I was afraid to go
to sleep last night,
because the two girls
in my dreams might meet,
Tatterina and Hugdalena,
so I sat up late,
drank wine, and
wrote this poem.
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 12:14 AM UTC
I was afraid to go
to sleep last night,
because the two girls
in my dreams might meet,
Tatterina and Hugdalena,
so I sat up late,
drank wine, and
wrote this poem.
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 11:35 PM UTC
I hope this isn't too brazen,
Wanted: girl, not so lame that she can't keep up, attitude above the clouds, willingness preferred -- destination: shared,
Mar 24, 2025
Mar 24, 2025 at 12:55 AM UTC
“Foxgloves were never meant
to keep them warm,”
said Sharkboot,
from the investigative branch;
"It eats the far face
of the wind," said Bones,
tugging
at the curling slunt;
shackles groaned
as another pen fell
into the pile
which had grown
beside the ream.
"It'll be three
before we're over."
It was Jimmy Cascade
making what little grants
he could;
amounts mattered to him,
the rest of the team
had long stopped
counting.
"After's better'n before,"
said Sharkboot.
Jimmy didn't care.
Moons were a thing
of the past,
a lost shimmering
on a lake hardened
to crystal
by Thumbnose.
The slightest give
on the surface
would have seemed
like falling;
rigid, hard and
unforgiving
were colors now;
tones, too,
and the brindle
men no longer
remembered.
"To sway,"
had said the poet.
But the command
came swiftly, "To sway
will dearly destroy."
Rigid the command.
Sway was brought
before the law,
the poet
was put to sleep.
Deep below the ream,
too deep to wander,
the mistling miner
found traces
of Carlisle so brilliant
it turned all grief
to brood;
down there
below reminiscence
with no room
to turn
or return,
hope was reborn;
Carlisle was the only thing
that could save them.
Squeakdoor turned to Thumbnose.
"There is a lot
of intimation left,"
he chided.
"What you have done
will not last."
Scientifically, Carlisle
initiated the brindle
and left freedom for sway,
and Jimmy knew it,
but he had been constricted
with direction,
afraid to sway,
to float free, and now
he only grew deeper.
"You can't figure it,"
cried his teammates.
Beside the ream, squints
grew into grimace,
not gradually, but
suddenly, tearing
at the fabric of the brindle;
Jimmy was left to
ponder his dilemma
alone; the odds
were too great:
Carlisle had been forgotten.
Jimmy was afraid he
would be forgotten, too.
One after another
the miners
walked to the edge
of the ream
and tore small corners,
hurling them away.
Jimmy heard the rustling
above him; before
the confetti would have
fallen like makeshift snow,
caught with the
hand, but now
corners disappeared
around thoughts
and words
were in jeopardy.
Jimmy felt helpless.
Choices grew fewer
and fewer, until
there was only the
words below him
in the Carlisle
which he placed above,
one at a time,
the next appearing then,
lower, matchless,
it might have felt
like falling,
but he had never fallen, and
everything was
rigid and fixed
and the displacement
was slow.
Offered the perspective
of time, Jimmy
would have seen the dip,
the softness, the shimmering:
the movement like dancing
or waves, his brave act
of placing Carlisle
above him,
between himself
and an insensitive world,
one small beam
at a time,
worthwhile.
Thumbnose begat crystal,
and crystal begat the hardness,
the hardness determined,
erective, budgless;
but Squeakdoor
intimated sway,
and slowly
dip broke into the
rigid, and straight
sagged, and ripple
was born.
Ripple begat shimmer
and shimmer reminded
men of the Carlisle;
but boundaries
were never given
to Carlisle,
for in the land
of the Slunt,
Carlisle is not discernible.
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 11:18 PM UTC
I want to share
my favorite poem,
but I cannot find it,
I have forgotten its name
and I am hoping
that saying all this
will bring it back
to me, but I am having
a preview of dementia,
and it is making me laugh
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 10:48 PM UTC
Explanations are available
if you are still around, you
said you were checking out,
but I still hear your sound,
I have proof of the things
that you wanted to know,
I have proof. You know.
You addled me so just
before you left, how could
you just go?
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 10:27 PM UTC
I have a small
patch of land,
just one acre;
here the world
is at peace,
the robins
and the cardinals
all get along;
the weeds
and the perennials
grow together.
There are no democrats
or republicans
allowed here,
they would
destroy the
ambiance
with their
vitriol. Christian,
Muslim, and Jew alike
may come and
worship here,
and I will make them
tea, and serve them
lunch; it is all right
to have an opinion
and you should vote
for whichever
candidate you want,
but do not bring
your blasphemies
onto my holy land;
the catbird is irritating
but I just drink my wine
and say, “shut up, catbird.”
He (or she) ignores me.
The wood bees are sometimes
aggressive, but I swat
at them, and loudly
assure them that they
would not be if I didn’t
let them bee;
at least, around here.
I have neighbors.
The ones to the west
do not speak
my language,
and the children
to the east
sound like wild animals,
like democrats,
and sometimes
even like republicans,
but we all get along.
I understand
you are afraid
of what might be,
but if you could
only see, that
it will work itself
out just like it
does here in my
yard, with a little
of my help,
but not because
of me.
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 9:01 PM UTC
my mind, my mind
is afire with artful
creations of words
and my heart is aflutter
with the anticipation
of usefullness,
the idea of mutual perception,
the hope of any modicum
of reminiscence,
the wish of forgiveness,
the happy distrust of memory
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 9:59 AM UTC
I have been to the reef,
I saw the fish,
I have been to the bridge,
I saw the manta ray
flying, I have been in the field,
and seen the people dying,
I’ve seen the clever
outsmart the hurting,
and politicians reverting
to unspecified claims,
hurling blames,
I’ve seen miners emerge,
their faces black,
the looks on their faces,
slack, witnessed the surge
of the incoming wave,
held a brave man, beaten,
overcome with surrender,
I remember it all, and yet,
I hold out to you a promise
I cannot keep, but keep
on hoping, that somehow
someday, all this will cease
and there will be a pause,
the promise of peace.
Mar 20, 2025
Mar 20, 2025 at 7:10 PM UTC
The birds that stick around
don’t sing much
in winter, I mean,
what is there to sing
about? They are cold
and probably envy
their migrating friends;
I hang with them,
through the winter,
give them seed and suet,
fatness to keep them warm,
but tonight, the birds
are singing again, and
the robins are back,
so, I guess it is
time to shout;
The birds will sing
and I will shout,
I will let my
happiness out.
let it be a song
Mar 12, 2025
Mar 12, 2025 at 8:42 PM UTC