Screwed

Did thine Savior truly say,
Blessed are those who do not doubt me,
Ere His mounting upon that skull-shaped hill?

If so, then needs must be to Him I pray
On a bended and shaky knee
Begging for Him to bless me, still.

For, while I have no doubt today
That the Son of God is He,
Tomorrow, without a doubt, I will.
 

#ofthejournals

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Poetry Is My Balm

Many of the haiku and other poems in Short Verses & Other Curses were written as a therapeutic balm in response to my cancer. I don’t know why or how I survived all that nonsense but I suspect writing the poems helped at least a little.

Recent events make it seem to me that my country is suffering such a life-threatening and cancerous disease so I was naturally drawn to some of the poems I wrote for the collection. To some degree they helped again, if only as a temporary distraction from present reality.

I doubt if these poems have any healing power potent enough for all the ills sickening my nation; however, it is out of love and desperation that I shall share them with you now.

For the next day or so, please feel free to download the collection. If any of the poems move you in any way, I ask that you share your thoughts here in the comment section. If you have any other poetry that you believe will help relieve a troubled soul, I ask that you also share those with us as well.

You may download the collection by clicking on its book cover.
 
Short Verses

Peace.


Thank you to all who downloaded a copy of the book and especially to those who left me such kind, encouraging comments. They mean very much to me.

 
 

A Prolific Poet

Somehow I managed not to share this (age is a possible factor) very kind recommendation for Poems from the River that was posted by our good friend at Chronicles of a Blogaholic, who, with her daily musings and photography, brings us all a little bit of sunshine and happiness.

Chronicles of a Blogaholic

“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought
and the thought has found words.”
Robert Frost

Poems from the River

There’s a blogger I’ve been following since I began my blog. He’s one of the first bloggers that found my blog and liked one of my posts.

Ever since that day, I’ve been following him daily. His stories and photographs are an inspiration.

Last week I ordered his book of poetry, Poems from the River, which arrived yesterday. His collection of poems are tender and beautifully written.

If you’re interested in visiting Kurt’s blog and buying his book, please check him out at: Kurt Brindley. I believe Kurt Brindley is and will become quite a prolific poet.

Shine On

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It’s Only “Weird” If… [Weird Wednesday Prompt]

I like those beer commercials that were airing a couple years ago about how it was only weird if it didn’t work.

If that isn’t one of the most true and profound beer commercials in the history of beer commercials then I don’t know what is…

I mean, if we do something strange or have a less than normal personality, then we are automatically labeled as weird. But have someone rich and/or famous exhibit the same behavior then it immediately goes from not working and being weird to working and being, you guessed it, eccentric.

Eccentric… What every weirdo strives to become.

Imagine an average joe* walking down, not the red carpet, but the average city street in a dress made of meat… I doubt the eccentric defense will work well with the average city cop.

Yet another example of the long, hard, enduring struggle between the classes…

But if you think about it, weird ain’t easy to do. It’s hard to go against the grain, against convention. Normal is so easy, welcoming. We’ve been doing normal for most of our lives and it now is hard not to do it.

Don’t get me wrong, normal is cool. Whoever invented it was a genius – and I suspect female – for how else to get us stupid men from bashing in each other’s stupid heads with clubs and rocks and whatever else we could get our hands on than to create a system where such behavior is strange, odd – not normal.

So I’m all in for normal, while knowing very well that weird is where the action is.

So, for today’s Weird Wednesday prompt…

Put together something – a poem, an essay, flash fiction, a drawing, whatever – stream of consciousness perhaps, whatever – something less than normal, something against convention, but something that, at least in your mind, is normal and as conventional – and preferable, enlightening to all – as can be.

My guess is, it won’t be easy…

And I suspect Josh Wrenn, the author of yesterday’s Tanka Tuesday selection, just may be tapping into some of that brandy he waxed so poetically about for some weird inspiration.
 

*non-gender specific


This may explain things a bit.
Submissions close at 7PMish.
Selection posted some time after…

 
 

The Poem of Me

The poem of me from yesterday
Is not that which I am today

In many ways they may resemble
But don’t be fooled by what I say

Look closely at what you hear
Listen with more than just an ear

The poem of me from yesterday
Is not that which I am today

You think that you may know me
By the words I rhyme and sing

You think that you may know me
But of me you know not a thing

The poem of me I once sang for you
Then may have had lyrics true

But with each new day the words decay
And of that me from then — I bade adieu

 

❅ ❅ ❅ ❅

Poems from the River

POEMS FROM THE RIVER

Read the Reviews

 
 

In Celebration of the End of Procrastination

To celebrate the release of my poetry collection Poems from the River as a print edition, you can get a free copy of the Kindle edition from now until approximately 23:59PM (PST) Sunday, December 14, 2014.

GET YOUR FREE EBOOK >> UNITED STATES | WORLDWIDE

 

Poems from the River
Photo courtesy of the lovely and loving Megi of HappyNest In America

The print edition is now available for purchase directly from the publisher HERE.

It will be available for purchase at Amazon US in 3-5 days and from distributors worldwide in the days thereafter.

Thank you so much for your support. I truly hope you enjoy the poetry.

 

The Field
Photo courtesy of the lovely and loving Megi of HappyNest In America

Another rainy day

rain drop

Another rainy day
Yet as
Beautiful
As it is
In all its
Low Pressure
Depression —

A Cause to
Rejoice
And to
Celebrate Life
And all its many
Sudden
Surprising
Vagaries —

All I can do is
Sit here and
Think
Thinking
7,000,000,000 of
You
Are out there
Some in the
Rain
Some not
But You are out there
7,000,000,000 of
You
Existing
Together
As I sit
Here
Watching
Rain
Thinking
Alone

The snow falling as it is

The snow falling as it is
As a dream within a dream within a dream is
Leads me to where my home is
Not to where my house is
But to where my heart is
To where the the forest of my chaste chastened childhood is
To where the sage old oak of that forest is
To where the thickened and knotted and crooked branch of that sage old oak is
To where that branch I used to climb to to
think to
hope to
hide to
hate to
cry to
live to
die to
wonder and why and why and why to
as the snow falls
as a dream within a dream within a dream is

 
 


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Cold

it’s not the season
…..the occluded fronts
…..the barometrical pressures

it’s not the helpless sad sun
…..obscured by the sooty midday murk
the spiteful arctic sting
…..carried by the weak unsuspecting breeze
the frozen-rooted grass
…..aching to fall the forever green tree

…..it’s not the bare feet
upon the stone tiled floor
…..the rude awakening
in the ambient chilled bath
…..the blanket lost
to the frigid midnight moon

it’s not those
…..or anything
it’s just me
……….I’m cold
……………cold

The Truck Drivin’ Poet

The Truck Drivin' Poet

I once knew an old truck driver
Who’d been drivin’ a rig all his life.
And he never knew a single worry.
Nor was he ever bothered with strife.

His life was oh so relaxin’.
As for stress, he just didn’t know it.
He had not a care in the world,
For he was a truck drivin’ poet.

When traffic was backed up for miles
And he was in a rush to get through,
Instead of getting all upset,
Here’s all he would ever do:

Into his citizens band radio mike
He’d recite a verse or two
Of Blake, Shelley, cummings, or Whitman.
To him any old poet would do.

Cuz it’s poetry that kept him so happy,
And kept his life completely carefree.
It’s poetry that taught him ’bout livin’,
And that life’s what he makes it to be.

But when he recited the oldies
The other truckers would always complain.
Cuz to them those old poets were so boring.
They made staying awake such a strain.

The truckers wanted poems with attitude—
Poems that would make them tap their toes.
They didn’t want to be bored and befuddled
By such pitilessly pretentious prose.

The Truck Drivin’ Poet wasn’t offended.
It happened to him all the time.
So he stopped recitin’ Ferlingetti
And started recitin’ poets who rhymed.

He recited poems that had rhythm,
And poems with discernible beats.
And soon the truckers were much happier
Than they had been while listening to Keats.

Now Keats, himself, had some rhythm
(And the truckers did give him a try).
But for them he was way too Romantic
And his poems just a little too dry.

What those truckers wanted to hear
Were poems with a lively, snappy tone.
Shel Silverstein pleased them the most.
Second were the Authors Unknown.

And what they wanted he’d sure try to give ’em.
Cuz all he ever wanted to do
Was to make them truck drivers happy
So they’d know not a worry, too.

For he knew truck drivin’ wasn’t easy—
It’s tough drivin’ a rig every day.
And that’s why he recited them poetry—
To help drive their troubles away.

 
From Poem Man

Me

Me

I like bubble gum.
I like bats.
I like baseballs
And cowboy hats.

I like mudcakes.
I like moles.
I like mountain bikes
And deep, dark holes.

I like tinker toys.
I like tag.
I like tadpoles
And greasy, dirty rags.

I like football.
I like fightin’.
I like fishin’,
Especially when they’re bitin’.

I like snakes.
And my backyard squirrel.
But it’s me I like the best
Cuz I am a girl!

 
From Poem Man

Onomatopoeia Flu

Blah!

A sniffle a snort
A wheeze and a sneeze
A belch a burp and a moan.

A slurp a sigh
A hiss and a buzz
A babble a wow and a groan.

An utter a sputter
A mumble and a grumble
A barf a spit and a spew.

A cough a hack
A hum and a yawn
A sheesh then finally…a whew!

There are flues that can make smoke float up,
And there are flues that can make folks lie down.
But the Onomatopoeia Flu is the only flu
That can make you make really weird sounds.

 
From Poem Man

 
 

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Meet me in the courtyard where the blood no longer flows

You and I sipping tea
wrought iron stylish in ancient design
umbrella faded to blue just so
violet clematis
climbing
reaching
divine
but hiding sins etched in walls
which leaves us sacred in our time

 

bodies marched out lined up
backs against the brick
against the wall
so to speak
confessional sins
then onward to die

ready…
aim…
the anxious burn before the fire…

wall too high for them to climb
still they try
leaving nails of desperate death behind

 
 

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Listen To The Colors

Listen To The Colors

Listen to the colors
For they have so much to say.
You’ll be surprised at what you hear
If you don’t let your fears get in the way.

Listening to the colors
Takes more than just your ears.
You must listen with all your senses,
For colors are hard to hear.

Listen closely to all the colors,
For each message from them is new.
What the colors say to me
They might not say to you.

Best listen to every color,
All the purples, pinks, and greens.
For the colors are all our tomorrows:
They’ll be painting every scene.

Please listen to the colors.
And listen closely every day.
For if we aren’t listening to their message
They might just go away.

 
From Poem Man

 

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Holdin’ Toes

Holdin' Toes

Holdin’ hands is supposed to be special,
But really, anyone can do it.
Just grab a hand and don’t let go,
That’s all there really is to it.

But my way of holdin’ is a little bit different.
In fact, I’m sure no one else even knows…
Just take off your shoes, and then your socks,
Cuz my way is holdin’ toes.

 

From Poem Man

 
 

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