teacher erases
marker mistake
expo stains
still left behind
a tinge of red
under the blue

The result of life is death
The price of life is your sanity
The toxins leach more from each drawn breath
Eating away at both mind and body
One day more replaces you with one day less
A simple enough concept conceptually
Everything living is born with this terminal illness
No one has ever survived this tragedy

©2024

~ for spygrandson ~

with deep affection


https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/


<>

I am en~titled
by him,
commissioned by his exacting wording
of this poem’s titular naming,
all my previous attempts are failures,
over designed, too artistic
for his modest self~reckoning &
bearded demeanor,
they demanded
denial with
request for
simplicity of an unflowery
reckoning,
a clean shave,
so to speak…



a potholder of simple design,
a modest picture self-drawn,
but his stories are
sorties tall,
he draws you in, worthy draftsman sketches
of words, tales short, poems complete,
tales so sweet, of characters uniquely complete,
and you think,
can they not be fictional?

and you know they’re no such thing,
ok, maybe,
some taller and a few perhaps dreamed,
the big characters of those
giants of simple men,
whose deeds were not mythical,
ok, almost mythical…

but truth of the humans of the hammered and nailed tough skin,
who built homesteads in the
plain, in mountains, by rivers that snaked,
unmapped,
except on their hearts and feet

the humans,
that made up
the raw & naked bond holders of
these United States:
bonded by character to the soil and
its curvaceous dancing topography
from
& of the center of our country,
but with eyes keen enough
to stretch from
coast to coast,
to see to shining seas

yes, true,
the grandson be he
to/of an almost mythical man,
and so took thus
his penned name,
the grandfather, a real person
of whom stories are yet told,
for no one can be sure
that & of what deeds
this spy did,
on hostile, unfamiliar,
continents,
but the photographic proofs,
I have seen…

His blood thickened by many infusions,
a cross cultural experiment,
happily not unique,
just **** rare

but enough of this;
read him,
let his
tongue take you to
the unfamiliar,
a literary Ansel Adams,
who never saw the plain(s) men & women,
unworthy of being forgotten but
forever being
celebrated


ask him for a potpourri of his short stories
of war, the bonds that men forge in combat,
tween the dead that still live on and
the living,
who have unreadable dead spots within,
they carry their dying glances,
their dying wishes,
and who are honored by him
in his continuing recollections

with walking stick in hand,
even if going outside
to “just” measure the snowy depths,
he leave markers and trailers,
for us to recall how to weep,
from love and pain,
from following generations of his
beautiful blonde
children who are poster models for
the traditional all american imagery,
but thriving within,
with  his
wanderlust, his mixed fiery visions,
and acting, singing out dramas
befitting their inherited
visions…

<>
here
I cease,
here
I weep,
at the impoverished words
scrivened in haste,
through tears of pleasure
intended to give honor
to this man,
who cedes me the pleasure of his existence,
and enhances my world
when he asks me,
unwittingly commissions!
a poem,
about
the human character,
who see himself unusually!
“as a potholder with a simple design”
and as usual,

I fail miserable…
maybe,
nick the outer edge of a bullseye target,
because the important words that he deserves,
I have not yet mentioned:

honor, loving kindness and friend.

perhaps he is correct,
but doesn’t grasp
that without simple men like him
to hold the *** upright and firm,
we all would be lesser or
even lost.


maybe,
now I am one
with
done

People,
Creating their own hell
Let's keep it simple
Try to be real for a spell
No spiel,
Just an obvious tell
Deceitful,
But not doing it well
A sequel
Was always going to be a hard pitch to sell

©2024

Is there inherent good in people?
Who's to say,
Nothing is that simple
With little to no meaningful example sample
One's left to guess what to shed and what's essential
For those not raised to be capable
Those who struggle with both an internal and external battle
Or wound up with a broken porcelain bone handle,
It's hard to shake the fragile label
And always surprising who is willing to use it as ammo
There is good, there is evil
Most linger somewhere near the middle
Remember though,
It's not that simple

©2024

Have you ever had one of those moments?
You know, like;
when before you can begin to get a sentence in, you see the other person's eyes roll.
when words of wisdom sound arrogant and cynical.
when you know you're being far too critical.
when your obnoxiously focused on the most simple wrinkle.
when your little issues seem to flip to psychosis and drive you mental.
when your own thoughts threaten to send you to a hospital.
when tomorrow feels like just another obstacle.
Those moments when breathing feels impossible
When contemplating turns suicidal
And dreaming becomes unbearable
That special moment when it sets in that this doesn't feel like living,
This feels more like survival
No?
You've never had that feeling of being out of control,
Lost in a downward spiral?
Where you swear,
This mountain used to be a molehill...

®2024

Sometimes it's as simple as squeezing one thought into one quotation
Sometimes it's too wordy to reach that satisfaction following an end
Sometimes it's simple but ya can't find the words while missing all the signs
Sometimes it's complicated but can be illustrated in just a few lines
Sometimes you can't figure out how to coax it out
Sometimes there's no stopping it from getting out and wandering about

©2024