Marred With Chilblains

What is it that draws me to the inane characters
That makes me feel they are real and sure
I watched the final episode of Married With Children
on Youtube and now I wanted more.

So I flipped right back to episode one
and I started to watch it again
when the actors were still so stiff in their roles
My reaction is hard to explain

It was as is Al and Kelly and Peg
were they, but not fully formed
and the solace I took in their reality
was chilled when I wanted it warmed.

If Bud and Peggy are not real
then a little piece of me is fake too
the show falls apart and my universe dies
though its hard to describe to you.

Standing on the edge of a precipice
where imagination leaves sanity
searching through YouTube episodes
trying to respark my humanity.

Try as I might, when I went to sleep
all my sugar plums were sclerotic
my sky and my stars were on cardboard
and my psyche was nearly psychotic.

Dawn arrived in the usual way
as I stared at the walls in my room
suddenly something appeared to me
out of the early gloom

It was the box of a DVD set
with a picture of Al's puerile grimace
reminding me of the feelings that it inspired
and that THAT reality is in us.

So I shook off the coil of solipsism
and stared at the rising sun.
Married with Children is long gone
but my love for its just begun.

A blast from the Past

Sycamore Days

I've spent a whole lifetime

in the branches of trees

looking down on the world

with the memory of an elephant.

Trees take the long view

change is all about water

the seasons are a haircut

future – a long adolescence.

My mother was young, my dad old.

Planes flew over every 3 minutes.

The farms were shrinking

and the strip malls growing.

A boy looks like a speck

hidden by the camo-skin

of a fifty foot sycamore

in the green, green youth of spring.

It seems to be Earth Day in Yahoo today (6 months early)

Mud

Who makes a meal out of mud
who vests in soils and sand?
When did carbon replace blood
and dirt get measured by the hand?

All things being equal
Earth would be a better place;
but what is high is tall
and what is low debased.

It's all mud -- you, me, Zuckerberg!
We're all on a one way trip
so save a gosh-darned iceberg
I won't give you much lip.

S’macintiosh

Words that are the pear-fruit of my mind
The zest of fickle trickledown
churning in the belly vocabulary
usurps the usual sensible vegetables
seeking freaky twerking of verbiage.
Neologism -- a shiny apple, hovers;
I pick one and go on for a bite.

A prayer to the thinking man's God

We, who know our insignificance, call out to You  
Though too small to see even the decimal point above us, we shout with longing into the night.  Though too faint to even hear an echo, we are sure that our message gets through.

We, who know our significance, call out to You 

Like a dog who sits loyal at the foot of the bed, we share in the great godly gift of observing. To see the world around us is, in some small way, to be one with God.  YOU see the world with an all-loving all-knowing eye, while we watch the world with a glance of the more educational variety.  Teach us how to see. Make us worthy of consciousness.

We, still searching for our place, call out to You

Our future, dark and puzzling to us, is laid out clearly by you. You are our rudder and our star. But we can only right ourselves with you here and now, by offering you our pains to see. You know them already, and in seeing them you challenge us, but we can only change when we remember that you are seeing – and when we see you in all things.

We, who know our place, call out to You

Let our prayer be a healing fire that burns away all barriers between us and Your Will. With our hearts, minds and spirits we pray to know your path for us and what use our small gifts can be in the vast world that is our connection to you. We serve others in the hope that it will bring us ever closer to understanding you. And we pray to remind ourselves of our significance, our insignificance, our search for and our place in
Your Will.

Amen
 

Poem for a Friend who needs a Critique

A poem about being a troubled kid,

Voiced by a vain and confused young man

Some gibberish nightmare garbled and hid

Buried in Mickey Mouse dreams and flim-flam.

Obsessed with medievals  he cannot sort 

Throwing on words for the rhyme each earns

Using ideas as a Malaprop's tort

Phrased vaguely, tangled and bald by turns.

I feel there's a message here wanting the stage, 

But the poet is afraid to hear his own voice

To withhold may be wise, to reveal may be brave

But halfies and halfies is never a choice.

Write something else or give all that you've got 

All you get is crap by sitting on the pot.

I put the Mirror Poem that goes with this in Rants because it is a bit harsh 

Fly Paper

I wish that I could be there   to celebrate the season   but oceans and continents   are broader than reason   Still I'd like to be   a fly upon your wall    sharing a taste of your day;   that is all. I've no more to say.

Have a Scary Happy October!