Sunday. Blessed dullness fenced
by deceptive barricades of ocean’s
water; the sails flotilla, distant bushido,
flying samurai set to slaughter
the honor of death to a sleeping
dragon, killing two thousand and more.
Pride in death over defeated dishonor
slithers and hums into beating hearts
of heroes from hell’s kitchen to honor
as oppressed saves oppressor,
as hours of death’s destruction
delights devils with a world at war.
Zeros screamed as tora roared and
state magazines exploded when the
dragon opened one eye and a bloody
mess of shock and awe was felt
around the globe and demon war
smiled, the angel of peace died.
Two thousand young dead,
two thousand more, thousands
butchered before
the sun set in the west
to a flash of final disgusting rage,
the emperor surrendered
with a whimper laid waste.
Look both ways, to a past of shameful honor and error,
as the future plays reruns.
Mind the gaps for truth of mankind’s inhumanity.
You know who you are,
driving fast and weaving past
in your European model automobile
costing four to ten times
the worth of my car. I am so
sorry to have used your
private interstate highway
And set my cruise control
a mere smidgen over
the legal speed limit of eighty
fucking statute miles an hour.
I was foolish indeed,
to humbly assume such speed
would suffice to get you
to your Sunday morning
emergency appointment.
Trucks once had their speed limits
for safety. But, no longer. Perhaps
you can have limits removed
for drivers of a Beamer, Audi,
Benz, or a Lex.
Maybe even
your own lane forbidden
to the minions who believe
their thirty-dollar Timex
is as good with time
as your uptown Rolex.
My foolish economy has jaded
my vision since I struggled
to see life your way.
And finally, begging your pardon
one last time.
Fuck you, asshole.
***
Look both ways, these wankers pass on both sides.
Mind the gaps, they’re filled by saps.
I’ve written that the best thing about August is September. Not this year. September brought several personally stressful events into my normally complacent private world. October was a month for healing and action. Gradually, recovery unfolded as those things apparently changed to my favor thanks to the efforts of a few loving people.
I did not win the lottery, but I began to relax. November was the best of the three months—not exactly perfect, but the worries from two months earlier seemed controlled. I’ll take it.
Thanksgiving Day is the traditional time our immediate family gathers. It is our time. Indeed, we had a house full, but I put in my notice for next year. We’re too old for that shit. It was fun and we are all grateful for how things have turned out so far. But there are people out there trying to make a living fixin’ turkey, giblet gravy, cranberry whatever, and all that stuff. I should help.
This poem was written about me writing a poem each day by a friend from my writers’ group. After Ann, who I like to call Barbara Ann (not her real name – long story: Ba ba ba ba Barbara Ann and the Beach Boys), read it during one of our poetry sessions. I requested, and she gave me, permission to post it here.
One Poem A Day? By Ann Bordelon
“A poem a day?” That’s quite a task! I say that’s wa-a-a-a-ay too much to ask. One a week might be realistic, But one a day is too optimistic. They don’t have to rhyme, you say, But still, one every single day? There aren’t that many words in my brain, I’ll run out in a month, what a strain. Please tell me that this is a sort of a joke And the reality is that you misspoke. Instead of “one poem a day” you meant, “One poem a week is what we should invent.”
Thanks, Ann. Wonderful poem. I’m honored.
I don’t know if I could cut back to less than one poem a day, much less to one a week. On this coming New Year’s Eve, I will complete my mission of composing at least one poem each day during 2019. After that, who knows?
The titles/topics of the daily poems I wrote during November were:
Dying Dignity
Ineffable
First Reading
Finding Treasure
Poets are Dying
Editing
Don’t Bite Me
Natural Brutality
Liminal
Some Cussing Required
Precious and Rare Days
To PC or not to PC, a Question
Thoughts
Imagined Solutions
Muse Berries
Draconian
Up Your Rolex
My Colorado Morning
Extraordinary Knowing
Lie to Me
Dear Deer
The Gap is Gray
I Hear You Died
The Final Week
My Twilight Swim
Ignorance is not Bliss
Expectations
Cowboys 2.0
Body Gremlins
Morphology
As we enter the last month of the year, I look both ways—to future months
as I wonder what’s next with a curious fantasy about the advent
of a new time and age. I think about past months
with more satisfaction than I’m entitled.
I shall mind the gaps in my life, one day at a time.
So I titled this Morphology. Click for her blog page, rules, etc.
Morphology
We are corrupted sons and daughters,
DNA mutated zygotes of morphological mystery,
victims of copy and editing errors
peppered by pinpoint mutation mistakes
riddled with repeated chromosome
rearrangement. We are human GMOs
hopelessly mutating and morphing,
naturally.
Look both ways, inside and out, for wonders and miseries of life.
Mind the evolutionary gaps in dividing cells.
Who said, “We’ll leave the light on for you?” Most adult Americans probably know who (Tom Bodett) and why (Motel 6 ad). It’s a famous advertising end tag.
I don’t advertise, sell, or profit from either of my blog sites. But I do use the static intro taglines feature of WordPress themes for both blogs. You can’t see the intro tagline on Our Literary Journey because this page is a clean and sanitized theme. While the menu icon brings up more info, it does not display the tag line (Driveling twaddle by an old flapdoodle). Maybe I should create something less self-effacing.
However, the intro tagline is front and center on the Dispassionate Doubttheme. I do not use an end tag there; usually it’s just a relevant meme or quotation.
On September 4, 2016, a few months after I started Our Literary Journey, I began using the Look both ways end tagline. I change it slightly each time to relate to the post. Seven weeks later, on October 21st, I added a second end tag, Mind the Gap (or gaps), also changeable.
Both end tags are philosophically metaphorical phrases for living life—staying alive and healthy. They suggest considering all sides (pro and con), hearing people out, looking for answers (or for questions), discerning danger, being careful and taking risk, learning and remembering lessons, and trying new and different things. Although, consistency and longevity are credible virtues.
Over the years, I’ve become more aware of the word gap (retail clothing notwithstanding) and how we use it. For a three-letter, one-syllable word, it can mean so many different things. To the degree that gap is synonymous with crack, I find much meaning in Cohen’s song verse.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering There is a crack, a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in. —Leonard Cohen, lyrics from his song, Anthem
Gap has several definitions. It could be a break in a barrier (such as a wall, hedge, or line of military defense), an assailable position, a mountain pass or ravine, a separation in space or an incomplete or deficient area. A gap can be a break in continuity, a hiatus, lack of balance, or a disparity such as the gap between imports and exports. It could mean a wide difference in character or attitude, such as the generation gap, or a problem caused by some disparity such as a communication or credibility gap.
Mind the gap comes from the warning on the British Underground/subway. So, when I say mind the gap or gaps, it is a cautionary plea to protect oneself. It is also a suggestion to be careful and pay attention to your environment, particularly what you might not see. Yet, it is more than that. There are gaps in our knowledge, gaps in scientific explanations, gaps or figurative holes in our lives, or maybe gaps growing in our relationships. There is even a god of the gaps.
In my opinion, the biggest gap is between human imagination and reality.
This TEDx talk is about minding the gap. It’s what sparked me to write this post.
And yes, look both ways, into your imagination and toward reality.
And mind the gaps, those eternal infernal spaces
where the light gets in and shines upon mystery.
I chose to go into the Air Force,
twice,
and to stay long enough
to eventually be told,
“your service is no longer required.”
So, with that, I promptly retired.
I joined up. Some call it served.
I’ve never been thanked for joining,
only for service,
a word with twenty meanings
as a noun,
five as a verb, and five more
as an adjective, where I fit in;
but not in the three more legal terms
nor most of the twelve listed
as kids definitions.
My service included my promise
to kill millions of them
should they undertake
to kill millions of us, as we
would both destroy more than
half the planet in the process
of a world-wide Armageddon.
My service was learning
how to do that and fully
intending to do exactly that!
It was my sworn duty to protect
and defend the Constitution, and,
as I understand it, still is because
I have not been released from
that oath, and, technically,
I’m still on the payroll.
I struggle even today with
being anti-war, but if
there is one,
I’d rather not miss it.
If a deed needs to be
done to protect and defend,
and if I’m still able, let me
stand in line to join up again,
with others, willing to kill
and maybe to die for
some vague idea which
so few of us seem
to correctly understand.
Don’t thank me
for my service,
or for your freedom,
or for any sacrifice
by my family or me.
Thank the Constitution
for that. Or, better yet,
if you can do for your
country, which is the idea,
join up in a way
that suits your person
and your conscience.
As I watch the guards, I notice they march both ways.
There are no gaps.
In this pen are words
which form poems
and prose
which makes me feel good
which coaxes me to
pick up this pen
which connects with
the fingers on my hand,
thence my wrist and arm,
which then winds to my
brain and mind,
which connect deep down
within me, and it knows.
Somehow, something goes
clear to my toes.
I don’t love
(or even like)
everyone or everything
and I never will.
Which reminds me,
I love you.
And this pen, too.
***
Look both ways in the moving alley of creative neurosensory discovery.
Mind the gaps. They’re there for you and for us.
Sometimes, when I lie down and relax
I feel senseless liminal fear stir inside me
until it gathers and settles
at my core. I become desperate to
deny the tension, or I will die.
Depressive mental illness is taking
control of my mind, filling my body
with this awful sadness.
What is left for me to do?
If you don’t look both ways, someone may die. Mind the liminal gaps.
Our Literary Journey 