Seeing her standing alone
Yes, I want to beware,
Zoned into love I was thrown
Yesterday’s memory to declare
Grabbing this life of my own
Yearning for someone to care.
Look both ways as the planets align.
Mind the gaps when two bodies are in gravitational pull.
The concept of non-existing,
of never was and shall not be,
the nothingness of nothing,
debated for eons, remains
impossible to prove or even
conceptualize.
Philosophers and scientists
since their first thought
have failed to define
an incomprehensible unreality
of utter insignificance that
many claimed existed,
but which really means,
never was there nothing.
Always something within
science; this physical universe
breathing change to essential matter,
random, yet never created or destroyed,
vast beyond human imagination,
becoming something else,
but never was it nothing,
always something,
forever and ever. Amen.
Look both ways to see into eternity.
Mind the gaps of deception.
Unwanted Help
Invited to the Inspector General’s team
following years of experience,
known as the dreaded, unwelcome, I.G.,
our evil trope: “We’re here to help.”
Hated and despised, our team
of untrusted inquisitors and fault finders
were greeted with feigned welcomes,
red carpets covering fire and brimstone.
Treated well with subtle urgings, indirect bribes,
kindly disguised distractions and rarely,
outright hostility; like emotionless automatons,
“We are only here to help you do better.”
Fear and respect swam in the same swill.
We were as pleased to leave as they
to see us go.
Look both ways for the best and the worst.
Mind the gaps, therein are found hidden weakness.
I pass sweet scented bushes on my trek to hike trails,
I listen to songs. I see the cobalt blues and pinks
of early morning predawn skies. Then sunrise.
The familiar places, benches to rest, to drink,
to ponder, sometimes to listen
and to think about nature.
No talking. I write notes in my book,
a poem about this ravine I dare not cross,
about rocks for stepping or tripping.
About finding happiness outside my comfort zone,
as they say in the voice of cliché,
about what’s a name or identity. Am I what I did?
And the viper, that snake may not allow
my passage as he or she sunbathes
and the morning warms its cold blood.
Look both ways, but tread with care. Mind the gaps where vipers rest.
His gallivanting days now over, the old hippie rides a recliner, pets the old lap cat, takes his medicine when she tells him, and he hopes she’ll rub his neuropathic feet. He votes absentee, remembers sex and pot, and wishes things when he looks at her.
Look both ways when crossing paths.
There is no past and no future.
Mind the gaps in the circle.
Dying to Self
The obdurate lad labeled shallow,
his brooding nature, vengeful plotting,
lacked love, friendship, deep perspective.
The cold-hearted brutish Devil Dog
sought glory in death, salvation through agony,
shadows to kill without meaning or purpose.
Death and destruction his insensate shield,
as he was, he couldn’t survive
in this world at peace with love.
Curses of sympathy and empathy
mysteriously hatched humanity into his soul.
The old poet sleeps feeling thoughts of emotion.
Look both ways for the glory of Beowulf.
Mind the gaps in hidden emotions,
lest the beast of Cain’s progeny kill the stoic.
I wrote two poems for Sammi’s weekender. I posted the first one Saturday. This is the second.
Everything Changes
Into a kaleidoscope
of passion we creep,
from stumbling blocks
to steppingstones,
we eventually leap
mortared passages,
segues of
unplanned journeys,
everything changes.
Look both ways to see all parts of life.
Mind the gaps where trouble may lurk.
Dream Real
Colorless kaleidoscopic
images,
sounds of heat,
windless breaths
through closed eyes,
defenseless hearing:
run, kick, yell,
stop breathing.
Fight back!
Awaken.
Dream real.
It’s a dangerous world. Look both ways.
Mind the gaps. Watch for guns and teargas.
When I first wrote this, I intended it for Sammi’s weekender. She had set a prescribed limit of 88 words for the prompt word downpour, “no more, no less.” I was 95 words over. While Sammi has loosened up some of her rules, not that one. So, let’s call this poem, “A Second, Longer Downpour.”
She was a hog, bitchin’ red and heavy,
a real dresser on our outings.
Rider down, I could not lift her load.
I never gave her a name.
Straight pipe loud till I fixed her,
but on road trips, she was
my sweet ride. No hyperbole to say
she hugged road from between my legs.
Headin’ up busy highway north of
Fort Walton Beach when Ma Nature
hawked a torrential loogie thunderstorm.
As we headed back south, we got soaked.
The downpour first felt cold in my crotch.
With soaked windshield, visor, and glasses
I couldn’t see shit. I knew they (cars)
could not see me, or us, maybe not each other.
With us in the middle and idiots in cages
driving seventy while blind, we finally got home.
I cut her motor and dropped her stand.
Lovingly I leaned her left, slid off, and stopped shaking.
Walked into my garage, stripped naked, and
dropped soaked biker cloths right there. Yolonda
asked, “What happened to you?” The storm had passed.
I look at her and said, “I think I wet my pants.”
Look both ways. See and be seen.
Mind the gaps. Mind everything riding your hog.
Memorial Day is a day of remembrance to honor those who died in battles of all past wars in service to America. A Memorial Day (or Decoration Day) tradition is the buying and wearing of a red poppy.
The VFW organization has had the Buddy Poppy as its official flower for almost 100 years. Profits from artificial poppy sales have helped countless veterans and their widows, widowers, and orphans over the years. The poppy itself survives as a perpetual tribute to those who gave their lives for America’s freedom. That tradition is based on a poem.
This poem was written by Colonel John McCrae, a surgeon with Canada’s First Brigade Artillery. It expresses McCrae’s grief over the “row on row” of graves of soldiers who had died on Flanders’ battlefields in western Belgium and northern France, with a striking image of the bright red flowers blooming among the rows of white crosses.
The poem, “In Flanders Fields,” was reportedly first printed in the British magazine, Punch, in December 1915.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly.
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
by Colonel John McCrae
Look both ways for the reason why, in war some must die.
Mind the gaps and wonder,
“And how many deaths will it take ’til he knows
That too many people have died?”
(“Blowin’ In the Wind” by Bob Dylan)
Our Literary Journey 