Category Archives: Poetry

I am Crow

I am Crow.

Like you I am Omnivore.

Like you I wonder at the Universe.

I plan and scheme and take when I can, what I can.

I dance and dodge from your wheels, your threats.

Still I survive. I cock my head and caw at your fist in the air.

But I take no notice of you. Opportunity is all you provide, seldom and resentful.

You attempt your deceits while I fly from you and all you pretend to control.

I laugh, I cry, I lament my losses, my failures.

Yet I can spread my wings and lift into the wind, soaring out of your reach, your sight.

While you languish, trapped, chained to the ground.

I am Crow.

You will never be Crow.


I’m a poet, don’t you know it.

Poetry that doesn’t rhyme,
Taps my brain, takes too much time,
To figure out the weird, strange beat,
The double meaning, the awkward mete,
I’d rather just go read some tweets.

~~~

I work too hard, all damn day,
writing code, beyond dismay.
So complex, it sucks me dry,
that in the end, my only cry,
simplicity.

To read warped thoughts, of twisted nuance,
lead me here, or drag me there, once,
I fathom the layered meaning,
I’ll gain the insight, glowing, gleaming, an
atrocity.

Give me simple, give me plain,
feed me pablum, my mind is drained.
Don’t make me work your hidden message,
sad similes and allusions presage a,
monstrosity.


Transitory associations

If you’ve have had a number of jobs in your life, you’ll understand that, although some of those friendships you developed at prior workplaces may linger, if you don’t share some fundamental feature of human understanding — they’ll probably fade.

The same goes for neighbors you’ve had as you’ve moved your body around the world. As well as friendships you’ve had in high school or college. People come and go in your life, some last a day, some a year and some much longer.

Perhaps the hardest part of friendship is letting go.

I had a dear friend in high school. My only friend in high school, really. We played hookie together, were on the same sports team (rifle team) and worked the same strange summer job our 17th and 18th years (running a blueberry farm in Frankford, Delaware). We went our separate ways our last September and lost touch but for a faint spiderweb tendril that joined us and wavered in the wind every so often. Strangely, we got married the same calendar day, and married a woman of the same name, all unbeknownst to each other.

He committed suicide a few years ago. I have never learned why he didn’t bother to say goodbye. I would have understood.

We ride this train and people step on and off our personal Pullman car. Yet in the end we pull into the station alone. Waving goodbye, along the way, to those who have ridden with us through the rough spots, the early track, the long lonely stretches — is hard.

But you get used to it and learn that people come and go. And that is just the way of it.

Friendships melt like winter snow and are followed by blossom-like faces of new acquaintances, who, if you’re lucky, may sing to you songs of the fresh season.

 

 


Wy’east in the West

WyEast

Wy’east lies dormant,
a Cascadian jewel.
Her fingers grasp the Trail.

Brothers to the north,
Sisters to the south,
atop a fault now frail.

Shining in the twilight,
shadows lean and leer,
at her blush of bare repose.

Her triggered temblor,
her wrath erupting,
onto Willamette greens below.


Rhymes with snot

Poetry seems to be overtly evident in my net sphere lately. I happened upon this diddy I wrote many years ago.

Tissue tidbits

The little boy who blows his nose,
and looks to see the prize,
what does he think that he will find,
there before his eyes?

A fish, a frog, a flying bug?
Amazing sights no doubt.
More likely just a slimey slug,
at least he got it out.

And spiders would be really nasty,
crawling on the napkin.
While fairies might be fun and funny,
pixie wings a flappin’.

On the low list, speckled blood,
and brains would be unpleasant.
But small change would be nice to find,
or a fiver or a pheasant.