POEM: Molecule Tools Around





There’s a molecule I just inhaled
that’s known a bit of nastiness.
Sighed by a dying Jesus.
Swept around the planet
every two weeks since.
It’s swirled in the eddies of a bomb casing —
barreling toward annihilation.
It’s nourished dictators,
and drowned martyrs.
Landing on a blade of grass,
outside a storehouse of inhumanity,
biding it’s time to atrocity.
It knows no regret,
nor the error of its ways.
Riding my hemoglobin will not redeem it,
of that I can be certain.

POEM: Neuron Fire

Source: NIH

flip the switch
the lights go out
but for random flashes and flickers
playing pieces of your past
shuffled into unrecognizable dream stills
like lightning illuminating
and old farmyard
a flash…
a monster appears on the horizon
a flash…
the monster is bigger
with each flash the monster looms larger
but it’s not getting bigger
it’s getting closer
when it’s no longer a silhouette
when it has features
all hope will be lost

 

Bamboo Haiku





bamboo copse
groans in subtle wind
no space between


crows rule

the bamboo arch

over the road



bamboo grove
carpeted in grainy beige
alien landscape


plastic cup

gripped in crow’s beak

frat boy style



pink blossoms
will soon bleed onto
bamboo pollen

POEM: Dreams

dreams, my friend, are lost on you
you think them false when they are true
you think them true when they are truer
you think them from a subconscious sewer

you feed your monsters, but make them ride alone
then can’t tell the imposters when they’re full-grown
they say that nature outstrips nurture
and the seeker outwits the searcher

but who can know such things

POEM: Smoke

turrets turned as tires burned
forming a cloak of jet black smoke
oh hell! oh hell! for a tank shell
will pass right through, belching smoke of its own like a chimney flue
and when the wall is blown apart, and spall flies as from a cart of darts
I’ll long for naught, just I thought, while I wonder just what man hath wrought

On Writing Poetry

1.) Toss open a bag of words.
2.) Dance said words into a configuration in which they sprout a feeling.
3.) Shake vigorously until the detritus that detracts from feeling falls away.
4.) Read aloud.
5.) Shake some more.
6.) READ – SHAKE – REPEAT

Source: National Endowment for the Arts

POEM: Madmen on the March

by Gustave Dore (via Wikipedia)

 

Madmen on the march
Clones de la Mancha
Pouring through the arch
Lacking lingua franca



Seeking common thrills
An army of sham knights
Tilting at windmills
With more pride than fight



It’s not a sickness of the brain
that scripts this lunatic life.
It’s chasing the sanction of “sane”
that breeds this stream of strife.



[Note: A poem on the hilarity of defining sanity as the recognition of reality. As if any of us knows what’s real in a meaningful sense. Sanity is being able to pretend you know what’s real with sufficient confidence to avoid grinding against society’s sensitive spots.]

POEM: Intergalactic Smelly Kid; or, Fermi Paradox, Solved It!

Source: European Southern Observatory (via Wikipedia)

 

Let me step up on my soapbox,
tell you about a paradox.
Said a scientist named Fermi,
“Why’ve no aliens made the journey
to bring us a nice fruit basket
or just tell us how fantastic
it is having us in the neighborhood.”

 

Scientists have racked their brains
considering competing claims:
“Life is hard and smarts is harder.”
“They can’t stock a trans-galactic larder.”
“They’ve come here, but are to small to hear.”
“They are shy, out of wisdom or of fear.”
Or, simply, “They all blow’d themselves to hell.”

 

I, too, have had reason to ponder
why aliens stifled the urge to wander
into our little neck of the wood,
and I fear we don’t come off so good.
What if, I ask you, heaven forbid
they think of us as the smelly kid?
Are we the seatmate who won’t shut up
about his robotic barbershop startup?
Do humans come across as the kind
to ask a stranger if they wouldn’t mind,
helping us move and antique armoire
or lending us their new flying car?

 

So when considering whether we’re alone of device or luck,
consider the competing hypothesis that we really suck.

POEM: Temple Walk

 

rounding the temple,
walking its plinth,
reading each carving
like solving a labyrinth

battles and bulls
and decrepit hulls
of ships washed ashore
demons and ogres
who’d fought foreign wars

the Tartarus deep
and gods upon high
and mythical beasts
in water and sky

 

there’s no way this world
could be real or true
a vacuum of cruelty
a fanciful zoo

 

real enough to be carved in stone
constructs of mind, known but unknown

POEM: Feels Real

You think you know what’s real?
That’s so adorable.
You’re adrift in a space
full of false, hard edges.

Some say it’s turtles all
the way to the bottom.
Whatever a “bottom”
is or was or may be.

You are in the third act
of a two-act play, and
everyone has gone home.
If you fall to the stage
no one will hear or feel
the waves emanating
from that false, hardwood floor.
But I understand it
feels real to you.