Archive | February 2016

Phenomenon of Thee and Me

Phenomenon of Thee and Me

The nature of nurture’s the nurture of nature –
A concept as pure as the burner gets hot.
When nature is treated as well as can be
Then nurture becomes second nature to thee.
Every kettle that isn’t, and pot that is not,
Are the only ones prone to such nomenclature.

Bubba pot comes of frisky at times, we may know.
Careful kettle with mettle for serving hot tea
Couldn’t care less what the pot wants to do.
In contrast, her temperament seems rather blue.
She may come around, though, and to some degree,
Some romance could possibly blossom and grow.

Take your shoes off, relax and just chill for a while.
This saga’s just starting. There’ll be much, much more.
The kettle and pot are soul mates, as it were.
Through karmic entanglement, as they prefer,
And their drama, they hasten to even the score.
Life’s a wonderful play. We are actors of style.

Engaging the Bang

Engaging the Bang

It’s a bang up job Someone’s doing out there
And quite Big, one might add just because it is so.
So who am I, then, to get bent out of shape
Over little stuff making me act like an ape?
But, perhaps I am one. That is something to know.
That’s because evolution’s a bit of a scare.

The Bang is the thing that becomes all of now
So long ago all that remains is a glow.
But it’s not an explosion occurred in one space.
Everywhere, all at once, became time within place!
The stream of creation continues to flow.
The quest without quibble’s to figure just how.

But, I’m not Dr. Tyson. I’m just an old man
Whose parallel path didn’t reach the same goal.
Accomplishments scarce, I have no one to blame.
In the years that remain, I reflect just the same.
There’s a dampening voice in the pit of my soul.
To go out with a bang is not what is at hand.

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror

You’re a kettle, my friend; you’re much too judgmental,”
Pot says to its partner for blowing off steam.
If I were you (and I am, by the way),
I’d replenish myself for a discrete display
So as not to endanger my self-esteem.
The problem with you is you’re tough and I’m gentle

Well, excuse me, you pot; I have no beef with you.
I’ve been on the stove quite a few times by now.
I have enough sense to know when to get off
My letting off steam is not something to scoff.
You may ask me to quit, but I wouldn’t know how.
So, the way that I am comes not out of the blue

“OK then, container; I’ll see it your way.
We have ways to respond to the guidance within.
You whistle a tune from the pit of your heart.
I keep heat contained. We’re an integral part
Of the puzzle of contrast wherein we begin
Aligning our preferences for things to say.”

Mister Misfit’s Meddle-hood

Hi, Neighbor, there’s something you should ought to know.
I’m a free man on free land that happens to be
Next to your place and your space, and that’s just a fact.
To suck up to you is NOT part of my act.
The cause for your judgement I can’t really see
And never quite could since a long time ago.

I know curiosity’s wholesome exchange
Among people who know not the critical heart.
All you TV-like minds with your nose up my ass,
If it’s boredom you’re fighting, I’ll pass you some gas.
Your stares and your psychic probes take me apart
And reconstruct someone who’s utterly strange.

Is it just how life forces a weirdo like me
To act as a normal one cast in a mold?
Keep your ‘healthy smile’ healthy and out of my face.
Creatures showing their teeth is aggression’s embrace.
Judge Ye Not,” I hear echoed from peoples of old.
Stay out of my business. Turn on your TV.

I tried learning Spanish… to speak it and such.
Yet even a speaker of English does see
My speaking (thus knowing) as nothing to take
As worthwhile and worthy of goodness’ sake.
There’s a Stick in my craw. That, I’m sure all agree.
If I don’t vent, I am sore to the touch.

Between Bones and Drones and Arches of Stones

Between rocks and hard places much value is found
In the laying of episodes, each to its peak.
Hardships stacked upon others lay way to an arch
So the effort involved is called true to the march
Of the ego’s transition towards what it may seek.
If our lives are not balanced we fall to the ground.

Among gifts and gift giving there seems to be choice.
Does the giver detach from intent just the same
As the one who receives knows not what to expect?
There’s no science to giving as I recollect.
The heart’s burning desire sets others to flame
As it cries out with fervor and firmness of voice.

Be Blessed today; there’s a Fulcrum between
The things that are heavy in life as it seems.
Tides and tidings of life washing through as they do
Will wear roughness ragged yet ripe for the new.
The Firmness that steadies our hopes and our dreams
Is a source of great power from which we can glean.

Farewell, Judge Soprano

A justice departed, seems moments ago
What with all that can happen within a short time.
I am someone whom you would have treated unfair.
Your body not cold, yet debate’s in the air.
Your replacement’s the issue; so is it a crime
That a nigger selects one amid present woe?

I am sure that by now you don’t care what goes on
With the sculpture you’ve carved of this thing called the law.
There’s a thing about justice one must understand:
There is office for everyone – even the klan
In a nation so free that it sticks its own craw.
I will learn to look past you before I am gone.

My disgust, now, is only with mankind – not you
I disliked you, dear justice, but now that you’re gone
As politics scavenges fruits of your passing
And as arguments for and against are amassing
The prayer is the hope that we dare to move on.
Released from this world, now, you have broader view.

A Goal Is an Excuse to Enjoy the Journey


A Goal Is an Excuse to Enjoy the JourneyA Love Supreme is one blessed by God’s Hand.
It’s a dream one must focus on, knowing just how.
If it happens one doesn’t (though never the case),
The desire alone knows wellbeing and grace.
I’m alone, as I like it.  I’m justified, now,
To blame bad behavior on subconscious plan.

All you lovers out there… I’m not jealous of you
For the love you are, wholesomely balanced and sane.
The illusion of sadness I’ll lose in due time.
My job, until then, is to make feelings rhyme
Perhaps for the sum of us who cain’t talk plain
Or just for the deeply disordinant few.

The calendar year’s a reminder again
Like a clockwork of greenery tunneled in love.
A leisurely stroll hand in hand with oneself
Might just make one believe he’s a lost Santa’s elf.
Who would put a damned rose in a fisted glove?
Someone rip snorting desperate to make a new friend?

A Person of Office

The Leader of Nations – a president’s call,
As a fireman sleeps right up close to his pole,
Or the radar tech poised in a dim radar room
With status lights blinking and circuits to groom.
Soon comes the time to put one in control.
Should that person lack ‘Office,’ then God help us all.

So just what is this quality judged by our minds
When candidates line up and tell us what’s wrong
With this country and those who are right now in charge?
Some quite gentle and calm… Some with egos too large.
The persons we chose from perhaps all belong
To secret cult orders and royal blood lines.

That may be a myth or big shark attack tragic.
The myth of the ‘Person of Office’ remains
The major criterion guiding our voting.
There’s little to do with what whom is promoting.
Maybe most make selections detached from their brains.
How else does it seem they’re elected by magic?

The Touchstones In Life

The Touchstones In Life

There are stones that, when touched, will touch back in due time
In the heart where they’ll ripen in warmth duly claimed.
These stones are the anchors that strengthen the soil
Of the soul’s inner garden that blooms without toil.
The stones are life gems though improperly named
Because most of our moments cost dozens per dime.

A grandma once overheard granddaughter say
One day while on picnic with family and friends,
This nice, shiny rock, all speckled and blue…
I will keep it for Nana.  She’d like something new

She’s not one to confuse any means for their ends.
She just wanted to fill grandma’s pocket today.

Shy of people to know and of people to love,
One can still gather touchstones of living in grace.
When e’er the world, pebbled, beneath humbling feet,
Acknowledges selfhood in all there’s to meet,
A pocket to tend keeps a smile on one’s face
And a strong steady flow of pure light from above.

Just Terrified of the Life Review

Just Terrified of the Life Review

I do not fear not being for how would I know
That I can’t know a thing – not even not being?
With no recall of life having ever been lived
All the deeds that we’re doing must then be forgiv’d.
Nonexistence is futile. There’s no disagreeing
Unless not to be is a good way to grow.

I do not mind dying, and I might as well not
Since death is a thing that will happen to us all.
I would much rather go in my sleep just the same.
To perish in a mishap would carry no blame.
If by sickness its quickness will strengthen its call
But it’s not that I think about death quite a lot.

No, not even the afterlife worries me none
If there is a place where we can all reunite.
The only thing that consumes me with terror
Are acts I committed while living in error
All displayed before me in the brightest of light.
I’m remorseful for some of the things that I’ve done.

Doubting Thomas

Yo, Thomas, get in here! Don’t chill in the yard.
I’ve something intended for your doubting ass.
I know well why you’re out there. It’s obvious, dude.
You’re a skeptic. Get over it, and don’t be so rude.
If I ran a Christ school you’d be ass of the class.
Stick your hand in my side, and don’t think very hard.

Why my Father made you so Dad blasted thick
Is a mystery still. I must ask Him some day,
Hey Dad, if you make a man dumber than dirt,
Does he always become, then, a doubting expert?”
Perhaps not worth asking… I will anyway.
My love for you, bro, is more solid than brick.

When I told your behind I would rise from the dead
Did you think I was smoking some weirded out wick?
My Lord and my God,” you say there on your knees.
I can see your believing’s no act to appease…
Well, Tom, that’s terrific; don’t lay it on thick.
We don’t do Shakespeare. We do gospel instead.

Congratulations, It’s a Thing!

The mind and the hand form a monster today.
It is one of a multiple birth that occurred
Over the half past fifty some hours.
With nipples erect never mind baby showers.
This infant is from one’s own consciousness spurred
By way of the will in the wake of the way.

Those Broncos did win though I wasn’t aware.
I was heavy in labor creating a thing
To offer me love so that I in return
Will show it some pride for which it does yearn.
So here and now I do make its heart sing
By posting its form over digitized air.

So, it’s not all that much; it’s a base with some taste
In its choice of color and flexible arms.
I just added a lamp and a switch on for size.
Who’d have thought I was pregnant? Gee, what a surprise!
This new baby of mine is a gem as it charms
The small boy in me who’s yet practiced and paced.

Open Mike

At a call center once when I worked as a call
A colleague of mine had a customer who
Would get on her nerves to the point where she’d say,
One moment please, ma’am; we will pause if I may.”
While on hold, then, this woman would spew
Obscenities certainly heard by us all.

For a brief moment, she’d take control of her plight.
She’d act out a short little fantasy skit
Where she’d play the role of the Empress of Terror
Her customer, that of the Empress Wrath Bearer.
She’d return whole and healed having just thrown a fit.
Her act was thus polished. Things turned out all right.

Psst, your mike’s on,” we would jokingly say.
She’d scoff at us as if no drama took place.
The urge to let loose… is it something to tame?
If we let it run riot, we’ll wallow in shame.
Our mikes are on always. We live by the grace
Of our fellows’ behaviors incurred day by day.

Writer’s Block

There’s an engine I work on whenever it needs
A Tuning. I like when it purrs like a kitten.
Content to run idle or placed in high gear
Someone might just speak of my writing this year.
Were that to come true, I’d be totally smitten.
Perhaps it’s by fate that the writer succeeds.

Nonetheless, I have nothing to fear of my block.
I am one who will own it despite its great mass.
As an anchor, it keeps the mind running in place
Yet it holds the soul tight in a captive embrace.
Other blocks on the highway… I’ll yield; you may pass.
If my octane’s not high, my poor pistons will knock.

Writer’s block is a myth. I will tell you it’s so.
It was figmented long before mind had a man
And long before apes said farewell to the trees.
If I’m stuck on some verse, it reminds me to seize
Every moment’s transmission the best way I can.
This verse is finished, now… no more to go.

Fickle Fate and the Fatted Calf

Please don’t stare at me, there, with that stupid look.
Say you want me to moo just for shits and why not’s?
I don’t play that no more; I’ve an attitude now.
Life seems big on the bull for the average brown cow.
That’s what happens in nature when man calls the shots
As he claims to the world that he plays by the book.

My own prodigal son… I won’t see him again.
That’s because fate would have it some runaway brat
Tried to handle the bull in the world on his own
He returned beat and broken and bummed to the bone
But the dad said, “Go find that young calf that is fat
And kill the poor bastard. We’ll celebrate then

So every time some young jerk takes a stroll
Then runs back to daddy with tail between leg
Some unfortunate calf whom had thought life was grand
Is led to the chopping block all as preplanned.
It would seem clear to me there’s a pardon to beg
‘Cause you runaway rug rats are out of control!

Bastions of Billowing Blitheracy

Today I failed an ill-blitheracy exam.
It was proctored by people I meet every day.
It seems I can’t blither the way others do.
Lord knows I’ve tried ‘til my pride turned pale blue
There’s nothing that’s said that is new anyway.
I don’t make normal sense; that’s the way that I am.

Were it hard to speak freely as most do with ease
There would be not a word from my tongue or the pen.
There’d be silence within all the chatter around.
My own little bubble… Oh, how sweet the sound
That saved a rich resonant wretch once again
From casting his own sense of worth to the breeze.

The want ads are screaming, “Dear blitherists please
Take note that we hire most all of the time.
If you can speak nonsense and keep a straight face,
You’re Hired! We value a seasoned nut case.
We don’t even care if you make lousy rhyme.
The world is your oyster. All nature agrees

Blue Tooth B-hicle

There’s a USB-hicle in that garage.
I can tell by the gigacharm in its style.
It is blue tooth enabled for better chew
Askew as it bytes through its binary queue.
I’d sure like to have one; I will in a while.
It drives Wi-Fi my alley; it’s not a mirage.

The hitch on that hickle’s a match for my socket.
My Type A dear lady’s in love at first sight.
She’d like to latch on to that drive for a spin.
With blue tooth on the roof, though, it just might begin
To whisper sweet nothings to her by daylight.
She’s better to keep one secure in her pocket.

Enough memory’s no fuss with a b-hicle bus.
I recall well when floppy disk drives were the craze.
People lugged pc’s around strapped to their backs.
Those floppies had, often, bad sectors and tracks!
As the stick on a chain, now, does shock and amaze,
There are marvels galore that for sure await us.