A big old box,
more big than me,
and cold–
a modern-day
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.

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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

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[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.

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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.

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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


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Make yourself at home. . .
in your body
in your dwelling place
in everything you do
and in face of every face
be you and comfortable
whate’er you do
take in each breath,
in such a manner
makes you just a little bigger
but brings you no further harm,
as best you can,
and feel where it goes. . .

to pause for smallest tiny rest,
and let it loose
to be a part of all there is,

for ’tis your biz,
to accept life
from each way that it comes to you
and let it through
to further nourish
everyone and every living thing that grows.

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“Pick up thy pen!” quoth dear Paul,
(He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again),
a droll Irishman.

His mission–
to nurture that itch
the world ’round
to be found
in all would-be poets’
writing hand skin.

“Pick up thy pen!”
Yes, that’s what he said,
and write whate’er shall come out,
some darn thing,
which, once you are done,
resembles a poem.

Write of prefix and suffix
and ethics
(or was that excess?)
in Sussex,
where once fought a forbear
(or rather, an uncle thereof)
to storied success. . .

Fast forward,
with flourish
of inked ball-pen roll,
oh, some odd, thousand years,

and just try, as you write,
to make sense
of the strange world there–

of rock in the car,
fish swimming by ship,
or pain in the nape,
or the wrath in the thaw
of an enraged Eiswein grape.

Write of the glare,
that’s finagled its way
to shine gold
on the silvering tress
of a head
still mourning a death,
eye gaze fast-fixed
on the autumn sunset,

and of the hand
that’s aching to out,
smooth and wise as the Tao,
the sick kiss’s history,
of the hand’s arm, still alive,
here and now,
stony-tensed up in agony,
for, though well it recalls,
and has writ many words,
yea, even in verse,
it hovers, quite stumped,
for doesn’t know how.

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