Rock Accountant

Tag: Poem

Please repeat

How fun it is

to say again

To repeat the preferred

episodes of my life

over and over.

I remind me

of how wonderful

I have been at times.

Wonderful and happy.

I have had sadnesses,

of course,

but those are now

all by themselves

unnoticed.

There are still the quarrels

in me

over whether time

was wasted .

I think we all have those.

My life is floating timelessly

on the petals of my past.

Memories are all you can ever be.

Image result for memories

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: 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.

Poem: He is Pleased with me

 

He knew
I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped him in brown paper
and went home
and hid him,
after he raped me.
He was pleased.
He climbs on me at night.
I dream of him doing bug things.
“Remember our first time?”
he whispers in the mean humming pitch
of warm August  night locusts
and I am confused.
“Of course,” I whimper.
He is pleased,
and I feel safe.
He sits in the quiet old chair.
Next to my bed.
I dream, that he is not there.
At breakfast, across the table from me,
he asks, “So what shall we do today?
So casually. I am confused.
My life with him is beginning.
He touches my hand,
He is pleased.
My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished into what has hurt me.
Life forbids that I feel nothing at all.
And my  life might be long.

Chapter #1 The First Thing to Explain

If there was a signature of constancy in my childhood, it was my mother bringing men into my orbit, so I could observe her hurt them. Loving her as I did, I wanted her suitors to suffer, and she obliged me by dropping these men’s hearts into me, like worms into a hungry baby bird’s jealous beak.
One day after meeting my aunt for the first time at mother’s funeral, I arrived at her hotel room intending to kill her. Her sister, my mother, had made me peculiar.

 

Art begins with a second glance

But it takes a thousand years to prove itself.

Wet poem: “And So Was Gertie”

Mr. and Mrs. Stotnum Powder,
renown for synchronized postures
ran their noses around glass.
“ That cat has been staring at me,” said Stotnum
“At us, you mean ?” Gertie shot back,
much annoyed by the exclusion.
“It’s those big eyes;
they follow me, us, around,” Stotnum issued,
“Like it hates us.”
“It just sits there,” agreed Gertie,
“Doesn’t he have cat friends?”
“He might want company.”
Gertrude was thoughtful.
“It must be hard to be alone,” Gertrude bubbled,
brushing against Stotnum,
her back arched suggestively.
“ What would you do without me?”
He worried she was siding with the cat.
The splashing from above,
waved them apart.
The ceiling cracked open.
Sounds are tricky underwater,
He had never heard a scream.
Stotnum saw the face above them,
and then it’s paw.
Then the claws.
Quick as it came, it was gone again,
and so was Gertie.

Poem: The Wonderful Eternity

I do not improve by connecting myself.
I have clawed my way over that which I envied.
Until that battlefield finally revealed me,
to myself.
The issue with life is a simple one.
That alone is a prize, not a punishment.
Grasping to hold fast to emptiness,
will never stop the fall.
Smell the breeze of life’s wind
as it backs away from you.
Letting you drop into eternity.

Poem: Choices They Be

How clever could my choices be,

if what they decided upon was just me?

Then again I know this silly sap,

who clearly lived  without my map.

 

 

 

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