Dysfunctional Poetry 102 for Bedtime Reading

  It is then, for charity sake,

  for you to give them audience,

  so for them to relate,

  while they are still in a cognitive state.

  Forever Gone By

  This year the corn has grown higher than ever before.

  Perhaps it is due to improved seed, perhaps the added manure.

  But rather, I suspect it is because the corn has sensed

  that the farm is about to be no more.

  The children are leaving, as like dust in the wind—

  leaving behind calloused and weathered skin—

  leaving behind a bond with earth that once had been.

  And now, I know not what awaits them,

  but I fear they will rue the day

  when they chose to leave the farm behind,

  and the waving corn with tassels borne high,

  as a cruel remembrance of days forever gone by.

  Friend or Foe

  When as a boy,

  I often sat and whittled—

  with my pen knife my best friend.

  Together we would fashion faces

  all peculiar to other places.

  Then one day it cut me quick—

  from which I learned a lesson:

  to treat my friends—

  no matter who, no matter what—

  with care and discretion.

  God in the Vernacular

  Do you remember when you first learned about God?

  From your parents—after you learned to walk?

  Or, more likely, after you learned to talk?

  It must have not been before then;

  otherwise, you would have already known

  that He sat on an almighty throne.

  So it was that your parent’s religion became your religion,

  and their God became your God;

  with you, a new member of the pod.

  Perhaps then, it was just a matter of time until you too

  were prone to exclaim, as though taken from holy writ,

  “God help us!”, “God forbid!”, and “Goddam it!”

  Held in Abeyance

  Frozen in place

  the icicles point downward—

  as like daggers

  poised at rest.

  Is it because,

  born to be free,

  those drops resent being

  held in captivity.

  Or is it because

  they are putting on a show

  to compensate for flowers

  yet beneath the snow.

  Help Me To See

  Who hung those curtains before my eyes

  through which I find it difficult to see?

  The pattern of which is monotony.

  It is the only window allowed to me

  from my mind I am able to see.

  To then deny me of diversity.

  Pull them aside, I often plea.

  Offer semblance of liberty.

  Open them, set me free.

  How Dull Life Would Be

  I often do not know

  which way to go—

  which choice to make.

  Even when I try with all my might,

  I am more often than not, seldom right.

  But if I was,

  was always right—

  to know and choose right from wrong;

  whether yes from no, left from right,

  do from don’t, white from black,

  or black from white—

  as though I had a second sight,

  or someone or something as a guiding light,

  I am afraid I’d be put on a boring nonstop flight

  so to never know, not even the joy of a pillow fight.

  Human Nature

  I’ve heard it professed that adults are the product of their parents,

  that racism, bigotry, materialism, are learned from grown ups.

  So then, why not take children away from their parents—

  put them all together in a place by themselves—

  and let them grow up only with themselves?

  But, sadly, I think, you would find,

  the survival of the aggressive,

  domination of the meek—

  as it has come to be,

  before and after.

  Amen.

  i vs I vs Me

  Why is it so many on the internet

  convey themselves as “i”?

  Is it in disrespect of conventions,

  to show they are nonconformists?

  Are they elementary school drop outs,

  no better than if home-schooled?

  Are they just too busy or lazy,

  for a combined peck?

  Are they shy,

  as like a dark hole in the universe?

  If you ask them why they do it

  they are likely to call you a nitpicker;

  while adding that anyone should know

  that an “i” standing alone—means “me”

  and so, is not a typo.

  If Only I Had

  I meant to write; I meant to call—

  throughout my head like a bouncing ball.

  Perhaps tonight—if not tomorrow—

  but as always, I didn’t at all.

  And now, too late;

  she can no longer relate.

  So if I go to attempt relief;

  it will deservedly heighten my grief.

  Imagination On The Go

  Your imagination is your friend,

  for it is what makes you tick.

  It makes you think; it makes you dream—

  like apple pie topped with ice cream.

  Without it you would be as dull as dirt

  in which no plant could grow.

  So it is up to you to fertilize it—

  to keep it on the go.

  In a Hammock Within a Cathedral

  Here I lie as though in a cocoon,

  surrounded by oaks as old as I,

  in a kinship I cannot deny,

  beneath cathedral-like arches

  reaching for the sky.

  The sparkling foliage high above

  occasionally reveals a brilliant blue,

  graced with fleeting white clouds,

  to contrast the view.

  My stalwart companions, as warriors of old,

  exemplify above and below the ground

  what it takes to become renown.

  So, as long as I live

  no one shall bring them down.

  But should the need occur

  for them to march in solidarity

  onto the Capitol, to go on strike,

  to have their say.

  Oh, what an inspiring sight to see—

  while I, from in a hammock,

  admitting voice to a tree.

  In God We Trust

  Millions, nay, billions,

  have perished in the name of a god.

  Both knowingly and unknowingly they so died—

  in glory or ignominiously.

  Atheists might well claim they have died in vain.

  Believers; to the contrary.

  For is there not a country that proclaims

  in one fashion or another: In God we trust?

  In Need of Mental Rehabilitation

  Those who convulse their mind in continual consternation,

  never pausing to meditate and take into consideration

  what it was, or is, that precipitated their fixation,

  are likely to fuel the rate of acceleration,

  to where it becomes a preoccupation,

  in need of psychiatric consultation.

  In Praise of Indecent Beer

  And so they chanced to become acquainted,

  during Happy Hour at a bar.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

  “Indecent beer,” he replied.

  "What? Indecent beer?" she asked.

  "Yes, it says on the can that if you drink enough of it, r />
  it will arouse your primal sexual instinct,” he answered.

  "What? You’re kidding!" she said.

  "No, I’m not. But you have to drink a six pack,” he said.

  "I don’t want any. And you better stop drinking it,

  or I’ll tie your hands behind your back,” she said.

  “I’d love to see you try,” he said.

  And so it is that such asininity

  often sparks acquaintanceships

  that produce lifetimes of happy hours.

  In the Twilight of My Dawn

  Here I am, by myself—

  as it should be.

  They have gone their separate ways—

  as it should be.

  I did my duty; it is done.

  She now appears before me

  as the promise of yesterday . . .

  in the twilight of my mind.

  It is time for me to go as well.

  I will take her hand; she will lead me.

  What else am I to do?

  What recourse do I have?

  Her eyes and smile beckon . . .

  hinting of more than I can fathom.

  I will see if she is but an apparition—

  at the twilight of my dawn.

  In Your Looking Glass

  How many times has this rain drop come down?

  Perhaps a zillion before there was ever a town.

  Since creation it ascended to the heavens as vapor

  to collect itself, to then descend on another caper.

  And so, ageless, the cycle relentlessly repeats,

  never considering to suffer defeats.

  On land or sea it endeavors to splash,

  perhaps by chance, on someone’s eyelash.

  But unlike the days of yore, when fresh and pure,

  it now falls as toxic as pestiferous manure.

  And what brought about this contaminated mass?

  The answer lies in your looking glass.

  It Sounds Like Rain

  It sounds like rain, you say.

  But rain cannot talk,

  at least not like you and I, I say.

  Oh yes it can, you say.

  You can hear it clearly enough

  when it rat-tat-tats on a tin roof,

  or the pitter-patter from a drippy rain pipe,

  or the drone of a steady-stream deluge.

  That’s true, I say.

  But that’s simply rain at play

  which, by the way,

  is just hear say.

  It’s Just Me and My Dog

  The time was when, if I gave her a kick;

  she would put me down by giving me a lick

  knowing full well that such a response

  will elicit a pat—worth getting the kick.

  But no longer do I render kicks—

  no matter what the offense;

  but instead, I give her more pats

  so to get more licks—

  because now, it’s just me and my dog.

  Just One Step Away

  I’ve walked the plank to its very end—

  where I stand petrified,

  as though cast in stone,

  wondering if I have already died.

  I call for someone to reach out to me:

  to lead me back, and away from here;

  or to thrust me off into the abyss—

  to then be in their debt.

  But hearing no reply, I beg,

  please, sink this accursed plank:

  this threshold into a netherworld—

  a place of neither life or death.

  A place where sinners such as I

  would be submerged with only our heads free—

  forced to view both Heaven and Hell—

  so to be entombed through eternity.

  Leaves for All Occasions

  Caressed by the sun,

  bathed by the rain,

  stroked by the wind;

  lilting, tilting,

  whirling, twirling.

  Youthful and exuberant in spring,

  lazy and demure in summer,

  bright and gay in the fall,

  carpeting the ground in the winter.

  Set free to decompose,

  to nurture generations.

  Again, and again

  to arouse our sensations.

  Life and Death as a Comedy

  Once as a child in a theater,

  the film was one of war.

  The scene was of solders on a war front.

  When suddenly, shelling began.

  The soldiers plunged into foxholes.

  One, little more than a boy,

  having been cleaning his boots, left one above.

  Then, amid the bombardment,

  a hand appeared from the edge of a foxhole;

  groping for, then clutching the boot,

  when a violent explosion ensued.

  As the smoke cleared,

  the hand slipped back into the foxhole

  together with a soul rending plea:

  ‘Momma, Momma.’

  The audience burst out in laughter;

  as though at a comedy.

  At first I became enraged,

  but then realized that, in deed,

  life and death is, perhaps, a comedy,

  but I could not bring myself to laugh.

  Make Believe

  Living in a fantasy world can be exciting,

  to keep the every day world at bay.

  What can be any better—

  no matter whether night or day.

  You don’t have to be nuts to do it;

  it’s where you have the final say.

  It’s where you are the boss—

  as though living a real-life play.

  It can take you—you can take it

  here, there, and astray;

  but keep in mind it’s only fantasy

  with reality just moments away.

  Migrant Labor

  At first I thought them to be

  cattle that had broken free—

  foraging in a berry field.

  But then one stood upright.

  It wore a hat and shirt and pants—

  revealing it to be a human being.

  And every time thereafter

  when I see a basket of berries on sale

  I wonder where who had picked them now was.

  Could it have been the very one I had once seen,

  and those others—as like cattle in that field—

  bending, and stooping as a way of life?

  My Built-In Alarm System

  They occur more frequently every day,

  those aches and pains that plague me so.

  Some for keeps, and thus to stay.

  Others stabbing and jabbing on savage foray.

  Although inclined to think them enemies

  I realize I am being unfair;

  since they are merely letting me know

  which of my parts are in need of repair.

  But as my machinery is wearing out

  and not fashioned for an ever lasting stay,

  taking pills have become the order of my day,

  to keep what ails me seemingly at bay.

  And so it is that I function from day to day

  with my built-in alarm system ringing ever more,

  knowing that to flip off the switch would also

  pull tight the curtains and seal shut the door.

  My One Room Habitat

  I have a one room habitat . . .

  it is called a cranium.

  I can furnish it luxuriously . . .

  or keep it meagerly somber.

  I was born in it . . .

  and I will die in it.

  I can keep it tidy or not . . .

  whichever I please.

  I can seek relief with drugs . . .

  but at what cost?

  I cannot escape . . .

  my own nightmares.

  I can
live there or be evicted . . .

  onward and upward, or down and out.

  My Shadow

  It shrinks and slides

  when the sun is about,

  and seems attached to me.

  But then hides when the sun does too—

  making me wonder if it does belong to me;

  or instead, is the Sun’s child assigned to me—

  for what reason I’d like to know—

  perhaps it’s all just for show.

  Never to have Lived at All

  Never to have:

  borne a child . . .

  felt that first life . . .

  seen that battered little face . . .

  those tiny clenching hands.

  Never to have:

  brushed tiny teeth . . .

  scrubbed behind ears . . .

  washed little bottoms . . .

  and bundled them in a towel.

  Never to have:

  looked into a shinny sparkling face . . .

  told a silly story . . .

  amid little giggles.

  Never to have:

  tucked in securely in place;

  then checked and rechecked . . .

  for safe and sound.

  Never to have:

  stood in the surf with a tiny body atop;

  with legs tightly wrapped around . . .

  as the waves caressed and crashed by.

  Never to have lived any of these . . .

  is never to have lived at all.

  Nothing to Obscure Her View

  My mother died the other day.

  So we all came to cry and repent,

  to recall those things we once meant.

  I decided to take a walk,

  to be out of the house,

  to get away.

  I walked alone, to be alone,

  to gather my thoughts,

  on that autumn day.