To last dots if man
Plans, and life not that way pans
Out, what avail plans?
Life’s most moving moments race,
Pass by like breeze, not a trace!
_______________________________
Reflections |13.12.2022| Tanka, life
Poet’s note: This Tanka is born of some unease on how to live life. Of late it seems that man tends to plan too much, and when things do not that way pan out, he finds faults with life. This poem wonders if one should go with the breeze.
Timing is the key to whether
Many things pan out.
We wait too long, we’ve missed the boat;
We know what that’s about.
Procrastination may cause
Opportunities to fade
And then regret kicks in
For the decisions we’ve not made.
The timing of a venture
May determine its success.
Too soon or late may wreck it,
Thereby adding lots of stress.
Comedians are criticized
If they can’t nail their timing,
Like rhythmless musicians
(Or a poet bad at rhyming).
Sunday did not pan out,
an iron faith faltered.
It was a wane wobble.
it was cellular rust,
it was not enough iron.
Iron pills rattle in me like BB pellets,
my stools are obsidian artifacts.
More red wine, less whine.
The day got no better,
anemic confusions swirled.
I sucked upon nuts and bolts,
listened to Metallica,
had to iron-out yet more
non-ferrous unpleasantness.
Not long to go now until we are
told we will know
How the next 4 year's are bound
to pan out
As the way it's been reported on
it's almost like we have a casting
vote or have a say in it ourselves
Bering in mind however or whichever
way it pan's out it is entirely up
to them not us
I highly doubt they care what we think
anyway as they have far more pressing
problems to deal with
And when such a big deal is made
of Russian interference why or how
come we don't feel the need to but
out either
If you believe in the supposition
that the news media are the so
called all knowing visionaries
they proport to be like our very
own BBC
Then this election is moot anyway
And just how much power can
or does a President really wield
in an actual democracy
Only a Dictator who rules by
an iron fist is trully blessed
with the gift of absolute power
Ask any old ordinary folk who lives
in say Russia, China, Iran, Afghanistan
or Saudi Arabia
On the basis of if no one is looking
over there shoulder or they are
reading verbatim from a script
Pause, smile for effect praise
the leader and maybe you will
see your family again
Our attention flowing in time quanta
Each packet of time a hypnotic trance
Our waking being this continuità
Fickle attention leads us on a dance
Captive thus to innate affinity
Save void of polarity interchange
As dreams pan out in continuity
We begin to feel within stirrings strange
Regrets of past and fears of future haunt
If we be not in the present moment
Emptiness has no agenda to flaunt
Love divine heightening our bliss quotient
Raising then Tamas to a Sattva stance
Childlike purity joyous in each trance
29-October-2020
Sunday did not pan out,
an iron faith faltered;
events planned
wandered off like drunken sheep.
It was the Advil,
it was the insomnia,
it was not enough iron in my soul.
Speaking of which, my stools
are obsidian artifacts;
a consequence of iron therapy.
The day got no better,
the drunk sheep returned all at once,
tin replaced iron,
anemic confusions swirled
my spirit grew pale.
Within me
body bugs binged
on iron
while the blood dieted.
Sunday smelts to Monday
a peaceful time,
my inner ghost is recovering,
sheep are grazing.
I suck upon nuts
and bolts
make plans,
iron-out
future road bumps.
Sometimes when things seem so bleak
Oblivion’s all that you seek
A small ray of hope
Allows you to cope
And at sunny skies gives you a peek.
It may not pan out, but at least
When anxiety’s slightly decreased
The knots in your gut
May unloosen somewhat
So despair and distress are released.
We all manage in different ways
So one’s rainbows are somebody’s grays
But the tiniest light
In the tunnel just might
Be enough to wipe out one’s malaise.
An optimist and pessimist were sitting in the park,
Their outlooks as divergent as the light is to the dark.
“I think this will be over soon,” the optimist declared.
The pessimist just looked at her as if she were impaired.
“Our lives will never ever be the ones we used to lead,”
The pessimist asserted, but her buddy disagreed.
“You’ll see, before you know it, all will be just like before,”
The optimist responded, a believer to the core.
Their argument continued, each convinced that she was right,
Not seeing any grays at all between the black and white.
Yet time will tell whose thoughts pan out, for now the world’s a mess
And I don’t see it going back. (My side? Well, take a guess!)
Sifting, sifting
Listening, listening
baffled and hoping that we’ll be
Friends in the end;
Watching, watching;
Looking for what’s glistens.
As I contemplate on those who may shine.
Nuggets of truth surface sublime,
Who shall stand the test of time?
Yet time has already shown its hand.
And only fool’s gold is left in my pan.
Sifting, sifting, desperately praying
That your sincerity would shine,
leaving no doubt.
Not wanting to let you go
but the proof proves…
” that you’re petty” ;
Now I'm saddened,because…
‘’You didn’t pan out’’
A sense of holidays!
Blueberry pie hot out of the oven with buttery toppings
popcorn popping in the pot with oil on the stove
Lemon and lime are the sour balls used for drinks or garnish
Take that hot pan out of the oven with your glove.
Coffee is served with a biscotti, black coffee, strong, steamy
Fresh coffee beans ground and gurgling through the percolator
Unsweetened coffee, hot, burns your lips, bitter to the tongue
Cold ice in the freezer and the glass shelf in the refrigerator.
Uncle Joe’s gas problem and Aunt Emma’s feet
As Grandfather breathes and snores through his nose.
The last crumbs of cinnamon, the last glob of whipped cream
Take Grandma’s hand when you walk out, she hates to impose.
here's to best intentions that don't always pan out ~
AP: 1st place 2025
Posted on November 6, 2019
Hail, languish in the quietude of youth innocence,
Forward the moment set for a future ponderance,
Greeting the unmeasured stare of memories call,
Tendering spirits its fortitude of life's forward haul,
Early scenes pan out the absence of rational reels,
Patterns that pave the assured their gallant feels,
...to be alive then and now.
Date: 09/03/2019
The bulletin for courses
Shows up twice a year online
With a registration coupon.
(I just finished printing mine.)
These are classes meant for teachers
(Just retired ones attend)
Which provide the opportunity
To learn or make a friend.
Certain listings each semester
Are most highly in demand
So not every registration
Will pan out as people planned.
Dilly-dallying’s a no-no
For the more relaxed who wait
To submit their course selection
May discover they’re too late.
Which is why I choose my classes,
Fill the form and write the check,
Stamp the envelope and hustle
To the post office like heck!
A column in The New York Times
(In Sunday’s Magazine)
Is something that I love to read,
A part of my routine.
It’s titled “Diagnosis”
And each time presents a case
Of someone sick with who-knows-what
And so begins the chase.
The docs confer, some blood is drawn
And then a slew of tests,
Thus ordered by the specialists,
If all goes well, suggests…
A diagnosis which will match
The symptoms and assure
The proper treatment leading to
Relief, perhaps a cure.
A happy outcome’s what I like;
At times, that won’t pan out
But to many readers, I am sure
There isn’t any doubt…
That this column should appear each week
(It’s not that often now)
For it’s fascinating learning of
The why, when, where and how.
I have a chance
(if things pan out)
to climb the local ladder.
Assistant to a Laureate
in poetic matters.
Wish me luck,
at least a fall that
leaves me writing better;
but if I fly,
cheer me on
earning all my letters.
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