March 09, 2012

The poetry sometimes takes strange directions... at least that is what some of the other poets on one of my sites say... I hope that they mean... unique!

PHONE RAGE

How hard can it be to just sit at a desk,

at a phone and when it rings...

answer some simple f***ing questions?

Why do I have to spend an hour

trying to reason with a computer...?

First, unplug the (something or other)

and reset the (something or other)...

“What...?”

First, unplug the (something or other)

and reset the (something or other)...

I’ve developed a bad case

of phone rage...

“Representative... PLEASE...”

I know it can be frustrating

but if you’ll be patient,

I’m sure we can fix the problem...

Great! Now I’ve hurt the computer’s feelings...

“Okay, what do you want me to unplug...?”

I’m sorry, I don’t understand.

Please say, “instructions...”

“Instructions...!”

Thank you.

First, unplug the (something or other)

and reset the (something or other)...

“AAAAHHH!”

I’m sorry, I don’t understand...

“WELL YOU JUST CONNECT ME

TO A F***ING HUMAN BEING?!”

A long, graveyard silence...

I will connect you to one of our

technical representatives. Please hold,

and thank you for choosing

Cox Communications...

                                                                                                  the—rrw 03-07-12

March 06, 2012

  I'm taking the day off from posting to go to a local bookstore and just think about writing, maybe write down a thought or two. Sometimes it's important to just live... in order to have something to write about.

Blistered Thought

There are red blisters rising up from inside my head.

They itch, they throb a doorknob dull sort of pain

that begs me to scratch at them... and of course I do.

I remember you shaved your legs once

leaving tiny cuts along your shin and

thin splinters of blonde hair in the bathtub.

Your limbs looked less like legs, more like forbidden fruits,

oddly shaped pears my tongue couldn’t help but lick

into submission.

The back of my neck grasped by your tiny hands,

you slipped your tongue between my teeth,

mine fought back with wet stabs to the inside

of your overly dry mouth. We both smiled.—rrw 3-3-12

March 05, 2012 

 So, I got a little behind on posting. Maybe a day late. But I wanted to take my time rewriting an old poem. It's hard to write without trying to sound like someone else. Trusting my own voice has always been difficult for me. But I think I'm learning.

End of Day

This dark, dank, thick of night inflicts its wicked way on all,

the stars swallowed up by thoughtless lack of light. Does God

condone such evil deeds that sweep away the universe, buries

all inside a dreadful emptiness? A death to dreams. Only

darkness black and cold awaits the ones who wander out tonight.

But there is one tiny hope: the moon, she still abides, her jaundice

smile expels the treachery this sinful loom emits. Regrets? Yes, all

stacked up along her jagged shore, as once more hope shines bright

upon this careless life we live. For all’s at peace inside this shameful

grave. Fair Luna strikes her lamp against the end of day.

—rrw 3-24-11

March 3, 2012

   An interesting day today. Rush Limbaugh ruffled a bunch of folk on Facebook... even got to me a bit. I started writing on my "words. words, words..." blog. It's nice to write down personal thoughts.
   
It's funny how love can mess with your head... even when that love dissolved more than 20 years ago. So, this next poem is about that GREAT LOVE that no longer exist... except in my memory... and dreams.

Blistered Thought

There are red blisters rising up from inside my head.

They itch, they throb a doorknob dull sort of pain

that begs me to scratch at them... and of course I do.

I remember you shaved your legs once

leaving tiny cuts along your shin and

thin splinters of blonde hair in the bathtub.

Your limbs looked less like legs, more like forbidden fruits,

oddly shaped pears my tongue couldn’t help but lick

 into submission.

The back of my neck grasped by your tiny hands,

you slipped your tongue between my teeth,

mine fought back with wet stabs to the inside

of your overly dry mouth. We both smiled—rrw 3-3-12

March 02, 2012

I'm not sure what happened to January's poems... somehow I must have deleted them... DANG! Well, I hope I don't make the same mistake this time. Anyway, this poem I've been working on foe several months. I hope it says what I intended.

Awake

We who slumber far too long in autumn sleep

must bear the winter on our feathered

backs like proper sparrows (yes,

 that’s what we are),  enslaved by

 snowy chains and stormy shackles,  

whipping winds which cleave the heart to halves...

Let’s spread the day out on the lawn

let's yawn old Sol to being,

let’s stretch our wings across

the thicket thick with hibernating

streams which cast their

skinny arms like ghostly masts

below the weeping elms,

their sails no longer

catching wind...

Let's be the shadows skipping on the grassless knolls,

the tiny trolls that venture forth

into the mushroom colored day, let’s sing

in fragile harmony a single memory of living.

Be alive though death still stalks

the rivers, creeks and bogs,

the forests deep in sleepy fog,

the frost stained earth, that careless

grave where lies our crow stripped bones.

Have hope. Spring will arrive

 blessing all with warm, wet showers,

pastures green for naked feet

to dance upon,  and thick oak leaves will

shade us from the blistering of wind and sun...

Have hope. Awake;

our life to be

has yet to come.

—rrw 1-3-12

MARCH 1, 2012

So, here we are the first of March. Time for new poetry. Most of the poems this month will be short little "contemplation" about... well, I'll let you make your mind up about that... and what... if anything... any of it means... I think the hardest part is balancing between REALITY (whatever that means) and the POETIC. As I go along, I hope I'll get better at it.

Changeling

Such a simple thing to do, open the door.

Just lift your hand, wrap your fingers ‘round

the knob, give it a twist then push.

Yet, there are things to consider first.

Gravity, for example, tends to frown

upon any pull away from her. Jealous

she is of movement that might remove

her firm, motherly grasp from your arm.

And then there are the eyes in your head

which hate surprises, sudden shifts                          

in scenery or change in light.

They’ve grown accustom to the dark,

to the faded photos, the bad paintings

hanging on familiar walls. Change,

not a thing that they care for at all.

 

And, of course, there’s the mind and its tricks:  

fear, guilt, hopelessness, using anything and

everything it can to keep itself stationary,

fixed to one spot, immobilized, jailed

inside that which is already known.

But don’t think about it.

Don’t think at all. Just

open the damn door

and walk out.

—rrw 1-17-12