Tag Archives: daily poems

Not Those Kind of Blues: blues sonnet

There is no need to holler or to shout,
no need to raise a holler shouting out;
those ain’t the kind of blues I’m talking ‘bout.

The world is in a worry, sure enough,
the world is full of worry, sure enough;
if you don’t like it, man, that there’s just tough.

Ain’t nothing much to say, and less to do,
not all that much to say, nothing to do,
won’t make a difference down at me and you.

Don’t make commotion, sure don’t raise your head,
make no commotion, better bow your head;
might raise it up and find it lopped off, dead.

When darkness lies so heavy near the ground,
sure ain’t the time to think you’ll stick around.

19 JAN 2017

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On Optimism: blank verse

One can suppose those clouds are silver-lined,
that just around the corner lies great joy,
and what appears today both bleak and sad
tomorrow may turn out to be rainbows.

Let anyone suggest such dandy things
and all the world proclaims them truly mad.
“Come to your senses! Live in the real world!”
those persons full of reason will advise.

Contrariwise, let any sourpuss disagree,
and on their heads is rained derisive scorn.
“How dare you destroy hope, and shun good faith”
that things will work out, somehow, in the end?

Depend on it: you try to spend the buck
that “stops here”, and you’ll be made out a thief;
but ask for change to buy a cup of tea –
you’ll end up parched, and fined for vagrancy.

One can suppose this world an oyster, still;
a shellfish allergy afflicts us, then.
What difference does it matter, joy or pain?
You live a while, perhaps, and then you die.

18 JAN 2017

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Politisaur: bestiary

It crawls – more like a slither, for its legs
are short and curled beneath its awkward bulk –
and in this ambulation, leaves a trail:
rough scales, small bits of food, and rivulets
of an almost translucent, greasy sweat.

Its mouth is lined with narrow, pointed teeth
inside an almost rubber lipped, wide mouth
that hangs always a little bit ajar
exposing just the tip of a great tongue
in constant motion, keeping those teeth clean.

Its voice is half a bellow, half a cry,
that with torrential drops of fetid bile
hurls insults at both enemy and friend
when it perceives even the smallest slight,
and sounds both most insulted and in pain.

Its attitude, in short, is rude and mean;
yet ’round it gather minions by the score.
They hope to catch the scraps it leaves behind
from tainted prey, or the effluvia
that trickles from its pores both night and day.

It once was something else, and stood upright;
or so the legends say – though few have seen
and lived to tell the tale.

17 JAN 2017

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A Thing: barzeletta

A thing before the eyes, so crystal clear,
a vision any fool could plainly see:
the fate of any government of men
who choose, not to subdue nor comprehend

the reasons why a thing should come to pass,
or be, thing-in-itself, more than a dream,
perhaps just fancy, winged with gossamer
that looks good in parade, but cannot fly.

The thing our focused energies engage,
what matter that it live on undefined?
A drooling child could scarcely fail to see
that wasting time is all it guarantees.

But something, or just nothing? ‘Tis the rub
that rattles conversations on and on;
and wears great minds from sharpness, down to nub,
until such things are worth the thinking on.

The thing, the magic thing! Oh happy day,
when we may glorify it with a name!
‘Tis such a shame it takes so very long
for any thing worth naming to arrive.

16 JAN 2017

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Some Sense of Meaning: ballade

The world is what it is, the pundits claim;
and City Hall no pugilists defeat.
No matter where you go, things stay the same;
you either like your bourbon iced, or neat.
A thing is in itself almost complete;
just unifying theory holds it back,
a brave philosophy in which to beat
some sense of meaning when they feel its lack.

The picture is designed to fit the frame;
and even honest men practice deceit.
No matter how its critics might defame,
life runs along, wash, rinse, and then repeat.
As even excess sugar loses sweet,
so kindness turns to malice on the rack;
and gives to those who think best on their feet
some sense of meaning when they feel its lack.

The clever find someone to take the blame:
a scapegoat they will not most likely meet,
some part of their brave psyche soaked in shame –
the heart perhaps – and never miss a beat,
while fools still strive to enter and compete
in one more pointless lap around the track.
Like sheep, they seek for answers, as they bleat,
some sense of meaning when they feel its lack.

The world is what it is, wholly complete;
Each moment marches on, not to come back.
Men write philosophy to give blank sheets
some sense of meaning when they feel its lack.

13 JAN 2017

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The Dance: balada

And there upon a hardwood floor
the dancers gather, to once more
repeat the steps and spin around
betwixt mid-air and solid ground,
their minds affixed on meter’s mark,
the breath between time’s light and dark,
a march toward a last release
that once begun can hardly cease.

And how they shimmer as they twirl,
girl clutches boy, boy clutches girl,
each entertaining joy, and fear,
extending now, then drawing near
in measured movements circumscribed
by time, convention, and their tribe.
The consequences? War or peace,
that once begun can hardly cease.

And if the dance should slow or stop,
the dancers, much like spinning tops,
would falter, falling to one side,
let loose their partners, and collide,
and while the gentle music fades
forget to maintain the charade,
the vain illusion and caprice
that once begun dare not to cease.

12 JAN 2017

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Tall Tales: anagram

If you would tell tall tales, at least
refrain from stale cliché, and try,
when your imagination fails, to steal
with a light and creative touch.

If you would wipe clean story’s slate
before you start “once on a time”,
remember this: the little things
divide the world – and build its walls.

10 JAN 2017

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