Oppressive Perfection
Most of my poetry
is marginal,
at best.
There is, occasionally,
that magical jewel,
like a diamond
in a goat’s ass.
Some snotties
may not like it.
Theirs
is no better.
Especially in January, look both ways like Janus,
but live in the present and mind the gaps.
Favored Bonds
With nothin’ left to lose, they closed their doors.
Perennials, long past thirty-seven point eight median years,
they lived what’s left of life.
She, an unwilling anchoress,
he a happy troglodyte of hopeful health.
With preeminence declining,
they stood their ground.
They shunned from their bubbled bastion those
who denied reality or died in denial
of reality’s science, as plagues of nonsense
took many from loved ones.
Together, they danced ‘till the end of love,
touched by mature minds.
Happy to be alive in a new world, until
the end of time comes for them.
Look both ways crossing life’s boundaries.
Mind the gaps and keep moving.
Oi, Nineteen: Lust Laughs at Love
Normally chic, now
nearly naked, she lounged in his lap
slovenly taking in
the stunning sunset,
Lamenting his languid,
lackadaisical lovemaking,
leaving his heart listlessly
lost to his long love song.
Feeling inferior
yet yearning to reggae
he cajoled and coaxed playful
music to prove she danced
not too fast for him.
Their love withstood the storm.
Look both ways in love and lust.
Mind the gaps as perfection is myth.
Be lovingly entertained.
Expostulated Love
“I love that man,” was what she said to me,
and “I hate that other one,” her follow-on, bait-switch statement,
that morsel of red herring to mislead my unwanted retort
to her bleating caterwaul. I knew this kvetch ranked
behind turd infected punji sticks in heart and soul.
Niggle not. Poetry is sycophantic art when inoffensive kindness
and socially sensitive ethics are euphemisms for hidden truth.
Look both ways, if he can tell it like it is, I’m also justified.
Mind gaps for expiration of truth.
She laughed. Called me romantic
After I read a poem. Insulted? Quixotic?
Me?
Defender of truth and reality?
Kiss my ass, Bitch! I have feelings, too.
Look both ways when crossing romantic hearts.
Mind the gaps for the barbs of the insulted.
From the Universe, I call down a pox upon them.
Dirae with Furiae shall tear their poisonous skin
to feed comrade vultures sitting in shadows of guilt.
Curators of dire curses upon innocents, dealers of death cards,
may shepherds of fools find woeful futures haunted
by those who paid the greatest price to dance with fantasy and lies.
Look both ways seeking answers, but beware
gaps of darkness are where truth is hard and lies come easy.
“The process of assessing how you feel about the things you own, identifying those that have fulfilled their purpose, expressing your gratitude, and bidding them farewell, is really about examining your inner self, a rite of passage to a new life.” (Marie Kondo)
New clothes were brought home
as treasured items proudly worn.
Gifts of love once remembered.
And cloth diapers for three babies,
none of whom used wash and wear for theirs,
but they sure as hell wore them.
Old shirts, their purpose long fulfilled,
now used to clean, dry, or wipe.
They’re washed, then continue to serve.
Old rags have memories woven into fabric—
from experiences with life;
from when first worn, old rags aren’t discards.
They’ve simply changed uses. Like people.
And memories. Lots of memories.
“…a rite of passage to a new life.”
Look both ways,
from the marvel of the mint to the value of the venerable.
Mind the gaps, but for most, “it don’t mean a thing.”
Left, Right, Left
Loudly, we would wrangle well into the wee hours.
Gene and I would worry all but us; uneasy friends, smok-an’ drinkin’ buds
with different ways we saw our world.
Not even—no more.
Look and listen both ways. Lean from friends.
Mind the gaps of age and wisdom, our unforgiving nature.
***
I Lied to Me
His first words,
“What will you get?”
With such words our brother
accounted for decades of silence.
“He can’t help it,”
I’d tell myself.
“It’s not his fault.
He was raised like that,”
I told myself.
“Forgive him.
He’s your big brother.
He should be your hero,”
I still tell myself—
Not some pitiful old man
Who’ll never understand why,
I told myself, again.
Our sister’s bequest
was that he suffer
as he caused her, but I couldn’t
let her love lapse, I told myself.
Look both ways with family and friends.
Mind the gaps, but learn to live without them.
Demonstrative was what Mom said,
but no one ever called me histrionic.
A sober adult, some said automaton,
a stoic robot.
One who cared,
but cared not to show it.
I wonder now though
about this thing with Carlin.
I’m unsure if I’m that good,
or that bad.
Look both ways into emotions and dispassionate objectivity.
Mind the ever-present gaps for stumbling blocks.
Our Literary Journey 