POEM - Best Day at Work: An Imagination

Something that never happens

Is doing what you really want

While punching the clock

For some corporate machine

Not really, not totally

Sure you might have a good day

But on that good day there were missing parts

It was still business casual

You weren’t in your pajamas

You couldn’t eat your food in a recliner

With the TV running a Lord of the Rings marathon

Even if they did buy lunch

Even if you got a raise

Even if you got coddled and schmoozed

You had to get up

Get dressed

Leave your house

And pretend to have manners

But what if . . .

Maybe today is the day I roll in the pinball machine

Right into the corner of my office

There’s plenty of room for it

And the mini-fridge

Full of Blenheims

            Almond Snickers

            Cheese cubes

                        And Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer

Oh, and I’m wearing flip-flops

Not to mention my jean shorts

I’ll go ahead and wear a button-up plaid

I wear those anyway

But I’m singing along

To every song

Right out loud

That pumps out from the speakers

Attached to the record player

            Did I mention the record player?

Yeah, that sounds better

And lunch will be provided

And we will be going on a “sales call”

To the movie theater

Popcorn and nachos and an Icee

All on the expense account

By the way I am moving my office

I prefer the one with the window

That looks out over the pond

And I will spend each afternoon

Catching up on my Netflix

That queue isn’t gonna watch itself

Join me if you’d like

We’ll hook into the conference room projector

There’s cold sodas in the cooler

Comfy chairs

Great speakers

Looks like it’ll be X-Files for the next 3 hours

Gotta leave by no later than four

If I want to get a solid six hours in today

POEM - My Hip-Hop Soul (ft. DJ Aaroneous)

Yo! I ain’t trippin’ neither

I have the beat

Way down deep

I feel like a boss

When they kick it out

Rhymin’ and stealin’

Watchin’ the hook

Grab it then scratch it

Then throw it for another spin

I get it man

And when I feel it I just can’t stop

Cuz these hips gotta move

No lie man

I ain’t frontin’

I gotta shake it to the left

And jump to the right

Drop it down and pick it up

Then toss it into the atmosphere

Until it comes back around

And makes my spine shiver and quake

I’m sure I look like a fool

But a poet is a poet

And a poem is a poem

And hip-hop has it figured out

Spittin’ those words with attitude

Exhibiting a prowess that makes me shrink

Just throwing it down in a rap battle

While I sit here and grind out each line

Agonizing over each syllable

Somewhere there’s a kid

Laying down words

Fast and furious

With precision and prowess

Enough to blow your mind

Reduce his opponent to speechlessness

While all I can do is suffer

In jealous obscurity

Then I try my hand

Write it fast

Let it go

Then it rests in your ears

I’m a rolling down

Like an ace in the sky

With you in my sights

You can’t run you can’t hide

I spin out my words

Like bombs from tha air

Dropping them down

Where they fall I don’t care

Cuz I’m the Baron of Red

With a mission to rock

Flying right straight at you

Can you hear the tick-tock?

Your time is up

The master is here

Step off all you players

As you hear the crowd cheer

Proper . . .

POEM - Amateur Film

The rummage sale drew me in

Supporting the aging Methodists

A worthy cause

Not that I needed a reason

It was in a vacant shop

At the end of the strip mall

Typical fair, but a little nicer

I found a suit my size

Nice dark wool with a subtle plaid pattern

I would eventually trade it

For a lime green Sears suit

A much better deal

I kept looking

Then I found it

A Bell and Howell projector

In immaculate condition

Selling cheap

Because video tape had killed 8mm film

I can understand

It’s quick, cheap and easy

But the idea of my own film won out

So I picked it up and carted it home

Strapped on the back of my bike

A couple of other thrift stores later

Produced a camera

A wind up beauty missing a lens or two

Enough to get my feet wet

Through trial and error I made it work

Overexposed in direct sunlight

Poor shutter speed in low light

Shaky and off kilter

It was brilliant

Avant-garde amateur cinema

I got to view my masterpiece twice

Then I sent the projector to my parents

For safe keeping

While I was moving around

In my earlier years

One year later I made it home

Eager to show my films

Excited to create more

Only to find the projector gone

My parents who never threw anything away

Had clean swept the garage

My projector a notable casualty

Thus my directorial career fizzled

For want of a delivery system

I took the heartache well

Hid my film away

And chased down a young lady

She didn’t care I wasn’t in film

As she took my heart’s starring roll

The script to my masterpiece

Is still unfinished

The final cut indefinitely delayed

POEM - The Changeling Changes Again

Another thought of the next thing

I’ve always been the one

That moved in and out

Left the town

Left it all behind

Set up shop

With the wheels always turning

Everything easy come

Then easy go just the same

Quick to adapt

Quick to jump to the next thing

I love the change of change

It may just be a coping technique

That was how it started

But now it is me

Each day a new adventure

What won’t be the same

I can’t wait to see

Maybe today the power will go out

And I’ll be sent home from work

Or I’ll get a new project

Or a new job entirely

Or I will eat something new

Or something old in a different way

Or I will rearrange my icons

And write with my left hand

And cross my legs the other way

Today I will write a poem in the bathroom

On my electronic phone

Using only my thumbs

As the fan hums

A soothing song of moving air

And I will finally note

That the fan sounds like distant waves

As heard from a rustic cabin

Nestled on the high cliff above

While resting on a hammock

In the waning sun of late spring

Isn’t that just the way

You crave something new

And you find it

Sitting in the second floor restroom

Or maybe leaning over the drinking fountain

As the water flows over the stainless steel

And in this light

With my head tilted just so

It looks like mercury

Pooling and swirling in a mercurial way

All of this seems flimsy and unstable

Not the case

I’m steady but flexible

Like a deep rooted tree

Bending but won’t break

I will stay around

Watch the seasons change

Watch people change

Watch my colors change

Will this year my yellows turn orange then red

Or will they go green to brown

With dots of auburn burned in

POEM - Who ‘Da Buddha

Sitting on the curb

Relaxing and maxing

Thinking that the sky is playing

Blowing in a mass of clouds

Swirling and stirring

Making little shapes and scenes

And I know that I am not the clouds

I am not the curb

Or the grass or the wind

The sun nor the tree

I am the thought

The one that makes this moment

As I sit in rotund bliss

With my hands in a meditative way

My thoughts look inward

Who ‘da Buddha

Me the Buddha

And isn’t it sweet

I am nothing more

Than nothing that is

I sit in silence

To preserve the silence

I am aware no more

Than aware I am awake

And I see no more

Than that there is more to see

I send my love in outward flow

Through the universe

Limitless and void of enmity

Then again to sit in silence

To be awake

To feel the clouds form and reform

Echoing my thoughts

And now there is a tree

Forming roots and branches and leaves

Then more it forms

The flower and the fruit

So full and round and full

From my place on the curb

I reach out and retrieve

And taste the fruit that is before me

And isn’t it juicy and sweet

Who ‘da Buddha

Me the Buddha

That’s who ‘da Buddha be

POEM - Zen and the Art of Donut Making

If I talk about the pink box

Filled with treasures

And you understand

Then you have been there

To a land a little sweeter

Where every other street corner

And every dingy strip mall

Has a little unassuming shop

Where unimaginable pastries are born

Few receive more than a single name

It is the word Donuts

It is the only word needed

No further advertising required

These are the lands of Southern California

Where the masses are drawn

For beaches and amusement parks

Big business and Hollywood

They all find their way

To the generic donut counter

Adorned with a healthy looking bamboo

Casting its spindly shade

Over a well fed Buddha

And a shiny metallic lucky cat

With a waving paw and devious eyes

These totems are an absolute necessity

If any are missing the place is a fraud

And must be exited

No eye contact

Or explanation

Required

Once you do find the right place

With all necessary accoutrements

The denizens of the glass cabinets

Will confirm you have found it

The place where real donuts are made

Apple fritters as large as your face

And crispy the whole way through

Custard filled bismarcks

That require two hands to lift

Crullers of such magnitude

You will swear a bulldozer left a tire behind

My advice to you

Bring a friend

And don’t let the price fool you

Fork over the five or six bucks

For a dozen mammoth pastries

Then the both of you lift the box

Hoist it into your car

And invite over a couple dozen friends

Do not order a second box

Until the mini-coma

From the first dozen

Wears off

Don’t forget the milk

Make sure you leave a coin

            At the feet of the lucky grinning cat

POEM - Tie One On

In the high desert thrift store

As the afternoon sun beat down

Seeking a respite in musty air conditioning

I peruse the second-hand fare

It is the usual stuff

Pots and pans

Half broken appliances

Scads of polyester

And an arsenal of defunct golf clubs

I’m really just wasting time

Unwilling to find myself external again

My shopping companion agrees

We are loathe to reclaim or positions

Atop a couple of bicycles

In the arid suburb of Palmdale

Where the wind blows constantly

Always into your face

No matter which way you turn

A biking nightmare

As I maintain my wander

I am distracted by a display

Clear plastic bags are hung

Stuffed to the gills

With colorful swaths of fabric

Before long I have one in hand

Only to realize they are ties

Lots and lots of ties

Smashed together

For the measly asking price

Of one solitary dollar

Irresistible

Now lest you think me a fool

I did not just grab and dash

I put on an air of discernment

Perused and prodded

Searching the transparent containers

For evidence of percentages of cool

Found two bags of promise

Dropped my two dollars down

And headed out into the blast furnace

I could be happy now

I had just purchased distraction

At a drastically discounted rate

Upon arriving home I was giddy

Twittering with anticipation

As to what the orbs would reveal

I was not disappointed

Yes, there was the typical attendees

Scads of diagonal stripped ties

In blues, reds and earth tones

Even a square bottom knit

Left over from the eighties

But then the treasures arrived

An elegant array of neckties

Prime examples of exquisite Webleys

Fashionable Don Lopers

And a few unnamed gems

Of course the Wembleys are best

The pinnacle of innovation

Mixing the finest polyesters

Into wearable art

Invoking the iridescent sheen

In accents of acetate and rayon

Creating color changing illusions

That catch the eye

And excite the mind

Such is the prowess of a Wembley tie

Crush it, Knot it, even Wash it

The envy of all who behold

The bane of the plain black tie

POEM - Training the Narcoleptic

Training day is a fun day

It is also a nerve racking day

I’m not the best participant

Not that I’m unruly

Or insubordinate or rude

It’s the situational narcolepsy

Brought on by leaving my desk

Sitting at a table

In a different room

Having less to do

Just listening and learning

And I am relaxed

This morning I did great

Engaged and alert

But then there was lunch

It’s always the lunch that gets me

Today was a real challenge

Barbecue and cheesy carbs

Delicious and deadly

From an I-want-to-stay-awake point of view

So the anxiety begins to rise

As my head and eyelids begin to drop

And in my eminent half-coma

I begin to be delusional

Sure that I am hiding it well

Pretending to write a note

            Or read a line

It is a fool’s paradise

Those familiar with me

Who feel no need

To protect my feelings

Have let me know

            In graphic detail

How painful it is

To watch me fight it off

So I will sit up and move

Walk around and stretch

Get some water

Stick my head in the sink

Slap myself in the face

            And hope I don’t leave a mark

POEM - That Old Feeling, the One that Bugs the Children

Don’t talk too much about why we should be better

It won’t do and all the mist between

Means you and I don’t remember

Not perfectly

Not quite right on target

The details get mussed and tousled

The better version of the story

Involves mussed and tousled

But the details are more intimate

I know I shouldn’t tell that story

It isn’t right at our age

To pretend we were young

To make our children squirm

With kisses and snuggles

Right out in the open

In the middle of dinner

In the middle of a bite

In the middle of your neck

In that spot below your ear

That makes the gooseflesh appear

On both arms

At the same time

And on a good day

The effect travels

All the way

Down each leg

And earns retaliation

A punch in the arm

Cuz I give you the shivers

This is what keeps us brave

Gnarled old warriors

Still willing to sacrifice

Our love drawn and quartered

On full display

Wounds and nerves

Raw and exposed

Dangling tenuously

Clasped at the hands

Holding tight

Against falling

Against pulling apart

Suspended and spinning

We are mostly unaware

That we shouldn’t be this happy

That this isn’t

Strictly speaking

An attractive set of circumstances

These two old bags of skin

Adorned in dumpy dingy linens

Covering ourselves

To protect the innocents

So, let’s kiss again

At least we can still do that

Like we did in Hayden Square

When I finally had the ring

Made it official under the gazebo

You said yes one more time

After the Spaghetti Co.

And the walk down Mill

And finally kneeling down

            Like I should have the first time I asked

POEM - Top Ten

Is there anything

More addicting

Than a list?

A grouping of like items

Ranked in order

Of best to least

I always get sucked in

Reading and pondering

Considering my educated additions

Posturing opinions

Assembling in my head

My favorite list

Of favorite things

That are the best

Not all lists

Are as captivating as others

I read but am not addicted to

Lists of best places to live

I feel those have nefarious undertones

Possibly have been fixed

By whichever Chamber of Commerce

Was the highest bidder

But when it comes to music

Or books

Or movies

            Or food

I am all over it

So I list my lists

Run them over and over

Like:

Top Ten uses of the word baby

in a Led Zepplin song

Or:

Top Ten places I’d like to visit

from a Daniel Pinkwater book

Of course there is always the popular

Top Ten aliens that you would have supper with

And don't forget the ever fun

Top Ten Pee Wee Herman Show

Words of the Day

            that you Screamed Real Loud!

But I can do better than that

Like:

Top Ten cheeses that smell bad

Or:

Top Ten restaurant bathrooms

Maybe even:

Top Ten desserts made with avocado

Which leads to:

            Top Ten non-oral sounds my body makes

And I could go on and on

And try and shamelessly self-promote

With something like:

Top Ten poems by me

But I think that would spawn a negative list

Something cruelly titled

Top Ten reasons

To stop reading right now

POEM - Must be on the Front Page

Just an average day methinks

A mild April afternoon

Doing a read through of Macbeth

Just me and the other nerds

It was the gifted class

All of us smug little sixth graders

Who made attention deficit

Look like intellectually unchallenged

At least that’s how I got in

The token Liberal Arts prodigy

So I was enjoying this Shakespeare action

For the fun of it

The teacher took us outside

Because she could

And we infested the equipment

A large alien inspired piece

Smooth, cool colored concrete

Behemoth of a jungle gym

An needlessly artistic installment

That I didn’t appreciate until it was gone

Just the sight of them

Meant you were in Tempe

There we were

Minding our own business

Intent on the word play

I played King Duncan

            And a random soldier

                        And eventually Duncan’s ghost

In the simplified version

All my lines were cut

I was just enjoying being outside

Then I saw him

This guy with a camera

He would take a picture

Then walk towards us

Take another picture

Dart behind a tree

Snap another candid

Then walk a little closer

This pantomime proceeded

For a good five minutes

Then like the apparitions in the play

He began to speak

Casually

As if nothing had happened

He was there to report on the Science Fair

When he noticed our little band

The teacher related our activity

He was dually impressed

Asked if he could put us in the paper

Of course we agreed

The next day the paper came

I flip to the back section

Couldn’t find anything

Except the Science Fair

I felt gipped

Closed the paper

Then began to smile

We’d made the front page

How about that