Wednesday, November 22, 2017

How Do You Write About Thanksgiving?

Here is it again,
another Thanksgiving;
a day set aside for
celebrating what unifies family,
friends, co-workers,
and the occasional stranger.

Yet, how does one write
about this Holiday?
In this era of cultural sensitivity
and being “woke”, (a despicable term)
 can we still celebrate this day without the
shadow of guilt creeping in?

Abraham Lincoln created Thanksgiving
in an effort to unify a divided nation
during the Civil War and remind the
citizens of this nation that we are still
one from many.

Lincoln’s intention was as that of a healer,
while ignoring the ineffaceable scars
of tragedy the early settlers endured and
imposed on each other and the Natives
upon which we built our country.

It’s a holiday designed to help us remember
that though great strife, suffering and difficulty,
we have remained united and that there is
no event, no instance so terrible as to wipe
this Democracy from the face of the world.

It is a day to be thankful to the forbearers
of the greatest of all ideals, that we, that all people,
can and should be forever free and any yoke of
oppression can be overcome through standing
together.  

I guess that is the best way to celebrate this holiday,
with a reverence for what came before and knowledge
of the trials yet to come, and in that knowing reverence,
be thankful we are here, together. 

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Dear People

Dear People,
do not be people.

Do not admit to being
imperfect, fallible,
or human.

Value each person,
but don’t be one,
because that would
imply imperfection.

We must be above person
or people, beyond reproach,
and incapable of even the
slightest judgment error.

Do not be people.

If people are human,
and humans make mistakes,
and if to err is human, and if
being human is to be people,
then people make mistakes.

But no, do not be people.

Be perfect, never make any
mistakes, never acknowledge any
dalliances of youthful ignorance.
Never be held hostage by
your immature thoughts.  

Never lay in bed at night,
re-living the embarrassments
of your past and shake your head
in shame and disappointment.
That would make you a person.

And you’re not a person.
You’re not people.

Don’t be people.

You’re just an Idea,
someone else had. 

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Shaky at Best



The cars herked and jerked,
hmm… “herked”, is that even
a word?

It’s not.

“Herky-jerky”, is appropriate to
describe the motion of the cars
in traffic as I was originally
intending.

But “herked” sounded better,
but it’s not real. Something can be
jerked, but not herked.
It really threw me off my poetry
game.  

I’m not even sure anymore
why I was starting a poem
about traffic, seems less
important now.

It probably had something
to do with my love life,
or relationships or some
other metaphor to color
the stop and start nature of
life.

But I wanted it to be “herked”,
but grammar wouldn’t let it be.
So now I’m here, all herky-jerky.


Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Death on the Moon


To die on the Moon,
that’s what I want.

I want to drink a bottle
of red wine, put on a
spacesuit, spacewalk to
a moon folding chair and
sit, facing the Earth.

And die.

I want to see the planet
I’ve called home in its fullness
and wholeness and try to
work out why it’s so hard to
live there.

From the moon,
where I die.

I want each Spacesuited breath,
to be filled with awe and wonder
as I pass from this life to the
next. I want to watch the world
spin and see it go on without me.

I know that it won’t happen.
I will never set foot on the Moon.
I’ll never go to Space. I’ll never
see the Earth as a whole,
So I guess I can never die.

On the Moon,
like I want. 

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

Just an Idea I Like

Miyamoto Musashi was a Samurai
born around 1584 and was likely
one of the greatest swordsmen that
ever lived.

Before his death in 1645 he wrote
the Dokkodo, or "The Way of Walking Alone",
a book on self-discipline with 21 different
rules to live by.

He made a point in this book that
I think is appropriate regardless
of religious belief and it’s rule
number 19.

He wrote, "Respect Buddha and
the gods without counting on their help,"
which ultimately means, that it's okay to
believe in a God or have faith in one,
but your actions are your own and
should never expect divine intervention.
You should “take care of your own business”, as it were.

It’s an idea that I like very much.

I just thought I’d say so.  

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

The Monster's Speech


“Rwar, rah, raaarg-ha, graa-org,” shouted
the Monster at the crowd.
They pelted him with rocks and
poked at him with flaming torches
and pitchforks.

“Naarragh, gree praa Haarrgrahag,”
said the monster as he covered his
hideous, malformed face from
the onslaught of projectiles and vicious
slander.

“Kill it, Kill it,” screamed the frothing
crowd as they bore into the monster,
“Smash it’s ugly face,” they yelled and
chanted, stepping ever closer to the
monster’s corner refuge.

“Wha, wharrrgha, kraagahall-gah,” pled
the monster through his scaly lips and
twisted yellow fangs, his forked tongue
frantically whipping about, searching for
a place to breathe.

He tried to climb up the stony walls of the
castle’s exterior, hoping his long lizard/eagle
like talons would help him flee, but they could
find no purchase on the stones due to the rain and
slick stone faces.

“It’s trying to get away,” shouted Reverend Stall,
“don’t let it escape!” He threw a rock that hit
the monster square in the head. The monster was dazed
and stumbled forward and then was spun backwards
by another large rock.

“Narrh, narrrh,” grumbled the monster as he fell to the
cobblestone street.  His arms up in a last effort to protect
himself.  The world aglow from torch light started to
dim and the monster found himself in a long tunnel,
the echoes of the mob growing more faint.

The monster felt himself lifted by many hands
and drift toward the few stars visible in the
night sky. They twinkled in and out of his view
as he seemed to tumble endlessly towards them.
He wanted to reach out, but he could not.

“Eht es arr frar bwhetter rast Eye gho trooo,”
mumbled the monster as he finally vanished into
the darkness.  He was wrapped in burlap, chained,
bound, weighted with cement and dumped into
the Bay.

The townsfolk forgot their own viciousness,
but they stay out of the Bay. It’s become a
dark place, thick with fog all year round,
with the sounds of sobbing floating on
the salty breeze.


Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Halloween Dance


Edgar Allen Poe and H. P. Lovecraft
were caught smoking in the parlor
and Edgar kept yelling, “Nevermore”
as he was escorted from the floor.

H. P. vanished into thin air,
reciting an incantation from
his pocket Necronomicon,
leaving more smoke on Edgar to blame.

The Chaperones were diligent
in keeping this rowdy bunch
away from the spiked punch,
which of course had a real spike in it.

Mary Shelley was telling tales again
with Bram Stoker  as they danced
in the high school gym.  They swayed
and swooned in a spot light dance of gloom.

Stephen King and Dean Koontz stared
at each other, devising each others
untimely, yet mildly entertaining demise,
through gore and subtle social commentary.

The Proctor separated them to keep
the calm but Neil Gaiman couldn’t resist
poking the bear and arrived with a bucket
of pig’s blood to share.

“Out, out, out! Damn spot”, shouted the
Proctor, “We’ll have none of that Neil!”
A quick fist bump between Stephen and
Neil, before they were shown the exit.

“No Carrie re-enactments, it was posted on the
door,” said the Proctor. “Now outside with you
both, leave poor Dean alone.”
They were hustled out into the night. 

They ran into Edgar, still crying, “Nevermore”,
in the parking lot, on the hood a hearse.
Ann Rice spoke from the car, “He won’t move,
the sad sack, keeps pining for his date, Annabel Lee.”

“This Halloween party blows,” said Edgar,
wiping the snot from his nose,
“Let’s go to my place, Sheridan Le Fanu,
and Daphne du Maurier will be there.”

The band in the gym played a
cover of The Monster Mash
and the writer's agreed, going to Edgar’s
was better than this.

“Where’s your place,” asked Ann
as they drove.
“Sepulchre Drive, there by the sea,” said Edgar.
“Of course it is,” said Stephen, “of course.”