Posts Tagged ‘writing’

Among the tormented men of thought
Of the wrecking ball of what God has wrought
The confusing voices from men of vote
Scramble our minds by the words he spoke
They chew and spit and disagree
No thought left for just you and me
Only profit’s greed and rising stock
Big dividends exchanged for hardened locks
They lust for cash and Highest Office Space
The low of the lowest of our human race
Sells their soul for fortunes chance
Learns each waltz of the devil’s dance
Boast and lie, distort the facts
Pile the load on middle class backs
But to hear them rally rant and shout
Rich man scams those that must go without
As they go back to their little pink homes
He flies South as if it’s Nero’s Rome

E.

How can I not sing about rain
It is April
If only for a few more days
Cloudy skies
wet sidewalks, soaking grass
raise me.
Pull me up  from the trenches
Tickle my face and back of my neck
It may be the end of drought
the rising of small creeks
the flooding of rivers
The joy of the flight of birds
Roofs playing the rhythm and rhyme
of rain drops
Down spouts trickling maple seeds
Stay my April rain
If only for a few more days.

DSS

 

I was walking down the street last Thursday
and a dog with bright white teeth and a big smile
approached me from the right.
He said he enjoyed walking with humans and asked if he could join me.
I, a man of great tolerance, said OK, glad to have ya!
We had walked only a block or two and he starts sniffing the street light poles and fire hydrants.
And with that big smile on his face he raises his leg and pisses on one of the posts.
Shocked…. I said, “look, that is very embarrassing to me, to be walking with you and then
having you do that. people will think you are my dog and blame me for messing up the sidewalk.
And how can you do that with such a big smile on your face?”

He said, “Smile on my face? I’m not smiling, dogs don’t smile! I have an urinary infection!” Then he gave me the finger!

OC

I’m not rockin’, really.
Just thinkin’
A question or two.
Not really.
You probably want to know
what thing would keep me up
awake, rustling the bed-sheets
fluffing and re-fluffing the pillow.
Not about a dollar gained or lost
a love lost or dreamt of.
An aching back or swollen knee,
a boner
none of these.
A red digital clock flashing a new number
every 60 seconds
every goddamn minute.
Maybe that is it,
the minutes silently ticking away
without a sound, a shout
or fond farewell
just a goddamn flash
of a sequential number.
Can’t live with them
can’t live without them
clocks
so many goddamn clocks
reminding us of the passage of time
passing at the speed of light
The only way to slow it down
is to keep moving
the faster the better.
Or live in the millisecond
ya, that might do it.
stretch it out to a thousand pieces.
Ok, I’ll meet you downtown
at 6:01:23.003
Don’t be late.
I have not a millisecond to waste.

OC

 

 

Hawking

Posted: April 18, 2017 in free verse, poem, poet, poetry, the mind, writing
Tags: , , , ,
First Posted: April 17, 2014

Among the jumbling mumbling mode
the Racker Thatcher crumbs his creel.

his back’s crunched bent
– his chrome’s thrust spent,
fingers palms thick tough as heel.

upon the humbling rumbling ride
the Racker Thatcher moves his way.

his voice’s grunt gone
– now electron’s song,
teared eyes movewink what to say.

within the mightling thinkling mind
the Racker Thatcher spins his rhyme.

smiles gum and tooth
– speaks Universal truth,
of our, A Brief History of Time.

DSS.

Reposting a few from three years ago.

Friday March 12, 2010

There’s an old fashion saying, “Home Is Where the Heart Is”. Perhaps I really didn’t appreciate the meaning of that until today.

After a two-week absence, spending all but two nights in hotels, I arrived at my own digs today. But the house was empty. As in, my wife was out-of-town. She is staying one more day with our children and grandchildren. As I reported yesterday, I was able to spend some family time with her and the kids Wednesday afternoon and Thursday. But I must regroup today and Saturday for a return trip to my project in Illinois on Sunday afternoon.

So now you may know what I’m talking about. I’m at my house but I’m not yet home. Home will arrive tomorrow in a red Prius with my wife. It’s funny because my wife believed home arrived today with me in a white Tundra. Home is a very complex concept that is sometimes hard to identify and keep track of. Although we were not in our house, we probably were more at home Thursday night at the middle school in Leavenworth attending Em’s band concert.

But we have been married many years and we have learned that we can adapt easily. I think you call it “rolling with the blows”. We have been very lucky to have raised our two children and now we get to watch our children as they raise their five and create homes for themselves.

Hopefully tomorrow after Marcia’s visit ends, their houses will be just a little bit less home without us. Just as ours through the years has become just a little bit less without them.

Such is the life of John

I approached a large green intersection sign and it said “Will Rogers Turnpike Next Right”. I have taken that tollway a few times and I have seen it on maps and I have just driven past it as I did last week. But I’ve never really thought about something. What I’ve never thought of but now seems so apparently ironic is this. Did the person that suggested Will Roger as the name for that tollway really know anything about him?

I have read a lot about Will Rogers and I have seen his films. His political satire is the best and very cutting. But he didn’t appear to give any politician a free ticket. Or a free pass or maybe you could call it a free toll ticket. He was the biggest promoter of a free public transportation system. But I now can’t help but think what Ol’ Will would have to say about having his name up in lights not at the movies theater but up in lights in the middle of a big 30 foot green tollway sign. And you may know some tollways in Oklahoma. You are stopped every 20 miles or so to pay another toll. Now I can’t help but think about how Mr. Rogers would be impatiently chewing his gum faster and faster searching for change before and after each one of those damn toll gates. Now that’s funny! I’m sure he would be writing about it in his daily newspaper columns.

Rest in peace Will, there are plenty of other things named after you, like airports. Oh my god! I never thought of that! What would he be writing about airports nowadays? Now that’s even funnier to imagine!

Such is the life of John

Today may be an appropriate time
to explore the thought
just a bit of a thought
to investigate the reason
of what we may be doing
wondering of our being
our forth-come and forth-went
actually the why and why not
of our crawl up from the slime
to this point
in time and space.
The is and the is not of
what we are doing here
and not there.
What orbital mechanics caused this,
this thing
we found ourselves on.
This machine of
heavy wash, soak, rinse and spin.
But at the same time
minding our delicates.
Our precious inner thoughts
and reasoning.
Trying to justify
our pertinent points
and explanations.
Without hurting the feelings
of the gathered groups
of the three or more.
This may be
the appropriate time
to send up this balloon
and see how high it rises.
As we believe in the
Mother of all bombs
and the
Sons of the Al-mighty.

DSS

Dogs of War

Posted: April 8, 2017 in poem, poet, poetry, politics, war, writing
Tags: , , , , ,

Along the way, to better lands
We pass places worthy of our living
We pick our stride, don’t look aside
We deny all the fruits they are giving

We map our route, we have no doubt
We use landmarks named by rhyme and reason
We trudge ahead, we spare the dead
looking for that perfect scene and season

We travel on, when stopped along,
Turning away, all things wild or human
Soon will be the day, I will say
kill them, burn and pillage to my crewman

Swords we hone with sharpening stone
We break bone, slash gut, red flesh and tendon
On knees they cry but life’s denied
Broken bone and bleeding wounds no mending

When we are done, the spoil is won
Women, food and prize are for our taking
We burn the rest, leave mud and mess
Only black smoke left of our cruel making

Pay us for, we are dogs of war
We sell our arm and sword for gold coin
The pain we give, so greed will live
And will deny it was of your doing

DSS

On My Mind

Posted: March 27, 2017 in free verse, poem, poet, poetry, writing
Tags: , , , ,

I have more to say than a verse to hold
A few short lines
of verse of old
A few letter words that slide and play
As the wet tongue
curls up that way
Just as line or two abruptly stopped
echoes right back
from high mountain tops
I will hear inside my head the word
As I ponder that
that I’ve just heard
I hurry to write down just what I said
So someday they
will be loudly read
Not forgot but shouted echoed wide
on the paths and hills
of our country side
The few short words of verse and line
that twist and turn
but so nearly rhyme
Those few words that were only mine
Are now released
to bend other minds.

OC