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Jordan Gee Feb 2022
early retirement                                           2.11.22 Mercury/Pluto conjunction

I’ve been cracking jokes lately,
when in the company of others.
When there was an opening in the conversation
I would insert a comment;
I would joke about my life in early retirement.
I would joke and say that I am retired.
It's obviously funny because I’m only 35;
fairly early in my second Saturn returns.

Over the last 18 months I’ve made modest acquisitions
fit for a retiree;
house slippers, a few extra lines in my face and
even a piccolo pipe with dark cherry Cavendish tobacco.  
They all fit rather nicely,
(according to my eyes)
when worn with my gray cardigan with the red whip stitch
suring up the right pocket;
the same cardigan I wore the night of the accident and the
morning of the ward.
That was an equinox to remember.

Maybe it's in poor taste to joke about early retirement.
Perhaps that it isn’t very funny to go on about,
or maybe it was only funny to me.
It hadn’t quite occurred to me until now that
it may be kind of awkward for a grown man to crack
funnies about his lack of income or industriousness.
I suppose I just gave myself a pass.
Because I figured everyone already knows I’m
a little unhinged-
a little ungrounded-
certainly a bit touched…
and that “he just needs time to heal because he is
an activated Light Worker and the benefits reaped
by his inner struggle to anchor the
Light upon the Earth plane is in everyone’s best interest,
and that it takes an untold exertion of Will to exact such an incarnation,
and that it takes more than a few several months for the
risen Kundalini to come to maturation.
Quick, can someone please get me a tourmaline.

Well, here I am in
southern Jersey
Manchester Township
Ocean County
Riverside retirement community
side of the pond (man made)
composite bench under a gazebo erected on a concrete pad.
Sitting inside my cardigan next to my piccolo pipe and a pen in my hand,
wondering how I could feel so lost and so found at the same time.

I’ve been a stubborn *******.
Afraid to bear my Light within my hands and
expose it to my kin in a meaningful way.
But here I am,
early retirement
on an early afternoon
in a retirement community
full of elders
slinkin through the
early dusk of the
twilight of their lives.
And I don't like it.
I am not equanimous with what is.
I’ve excreted so many toxins that the
re-uptake is nearly too much to bear.
I’ve carried empty green notepads in my back pocket for years.
Pen and pad with scotch tape holding down the binding;
worth about three or four poems max.
“Yea I fancy myself a writer, just not very prolific.”
You can only speak something into being so many times
before the universe starts agreeing with you.
Old man Saturn couldn’t give a **** about
little fears and excuses.
The limits of necessity were only
bad wiring
rendered by
my own hand.
And that goes down smooth like a fish-bone in the throat.

I own enough scarves and robes to
circumambulate the globe a few times.
If only I could fly
it would be in such style
because on the outside I look how I want to feel on the inside.
Before my heart center I hold the dharmachakra mudra and
I stare into a candle flame.
I could of sworn they prescribed this treatment
early in the Rig Veda for guys with ailments like mine;
running mad like beside his shadow and
fleeing all the house flies;
sliding down the side of a waxing crescent moon.

only the moon it is a scythe;
a crescent knife.
Waning in early retirement,
old man Saturn coming for his life.
death and the sickle
hebrew rope
and a buffalo nickle
O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Give me in due time, I beseech you, a little tobacco-shop,
With the little bright boxes
piled up neatly upon the shelves
And the loose fragrant cavendish
and the ****,
And the bright Virginia
loose under the bright glass cases,
And a pair of scales not too greasy,
And the ****** dropping in for a word or two in passing,
For a flip word, and to tidy their hair a bit.

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-shop,
or install me in any profession
Save this ****’d profession of writing,
where one needs one’s brains all the time.
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
The wind is ripping
From the sound of oscillating
Overhead 'copters
Splitting my vision.

In the peripherals;

       A polyester carpet—sleeping bags—breaks the dry monotony of summer grass;
       The bicycle courier awakes from said floor, listless;
       Important man, suited, takes calls from other men, suited — octopus arms scattering papers, receipts, coffee cups and tie;
       Two hard hat builders chain cigarettes and fight visible hangovers, droopy eyes staring down some impending scaffold.

And I almost miss it all,
For the passing,
Of oscillating 'copters.
Cavendish Square, London, July 2018 (on the day Trump's helicopters circle London)

As part of 'View from...', a collection of observational poetic experiments, whereby I allow myself five minutes to finish a poem regarding my surroundings at that time.
Joe and Rose’s Children

Joseph’s plane was shot down near England during  WWII
John was assassinated in 1963 of November Twenty-Two

Rose Marie Mary had a lobotomy because she was acting aggressively
Kathleen, wed Wm J Robt Cavendish and she later died unexpectedly

Eunice married a great man,  Lieutenant  Robert S. Shriver
Patricia wed actor Peter Lawford, their marriage wasn't forever

Robert wed Ethel Skakel, he was another that was assassinated
Jacqueline Bovier felt sure that the Kennedy’s might be hated

Married to Stephen Edward Smith
Jean was wed to him until his death

Edward (Ted) late one night drove off a bridge at Chappaquiddick
Reporting the next day about Mary Jo Kopechne was quite horrific

Ted was married twice, first to Virginia Joan Bennett  1958–1982
And then next until his death Victoria Anne "Vicki" Reggie too

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
JB Scotsman Oct 2021
Radiant blast of fury and fire.
Mixed and hid inside like uranium in iron.
Wild boy dreams and finds, Nirvana in art.
The art of words, the sculpture made with hands. The music of those dead too young.
A briar wood pipe carved with care.
A smoke of Cavendish hovers in the air, like a phantom.
Mind free, purpose pure.
Perfect peace inside a volcano.
Jack Jul 2017
I wish I could tell you things I could tell you
Things I know and things I wish
I wish I could tell you things I could tell you
The things we say are Cavendish
You know me and I know you
More than you ever know
But unless i tell you things I could tell you
It all comes down to Caberdeux

I wish i could tell you what i know you
There are words i cannot say
Except the 'deux and cavendish,
and nor co lique co lique oo lay

These are our words
From back when
Why don't you
Remember them?

Tell you or don't
I cannot say
But noir colique colique quelay.
Elder Gents studying their cards , a rollicking game of pinochle
on the lawn , Black Cavendish tobacco sweetens the air as they sip on RC Colas , dine on Moon Pies ...
Southern Belles reminiscing over coffee and shortbread cookies ,
young guitar players selling songs , gray pigeons making a living ,
hard at work on the busy sidewalk ....
Retired lovers window shop Main Street , a penny for their thoughts
today at Noon ...
Copyright February 21 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Lawrence Hall Jul 2018
Let the childhood dose of cod liver oil
Perish from its own sour smell and foul taste
Send yellow squash to the poor children in China
May Popeye keep his spinach to himself!

But not bananas!

The appeal of the peel, yes, what a deal!
A wrapper that children may throw away
A summer-yellow star sky-spiraling
Onto the garden grass (it’s good for the soil)

Alas, poor banana, joy to eye and tongue:
Why is it that the Cavendish dies young?
Note: the banana is not going away; the sustained monoculture of the Cavendish variant is said to make it increasingly susceptible to disease. If it fails, other varieties will be cultivated.   As Rick did not say in *Casablanca*, “We’ll always have bananas.”
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
Rope to ***** the weather, sweet sixteen dreams
The mirror tells we can have some fun in teams
I can't find my reflection anymore, searching in eloped reconnaissance streams
Lassoes in the sky, stealing cars under the starlight standing in strong dreams
Another day in paradise, looking better in paraplegic purging preteens
The electric fuzz on your face touches my standing goosebumps gleam at the ****** seams
Bumblepuppy acolyte turning at the prongs of the tattered road, calling up your Hessian friend and making politics right at the sanguineous pea-brain lean veal after the mob gets out on Russian ruby streets running with honesty
On the other side of the world, where the sun sets and polite moonrock never survive on The Berlin Wall tonight abseiling away sealed away, waiting for the ballot or the ballet
Waiting for the limelight to subside, guts tellin' me to keep my self in lowly mad hatters tied to napes, hundreds hanging by weather reports claps in laughter, descending tents by the brook beaming at us in starry dynamo of the thousands
Losing himself in a lucid dream of what was once the world's reality now sleeping, dead presidents in stygian darkness
Hanging on to the word of the weatherman, crime is rising in Russian motherless children hung for misdemeanor looking for a metaphor, the nation understands and wants to know us
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns, we are at the trapdoor
Resurrecting the insurrection, pejorative for misnomers and draconian dead beats sibilant suss
Too bad I see the whole earth, on my body stains on laconic red flags, still fly indeed
Flying in the wind, like idiots in the weatherman's underground cuss dirt into the report sowing dead seeds
Unable to see the sun behind cold clouds in stormy weather, battered suitcases breeze by murmurs talking by-lines and stolen **** in ****** underwear ****** unable to breed
Then, the bombs falling and shifting with changeling wind charred sun under the unbeing reading in the Aurelius light
Thousands in the starry dynamo might outshine us all and the nation can't hold us back and keep us far from the fault in stars
The silver lining in the cloud, puerile virile as lady lying Glasnost to the prognostic benzedrine patient
I've never seen a can in hang in stormy weather
Charting out the Chinaman on the hydrogen shore, communism is on the brink of helium war with itself, viscerally hanging from Tomorrow's daughter
Whipping up the foamy sea like cold ice nostrums thawed in search of the antidote to warm red planets named after Roman Gods
Looks like the sea lord created a thalassocracy for the sea cursed by memos and pastiche, droll parody in the mewling hall of the rebuke of free-prose poetry hanging on the tinkering lampshade
Touch me now, never or now bullish books read the list of people who were once on this winding road just like us shining crummy ******* now in a handful of stardust
Being is tougher than living, and the berserk wind keeps changing
Under forked lightning, it gets worse when the spoon picks me up
In my wet dreams, I'm killing myself hurting to find if you can put your mind to this cornish dream of Cavendish and hashish
Stuck in the stitches, and the ******* don't drip blood and sweat it
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns already
Murders on the mystery train, never reach the orient station looking for a whimsical refill
Halting sloth the indolent, I remember redolently like moth attracting to the blazing coruscating gleam, that's when a screaming teen becomes an upstart or a fiend
With an iridescent grin, caviling on the shore asking more from jackknifed business kitsch photos of the crosses
Throwing them in the trash, just like that
Ire of the nation broken with the lugubrious sleep of dinners after the summer's madness, hurt by the locked hearts in an armed madhouse looking at everything like geniuses
Asking what does it mean? Motifs and everything, lintels on the fluorescent signs on numinous streets caressing our wires, hanging by the piano wire
Waning adolescence now has a name in Hades' beard made of fiery pubescence that doesn't wanna listen
Tantamount to the king's orders, ligature marks on the hands that only know cuffs
The que glibly glistens in the lively dungeon
Hosted by bacchanal and mistresses, Elizabeth Bathory in the company of friendly books full of picturesque pedestrians on the streets of angry murders with ****** sleeved shirts
Blackened lackeys looking for a toss of change or pederasty with Countess Dracula
Moloch, you have made my life changeable despite skiffs
Moloch, I hang in the balance of the skirmishes of scorching fire burning at the midriffs
Easter bloc, ropes hanging for whoever doesn't wanna burn in the witch fire, sold for 200 pounds in a dilapidated home, till the berserk wind blows the candle out, old under Tudors that say a lot in a few words about style in art as slavery is merrily rampant
Killing the people, in the name of the republic of 1968 reminiscent of Phoenician Lands, rueful murmurs arouse the twisted looks turning out the traitors
From the rapidly changing wind, that brushes our hair and kills the pain of hanging to our families in bunkers
From the road of hope, I find some affliction in the forgiveness
Of my lord in whom I find breadth, heareth, endeth the breath that lendeth thy will, in the lengths of my souls searching for horizons in Old Earth
I died with my elegy in 1968, the wind still hoists flags in my name in death three years in the latter
Ken Pepiton Dec 2021
I heard and thought i saw use of little i
as real a right as any ever,
mess mass after all
Cheeriest, seen icy and cold cold cold
Scenic went on, ah, sin qua non, ai is
mechanical- sylabbic it can fail
to comprehend the sense
said so eloquent, ly lyl
ly
"The resulting cloud
is probably still up there
— more proof that it pays
to shoot for the stars"
https://hellopoetry.com/JohnnyPanic/
From <https://hellopoetry.com/>
- time immeasurable now
- and more
- again

Peter Thiel, I hear
speak from a height so lofty,
he may as well be royalty,
as earlier investor in
now, now being after the investment
in the past, a bet
on better later
if
if
ever can occur in time to soothe
the troubled soul of man,
gardener, and user of the source of life,
earth,
as we know it, the place in ever
where we are free to live as parts,
involutionally evolved beings

--- e-vol
- time immeasurable now


vivia covideonic

Nonsense speech

t
was called gobbeldy ****, as far as I knew

et
lies were, simple *******.

A day when
lone is the state, no, not alone

lone
state, l'one, I, me the one
been in ever since,

Me, the wannabe
loved for being
a lone example
st…ranger
lost in wishes and prayers
for strength to
believe being me was ever
worth
the effort

To effectually think fervently, this

Future from then
is now, you know, the at home viewers,
all nested in us-ity, we
the attenders to the feed, enter-tain mental
if-ity, we dom
dominating the ratings, everybody who counts

counts social normality as that which we lost,
when we lost
the thread that stitched the neighborhood, in town,
as all out near farmers, gathered to work
dawn to dusk, with seasonal adjustments

to use the sun, more efficiently, lightenment wise.

- time immeasurable now

Right. Say we agree,
right may be, elementally,
first thing I could do to fix
a piece of reality,
the matter bits, no the mater
bits, see, the t, does alter sense
we see or take as a handle, a little
hand, reaching toward me, to get
hold
grasp the point, and feel the point

knowing pain in time. lost, time,
shifting
back to prayer, yes ever per
happy-worth of knowing I have

a deal, only lieve being true, this
word
with which all we think we share
timespace, whole go play,
go, play, use the e availed of, up
re tire to the source of e, the e
in mcsquared away all we know
or need to know, about the matter
we were formed from,
curiously.

Say, or imagine, make a mental scene\

time immeasurable now

knlynptn'tis a name, a named thing,
Any named thing is a thing

scenes seen at timespace points past
hence
then
when that famous painter, whose
work is praised, while
many paint better, but few paint more
and I wonder
at the power, once, not so distant

whenwhere we


hey, I may argue
time immeasurable now
with an expert, in all sorts of stories
studied, but
I feel he never lived as one who lives
by cotton being cultivated,
to clothe the naked in warm places,
as is
imperial edict, no naked people,
but of the very lowest caste,
those who clean the grease traps, and
haul away the grease, to sell
to the chemist, who hires

karmic richmen to sift his ashes
time immeasurable now

Fifty false starts, years,
celebrated as new years about
to begin,
when
some knowing finds me seeking
answers, any
answer
sworn to match the oath
on me,
I must never forswear the oath,

ah, and what
if I did? Is the danger I might be killed
for swearing to believe,
an unbelievable arrangement of duty
ever
servant class, never higher class but

as we know
among the hens, there is an order,
and only one **** rules the walk
beyond the cage,
where eggs are laid, but what
do we know
nobody in here, but us chickens.

we weeders of the hardest rows, volunteers
by god, you best be

thinkin' like a freeman, if you everwas one,

beguiled by the shining thing
urging merging, with a passion

new,
some way,
she sees me now,
is new, she sees the
reason, for the ban on knowing
this sooner
than now.

this is how, we prosper, knowing
I am bare, and made,
for the warmer climates,
let's go back
south.

Just about then there was a star,
it felt new, there, see, watch
to the next
night, as the world turns, watch, see
there, that is what I once saw and learned
killed almost all life above chthonic subsapient.

Comet, some times they are pulled apart
so they leave a trail of craters someday
ai will notice, then,
there were survivors, sapient sapient, mortal
survivors who were south of
that snow ball,
from dreamtime
to time of internet usurped for peace of mind,
easy, easy, rest and learn a new thing

that is a ***** snowball remnant of
some several years at light speed,
often days, at attention taking thought speed,
instant
we discover our system of so rare a set of random
chances working together, not to gether
yes
to gather the stuff, to make what we see,
that took some imagination,

who would imagine salt? Or, me, or any thought

ort-sphere sized bubble planetesimal clumps
of
what ever mustablown to bits, that hit
gravitational equilubrium
ha, yes, if we may stretch the wonder there

the ort-sphere in outer darkness, accessible
at thought sped gravi-totality wave,

you got it. feel the shiver, now
call bs on the butterfly hurricanes, ok.

You are the smallest differ'nce maker, to me.

I thought of my wife, but
she is not my muse.
I thought of you, and you know
you are not my muse.
Who?
Whist-le
Use of the musical muscle, leaves me
aching to be rich,
and anonymous, in i-postilion to plain anonymous/

left hand, anonymous ruler of the letters used
most often to re-call forces, at the glance
a fit finger left-handed forces, may useful to right
read
the things the left brain, wishes to hold,
so laced up
so pro, onward on track in groove rifling winds
and polished lands, on  down range, aims
have changed, some notice now, that wisdom has
changed the worth of certain seeds sown
for profit, whither rains fell mainly,
as in Kansas or Serengeti,
or the steppes and pampas
grassy deserts- dust bowls, watered in circles
so, so, subtle, far, far more so
than any beast, eh, sub-sapient thing, used to till
the dust and rock,
grinding great icy teeth, over half a planet at once,

time and again, the chance of a hit,
happened as if the shell of outer Ice
is there

to make the air on the bit of ever we live on
breathable, by the time, the mitochondrial virus
finds an amoebias trip spring green twig

aha, are we breathing now? Can we lower O abit

OK, FIX IT TO CARBON, DOES THAT WORK?

no, shouting, we don't know, but we do know,
we shall know, does this work.
by way pre-Jur-an-assic time. Way pre oath
.
In the future, for, as you are aware, you do live
and read and have your being, long after
the final qwerty stroke, seals the yoke,
and the ox begins to walk,
bound to the thread, thought
linking all that is to all that ever is
round and round a mill stone spindle,
waste not, the labor
of laxity, seen as best, for me
who wishes this rope to finish winding
so I my pull
with all my might
twisting the spring, for another shot.

Up river, without a paddle,
this is how we fish for men, in the Stix.

Row row row, no no no
now we run a vintage superseahorse johnson

and go where few, prior to drones

and job experience that leaves a clear impression
of pre-monetization revelation being
need-to-know
secret
ah
hidden from…{wondering softly} who do you hmmm
whom to squeeze for more creative
try
umphshitoops.

so coming out of stealth mode, moments prior
to the closing bell on April 4, 2001,

when the call for Jewish Lightning rose from the
ashes of the Hud loans pre-savings and loan
dive in '85.

Does this corelate with the color of prisons, inside?
We could repaint.

-- and that much time, once more

Auture autisto o artisto did you think, ai, art
I
was autistic, but Newton, and certainly
Cavendish, were not? I may not say
but
what
were such odd ducks as we find leading to now,
a mansion made for me,
the well spring hot and cold in six rooms in my home
and four fonts with flexible courses,
water as needed, science detected dryness, which no
King ever imagined in his wildest bouts of now what
post puberty in a time when his teen boy word
was law,
imagine, prince charming, becoming Archie Bunker
after all
and you looked the other way,

there were fools planning bombs, yes, I know,

I did
have the experience, on occasion,
to blow a rock that may hold minable titanium
to dust. And, once
to watch an ARVN, fishing in a peasants pond,
for a laugh,
with frag grenades. yes.

I saw. As my dopefiend buddy descrived the night
VC frogmen blew the bridge

bv be very
sure, before I am lying and not, merely
prospering in purgatory,
purging stories I may have told, but offered up

do you know, the idea, sacred? can we make some,
out of respect,
for the dead you know, I know, I know, you always

and so, on we went, intent on touching some thread
of might have been that went
elsewhere, when you did not
read this far.

But this happened, and that did not.
Sacrifice, mortals never know the worth in reality.
I guessed.
I guessed you might, know.

— The End —