Long Cached Poems
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I wasn't as surprised
as I should’ve been—
grayed avatar,
dead links,
cached titles still looking
to lead somewhere.
And here I am,
already down
a cell phone—
with FedEx in no hurry,
nothing left
to refresh-obsess over.
What’ll I do
with all this time?
Not that this is about me—
or is it?
By the power of Strunk & White,
have mercy,
I hope
I can take at least
partial credit.
I’ll claim it;
otherwise,
it's just me
stuck, sucking up
oxygen
wondering if
I was ever worth the breath.
Maybe I'm kidding myself.
Bliss doesn’t
make good story,
won't keep people
around,
interested
in words, no matter
how much need
brays
from their every sentence.
We’re all donkeys and liars,
living up to our pages
versions of ourselves,
cross-bred
sociability, mouths full
of bad faith, hiding
halitosis and worse teeth.
But here's the thing:
I’ve spent far too long learning
to spell
my own name,
cutting grammar's corners
closer to the curb
than recommended,
earning the space to say—
whatever. the. hell. I. want.
I'm surprised more
people aren't tired
of playing,
pretending not to have a need
to edit, to rehab
the edges
of their worst selves—
bigger shame though
that they don't sell
breath mints
to cover the stink of disagreeable
personalities.
Today's a day
I could use one,
for a few of mine.
Old Bald Frog and a toad named Ander
saw Sally wander down by the road.
Said Frog, "Now Sally, me and Ander
been wondering where you do meander?"
Now, Ander was a three-toed toad,
had four before that Sally strode
upon his feet, a feat that slowed
and hobbled Ander’s hopping mode,
and took him longer when he mowed.
See, Frog and Ander, seeding sod,
done seen a scene they are thought was odd.
Miss Sally Mander did meander
on their sod with horse unshod.
And furthermore, she spared no rod.
The more they rode, they trampled, trod,
the more the sod got ample flawed,
a fact that gnawed, till with a nod,
Frog hopped the road with Toad in tow.
He looped his shawl and roped the rod,
and to a crawl, that horse was slowed.
Say, what’s the matter, Sally Mander?
Why you race the grass me, Ander
Working so to get to grow?
O, Froggie, don’t work up a dander,
I’s just taking me a gander.
See, I’ve a plot to buy that plot;
By Jove, I plan to pay a lot!
How’s we deal instead of grouse?
If you and Toad will move my house,
including all the stuff I’ve cached,
I’ll even plan to pay in cash,
and you’ll be rich and maybe hot,
you slap a toupee on that spot.
And so, he’d cede the sod he sowed;
she’d sew the shoddy shawl he showed.
Then he, that three-toed toad, they towed
her new abode down by the road;
the cattle lowed under their load.
Then, since they had no grass to mow,
they ambled by another mode,
There on the lake by her abode,
‘twas not a road and so they rowed.
Truth told, too old, he rode, toad rowed.
And with this cache of cash, he near explodes.
With tears, he tears the note he owed,
the last that lien is ever seen,
leans back his head and sings this ode.
----------
for the Homophone Rhyme Poetry Contest
sponsored by Hat Bueckert
written on 10/11/22
may not be exactly what was looked for since a lot of
the homophones are used as inner rhymes,
but it was a fun write, so there's that!
"I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud" by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a geek
Through silent woods and rustling leaves
Down the hill to the flowing creek
Away from life's stress causing heaves
There I saw a white lovely swan
By magic there appeared a fawn
As the slow running water splashed
Then filled a deeper hole for fish
A place to dream and keep my cached
Where those large fish could jump and whish
A place to write some poetry down
Where depressing thoughts could sink and drown
Where microscopic details thrived
Those threatened plants grow high and wide
In this place they truly survive
This past spring trillium I spied
A host of buckeye 'pon the hill
And wild azaleas gave me thrills
Back up the winding trail to home
Spirit filled, soul rested, and still
No need to drift; physically roam
Just let my thoughts of this day fill
In the kitchen in drudgery's grip
From my cup of memories sip
Contest: I Wandered Lonely As
Sponsor: Natasha L. Scragg
Date Written: 09/20/2022
The word Geek today has many definitions or meanings. One is typically connoting an expert or enthusiast obsessed with a hobby or intellectual pursuit.
Milky Way dream spots
and other-worlds engaged me
this earthbound urchin
science fiction plots might stir
a pure childhood fantasy
But golden aura
folks can sense that Christmas treat
their pearl orb tot craves
“sight for sore eyes tinsel rapt”
“galaxies galore.” Mum beamed
My peepers wept dams
at magic flight revery
cosmic distance bridged
telescope a nod to star
bright clusters in the heavens
Family ring glow
spark and madcap stellar oomph
cached image-laden
supernova vault’s gem horde
that souvenir I treasure
How many syllables verified
Date posted ; August 27th 2022
NB This work is dedicated to a toy telescope my parents bought me
I am the pause in a planet’s breath,
a glitch in the code between birth and death.
I am the whisper in fungal lace,
routing news through forest space.
I’m tectonic gossip, slow and deep,
a quarrel continents keep in sleep.
I am the thought a comet had—
just once, before it went full mad.
I’m birdpath memory, sky-sketched lines,
migration’s rumour through tangled spines.
I’m the echo inside an ancient bone
that never quite learned how to moan.
I’m data lost in glacier code,
truth cached along a mammoth road.
I am not God. I am not Man.
I’m what existed before a plan.
I am what silence tries to say
before it backs itself away.
I am the itch beneath your name—
the part of you you cannot tame.
taciturn springs rising
from within the quarry
of deep earth's wisdom
urging lyrical waters to transpose
while held like singing seas of living reveries
of history and infinity
misting to meld with rainfall dreams
Falling like ancient messages
into the orchard of molecular landscapes
drawn to penetrate its legacy
embedded in the rockeries and rills
blanketing the groves of dirt and ferns
teeming in the arcadian oasis
feeding feast or famine
flourishing the solicitude of springtime
in spider spun dreams
of longings in ancient oaks
merging with the ebb of shedding sycamores
in salted seas teeming and exalting
the rhetoric of existence
in musing opaque vapors
mingling into pervasive clouds
bleeding life
cached in the creche
of pastoral beginnings
of everlasting eddies
watering the garden of dreams
April 22, 2020
Rewritten: October 3, 2020
Your Best Free Verse 2020
Sponsored by John Hamilton
I remember playing Tag and you were "it".
Eyes that Swallowed Every Smile
Thrown at me Through all the While.
Running, Dancing, Feet above the Ground;
Heaven's Space, filled with Laughters' Sound.
Spilling every Place Between Us,
Filling Up Our Day.
Never Giving Thought to all
The Memories That We Caught.
Or How Our Day Might Play,
Just Being Children, In Our Lovely Way.
Cached Ourselves in Nets of Laughter
Pulled the Strings,
That Made Our Puppets Dance;
Followed Each Our Every Moment After,
Ne'er A Thought to Fate or Chance.
I Remember Playing Tag and I was "it".
Surrounding You in Rosie's Ring.
It Was as Though My Keds Took Wing;
Flew Straight to You Each Time,
With Unknown Meaning
In Our Secret Rhyme.
"Tag", "You're it!"
And You and You.
And All Too Soon, We Grew.
And Soon, Too Soon
We Went Aways
Played Our Games With Other Kids,
But Now, In Grown-up Ways.
But I Remember Just a Bit
Of You,
And, " Tag! You're It "
I wandered lone as I did seek
Through silent woods and rustling leaves
Down the hill to the flowing creek
Away from life's stress causing heaves
There I saw a white lovely swan
By magic there appeared a fawn
As the slow running water splashed
Then filled a deeper hole for fish
A place to dream and keep my cached
Where those large fish could jump and whish
A place to write some poetry down
Where depressing thoughts could sink and drown
Where microscopic details thrived
Those threatened plants grow high and wide
In this place they truly survive
This past spring trillium I spied
A host of buckeye 'pon the hill
And wild azaleas gave me thrills
Back up the winding trail to home
Spirit filled, soul rested and still
No need to drift; physically roam
Just let my thoughts of this day fill
In the kitchen in drudgery's grip
From my cup of memories sip
From my thoughts about the work "I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud" by William Wordsworth
Repost of this one.
For Brian
It’s hard to imagine a distant time when man was self-sufficient, needing to go hunt for his family’s food. Him against nature. Alone and on a mission. Up north, an inukshuk pointed the way to a good fishing spot or where meat was cached. Its longest arm pointing to the closest village.
solitary~
voice of predecessors
ringing clear
Published in my photo/haibun anthologies ~PRIMITIVE~ 2019 and ~ANCESTRAL VOICES~ 2019
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Sing songs muses muse blueberry pies
Sung blues one day the muse all died
Hail the stars that distance hath grace
Earth star hath turned anew took place
Traverse the constantly cached stars
Beast unburdened braves of past scars
Trident had Kraken divide her in half
Great made small sat back and laughed
Harp corraled midst meshed verged
Luna slumbers sourced piece emerged
Hearken the heralds the angelic sing
Universal timing presence peace bring
Such folly be told of that kind of talk
Can a massive own a minute tick-tock
What meaning exists for the colossal
Infinite stretch from the number zero