A Way Through

Feeling a bit under the weather today,

A cloudy, bit of a rumbly day

Inside my head,

Maybe the ozone packed up my nose.

It’s not, but there should be a cold drizzle

According to my internal weather forecast.

I can feel it dripping around my bones,

Swelling shoulder blades and hands.

My fingers protest,

Claim the right to remain unclenched.

I fear it’s a loosing battle, like a boxer

Too tired to raise his arms,

A little punch drunk from all the blows.

Hell,

Maybe it’s just age,

All the damage from rolling through the years.

It not like it’s an even surface,

More a rutted old country road,

Shaking you apart with every mile.

The toll has been took.

There aint no going back.

Being under the weather is just where I’m at.

Only thing to do is keep moving

Until I’m out from under it.

Looking for Clarity

So, what you’re saying is,

If we don’t like a law,

We could just not fund it.

So you’re telling us,

We could defund you guys

And not pay taxes

Because we think you’re about to bankrupt the country,

And we don’t agree with how you’re running things.

So what you’re telling us,

Even though you were elected to run the country

And there are laws that were passed

Giving you that authority,

We can ignore all that

And not give you bastards a dime.

Oh. Wait. Then you’ll through us in jail.

So what you’re telling us is,

While everybody is equal under the law,

Some are more equal than others,

You guys being the some,

And us, were the others.

So what you’re telling us is

We’re just mostly under it.

Missionary to the Christians

How does it feel to live in a universe that small,

In a place only you understand?

How do you get through the boredom

Of totally lacking mystery or surprise,

Or does the terror of them both counteract that?

I suspect the latter is true.

I suspect trying to hold things together

Produces so much strain the weight of it all

Must be crushing.

Wouldn’t it be easier to let the reins go,

To let thing expand out to their infinite possibilities

Where the God you claim to believe in

Is the only one in control of anything?

Wouldn’t it be nice to stop trying to measure up

To something you cannot measure up too,

Where your assurance really does come from Him,

And you agree with Paul, mind, body, and soul,

All the things you do to prove your worth,

All the thing you claim to know without doubt,

Are a slap in your God’s face

And a rejection of his work on the cross.

So just stop and relax an bathe in the mystery

In a God that accepts you, 
And everybody else,
Just the way you are.

El Nino

It’s not going to be pretty,

When dropping the ball for New year’s

Makes a splash,

And all the deniers,

Salt water lapping at their ankles,

Slough it off,

As El Nino getting a little more boisterous.

It will be too late to give him a time out,

And consign him to some corner

Of the world that doesn’t matter

Where demographics are concerned.

Even La Nina won’t be able

To do anything with him
Once he get's all wound up.

He’ll stomp and flail
Up and down the coast,

Kicking apart all the sand castles

In his way.

Wishful Thinking

It’s time

To stop messing around,

To stop throwing in a monkey wrench,

To be part of the solution,

To fulfill your commitments,

To stop playing to the lowest common denominator,

Stop stoking fears,

Stop riling up the rabble,

Worrying about the next round,

Do what you were elected to do.

Stop following the party line.

For the good of the people,

Govern.

The Cat Coco

Coco was a half grown Huston ally cat

When he found his way into the crawl space

And introduced himself from behind the tub access.

We released him back into the wilds of Richmond,

But I guess he had already decided to stay.

He overthrew the boss tom,

Chased that big-headed cat across the street,

Tore him up, and came prancing back

Like a Lipizzan Stallion.

Rescuer of little kittens, slayer of giant rabbits

Pee-er on his favorite shag rug, watch cat extraordinaire.

He could juggle mice,

Ignore me when he was mad,

Wait in the window for me to come home.

He prowled Wisconsin woodlands,

Kicking ass and taking names,

Staying out three days,

Leaving behind countless progeny,

Coming home tore up and needing the vet,

Healing up so he could go out and do it again.

Big white cat, split lip,

Whose name you can figure out

If you’re of a certain bent.

Long gone now, much loved, never forgotten,

Famous in the annals of cat-hood.

The weight of Poetry

Sometimes Poem a day feels like a trudge,

Putting one word in front of the other

Like some endless uphill climb

When you try and remember why you

Put all the gear on your back and started out.

You would think a metaphorical pack

Full of letters and punctuation marks

Wouldn’t weigh so much,

But I guess anything you carry over time

Can strain your resolve.

I’m in that place where everything

Is starting to look the same

And I’m starting to wonder if I have it in me

To be a poet over the long haul,

If I can carry the weight of things

Up into the light

Where the view is crystal

And it seems like you can see forever.

Renaissance

So, the big rush of crazy hours is over,

Just in case anyone was thinking of carpentry,

Or cabinet, or furniture, or built-in making?

It would be nice if someone paid me to write a poem,

But as the writers of poems are notorious for

Not being paid, one has to make a living.

I am open to taking on a patron.

Maybe I can write something in praise of your virtue,

Or I could write spiritual stuff on your behalf,

Counteracting your misspent youth.

You could get in on the ground floor

In starting a new renaissance.

It might not actually buy your way into heaven,

But a futile attempt to atone for past sins

Might make you feel better?

At the least

You’ll be contributing to the common good,

Being a patron of the arts and all.

That’s got to be good for something.

Wind-chill

I’m not ready for the cold,

But, then again, nobody asked me.

I’m never consulted about those kinds of things.

Atmospheric happenings go on without

Without consideration of me or my motorcycle,

Let alone considering the effects

Of wind-chill on my face

Or the combination of past infusion

Of cigarettes, cold, and my fingers

Wrapped around the throttle

In the teeth of the wind

Or my childhood trauma

Of waiting for the school bus,

On winter mornings,

Afraid my cheeks will fall off.

Future Shock

Future Shock

I’m sorry we’ve let thing get away from us.

Back in the day we thought we were so cool.

We were going to change the world.

But it seems we’ve gotten involved

With other things, families and jobs and such.

We got tired of beating our heads against brick walls.

Some of us still try.

We shout and shake our fist at the wind.

We carry on a hue and cry

While moneyed interests roll on

Like some insane juggernaut, defying all logic

Burning up the ground as if

The future will not exist,

As if its children will not grow old in it.

What possible thing is there to say

Against such thoughtlessness, such uncaring?

Where do you go for justice

When justice is for sale and you have no money?

We used to pin our hopes on “The Movement,”

But it seems to have ground to a halt,

Rusted in place years ago when we all still had our hair.

Maybe when we were young and thought ourselves invincible

And didn’t think we could lose,

It was the arrogance of youth that tripped us up?

Maybe now that we’re getting old,

So aware of how much we’ve lost and have yet to loose,

Aware of how precarious and desperate our situation actually is,

Maybe we’ll give it one more go?

Maybe we’ll stand up and keep standing

Because we know our children

Have to live through the coming future, too?

Hands

My hands are stained from work,

That foam insulation stuff

Leaving them looking permanently dirty,

Wearing off only with the skin.

The things that stained them in life,

That stuff never wears off,

But builds up over time

Making them ache and twist,

Swelling the joints.

They have long since begun the change

To old man’s hands,

Getting blotchy.

They’re hands I’ve beat and scraped

Against life’s abrasions,

Hands, for a long time,

I’ve worked hard for.

Morning Storm

The morning storm has ended.

After tromping through

And dumping on everything,

I can hear it walking away in the distance

While its little offspring trail behind

Splashing in the puddles.

I can’t tell, but

There may be another storm

Calling for the first one to wait up,

Imitating the bigger one

Even though everything

Is already wet.

The big storm ignores it.

It’s already rumbled through

And doesn’t look back.

Birthday Wishes

I’m wishing for you, on your birthday,

The ability to sleep and dream easily,

To feel rested and not harried,

To have peace about what to wear,

For fingers with enough dexterity

To button buttons, and put in your earrings.

I’m wishing you the feeling of grass between your toes,

And feet that feel like feet

Instead of blocks of wood,

For an internal GPS like infusion in your brain

So you always know where you are,

And maybe some symbiotic link to homing pidgins.

I’m wishing you the clairvoyance

To pick lottery numbers that will get us

A modest cabin in southern mountains

With your dream kitchen with the outdoor living area.

I’m wishing you a personal sit down

With Desmond Tutu over coffee and a biscotti

Drizzled with chocolate.

I’m wishing you a lot of things, but

Mostly I’m wishing you happy birthday.

Remembering Nashville

I remember things washed away,

The line of relentless storms on the screen,

Tornado sirens blaring in an eerie sky.

The Harpeth rose.

All manner of things rushed by in its wake:

An over turned kayak, a picnic table,

An up rooted shed,

Who knows how many uprooted lives.

We fled,

To be stopped at almost every turn

By water over roads,

While Rau Wood washed away

And babbling brooks

Became terrifying things,

And an edge of shame and horror

Was added to my love of storms,

And the shock of it

The unfathomable power of water,

Is still in me

Rekindled by pictures from Colorado,

Knowing when the water comes

There’s not much you can do.

Todd Starnes

Maybe the secret plot

Is hitting us with a barrage

Of absurd, bias reporting

That we get so bored with noting

How un-news-like Fox News is.

That we’ll just give up

Pointing out the obvious.

The faithful will be free

To go on their merry right way

Finding moral objection

To anything they fear

Outside their comfort zones

And all move to some southern state

And erect a giant barrio around it

After all the sane people give up and leave.

They can all eat bland food

With very little spices

After Tex-Mex is outlawed as

An unsavory foreign influence

And they will all be happy

To return to the good old days

And pick their own crops

While a gentle breeze blows

The pleasant fragrance of insecticide

Wafting over the land.

Van Gogh and Me

I’m a little saddened by the gloomy day,

Though I love fall,

The last burst of color and warmth

Before the blanket gets pulled up

And tucked in around the edges.

I’m sure it will be warm again,

And I’ve more months to ride,

To walk outside in the open air,

And I really do love seeing distant trees

Turned on a hillside,

Seeing in that moment

Maybe what Van Gogh saw sometimes,

Thinking maybe I can understand

Some of his angst

Over the inevitability of some things,

Despite retaining all my appendages.

Fresh Air

I’m going for a ride

To blow some wind through my brain,

To lean in to the twist and turns

I’ve been through

The last five weeks,

To kick up the dust

Settled from the routine

Of coming and going.

I’m going to breathe new air,

To see new things

On the other side of where I’ve been,

To catch a glimpse

Of where I’m going

With the things I’ve been doing.

Mysterious Me

I’m curious and excited to see

Who I am now unfold,

Now that I’ve time to reflect

And let sink in

Still doing what I thought was behind me

Somewhere pre-stroke.

Recovery has been long and drawn out,

Confidence the last piece of the puzzle

Reconnecting my shorted out brain

To the mysterious design of my creation

This time around,

Remade to my new specifications.    

Absolute

Having made up one’s mind

It a closed system,

It allows nothing in or out.

Conversation and connection

Is made futile.

Christianity calls it a hard heart.

It is an unwillingness

To consider anything

Other than one’s own point of view.

It is a subtle form of blasphemy,

A self-idolatry considering

One’s own conclusions absolute.

It is a system whereby

One closes oneself off

Into a tiny world

Of one’s own making

Where even God

Will not intrude.

Avoidance

I’ve been avoiding it

Since I turned on the screen.

I quickly switched to another page,

But it didn’t do any good.

It hovered right behind my ear,

The images, the shock, the repercussions.
It’s ironic they tried to bring down the economy.

I won’t say who did.

Or I won’t mention how many suffered

When it finally fell

9-11 was a truly heinous act.

I don’t want to take anything from that.

But it’s not the only one

We’re still trying to recover from.

Deliverance

Week Five

Still holding out.

Supposed to be hot today.

There is no human explanation

Why I’m still standing,

Though that is always true

And it is only my hubris

Taking long hours to make the knowledge conscious.

Somewhere in me I’ve always known it,

Even before I prayed I would be good forever

If only God would save us

When me and Frankie hid under the bed springs

And Trixie’s paws clicked off the abandon linoleum

While Old Pete urged her to find us.

Stirring the Pot

So,

What stirring thing shall I write today?

Or perhaps, what pot should I stir.

It’s hot.

I could write about global warming,

But I figure those camps have gone all ideological,

Shored up their brains against the intrusion of facts,

Like there’s been some infestations

Secretly released by Fox news,

Slithering into the brains of the faithful,

Corrupting the logic making mechanisms

To exchange reasoned belief for blind faith

Or unreasoned fear of something different

Outside the box they prescribe.

Buzz

Bees, Jackie is allergic to them,

A bee bite, If not treated could kill her,

Still, she’s not in favor of whipping out the bees

Because she loves tending her garden

And the bees are necessary for pollinating.

I’m sure we could figure out how to survive.

I suppose they could even figure out

How to save some bees in some sealed environment

Like in that science fiction movie “Silent Running”

And preserve some flowers and things,

But what would that leave us,

A world of crab grass?

I’m pretty sure that would kill Jackie, too,

Just slower and much more emotionally painful.

I don’t know?

Is it just that it’s such a quiet death,

That their bodies fall from the sky unnoticed?

Will it take the color going out

Before a hue and cry?

Like everything, it seems,

It boils down to a stewardship issue.

Will we care for the bees?

Or will we watch the color fade in the world

Until everything has the pallor of death?

End of Story

Am I missing something?

Paul Craig Cobb,

A white supremacist,

Wanted in Canada for hate speech,

Wants to buy up the little

North Dakota town of Leith

And turn it into a haven

For like-minded nut jobs.

The story on CNN says

The white nationalist message boards

Are all abuzz

And folks don’t know what to do.

Again I have to ask

Am I missing something?

Cobb is wanted in Canada.

Extradite the sob.

End of story.

That’s Cool

Hey man.

Did you hear?

That Holder dude,

The like, top cop guy.

He says he say he aint gonna go after

The head shops

Where it’s legal to run’em.

Ain’t gonna bust the heads either,

Long as they aint giving it to kids and shit.

They done some survey.

Says people aint so tripped out

About pot no more,

What with all the people doing it for,

Like medical reasons.

Be like,

The end of prohibition, man.

Maybe now the cops'll have time

To bust some of those wall street dudes?

Who knows, man?
Wouldn't that be a trip?

Fury

The Fury walks with purpose,

Definition. She is elemental,

Demi-god in jeans,

A ships prow

Running into the storm.

She is ferocious,

Not to be trifled with.

Avenging angel,

Moving to her own design.

She is caged

By her countenance,

Buried in her mythology.

Before I Go

Something quick,

An excuse really,

A poem of circumstance,

Being it’s late

And I want to get one out,

And I told Jackie

I’d have a little breakfast

Before I go,

Flood

Can we say there are no easy answers,

To the difficulty of bloated bodies on the news,

To the associations caused by gassing

Men, women, and children en mass?

Too many times we do nothing,

The killing goes on and on.

That phrase about good men doing nothing

Allowing evil to win,

Does that apply here?

If all men are brothers,

The world would surely be weeping,

It would weep and never stop.

Another great flood

Would be unnecessary.  

Relativity

The relativity of time’s proof

Becomes redundant as one has further to look back.

The past compresses and the future

Rushes to join it.

What you thought it would be,

The time you thought you would have

Is so gone,

As distant as mud cakes and tricycles,

As old inventions and moral conventions.

The frightening future

Bites at your nose.

The consolation is you’ve seen many things

And you know without doubt,

This, too, shall pass.

Fukushima

We are good at creating things,

Not so good at controlling them.

Marry Shelly prophesied monsters to haunt our dreams,

To creep over the land, to move beneath the waters,

Demons to pollute the air we breathe.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it.

Japanese monster movie,

Complete with bad, stilted dialogue,

Comes to life,

Soon playing at a Pacific shoreline near you,

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