Being in a rut is driving me nuts.
I feel trapped in this doldrums.
In my mind, I am screaming …
Please, somebody! Get me out!
Writing is hard, nothing comes to mind.
Going out is tough, even to the market.
All I do is read, transporting me to Boston,
and Vermont, the settings of the stories.
Need to write, but my muse is not around.
Need to move, but cannot find my groove.
Breathe! Need to do something, do something …
Ahhh, put make up on, a leather mini skirt to
show sexy legs, a halter hot pink top and now
I feel hot, hot, hot … ole, ole … bye, doldrums!
My world is oblique
Saturday, day of mourning
Read books in a week.
Doldrums of death
Beat like drumrolls
That final breath
When the bell tolls
Doldrums of death
Shrouded in palls
Leads to Lethe
When the trump calls
Doldrums of death
Sound like headaches
Cry of Macbeth
When the cord* breaks
Doldrums of death
Stab like sharp spikes
Placing grave wreath
When the clock strikes
*silver cord
19th April 2023
December of life
When seems nigh, flesh fuming rife,
Rebelling with mind
On life’s foggy end to find,
Mind still sharp if not like knife.
_______________________________
Tanka |06.12.2022|
Poet’s note: The very first time in eight decades of my life this December I realized that my body, if not yet mind, is getting old, that the December of my life is nigh.
For A December Memento Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
Ho hum, the doldrums:
I twiddle my thumbs
and scratch my bum.
I bumble ‘round,
and when I’m done,
I murmur, mumble, humph and hum.
Ding-dong, the same old song:
I bang my drum
and clang my gong;
I even brought
my bell along.
Tinkle, ting, naw, that’s just wrong.
Tick tock, flip flop
My brain is oozing
gloopy glop.
That metered click:
where is my glock?
Bang! that clock and make it stop!
Pitter pat, what’s that you say?
Rin tin, rain on the roof today!
I’ll squish and splosh and dance and play
and splash those doldrums right away!
----------
for the Onomatopeia Poetry Contest
sponsored by Emile Pinet
written on 07/02/2022
I am slipping into winter doldrums again,
Though I know spring will soon appear
I long for blue skies and flowers to remain,
I am slipping into winter doldrums again
Give me the joys of a warm spring rain
I yearn for spring and summer all year
I am slipping into winter doldrums again,
Though I know spring will soon appear.
Written March 13, 2022
no cell phone service
in most of the universe
may make you nervous
original sin
where building of guilt begins
doubts start to creep in
autonomy should
not require lobotomy
only common sense
factoring our roles
finding poverty of soul
digs very deep holes
claim open season
for attacks upon reason
let's untruth sneak in
based on pure meanness
or simple inconvenience
words come between us
a haiku a day
may chase the doldrums away
no bills will they pay
Blend into a state of nothingness within a yawn
forgetting to remember and beyond
Slip into a drip floating through a stream
being META is now everything
Please the senses while the brain is numb
all the knowledge while becoming dumb
Locked into a world that does not exist
reality forfeited for an emotional lift
Why real when fake is better
signature is DNA as letters
Bio chip into your thumb
without it your dead on the run
Life is lived to collect your data
Complete control is all that matters
Do it now for a new society
all is one no one is free
Globalist age with new human gods
everyone else are slaughter hogs
Upload your brain into the Cloud
live forever after now
Hooked forever in the stream
being damn in eternal dreams
No more worries nothing to fix
jabbed and branded by 666
The holidays come so fast, then gone,
scarce time to enjoy just the moment.
Family waves ‘hello’ and ‘so long’
as they revel in that bestowment.
Hugs and kisses are memories’ song.
Days in rare flashes of time, standstill,
pass slowly before the Winter end.
Where are those days of gracious thrill,
of visits with family and friend?
Lost now–releasing a cold crisp chill.
Years pass faster, and wiser we feel
old friends and family our treasure.
Judged fairly by Nona’s spinning wheel,
Decima gives nod to her measure
and Morta warns of the bell’s last peal.
11/18/2020
Quintain-Sicilian Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
https://www.rhymezone.com/
https://www.howmanysyllables.com
Long days drag deep, test
me to my bones; they hurt too.
Still, the flowers bloom.
South of the islands
a seven hundred miles stretch,
is an area,
where fair winds are not given
a fair chance to work its charms.
Date: 09/04/2019
Depression is expression extinguished
It doesn't question and it doesn't distinguish
Through its progression hope is relinquished
For the "Depression is...a short poem" contest
12-4-2016
Two cats are in my doggy bed.
The weather outside is cold.
My mistress is busy with all her chores,
As fall turns from cool to cold.
The rain continues pouring down.
There's nothing for me to do,
But sit here in my window seat
And watch the puddles, pool.
FedEx man at the doorbell.
Kids trudging home from school.
A dog being walked in front of the house,
Would make this boredom less cruel.
Oh for a foraging squirrel,
Or a stray cat passing by.
A reason for me to growl and howl,
Instead of just sit here and sigh.
It’s sad, but it gets even worse than this,
As the bitter cold days are born.
The monotony will grow with the falling snow,
While my doggy doldrums wear on.
The day is dull, almost
shadowless. I am alone; shadow
would have given me comfort.
Pages of ancient tomes,
full of must, call me;
there is always comfort here.
I light lamps
damning the florescent pall.
When bathed in the flicker
florescent lit walls become
blue-tinged harbingers of death.
I worship beneath the
shadow-casting gold of incandescence.
The 300-watt glow of my love-gifted
torchiere soothes me.
I place thin-skinned cheek on
chill of plaster wall, wishing to submerge
myself in shadow, but I do not succumb.
Ah, the page that calls, the keys which click
when pen has gone unfound, are all I have.
Why leave, my heart cries out,
there is only the cold of the grave,
none to mourn your passing.
Only the sterile page,
the plaster walls, the shadowed-stage?
No, I argue with my weary self,
put aside this Keats-like gloom
poverty and tombs, and rise!
The sun will shine at winter's end
to daffodils.
First Published Inwood Indiana February 2014
All things were naught but quiet…
Quiet as a babies breath
Not a meandering breeze
Nor dragonfly sneeze
Could pierce the Autumn’s depth
Seasons caught …
twixt heat and cold
Juxtaposed, in deep repose
Seeming not to make so bold…
To decide ‘tween life and death
All things in a state of stasis
A thoughtful pause… (As it were)
When things with wings
And scaly things
And even things with fur
Seem to sink
into deep contemplation
As if to ponder, their fate…
In dark contempt…Or admiration
It matters not…It’s much too late
For Mother Nature…once rested
Will release the breeze to the waiting trees
Will bid Jack Frost hello…
Then clothe them flimsy
With an air of whimsy
In raiment of crystal snow…
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