The Son of Daedalus

Feathers floated to

the dusty ground.

Stirred by the dry wind

into dizzying tornadoes

of failure.

An ever growing shadow

was cast on the ground,

expanding with each passing

second as the people took

notice of the deteriorating wings.

The people pointed and gasped

up at the sky as Icarus

tumbled and spun

toward his doom due to

his over-ambition.

Icarus flapped and fumbled,

trying to steady himself against

the buffeting winds of his fall,

scattering feathers through the

air.

The crowd stood in a horrified

stupor, watching the poor son

of Daedalus plummet helpless

to the spinning Earth and the

angry sea.

The giddy ambition of Icarus,

despite his father’s warnings,

to fly level and straight were ignored,

and Icarus tumbled from the

sky after soaring toward the sun.

Blind ambition, to do a thing

just because one can, isn’t often

reason enough to do it.

The sun can melt your wings

and you can fall to your death in the sea.  

I think that’s the lesson I learned

from the tale of Icarus as a child.

It’s tempered my ambition

and perhaps made me afraid of flying too

close to the sun.

By Jacob Peter Gowy - http://www.museodelprado.es/imagen/alta_resolucion/P01540_01.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27493281

We Laugh, Therefore We Are

Podiatrist office,

Walk-ins welcome.

Proctologist office,

please be seated.

Optometrist office,

the doctor will see you.

These things make me

chuckle. They’re just

dumb enough to tickle

my funny bone and

remind me.

Remind me that the

world isn’t always

full of doom and gloom

no matter what terrors

are globally occurring.

Humankind is funny.

We can’t help ourselves.

One person’s tragedy is

another person’s punchline.

We’re just funny.

The sound of our laughter

in a room, crowded with

all different types, creeds,

beliefs and sexes is the great

human leveler.

When I am in a group and

we’re all laughing hysterically

at the dumbest thing is the time

I feel most connected to the

whole of humanity.

Levity, mirth, absurdity, jokes,

are our keys to success.

A people without humor are

cursed and miss the subtle joys

of recognizing our ridiculousness.

Laughing to the point

of tears and a belly ache,

trying to catch your breath

and waving your hand in your face

make us all the same.

Internist office,

please check in.

Neurosurgeon’s office,

mind the wait.

Otolaryngologists office,

ENT-y thing for you.

Oof, that last one was

rough. But I’m sure you

have your own terrible ones 

to share.  Cheers!

What are you Writing About Today?

I’m all starts and no

finishes today.

I’ve started several

poems, short stories,

essays and pieces of

prose and all of them have

gotten stuck at the tips

of my fingers.

I’m unable to navigate the

roiling seas of my thoughts

to any white crested clarity,

worthy of putting word to the

page, or screen, or program,

or whatever this machine for word

making is.  

No one is at the wheel

as it were, because the Captain

is in his cabin, doing things…

Which, for the lack of a better

metaphor, makes writing something

worthwhile sort of difficult.

My thoughts are watching,

shrugging at me as I prance

around like a lunatic

at an anti-prancing convention

because they have no idea what I’m

doing either.  

“It’s all part of the show,” I yell.

But they’re not buying it.

They know me better than I

know myself.

“You’ll get tired of prancing soon enough,”

they’ll say confidently.

And of course they’re right.

I’m not focused.

I’m aloof with ideas

and lost in their muddiness.

[Erase, erase, erase, erase]

Whatever I had written,

It was not good.

“Getting tired yet,” asks my thoughts.

I hate to admit it, but I am.

“No, I’m gonna keep prancing till

the world ends or I find love,” I shout.

My thoughts give me a thumbs up and

return to reading the novelization of

Dirty Dancing.

“Damn it.”

The Trick Is...

What are you missing?

What isn’t there?

There’s a space for

something, but nothing’s there.

Who’s really whole?

Not missing that piece?

Full of themselves,

yet incomplete.

Is it in a song?

Is it in a poem?

A lover’s longing look

as you stare into each other.

In the mirror?

In the thoughts of others?

A reflection of the self

with jigsaw spaces.

What’ll fill that hole?

The gulf of absence?

A hand held close to the

heart and a kiss on the cheek.

Is that enough?

Is that all you need?

Some need more,

some need less.

But most of the time,

it’ll do the trick.

In the Shade

Under the shade of

an old gnarled tree,

knotty and twisted

with the arthritis of

age etched in the bark,

sat a young boy picking

at the dirt.

A hot summer breeze

riffled the leaves and

creaked the branches

but brought no cooling

relief to the boy in the

shade, picking at the

dirt.

A picnic party of adults

was taking place across

the clearing, they were drinking

and dancing and joking and

smoking, and doing those thing

adults shouldn’t do. Things the boy

couldn’t do.

The boy leaned back in the shade

and felt the rough old bark against

his skin. It was coarse and sharp but

not uncomfortable. The boy looked

up through the twisted branches

as the hot summer air brushed the

leaves to and fro.

The sun sparkled and dappled

in the flapping leaves, the tree

groaned slightly in the wind,

the boy looked back over at his

mother at the party, dancing with

some guy who wasn’t his dad,

just some guy the boy didn’t know.

The boy folded his small arms over his

scabby knees and pulled them up to his

chest. He rested his forehead

on his forearm, but it was too

sweaty. He was the only kid at

the party, but he wasn’t the only

child.

The old tree creaked in the heat,

the boy looked down in the dirt

around the thick stitch-work of roots

trailing through the dry ground, he pressed

his hand into the cool dirt and let it

linger. He thought he could feel a

heartbeat in the ground.

The boy turned from the base of the

tree and felt along its rough hide,

the boy could swear he could hear

whispering. He pressed his face close to

the bark and held his breath but it

was quiet except for the gentle creak

of the branches above.

There were yelling voices from

across the clearing, adults fighting,

the boy’s mother yelling for him, that

they were leaving, while two other men

shoved at each other, neither one was

the boy’s dad.  The boy felt the tree once

more, gave it a pat on its knobby side.

The boy ran from out of the shade at his

mother’s beckoning into the hot

summer sun. They’d get in the car and

drive back home to the city where there

were no shade trees to listen to,

no old souls to lean on. 

Post-Modern Romance

The only things left

to remember anything,

were a pair of ankle socks

and a pair of sunglasses.

A day of irresponsibility,

irregularity, nonsense,

foolishness, and an all out

zest for living in the moment.

Has no memory, other than

a pair of ankle socks and a

pair of sunglasses left behind

in her hurry.

Moments of wild speculations,

impossibilities, never will be’s

and never were’s, mashed between

slurred cocktail stories and heartaches.

The time and the place for

responsibility had no grip,

the only purpose was in the time

spent wondering about nothing.

Avoidance, preposterous avoidance,

of the ills and ails plaguing our troubled

souls, yet spitefully damaging and adding

to our woes.

A clink of the drinks, a toast of half

mumbled love, kisses and hand holding

meaning nothing other than what they

meant for the second they existed.

Until all that was left was a pair

of ankle socks on the floor and

sunglasses on the table as the

only reminder it happened at all.

The Strange Ballad of Gary Lemonade

Gary Lemonade doesn’t

care about your party.

Gary Lemonade doesn’t

care about your dress.

Gary Lemonade doesn’t

like that look on your face.

Gary Lemonade doesn’t

want a quiet night in.

Gary Lemonade does

want to dance.

Gary Lemonade does

want to touch your lips.

Gary Lemonade does

like your legs.

Gary Lemonade does

need a drink.

Gary Lemonade wears

a leather jacket with spikes.

Gary Lemonade wears

steel toe boots to weddings.

Gary Lemonade wears

boxers instead of briefs.

Gary Lemonade wears

neck ties with tee-shirts.

Gary Lemonade wants

a date with you.

Gary Lemonade wants

to sleep with you.

Gary Lemonade wants

the red Kool-Aid.

Gary Lemonade wants

a houseplant in the car.

Gary Lemonade didn’t

know about it before.

Gary Lemonade didn’t

learn about it then.

Gary Lemonade didn’t

bother to read the book.

Gary Lemonade didn’t

see the film.

Gary Lemonade is

thirsty for trouble.

Gary Lemonade is

hungry for bad.

Gary Lemonade is

practicing with a knife.

Gary Lemonade is

stealing hearts.

Gary Lemonade feels

his age.

Gary Lemonade feels

the Earth spinning.

Gary Lemonade feels

mortal.

Gary Lemonade feels

too cool for Friday night.