Dysfunctional Poetry 102 for Bedtime Reading

  Near by was the cemetery

  where she would be interred the next day,

  as I recall, it would occur.

  I found the hole

  where she was to stay:

  abysmal, in a yawning way.

  So neatly dug into the earth,

  deeper than me it looked to be,

  by ladder they must have gotten out.

  I pictured her lying below—

  a rectangle of sky directly above,

  with nothing else to obscure her view.

  If only it could be done that way;

  no box, nor soil, to get in the way,

  to seal her below, to obscure her view,

  to keep her at bay.

  Old Age

  As we become older we are likely to

  not step on even an ant, nor uproot a weed,

  believing these acts to be

  heartless and morally wrong:

  live and let live has become our policy.

  Men may even become disinclined

  to over indulging, womanizing,

  spitting and cussing, or beating wives,

  believing these indiscretions

  to be stumbling blocks to eternal life.

  Women, no matter what their disposition,

  married, divorced, old maids, etcetera, etcetera,

  also must adopt similar inclination,

  for they are not given absolution,

  simply because they are women.

  Perhaps both go to church in earnest,

  reading the bible and singing with zest,

  keeping lawns mown, and gossip minimum,

  while patronizing neighbors to become a pest.

  Oh, what a cathartic such would be for those so inclined.

  But in the hereafter, they may find

  that their benevolence as they concluded their end

  counted for little in the overall blend.

  One-upmanship

  By putting me down

  in one way or another

  you attempt to belittle me—

  aiming to win by some degree.

  But if I choose to ignore your taunts,

  and not respond in similar kind—

  to thereby be not entwined—

  it is you who is maligned.

  Out of Reach

  Hell exists in ghettos, political prisons,

  and insane asylums;

  and for those suffering the loss of loved ones,

  hopeless drug addicts, and psychotics.

  And heaven?

  where God is supposed to be.

  Staying out of reach, out of hearing –

  for those already in Hell.

  Philosophy As Such

  Many years ago a path was tread

  from the upper pasture to the gate

  by the first cow as it came down

  at dawn and dusk to be milked.

  Now, lifetimes gone by,

  that path continues to be trod,

  every morning, every night,

  come any time.

  And similarly has been so with philosophy,

  scribed since scribes could scribe,

  to be canonized to present day,

  for those in need of formulas

  to live in a prescribed way.

  Poor Little Bird

  I saw a bird drive another from its new nest,

  then possess it as though it were their own.

  Oh, poor little bird, who has been dispossessed,

  why do you stand for such infamy

  after so much toil to fashion your nest?

  Are you too forgiving to contest the theft

  for those unwilling to build their own nest?

  And so you go and build another.

  But suppose the same does happen again.

  And so on etcetera till the frost has come.

  Then, even though you have fashioned a nest

  it is too late to bring forth a brood.

  I pray, little bird, that come a new Spring,

  with experience so painfully spent,

  you will not be so tame in temperament,

  as to give up so fitting a nest

  in which to nestle your own breast.

  Praying At School

  Why should you pray at school if you don’t pray at home?

  Will it improve your reading, writing, or arithmetic?

  Will you practice what you said after you said it?

  Why should you? It’s just so many words.

  Perhaps it makes everyone join in together,

  like singing the star spangled banner,

  or reciting the pledge of allegiance.

  Perhaps that’s the real reason.

  If it isn’t, it should be.

  Psychotherapy

  Is your brain wired right—

  with no dangling wires,

  no short circuits,

  and with color coded wires?

  If, should it not be so,

  what might the consequences be?

  Psycho or schizo could be the case.

  Which would you rather it not be?

  And what about chemistry?

  That’s important too.

  Too much of this, too little of that

  not formulated just for you.

  What about a psychiatrist

  to listen to your past,

  with pad and pencil poised

  or microphone near by?

  Should he say that you are nuts,

  you should take it all in stride,

  for most of us are just like you—

  merely going along for the ride.

  Reborn Every Day

  Think of each morning as though being born

  to start each day as the sun rises:

  some days clear and bright,

  other days, out of sight.

  Whether you see it or not

  it is there every day:

  to give us light,

  dim or bright.

  And so the heavenly example is set,

  never failing—day in and day out,

  from the day you were born—

  with each as a fresh morn.

  Religion in Your Own Way

  Believe in religion if you must.

  Believe in something, or you will bust.

  But make it your own—and not of the herd.

  Or you will become just another turd.

  Make it the center of your life.

  If married, include your wife.

  Church if you must—

  be it as though alone,

  so as not to become

  just another clone.

  Resurrecting My Soul

  I am here in my room

  with curtains drawn tight—

  in the dark—absorbed in gloom.

  Should I turn on the light beside my bed

  I fear it will cast no shadow at all;

  or, if it did—would likely fill me with dread.

  I betrayed my soul to the flesh of the world,

  for it to slip away under the door—

  as though never to return evermore.

  But I cannot give up with so much at stake.

  I must get out of this room and beyond that door

  to resurrect my soul—for myself’s sake.

  Right In Plain Sight

  Do you ever ‘lose’ things—

  right on the top of your dresser, or desk?

  Do they seemed to have dematerialized

  when you know they must be right there?

  Again and again you look

  but do not see.

  Yes! That must be it!—

  It’s looking—but not seeing.

  Walk away.

  Then come back.

  Look this way, then that

  as though seeing afresh.

  And, Wholla! There it is—

  as it had been right along—

  right in plain sight.

  And so it is oft
en the case though life:

  looking but not seeing what is in plain sight;

  not giving your mind the chance to see

  that which is right there—

  so obviously right in plain sight.

  Russian Roulette with My Mind

  I sometimes cannot remember the name of something

  of someone, of some place.

  Try as I might, it just will not emerge—

  often embarrassing with someone at large.

  How can such happen

  when I make particular note to remember;

  but by God—where has it gone?

  Has it slipped away to be never recalled?

  No, it is there. I know it is.

  I’ll go through the alphabet again and again.

  It will come, I know it will.

  But it takes much work to make it so.

  Perhaps I need a new filing system–

  if I ever did have one.

  Perhaps there are too many cabinets in my head.

  Perhaps I’ve lost the keys to them.

  Then, Wholla!—it comes to mind—

  how maddening it has become

  to play Russian Roulette like this

  over and over again—with my mind.

  Secret Love Gone By

  Oh, to call back those adolescent years

  when secret love was so sweet.

  So no one would know, we took great care—

  it was our thing, not sullied, by others aware.

  Bicycling down meadow lined roads,

  picnicking in fields with miles to see,

  movies with popcorn for sharing sake;

  pledged to be married when we grew up.

  Now to revive these fragments of youth

  to paste them together in entirety—

  except for her face with clarity—

  wondering where she is now.

  Shakespeare in Context or Not

  Passages and phrases from His works

  popularly quoted for all vocations;

  whether in type or spoken aloud;

  both in private and on public occasions.

  In context or not is not the point

  but to see them in another light;

  leaving imagination as the prerequisite—

  risking Him, in spirit, to throw a fit.

  Something to Die For

  I can neither dance, nor sing,

  nor play a musical instrument,

  but I can dig and plant,

  and prune and fertilize,

  and that is what I will do—

  until I and planted too.

  Spinning and Spinning

  I see a woman in my delirium.

  She keeps whirling round and round;

  spinning and spinning,

  without making a sound.

  Who is she I wonder.

  With skirt in so frenzied state;

  spinning and spinning,

  to maintain a hypnotic rate.

  How can she keep from becoming dizzy

  and falling into a heap;

  spinning and spinning,

  as though wooing me to sleep.

  Perhaps she is but a top,

  and not someone I know;

  spinning and spinning,

  without even saying hello.

  Most likely she is a figment,

  best viewed when I recline;

  spinning and spinning,

  perhaps from too much wine.

  Staying in Balance on Mother Earth

  Walking on Mother Earth, round as a ball—

  where footing is apt to be touch-and-go—

  staying in balance can pose a major feat,

  with nothing to do whatsoever with feet.

  Rather, mind over matter is the key;

  neither teetering or tottering to fatal degree.

  For it all boils down to responsibility—

  whether in the face of good luck, or adversity.

  Still Much to Do

  Aches and pains as never known—

  reoccurring and verging on debilitation.

  A plethora of pills of all size and shape

  with names beyond articulation.

  Circuitry frayed, pump worn out,

  with parts in need of repair.

  Perhaps a change of oil would do

  with no need for Medicaid.

  But lo and behold, there is much to do

  now that I have been put out to pasture—

  with no plow to pull or race to run—

  life can be a lot of fun.

  Stop and Go

  Red light!

  Green light!

  Stop and go!

  Step on the gas, then go slow!

  Put on the brakes and jolt to a stop.

  Beware of the policeman behaving like a cop.

  Get out of the way!

  Where did you learn to drive?

  I feel like a bee walled up in a hive.

  If only I could fly over this strung out mob

  without blowing my top and bludgeoning some slob.

  I am the only one who has a place to go.

  School bus in front puking brats out.

  Old folk tops of heads just in view.

  Kids in new cars just for show.

  Sunday

  ‘Hog wash! Sunday is God's day,’ you say.

  ‘What about the other six? Are they just for kicks?’ I ask.

  ‘No! They are to keep us at bay,’ you say.

  ‘All six of them, as being the Devil’s days?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, to snag us along the way,’ you say.

  ‘And then on Sunday we repent, like for God to collect the rent?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, that’s the way,’ you say.

  Teetering

  On the rim of the glass I waver—

  whether to fall in and drown;

  or,

  to jump to the ground for a new life—

  I’d be bound.

  The Apple Tree

  Walking through the woods,

  far from the nearest town,

  I come upon an apple tree.

  Trunk gnarled, twisted,

  riddled with holes,

  fruit deformed.

  How it got here I am amazed;

  it seems not native to the place;

  but in an opening graced with space.

  But then I notice stones heaped in a row,

  as like a fence to signify a boundary,

  or stacked as fields were cleared.

  On further examination,

  I make out a foundation near by,

  of a farm house, long gone, in desolation.

  And so it must be where those who

  planted that apple tree once lived,

  having died or bidding it adieu.

  It now remains with those buried near by

  to cover them with bright petals each spring,

  and to serve as a perch from which birds sing—

  in memoriam of a time before the children took wing.

  The Bible

  A manual of standards and procedures dictating a way of life.

  A story teller's dream of heroes, heroines, mystery, and war.

  Chronicling saints, sinners, and gore.

  The preoccupation of monks turned printing press

  to propagate the scriptures for those thought in need—

  and to justify the pillaging of those who do not heed.

  Although plagiarized into more versions than flies have eyes,

  and found as bedtime reading in motel rooms,

  it no longer is on the best seller list,

  nor awarded the Nobel Prize.

  The Essence of Life and Living

  The ground on which you walk.

  The natural world engulfing you.

  The air that inspires and ignites.

  The rain drops that refresh.

  The wind that stimulates.

  The life that pulses.
br />   These are the essence of life.

  They set the stage for living.

  Epitomize them.

  Emancipate yourself.

  Take center stage.

  Revel in the spotlight.

  Wake up!

  Come alive!

  Stop dreaming!

  The Future Is Now

  I see them in their houses,

  so snug as I walk by in the dark.

  But I cannot resent their fortune,

  for I had my chance and tossed it aside.

  I went my way from day to day

  without thought of the future to come.

  But now I am here and the future is too.

  Oh, despicable life.

  What have I done to you.

  The Hole of Life

  Daily life is but a hole in the sand;

  where, as the tides come and go,

  having been washed away,

  must be dug anew every day.

  But when dug where no tides come,

  so not to be washed away,

  the hole will stay,

  to make every day a yesterday.

  So to pick the place is the key

  to live life in your own way;

  whether to dig anew every day,

  or to live in the same hole—

  day after day.

  The Jersey Devil

  I found Him at dusk lying along the railroad tracks.

  A little green lizard lying on top of Him,

  that seemingly assumed invisibility

  when it took notice of me.

  I stood Him up at the end of my street to give Him dignity.

  Two days later was a little lizard on my front steps:

  lying watchfully, intently studying me;

  then it assumed invisibility.

  Since then that lizard is nowhere to be seen,

  as its master yearns southward bound—

  awaiting nightfall, it would seem,