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Heroes of 9-11 (Twin Towers & Flight
93)
The Greatest Generation (WW II Veterans)
A Nobler Breed (Working Mothers)
Popsicle Sid And The Lollypop
Queen
Reflections Return to Table of
Contents
Speculative
Verse Return to Table of Contents
Extraterrestrials: Fact Or Fiction
Seeds Of Socialism
(The “Give Me” Culture)
Captive Eyes Return to List
Is
this love?
What is in your eyes?
It’s
as if I saw a comet
coursing through the skies.
The
lights are getting brighter.
In each pupil it seems clear.
Perhaps
they are but shining,
as the reflections in a mirror.
Is
love light really glowing
or has reason taken flight?
It’s
terrible not knowing,
if what I think is right.
Is
this love?
What is in your voice?
Although
you chatter aimlessly,
my ears and eyes rejoice.
Can
one express the wind
when the sea begins to churn?
Is
it my imagination
as I watch those fires burn?
When
the tempest rises,
there is something else to fear,
one
more thing to ponder
as your lips are very near.
For
what is in your smile,
which is more than a mere grin?
Could
mystery so beguile me
and hide a secret sin?
Is
it practical in my cloudy mind
to actually know what’s right,
while
I’m drowning in your gaze
and captured by its light.
And
with your breath so close
do I turn away and flee?
Can
one escape the tide
or be swept up by the sea?
Is
all my great elation
and captive eyes ablaze
mere
one-way emanations?
Am I now still in a daze?
Can
the touch yet so deceive
that it interprets what I dream?
Can
a voice make me believe,
while captive eyes so scheme?
That
all your wondrous qualities
have not a sacred name.
In
each pupil I saw a galaxy
now reflects a shallow flame.
That
one and all as mysteries swell
the apathy will show.
Imagined
there, will inkling tell
what I cannot bear to know.
Then
why all these questions
when I don’t really want to see?
I
would rather be in somnolence
and trust my reverie.
Oh
what is love
but a bit of fire and smoke
to
blur the eyes and trick the ears
to become a chagrin joke?
If
I the errant wanderer be
must test my wild surmise,
I
shall cast my gaze and gamble thus
when I see those captive eyes.
Love’s Command Return to List
Can
one cancel the wind
or stand against the tide?
Is
it possible to comprehend
that my love could ever die?
When
long ago by carefree storm,
as a sapling I was found,
you
picked me, like monsoons warm,
then tossed me to the ground.
But
I got up upon my knee,
then slowly crept to stand.
I
knew it was my destiny
to yield to love’s command.
Can
one ignore the light,
though gone, not feel the fires
and
so far from lover’s sight
not remember these desires?
When
long ago the storm moved out
what was left in me will burn.
Until
consumed by time or doubt,
I shall wait for your return.
Essence Return to List
Jewels
are the eyes of just anyone
and eyes are impossible dreams.
Sapphires
or diamonds with the glint of the sun,
all can deceive with luster and beams.
But
beyond the crystalline around
we can pinpoint inner fire.
The
sensual warmth of blue or brown
does not show love’s desire.
It
is the gaze that is fondly held
upon the loved one’s face.
Within
each pupil love has filled
a change has taken place.
Touch Return to List
It
is the touch that shall manifest
what the eyes and voice have told.
If
we love, it’s time to test
whether the touching hand is cold.
If
it is hot when the room without
is the same as it was before,
then
without a doubt the eyes and voice
have greater love in store.
Instant of
Love Return to List
Loving
eyes in a moonlight night
reflect celestial rays.
Beneath
a crown of lunar light
they share a peaceful gaze.
As
they look into my eyes,
my heart begins to toll.
With
tender truth or gentle lies,
they burn into my soul.
The
face beneath the moon
then shares its cosmic smile.
Arms
reach out very soon
to hold me for awhile.
Teasing
lips part slightly,
as my pulse begins to race.
Warm
breath blows lightly
from that tender cherub’s face.
I
feel that body pressing
into the hollow of my arms,
a slow
and subtle caressing,
as I share those secret charms.
Brown Eyes Return to List
Brown
eyes innocently stare
from a warm yet vibrant soul.
Beneath
a nest of raven’s hair
they softly share their glow.
So
lightly do you speak your mind,
with great depth in your gaze.
In
that look, so gentle and kind,
I see the rapture of my days.
I
see a meaning undisguised
to all my lovelorn schemes.
In
the quiet majesty of your eyes
are the lanterns of my dreams.
Heart Return to List
What
is it that cries out
like a lonely spirit of the night,
that,
although we can’t here it,
our mind can feel its might?
We
feel the throbbing deep inside,
as we reflect upon our pasts.
Though
in our heads we can hide
in our chests the memory lasts.
Why
is it that inevitably
when certain friends walk by,
we
can cover our feelings so they can’t see,
but deep inside we hear it cry?
Something
soft touches it, to us appealing,
invoking a familiar name,
until
we can no long hide that feeling
and recall a forgotten flame.
What
is it that cruelly upon us lets it abide
the memory of each day,
but
sweetly lets if fade inside,
until it goes away?
Something
new will come along
and make us forget the rest.
Oh,
what is it that like a poem or song
we can hear it at its best?
Pounding,
surging, stoking desires,
we thought were finally dead.
The
mind portrays each burst of fire,
and from the heart the flames are fed.
Beyond the Wake Return to List
The
Sea, the sea, yon I see
lost horizon in reverie
While
love has passed beyond the wake,
those eyes they still implore.
I
watch the dawn fall upon the sea
and listen to its roar.
Beneath
the sky when daylight comes
the sea I scarcely hear.
Your
voice cries out above the waves,
and I feel your presence near.
The
sea, the sea, this man’s romance
by the sea.
For
the sea around calls upon my reverie.
The Yellow-Haired Girl Return to List
Who
was that yellow-haired girl
the one who stole my peace?
Of
all the lasses in the world,
my
love was like a disease.
She
cared not a wit for my affection
and was deaf to my groans and sighs.
Not
once did she look in my direction,
for I was invisible to her eyes.
On
any occasion or hour of day
I’d see her with her peers.
She’d
look straight ahead in her snobbish way,
whispering into their ears.
Then
one day, my pitch was perfected
to ask her for a date.
The
response I go was quite expected,
and I didn’t have to wait.
She
turned up her nose, as I feared
as if the thought was completely
absurd.
Into
the crowd she disappeared,
not uttering a single word.
Years
later, as I thought of this action,
it struck me as so unkind.
The
yellow-haired girl lost her attraction,
slowly fading from my mind.
Symptoms of Love Return to List
Light-headedness,
palpitations,
and loss of concentration,
recurrent
fever, perspiration,
and frequent agitation.
Euphoria,
but loss of appetite
and sometimes indigestion,
amorous
thoughts, especially at night
then bouts of sudden depression,
Nervous
speech and darting eyes,
and obsession with the clock,
hysterical
giggles, yet ready to cry
as if in traumatic shock.
Fear,
frustration, and gloom
while listening for the phone,
the
desire to escape crowded rooms
just to be alone.
Then
joy, bliss, and ecstatic blast
when that voice and face appears.
The
symptom of love now shared at last,
dispelling all my fears.
Marriage and Friendship TOC
What is Marriage? Return to List
What
is marriage
but a rough road to tread.
It’s
more than just a honeymoon
or romp in the nuptial bed.
It’s
more than just the romance
seen on soapy tales.
We
are more than mere sidekicks
on life’s rocky trails.
What
is marriage
beyond the lyrics of rhyme?
It’s
the forging of two souls
that lasts the test of time.
Memories of Old Classmates Return to
List
Unforgotten
faces emerging in my dreams
are the memories of old classmates.
In
my daydreams they also appear:
their faces, voices, and special
traits.
Names
can be lost, but not eyes nor a smile
nor a particular walk or look.
I’ll
find their photos after a little while
tucked away in my yearbook.
A
few moments searching and it all comes back,
each antidote and escapade.
As
if it happened but yesterday,
each photograph is part of a parade.
Left
is my spirit, but gone are the games,
the assemblies, the dances, and plays.
Touching
each picture in Ouija board fashion,
I remember those carefree days.
Long
lost friends are out of reach,
but time can’t sweep the past.
The
yearbook stirs my recollection,
making my memories last.
Endearing
notes, as milestones left,
under photos on special pages.
Inside
the cover in sweeping prose
are the words of high school sages.
Laughter
and friendship, long ago heard,
in each photo that I find.
Those
special persons touching my heart
burn brightest in my mind.
Co-eds
and debutants captured my affection
as did the spirit of the high school teams.
The
games, the dates, and even the classes
still haunt me in my dreams.
Unforgotten
faces live in my yearbook
in an age that seemed trouble free.
Life
has always had its knocks,
yet I’m filled with serenity.
Lord
protect them and guide their fates.
Keep them safe, happy, and sane.
Let
my mind not forget and heart always feel
the memories of old classmates.
Quiet Friend Return to
List
I
left you standing there
but failed to make the toast.
It
took the distance that we shared
to make me miss you most.
It
came to me in awhile
that I may never hear your voice.
I
would never see your gentle smile,
unless I made a choice.
I
chose to reach across to you
by the magic of the phone.
If
I had not made this breakthrough,
you might never have known.
You
would never have heard the high esteem
from this admirer from afar
or never
have known, my friend,
just how dear to me you are.
Remember Me Not Return to
List
Remember
me not when the candlelight grew,
when darkness engulfed except for the
fire.
A
thoughtless encounter that in the night flew,
until the morning quenched our desire.
All
that we had was selfish submission,
an infantile pact, no long range
sight.
We
betrayed our mates in silent perdition,
as contrite sinners regretting the
night.
Forgetting
the mystery in life’s greatest plot,
we selected an easier game.
Beyond
the moment when the touch was hot,
nothing was left but the flame.
Remember
me not in the shadows that veil,
as daylight broke through our cover.
Our
ill-conceived passion was destined to fail,
because of guilt shared by each other.
Despite
the fun, we were shallow dreamers,
not in spirit but physical domain.
Both
of us were but selfish schemers,
collectors in ill-gotten gain.
Playing
our parts in pretended mystery,
our love was far from sublime.
Between
us there was but little history;
we just wanted to have a good time.
Remember
me now as a make-believe lover,
though my moves were so carefully
planned
When
it was over, we would discover
it was nothing but a one night stand.
Blithe Spirit Return to
List
Blithe
spirit yet fading light,
uncharted, restless soul.
Once
in limelight, now in dim light,
but breathlessly you play your role.
So
heavenly, beneath altered curls
carnal eyes swim crazily.
Once
wondrous eyes scanned the world,
now long eyelashes droop lazily.
In
the thrust of dawn
or twilight at your best
the
flame inside is carried on
and a spark is left to test.
Beyond
the animation
of your shallow, narrow part
there
is yet the old vibration
from your lonely, restless heart.
Blithe
spirit, a shadow yonder
beacons you; go softly then.
Once
a pure soul, but now you wander.
Perhaps for moments you'll love again.
Counterfeit Lover Return to
List
False
hope, untrue fate,
elusive and fleeting dream,
though
you were an exciting mate,
your love was but a scheme.
When
the night had fled,
you emitted a tired yawn.
The
gold had gilded on your head
in the light of early dawn.
I
saw those shallow, empty eyes,
that deadpan sheen of blue.
Last
night was filled with obvious lies
and then my time was through.
Without
the price, your angel’s face
would have lost its limelight glow.
Your
variations of love’s embrace
had been a tawdry show.
Winter and Old Age Return to List
I
cast my thoughts into the night
through a window laced with frost.
I
traced my dreams in cold starlight
of hopes that now seem lost.
Snow
lies freshly on the ground.
I hear the night wind blow.
I
tremble at this cheerless sound,
in spite of fireside glow.
Old
age is winter come at last,
the hour glass nearly spent.
I
remember things long since past,
to the simplest, trifling event.
Oh,
would that life be one long summer,
and time would suddenly cease,
my
days and nights no longer numbered,
my mind then filled with peace.
And
would that all my afflictions
that old age and winter bring,
as
snow in sunlight's reflection
be melted in the spring.
Now,
by icy window glass,
I see my image cloud.
The
sudden flakes upon the grass
cover it thickly as a shroud.
Finally,
toward the hearth I turn
to chase these thoughts way.
I
pause to watch the fire burn
and dream of a better day.
Middle Age Frustration Return to List
Cry,
shout, but don't give up,
your future is not through,
though
brimming is the bitter cup
that life has given you.
Middle
age now stings you
as you cope with common things
and
contemplate the menu
of what life so often brings.
In
your moments of despair
during solitary repast,
you
must close that bill of fare
and not dwell upon the past.
For
somewhere in your dreams
is a better, clearer day.
Along
the way your plans and schemes
have simply gone astray.
Your
most recent agitations
should be sloughed off with the rest.
Despite
your middle age frustrations,
you've done your very best.
Sixty-Five Return to List
Oh
my gosh, you’re sixty-five,
a relic of the past.
Just
be thankful your still a live,
and not a fossil cast.
You’re
going to live a long, long time,
so get used to old age humor.
In
birthday cards expect such rhymes.
Let’s face it—you’re not in bloomers.
But
when your detractors are growing old,
a different song is sung.
Age is but a state of mind we’re told.
Whose to say who’s young?
You’re
only old as you think,
not by years you’ve lived on earth.
Life
is but a cosmic blink,
yet each day brings new rebirth.
Dreamer Return to List
Dreamer,
open your eyes;
the night has fled the day.
Tumble
from that patch of sky
where your past is tucked away.
Yonder
as you slumbered,
where the heart is always true,
beneath
a canopy of umbrage
sweet memories came to you.
But
now your dream is over
and the moments slip away.
You
must leave your bed of clover
and begin another day.
So
do not weep at dawn light;
your past can never die.
When
you travel through the starlight
to that special patch of sky.
Tonight
in safest keeping
where your dreams are tucked away,
you
will journey while your sleeping
to a land of endless day.
Forbidden Fruit Return to List
We shall
not eat forbidden fruit
if we pause to contemplate.
We
know the nectar brings disrepute
to the most exalted reprobate.
Temptation
can strengthen and make us wise
but too often makes us blind.
So
often it’s cleverly disguised,
polluting the soul, poisoning the
mind.
Wise
folk know the signs
and how easy sin is bought.
We
must shun the poison on the vines
and let forbidden fruit just rot.
Dark Memory Return to List
From
long ago, memories revealed
I tried to put away.
In
my brain, a murky shield
around that bygone day.
Fragments
rise from that mire
beckoned in my dream.
Suddenly,
my mind acquires
a sublimated theme.
I
must have been very small,
a young, defenseless child.
I
can scarcely remember it all;
the details are quite vile.
I
saw her overhead
a coat hanger in one hand.
Filled
with awful dread,
I didn’t understand
Why
was she beating me?
What was my terrible crime?
The
details of this history
are blurred by so much time.
I
know enough to realize
I angered her some way.
I
saw rage in my mother’s eyes
on that dark and dreadful day.
The
collapse night came suddenly for me
I became a prisoner of the night.
After chasing the dying sun, I’m free
from the day’s incriminating light.
Moving
along in a grid-locked stream
with the phantoms of my past;
trapped
in my dark dream
I’m invisible at last.
In
darkness I drive in silence,
a part of the commuter tide.
Blacker
than night is my soul’s torment
in which my spirit cannot hide.
In
my mind’s eye, I’m back home,
no longer on the run.
Now
a fugitive, I roam.
My journey’s just begun.
The Old Storyteller Return to
List
The
Old Storyteller sat with a book,
though his eyesight had begun to fail.
He
gave his grandchildren a sly, droll look
and began a most fantastic tale.
The
words they heard were not in line
with
the pages he could barely see.
They
came from the library in his mind
—fantastic
moments from history.
Instead
of words on a page
from
a story he'd read before,
he
drew back, that wise old sage,
searching
the archives of yore.
So
many tales to tell then
about
events from his colorful past,
stretching
the truth ever so thin,
a
story was born at last.
Each
tale he would weave,
was
spun with utmost care,
his
adventures, mostly make-believe
were
spoken with artistic flare.
Wild
natives had he fought.
Mountains had he scaled.
Life's
mysteries he'd been taught,
as he searched for the Holy Grail.
He'd
done just about everything,
he explained to the boys and girls.
There's
not one place he hadn't seen,
as he traveled the entire world.
There
came a point of no return
when the story seemed absurd.
Though
probably his wildest yarn,
they believed his every word.
Listening
to their child-like laughter,
he watched them scamper away.
He
was ready with another chapter
from the tales of yesterday.
Genesis I Return to List
In the beginning of Creation
in the vacuum of the night,
came that cosmic detonation
of God’s
eternal light.
The sound of that commotion
so
difficult to define,
rippling in the celestial ocean,
was a
sign of God’s design.
And the universe that dawned
on
that fundamental hour
continues on and on,
as a
measure of His power.
If we had been there with the Lord
at
the beginning of it all,
we would have seen His light flash outward
and
here his cosmic call.
We would have seen the light expand
in
reaction to his will.
From that wondrous loud command,
we
can hear his thunder still.
We could see the stardust spinning,
each
condensing into a mass,
in each galaxy beginning
as
clouds of swirling gas.
Much later in production
we
could see the earth begun,
amidst the solar system’s construction
around
a primal sun.
The sun would later shine
above
a lifeless sea,
as organic compounds align
into
the Creator’s recipes
Then the Spirit of the Lord
would
move upon the land.
Where footsteps had not trod,
He
would spread his cosmic hand.
Where he pointed there was thunder.
His
glare as lightning shot,
with a special touch of wonder
the
spark of light begot.
After a thoughtful glance,
he
stirred the primal stew,
but left a measure of chance
in
that organic, amorphous brew.
Having set his plan in motion,
he
let the molecules stray,
on a path of evolution
that
continues still today.
Genesis II Return to List
Where a variation bordered,
He
stuck his finger in.
He divided up the orders
but
let the strongest win.
The spark of his Creation
was
tested in every age.
Three billion years duration
was
enough to set the stage.
Around the simplest cells of slime
the
patterns of life evolved.
Through countless eons of time,
complex
life forms evolved.
From jelly fish to dinosaurs,
change
was left to luck.
Evolution had traveled far,
often
running amuck.
Then one day, in a more gentle clime,
the
Lord was filled with mirth.
Instead of allowing chance this time,
He
came personally down to earth.
From the forest’s leafy cover,
he
selected from the least.
He would make it rule the others,
a
tiny, large-eyed beast.
After millions of years of anticipation
and
gently guiding it along,
He looked down upon this aberration,
Something
was dreadfully wrong!
Not man or beast nor fish or fowl,
half
man, yet like an ape.
After studying this oddity awhile,
the
Lord now changed its shape.
From simian to man, he clearly defined
by
giving him human thought.
On other creatures he now dined
with
weapons he had wrought.
With fire to warm him at night
and a
family by his side,
God’s chosen won the fight
in
evolution’s tide.
And God withdrew in meditation.
He
knew he wasn’t done.
He would one day finish Creation
by
sending His begotten Son.
The Apostles Return to List
Peter was called the rock,
though
he denied Jesus thrice.
Yet as shepherd of His flock,
he
was martyred for our Christ.
John, the Beloved, was always bold
He
was there at the crucifixion.
He wrote a prophetic book, we’re told,
much
stranger than fiction.
Matthew was a publican
until
Jesus changed his game.
His gospel, like Mark, Luke, and Johns
recorded
Jesus’ fame
Set down in the gospels
was
the mission that they heard.
But it was left for Paul’s epistles
to
propagate the Word.
Of the Twelve selected
one
would fail Him later.
Judas, whom Satan directed,
turned
out to be a traitor.
After Jesus’ resurrection,
the
whole world would know.
Except for Judas’ disaffection
the
faith would grow and grow.
One-by-one Apostles were killed.
Only
John was left alive.
Though often martyred, the ranks were filled
with
followers willing to die.
But John, at ninety-two,
had
no time to weep.
Jesus
promise came true,
when he was left to tend His sheep.
There, on that lonely station
he
served his greatest mission.
In his book, called Revelation
he
ministered to the Christians.
Apocalyptic Visions Return to List
In his island home
cutoff from civilization
John the Revelator finished a tome
he entitled “Revelation.”
To Seven Churches he extolled
“
Hold onto the Way…”
He warned them of faith’s role
in a
dark and evil day.
There would be days of tribulation
to
measure Christian’s worth.
But before annihilation
shall
Christ return to earth.
What is buried there
in the Revelator’s book?
Should Christendom beware?
Let’s
take a closer look.
Theological teachers
are
critical of Revelations
Accepting John as preacher,
they
reject Doomsday Equations.
He was a visionary, many say,
with
contemporary perceptions.
So why would members of the Way
be give such projections?
In the early Church’s tradition,
there
was official Roman reaction.
To protect themselves, the Christians
cloaked
writing with abstraction.
His revelations were for contemporaries.
Preaching
was John’s intention.
His own words runs contrary
to
Apocalyptic invention.
His passage “the time’s at hand,”
was a
contemporary vision,
so it’s hard to understand
the
millenialists’ End Time vision.
John warned his flock
of
“things coming to pass.”
There is no Doomsday Clock.
It’s an echo from the past.
The Revelator was reassured
as other’s of his day,
But would divine intervention occur
for members of the Way?
Before this came about
would an antichrist reign?
In an age of trial and doubt
would
the Church suffer pain?
Tested by tribulation
in a
period of travail,
against an evil nation
would
the faithful still prevail.
Would the Lord then return,
and
an age of grace be born?
Would all sinners burn,
after
Judgment’s final horn?
From the Revelator’s mind,
more
meaning has been sought,
for an apocalypse in our time
and
fuel for movie plots.
But for me, the meaning’s plain,
and
the argument should cease.
John was a shepherd of his time,
who
wrote a masterpiece.
Blood of the Martyrs Return to List
Down through the ages
Christians
suffered for their belief.
Whether simple peasant or sages,
their
faith brought them grief.
During the Roman Empire
when
the persecutions started.
With cross, the axe, or fire
they
were summarily martyred.
Nero made a spectacle of them
with
cruel Roman clout.
Christendom’s future looked dim.
He
almost wiped them out.
Dressed in animal pelts
to
lure hungry beasts
Blood in the arena was spilt
to
provide a martyr’s feast.
Nero felt his scruples freed,
his
worst impulse employed.
To divert blame from his deeds,
Christians
were destroyed
After such ghastly losses,
in
the dark of night,
he had them tied to burning crosses
to
provide his guests with light.
From those times, his infamy soared.
The
persecutions grew.
Folks were murdered by the scores,
political enemies too.
Because of Nero’s convenient lies
the murders
had been guided.
Then, after the emperor’s demise,
the
persecution subsided.
Yet an edict went into effect.
against members of the
Way.
Christianity was an outlawed sect.
Believers
would still pay.
In Emperor Domitian’s time,
emperor
worship was a rule.
The Empire was a dangerous clime
because
of his political tool.
Failure of observance meant execution
Such
power did he wield.
By the choice of death and admitting conviction,
the faithful were revealed.
Thousands died for committing this treason
under
ten Roman Emperors in all.
For refusing to recant for any reason,
punishment
would surely fall.
Many were crucified or fed to beasts,
while
patricians lost their heads.
From the highest level to the least
are listed
the righteous dead.
As examples to pagans, they were killed,
yet
their work as witnesses was done.
Because of their courage, their membership swelled,
until
Constantine himself was won.
From that point, the Lord’s flock grew.
Christianity
was triumphant at last.
If not for the suffering of those few
the
message would be lost in the past.
In the Book of Life, standing out
are
the names of the righteous dead.
The blood of the martyrs was the grout,
between
the bricks of the Church they bled.
Faith Versus Science Return to List
Why is faith on trial,
particularly
for Christian folk?
In classrooms for
professor’s wiles
it becomes a political joke.
When not maligned in the
class,
prejudice
in the media is seen.
It seems like it’s
Hollywood’s task
to belittle them on the screen.
Against science, it has
nothing to prove
for faith cannot be gauged.
Scientific formulas it
never approved,
since that war was
long ago waged.
Among the modern
Christian community
a general tolerance exists.
Centuries after
Enlightenment immunity,
their forbearance still persists.
Yet often cloaked in
“Biblical Mysteries”
an effort with directors is sought
To debunk scriptural
history
too often with scientific rot.
Adam and Even and Noah’s
Ark
aren’t seen as historical facts
In what seems a
theatrical lark,
even Jesus’ divinity is attacked.
The Exodus, they believe
was Mother Nature’s work,
Using science, they try
to weave,
a
geological quirk.
While academicians make
sport
to a level that is libel.
Scientists and
historians distort
the stories of the Bible.
But against this
tiresome breed.
Christians remain aloof.
Simple faith is all they
need,
not scientific proof.
An Old Man and His
Bible Return
to List
When I’m tired of the
pace around
and all my physical strictures
I find a place to settle
down.
and
find a fitting Scripture.
If I’m worried,
depressed, or in pain.
I
can always find a Psalm
When feeling forgotten
by my children,
the
Scriptures are a balm.
Often, it’s not profound
I simply cannot sleep.
On some days I’ve found
I read so not to weep.
Other times, as a Ouija
trick,
the Lord guides my selection.
With closed eyes, I make
my pick
hoping
for divine direction.
In the end, with a
wistful look,
I know that life is fleeting.
I fall asleep holding
the Book
comforted by my reading.
Twilight For A Sinner
Return to List
Why do we wait
just before we fall,
our prayers coming late,
with
our backs against the wall?
During death bed repentance
or battlefield amends,
we ask, at our death sentence,
forgiveness
for our sins.
Even those who live righteously
need
atonement and reprieve.
The fear of death looms ominously
At
the end we all believe.
At the end of his days
a
sane man will reach out.
Silently, he will pray,
tired
of all life’s doubts.
To me, in my twilight years,
I no
longer feel that dread.
In God’s grace I no longer fear
the path that lies ahead.
Desert,
jungles, forbidden terrain
are the soldier’s common course.
For
them it’s not a movie or game.
Reality is much worse.
In
infantry, airborne, in hostile climes
the danger’s always there.
Despite
sniper’s bullets or hidden mines
they forge on—those who dare.
Those
who serve deserve our tribute,
but soldiers are a special breed.
In
all quarters, they bring the fight.
On freedom’s path they lead.
Many
who dare at a frightful cost
are quiet, selfless heroes,
preventing
our freedom from being lost
from relentless, intractable foes.
Heroes of 9-11 Return to List
(The Twin Towers)
Above
the teaming business district
Surrounded by Manhattan
Twin
Towers stand majestic,
now targets of Bin Laden.
Flying
low that historic hour,
throwbacks from the past
approaching
first the North Tower
the Jihadists’ die is cast
Inside
the building structure
where innocents reside
sudden,
unexpected destruction
as Flight 11 collides.
The
South Tower is next
as Flight 175 looms
Trapped
in the building complex
countless victims doomed.
The
heroes of the hour
go beyond their normal skills.
Firemen
and policemen scale each tower
to lead them down stairwells.
Pedestrians
run for their lives.
Sirens scream through town.
Only
a handful of persons survive
when the towers come crashing down.
(Flight Ninety-Three)
On
the silver wings of terror
toward al Quaeda’s goal
crew
and passengers aware of error
rise up bravely for their role.
To
prevent the Capitol’s destruction
a simple plain is found.
Men
and women rush the cabin
to force Flight 93 down.
No
heroes could be braver
in that most uncommon way.
Facing
death they didn’t waver
to give their lives that day.
We
should praise our silent heroes,
in those ‘take for granted’ ways
Though
others take their bows,
they don’t expect much praise.
In
the worst possible conditions
police and firefighters strive.
To protector
the public they have that tradition,
so often risking their lives.
When a siren erupts in the distance
there’s mayhem, danger
or strife.
A protector arrives for assistance
or to save someone’s
life.
For emergency rescue as first responders,
for hot pursuit or
public arrests,
for firefighting or catching absconders
they’re
humanity at its best.
The Greatest Generation (World War II
Veterans) Return to
List
World
War veterans are a dying breed.
They’ll never be replaced.
Because
of them, the world was freed
from the twofold enemies they
faced.
Europe,
Africa, and the Pacific Ocean
on land and on the sea.
Sailors,
soldiers, and airmen’s devotion
protected our liberty.
On
foreign soil and ships they bled,
upon two epoch stages.
Those
many thousands dead
now live with the ages.
Our
greatest generation,
is now a dwindling few.
Too
often they’re forgotten
in a youth-oriented milieu.
These
venerated icons
deserve more than mere nods.
For
Liberty’s boldest sons
history now applauds.
A Nobler Breed (Working Mothers) Return to List
A
working mother has a place
too seldom winning praise.
She
has to run a triple race
all her working days.
She
has to please her husband,
her children and her boss.
While
meeting their demands,
she pays a selfless cost.
But
often, as she surges,
in her glories, through her tears,
a
different woman emerges,
stronger after the years.
Filled
with common sense
and that certain special air,
with
growing independence,
she still has time to care.
Torn
with dual devotion,
between her family and position,
between
motherhood emotion
and a working mother’s ambition.
Hit
by family feuds before,
jarred by traffic jams,
her
work becomes a frightful chore
against such daily slams.
Errant
children and cranky parents
will spoil each eight hour day
until
gradually it becomes apparent
that mother’s turning gray.
So
why is it that men have had
a greater share of praise,
when
working mothers unlike dads
have just begun their days?
She
must come home to tame the beast,
to quell the madcap tribe,
to
clean, to sooth, to fix a feast,
so her family can survive.
And
later on as the tribe sleeps on
and her many chores are through,
she
smiles faintly, after a tired yawn,
searching for a thought or two.
Somewhere
in her youthful dreams
is a better, clearer day.
Along
the way her plans and schemes
seemed to have gone astray.
But
her present meditations
are weighed against the night.
Despite
her many frustrations,
she knows her path is right.
She
knows she is a nobler breed
who’ll win her rightful place.
Quietly,
she’ll take the lead
in that frantic, triple race.
Now
dreamily, with unburdened heart,
she’s thankful the day is done,
but
waiting still is her threefold part
when morning’s schedule’s begun.
The Ghost Whale Return to List
Arr ye matey, I got me a tail.
Now
settle ye down for some grog,
about the time we was huntin’ a whale
and
got ourselves in fog.
Standing watch with me lantern,
it
came in a clear starry night.
Looking out from the stern
twas a ghostly, unnatural
sight.
Whilst me shipmates were fast asleep
It
was just me and Ol’ Seth
Spewing up from the briny deep
was
Davy Jones foul breath.
Said Seth aloud, “It’s curse you see,”
as we
stood there by the rail.
“It’s Davy himself that’s angry
for
chasing that thar whale.”
“Now Seth,” says I, shaking my head,
Don’t
be fillin’ the crew with your lore
For all we know that whale is dead,
and
we’ve been in fogs before.”
“Aye,” cried
he, “I pity the beast.
“We’ve
chased it to its end.
He’s comin’ back in the mist
to
get his righteous revenge.”
Arriving finally
as he spoke
the fog rolled over the bow,
onto the deck
like the Reaper’s cloak
around us both like a shroud.
Into the smallest
place
through the tightest porthole hatch.
I couldn’t see
ol’ Seth’s face,
but I heard a sudden splash.
So thick was it,
I let out a yelp
I wondered if Seth had died.
It was all I
could do to call for help.
So I stood on the deck and cried.
Surely, this be
Davy’s curse
for killin’ all them whales.
I tried to recall
a Bible verse.
as I slid down there by the rail.
I needed a prayer
but my head was a mess.
The shadow of
death seemed near.
“Lord,” I shouted, “is this a test.
for all those
misspent years?”
I listened to that beastly moan.
Twas Davy Jones Locker below.
Not from cold, I was chilled to the bone
as the ship
rocked to and fro.
Out came the crew, in dreadful fright,
staggering
like blind men on deck.
Caught in a fog that blanked out the night
each man was
mindless wreck.
Round in a whirlpool the ship spun
like a toy
boat in a gale.
There was no escape.
There was nowhere to run
in the wake
of the angry whale.
And then it stopped.
The fog cleared.
We stood
there, the crew and me.
It was as I had feared:
old Seth had drowned in the sea.
We lost half the crew—sixty in all.
on that
cursed, whaling trip.
The damage was so dreadful
we almost
lost our ship.
So here I sit, a landlubbin’ knave
tellin’ me
seafarin’ tale,
happy I’m not in a briny grave
because of
that angry whale.
Aye, whalin’ was me game.
As a whaler I
never shirked.
Now I’m filled with shame
for doing
that kind of work.
Just to light our lamps and stoves
we almost
wiped them out
For profit, we killed’em in droves.
Tis a sin there is
no doubt!
Twas not the sea I turned against
but the
reapers of whale oil.
It’s not natural in spite of that event
to work at a
landlubber’s toil.
Aye! A fish out of
water was I,
chilled by
that awful day.
There I sat guzzling me rye,
drinking me
pay away.
Now a merchant cap’n was lookin’ for mates.
Men of mettle
and skill he sought.
Not knowing about my future fate,
I signed up
on the spot.
Twas a different task on that trip.
My spirit was
suddenly light.
No longer on that cursed ship,
I slept like
a baby that night.
I looked ahead with a glad heart.
not thinking
of that whale.
The journey had a
favorable start
as the
merchant ship set sail.
Then offshore, I looked out
scanning the
quiet sea.
I spied at first a distant spout,
several
whales roaming free.
I remembered then about times past.
When whalers
went in pursuit.
It had been for us a bloody task.
to share the
company’s loot.
Now men went about their jobs,
each and
every day,
cleaning, polishing, tying knots,
on a seaman’s
daily pay.
No more dangers in the chase
each time the
ship set sail
or the smell and gore I had to face
after killing
those poor whales.
As I looked from the rail
scanning the
quiet sea.
I thought about for that one great whale
who changed
my destiny.
Aye, there I was on a merchant ship
my soul at
peace once more.
This time on a longer trip,
to a distant,
foreign shore.
Now ahoy me buckos, lend an ear.
I’ve
got me a tale to tell.
Twas that storm at sea that swab’s fear,
like the breath of Davey Jone’s hell.
Glassy waters, it was for sure,
like
when ghost ships suddenly show
Then came that nor’easter
and Davey’s breath did blow.
Every inch of our ship did it wreck
Tearing
our sails to shreds,
Half the crew were blown off deck
Our
captain was among the dead.
Shiver me timbers, you won’t believe.
You’ll
think me off me rocker.
But there in the swirling eye of the sea
was
the mouth of Davey Jone’s Locker.
I could see him gazing below the spin
a
cold fish-eyed face.
His gullet gobbling them poor men
into
that awful place.
Certain he’d swallow the entire ship
I
made me peace with the Lord.
Why should I give Davey the slip
with
better men aboard?
Aye—all the crew, except a handful
the best with the worst
shipmates.
Into the Locker—one hundred lost souls
suffered
the same cruel fate.
Into the hold, like bilge rats we stowed.
as
the sea continued to churn.
Deafened we was by the wind that blowed
waiting
for our turn.
Then, as suddenly, did the blowing end
as did the rocking of the
boat.
We had no sails to catch the wind,
but
our ship was still afloat.
So we floated for weeks with nothing to do,
praying for distant shores.
There was plenty of rum left from the crew
and months of water and stores.
We was a drunken foursome
the
cook, first mate, cabin boy, and me
Like some much sea-going floatsome
we
were castaways on the sea.
Because of the cook, we ate well,
until
the vegetables turned bad.
The cabin boy was sick a spell,
and
the first mate he went mad.
On the brink of scurvy, we finally saw it.
In
the distance there were sails.
The first mate had regained his wits,
though the cabin boy was pale.
Another day, and he’d be dead
the
mate would’ve slit our throats.
Now, there she was dead ahead
an
American merchant boat.
Them Yanks took us aboard,
preventing
the first mate’s crime,
like sea-going angels from the Lord,
just in
the nick of time.
Alas, the cabin boy ran away,
probably
back to sea.
The first mate will return one day
but
not with the cook and me.
I stayed here in Boston, a longshoreman.
The cook found work in town.
Tis better to toil on safe, dry land
than
be taken by Davey and drown.
I’ll never forget his evil face,
staring
up from the deep.
I keep thinking about that awful place.
It
haunts me in my sleep.
So here I am mates, tellin’ me tale,
with
drinkin’ friends I’ve found.
I’ve no desire to ever set sail.
I’m stayin’ on solid
ground!
Dead Men Tell
No Tales Return to List
I’m a hostage on a pirate galley
My
shipmates are all dead.
I wasn’t caught in the tally,
because
I kept my head.
My shipmates’fate was swift and cruel,
while I hid in our ship’s
hold.
I’m a cook,
not fit for a duel.
I had
never been too bold.
Most were killed or walked the plank,
for
dead men tell no tales.
I had my cowardly luck to thank
for
not joining them at the rail.
Into the hold and captain’s quarters
they
searched for hidden stash.
One-by-one into Davey Jones locker
I
could hear my shipmates splash.
I knew for certain, they’d sink the ship.
I’d
be in it when it went down.
I couldn’t very well give them the slip,
and
either way I’d drown.
In the end they’d blast the hull,
so I called out to the
crew.
Rather than joining Davey’s roll
I’d
make them run me through.
Raising up from behind a crate,
I
made my final stand.
Certain of a terrible fate,
in
their bloodstained hands.
“We got us a live one!” a pirate cackled.
“Shall
I cut his scurvy throat?
Immediately then, I was tackled
and
given up for a vote.
To the main mast tied, my fate was weighed
Should I drown or from the yardarm dance?
Balanced between ayes and neighs
I had
but the slimmest chance.
It seemed half of them, drunk on rum,
had
cast their vote for me.
A mere object of pirates’ fun,
I
might still be tossed into the sea.
Elbowing through, a patch on one eye,
with
wooden peg and cane,
twas the captain himself, who mumbled “Aye!”
the
tiebreaker in this game.
What did it mean? I caught my breath
For a
worse fate was I saved?
At least, I wasn’t in the briny depths,
and my death sentence had been waved.
It turned out, when they took me aboard,
and
scuttled my old boat,
the Lord and Davey reached an accord,
thanks
to the captain’s vote.
Not mercy or heaven had saved my hide,
nor
the comeliness of my face.
Because the pirate cook had died
I
would take the blaggard’s place.
Unlike me, he joined the attack
and a
shipmate cracked his head
With mixed emotions, as I look back
I’m thankful that he’s dead.
As a prisoner of a pirate galley,
saved
by my occupation,
but if the King’s Navy wins a sally,
it’ll
be guilt by association.
Until then, I’ll bide my time
and
be the best cook I can be.
Praying for all those poor souls
lost
to piracy.
Fortunately, the captain forbade me
from
plying the pirate game.
I’m too valuable in my duties.
I’m a
slave in all but name.
Until captured by the King’s ships
and
hung for their bloody deeds,
they’ve given the Royal Navy the slip.
Our
galley makes good speed.
I seen a lot, and my blood’s chilled
--men
killed or thrown off the rails.
But so far I’m alive and well,
and dead men tell no
tales.
Unsinkable Return to List
I’m a survivor, once a shipmate
on the HMS Providence.
I would have suffered a common fate
if
I’d joined in her defense.
I became a cook on that galley,
a bark called Chesapeak.
Until a Royal Navy sally
my
future looked quite bleak.
Then on that day, I took the leap
and
jumped into the sea.
As our ship slid into the deep,
I was
momentarily free.
I grabbed that board they called the plank
and
paddled away from the ship.
I had this symbol of death to thank,
for
giving death the slip.
Twas a fitting end for that pirate gang,
revenge for their misdeeds.
Not one man was left to hang.
All
were claimed by the sea.
But there I was with a choice to make,
floating
away from the scene.
Would calling out seal my fate?
Did I drown or be tried by
the king?
What decided the issue was hesitation.
For
inaction I would pay.
Fading steadfastly into the horizon,
it
was soon too far away.
“This it it!” I cried. “I’m a dead man here.”
“I’ll become shark food or
die of thirst!
With nothing left but misery and fear,
I
prepared myself for the worst.
But then I saw that afternoon
-- the
distant sails of a sloop.
As it came nearer, close to a swoon,
I let
out a loud, hoarse whoop.
That same hour, I was hauled astern,
spared
from the briny depths.
It wasn’t ill later, when I learned
who
saved me from sure death.
Sure enough, I was still alive,
though probably not for
long.
I looked around at their cold, dark eyes,
realizing something was
wrong.
There’s only one thing worse than pirates,
and
it chilled me to the bone.
I could hear their screams in the bowels of the
ship.
From
the hold below, I heard their moans.
Slavers, they were, all of them frowning,
Spaniards
from the Ivory Coast.
I was thankful I was spared from drowning,
but
wasn’t welcome among my hosts.
I was given water and begrudgingly fed.
Perhaps
this was a lark.
Not understanding a word they said
I was
completely in the dark.
Was it a seagoing policy
to
save a drowning sailor?
Would they toss me back into the sea
or
become my new jailer?
Once a captive of pirate rogues,
I
might be worse off with these knaves.
Would I join those poor blacks below
and
be sold as one more slave?
My answer came after several days
of
treatment worse than before.
I was spat on and cursed in several ways.
Every inch of my body was sore.
Then one morning, after a stormy night.
in the shallows of a
lagoon.
I suffered now a castoff’s plight.
Quite
suddenly I was marooned.
I was thankful I was close to land
as
they shoved me off the rail.
As I swam frantically up to the sand,
the slaver
ship set sail.
Not an ounce of water or piece of bread
was I
given when deserted.
I was just thankful I wasn’t dead.
I
hadn’t drowned. I wasn’t murdered.
They hated me for what I knew
about
their dastardly deeds
In danger around that scurvy crew,
I was
grateful I was freed.
Here I am on this forsaken place
with
only cocoanut trees.
Cast off from the human race
surrounded
by endless sea.
I keep hoping a friendly craft
will
finally come my way.
Hopefully, loneliness won’t drive me daft
until
that blessed day.
Popsicle Sid and the Lollypop Queen
Return to List
Long ago, when I was a
kid
the
strangest person at school
was a big, clunky guy, named Popsicle Sid,
who
first struck me as a fool.
Always in his purplish mouth,
a
grape Popsicle was shoved.
All in all, he was brutish lout
that
only a mother of father could love.
He never bathed or combed his hair.
He
wore the same shirt and dungarees.
You knew when ol’ Sid was near,
by sniffing the oncoming
breeze.
Then one day, during football tryouts,
Sid
showed up on the field.
In spite of all our doubts,
a new
side of him was revealed.
Trying out just for kicks.
he
strolled out on the grass
Chewing on a Popsicle stick
he
threw a forward pass.
Perfect did
it spin
to
the quarterback’s surprise.
He did it once again
before
the coach’s gaping eyes.
If that wasn’t enough
he
could kick the ball
As a tackler he was tough.
It
was like hitting a brick wall.
But the greatest feat seen
was
his speed during a play,
knocking away the other team
unfortunately
in his way.
Fear and respect from our opponents
made it a one-sided game.
If it weren’t for those glorious moments,
it
would seem like such a shame.
Quite expectedly,
college scouts
made offers to Popsicle Sid.
Though his grades
were in doubt,
he was offered several bids.
At that point, to his rescue
a social connection was
made.
High school
cheerleader Emma Lou
would
help him with his grades.
Now Emma Lou liked lollypops:
strawberry,
lemon or lime.
Into her mouth one would
be plopped
at
almost any moment in time
Arm-in-arm, they were a familiar sight,
Popsicle Sid and the Lollypop
Queen.
After long hours, both day and night.
an improvement
in him could be seen.
Thanks to Emma, Sid’s grades rose
A
purse from a sow’s ear was made.
Though his exam scores were close,
he
achieved an average grade.
Together at his chosen college
they
would walk hand-in-hand.
On the field during scrimmage
she
was there in front of the stands.
Sid ran swiftly with the ball
with
Emma’s cheering him on.
The fans shouted cheers and applause
as
the school band played their song.
But Sid’s luck finally ran out
on
one cold and winter day.
After several fumbles, it was a rout,
after
one unfortunate play.
Sid ran out to catch a pass
in order to turn it around.
But that moment he slipped on the grass
and
slammed into the ground.
At that moment his career was shot,
though
no one knew that day
An x-ray showed a cerebral blood clot
the
result of successive plays.
His parents sued the school and won
for
not catching the clot before.
But the damage to poor ol’ Sid was done,
and
his prospects with Emma were poor.
Yes, Emma’s days as the Lollypop Queen
were
exchanged for a Rose Queen crown.
With an AFL quarterback she was seen,
after
letting ol’ Sid down.
Back home he went.
His career had come to an
end.
Yet, with his football days spent,
he managed somehow to mend.
His spirit then
rallied,
and he sloughed off the past.
When all things
were tallied
He got more than he asked.
With a Popsicle
in hand,
Sid reminisced.
“I don’t care
about his fans.
It’s Emma I miss.”
I moved away and found my niche,
and Sid
settled down to his life.
Because of the lawsuit, he was rich,
and
soon found himself a wife.
I saw him just the other day.
He
found peace of mind at last.
Sharp was his memory of football plays,
but
he spoke not a word of the past.
Popsicle Sid lost his Lollypop Queen,
but a
truer love was found.
Those days might seem like a lost dream,
but
he’s a legend in his town.
The Ballad of Stella Marsh Return to List
One night when her husband arrived,
Stella
Marsh was ready.
He’d beaten her often, yet she survived
Now
her trigger finger was steady.
While her children slept in their beds
he
swaggered through the door.
After emptying her pistol, he was dead.
crumpled
on the floor.
When the police appeared, they arrested Stella.
She
was not surprised with her fate.
From a timid housewife she was now a killer,
Her
children became wards of the state.
According to Stella, who had no remorse,
her marriage had been on the skids.
Murder had been only recourse.
The
state would take care of her kids.
Now poor ol’ Stella must do her time,
after the pitiful life that
she led.
To rid the world of that miserable slime
she filled her husband with
lead.
The Ballad of Molly O’Shay Return to List
What ever happened to Molly O’Shay,
-that
naughty girl in school?
She was a wild thing, who liked to play,
and
broke every cardinal rule.
I left home and made a life.
I
figured Molly did the same.
Happy with my children and wife,
I
forgot about that dame.
Years passed by, our children grew up.
I
failed to reach all I aspired.
Drinking bravely from life’s bitter up,
at a ripe old age I retired.
Then it happened one wintry day,
as we
walked toward our car.
From a distance, we spied an old bag lady
pushing
a shopping cart.
Lo and behold, I couldn’t believe
that
broken down old shell.
With palm outstretched, a beggar’s plea,
stood
that onetime high school belle.
Molly O’Shay, once a crowd pleaser,
gave
us a charming grin.
It was all that was left of that coed teaser
after
living a life of sin.
Her skin was splotchy, eyes bloodshot,
yet
her teeth were sparkling white.
Her gray hair hung in tangled knots.
She
was an awful sight.
In one grimy palm I spotted her twenty.
I
wish I had given her more.
For Molly, however, it seemed plenty,
enough
for the liquor store.
When Molly O’Shay, mumbled “Thank you,”
it
almost broke my heart.
To a seedy haunt, down a dark avenue
she
ambled away with her cart.
Mister McMurphy Return to List
Every day at five
o’clock
Mister McMurphy returned.
The key would rattle in
the lock,
and the knob would slowly turn.
A creak of the door
and banging on the wall,
then loudly he swore,
while staggering into the hall.
“Something’s wrong,” he
grumbled
“The house is much too quiet!”
Toward the living room
he stumbled
fumbling for a light.
There wasn’t note, none
at all,
and it filled him with such gloom.
It was the first time he
could recall,
finding empty rooms.
His wife, daughter, and
son
had snuck away today.
After years and years of
abuse,
they had finally ran away.
In his mind denial was
rooted,
though he mourned his wasted life.
They were ingrates, he
concluded
He mostly blamed his wife.
Each day, he returned,
stumbling in the gloam.
A long lost hope still
burned
as he searched his empty home.
Poor Old Frank Return to List
On most days, as I walked into work,
I
gave a beggar some quarters.
By the door ol’ Frank lurked,
a frequent pesky loiterer.
When not at the door, he was uptown.
begging
on the street.
To charitable souls, he made his rounds,
a quota he must meet.
Frank was clever, I later discovered;
his
money was well spent.
Not only were his meals covered,
he
also paid his rent.
After several days on the street
Frank was nowhere in sight.
Pedestrians
I would meet
claimed he vanished in the night.
After close examination,
I
didn’t find it odd
that he was under investigation
for
tax evasion and fraud.
Frank was quite able,
to
work a normal job.
He wasn’t mute or disabled.
He
was just a welfare slob.
Long ago, one sunny day,
I took my
morning walk,
as usual, without delay,
and with
little idle talk.
But on the way, on my route
I heard the
strangest noise,
not a whisper or a shout
a bark, meow
or voice.
It was a loud, warbling sound
coming from a
tree.
For moments as I pondered
it remained a
mystery.
Glancing through the briars
I spied a
tiny bird
Of all of nature’s flyers
it was the
loudest I had heard.
My iphone I now grabbed
and aimed it
at this sight.
A quick photo was nabbed
before the
bird took flight.
Again a song flowed
from its tiny beak
As if amplified tenfold
to the
highest octave peaked
It
was green, yellow, and white
a black mask around its eyes
a
most delightful, noisy sight
belying its small size
Witchety-witchety-witch
tschat, tschat, stee-eek
back
and forth the sounds would switch
almost tongue and cheek
More
than all my pictures
its sound defines this bird.
Of all natures
‘screechers,’
the most amazing I’ve yet heard.
Reflections TOC
The Projectionist
Return to List
Have
you not felt that life is an illusion
and its dynamics a virtual dream?
The
violence and turbulence of life's confusion
are images reflected of things that
seem.
A
projectionist looks out at the screen
awaiting the end of each reel.
He
controls the operation of his machine,
but not what the film reveals.
Each
motion picture he projects
was pulled right off the shelf.
The
occasional editing he injects
was directed by God himself.
We
strut around and play our parts,
mere light beams in the air,
products
of mere heavenly arts
to amuse the angel's there.
We
talk and walk and seem to feel,
as holograms of light.
When
truly it’s just another reel
the projectionist is showing tonight.
The Clock Return to List
Cruel
are its increments and steadfast measure,
while the pendulum, itself, swings free.
Suddenly,
it takes its pleasure,
though its hands move imperceptibly.
Minutes
seem like hours
while
suffering the passage of time.
Though
resisting our observable powers,
we must wait for its fateful chime.
Yet
when we no longer want its speed,
a greater dread shall arise.
The
hands of the clock are suddenly freed
as time, the grim reaper, flies.
Reflecting
life’s saddest truth,
from sunrise until dawn.
Slowly
does it move in youth
but in twilight years race on.
Broken Shell, Broken
Dreams Return to
List
Broken
shells, like broken dreams,
upon a sandy beach.
Piled
away are a thousand schemes,
now so out of reach.
Lapping
waters, pounding waves,
pushing shells away,
remnants
of our memories saved
to remind of a bygone day.
Cast
aground these broken pieces
will haunt our dreams once more.
Each
recollection as the tide’s end ceases,
as fragments upon the ashore.
In
constant tumult again it swells,
more broken shells are worn.
Amidst
the powdered and scattered shells
memories are reborn.
Like
the shells the sea has tossed,
churned from the ocean’s bed,
not
all our memories are forever lost
though
the dreams, themselves, are dead.
The Mater Tree Return to List
Green
are the leaves of the Mater Tree,
freshly grow and green one and all.
In
the shade is security,
not quite ripe to make their fall.
So
Father Ground, who each root guides
whispers to his lady to withdraw her
protection
and
cast down each child who safely abides
on aimless branches without direction.
Down
fall the leaves—Autumn’s gift.
The wind through the limbs now blows.
Some
are lost or remain adrift
yet most reach the ground below.
If
green is the shade of innocence
before leaves are finally set free.
As
they fall, they begin changing color,
when torn from the Mater Tree.
Too
soon may have been the gale that tossed,
with no way to go but down.
Though
some of the leaves are forever lost,
most turn naturally brown.
Snowbound Return to List
Fearful
of nature’s power
I hunker down at last.
It’s
snowed for hours—tempestuous showers,
as an arctic winter blast.
Looking
out at the snow,
mixed with hail and sleet.
I
watched it grow and grow,
I can barely see the street.
The
snow reaches the window,
inching up the pane.
Though
safely in my bungalow,
panic grips my brain.
I’m
trapped inside these walls,
with nowhere else to go.
As
the flakes continue to fall,
I’m a prisoner of the snow.
Hearing
thunder, I look about,
as my cabin fever grows.
Suddenly
the power’s out,
as a circuit breaker blows.
Another
peel of thunder
and my internet is lost.
My
mind is ripped asunder
by what Mother Nature caused.
To
make matters worse
my phone is also dead.
“Am
I being cursed?”
I ask myself with dread.
I
wanted to make my flight somehow.
I have important clients to meet.
But
I’m totally cut off now
by snow, hail, and sleet.
So
in my bungalow I wait,
until stormy weather subsides.
Oh,
the cruel hand of fate,
when the clouds in heaven collide!
Rain Return to
List
Looking
up at the firmament,
I watch the storm clouds amass.
Thunder
signals that rain is imminent
as lightning streaks now flash.
I
do not fear the sound and fury
nor the anger of the tide.
It’s
the flood and hailstorm fury,
not the rain that weather provides.
The
first rain, as Earth cooled.
poured down endlessly.
Over
the smoldering land were pools
that became the mighty sea.
Today
the rains continue to mold
the mountains on the land.
Great
canyons it also erodes
into finite particles of sand.
Man
once worshipped the sky
for the fertility of the soil.
Raindrops
and sunshine complied
with the ancient farmers’ toil.
A
duality exists, as in times of yore.
When the rain begins to drop.
Floods
will follow such downpours
when a rainstorm fails to stop.
As
I ponder the weather’s power
its blessings are quite plain.
Dashing
from a sudden shower,
I rejoice in the falling rain.
Everyone
has a phobia
though they may not know its name.
From
the bibliophobia to claustrophobia,
Fear
of heights, fear of cats
fear of things that smell
fear
of fire, water, and bats
and fear of going to hell.
The
list goes on and on:
ten thousand fears or more.
You
may have a new one,
to raise the final score.
But
if it’s embarrassing
that secret, bizarre dread,
though
your fear is quite distressing;
keep it in your head.
No
one needs to learn
you’re fear of bees or clowns.
How
can they discern
if you’re looking at the ground?
If
you want to tell someone
be careful what they hear.
A
stranger might make fun
if it’s a silly, trifling fear.
Some
things should be deferred
in the silence of your mind.
If it
can’t be conquered,
there’s always help online.
And
if that doesn’t do the trick
you’re in good company with your
peers.
Just
remember, you’re not sick.
Everyone one has fears.
Night
sounds from unknown zones,
I try to laugh them off.
Bumping
noises and unearthly moans,
are not so easy to scoff
In
the quiet of my home
is that the rustling of a mouse?
Why
at night do rodents roam
like phantoms in my house?
It
makes me very upset
and I’m always on guard.
I
don’t have a pet
yet there’s growling in my yard.
Why
not in the day light?
I can handle noises then.
It’s
always in the night,
when the haunting sounds begin.
And
what’s in the shadows yonder
lurking in the park?
Who
can blame me if I wonder
at the phantoms in the dark?
It
doesn’t seem to matter
where I happen to be.
I
often hear a clatter
that interrupts my reverie.
Sometimes
when I travel,
the sounds are often worse
My
nerves begin to unravel
I feel like I am cursed.
Am
I haunted by my past
by those figments in my brain.
Will
my nighttime fears last?
Will I go slowly insane?
It
drives me to despair
the notions in my head.
Night
sounds haunt me everywhere,
feeling me with dread.
Voice of the Sea Return to List
On
the beach, I reached down
to
a conk shell near he pier.
There
inside was a haunting sound,
when I raised it up to my ear.
I
once believed when I was a lad,
the conk shell echoed the ocean.
Recalling
this belief I once had
I pondered my once held notion.
Though
not a fact as I once thought,
I heard the voice of the sea
In
the shell the wind is caught,
to fuel this mystery.
Ancient
mariners in distant places
I envisioned as I listened.
Over
the waves, my mind traced,
more fantasies had now risen.
Farther
up on history’s trail
the voice underwent revision.
Slicing
through ocean swells,
a pirate’ s galley envisioned.
Farther
out, white caps break,
from that distant, bygone day.
Over
the swells, leaving a wake
my vessel sailed away.
In
my shell the voice resides,
more visions as I please.
In
the conk shell my memory rides,
as I sail the seven seas.
Memories,
like shadow or bursts of light,
bring phantoms to my dreams,
through
fog, sunlight, or darkest night
nothing is what it seems.
What
are those dreamscapes
that our wakeful world has
wrought?
In
a maze of repetition
are those recurrent, nightmarish
plots.
If symbols
have meaning
they make no sense to me.
Like
horror movie screenings
is that dreadful imagery
Trapped,
chased or falling
with worsening, dark revisions.
From
uncomfortable to appalling
are the same recurrent visions.
Each
time there’s a new plot,
though familiar scenes occur.
Sometimes
as a puzzle wrought,
a pattern often recurs.
Nightmares
or bad dreams;
whatever label you choose.
Those
repetitive, ugly themes,
disrupt my nightly snooze.
Prayers
and mental exercise,
nothing worked for me.
It couldn’t be exorcized,
that awful imagery.
Then
one night it happened
I awakened in a place:
a memorable situation
and familiar, recurrent face.
It
was like a mental gate.
My memory was pricked.
In a
translucent state
my mind could not be tricked
Awakening
in a flash
inside a lucid dream.
In
that moment I dashed
one repetitive theme.
Now
I know the game
My memory is a tool
If
the dreamscape is the same
my mind cannot fooled.
In
a translucent state of mind
my nightmares are dispelled.
Though
a different place and kind,
my monsters can be killed.
Lucid Dream Return to List
In
those experiences I awaken,
from slumber much more deep.
In
the dreamscape undertaken
I know I am asleep.
For
awhile, with lucid thoughts,
I explore this sensation.
The
key to dreamscape plots
is simple levitation.
With
my heel, I kick off
weightlessly from the floor.
Out
the window, then rising aloft
or floating through the door.
I can
do most anything,
using flight as my tool.
I
might dance, cavort, or have a fling.
if I follow dreamscape rules.
Flying
takes me to sensory heights.
if I have a dreamscape plan
Remaining
calm, not overexcited
with my mind in total command.
Above
all, I think clearly.
This is not a reckless ride,
never
looking into a mirror
or exploring my darker side
The
reason for these rules is not
based on moral schemes
If
I don’t follow a clear plot,
I’ll awaken from my dream.
To
improve on my dreamscape
and the techniques of my flight,
when
I find myself awake,
all the details do I write.
Upon
the next lucid dream,
I might let my mind take flight
or,
from a previous theme,
conjure up a sight.
In
a bedside log enclosed
are details of each plot.
Emerging
later as I doze,
are images previously wrought.
Suffer Little Children Return to List
Looking
back through history
I think I went astray.
I
took myself too seriously,
and forgot how children play.
Though
we can’t act like simpletons,
we must hold on to our youth.
I
learned this from my grandsons.
Through their eyes, I saw the truth.
The
rules for playing a children’s game
are not the logical kind.
Sometimes
it may look quite lame,
and requires a patient mind.
Suspend
criticism or rational grounds,
as in silly nursery rhymes.
Learn
to make strange sounds
and act foolishly at times.
When
little children jabber
don’t try to comprehend.
If
you can’t decipher blabber,
fake it and just pretend.
Stop,
look, and listen,
and let them have their way.
It
doesn’t have to make sense,
as they chatter and they play.
Kingdom of the Cats Return to List
In
the shadows, in secret play,
the feral feline roams.
Drawn by serendipity,
he lives without a home.
Castaway
and vagabond,
true child of the night.
In
his secret twilight kingdom
he shuns dawn’s lonely light.
In
the alleys and the field,
among the silent grass,
all
minor mammals quickly yield
or become a cat’s repast.
Wary
until daylight wanes,
in darkened habitats.
At
night the feral feline reigns
in the Kingdom of the Cats.
Cat On The Lap Return to List
Whenever
you’re stressed
or just plain upset,
what
works the best
is a cat as your pet.
Now
dogs are all right.
They’re very entertaining.
But
they bark too often at night,
and are no comfort when its raining.
Now
cats stay calm
seldom ever wetting.
They
become a mental balm,
especially during a petting.
They
don’t eat dreadful food
or slobber on your face.
They’re
rarely ever rude,
always knowing their place.
They
say dogs are man’s best friend.
They’re faithful and they’re true.
Our
affections they might win,
but cats are special too.
A Mystery, Written in Stone Return to List
There,
written in stone.
what do I see?
Is
it fossilized bone?
I’ve found a mystery!
Piece
by piece
my curiosity is led.
What
lies beneath
when the matrix is shed?
Too
hard a prick
scrape or jab
and
a delicate relic
is damaged in its slab
Why
bother with this feat
with brittle shale around?
How
long will it take to complete
the puzzle I have found.
Often
a prize
lies in plain sight—
an ammonite
of great size
or perhaps a trilobite.
Sometimes
fossils lie
scattered on the ground—
dazzling
the eye,
much more easily found.
Clams,
crinoid stems,
and gastropods galore,
I’m
happy to collect them,
even buy them in a store.
But
greater than collecting
and the trophies on my shelf
are
the efforts at prospecting
and the discovery itself.
On
that lucky day,
I found that special rock,
with
bated breath, so carefully,
it’s mysteries I unlocked.
There
are rules in
fossil preparation
and
proper tools to use
for layer separation.
To
much pressure,
will fracture my fossil.
It’s
better to work along a fissure
than pound, jar or jostle.
Tiny
fragments I scrape
and brush away;
until
a shadowy form takes shape,
clarifed each day.
Long
hours to unveil,
an outline is shown
Written
in the shale,
yet undeciphered in the stone.
There,
with vaguest feature
the fossil I discovered,
staring
back an unnamed creature,
still a mystery uncovered.
Fish,
foul or reptile bone,
it’s been a serious game.
Though
detailed in the stone,
it lacks a proper name.
So
what shall I call this?
It has an unfamiliar look
Have
I found a new species?
I can’t find it in book.
For
awhile in my study
my discovery stands alone
My
fossil remains a mystery,
written in the stone.
The Christmas Crown Return to List
Atop
the tree the Christmas crown sits,
above the merry alms.
Lightly
does each ornament fit,
but precarious is the crown.
Over
one but tiny tip
the slender filament we leave.
Like
the flag above a ship,
it’s the best thing we perceive.
Spirit
of Giving, Crown of Christ,
Each of purpose fits.
Near
the ceiling, twinkling bright,
the Crown of Christmas sits.
Urban Legends and Crack Pot
Theories TOC
Ghostly Anomalies Return to List
Do
you believe in spirits
who whisper in the night?
Or
willow-o’-the-wisp ghosts
in broad daylight?
Often
what we hear
is inside our heads.
Not
everything we fear
are
spirits of the dead.
But
how do you explain
a ghostly anomaly?
Unless
you are insane,
it’s what you actually see.
Floating
in the woodland,
as a disembodied vision
Or
as a long dead human,
now a ghostly apparition.
Are
these real or imagination?
Let’s hope that we’re not sick.
If
it’s not an hallucination,
are our senses playing tricks?
There’s
television programs
playing up this phenomena.
Are
these mere video scams
and manipulated drama?
I
haven’t actually seen one.
So I shouldn’t cast aspersions.
After
all, it’s all just in fun,
a reality show diversion.
But
I have a suspicion
that imagination’s at work.
It’s
a mixture of superstition
and ghostly anomaly quirks.
Is
this a sad souls’ final end?
Why not seek out the light?
Many
of them are innocent children,
who are spirits of the night.
Of
all the theological questions
the one that’s asked the most:
“Why
are they be deprived of heaven
to roam the earth as ghosts?”
Big Foot Sightings Return to List
Despite
scientific investigation
urban legends thrive.
Now
programming exploitation
have kept the myths alive.
Big
Foot (or Sasquatch)
has almost international fame.
Day
and night on the watch,
it’s become a serious game.
Practical
jokers dressed as gorillas
are seen as forest brutes.
Caught
on camera these silly fellows
giggle inside their suits.
Why
is it that when pictures are snapped
he suddenly appears on the scene?
After
all these decades not one beast trapped
and yet countless sighting are seen.
There
must a Big Foot brotherhood
All their costumes look the same.
Romping
merrily through the woods,
they play the Sasquatch game.
Extraterrestrials: Fact or Fiction Return to List
I’m
not convinced about UFO sightings
and conflicted about their selection.
Is it the camera angle or lighting
causing blurred or questionable detection?
Could
it be a Frisbee
or a model posed for flight?
Always
they flash eerily
when photographed at night.
Why
is it that they never land?
Where is the scientific proof?
No
matter how many movies they make
the aliens remain aloof.
Area
51 space craft, alien abduction,
and the Roswell Incident too
appear
now to be fanciful deduction
Are the sightings also untrue?
Who
knows? After so much collection,
a consensus will have grown,
that,
after so much detection,
we are not alone!
The Circle Makers
Return to List
Are crop circles alien creations
or
just practical jokes?
Because of the current UFO sensation
are
we vulnerable to this hoax?
Why would our alien guests
practice
such a sport?
On such clandestine business
would our visitors cavort?
Yet public credulity is fueled
with each circle found.
Hundreds of designs were used
both
complex and profound.
Spectators see a landing site,
or
an puzzling twilight zone.
Because the circles were made at night
the
artists are unknown.
After a Google investigation
about
the mysteries in the fields
I typed in a question
and
look what was revealed.
Crop Circles are pranks
not
alien designs.
They’re created by cranks,
using
boards, planks, and lines.
The pranksters are professionals
not
half-baked UFO fans.
Their artwork is so sensational,
it
spread to other lands.
The secrets to their skills
their
own websites impart.
Countless blogs are filled
with
instructions for their art.
Ancient Alien Theorists Return to List
Pseudo-scientists
created a theory
made for UFO buffs.
The
evidence shown in history
for them is not enough.
With
their primitive tools and technology
Egypt civilization sprang.
Yet
ignoring the science of Egyptology
is that pseudo-scientific gang.
According
to their crackpot convention,
it came from outer space.
The
pyramids were an alien invention
hatched by an alien race.
After
pointing to hieroglyphs
of objects that seem queer,
they
also interpreted Egyptian myth
to prove that aliens were here.
A
next step was presumed:
those aliens had a plan.
With
superior intellect, they assumed,
they taught more primitive man.
The
great building of antiquity
were extraterrestrial gains.
It
wasn’t human ingenuity
They were hatched in alien
brains.
Despite
evidence and research
that undermines their fame,
alien
theorists continue to search
for proof of crackpot claims.
Unexplained
symbols and writing
are fodder for their inquiries
and
all those UFO’s sightings
reinforce their crackpot theories.
Why
is it hard to believe
that those monuments are ours,
instead
of those stories they weave
about aliens from the stars?
The Big Bang Theory Return to
List
Scientists
expounded
a mind boggling notion.
The
entire universe was founded
in one cosmic explosion
All
matter and energy
condensed in one small spot.
A
mysterious mix of synergy
and the universe was begot!
Weigh
this speculation
against the magnitude of space:
the
sum of all creation
in one subatomic place!
As
though all sense and logic
give way to calculation.
Newton’s
laws and quantum physics
set aside for one equation.
Theories
can be made
to fit any notion,
scientific
principles laid
to explain cosmic motion.
But
that the universe expanded,
from
such a finite position,
sounds
empirically high handed
against scientific tradition.
The Global Warming Myth Return to List
Alarmists
pandered a theory
about
global warming trends.
They
claim the outlook’s dreary,
with an apocalyptic end.
According
to these forecasters
we’ve done it to ourselves,
based
on random natural disasters
and the data on their shelves.
It
doesn’t matter that fact
refutes the theory’s claim.
It’s
politically correct
to play the doomsday game.
According
to this simple notion
from the academic sect,
mankind
caused the pollution
causing the greenhouse effect.
When
the ice caps melt away,
the seas will surely rise.
We
can prevent that the awful day
with fossil fuel’s demise.
After
expounding this claptrap,
their theory’s being shaken.
The
public’s wising up,
as the men of science awaken.
The
myths of global warming
are under scientific attack.
What
had seemed so alarming
is unraveled by the facts.
Global
temperature is elevated;
pollution caused the rise.
This
nonsense has been fabricated,
Such forecasts are but lies.
They
claim there have been changes,
but this is not the case.
The
global weather ranges,
but at a normal pace.
So
what’s behind it all?
Why do they persist?
Even
when the temperatures falls
those people can’t resist.
Scrabbling
for more evidence,
their arguments make us weary.
Hard
facts won’t convince them
to give up their crackpot theory.
Another Crackpot Theory Return to List
Who
Killed John F. Kennedy?
Did Oswald act alone?
In
books as well as movies,
conspiracies are sown.
According
to one plot
I write down with a snigger
The
mafia had him shot,
though Oswald pulled the trigger.
A
more likely group were drawn
into a secret CIA faction
Oswald
became a pawn
in organized covert action.
A
more sinister design;
more imaginative I think:
Controlling
Oswald’s mind
was an evil KGB link.
That
LBJ was involved
was perhaps the most unfounded.
Yet this crackpot theory evolved
and was seriously propounded.
“The
evidence was flawed,” they claim.
“Government agents have won.”
“Oswald
might take the blame,
but he just fired the gun.”
As
long as conspiracist weave,
their theories will live on.
Most
Americans don’t believe
Oswald acted alone.
The Da Vinci Code Return to List
A
religiously construed mystery
requires a closer look
Fiction
became history
in the pages of that book.
The
premise of the fable
was inspired by a quirk
a
figure at a table
in Da Vinci’s masterwork
Beside
the solemn Lord
sits an effeminate youth
In
the eyes of the author
lies a hidden truth.
If
you look at the canvass
what do you see?
It
was an easy task
to create this mystery.
It’s
Mary Magdalene, of course;
only visually this is founded
Yet
using an obscure source,
a theory is propounded
According
to a Gnostic fable
Jesus had a life
The
woman at the table
would later be his wife.
To
make matters worse
they allegedly had a son.
Based
upon a Gnostic verse
the Trinity was Undone.
Further
details of this tale
are too absurd to note.
There’s
no use to rant and rail
and literally emote.
If
Leonardo were still alive
he would faint dead away.
That from his masterpiece was derived
a religious travesty.
Poetic Commentary TOC
Legacy of Lies Return to List
Can
you really be surprised
with Teflon Bill’s success?
His
“good ol’ boy” disguise.
was tailored by the best.
With
such lowered expectations,
how can you complain?
You
accepted his imperfections,
so you must accept the blame.
You
shrugged your shoulders, held your noses.
When his scandals began.
You
lie in a bed of roses
in the shadow of that man.
From
the television stage
as the prompter fed him lines,
he
seemed an affable sage,
but his audience was so blind.
Deaf
were his friends
to that double-talking face,
candy
coating his sins,
since the economy kept its pace.
Stories
of Oval Office intrigue
could not wipe away his grin.
Spin
doctors were in league
to cover all his sins.
He’s
a good ol’ boy, they agreed,
just like you and me,
a
victim of a conservative breed
and a right wing conspiracy.
All
his many accusers
were part of the Republican’s game:
a
bunch of political losers
undermining the president’s name.
But
the president’s presentation
is still a public joke.
No
amount of fabrication
can conceal the rules he broke.
Nothing
will ever change
the scandals that we saw,
when
he was given free range
in the distortion of the law.
Nothing
can wipe away for us
that good ol’ boy disguise
and
how he betrayed the public trust
with his legacy of lies.
The False Messiah Return to List
It
is age of complacent energy
where young people run amuck
families
lack true synergy
and government has no pluck.
The
president symbolizes these days.
His healthcare’s a socialist tool.
All
the problems of social malaise
are worsened by his rule.
The
foreign and domestic departments
are controlled by amateur clerks.
The
economy’s in a predicament
because healthcare doesn’t work.
So
what is our president’s plan?
He makes another speech.
He
claimed to be the people’s man,
but he’s always out of reach.
As
a politician, he’s beyond par;
he’s always on a campaign. .
Though
he shines like a tarnished star,
it is his favorite game.
Many
issues are forced by decrees,
his healthcare a bipartisan sham.
After
being re-elected, he became free
to continue his governmental scam.
Like
Nero fiddling as Rome burns,
he stand’s back to watch the blaze.
Details
of the economy he spurns,
as he enjoys his holiday.
He
cares not a wit about foreign affairs,
as he creates a welfare state.
With
a growing disenchantment in the air,
the public awaits it’s fate.
The
rest of us are taxed,
with others on the dole.
The
Democrats ignore the facts
blind to the president’s goal.
The
real reason for the healthcare law
is to create a Nanny State.
Many
Democrats saw its flaws
but by then it was too late.
Instead
of voting against this trend
in lock step they have walked.
Meanwhile Republicans were impotent
each time the Senate balked.
One
day historians will comprehend
the problems of his rule.
Though
an amateur and incompetent,
he
has the country fooled.
Gradually,
this false messiah
is losing his Chicago-style fizz.
After
several years of public lying
he’s seen for what he is.
Barring
the act impeachment,
by subterfuge he’ll play.
Against
his legacy history will vent.
The truth will surface one day!
Seeds of Socialism (The “Give Me”
Culture) Return to List
Fingers
of adversity
are those governmental designs.
The
elimination of diversity
is what they have in mind.
The
goal is distribution
inside the Nanny State
Despite
the Constitution,
it might become our fate.
Education,
a crafty game
and politically correct tools
Children
will be taught the same,
with universal rules.
Even
God is gender-neutral,
according to their scheme.
The
thought-police are on patrol
to fulfill a leftist dream.
Central
to the scheme, of course
is the Affordable Health Care plan.
This
unwelcome, sinister force
is a blight upon the land.
Worse
still is the ruined nation
transformed in its path
In
the wake of social medicine,
is an awful aftermath.
The
ultimate end is a socialist blueprint.
Insurance is just the beginning.
To
pay for the few our money is spent,
and the “give me culture” is winning.
Cradle-to-grave
in the health care wake,
ostensibly to protect that few,
our
democratic way of life at stake
and all we hold that’s true.
Against
a proven system
shall this failed pattern succeed?
to
satisfy a social whim
and “give me” culture greed.
Our
founding fathers had in mind.
a court of last resort;
a
final panel for laws that bind
to no one else report.
Inherently
flawed, a legal bane
are the whims of mortal men.
From
Dred Scott to Eminent Domain,
the wrong side often wins
Two
examples of court miscarriage
among hundreds of such flaws:
Obamacare
and gay marriage
actually bend the law.
Both
rulings dealt the states a blow.
On deaf ears opposition fell.
Legal,
interpretative mumbo-jumbo
ignoring the public will.
Obamacare
is a joke
it has failed in its purpose
Our
economy is nearly broke,
an administrative circus.
Marriage
is no longer a connection
between the opposite sex
On
the Biblically correct perception
the Supreme Court put a hex.
Who
are these elite jurists
in their ivory towers?
Who
made them such legal purist
with God-like, liberal powers?
It
was the creation of our government.
Let them share the blame.
Now
nine men and women
play the legalists’ game.
Like
the reinterpretation of marriage
and the meaning of a wife,
the
Obamacare miscarriage
threatens our way of life.
Why
do we need them
this stubborn coaltion?
By
the merest plurality
they reverse our tradition.
They
play with jurisprudence,
searching for trifling flaws.
They
appear to lack common sense
when shuffling points of law.
Obamacare’s
not effective.
It depletes the country’s purse.
It’s
planning is defective
It’s future’s even worse.
If
we consider their resolutions,
it becomes very clear.
They
ignored the constitution
in alliance with their peers.
When
gay marriage was the case
the law took a vacation,
They
put tradition in its place,
ignoring the ramifications.
Behind
our distress
and economic debacle
Stands
the author of this mess
grinning like a jackal.
Long
after Obama’s term
entitlement will breed
Like
malevolent, spreading germs
to fit the public need.
Affordable
care, gay marriage,
and all the other perks.
Political
and judicial miscarriage
for laws that will not work.
Against
the constitution,
public good, and tradition.
They
render resolutions
that worsen our condition.
Who
are these Supreme Court Judges
compelled to make revisions
Heads
filled with judicial sludge
they make such awful decisions.
No
matter how the votes are cast
or the arguments that are heard,
the
Supreme Court’s vote is always last.
They have the final word.
Spoilers
in ivory towers
detached from public goals,
imbued
with God-like powers,
self-righteous,
pompous souls.
They’re
politically motivated,
because of presidential selection.
Why
are they tolerated
with such judicial imperfection.
With
preconceived ideology
each one a political tool.
They
rewrite laws and history
with a simple majority rule.
What
if we got rid of them?
Let the voters decide their fate.
Instead
of depending on Supreme Court whim,
let congress legislate.
Hark! What do I hear?
Shouts, crashes, running feet.
Alas,
I greatly fear
tis rioting in the street!
Throughout
the city, buildings ablaze;
the mob is raising hell.
Mindless
rampage is the craze.
They loot, burn, even kill.
What
is the cause? Who really knows,
when the pickings are so good?
Smashing
windows, anything goes,
while wrecking the neighborhood.
Excuses
are made. Others are blamed.
The government it put to the test.
Vandalism
and a looters’ games
have shaky reasons at best.
In
the end when the smoke clears
the reasons are often lost.
Despite
such reasons, public fears
are galvanized because of the cost.
Gutted
stores, vandalized walls,
ruined sectors of towns.
Answering
to a ringleader’s call
buildings are burnt to the ground.
What
is it in untamed souls
whose hearts are filled with fire?
As
if they have a special role
to spread their activist ire.
The
limit of dissenters’ obstruction
is often deliberately blurred.
until
it causes great destruction
and collateral damage occurs.
At
that point, the public awakens,
rubbing its collective eyes.
Their
confidence might be shaken,
but it came as no surprise.
For
the flashpoint loses its heat
at such a terrible cost.
Against
a cause, actions defeat
when the greater good is lost.
How They Forget Return to List
Reminiscing
about the past
is a habit of the old.
Good
times would always last
if
the economy would hold.
Though
they are partially right,
those weren’t the best of times.
National
tension was rife
in such unequal social climes.
The
older generation is concerned
about those eternal, age old truths.
and
the lessons of history learned
now forgotten by the youth.
For
the young, the times are great
if the money’s rolling in.
Less
concerned with their fate
short-range goals usually win.
For
the never-changing poor
the issues are quite plain
The
one most often voted for
will offer the most gain.
For
the conservative and the older
the Nanny State is wrong.
For
the them our officer holders
must be morally strong
More
important than even morality
common to everyone
Is
economic integrity
in taxes and income.
Where
all classes converge,
when the economy’s in tatters,
they
less easily merge
on liberal social matters.
Sound
logic for the nation
will their social conscience rob?
To
vote as mere partisans,
instead of the best one for the job
To
keep the economy sound
yet
hold to age-old truths
now gradually loses ground
against the capriciousness of youth.
Hollywood Movies Return to List
On
the list of recent releases
it was difficult to find
a
motion picture that wasn’t sleazy,
vulgar,
or just plain slime.
Zombies,
perverts, and fiends
-creepy, unwholesome flicks
Movies
sacrilegious and obscene
and violence making me sick.
Why
are PG movies rare
compared to R rated plots?
Hollywood
doesn’t seem to care
that it generates so much rot.
The
reputation of motion pictures
has degenerated into slime.
It
seems there are no strictures
on horror, sex, and crime.
Reality Shows Return to List
Reality
shows are not my favorite,
though I see their ratings climb.
The
worst behavior they often exhibit:
bizarre, disgusting, and plain old
slime.
Among
the stars of their line-up
are rednecks, deviants, and fools
They
focus on aberrant behavior,
following few ethical rules.
Nothing
is sacred to them:
anything for a laugh or gasp.
At
the producers whim,
few subjects are beyond their grasp.
Lowlife
humans, strange addictions
abnormal people, and domestic slop,
unfortunates
with bizarre afflictions
anything that’s over the top.
Exploitation
another outrage
has become a popular theme
Little
girls paraded on stage
to fulfill a mother’s dream.
Family
series make me cringe.
They display dysfunctional lives:
Eccentric
hermits on the fringe,
White trash, and ‘Real Housewives.’
I
must admit these scandalous shows
have gained a measure of fame.
A
potpourri of anything goes
has won the ratings game.
Reality
shows will get worse.
This we cannot doubt
They’re
looking for more sources
and ways to gross us out.
Drunken Comportment Return to
List
Among
the crowd, I paused to wonder,
‘who are these shallow folk?’
Their
values now tossed asunder,
propriety a vulgar joke?
As
a designated driver, I can’t drink;
their safety’s left up to me.
Liquor
takes them to the brink,
setting their conscience free.
Insults,
innuendos, and foolish comments
freely passes their lips.
Indiscreet
trysts with stolen moments
result from such social slips.
The
braggart in the room, always the loudest
tells us a bawdy tale.
It’s
the wallflower who becomes the wildest,
seducing the nearest male.
With
thickened tongues, most are silly
with each drink sillier still.
Moving
around willy-nilly
glassy-eyed and often ill.
When
it’s over, I must be firm.
It’s a designated drive’s chore.
Stifling
a stream of insulting terms,
I usher them out the door.
In
the following days, they’ll make excuses
for actions that often appalled.
On
liquor, they’ll blame their abuses
or pretend not to remember at all.
But
liquor’s excuse fades with abuse.
It’s how much you finally drink.
A
polite jigger, maybe two,
just you can clearly think.
Drunken
comportment’s is always a reason
to play a different role,
on
any event, occasion, or season,
to lose one’s self-control.
Liquor Made Me Do It Return to List
Liquor
made him hit his wife
that’s what he said
He
never meant to take her life
after stoving in her head.
The
same argument was spent
in a drunken clash
or
in a mere accident
ending in a crash.
I
was smashed, not thinking right
when I beat up my best friend.
I
ran through that stoplight
because my head was in a spin.
Liquor
made them do it.
a most basic reason culled.
Without
their normal wits,
their faculties were dulled.
Against
this fabrication
and negating this excuse
is
the attitude before intoxication
when behavior is cut loose.
Were
they angry or predisposed
or filled with so much spunk?
Whether careless or mean-spirited
they chose to become a drunk.
News Years Resolutions Return to List
Why
is it that all year long
we wait to for absolution?
We bundle
up all that’s wrong
into New Year’s resolutions.
What
should’ve been
done day-by-day,
a
trifling time to spend,
all mistakes tucked away
and
dashed off at the end.
Then
on the list, we’re on a roll
our resolutions we finally cast,
self-improvement,
now our goal
jotted down at last.
But
looking ahead with all the distraction,
many resolutions will be broken.
It’s
hard to take seriously a last minute action
when it’s nothing more than a token.
Oracles of the Dead Return to List
Mediums—are
they schemers
or self-deluded frauds.
Are
they mystical dreamers
with a pipeline to God?
How
do they arrive on the scene
and pick up a spiritual thread?
Has
it been prearranged for them
when they communicate with the dead?
From
the beyond
spirits are invoked
messages
passed on
by
unreligious folk.
Priests
or pastors it’s more probable
might feel or mentally hear it.
And
yet the most ordinary people
can summon up the spirits.
Conveniently
it appears
sad, seeking souls abound.
They
play upon their hopes and fears
until a spiritual connection’s found.
So
how they do it?
It’s anyone’s guess,
to
connect with a spirit
and pass the Medium’s test.
The
audience oohs and aahs,
but some folks shake their heads.
The
room is filled with hoopla
when the medium invokes the dead.
Speculative Verse Return to Table of
Contents
It happened long ago, late at night
--a
tale I’ve seldom told.
I looked ahead and saw a light
on a
dark and lonely road.
Coming at me was an eerie glow,
a
floodlight in my face.
At that point I didn’t know
it
came from outer space.
Pulling onto the shoulder
to avoid
a head-on collision,
Momentarily bolder,
I
made a fateful decision.
Slowly, I took a chance,
though
filled with mounting dread.
Step-by-step did I advance.
Like a somnambulist I was led.
It sat there on the road,
beyond
the blinding beam.
It should have made my blood run cold,
but
it all seemed like a dream.
The lights went out. It was so weird.
Though fearful, I was drawn.
In its side a hatch appeared.
Toward
the dark ship I was bound.
I moved forward in a spell.
in a
shuffling zombie gait.
Unable to execute free well
drawn
trance-like to my fate.
I share with you this unearthly tail.
but
little about the trip.
From this point, my memory fails
after
entering the alien ship.
Peculiar markings on my body
mad
no sense to me.
What they did seemed awfully naughty,
but
remained a mystery.
Awakening suddenly in my car
dazed
and feeling strange.
It happened in one short hour,
my
life forever changed.
Except to my wife and friends,
my
story was generally rejected,
even the markings on my skin,
--a
hoax the media suspected.
There were no witnesses to corroborate.
It’s
my own unfounded deduction.
The same tale hundreds relate
about mysterious alien
abduction.
In a group, I find comfort.
called
the Alien Abduction Club.
In our meetings I’m given support
after
receiving the media’s snub.
Along with my peers I was approached
by
the director of a show.
To spice it up, we were coached
to
add details to what we know.
There were others who recalled
the
ordeal that they suffered.
But for me that period was blank
I was
psychologically buffered.
Under hypnosis, I would relate
my
experience on that day.
All of us suffered similar fates
when the aliens had their way.
I was like being raped a woman exclaimed.
Her
entire body was thoroughly tested.
The rest of us made similar claims;
even
our privates were molested.
But when I look back on that event
I
feel a twinge of mirth.
Why would aliens be sent
to
make sport of people of earth.
Violated yes, but raped no
They’re
simply inquisitive souls.
I got my chance on a TV show.
My
story was finally told.
There will always be skeptics and doubters of
course,
but I
know what I went through.
You can call me a liar; I’ve been called worse.
I
know my story is true.
There’s suction marks on my back
and
pen pricks on my rear.
How do you explain my nightmares.
It’s
not mere primal fear.
A UFO enthusiast once claimed
I’m
among a chosen lot
Instead of feeling lingering dread,
consider
it a blessing that I got.
I like his enthusiasm, but I’m not so sure.
it was a blessing that I
earned.
I had one experience on an alien ship,
and I
hope they don’t return!
Night of the Comet Return to List
Tracking a rogue comet
my
eye pressed to the scope.
I sensed that this was it.
There
seemed so little hope.
I paused to make a call,
praying
it wasn’t too late.
The comet would soon fall.
It
seemed to be Earth’s fate.
From the telescope I turned
standing
on the brink.
Would I be smashed, suffocated or burned.
There
was little time to think.
Imagining the worst that night
I
jumped into a closet
Overwhelmed with fright
I
waited for that comet.
Moments passed but it didn’t collide.
I
couldn’t believe my ears.
Perhaps it fell on the other side.
The
thought allayed my fears.
Stepping out, I held my breath
then
looked into my scope
The comet had left its fateful path.
I was filled with sudden
hope.
I listened to the radio
and
the television news.
Earth escaped the fateful blow,
and
yet they didn’t have a clue.
I reported what my eyes had tracked.
reviewing
the video made.
After re-checking all the facts,
my
fears were finally laid.
To make sure—one last check,
I
finally stepped outside.
What was it that could deflect
a
comet of such size?
A starlit canopy was all I viewed
The
neighborhood was quiet.
In the darkness, questions brewed
as
looked up at the night.
What had caused its detoured path.
Had
prayers or sheer luck worked?
With video proof of advancing death,
was
it merely a cosmic quirk?
Alas, tomorrow, I’ll call my colleagues.
Reports
will finally come in.
I feel relief but mental fatigue,
at
the thought the world might end.
A mere mote—the planet Earth
against
the galaxy.
One single comet hurled
could
destroy humanity.
The Astronaut’s Notes Return to List
Through the porthole, like God’s eye
I
view the crowded Earth.
Here above the nighttime sky
I
measure its vast girth.
From pole to pole and sea to sea.
I’m
witness to its size,
Against the cosmos that I see
it’s
a mote in God’s eyes.
Here among this lonely space,
I
know this thought is wrong.
An emissary of the human race,
I
still know where I belong.
Small it is among the cosmos
yet our
destiny seems unique.
So far what science knows
is
infinitesimally bleak
So often, as I roam
Against the cosmos I compare
I ask myself “Are we alone
Did Creation end there?”
It might be true, as I suspect
that our world was one of a
kind.
Here, in contemplative circumspect,
God created humankind.
It’s midnight by Earth reckoning.
on
our outpost here on Mars.
By the light it seemed early evening.
but
it could just as easily be dawn.
Everything is red here:
the sky, the clouds, and
ground.
Against a dull, amber glare,
a
tiny sun looks down.
Inside our space station,
we
pretend that we’re back home.
But it’s hardly a vacation
inside
our makeshift dome
A day of gathering specimens
is
followed by some tests.
After dinner it’s a regimen
of
recreation and rest.
So far its mere routine.
Iron
oxide is rife.
It’s a scientist’s dream
to
find evidence of life.
That face seen from space
is
simply weathered rock.
Stories of a Martian race
is
science fiction crock.
I love my work; it’s all I know.
But
I’m tired of what’s outside.
Back home while my children grow
the
world is passing me by.
Friends, family, and my normal lifestyle
like
jogging or baseball games
will have to wait for awhile.
Until then things stay the
same.
More samples and excavation;
each
valley and mountain we probe.
Further and further goes our exploration
on
this dead and dusty globe.
As for me, I’m tired of it
--living
in this dome.
I’ve served my time on his planet
and
yearn for my trip home.
All the samples of our toil
are scientifically filed.
I have had enough of Martian soil.
Let
the second team compile.
Until arrival of that team
on
Mars our mission’s berthed.
For now its but a distant dream:
my
blue green planet Earth.
One day a crew of geologists,
to
avoid traveling in the night,
took time to eat and rest
in a
makeshift campground site.
In the distance, came a signal,
as
one sentry watched the camp.
At first it was intangible,
like
a far off twinkling lamp.
Remembering an old tale,
he
studied the distant light.
As a geologist, he should be skeptical
of
what had come to light.
Judging by it’s location
and
the research he once had done.
It might be a secret scientific installation.
called
Area Fifty-One.
Before he turned to geology
he
yearned to be the one
to somehow solve the mystery
of
Area Fifty-One.
After a fitful night,
he
awakened with a plan.
He couldn’t prove he was right;
they
wouldn’t understand.
He must convince his geo team
to
pick a different site.
In the direction of that eerie beam
blinking
in the night.
With careful calibration
and
the research he had done,
he must find the location
of
Area Fifty-One.
At first they were averse
to
travel to that spot.
It was across the salt flat desert.
It
was desolate, and it was hot.
After struggling for their alliance
against
the groups’ aversion.
he browbeat them into compliance
in making his excursion.
Toward the distant, barren hills.
below the heated sky
With air-conditioning working well
their
spirits remained high.
But then the moment came
when
the group was filled with doubt.
As they wondered about his end game
the
radiator gave out.
Though they passed the salt flat
and
were near his chosen spot.
They were fearful where they were at.
It
was desolate, and it was hot.
With deepest melancholy
his
spirits finally fell.
For the sake of grand folly
he
had marooned his team in Hell.
For moments they spat and cursed him
Their
trip was a lost cause.
Fortunately, they couldn’t see his whim
for
what it really was.
With little water and food
and
their cell phones out of range.
They seemed stranded for good,
without
possibility of change.
Then, after sundown
when
they sank into despair
came a flac-flac clak-clak sound
filling
the desert air.
The Government helicopter arrived;
armed airman now jumped out.
The geological team would survive,
but
their future was in doubt.
Trespassing on government property
was
the reason they were detained,
and it was thought they might be spies,
so in
the stockade they remained.
Sitting down in gloom
amongst his onetime friends,
he had all that afternoon
to
meditate on his sins.
All for one reckless action
he
got them apprehended
They were held for prosecution,
and
their careers had probably ended.
Hours passed in detention
as
they sat in the stockade.
On the
target of contention,
their
grievances were laid.
As prisoners of the government,
there
was no way for evasion
When the cell was finally opened
it
was time for interrogation.
When it was his turn
he
couldn’t understand.
Why all this concern?
for
mere trespass on their land?
During the line of questions,
he
explained his occupation.
After detailing their original mission.
there
was a brief cessation.
The interrogator returned
an
officer behind.
A new line of questions followed
about
a recent find.
An object was laid out
from
a current UFO case.
There seemed no possible doubt
that
it came from outer space
Recent budgetary costs
and government malaise
had left them without scientists,
so
they needed his expertise.
It was like a melted piece of space junk
like
many examples seen.
Heavy for such a small hunk,
it
had a strange, metallic sheen.
A reprieve now suddenly appeared.
His
services were requested.
His colleagues were likewise cleared,
much
space junk to be tested.
Apparently absolved from wrong;
their
freedom he had won.
He should have known all along.
This
was Area Fifty One.
After years of investigation
it
seems there is a case.
There seems to be no question
that
there’s life in outer space.
Evidence is found
as we
look to the stars.
Organic molecules abound
especially
those from Mars.
Yet the question of intelligent life
is
mostly science fiction.
Space ships sightings are rife,
but
in classic saucer depiction.
It’s possible we’re alone in space,
despite
molecular detection.
Countless species and the human race,
might
be our one shot at Creation.
It’s my unqualified opinion,
by mere logic due I base.
that in that vast dominion
there’s life in outer space.
If Creation incorporated
the
universe we see,
other worlds are fated
with
natural history.
So, did God create the aliens
in
worlds we’ll one day find?
Will those extraterrestrial seen
be a
different cosmic design?
From the verification
from
a few organic rocks stones
is a tentative confirmation
than
we are not alone.
But those sightings, which are fun,
are
marred by contradiction.
The legend of Area Fifty-One
is mostly science fiction.
The Poem Return to Table of
Contents
Poetry
is the most artistic form of writing. As it’s counterpart prose, however, it
relies on life experiences, dream imagery or pure
imagination. A novelist or short story writer, who relies on creative imagery,
is often a competent poet. A great
poet, such as Emily Dickinson, is able to use his or her life experience but,
as the painter or sculptor, color it with the mental brush of imagination and fashion
it with the inspiration of dreams.
What
is a poem
but a rush of stark
emotion?
Often does it roam
in realms of pure devotion,
Whether
strictest quatrain lines
or freely flowing bursts,
lyrical or philosophical kind
or the simplest haiku
verse.
And
what is a rhyme
but a play of clever
thought?
Without a proper theme,
what value has it taught?
Deep
does it often seem,
so uplifting is its role.
What does poetry mean
if not to touch our soul?
Yet
what is a poem,
if not a bit of whimsy?
Though sometimes filling tomes,
its substance is often
flimsy.
Cryptic
can it be,
too subtle for the dull.
Happy, sad, rhymed or free,
our heartstrings will it
pull.
Mirth,
a subtle trick
is welcomed we may find.
Or a crude limerick
brings laughter to our
mind.
Ballads
of great deeds,
couplets and haiku,
poems of glory or misdeed
rhymed and free verse too.
So
wondrous a menagerie
our secret pleasure abides,
flowing rhymed or running free
as steadfast spirit guides.
Heavy,
common, light
straightforward or obscure
to sing, whisper or recite
our burdens will it cure.
Oh,
what should poetry say?
Should it inspire or should
it preach?
Should the lines like music play
or sink deeply as to teach?
In
lyrics we often hear it—
messages to the heart
But is it the purpose of the poet
to romanticize his art?
What
is it in a poem that delves
into uncharted, untried
zones,
makes us rise above ourselves,
though sad, ailing or
alone?
What
is in its reading
that makes us yearn for
more,
improves our intellectual breeding.
as a painting or a score.
Poetry,
a language of the muses,
speaks a celestial tongue,
in our heart and mind enthuses,
in rhyme, free verse, and
song.
---- Gerald Lee
Gibson
Rhymer Primer Return to Table of Contents
In its simplest
definition, poetry can be seen as the expression of raw emotion, ideas,
concepts, or storylines, written in a structured or unstructured form, which
flows artistically or musically because of the words used. The most basic division of poetry is
between structured poems (which includes both rhyme and blank verse) and free
verse, which is a free flowing and unstructured form of poetry. Most types of poetry are defined by the
syllables used, the number of lines in each stanza, and the structure of the
rhyme. There are
too many types of poetic expression for me to attempt to pay respect to them
all. In fact, the forms and types of
poetry appear to grow year by year.
Because of its scope and diversity, it’s even difficult to define
poetry. It’s different things to
different people. Of all literary
expressions it appears to be the most ancient, written by pre-literate peoples,
utilizing an oral tradition, handed down generation to generation, until many
poems were compiled in a later age. The
poetry of the ancient Veda of India and Odyssey of the Homeric Age were originally
unwritten and recited orally. This is
true for many of the world’s aboriginals, whose poetry in rituals and
ceremonies have been recorded by ethnologists in the field. Poetry can therefore be defined both
historically and anthropologically.
Moreover, in the current interpretation of literature, itself, certain
forms of prose have been, rightly or wrongly, redefined as poetry. There is also a list of invented poetry
forms, many of which, I believe stretch the definition of poetry to the limit. Regardless of the history, ethnology, and
scope of poetic expression, all poems share one thing in common: they are, in
the same way as painting, sculpture, prose, dance, and drama, artistic
expressions. Two of the main types of
poems, ballad and lyrical, have been used by myself in this volume. All of these, except one early poem I wrote
in the Navy, would be classified as the quatrain form of rhyme.
Let me begin this
humble primer, by referring to the many excellent textbooks and practical
guides on the Internet on how to write poetry.
For that matter, if you want a more in depth definition of this subject, refer
to one of the many online guides. By simply typing the subject in the search box in Google or another
search engine you’ll bring up countless sources. The purpose of this primer is to simplify the great mass of
written material on poetry. The method
I’m showing you is, in fact, my own technique for writing verses, which I use when I’m
working on a novel. In many ways poetry
is no different than writing prose. It
begins with a blank screen or, for a few of you, a sheet of paper and is
inspired by an idea or stream of emotion.
You might have a sudden inspiration or a desire to impress a loved one
or simply want to offer a tribute. It
might just be a whim to wile away the time.
From that point, however, you would be wise to follow a clear-cut plan
or outline, as in an essay, short story, novel, or any other written
document. Of course, if you prefer, you
can do it the hard way and burn up a lot of time. The success of a potential poem will depend on the rhyming words
available. This is sometimes
problematical and is the main reason I developed this technique.
Not only, by trial and error, will
the would-be poet try different combinations to make it rhyme, he will many
times change the flow of the work to fit his scheme, which happens when you
don’t scope it out first. For a poet,
like myself, who writes quatrains, the old process was especially burdensome. This, of course, is the advantage of free
verse, a form of poetry in which the writer is unrestrained by poetic
conventions. These types of poems,
which I respect for their innovation and boldness, are the most ancient type of
poetry. For my own purposes, however,
they are merely stages in my poetic outlines.
For those who are rhymers, like myself, your verses must convey a story
or idea that is both coherent and artistic.
In an age in which the storyline of songs is so garbled it doesn’t seem
to matter, this might be true for songwriters as well. Your creation can’t ramble on as it does in
free-flowing free verse or lack artistic merit as in many songs. Unlike the ancient bards or the venerable
Walt Whitman, rhymers write lyrical and narrative poems that require both
structure and art.
Begin with a concept, theme, or idea. For example, you might be inspired by a
sunset and the sudden collapse of night.
Don’t worry about a title. That
comes after the outline or “free verses.”
At this point, ask yourself these questions. How do you want to approach your poem? Do you want to describe the process of the setting sun or merely
the mood? Perhaps the sunset is merely
a component of the poem. When you have
decided what your approach will be, you should consider what you want to
say. This is that point when more
bursts of inspiration will fill your mind.
To do this you might jot down your feelings as you might do when writing
a story or in a form of free verse, but I prefer a simple outline. As you will note below, I have strayed from
the setting sun as my theme into an emotional expression. What I wind up with
in this case is, in fact, free verse, but that’s not my purpose. After all, this is a rhymer primer. I might not even use my entire outline. What I really have here are poetic pieces,
which can be scrambled around if necessary as I create my poem.
At this point, I’m not sure what I
shall call my poem. The apparent
subject “sunset,” which can be seen in a synonymous title “Collapse of Night,”
comes first. After this inspiration,
the plot really begins. Don’t worry
about rhyming at this point.
1. The collapse of night came suddenly for
me.
2. Chasing a dying sun home, I was part of a
gridlock of commuters.
3. Because I was invisible I was safe, but I
was a prisoner of the night.
4 Over a distant hill the sun winked out.
5. In darkness, I drove in silence. This suited my mood, which was also
dark.
6. Blacker than night was my soul in torment.
7. Unlike the sun setting, my spirit couldn’t
hide.
8. Cold starlight followed the collapse.
9. Missing the final glimmer, I swore
impotently at the night.
10.
Though fearful, I could see the end of
this leg of the journey.
11 In my mind’s eye, I was home at last—safe
and sound, but this was a lie.
12.
The long journey into night was over,
but my trip had only just begun.
This essentially is what I want to say. In fact, it might, with a little tweaking,
be acceptable as free verse. As you
will see, when comparing the outline with the following poem, they are not
precisely the same. This is all
right. Number 8 and 9 will fit into my
free verse, but they make less sense when I begin structuring my poem. Just as in scoping out a story or essay, the
writer doesn’t have to follow the poetic outline to the letter. So what shall I call this flow of
verse? What is the dominant theme? Is it the natural phenomenon of dawn or is
it the purposeful action of flight?
After all, the poetic character (myself), though hating the necessity of
darkness, feels safe in the night. So
what’s so important about the dawn?
Already I found a synonym for sunset (collapse of night). What is a synonymous word for flight or
escape…fugitive, escapee, runner, or runaway?
For poetry as for prose, synonyms are almost as important as rhyming
words, but in this case, we need more than just one word; we need a poetic
title that grabs the reader. After
sketching out the plot, it’s apparent that the journey into night implies
escape. With this in mind, therefore, I
shall call my “free verse” Journey into Night.
Now comes the hard part:
making it rhyme. For this feat I will
choose quatrain structure. No matter
what type of rhyming scheme you select, however, the process is basically the
same. I recommend, as part of your
tools, a good rhyming dictionary or Merriam Webster online (which offers
rhyming words for all words). If you’re
using Microsoft Word, you can now split the screen. That way, as you construct your poem, you can follow along using
you outline as a guide. Following your
outline now, begin constructing your poem.
Here
is my finished product.
Journey Into
Night
The
collapse night came suddenly for me
I became a prisoner of the night.
After chasing the dying sun, I’m free
from
the day’s incriminating light.
Moving
along in a grid-locked stream
with the phantoms of my past;
trapped
in my dark dream
I’m invisible at last.
In
darkness I drive in silence,
a part of the commuter tide.
Blacker
than night is my soul’s torment
in which my spirit cannot hide.
In my
mind’s eye, I’m back home,
no longer on the run.
Now
a fugitive, I roam.
My journey’s just begun.
As you can see, almost the entire outline was
incorporated into the poem. At this
point, I recommend the following suggestions, which helped me very much in my
poetry.
Use your computer extensively. With programs such as Microsoft Word, you can more easily edit,
and eventually you will want to type it up.
For the life of me, I don’t understand why a serious writer would rely
on paper and pencil or, for that matter, a primitive typewriter with such
inexpensive laptops available. This
trait is dramatized in movies and teleplays, as somehow a purer form of
writing, but its time consuming and inefficient.
Make use of online sources. Don’t be afraid to rely on rhyming dictionaries or the online
Merriam Dictionary. Also make use of
online guides and bibliographies of books on writing poetry. It’s not easy to find the perfect words nor
is it productive to use the trial and error method of rhyming, which sometimes
makes a potential poet want to give up.
Please believe me: sitting at your desk or under tree searching for good
words is for losers. You’re a poet
now. This is the twenty-first
century. Thanks to Google, you can find
hundreds of examples of poems, rhyming sources, guides for poets, and examples
of poetic forms and types. Use these
sources!
Never force a rhyming sequence. Some words I have seen used in greeting cards and even online
poetry blogs are amateurish and corny.
It’s better to approximate a rhyming word than use one that is
inappropriate. Of course, there are
cases where it’s almost impossible to find a word to rhyme. If this is the case, find a synonym that
comes the closest or reconstruct the sentence.
You should, of course, get a
word as close as possible in sound to the last word of the first line of each
stanza if you are writing quatrains.
Just make sure it’s suitable. In
the four lines of a verse, the last line is the most important and should, if
at all possible, be a solid rhyme, while lines one and three, which don’t stand
out as much, are more flexible. By
using a poetic outline you can more easily match the right artistic flow with
the rhyme.
Start with simple and basic themes. Don’t waste your time trying to write an epic poem—at least not
in the beginning. At the right time,
you might undertake this, but strive for simplicity. Some of the best poems are straightforward and simple
themes. It seems quaint to sit under a
tree with an empty pad on your lap, searching for great and awe-inspiring
themes, but it can also be a waste of valuable time. First must come inspiration, which can come at anytime, and
doesn’t require an idyllic or perfect setting.
Poet Philip Levine
wrote many of his poems as a factory worker, and Toulouse
Lautrec painted his masterpieces in a crowded bar. Trains, plains, boats, crowded subways, stadiums, and rooms
filled with noisy people shouldn’t stifle your creative energy. Many soldiers composed sonnets for their
wives and girlfriends on the battlefront.
Inspiration doesn’t wait for absolute quiet or the perfect setting. It might come at anytime and in any place. That’s the wonder of artistic expression.
There’s no such thing as writer’s block. If it inspires you, never give up on a theme. If you sit and wait for inspiration, you
might be waiting a very long time. All
you have to do, is open up you senses, and let the inspiration come to
you. Until then, watch television, read
a book, or better yet take a walk. I
get some of my best inspiration on walks.
While walking or away from your desk, pull out your notepad and jot down
the ideas you will type into your laptop.
It doesn’t matter where you’re at.
Write what’s familiar to you. The epic poem or great American novel are often unrealistic and
many times unobtainable. Those times
I’ve seen movies or teleplays about writers sitting at their desks and waiting
for an idea or those who claim to have writer’s block, I am reminded of the old
adage, “Write what you know about or what you feel.” Don’t search for great or abstract themes. The world is filled with simple, though
profound elements of humanity and nature waiting to be fashioned in the poet’s
mind. Just make sure they are familiar
to you.
Remember: begin with a concept, theme, or idea, and structure
it into free verse or an outline. If it
doesn’t work for you, go onto another theme.
There are an unlimited number of poetic themes out there. Trust me, they’ll come to you! Return to Table of
Contents