Hard Times with Words

 

Shaking the dust and cobwebs

from the word box.

There are such multitudes of words to choose

from.

Yet, the only one that seems to shimmer

is, “Irritated”.

 

Irritated? That’s not really the one

I was looking for.

I was hoping for something seasonal,

or jolly.

Something hopeful or joyous, perhaps

even miraculous.

 

But Irritated is what I got. Not really the

word to put on top of the tree.

Not exactly the sort of word we need

right now.

It’s just not the word I was hoping

for.

 

I shook the word box again, hoping

for something better.

I got Irritated again.

I shook it again.

I got Irritated.

I got Irritated.

I got Irritated.

 

Now the word box is in a crumpled

heap on the tile,

and irritation covers the floor.

Amid the curses and swears, and

the angry tearful drops.

 

I’m sweaty and sitting on my haunches,

breathing heavy after kicking and stomping

that blasted word box all to hell. I’m feeling

my heartbeat in my chest and some gnawing

regret in my mind.

 

How irritating.

It’s all so very irritating.  

So silly too. Embarrassing really.

Quite silly in fact. Too silly. Maddeningly

silly.

  

I gather up the busted word box

from the floor.

I put it back on the shelf and leave

the attic.

 

Maybe next year, there

will be less irritation.

Less silliness.

More loving, joyous and

miraculous words.

 

Hear, here

 I have been,

Staring at this god damn,

Screen for so long,

Wondering when,

She’s going to get

Tired of me.

The paper,

Remember the paper 

Between your fingers,

As you felt the paper,

And you fell apart with

Each word from some,

Other voice.

My voice in your head,

That you can’t see.

Or sleep.

Until she finishes her

Song.

Everytime, she breaks

Me with her silence.

An echo in the

Dark, a puddle in the

Rain.

Another Year

 

Still here, still loping along

at my current pace,

to quote Shel Silverstein,

“I don’t know where I’m going,

but I’ve seen where I’ve been”.

a la, Backwards Bill.

 

A poem I’ve known since childhood,

which today (of all days) seems

like a very long time ago.

Yet, really, really recent.

A flood of childhood memories

are always lingering on the fringes

of my mind.

 

Yet the memories are sort of

sepia toned and rusty at the edges,

sort of an out of focus Polaroid yet revealing

so much detail in an over-bright flash.

The flash on the embarrassments,

the mistakes, the shames, the

assumptions corrected.

 

It is true that I value those

moments for the learning experiences

that they were meant to be, I just have

never quite understood why I have had

to learn those lessons the hard way;

From longing and lusty loving, to the

rejections of affections and every

hard luck emotion in between.   

 

I’ll cut in to some birthday cake

sometime soon and I’ll think about

all the cake I didn’t eat in a time when

I didn’t much like cake, but now, as I’m

older, I like cake very much.

I’ll think of the wasted selfish wishes

blown over ever growing numbers of

candles. Maybe, the good wishes too,

I suppose.

 

I’m still here, slightly happy,

less unhappy, loved and love to give.

 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Thanksgiving 2020

 

To be Thankful,

is to acknowledge the

great gifts we have received,

embraced and have luckily

cherished over what has

got to be one of the shittiest

years in the history of modern

times.

 

2020 has been by far,

one of the largest turds

ever dropped over the side of

the toilet called life.

It’s been unending anxiety,

misery and even more anxiety,

mixed with constant uncertainty,

rife with confusion and ceaseless

belly-aching.

 

I’m even exhausted by the very idea

of writing one more piece about it.

My keyboard has been silent lately whilst

confronted with election results, a resurging

virus, and the general uneasiness of day to

day living in a petri dish of unknown terrors

stalking us to an untimely death.

 

Yes, that’s 2020.

So what should we be thankful for

as we approach a Day of National Thanks Giving?

Well, if you’re lucky, you still have your loved ones

in your life to hold onto. Perhaps you have friends

that have helped you through the hardest times, or

ones that you have helped out to the best of your

ability. I suppose that’s certainly something to

be thankful for.

 

I guess we can be thankful that at least one

national nightmare is coming to an end and a

new period can begin and get us back on track towards

a more just and fervent future. So, there’s that up on

the Thanksgiving scoreboard. It doesn’t change the

outcome of the game much, but it’s good to be on

the board.

 

Personally, I’m thankful for continued gainful employment,

for my family, for those friends that have not had enough

of me and my lumbering annoyances. I’m thankful for a

reasonably refurbished apartment

that I’m slightly less embarrassed by.

I’m thankful for the long summer nights

I got to enjoy outside; time spent with my

new nephew, and the boozy fun evenings

I got to have with socially distant friends.

 

In the end, I guess I do have things to be thankful

for, even in this year of an unmitigated shit sandwich

all you can eat shit buffet. The toppings are

free though and you can pick your own.

Any toppings you want to put on

your shit sandwich, is slightly better than not having

an option at all I suppose.

 

I’m thankful for you, dearest readers,

who either love me or hate me or

think all of this is dumb. I appreciate the

time you may take from your shitty day to read

about my shitty days in shitty little poems

I shit out.

 

Happy Thanksgiving 2020.

Die you cruel year! Die!   

Sleepy Fingers

 

“What are you going to write

about,” she asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said,

“My fingers are a bit sleepy.”

 

“Sleepy fingers. Now that’s something,”

she said.

“Meh,” I said, “Sounds like a rejected

1970’s rock band name.”

 

“Ha, yeah. Sleepy Fingers; I’m sorry,

but I just don’t think your song,

Wake Up With Me In You, is going to

make the charts,” she said in her best Record Agent voice.

“Aw, really mate, that song is the

essence of our whole band, mate,” I added in a mockingly British accent.

 

“Are they a British band,” she asked.

“Of course they are,” I said.

“Not an American band,” she said.

“Yeah, definitely not an American Band,” I said.

“I’m sure they were just ahead of their time,” she said.

 

“For sure, Sleepy Fingers was all about that new

sound. Legends in their own minds,” I said.

“Makes me wish for a Behind the Music episode for

bands that never existed,” she said.

 

“I’ve never heard a steel drum used in quite

that way. Ingenious,” I said.

“And the kazoo choir, brilliant,” she said.

“Don’t forget the 25 minutes of bacon frying,” I said.

“Wasn’t that the album name, Sleepy Fingers – Bacon Frying,” she asked.

 

“I believe it was actually titled Bacon Fat Frying,” I said.

“Ah, that’s right,” she said, “Just a musical marvel,” she said.

We smiled at each other.

Loving the magic of nonsense between lovers.

 

“So, you’re writing about this,” she asked.

“Already done,” I said.

A kiss.

A smile.

 

An Inner Voice

 

My inner voice is  

claustrophobic. 

Scratching and clawing 

at the sides of my skull, 

Mewing like a wild cat, 

stuck in a cage at a City 

Zoo.  

Pacing back and forth 

behind the black iron bars, 

stared at the fat onlookers, 

chomping on popcorn and 

corn dogs or other corn related 

food items, pointing and 

gawking at my bristled fur. 

My inner voice, wishing for 

wildness, untempered freedom 

and a little spot in the sun 

to roar and run, to chase and 

be chased, to smell the wonders 

of each blade of grass and pee 

anywhere.  

A stir-crazy inner voice, 

kept caged as the muckity-mucks 

wander about in the haze of  

unearned self-righteousness,  

with Strawberry Ice Cream dripping 

from their over fed mouths onto  

their smugly inappropriate tee-shirts. 

An inner voice, wanting to pounce, 

scream and slaughter, 

shout and slay; 

sharpened by a prolonged 

solitude. Claws longing 

to tear and thrash, rip and slice, 

through the numbskullery.  

A loud inner voice, yet, untoothed and 

declawed by social fragilities.  

Pining for lust, love, passion, good sense, 

virtue, and acceptance outside of a cage, 

outside of convention, inside the hearts 

of the willing, the able, the understanding.   

But finding none.  

  

An inner voice, still stalking 

back and forth in the bone  

cell, snapping and snarling, 

but quite contained, not to 

be unleashed per the rules 

of social convention. As per 

the dignified rules of behavior.  

An outer voice; a zookeeper of 

sorts, managing to secure the locks 

of the more lecherous and salacious, 

unbridled cynicism and passions of the wild ego, 

keeping the onlookers and muckity-mucks 

in their relative security of blissful 

ignorance.     

My inner voice, staring out, panting, 

licking his lips; waiting…  

 

 

Voting is More Important than Good Poetry

 

There’s was a silly little sign 

that once hung in the barbershop 

where I got my haircut as a child. 

Among other wildly inappropriate 

signs and posters, too “mature”  

for the eyes of child.  

This small scroll had an Irish toast 

of sorts, which goes, “When we drink,  

we get drunk. When we get drunk,  

we fall asleep. When we fall asleep,  

we commit no sin. When we commit no sin,  

we go to heaven. So, let's all get drunk,  

and go to heaven!” 

It came to mind this Election Day morning. 

I’m not really sure why, but I thought  

I’d try my hand a sort of re-worked version 

of that toast in honor of this prestigious 

Election Tuesday.  

 “When we vote, 

we get a voice. 

When we have a voice, 

we must raise it. 

When we raise it, 

we commit to the future. 

When we commit to the future, 

we all win. 

So, let’s all vote and go to the future!” 

 Meh, I think I like it better when  

it’s about drinking.   

 Regardless, it is still imperative that 

Americans get out and vote today, 

if they haven’t already, and cast their 

vote for a future they can be proud of 

and look back upon fondly by saying to their 

descendants, “I did that. I looked forward and 

did this for you, my beloved progeny”.  

Good poem/Bad Poem? 

Inconsequential. What is important, 

is your voice is heard, your vote is cast, 

and you fulfill your duty as a citizen  

as the driver of this Country’s Destiny.