LACk

When, in life,
you notice one or many
things that you do LACk,
Spell L. A. C., Kindly,
to remind thee,
’twere far better
to Light A Candle
than to stay stone still
and C.T.D.–
(Curse The Darkness),
for that will keep you just as blind
and still sure the whole universe is just unkind. . .

for,
after cursing,
the darkness
that you started with
will be just as black.

CONNECTED TO THE WHOLE, WIDE WORLD, AND SO ALONE– OR AM I?

Connected to the Whole Wide World
through the padded tips of fingers,
budded ears,
unseen cell phone camera eyes,
blips, bits and bytes
computer-aided constant chatter,
tipping tapping talking points
and moments punted,
blunted, shunted
condensed
till lack of time and space
plagues in abundance,
spread emptiness
the perfect, painful place to be alone,

enabled in addiction
by countless unsustainable
snacking chips of silicon,

and stuffed with wild fire
particulates,
or cooled beyond a chilling numb. . .

a mind can wander, and get drained upon
a body stuck
unto itself, into a knotty curl,
uncanny charmed or hexed
both day night and day

and also to
some dread, circadian rhythm-screwing screen,

aspiring yet quite boldly to conduct
interrogations of the Infinite,
in search of inspiration,
but fear stretches with the reach,
and spirals me back in,
contracting back to mortal pain
that knows no longer
even how to scream.

And waking yet,
each rising day,
upon the hope
that things must be better,
than they,
in these worser
moods and moments seem.

The sun is up,
even though the day is short,
and year is shrinking to the low of winter,

and sundry real people, creatures,
trees and air and light and
things like water, soil, and solid rock,
are not only everywhere,
outside my door,

but they may be very happy,
if only I ask nicely,
to play in wondrous concert with me,
all part of one big grand solution,
together as a formidable team.

A BIG OLD BOX

A big old box,
more big than me,
and cold–
a modern-day
necessity,
solid sustenance
a while fresh to hold. . .

The trusty, old one served us well,
last legs beyond,
though tired,
as tired as tired could be,

complaining rather noisily,

but trudging on,
and, over time,
the poor thing
began to fail us,
drag us and our good time
into lost worlds
where they would trail us.

So, deem we did
that it was time
quite finally
to make the gesture–
kiss it sweet goodbye,
and leave it, quiet, out to pasture,

and with a brand new,
big, old box
to start afresh,
and keep our food
more even-chilled and fresh,
and cease to put ourselves
to endless tests
of patience, toil and perseverance
in a world of designed obsolescence,

and just relax,
rely on a new, shiny tool,
that, we hope,
won’t lose its cool,
and more than does, on average,
what it should–
not only in the rarer moments
when it could manage to muster up the oomph
it takes to function at its best.

SERGE ON THE SURF

Someone called his name
out toward the waves. . .

his board through bay breakers roared,
pulled up and forward
by ripping winds
blowing up
the fabric of arching kite
puffed out in flight. . .

His black wetsuit
that skimmed his muscles
his face tense concentrated
and thrillingly engaged.

I, lingering back on beach,
perhaps gaped
in manner quite untoward
to see the way that
his whole being smiled
tossing in the cold but brilliant sun,

as I wondered how it would have felt
were I the one to take that ride

IN SEARCH OF A POEM

[Written for the currently running poetry challenge linked to below. Consider joining in, if you feel so moved, whether you consider yourself a poet or not].

A poem
some words
that we chose
different from workaday
everyday normal-speak
we also call prose.

Picked from the ether
from our brains or our hearts,
or hither or thither,
somewhere else, god knows where. . .
either or neither,
or when sounding in ERRRSTER not OYSTER
as was dance and sung
by one Ginger Rogers
and one Fred Astaire.

Words spilled on a page,
or carefully posed,
to waken the brain,
call up the ears and the eyes,
the nerve ends in skin
or even the tongue or the nose,
to help you sense something or other
as the blood and the currents and the lymph
and the life through you flows.

A poem could go just like that,
or some complete other way,
two ill-at-odds ones could parry and spar
and go tit for tat,
or ring out through the world
incarnadine red or deep ocean green,
or be crumpled in some dusty corner
or locked in a dark box unseen.

It could speak plain as day
or leave laymen and sages alike
all scratching their heads to divine
what on earth it can mean.

So, fear not,
grab one graphite pencil,
or sweep with pen pretty cursives
or leaky ink blots,
or wield wiggling digits
to pound out some pixils
to form words
on an eerie glow screen,

for though you may think
only others write poems,
until you give it a go,
whether that’s true
quite simply
remains to be seen.

PENCIL POEM

Etched in my mind

my memory,

my vision of desire. . .

a hoop atop a tiny wand

billows bubbles into being. . .

irridescent rainbow swirls

play upon

their wobbly floating

shimmying convexity,

subtle, see-through spheres,

delighting children, dogs,

and other slyly peeking onlookers

delighted by

the fleeting, brilliant baubles,

even as they pass away,

at a clap, a finger poke,

the prick of a pin,

or a sudden breath of wind,

or maybe just expire,

exploding gently into nothingness

plus perhaps a teeny drop or two
jumping up before they plummet

no longer sudsy,

but to my eye
and sometimes touch,
as it moves down,

small but quite indubitable

a little spritz of wet.

INKY PEN AND REAL LIVE PAPER

Find one now,

in whatever drawer or cup–

an inky pen

and any scrap or page of real live paper.

And let it feel deflation, tension, worry or weak-kneed stance

of sad or mad or deep afraid. . .

There is no better confidant, steadfast friend or truer savior.

Why not do now

what scribbling you can,

and get it out

like particles

that twirl through blades of fan,

for it is nearly guaranteed

that, if you write some few or more words right now

you’ll feel

at least a little better

later.