There is no moon tonight. Wine fills me with melancholy. Movement of boats on the Seine sooth me like choral music. Illuminated torches excite nostalgia. The sound of an Aurignacian flute can be heard down the boulevard, or maybe only the glint of a memory. Worn feet ache. Tired lines tell the story of a life of curiosity in a weary smile. An old woman knits. She wears a faded pink shawl to cover her years. Flour from the morning’s baking lightly coats her wooden shoes.
Many years ago, when we were all young,
We really thought life, would be so much fun.
While playing dress-up, trying on mom’s stuff,
Putting on make-up, we found to be tough.
Then came our schooling, and boy things would change,
“Those aren’t our parents”, when they acted strange.
Sometimes they were hip, but old-fashioned too,
That’s something I swore, I would never do.
Wishing you were older, adults had it made,
They would do nothing, yet still would be paid.
That is how little, we all had known,
We surely found out, once we were grown.
Loving the twenties, we’d go out with friends,
When we went shopping, we followed the trends.
Doing what we wanted, and staying out late,
It didn’t matter, what time we all ate.
Then came the thirties, and most of us wed,
Watch what you wish for, my parents had said.
We had to work hard, many bills to pay,
I guess they were right, what more can I say?
Raising your children, was hardest of all,
Needing some advice, your parent’s you’d call.
It seemed so easy, they needed no rest,
So now it’s your turn, you learned from the best.
The forties arrived, that was a shocker,
We’d spend lots of time, just at the doctor.
Back aches and headaches, so tired you’d be,
Trying not to cough, or else you would pee.
The fifties would come, and your grandkids too,
Where were your glasses? You hadn’t a clue.
You searched here and there, and under the bed,
“Hey grandma” they laughed, “They’re right on your head”.
Here come the sixties, now let’s have some fun,
You are retired; your work is all done.
To dinner with friends, you dressed and you wait,
They never show up, you have the wrong date.
Now the seventies, with friends playing games,
If only you could, remember their names.
You try hard to hide, those under-eye bags,
Gravity happens, and everything sags.
Enjoy every day, and have a good laugh,
All the steps you took, led down a new path.
Live life as it comes, each year a new page,
One thing is for sure, everyone will age.
I do not know?
INPUT FNAME = 'Yoni'
LNAME = 'Dvorkis';
Var Hidden_Meaning = "SAS code is not meant to be poetry you nut job";
Where Age >= 4;
Var Worldview = Parents_Worldview;
Var Facial_Expression = compress('Fear'||'Bewilderment'||'Jews believe in guilt');
Set Child (Drop= Innocence, Baby_Fat, Cheerful_Disposition);
Where Age >= 15 and BAC_Level >= .01;
Var Worldview = (Peer_Pressure * 100) + Favorite_Teacher_Worldview
Var Hidden_Meaning = "Where are you going with this?";
Set Teenager (Keep= Anger, Intelligence, Need_For_Material_Wealth, Hatred_Towards_Body
Var Job_That_Slowly_Kills_You = "Healthcare Data Analyst and SAS Programmer";
Var Worldview = (Company_Mission_Statement + Family_Is_Most_Important)
Where Age >= 21 and BAC_Level >= .15;
If Yearly_Salary >= 100,000 then
Self_Esteem = "Now I'm worth something!!";
Else if 50,000 <= Yearly_Salary < 100,000 then
Self_Esteem = "I guess I should count myself lucky...";
Else if Yearly_Salary < 50,000 then
Self_Esteem = ______;
Var Hidden_Meaning = "Jeez, you're really laying it on thick with the salary stuff";
Where Age >= 65 and Yearly_Salary = "Whatever's left of Social Security";
Var Cynical_Being =
(Why_Did_It_Have_To_End_Like_This * Years_Hiding_In_Plain_Sight )
Proc sort data = Old_Man out = Old_Man_On_Deathbed nodupkey;
Merge Old_Man_On_Deathbed (in = a) God (in = b);
If b and not a;
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
"When I Grow Up"
When I was five, I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I told them I wanted to be a princess.
When I was eight, I wanted to be a waitress.
When I was twelve: a teacher.
When I was sixteen: a doctor.
Now when asked what I want to be in the near future,
I know exactly how to respond.
I want to be happy.
A day in the country
I went to the country
To see my Bro's Land
I saw he had worked hard
His land looked so grand
For a second this envy
It tapped on my soul
But then I looked deeper
Saw things as a whole!
I looked at his features
All the lines on his face
Not character lines
Those lines that add grace
Just sad saggy lines
From worry and stress
There was naught in his manner
That read happiness.
I’m a loser to his type
I have no ambition
I live for today
He lives for his mission
But I have a smile
And a generous heart
While he, how I see him
Is a grumpy old fart.
10 August 2013 @ 1700hrs
Everybody knows that it's against the law for grown men and grown women to date all of the underage boys and girls,. let alone a 14-year-old boy or a 15-year-old girl. The law also states that any adult who tries to have this so-called "intimate sexual relationship" with any of the underage boys and/or girls would likely go to jail for a period of time and upon release, they'll have to be register sex offenders for the rest of their lives. It seems that those teen girls would rather date men in their 20's or 30s than guys their age and those teen boys would rather date women twice their age than girls their age, as well. but luckily, their parents (the mothers and the fathers) are here to prevent these so-called "May-December" relationships from ever happening, especially when they're protecting their teenage offspring from dirt-bags like these would-be pedophiles. But no matter what the parents do, no matter how hard they try, their teen sons and/or daughters, they secretly continuing dating older men/older women, even at night (midnight, 2 am, or 3 in the morning, e.g.). And the next thing everybody knows, their parents, they will have found out about it; thereby finding them in bed with the adults; their parents should make multiple police reports and pud the cradle robbers behind bars for good. Boy this is starting to look like an episode of "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit" (Season 6-Episode 19-Intoxicated featuring Danielle Panabaker) and an episode of "Snapped," especially when Sarah Johnson killed her own parents in cold blood because she was afraid that the late Mr. and Mrs. Alan and Diane Johnson would send this guy name Bruno Santos to prison or have him deported back to Mexico for statutory rape (by way of dating a then-16-year-old girl). There's no way that those teen boys and teen girls are ever going to get into a bunch of serious, intimate relationships with a bunch of would-be cradle-robbing adults. They need to concentrate on their education and they need to be with guys and girls their age. I mean, one teen boy dating a n adult female? One teen girl dating an older man? My God, their parents will be seriously upset about this. Who on Earth would be dumb enough to fall for an older woman or an older man? And if these would-be pedophiles in the form of grown men and women even attempt to rob these teen boys and girls of their innocence and whatnot, the parents are going to have a problem up in here.
don’t throw me out
into the garbage
people must keep fighting in this world
and I still have meat on my bones
and a few living cells in my head
and I am not yet fully dead
I still have some fight
I have too little time now
now to pray
during the day
or at night too
too little time
at night now
now to pray or to fight
I must rest
when the time comes
and I am fully spent
I will pray then
then that the time is not
not now to late
to change my faith
and get there where
I will finally rest
rest in peace
for all time then
then there then when
I am fully dead
Little Green People’s Work Is Never Done
Life calls on little green people, to work, to continue
As everyone else sleeps in
Hiding from the corporate comatose leader
Normal people rise, at a later date, from beds dead tired
Smiles crack on faces; lines move along the traces of old age
And breaks the new dawned day wide open
You can’t count on little green people for anything
They work for nothing. They work for free
They cut trees down in forest with their teeth
Place them into piles for safe keeping
And by the way
Arrive from outer space from other planets to take our place
Little green people take our jobs
I know this can’t be done
They have no work permits
Their visas have expired
They must line up to be deported as per orders
You can’t count on little green people
Without proper documents
It is illegal
They never sleep but hang out inside of freezers
Or cold, in wooden boxes, toxic beyond their borders
Catch colds, catch fire with the trees
To burn the forest down
Pretend to weep, pretend they don’t have matches
Call it an accident as they move from house to house
No one keeps the peace and secrets like little green people
You can count on that
They press their little green suits with tiny irons
And eat their greens. They even kiss your feet
Some pray for peace in churches
Just like the rest of us
Little green people will never move back home
Work is finished there
Their suns burnt out
But other work still needs to be completed
It continues on the foreign dawn
When I was little my mother and father took me to my grandparents place
The reason was they had school and work so they dropped me off and took haste
My grandmother who was always writing had brought out a case
I always wondered what it was that made her heart beat in an odd pace
Little I did not know what she was smiling so much about
So I watched her run around making snacks all out
I was little and about to touch the case, but I heard a shout
When I heard her she had a look that made me pout
My grandmother smiled and said to me that machine was special to her
But what was that machine because it was odd looking, for sure
As a little child nothing looks more interesting than a new figure
Finally she sat down with me by her side and a cup of coffee to stir
With a big smile she told me a story and first it was on paper
As she spoke I heard her voice with ticks and taper
I could not concentrate because of sounds and I was looking at her
She spoke with kind words and words that I will know in the future
I giggled when she said a word, because it made several noise I heard
My grandmother smiled at me and really knew that I like the sounds that occurred
Little things are not so little she smiled and looked at her coffee and stirred
She pointed at the machine with paper rapped in it with a pattern that lured
As she spoke to me I watched it snap at the paper with precision
I was kinda amuse on her finger making a quick decision
The machine was so fast and her fingers was too, I could not use my vision
She was so happy to see that I was starting to understand the occasion
After a while I got bored and she put me down on the floor
She kept smiling and making music beyond the door
When it stopped I felt empty some how to the core
She stopped it was just because she could not find words no more
I ask grandmother what is that machine you are using as I was griping
Grandmother why wont you play with me as I was smiling
She said that she was doing some stuff, I guess she was not done working
But the thing was she was so happy as she said the machine is a Typewriter for typing
April 18, 2013
Lots of praise, but little respect,
So many days, what do they expect?
My job is a maze, to serve and protect.
It hardly pays, last time I checked.
Into past I gaze, hardly time to reflect.
Could have gone many ways, why select,
My choice displays, too late to defect.
Myself I amaze, or does it infect.
Setting soul ablaze, leaving it unchecked.
Was it just a phase, or did I overprotect.
I now have malaise, in complete misdirect.
Retirement delays, takes the toll to intersect.
I gained a little praise, without any respect.
Put Your Best Rhyme Forward!!!!! Free Poetry Contest
The bay was smooth as glass
The sky was a crisp blue
The snow covered peaks stood
stark, gigantic, bold
My job was to row a boat,
to a raft of logs and tie one on,
and tow it to the pile driver
and dock crew while as yet the ships
The oar was dipped into the dark sea,
and pulled with eddies slowly unfurled,
the log was moving with the steady strokes
of flashing oars in Alaska on top
of the world.
What a joy it was to be paid
to stretch my body at this glorious job,
mastering a row boat in the time of fax
and smart phones grasped somewhere
by a mob.
A rush of wind riffles wavelets upon the bay
the heavy log strains the rope then yields
the unhurried course is plowed to Kenny
on the pile driver, eighty-five years old,
Just in time the cable comes down
I loosen the half hitches and Kenny shouts,
“Keep 'er hot boy, keep 'er hot!”
I snub the cable to the creosote log,
as daylight pouts.
I sit back to the oars for another trip,
but Kenny yells, “oh, it's almost coffee time,
get outta that boat!” The workers drop
PV's , 3X12's, chain saws to stretch
on the company's dime.
We saunter to the chow hall for mug up
in the hush of the bay and its wavelets
nothing but the breeze, peaks and foxes
and us, the poets of Paradise headed
The cook, a union member of the Merchant Marine,
fixed an abundant spread,
fruit juice, milk, hot chocolate, coffee,
cake and pastries baked fresh to
raise the dead.
After forty-five minutes we struggled up
to get back to the tools of our trade,
I climbed back in my row boat,
settled to oars ready to pull
green from jade.
It was a race to finish the dock
for the ships to come and unload
cargoes of salt, food, building supplies,
for the wretched cannery, days went by and
Kenny called us to mug up
and we dropped our tools and swirled
sugar in coffee and wolfed down pastries
slathered with butter in Alaska
on top of the world.
It was late about dinner time
I rowed the last log to cable,
“Keep 'er hot boy, keep 'er hot!”
that the Sea Provider cleared Priest Rock
as if in a fable.
She came up the channel blasting her horn
as the pile driver gave a final hiss
the last plank was laid as she came along side
and threw bow line, stern line, spring line to collective
Sheep’s Work Is Never Done
Life calls after sheep in morning to continue
Everyone else sleeps in
Hiding from the corporate coma for awhile
People rise, at a later date, from beds dead tired
Smiles crack on faces; lines move the traces of age around
And break the new dawned day wide open
You can’t count on sheep for anything
They cut wood down in forest
Place it into piles
I know this can’t be done
They have no work permits
Their visas have expired
They line up to be deported
You can’t count on sheep when sleeping either
They wake up freezing cold in wooden homes
Catch colds, catch fire with the trees
To burn the forest down
Weep with matches hidden in the wool
Call it an accident
No one keeps the peace and secrets like death and sheep
You can count on that
Death takes everyone with it, with or without their visa
Sheep move back to their own countries
Work is never done there either, but
To be continued
There I was reaching thirty
just been widowed year before
now the work place was to close
redundancy now at my door
But friend told me of a vacancy
at local wholesalers for food buyer
so few months before work closing
went for interview before got fire
So got the job at wholesaler
made redundant on the Friday
start Monday as a buyer
in continued employment I did stay
To Kill The Choctaw Cow
The Choctaw Nation Oklahoma, with proud and noble people
Hunting is our nature and our way
Pretty Tail was a family member, a friendly cow
She gave us milk for many moons
This is the story of her kill
My father Bully Ten Foot is our chief
Old and ill from living beyond himself
Hills and tent on prairie land, filled our purpose
No game to feed us so our cows sustained us
Food was scarce through winters blasting bite
Pretty Tail stayed just outside my tee pee every night
Years of her soft moo would sooth me off to sleep
Starvation steeped in desperation came on hard
Crops failed, grazing ended without rain
Pain became the Choctaw, as one and the same
An Indian man must always be a brave
Must know his reason within nature and the nation
Bully Ten Foot honored me, with the sacred task
My hunting knife and I took Pretty Tail down below the neck
I slit her deep within her throat
She bled on me her blood, a river of sorrow
For hours I let her do so with her last drops of red
And held her tight as my best friend
Made sure my tears spilled over into her blank eyes
And cried for her, in her place
Never again will I wear hide or eat a steak
But I ate her brains for power
Rode at great speed on angry stallions back
Black, with strong memories in mind
And opened up inside the plains releasing spirits
To send her off
From Choctaw Nation
9/24/14 Divine Intervention - Poetry Contest
A persona, a Title
A uniform, an assumed frame of reference
and a certain state of mind.
I was surprised
As i hit the down button
on a sinking ship
And re-learned how to swim again.
I can do it
This is what i was made for
I know, i can do it
Even if you have gym socks
That are older than i am.
The Seventh Fable
The Seventh Fable
People have preconceived ideas from Religion and Television
combine these two ideas and no wonder everyone is mental.
The Eye is just now thankful that the computer was not mine at age 14. The TV
was enough to ruin me for life. It is no wonder that eye still don't have a life.
Falling into cracks made just for me. Living in the NEW AGE causes so much
uncertainty and problems we avoided in our past come back as daily necessities
of the mass of useless protoplasmic mice eye once saw a man on the highway
with a sign he was begging for more money to get some more useless wine so
the people went zigging past avoiding him until he fell down on the ground it
seemed to me he was passed out perhaps he died and no one buried him
sounds like an episode of Twilight Zone. There was episodes eye will never
forget the NOSE throbbing on the stairs inside the house the girl tried to leave the
shelter of the fence once out she turned to dust the man with the wires in his arm
seeing the oven where he was born the little airforce people in the GIANT
woman's kitchen getting swept.
It just occurred to me the ins and outs of celebrity imagine all the casting calls to
make the episodes. AND the fact that Charlax was never chosen for even one of
them seems sort of some kind of twisted justice the actors used were just the
best of all the crème de le crème of all the hollywooded jest. Webseries Pilot
The Charlax would be excellent at this OH wait look at that ethnic face. Male,
open ethnicity, early to mid 30's - JG. Federal Agency Detective. Good at his job,
but fresh enough to still want to make a difference. Oh if eye were only Twenty
Years different. A Twilight Zoned Detecative with the name Rick Roll selected and
elected to be the actor of the myllineum.
Age's shadow throws its cast
Time for some to live the past
And yet I have this silly quirk
I'd feel much better back at work
So rather than stay home and snooze
I'm back at work
No time to lose
And with a staged real happy face
I join once more the working race
Ignoring others ripe with cash
Doing little with their stash
Their burned out wives no longer stay
With boring mates to waste their day
So maybe my new life's not bad
Then just sad.
Use your brain
It must be fed
Just move ahead
Get out of bed
New challenges will keep you strong
Don't waste these days
That's just plain wrong
Is what you have,
All you can make of it
Is who you are, for minutes here,
Ticking fast, prove that you age in sure time.
So grasp fleeting chances and soar,
And make your dreams real for
Dawn came a while
All rights reserved ~~~Cynthia Buhain-Baello ~~~05.23.15
Rictameter - poem with nine lines and 2/4/6/8/10/8/6/4/2 syllables.
Chipmunks, squirrels collecting
bitternut hickory, chirping
against a small owl cruising
low beneath the trees.
Everyone has gone this morning
to school or work. Laundry rolling,
carpets vacuumed, cleaning
in the bathroom on my knees.
I'd like to be Whitman, praising
the pure contralto, Wynton practicing
all day. But like my father dying
I cannot hear what I cannot see.
Locally there's politics, processing
points of view. Eventually coming
to a decision, building or not building
windmills on the sky, bridges in the sea.
Insignificant and mighty happenings
seem the same from my vantage ageing
gratefully, inexorably, planning
how to die in my own damn way.
Driving WHILE intoxicated Driving Under the Influence Driving With Ignorance.
Two men speaking one man was scarred on his legs very bad burned and old
healed up and working again no not the age of the man which was uncertain but
the age of the burns was evident. He said his wife refused to pay the insurance
on his truck and they repo came and got the truck he is riding now the city bus
telling everyone he is the man how can he be so happy at losing everything he
got his truck his driver license gone
He still denies the alcohol the problem he says he drinks a very lot less but to
me that is missing it he drinks and still acts tough and wants to keep his job and
His life is slow but still he manages to crawl.
To The Wall
Computers, cell phones, mind disconnects as follows
Down in the deep, turned off, cut short
Where all signals underground have no reception
Desolate, only earth and rocks to greet us
As door opened on the lower levels chambered depth
If I remember, it was a dim green light within the field of vision
Soft and low below the turning stone and stairs
We followed passages of labored labyrinthine in step and style
Like two lost aliens not from this world at all
Stumbling with hand held narrow beams of light
Another door and then another blocked our progress
Smothered in dark cold caverns stretching on our way
Breaking ancient doors became a sport, so many to forget
One after another on and on the miles below the maze
Afraid, contained, a world like no other ever found
The end came humble after many hours
Sore and weary of walk and work
A thick rock confronted us
The last stop is a curiosity observed
To think about our circumstance
Ending, after all, it is just another wall that goes no further