Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Category: Poem

Birds Don’t Care

 

Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
Or the melody.

Life finds it’s tune.
Nothing is quiet.
Our sounds, we suspect, carry.
How far we can only guess,
My whistling
may reach Neptune.
I am not certain of this.
Neptune, like God, does not echo.

Birds don’t care
about their songs.
As much as we do.
They care about eggs and nests
and the size of baby wings.
Cicadas lullaby the end of summer evenings.
But night doesn’t pick up
on the chorus
and begin to dance.

Fllies whizz their little ditties
by our ears.
And we brush them away,
like bad David Bowie
covers.

The flowers
murmur their scents
into the winds,
to blind the slave bees.
We mistake them
for pleasure.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard
that is being alive.
Nor its comedy of sudden death.

Love is the arrow that
fires straight into God’s
snowstorm
of the brief.
Patient tiny human lifetimes
hunting for first love.
Ignore the whirling and crashing
of suitors.
Who are,
All different,
all the same
all waiting.
Until she finds
the one that does not melt
away.

Poem: To Please Him

He climbs on me at night
to do bug things.
“Remember our first time,”
he whispers in the mean humming pitch
of warm August night locusts?
“Always,” I whimper.
He smoothes his antennae over our pillows,
like the handsome actor.
“Are you ready to die?” He sighs,
like small talk.
“Yes, I will die.” I plead.
He is pleased,
and I am safe.

It knew
I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped it in thick brown paper
and ran straight home
after it raped me.
I could not leave it there.
Not knowing where it was.

At breakfast
he asks, “So what shall we do today?
So casually that I am confused.
He touches my hand, his carapace hard
and unalive. I watch my thumb caress
the shell.
In small back and forth dread.
“What would make you happy?” I said
He smiles
and I exhale.

I told him tonight
His grubs live in me.
I feel them tearing to come out.
Praying daddy longlegs scraping
and burrowing for air.
His head on my stomach
listening and whirring insect songs to them.
I stroke the needle hairs on his back.
I know he loves me.

My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished into what has hurt me.
Life forbids I feel nothing at all.
I will love my children.

Poem: The Unanchored Mother and Her Cupcakes

The unanchored mother
is sure-footed
when she bakes.
She floats the cupcakes in shallow seas of Crisco.
Riding them in neat lines
side by side
In crimped colored tissue,
like well-dressed immigrants,
on an ocean voyage
to the oven.

The unanchored mother
broke from her moorings,
today.
The husband is gone.
Cakes will take his place.
She daydreams of icing slapped mouths
and what she will say
about the hole,
at the end of the table
where their anchor used to sit.
The Cyclops eye of long marriage,
that photographed the past, is patched and blank now.
She has only her two eyes left
To remember the children.

The unmoored mother bobs in her waters
of empty plates and crumbs.
The kids hurry through the suppertimes
glancing rarely at the hole.
Then they floated away.

The unanchored mother,
rocks in her childless, noiseless sea,
and reaches for another cupcake.

 

 

Poem: To Be Weak

 
I hunt for proverbs all day long.

To steer me through my day.

They don’t help me much,

melting as they do

like ice,

against my determination

to be weak.

 

 

 

Poem: Wondering About Wisdom

I have come to wonder about wisdom.
I doubt such a thing
could be real.
Philosophers reason,
the novelists report.
But all are only
small moments of cleverness.
Like Platitudes and Proverbs
coaxing a better behavior
that lasts a morning.
God offers certainty and hope
but charges you death.
If that is wisdom,
what is nonsense?
Is wisdom ever a tool?
It disappoints me
that I am not wise
I expected that by now
I would be.
Wealth and prestige come with age,
the sexy petticoats of envy.
They confuse you
when you are young.
And the old are stubborn
and ashamed to admit it.
So they whisper to the young
” come near for I am wise.”
And they do
At least for a while.

Trump and Bernie

I don’t like any candidate except Trump. I can’t help but like Bernie too, but he represents silly ideas that have been proven disastrous for nearly a hundred and fifty years when applied. He continues to gain favor because of his implied goodness but Americans have very little patience for decency.

I like Trump because he and people like him have vigorously raped the entire world on my behalf since we formed ourselves into a loose confederation of arguing states.

Ultimately this led directly to my having a fancy car. I can forgive women for voting for Bernie, not because they are intrinsically nicer than men, but because they simply are not so preoccupied with automobiles.

Who Has The Best News?

It is hard to know from which good-looking woman to get my political news. I imagine women have the same problem with their newsmen. I’ll admit I have no idea what TV channels homosexuals favor, but I would suppose they observe the same psychoerotic seed trail as the rest of us. A beauty is a beauty after all. Transsexuals probably possess the widest range of information because they watch both sides.
I will ring them up when comes time to make my decision between Trump and Clinton.

 

 

Let our Children Vote

We allow our seniors in high school to drive cars indicating we are willing to arm them with a serious weapon that could, with misjudgment, kill someone. We forbid them nonetheless from voting in elections. We institute that the senile and stubbornly historically tainted voters are preferable to these children, all of whom, engage in the study of American civics daily.
Colleges are not interested in the pedagogy of the rights and duties of citizenship. They often indoctrinate according to their beliefs of right and wrong, left or right. Children might well be the only open minded voters we have left. Of course, parents influence them. Certainly the media harangues them but inside they are still absent of the lifetime grudges that cause our American embarrassment.

Poem: ‘The Shortest and Sweetest of Songs by George MacDonald,

Come

Home

Poem: I Killed My Dog

I killed my dog.
He deserved it.
My dogs always do.
When he couldn’t,
give any more to me.
It was the very least
I could give to him.

%d bloggers like this: