/nephew giddiness,
families-becoming.
20/100
I’m writing a poem a day (sometimes two), and now I’m 20% there. It’s causing me to rethink poetry and my approach to it, when and how I’ve written it in the past.
Every major city seems to have a botanical greenhouse where tropical conditions have been created to foster the growth of orchids, bromeliads, and such—or “July” as a resident of the American South might call it. I left just past noon today for a 25-minute sojourn around the neighborhood. When I returned, our weather gauge reported a temperature of 81.1°F and a relative humidity of 88.8% (now registering an even 89.0% 30 minutes later). Lighting was poor: completely overcast, the sun approaching its zenith. That’s okay. My poetry attempts have been poor today, also. This is my second try, the first being filed in the “maybe-it-can-be-saved” bin. This really isn’t poetry, more poetic prose, artfully arranged—unless it’s true what a friend said, that poetry is what I say it is!
Every Southerner learns gradual
acceptance of sweat, wears loose
garments, overlooks each other's
spreading stains. "Only mad dogs"
indeed. Why walk now? Surely
my Fitbit will multiply steps
taken in such weather?
Escaping my climate-
controlled cocoon,
black-eyed susans cry
welcome. They're sprinkled
beside rattlesnake master,
goldenrod, butterfly
weed. Abiding our warmth,
humidity humbly, they
suggest I follow their lead.
Minutes later brings one
patriotically-colored
whirligig, neglected,
spinning madly with each
new breath of hot air,
much like my country
does these days. Inured
to these new great divides,
I just see [whirligig;
patriotic] as I pass.
One neighbor's mailbox
decoration swings madly
with each puff of air. Its
caretaker keeps it small:
Chinese fringe flower
usually towers twenty feet.
Where once I wandered scrub
woods (leftover nature long
subdued), newer years brought
townhouses, all units clad
in ubiquitous white,
(accented with charcoal trim!)
Townhouses get
young magnolias,
crafted ever-so-
perfectly by your
local nursery, while
everyone else
nurtures what
such abnormal
specimens become.
Headed homeward I give
friend Crow midday greetings,
reflect upon our tree-bound need
for vegetables in front
(sunlight dictates placement),
admire still-red maple leaves,
register my soaked T-shirt:
its limit of three-quarters mile,
exceeded by my four.
18/100
all the voices in my head 