Poems

Peculiar, Unusual and Weird
had trouble making friends, as you'd expect.
A consequence of how they had been reared?
It's hard to ascertain cause and effect,
but lonely, that they were, and so to grapple,
they sought to meet with others of their kind --
cause strange as you may be, the urge to couple
is rarely out of sight or out of mind.
And the result? They've found they're not alone.
found company to wallow in their oddness,
for each and every one of us is prone
to fall for that terrific brand of madness
that we call love. And so, do not despair.
Love lives within you. And there's love out there.

I write, and so my audience is massive.
I oftentimes refer to it as flock,
although in fairness it is rather passive,
and suffers from a case of reader's block.

As each sincere and breathless composition
gets added to my swelling repertoire
I'm struck by certain doubt and indecision:
is this the best one yet? At least so far?

One must continue growing as an artist,
if not in stature then in length and width,
perhaps neither the cleverest nor smartest,
but surely worth to spend a moment with,

a moment that the reader won't regret.
A cure for reader's block? I'll find one yet.

time was, a goodbye
looked best in Times New Roman
now glows in the dark

Author notes: image from shutterstock.com

Revenge debated Love. Claimed she was sweeter:
"You loved and never lost. Boohoo", she said.
Not known for backing down, Love worked to beat her:
"You're sweetest when your enemies are dead,

but what then of the living, of the journey?
That's surely more of an acquired taste,
and best served cold" -- she was a great attorney,
Revenge, though, knowing well that haste makes waste,

fell silent as Love spoke with heat and passion,
while dwelling on each injury and hurt,
and thinking: balanced meals might be the fashion,
but I would rather order just dessert.

Love might be sweet enough to win your favors.
Revenge for those who favor stronger flavors.

I've always wanted to establish
what one would call a School of Thought.
To write, to influence, to publish.
"You read it yet? By god, you ought!"

I'd count Confucius as a student,
trade candid insults with Voltaire.
Rousseau would call me harsh, but prudent,
and mutter "extra-ordinaire".

I'd love debating Marx and Engels
over an opiate or two.
They haven't thought through all the angles:
there's no utopia in you.

I'd rise above the ceaseless chatter
and will be listened to, by choice,
and count, in all the ways that matter.
Unfortunately, lost my voice.

there is no you
in utopia

Rewind, play back. Unlike our real lives,
the movie can be analyzed, digested,
and even be remade. The plot survives,
now audience rebalanced and retested.

Rewind, play back. No good? Redo the take.
The movie struggles to achieve perfection,
but then again it knows just what's at stake,
while you are flailing, searching for direction.

If only you could script your real life,
predictable in all the ways that matter,
as witty as a newly sharpened knife
that guts the kill without stain or splatter.

And then, whether attacking or attacked,
you'd always know the right way to react.

As school year starts, you'll hear these lamentations:
the graduates are too obsessed with looks,
are clueless of the history of nations,
and cannot even balance their own books.

Let's dwell, if for a minute, on the latter:
I may be speaking strictly for myself,
but when it comes to books, the ones that matter,
display them, in their glory, on the shelf.

Some might even achieve the coffee table,
to demonstrate my interests and cares.
I'll surely skim through those when I am able,
my friends assure me they have read through theirs.

But balance them? Oh, I support the struggle!
I'm good at judging, but I cannot juggle.

E'er since the ages some consider dark,
when Guttenberg invented his old press,
(as big as GPT, no more, no less,
and certainly has left a bigger mark)
in letters on white pulp, the contrast stark,
the poets serenade, and some confess,
describing thoughts and feelings they repress
(it's sometimes hard to trace the story's arc).

And some of course manipulate, deceive,
or angle for a buck, however quick,
so long as the result is worth the trick,
they know there's someone willing to believe.
Sure, much of what is written' s truly tragic.
But on occasion, the results are magic.

They say: eschew material possessions,
it's better to make memories instead.
Let go of your compulsions and obsessions.
All worthless, in the end, you're just as dead.

Providers of these sage recommendations,
grown wealthy on the strength of their success,
pontificate at length: avoid temptations,
a simple life will modulate your stress.

To tell the truth, consider me a skeptic.
Advice to be content with what you've got,
conveniently bland and antiseptic,
it strikes me though, there's something they forgot:

The bestest kinds of memories you want
are those when others fawn on what you flaunt.

Comparing oranges to apples --
itself a common enough trait --
made even more so when one grapples
with being shown they aren't great.
But what about -- the ego hollers --
and be they lay, or be they scholars --
but what about this other thing,
for surely it'll reduce the sting?
That said, the ego rests securely,
since in its choice of universe
it's clear that things could have been worse,
no need to worry, prematurely.
Drown out the noise, achieve your Zen,
secure that you are great, again.

So, wretched planet, what is your demand?
It seems, at last, we've gotten your attention.
As numerous as all the grains of sand
was our god's promise, but he didn't mention
that we would be like locust on the land,
and while we focused on our own ascension --
by all accounts, it's going to be grand --
and celebrated every new invention,
we severed our connections, strand by strand.
So, wretched planet, what is your demand?