Good Shoes

 

As I fall off this cliff,
I want you to know,
that I really like these shoes.

As I spin through the air,
I can see the laces flapping
and twirling in front of me.

Still tight on my feet,
as the wind buffers
my graceful plummet.

I see every Sunrise and
Sunset, as I tumble,
end over end in the air.

And my shoes,
tightly tied on my feet,
not going anywhere, but down.

When I land,
broken and dead, I bet
the shoes will still be good.

So, send them to the Moon,
or Mars, because
they are good shoes.

Unless the wolves get me,
Then, maybe,
not so much.

At Least We Can Dance

 

Here we are again,

like never before,

once again,

brand new,

interpreting ancient tea leaves

for a glimpse of the future.

 

A harrowing future pathway

along a disintegrating bridge,

rickety, corroded,

nuts and bolts,

held together by

hope and prayer.

 

Like we’re used to,

but have never seen,

footprints we’ve followed,

along  a wave crashed beach,

don’t know where they’re going,

but we’ve seen where they’ve been.

 

Another new plan,

based on the old,

a bright idea,

dimmed by the cold,

genuine ingenuity,

halted by a cuckold.

 

Nothing so new,

as something passé,

an original plan,

from the outdated textbook,

a forward pass,

to Knute Rockne.

 

We can’t make sense of it

because it doesn’t make sense,

a conundrum of juxtapositions,

all crowded together to appear

large and imposing,

but meaningless.

 

It’s hard to get better,

out of something worse;

at least we can dance around the

fire,

as it all burns.

 

Painting Credit: https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-bonfire-dancing/1721966/8154848/view   

Needlepoint

 

Writing poetry in chaotic

times is a delicate sort of

needlepoint. Pull the wrong

thread and the whole thing

could unravel in a knotted

cluster of jumbled loose ends.

 

A tapestry, spun with words,

to express the zeitgeist of

our current times, one wrong

line and the entire image gets

blurred or marred in a blotchy

canard.

 

I know how to sew,

I know how to stitch,

I can thread a needle,

I can follow a pattern,

I’ll fix that tear,

but a weaver I am not.

 

The thread of our lives,

handled by three old crones,

all sharing an eye,

they hold the shears of fate

at our throats as they speculate

on the future.    

 

They never wrote poetry

in troubled times,

they don’t know how the

starting and stopping,

erasing and editing,

of meager and frustrated prose goes.

 

A fair untroubled hand should

hold the needle as it jabs and

pulls through the fabric of life,

a clean sharp point to puncture

through the designs and craft

works of unambiguous art.

 

Writing poetry in chaotic times,

is hard…

boob.

 

Damn it.  

 

Still Me

 

There’s so much me

in my veins.

Which is curious to

think about, how much

of me is actually

me.

 

All the time,

I’m filled with me, just

pumping and oozing,

flowing and lub-a-dub

dubbing all over the place,

constantly.

 

This pulsing,

crapping, bleeding,

crying, sneezing,

coughing, bag of

flesh and blood,

being me in vast amounts.

 

The voice of me,

in my mind,

saying things, sometimes,

not too kind about me,

and triggering the anxieties

of being me.

 

Electrified matter,

the essence of me,

biologic individuality,

in a sea of the same species,

who are all filled

with themselves, constantly.

 

Until it all stops,

and then, all the me

will cease to be.

And yet, for what it’s worth,

it’ll still be filled

with

me.