Human Nature

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 7)

Click the graphic to go to the NaPo page and read all about it.

To complete the first full week of NaPoWriMo, I was to write a poem that argues against, or somehow questions, a proverb or saying.

I selected a Chinese proverb which is also a quotation attributed to Grantland Rice (which is the more likely).

“A wise man makes his own decisions. An ignorant man follows public opinion.”

Indeed, following public opinion is called argumentum ad populum (Latin for “appeal to the people”) and is a logical fallacy based on affirming that something is real or better because the majority think so.

Skeptical Wisdom

The killer of dreams may be worries about
what other people think and indeed,
it matters but shouldn’t.

People have died from their own ignorance
or by ignoring the fleeing crowd. Ask why
everyone is running away, discover reasons.

Learn. Make decisions based on valid,
repeatable, tested evidence. Be skeptical,
but listen and learn, or you may fail.

Opinion polls are often wrong. Opinions change.
Neither follow the blind nor be deceived by prophets,
think and consider and ask, then ask some more.

Public opinion is not always wrong, not always invalid,
it is not always all the public. It is not thinking, but evidence
that makes the difference.

And even then, the state of scientific evidence is fluid,
changing, moving. Contrarian thought is fine. It’s fun.
But in the end, truth is an elusive chameleon.

Look both ways to be sure the path is safe.
Carefully consider all options.
Mind the gaps well lest a valid exception be overlooked.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 6)

Today, I’ve been challenged to write a variation of an acrostic poem. But rather than spelling out a word with the first letters of each line, I’m to write a poem that reproduces a phrase with the first word of each line.

I chose Find what you love and let it kill you. (Attributed to: Charles Bukowski [unlikely], Kinky Friedman [more likely but with like instead of love], Van Dyke Parks [attributes to Friedman], and Anonymous [possible, but someone said it first]; and if it was Kinky, who used love first?)

Seriously

Find my reason for being, my why did I not die,
What is it that makes me do the things I do?
You may have some thoughts about my dilemma;
Love or hate and genes and things, like moon phases,
And everything about what I was and now I am.
Let us feel, taste, smell, see, and hear all there is.
It is my life, after all, and I must find it or
Kill myself trying because this is too important for
You to take things like love and death so lightly.

Look both ways while searching for all the love to live for
and all reasons to die. Mind the gaps for gods with all the right answers.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 3)

Since it’s Sunday, (I’ve no idea why that matters to Maureen Thorson [Napo creator and prompt director], but I acknowledge that most folks who work do so on approximately five of the other six days) so today’s NaPo prompt is (she said “a bit”) complex. I’m to write a poem in a Spanish form called glosa (or glose). Glosa explains or responds to another poem or part of one. Until today, I was unfamiliar with this form, but now I am intrigued by it.

THE GLOSA OR GLOSE requires:

  1. a) A cabeza (or motto) – the quatrain borrowed from another poet, whose authorship must be acknowledged.
  2. b) Four 10-line stanzas, each ending with one of the lines in sequence from the cabeza.
  3. c) A rhyme-scheme requirement that lines 6 and 9 rhyme with the final word of line 10.

It seems challenging, but “The point of any formal (poem) constraint is primarily to put you under pressure to write a little differently from your default style, and in the case of the glosa, you’re forced to participate quite explicitly in the work of another poet, many new possibilities for writing differently can be magically released.

“There’s great scope for playing with this form, by varying the constraints. You could choose a different stanza length, write in free verse, in a metre of your choice, or in syllabics; dispense with rhyme or increase the amount of rhyme; use a different length of cabeza, or introduce the lines of the cabeza in different positions in your stanza.” ~ John Wheway, “How to write a Glosa.” (https://www.johnwheway.com/?p=4)

I did the prompt and followed the form as closely as I could, except for one rhyme. Who cares, right?

The most difficult part of this was browsing through my favorite poets to find the perfect quatrain, then to cull that dozen down to one.

I could feel the day offering itself to me
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment—but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,

From the book, The Trouble with Poetry (and other poems): “In the Moment,” by Billy Collins.

Life’s Moments

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
they’d ask, “Do you have a girl friend?
I needed answers. Also, “How was school today?”
I grew up without ever knowing
what it was I wanted to be.
I married young and that stopped
all questions about any girlfriend,
and then one day I woke on up.
The value of school I started to see
I could feel the day offering itself to me.

One day at a time, moment by moment
I lived my life, and I slowly learned
what I wanted to do, he who I wanted to be
even though, before, I didn’t know or want
to be the he who was evolving into me.
Each day of my life I opened another door.
The important people in my life called me
Bill or Dad or Opa, not sir or major.
I finally had my feet on the floor
and I wanted nothing more.

Forty million moments later I knew
the answers to so many of their questions
but I can’t tell them now, not that they
ever really cared, like everyone does
after they’ve grown up (if they do),
they’re all gone now to find others to torment.
So little I remember, the work I did,
the people I loved (and those I did not)
I think about my future, I want nothing more
than to be in the moment—but which moment?

I wish I could tell them now
what I didn’t know then, what I’ve become,
and how I made my way, and what
I have to say. I never liked school,
a necessary evil at best,
but that’s all long over and done.
I’ve paid my dues. Didn’t always give my best
even when life was some questioning test.
I try moments and memories I could’ve become,
Not that one, or that one, or that one, …

Look both ways to the future and the past
but live every moment like it might be your last.
Mind the gaps and the questions, but live long into the answers.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 1)

Today is day one of the 30-day National Poetry Writing Month challenge to write a poem each day of the month. I plan to write to the prompts which are posted early every day. There are few rules to this and the prompts are optional.

Today I am to write a prose poem that is a story about the body. My poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image (could be more, could be other senses).

Her Superpower

Big at inception, his cesarean birth was through her swollen uterus and abdomen. Long tearful battles with Narcissus followed. Ripped apart for years, she eventually won her prince who grew into a tall, bulky, powerful, erupting, ever-growing, mountain of a lad. A strapping, kind chap, but like her, blemished by wee fits of fury over wounded honor.

Together they camped where broken was typical. Where hurt hurled tearless acrimony and demons encircled souls. At home but not a home of their own, west of the living and the dead, where spirits danced quietly like running shadows.

“Powerful in body, be strong, kind of heart and mind, my son.” He looked at her and spoke, “I think I can, but I cannot see my way. What mystery is my future? Will you always be with me?” She replied, “I cannot carry your cross, but you can see it there. By your mastery alone shall you lift and bear all burdens. Your will shall overcome.”

Her voice sang in his ears as he stepped onto the platform of his agony. His powerful hands tightly clutched his cross, his face burned red, he lifted as his hands and legs shook, his eyes bulged as he cried out. Every cell of his being bellowed in triumphant pain, he stood holding it still until white lights allowed his release. “I’ll be back.” He smiled, turned in triumph, then he proudly stomped and crowed toward her.

Look both ways.
Make the party yours.
Carry your own cross but mind the gaps for fearful traps.

 

Sheri’s Alliterative Challenge

Author Sheri J. Kennedy is hosting a writing challenge she calls “Alliterative Literature Plotted Prose and Poetry Challenge.” I call it alliteration on a double dose of steroids. She is taking submissions through April 10th, 2022.

If you would like to test your skills click here or use the link below for Sheri’s blog (Reality With a Twist) with the composition rules, submission instructions, and Sheri’s example.

My entry is posted below. While challenging my story telling ability, my vocabulary, and my overall mental acuity, I found writing this to be fun and educational. You have about three weeks, so why not give it a try?

Benevolent Bedlam

Bronco buster, Bret Butler and his beautiful brunette bride, bonnie Bamby Buttercup, bebopped into the Bohica Brothers Barrelhouse and Brewpub brandishing boo-coo bucks to buy beer, bratwurst, and beans.

They bantered with the blond bimbo barmaid Brenda Bobbitt before her bashful barback boyfriend, Buck Bukowski (brilliant but a bit of a boor), butted-in with bragging babble about Bret’s bright blondish brew. Bebop blared on the boom box.

Bamby bought brandy but Bret brabbled and briskly begged Brenda to bring boosted bitters of basic brown or beclouded brews for his blooming belly, blessedly beseeching her to bear with him and bide his bleak befuddlement. Bret could be a bit of a bullheaded brute.

Brenda beamed back at Bret’s bargaining blast and brought him bottles of black booze. Bret belted back the boss beer. Buck begot barley-broo from behind the billet. Before bada-bing bested bada-boom, the blasted boys were buzzed and boasting bushels of blarney.

Bamby briskly beseeched her bae to bring back a brindled bundle from the boot of the Buick. Bret brought her brand-new babushka, beholding his brazen brilliance. Then all blazes broke out blunting the barroom bliss.

Buck boasted about Bamby’s bodacious breasts baffling a befuddled Bret and betraying Brenda. Briefly, Bret was bar borne and bounced bedeviled upon Buck and began bashing and beating his brains while bumping Brenda’s bodice. Beaten Buck became befogged by Bret’s bustling brawl and bummer blowout. Bret and Buck bled. Before long, the blotto bestial barbarians were befouled and besmeared with blood.

Bret brooded about Bamby’s besmirched beauty and his babe’s big as buckets bosoms. Buck brandished a borrowed Baretta, but Bret bullied him badly by bashing his bean with a board. By and by, Bret’s biscuit was buttered, and Buck’s bacon was baked and boiled. Both bemoaned the bustle as the Beatles blasted Bad Boy in the background.

The boxing bickering buddies became Bamby and Brenda’s bane. Bedimmed and befogged, Brenda bitched and barked barbs about the bamboozled buffoons so their breathless ballyhoo could be belayed. Bamby bargained with the boneheaded, broken, badass boys.

The beginning bourne bombed because the bloke and beau butthead’s blatant boisterousness brought bandy bromides, blank bywords, and behests before breaking off the boxing bout. Bewitched, bombastic, and bedaubed, Bret and Buck broke bottles on bones before breaking up the brouhaha. The brainless bumpkins backed their bodies off, bearing beaming blue blisters.

Now buffoon Bret bowed to benighted Buck. Brandy berated Bret to begone. Betrayed, they booked as Buck breathed, being borderline bitterly batshit and buggered. Brenda beheld Buck as a binger of a bacchanalia. By and by, byes were blabbed and broadcast by all. Brandy and Bret bolted for their bus. Blowsy and bursting, Buck blubbered, babbled, and bawled as Brenda bickered, bayed, and bellowed.

(by Bill Reynolds)

And this is the link to her blog: https://realitywithatwistbooks.wordpress.com/2022/02/25/alliterative-literature-plotted-prose-and-poetry-challenge/

****

A glossary is unnecessary for submission, but since I used some unusual words, I am adding one here.

Glossary: referenced from merriam-webster.com, or as cited

babushka: triangular head covering, scarf
bacchanalia: Roman festival, an orgy.
bae (ˈbā): slang acronym, before anyone else; baby, babe, or sweetheart
bandy: to discuss banteringly
barbed: pointed, biting criticism
barley-broo: whiskey (also, barley-bree)
bedaubed: ornamented with vulgar excess
belayed: stopped, to cancel
benighted: a state of intellectual, moral, or social darkness
bide: to tolerate, withstand
billet: a chunk piece of wood (synonym for bar)
binger: a drunken revel, excessive – compulsive
Bobbitt: alludes to Lorena Bobbitt
bohica: (slang; Google, Wikipedia, urban dictionary; ‘Bend Over, Here It Comes Again’)
boo-coo: much (Google, military slang)
bourne: a goal or destination (synonym – plan)
brabble: squabble
bromides: tiresome person, a bore
brouhaha: uproar, hubbub
Bukowski: alludes to Charles
bywords: epithet (disparaging, abusive word)

Thursday’s Rune: 3/10/2022

The Whole Damn Thing

I listened to a song today
it said I want to rule the world.
How did they know?
Before you get all smug and shit,
they said you do too.
Can we both rule
the whole damn thing,
or should we each take half?

How do we do it?
Longwise, like pole to pole
or do we go top and bottom,
like bunk beds,
but with an equator?

Listen, it’s no big ass deal,
but one dumb ass will never
oversee the whole
damn thing—ever!

The very fact that
every motherfucking one of us
wants to be King of the Hill
is the very reason
none of us ever will.

Look both ways for the power that corrupts.
Mind the gaps in geography and greed.

Essay: Neither politics nor religion

I had started a different essay for this post when my wife informed me that our 43-year-old daughter asked this question. “How can these people talk so calmly about nuclear war?” Calmly? I needed to get caught up on the news. Who is calm?

As we discussed our distant past, Yolonda said, “You know, when you would go for a week of nuclear alert, I never thought much about it. It was your job. Nuclear war was simply your job.” She’s right. I was the Radar Navigator (bombardier) on a nuclear armed B-52D either at Carswell Air Force Base (AFB), Texas, or later at Andersen AFB, Guam (and at other “satellite” locations).

At that time, we were in the midst of the “Cold War.” If Russia (or any country) launched a nuclear attack against the United States, my crew would be in the air within minutes, turning north to strike pre-determined targets in the Soviet Union. Basically, WWIII.

I told her, “I know exactly what damage nuclear bombs (or missiles) can do.” For eight years, it was my profession. For one week each month, it was my life: 24/7. The concept of nuclear war was real, possible, conceivable, but even then, somehow unthinkable. We did not believe it would happen because we would retaliate in kind. That was called second strike and we had plans for a third. The strategy was called mutually assure destruction (MAD). It was real. It was then.

Through my elementary and high school years (Cuban Missile Crises), through Viet Nam, and on up until my first day of pre-flighting and “cocking” a loaded B-52, the threat of nuclear war was impressed upon me repeatedly. Doomsday was both a reality and a joke.

Today I read that Vlad P. has threatened the world with nukes if anyone interferes with his war on Ukraine. The no love lost between Russia and Ukraine goes way back, but the point is the threat. He could nuke any nation in the world—and certainly in Europe.

I’ve also read that Russia may use nukes against Ukrainian resistance. These people are fighting for their right to exist. The only thing Ukrainians want from Russia is to be left alone and to live in peace. But Russia does not care. Their excuse? The Ukrainians don’t like them. Dah?

While it would be unprecedented for nukes to be used in such a limited conflict/war, Ukraine lacks the wherewithal to assure Russia’s destruction. We, on the other hand, in conjunction with our allies could provide such assurance. I would like them all, especially Vlad P., to believe we would.

On the lighter side, in 1964 (age 18), I sat in a theater on a Strategic Air Command base, and I watched this movie (Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb). Little did I know my future would not be so funny, although I confess, I did my best to make it so.

Look both ways and take a side.
Mind the gaps between the wars and push for peace.
Morality is not a spectator sport.

These four clips from he movie are short.

Friday Fictioneers for February 25th, 2022

Our own Wednesday morning moonbeam, Rochelle, in conjunction with Roger Bulot has set the street carnival stage for the final February Friday Fictioneers frolic with ethnic food, fun, and dancing in the street. Click on Roger’s contributed picture for a magic carpet ride over to play where growing older does not require growing up and purple is plentiful.

My mundane mindless myth meanders about the crowd in the 100 worried words below the prompt photo.

Click on the PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot for a taxi over to Rochelle’s page.

 

Genre: Bazaar Fiction
Title: American Men
Word Count: 100

***

“There. Blue baseball cap, Ray-Bans, running shoes. Passing the Greek Jewish food. Go!”

She approached. “Hello, mark. Remember me?”

He lowered his shades and made eye contact, then noticing her cleavage, “Ah, I’m afraid I, um, ah…”

She touched his bare arm. “I’m, Chloé. Last June in Paris?”

Embarrassed, he felt blood and sense drop from his brain to his groin. He felt a nudge from behind. He turned to look. When he turned back, she was gone, as was his wallet, watch, and even his sunglasses.

He thought, I should have known at the lower-case mark. My name’s Bill.

Look both ways on crowded streets.
Mind the gaps of décolletage and keep your eye on the ball.

Click anywhere you like to find the other wonderful worldly contributions to read and comment.

Sammi’s Weekender #248 (capricious)

Click the graphic for your taxi to Sammi’s blog and other poems and prose.

What Am I, Popeye?

An assemblage of contradictions
unified with random masses of cosmic protoplasm,
launched unwilling into life,
pretentiously posing upon past
protoplanetary disks.

I am a self-contradictory collection of word gestures,
influences, and impulses dancing to dialectically
distracting, consistent capriciousness, and
categorically confused morphing emotions.

Wish for sameness but anticipate reality.
I’m muddled by me without constraint.

Look both ways into the reflection of lefts and rights,
ups and downs, love and loss.
Mind the gaps of unshakeable faith and wander through Sagan’s Cosmos.

***

“We live in a society exquisitely dependent on science and technology, in which hardly anyone knows anything about science and technology.” …. “Extinction is the rule.” (Carl Sagan, 1934-1996)

Gloss:  A protoplanetary disk is a rotating circumstellar disc of dense gas and dust surrounding a young newly formed star.

Sammi’s Weekender #247 (flummox)

Click on this graphic for Sammi’s blog to participate and to read other 42-word wonders.

 

Taboo to Torched

Frightened by arrogant kens against freedom,
shocked by hubris karens of hyperbole,
flummoxed by fiddling fascist Boards,
saddened as lone librarians dodge discovery,
humbled by youth’s perseverance;
I ponder and cry, with my personal pride,
I stand wondering why, ready to satirize.

 

Look both ways as you war against the lunacy of banned books.
Mind the gaps and detest book burning and the dark side of religious fanaticism.