Tinfoil Hat
Sickle-cell or something
You’d lost weight and you admitted it
And you smoked something too
Right before you got there
I could tell because you were kind
You looked 17 years old
And you told me aliens were coming
They were going to make you a rockstar
Somebody who was friends with Johnny Depp
You said the meaning of your name
It was “God is the King”
You told me I was “Daughter of the King”
You told me to continue my music
You knew it was all going to end soon
But you didn’t know quite how
You told me to be ready
That the galaxies were swirling together and colliding
That you’d be looking for me up there soon
You got in and started up the car with the bad backfire
And that pale horse rode off into the night
Fire and Peace
The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem feeling numb
To the left, to the right, doesn't matter which way I look
I got to be honest I am seeing people acting dumb
The things they say and do has got me all shook.
I am so tired of bad behavior and bad news stories
I feel as though I cannot breathe
Weather, groceries, utilities, gasoline and bills - yeah we got plenty of worries
Overwhelmed, yep, but we just can't give up and put on a mourning wreath
We have to be like Taylor and shake it off
There is certainly work to be done
Needs to be plenty of room for all at the trough
A mind in search of peace is a battle that must be won.
Balancing Act
Time, like a current
Is pulling me forward
Towards the inevitable end
I wait and I watch
Try to study the tide
Never knowing with what I contend
Even though I get lost
Below the fathomless depths
It will not break me, though I may bend
One day I will wake
On the glittering shore
But for now, through these waters I wend
neither cleanliness nor godliness do I abide
rather yours truly doth thrive
on keeping the ethos, mythos,
and pathos of Pigpen alive
subjected to eternal
abomination, brutalization,
condemnation, damnation,
emasculation, humiliation, ostracization,
who one day envisions himself
as a decrepit solitudinarian
an aging long haired baby boomer,
(I seriously contemplate donating
about a dozen inches of straggly hair
to locks of love, hoping
a stylist makes house calls -
since anticipatory anxiety
wracks these lovely bones
at the prospect
of setting foot inside a salon)
wherefore he might finally
cease to be a subject of derision,
but please do not chide,
a sexagenarian whose bruised ego
experienced more'n lifetime
worth of rejection,
whose first three plus decades
(approximately half my existence)
of mein kampf livingsocial I gingerly elide
where persona non grata of Charlie Brown
(essentially portrayed as a loser)
on his keister he did glide
cuz unkind behavior
demonstrated by Lucy Van Pelt
without fail always pulls away the football
disclosing her character,
who harbors spitefulness inside
earning her another point
of maliciousness notated
on the figurative blackboard,
when I chalked up and kreide.
The Peanuts gallery
populated pleasure reading
during mine boyhood
as well as the Little Engine that Could,
whose disposition evinced a solitary lad
never delinquent except one attempt
to get caught shoplifting a yoyo at Ames
Department store in Lansdale,
but other than that amazingly as all good
boys do fine.
Matter of fact quite few other comic strips
ranked as my favorite back when I read
the Philadelphia Inquirer Sunday edition
approximately two thirds
of threescore and three years ago
(approximately half life
of Matthew Scott Harris)
I cannot forget other comic strip titled
Andy Capp, Beetle Bailey,
Berkeley Breathed, Blondie,
Brenda Starr Reporter,
Calvin and Hobbes
Dennis the Menace, Dilbert,
The Far Side, For Better or For Worse,
Frank and Earnest,
Fred Basset, Garfield,
Hägar the Horrible,
Mutt and Jeff, Nancy, Pogo,
Shoe, The Family Circus, Tumbleweeds,
The Lockhorns,
The Wizard of Id, and Ziggy.
So many choices availed themselves
regarding how to while away
my leisure hours during
those fleeting twenties,
thirties, and forties of mine,
but yours truly (me)
frequently, easily, and decidedly
found contentment then and now
among the rank and file
of other not ready
for prime time players
soaking up newsworthy morsels
and if not reading aforementioned material
than appeasing the insatiable bookworm
holed up within corporeal complex edifice
housing these lovely bones
cerebrally feasting on a favorite genre
possibly fulfilling hunger
for historical fiction
or miscellaneous nonfiction.
Saying Goodbye
The journey is lonelier, beginning a life without him.
The task is difficult, accepting he’s not here.
The weight is crushing, because his absence creates a void.
The quiet is upsetting, as silence envelops the house all year.
The future is discontinued, with no more “So happy to see you again” moments.
The solitude is daunting, having only the past to hold dear.
Kingston’s leash and collar hang in the front hall.
Both are reminders of the anticipated walks we’d take without fail.
He was a great dog and companion, offering unconditional love.
A source of deep-seated happiness simply by wagging his tail.
He remains an integral part of my life, if only through reminiscing.
I’m grateful for the eleven years he was the wind in my sail.
The journey is most definitely lonelier, beginning a life without him.
All Too Well (First Love version)
I remember a bus stop.
I can picture it- seven years later.
It was cold, so it must have been fall.
I remember your little bounce- you were cold. Already wearing a hoodie, so I couldnt offer mine.
I remember the glint of your teeth off the stop lights. Driving felt so far away then, waiting for the bus.
I remember your laugh on the wind- sharp, deep and cutting. I felt my own lips turn. I remember it was a tie between a grin and a frown-
because I could not openly love you then. And I was too sick to know how, anyway.
But nobody knew- not how I kept you sacredly to my chest. Not my quiet murmuring of worship. They didn't know the same altar I prayed at for your love that they prayed for your salvation. Or mine. Who knows?
Seven years. So many hours lost to thinking of you. So many poems. An entire book.
So, I know. I don't know you now, just as you don't me as must as you like to think you do from what I heard of you saying about me.
Despite it, I love you. Or maybe I love late, cold nights at a bus stop,
and awkward fumbling and hidden, anxious kisses.
I smile and swallow bitterly until im worried my face will stick like that.
And then I know it isn't true.
If soulmates exist, it is you. Because I cannot be rid of you though I try.
I don't remember your smell, or your touch, but I remember you.
I remember it all.
For I Remember Everything
Fire is supposed to bring fear but I have never felt more at peace.
Being surrounded by it, it feels like a dream come true.
For so long, I have sought it out; I have craved it, yearned for it.
Remember when you were told not to play with matches?
It was the best day of my life, to learn that I could control the fire.
I dug through the junk drawer at home in search for the magical sticks.
The power that one little match has; it's almost unfathomable.
A backyard fence burnt to ashes, the ground on either side slightly charred.
There is a beautiful irony to it all.
I remember being called crazy by my parents, the fear in their eyes.
I remember being called crazy by my friends, the laughter in their voice.
I remember being called crazy by my boyfriend, licking his lips.
Families always want to meet their child's partner, like it's a final exam.
"He may not be good for you, so we need to pass our own judgement."
Some people worry about first impressions, I worry about a plan failing.
Let's take some time to set the scene.
A family dinner; gloriously braised pork with carrots and potatoes.
A meeting between damned souls as they smile and shake hands.
My boyfriend sits down right next to me, making sure to squeeze my leg.
He always does that when he's nervous that I'll talk.
My parents wishing that they could be anywhere else than sitting across the way.
Dinner conversation is forced, laughter is calculated, comments are targeted.
I rise from the table, my emotions as unreadable as always.
My little secret is waiting to be shared from just up the stairway.
I look left, right, down the halls, from the foyer to the back door.
Out of sight, out of sound.
A bathroom excuse covers for me as I sneak to the top of my new viewing deck.
Creak...
Chit!
Whoosh!
---
Here I sit at an old wooden desk, it won't be long now.
Neighbors have seen the smoke, running out to the street, calling for help.
I look down at them from my bedroom window.
I am writing a final goodbye, to my parents, boyfriend, and police.
Their screams echo in the walls, the sound of their nails scratching for a way out.
The fire crackling, roaring, unrelenting from just under my feet.
I let out a sigh of relief as I write my final words, smiling.
News anchors will read the story of my "sickening crime" in their broadcasts.
I will already be far away from this realm, taking abuse and feeling pain no more.
The End
"The world is ending"
They said
I didn't believe them
A moment later
You called me on the telephone
"Stay where you are"
You said
"I'm coming to get you"
The tremble in your voice
Told me it was
True
You had no car
Neither did I
So we tried to run
It was no use
Everything was on fire
From Manhattan
To Jersey
From New York
To Japan
We couldn't get out
Only one of us could make it
If we tried
You couldn't leave me
I wouldn't leave you
So you took my hand
Together
We ran through the streets
Broke into that old club
In the Bowery
You held me in your arms
And we slow-danced
On that old sticky floor
To the sirens
And screams
While the world burned down
Around us
I didn't cry
I wasn't even scared
Because
I was going to spend the rest of my life
Looking into your eyes
Everything would be
Okay
Entry #3: A Melancholy In Gold
The royal tears won't flow. I have no hope of claiming the power in the wake of their deluge. When a meteor hits, the impact only does some of the devastating -- waves do their fair share. I feel as if I have it in me to dredge the toxins from the belly of Gaia herself and, in doing so, spin up and dilute the poisonous rot stewing there. I keep the golden key in my pocket. It will know its' companion in due time.
To know The Key is to let it twine like some eight-legged reptile round my fingers, sink its' teeth into my palms, and find rest. As my coil tremors, my spirit slinks off and away. Cowardice, or tact? Respite, in either case, and by such simple means.
While the World is on Fire…
The global news today is more of the same:
People that hate and accuse,
Nations with wars and coups,
Apathy and gridlock that refuse
To face the climate crisis blues.
The world is on fire,
And I’m by my modem
Just writing this poem.
Go ahead, accuse me of avoiding the flames,
But hate is something I can’t mitigate,
Peace talks I cannot negotiate,
Funding I cannot appropriate
And hearts I cannot ameliorate
To make the climate crisis abate.
Yes, the world is on fire,
And I’m still by my modem
Just writing this poem.
But maybe my writing has beneficial gains,
I CAN post ideas for all to observe
Ways to peace, ways to serve.
My Congressman I can disturb
By putting nerve into my verbs.
And writing my psyche preserves.
So, while the world is on fire,
I remain by my modem
Just writing this poem.