Now and then, quietly without notice,
Time adjusts its spectacles—
Peers through a fogged pane of recall
Where particulars, once urgent, dissolve.
If now and then you find rain in your heart,
be assured it is scheduled—
a punctual drizzle of consequence,
not passion, but the persistence of memory
in its bureaucratic overcoat.
It’s all because of you,
the file states plainly:
signed in duplicate, sealed in dust.
No redress required—
only the courteous nod to causality.
The aged—those quaint accumulations—
become, in the end, detours.
Not disliked, precisely,
but excessive to the route:
a bench beneath ivy, seldom occupied.
So live out your days with decorum.
Attend the rituals of silence.
Polish your small routines.
Let time, that sly curator,
catalogue your exit in amber.
put me in the minor leagues
I would not know what do with all that money from the majors
I do not seek the Yankees or the Cubs
I am not a party animal, do not fancy myself a celebrity
Do not need a mansion or my own airplane
The minor leagues is fine
Can you hit a ball? The scout asks.
Not sure. I have never tried.
It begins with a sky-split cry—
a blade of wind slicing the stillness,
gulls scattering like torn pages
as the sea holds its breath.
Then comes the first thunderstroke,
not from clouds, but from below—
the ocean remembering its anger.
The sea begins to speak in tongues—
lightning dances across the waves.
The ocean surges, climbs the wind,
rising in spiraled towers of spray—
a mind awakening, immense and wild.
The wind and sea lock arms and spin—
a wild, ecstatic pas de deux.
Every crest collides with thunder,
every trough inhales the sky.
The air is stitched with broken wings,
a fugue of fury, flawless, divine.
The storm forgets its name—
its fury slackens into sighs.
Waves collapse with whispered awe,
and the wild wind of prophecy,
wanders now in broken circles.
Salt mist weeps from sky to sea.
A golden thread divides the clouds—
light returns on cautious feet.
The sea lies spent but still it stirs,
gathers fragments of the sky
and lays them gently on its swells,
as if remembering how to sing.
"Custody Blues in C Minor"
(Disaster and Love as a Single Father)
One coffee mug I purchased had a cracked lip, A plastic spoon, and half a bed,
And the echo of her "I’m done with you"
Still knocking around in my head.
She gave me a car seat to keep. And a drawer full of onesies and grief,
And now I rock my girl to sleep
to my own disbelief's sound.
She had dreams about the chandelier, I had a cough and a nightlight. I boil noodles with the baby in my arms,
Tryin’ not to piss God off.
Sometimes I wish for bourbon,
Sometimes I wish for death—
But then them little baby snores
Take the fire outta my breath.
There’s love in frozen waffles,
And hope in diaper pails—
Yeah, I lost the war of roses,
But I’m still standing in the hail.
Ain’t no lullaby for heartbreak,
Ain’t no handbook for regret—
But I’ll raise this girl on gravel roads
And pay off love’s damn debt.
L-ittle
H-elp
Y-ou
N-eed
D-oes
A-id
M-ammoth
O-r
J-ampacked
I-mpact
C-arried
A-ccordingly
©bfa052225
Monocrostic (Birthday of Lhynda Mojica)
An Even More Minor Tribute To Mr Dylan
Bob Became A Christian
But
Jesus Was A Jew.
"You've Gotta Lotta Nerve."
-Gray Squirrel
05-23-2025
I move through rooms,
quiet weather
changing air, its pressure.
One drawer sticks.
Light bulbs dim faster
when I’m thinking too loud.
The milk spoils early when I’m angry.
Doors swell shut.
I don’t believe in signs—
but last week,
the oven turned itself on,
then something spoke
my childhood nickname,
in a voice I'd buried with her.
Clubbing seal cubs
portends a rage for mass murder.
The tail wags the dog
and the offended march away
to slaughter strangers.
Generation after generation,
year after year,
small holocausts
erupt at the strike of a matchstick.
Meanwhile bloody footprints
reshape a landscape.
Withered fingers
Cannot play anymore;
I drown in nuanced shades of blue,
Not seeing, in my plight,
My strings, wound tight,
Suspending me
Like a puppet,
Tethered to life.
I in my tattered clothes,
Blue like sorrow,
Torn like the heart that hopes,
Unable to keep out the cold
Or cover the secrets I hold—
I am the man who mopes,
Holding my guitar close
As it whispers its chords
Whilst I, cross-legged, ponder
Life in rags and cardboards.
Back to the old routine:
Awash in blue,
This song’s for you:
Echoes of a gunshot;
The click of a trigger.
Amongst the crowd, there were little jesters recently elected to their posts!
Recording and uploading posts to their social audience was a key to their political demise!
How ignorant and stupid must people be to place their job into the box of the ghost!
Careers often change with new skills and knowledge; they are not meant to be a career demise!
The young ducklings believed their mother duck would be there for them and hold their hand!
Little ducks in the tub are made of rubber, so you have no defense against an ink pen!
The only ones to hold those dirty hands are the ones involved with a criminal band!
Maybe now you will rethink your actions before the criminal courts put you into a playpen!
Running around with your buffalo hat made you an easy target!
Well, the law has placed your head on the wall as a message for everyone!
Your face is the voice of the conspiracy target!
You believed that the world was against the loser; you are the loser for everyone!
Being a fool is not a paying job; even comedians have style
Your actions are made of pure, unadulterated bile.
Under soothing minor key, soft and slow,
The Sound of Silence bares my heart’s despairs,
Hallelujah’s the fourth, the fifth strike low,
Schindler’s List sadness drowns my soul in tears.
The magic mood of music moves within -
Threnody trophy goes to violin.
Wait beyond the earth is doomed.
Sun grew hungry, thus consumed.
Further wait until time tires.
Watch as all motion expires.
Unstitch all that has been sewn.
Witness that which can't be known.
Mould a shape that's yet unseen.
Remake all that has not been.
"From the River to the Sea
'Palestine' will be free"
Freely articulated ~
Seven million Jews eviscerated
Send your kid aged 4 to 11 for air travel alone under the Air France unaccompanied minor policy, and for 12-17 its optional.
"major minor"
my fingers got no
feelings they're
just really reeling
with the rhythm
that maybe
is or isn't
this
this
that
that
they say
swings or
is it
just
one of
those
Django
things
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