Human Nature

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 10, Black Swan

To celebrate the achievement of ten poems to prompt, I am to write a poem based on a headline, cartoon, or other journalistic tidbit featured at Yesterday’s Print.

I selected one from The Bridgeport Telegram, Connecticut, October 22, 1954: “Pent up prejudices.”

Black Swan

To say
“I’m only human” is descriptive,
yet
it’s neither explanatory nor extenuatory.

But confirmation bias,
is as humanly normal
as old dogs scratching fleas.

I know I like it; I mean,
hooray for my side!
I like being right. But …

What if I’m wrong?
How do I control
for
them telling me lies?
Am I just
hearing what I want to hear?

Look and listen both ways.
Knowing we are imperfect leans toward self-awareness.
Mind the gaps in the political speeches
where back scratching helpfulness willingly hides.

NaPoWriMo 2024 Day 3, Boom Boom

On the third day of April, I was given, via prompt, the task of writing a surreal prose poem (whatever that is). Since on Day One I chose to poetically recount the plot of Going After Cacciato (Tim O’Brien), and since it is somewhat psychedelically surreal, I decided to pop a prose poem based on that, with sadly surreal over-and-undertones, metaphors, allusions, suggestions, and damn lies.

Taking this poem literally can lead to a bad trip, man. If you ask, “What does that mean?” I ask, “What do you mean by mean?”

Boom Boom

In the Nam, the tunnel was the cuckoo’s nest of tightly squeezed death. It all went down that way because the blind leading the blind works better than the blind leading the sightful spiteful since the can-sees commonly also perceive gospel. At the observation post, Big Rifle, Jungle Doc, and Ready Mix watched as Stink Harris got blowed up, floating away, leaving only his face inside his helmet: undead—with a smile. So, they slithered off on a hunt to hook Cacciato. After floating down a cliff, they caught the next train to Delhi where he had jumped one to Kabul! Afghanistan, man. Flashbacks were set to the green alternate timeline when they wigged out because of the oppressed wartime dullness of sightings in Iran or Izmir, Turkey. They hear Sarkin say, “the way in” and she whispers, “is the way out.” Shell Shocked sings it, “Billy Boy, Billy Boy, Billy Boy lived but he was too afraid to die.” He was then a dead head. The smoke clears in Paris. In The World, man. Because being in the war is such a magical and wonderful thing, dead or alive. Boom-boom!

Look both ways for the real never is,
and in every lie, there is truth.
Mind gaps and try, try, try to understand being universally lost.

Friday Fictioneers for March 1st, 2024

Fleur Lind provided the prompt picture that Rochelle has used to pull us up (or in). Click on the pic to ride over to her majesty’s blog of purple purpose to read up on the few rules we play by.

Here ye, hear her. Her highness spoke. Now get your sweet nibs over there and write your story.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind

Genre: Junkyard Fiction
Title: White Trash Redux
Word Count: 100

***

“Jayzus, Billy-Boy. What are ya gunna do with that old junk? You might get twenty-five buckaroos for scrap metal.”

“It cost more than that to pull it up, Roscoe. You’d never make it in the resale business.”

“Okay, recycling, then. Who’d buy it?”

“And ya lack vision,” said Billy. “It’s a vintage auto body with a story. People rebuild these things and resell them for mucho dinero.

Rosco asked about the story.

“I need to work on that. Maybe the Green River killer left a body in it or something.”

“Bull shit! You’re a lyin’ mother’s son.”

“Prove me wrong.”

***

 

Look both ways as a wary buyer.
Mind the gaps in the fenders, stories, history, and the salesman’s pitch.

Click on the truck salesman to read more fabulous stories driven by a little of lady from Pasadena.

 

And when he speaks his first words, hear this song.

Sammi’s Weekender #343 (window)

Click on the window to open up into Sammi’s page and other windowisms.

 

The Side I Never Met

Floating through darkness
I saw a light
in the black universe, one
dot, then
I determined
it was a window.

A woman was there.
She seemed to look but not see,
her blue eyes were calm.

I sensed
honest love, like a mother.
I could see longing—expecting
in her moist eyes.

Then I saw
the window was
a mirror of reality.
She was my reflection,
able to see into my past.
She was the image of the real me.

See both ways when looking through windows or into mirrors,
especially as metaphors of life.
Mind the gaps, the cracks, the wrinkles, and the patina of age.
Everything means something.

Sammi’s Weekender #341 (rhythm)

Click this graphic to read more and to hear the beat.

Rhythm is fascinating
to humans, animals,
even natural things
like rain can capture
the human heart and soul.

Even now, the natural pat-
pat-pat of my foot
absentmindedly comforts
my mind and soul.

A cat purrs out sounds
as birds sing their tunes
and the dancer begins
to move her feet.

Some days
the lyrics move me,
Other times,
it’s the beat
and I move my feet.

Look both ways at the lyrics and the music.
Mind the gaps where one saves the other.

I do so enjoy watching these dance videos with a step or two of envy. 🙂

Sammi’s Weekender #334 (Absquatulate)

Click on the graphic for Sammi’s page and more 85-word wonders before you absquatulate.

May I Stay?

After the poetry reading
everyone prepared
for their independent absquatulation,
with coffee in their bellies
and books of poems
in their hands.

Handshakes, hugs, and
complimentary laudations
were passed around
like drinks at last call for alcohol.

Those ambivalent moments
when the emotion of wanting to stay
gets trumped by the needs of the day
tell of our human dichotomy.

Back we go into the world
of confusion, confrontation,
and hate. The place we love
too much and too little.

Reading some Reading
might help.

Look both ways but write your poems and read them to the world.
Mind the gaps wherein common sense has flat collapsed.

Note: Peter Reading (27 July 1946 – 17 November 2011) was a strong-willed English poet. His verse is described as “anti-romantic, disenchanted, and usually satirical.” Glad I’m only labeled cantankerous.

My book of poems, “Any Way the Wind Blows” was launched yesterday.
For this weekend, it is available almost world-wide on Amazon at reduced prices.

These books make great gifts, but F-word and S-word warnings.

 

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 29)

Today, I was to cook up a poem in two parts. The recipe was supposed to focus on food or a meal. Part of the poem was to season the food as a person, and I was to give it some spoken dialogue.

Boiled versus Fried

  1. First this:

Newlyweds were we,
having moved to above her garage
from over on Waverly Way.

She fixed supper for us,
and I first met up with boiled fucking
okra, AKA, slimy green snot.

It was nineteen hundred and sixty-six;
we were 19; something, like this, well folks,
you just never forget, or forgive.

I’m certain I heard the grassy flavored
seed pods of gumbo thickener sing
eat me raw, you city slicker. We be worldwide.
I wanted to puke. I could’ve just died.
Embarrassed, I mannered-up and sighed.
And I swallowed the snotty lady’s fingers.

Little evil green monsters, till one day…

  1. Then this happened…

A crunchy cousin, nicely coated,
in some restaurant, called theirselves fried okra
provided texture to my tale and it was,
step back, Jack, we gunna treat ya well.

Old John Henry called it all “Okree,”
like old aunty of the Mallow family
with a funny first name
and John seemed to fuss over the food
in a good way, but I passed on boiled,
stewed, raw, or wrinkled. Fried
is the only okra for this damn Yankee.

Look both ways and learn to try, but texture counts.
Mind the gaps, but India grows most okra and now has the most people (not China),
and they must eat a lot of okra over there.

 

Click the button for more NaPo magic.

 

Fried okra.

 

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 25)

Today I was prompted to compose a love poem with three required aspects. It must name at least one flower (the Texas state flower is the bluebonnet, and they love them), contain one parenthetical statement, and have some
unusual line (like this)
breaks.

This Love

This love of ours
like bluebonnets flower
in Spring flashing brilliance
of blue, purple, white, red,
and like it knew,
maroon (if you look close)
in April then waning to green
by May. Yet,

This love of ours
thrives with
life—stronger after hard
wet Winter passes. The
flower gone
the plant lives like
our love. Fruitful.

Reliable. Dependable. This love of ours, like no
other’s (spreading, seen, felt)
cannot be trampled or destroyed (though some have tried).

Look both ways, forgive but do not forget,
let love be seen with eyes of envy.
Mind the gaps,
but don’t let them be more than
a seam on a garment, a patch in a road, or a lone weed in a glorious garden.

 

Photo by me.

 

Click this button for the NaPo page and more free poems.

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 24)

One week to go. Then poetry month and the NaPo challenge conclude.

Today we are to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. Define normal. Define review. I did a little rabbit hole hunting for things that should not be, but are reviewed. One guy reviewed life, and I thought it was great. I wrote a humorous epistolary poem.

Dear God,

I’ve tested this free soul
every day of my long life (thank you).
I understand this review
will be kept confidential.

First, my old soul has not aged well.
Mold and fungus are all over it.
What is it supposed to do again?
It seems to be useless like my appendix,
wisdom teeth, and nipples.
It’s just easier to remove.

How can I write a QA review
if no one knows what it is
supposed to do? One lady said that you
use it to keep score. Another said,
“you’ll find out soon enough.”
I felt threatened but don’t know why.

When I took it out, I noticed
feeling lighter with less guilt.
Is that normal for a soulless man?
I don’t see this part lasting
for the full length of eternity.

I’ve lost the receipt, the warranty,
maintenance records, and instructions.
Satan low balled me then refused to buy it.
The local body shop won’t touch it.

To be honest, this OEM soul
seems mighty worn out considering
it will not move and does absolutely nothing.
And what about soul music
and soul food? Is there more than
one kind, or is it a lot number thing?

Basically, my overall review and feedback
is that if this thing has a purpose,
please advise, and I will test accordingly.
Otherwise, I’m sure your QA department
can provide further information.

Sincerely,

Bill

Look both ways when reading reviews.
At the extremes, they’re often emotional nonsense.
Mind the gaps when someone tries to explain useless parts.

 

Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 20)

What will future archaeologists from human or alien civilizations make of us? Today, I’m challenged to answer with a poem. My poem should explore an object or place from the point of view of the future scientist.

n Si(CH3)2Cl2 + n H2O → [Si(CH3)2O]n + 2n HCl

n Si(CH3)2(CH3COO)2 + n H2O → [Si(CH3)2O]n + 2n CH3COOH

They discovered it around the start of what they called
the Twentieth Century, which related to keeping track
of and measuring what they called time… beginning
with when one of their five thousand or so gods supposedly lived,
as best we can tell, given their early rudimentary measurement devices.

As far as we know, some called it rubber or plastic
but eventually virtually all said silicone because few could pronounce
polydimethylsiloxane in any one of their hundreds of languages.
Before they died off, this stuff was virtually everywhere
sometimes solving, and at times, causing problems.

We cannot examine or test anything they did anywhere
without finding this stuff in use by them, internally and externally.
We find it in all parts of their semi-decomposed bodies, mostly
to make lips, breasts, and other sexual organs look inflated
or larger. Eventually, it was everywhere. We find it in clothing,
on them as sexual lubricants and toys, and in everything they looked at or touched.

We mostly take it for granted now and we suspect
they did, too. They used it for rudimentary rockets but when
they failed to test it completely, it let them down and caused
many deaths. In fact, we can accurately determine when
things happened by how they used silicone before what they called
“artificial intelligence” (which was real) made their existence redundant.

Look both ways.
But study the past and appreciate the present.
Mind the gaps when the AI starts working together at night in your garage.

 

Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

 

This is very brief clip from The Graduate: