(a silly series of Senryus)

It’s time to cram for
final exams, again, so
here we go, mug up.

My mind, coffee dark,
drifts in academic dreams,
—think roiling oceans.

A ‘mandatory’
society meeting? You’re
not the boss of me.

I’ll shun or eschew,
if I want too, sidestepping,
like a tap dancer.

I'm not lazy - I'm
high tech and in energy
saving mode right now.

It’s a pointed and
conscious decision—I’ll do
me and you do you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Simply Couldn't Care by Tracey Thorn
Each and Every One by Everything But the Girl
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_14.mp3

It blew in off the sea

It went out on a limb

And broke the olive branch

Do you hear the wind through the hair of revolution

--black raven hair--

Bone straight and frayed

The split ends of society forging separate paths

Progression at their tips, regression in their roots

It makes a sound akin to the back of an old haunted house settling

It wandered here in due season

It's about to be cut short

It's about to be swept away

This could be
the last poem I
ever write.
I hope not,
but it's possible.

If it were my
last poem,
what would I want
it to say?
Wow, not so easy.

Poetry has been a
loving wife, and I
will miss her on
all those sleepless
nights, when dreams
don't come.
Writing poems have
kept me in touch
with all the harsh
pain, and all the
sublime beauty.
Both are supreme
teachers.

Poetry has opened
my ears to the
sounds of the
earth, the whispered
rush of the creek
running over stones
and sticks.
The cries of my
children in the
night wanting
their mothers'
milk.

If this were
my
last poem, I would
want it to bring
some joy and be
a bit less sentimental.
Oh well,
guess I have to
write more.

I teach my
little daughter about
things in the sea with
flippers, and I feel
like Neptune or
Posideon.
I can smell
the salty breeze.

Sometimes,
I feel like
I won the lottery.
Don't get me wrong,
I'm broke most
of the time, but
my life is rich with
golden memories, and
silver moments, built
one day at a time.

I long for
the sunburnt days,
freckled dreams and
scabbed up knees.
Ahh
to be a boy in
summer again.
My baseball and  
**** dog close at
hand.
Fishing pole and
lily pad ponds.
I caught frogs and
tortoises.
The budding poet in
me saw sunsets on
the underside of
the shells.

The daylight, and
evening seemed to
last forever.
And when I finally
went to bed,
The buzz of the
cicadas, and the
symphony of the
crickets were my
soundtrack to youth.
I dreamed in green.

ironclad clouds
rain rust
roiling
on oil slick streets
tired and torporous
turgid with pothole
wells of water

wildly
windblown
fowl run afoul of
flights of fliers


SøułSurvivør aka
Invisible inc
Write of Passage
July 2019

a monsoon storm in the
desert southwest is an awesome
force. papers are sometimes carried
up into the thermals to end up
many miles away.

A wish, to all, "I Pray",
   May your, "Turkey Day",
     be the best in, "Every Way".
       and the scales, "Display"
           how little, "We Weigh".