A trick of the light
Turns leaves pallid and frosty
Under dusky skies
[National Poetry Month: Poem 3]
POEM: False Frost
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Tag Archives: poem
POEM: Blender Manual
I read you like a person reads
his blender manual.
It’s a necessity–legally obligatory.
But meaningless because if a word falls
in a blender manual, does anyone read it?
No one cares until someone loses a thumb.
Words are nudged and danced
into perfect clarity in seven languages.
But it’s 100 pages for a three button machine.
“Frappe” must have a long and convoluted definition.
[Poem #2: National Poetry Month]
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POEM: Eustress
I stress that eustress
is the best stress.
From time to time,
I must confess
I’ve made a mess
doing more
succeeding less.
In a mad dash to impress,
badgered by self-duress,
taking matters to excess,
brewing up toxic distress.
Assess,
progress,
but don’t obsess.
[Poem 1: National Poetry Month]
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POEM: Neurochemical Grace
Dopamine Model; Source: Wikipedia
I’m grateful for the ability to be grateful.
For gratefulness causes dopamine and serotonin levels to rise.
I’m grateful for the fine people in my life.
For delightful company causes oxytocin and vasopressin spikes.
I’m grateful for my health.
[Or am I healthy because I’m grateful?]
For gratitude correlates to superior health across several indicators.*
I’m grateful for my food,
which is well-balanced to provide the brain glucose,
while offering all the
vitamins, minerals, and amino acids
my neurochemistry needs.**
*Sansone, R.A. and Sansone, L.A.2010. Gratitude and Well Being. Psychiatry. 7(11): 18-22.
**Gibson, G.E. and Blass, J.P.1999. “Nutritional and Functional Neurochemistry.” Basic Neurochemistry: Molecular, Cellular, and Medical Aspects, 6th ed. NCBI: Bathesda, MD.
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POEM: Bats Over Bangalore
dusk descends
&
bats wing away
abandoning bamboo stanchions
that flex, creak, and groan
during their daily hang
flying like waves of B-52’s
on a doomsday run–
buggy Armageddon
but bugs are too numerous
and
small-brained
to be decimated
it takes giant ganglia
to produce a proper doomsday
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POEM: Sausage Grinder
A worn wooden knob
Shiny here, pitted there
Rotates loosely on a steel pin
Set in a sinuous cast-iron arm
A horn flares skyward
It’s fed meat and gristle
The spiral augur chews and crushes
with gruesome moist sounds
Carrying meat to the grinder blade
Shredded charnel remnants vomit forth
from a perfectly circular mouth
Tumbling into an old glass bowl
Chipped on the edge but not abandoned
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POEM: Great Characters in Literary History I
Call me Ishmael.
And if you write me
send it by fish mail,
addressed: high seas.
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POEM: The Missing Link
I called you on the telephone.
It turned out weren’t at home.
“How can this work, if you won’t pick up.”
I messaged, sipping coffee from my cup.
“I’m right here,” a voice did say.
A hallucination as clear as day.
This was no time to go insane.
Hitting redial, I tried her in vain.
No answer. I feared I’d become unstable.
“Hey, lunkhead, I’m right across the table.”
The voice matched by a pounding sound.
The angry poltergeist had me spellbound.
Then a splash of water hit my face.
Lashing out, angered at the disgrace.
“Oh, hey, how long have you been there?”
Rolling her eyes in a dumbfounded stare.
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POEM: Mind Gravity: or, The Heft of Mental Putrefaction
Gravity pulls her head down into the pillow.
Like tar through a garden hose, thoughts flow.
Thoughts weighty, not freed of mass and matter.
As stuck in time and lost to reason as the Hatter.
Thoughts arise because they’re lighter than air.
Hers fell sodden, a lead balloon in the state fair.
The infection arose from a single putrid notion.
One drop floating free to fester across an ocean.
That she wasn’t enough. Enough for whom? Enough for what?
Unanswerable questions that congealed into a sluggish pus.
They say truth has weight, but truth lifts one to fly free.
What pulled her head to pillow was the mass of negativity.
As her thoughts hardened into a slag, devoid of truth or reason.
She summoned the strength for a search in her final season.
She scoured the four corners of the Earth for a fabled cure.
But it lie in a place close at hand, but vastly more obscure.
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POEM: Kettle
an old tea kettle
bottom rusted through
sits propped on spout and shoulder
a vision of civility
kicked into the dystopian wasteland
