Drops of expired love potion
dribble pointedly, slowly,
painfully —within the soft walls of a
broken heart —
ticking with grave silence and grieving clamour of
grand clocks of yesteryears
which remind us that love works
like time.
The nature of reality is clear and luminous
But we miss it because of obscurations
Like a cloud filled sky
Or flawless diamond covered in mud.
We miss it to the point of complete unawareness,
Which means we don’t know who we are,
How we got into our current predicament
Or how to get out.
Getting out is as simple as stepping out
Just letting go at last and popping out,
But it takes a lot of perseverance
To get to that point, so many never do.
And so the journey begins
A journey of discovering just how ignorant we are
And just exactly what we have been ignoring
So assiduously in our foolish bliss.
Breaking through is essential
And the natural result of earnest inquiry
But it takes effort, one-pointedly determined
To arrive at the effortless ineffable moment.
And when we do…
The sky opens to reveal its natural radiance,
Unsullied by clouds, none other than,
This radiance condensed into its own veil.
(5/1/26)
FACTUAL REALITY-:-
remains
equivocably
individual
pointedly
formulated
in AUTONOMOUSLY RARE
verbally
active
argumentative
complex
concepts
then PERCEIVED
normative
binding
motionless
reflected
symptoms
the fork thought the knife and spoon were against her
A conspiracy was in the works, their mission impure
She used her ring finger and accused them of a conspiracy
The spoon pointedly ignored her and stirred up his green tea
The knife was not as wise as the spoon and argued most of the day
It seemed to give them satisfaction said the spoon named Gray.
They are used to arguing, it is their way to be romantic he thought.
He had heard his parents scraping and hissing since he was a tot.
llama arrives in the tea room all polished and puffed up
putting on airs, as if she is almost too chic to dine or sup
persnickety, pampered, and proud of her new sophisticated look.
She looks like she has just written an uppity etiquette book.
We try to ignore her, maybe she can find another table in which to dine.
Scoot over, says my empathetic cousin. I roll my eyes and say “fine.”
Llama is batting her fake eyelashes and flashing her high heel shoes.
I pointedly do not speak to her until I remember she owes us dues
Were you looking for me? Her diabolical dog Disaster asked.
She rolled her eyes.
Disaster knew she was looking for him.
She had called his name over twenty times.
Who tore open the cereal box? Why is it on the floor?
Disaster circled it but admitted nothing.
Who chewed up the new roll of toilet paper?
Disaster looked pointedly at his mistress’s husband.
Why does he always blame me? The husband asked.
Doris was quick-thinking
quick-acting, clever, and shrewd
But pointedly polite and polished
Never abrupt or rude
Her knowledge of psychology helped her get by with much
Fooling relatives, acquaintances, coworkers, and such
they were eagerly outsmarted and outmaneuvered by her.
She had an open heart, and a face that was open and pure.
She wrote down “Erin go Braugh or go home
It was the beginning of her St Paddy’s day poem
A couple of eejits were staring at her now
Her corn beef and cabbage was fully a wow!
She took another bite and pointedly did not speak.
She looks Irish to me, said one. His name was Zeke.
The other guy came over and asked her to go on a date.
She drank her mint shake, it was truly first rate.
I think she is ignoring us, do Irish girls do that?
She hissed and she spat like an Emerald isle cat.
They got the hint and left her alone at last.
“Ireland forever!” she yelled. They ran away fast.
Grandmother Cottonwood’s leaves glistened.
Shaking their silver sides against the breeze.
Glossy and pointedly sculpted, a few listened.
As her main twig rolled up his sleeve.
I had not seen a talking tree since Babes in Toyland.
Expected some marching and a mariachi band.
The woods were unnaturally quiet and stark still.
North wind providing a coldish autumn chill.
I hope you did Bernard inform
He should be there in uniform
Or else he is the Out - Of - Form,
Who shan't be housed in Lucas Dorm:
Forever A stranger to storm;
My prayer: that kids grab The Norm
Striving to not leave any torn,
So that their guides won't seem won.
Simple: Haters of uniform
We need to pointedly reform
Heads cramming with the unsafely
Of one edging near a mufti
The night was rainy, hot and humid. It was the kind of night that populates steamy, black and white, noir movies where someone is murdered. The stars seemed reduced to sloshing behind moldy gray clouds, as damp and listless as seaweed in the surf.
“Let’s go see a movie,” Sophy suggested, as she brought up the Fandango website on the 70” smart TV. This quickly drew a brouhaha of excited interest.
“Ooo!, Bullet Train,” Anna said. “Elvis!” Lisa gushed.
“Where the Crawdads sing!” Sunny gasped.
“Super pets!” Leong declared, pointing - producing groans all around - THAT was a no-go.
“Maverick!” I said. “I could do that,” Sunny agreed, “he’s crazy, but I’m a Cruise fan.” she added.
In the end we decided to do a movie marathon with “Maverick” that night and “Elvis”, “Bullet Train” and “Where the Crawdads sing,” on Sunday.
As we ordered our treats at the theater concession stand, a tall, skinny, spotted, teenage boy attempted to flirt with Lisa. He smiled at her as confidently as a lizard, but sagged, like a shirt whose coat hanger was removed, when she pointedly ignored him.
A mind has irretrievably cracked,
After its owner was purposely attacked,
The fact as clear as Midday Sun
His attacker was his own son!
A doubly chilly killing discovery
That defies one to hint at possible recovery
The Attack: Son’s intended disrespect
By way of insistence to publicly inspect
And strictly every goddamned aspect
Of Daddy’s avowed honest prospect:
Daddy’s sincerity of purpose making a trifle
And he sure that his son did secret laughter stifle,
Though with a face officially contorted
Sometimes with mockery distorted …
A son impressing his having acquired
All that it clearly required
To a father’s feeling pointedly ruffle
And forewarn his dropping in the next shuffle.
George was to us The Deformed
And his bones The Malformed …
Then, to our rules he conformed,
After he was duly informed
And by us pointedly reformed
And-Lo!-George stooped looking deformed
Nor were his bones still malformed
For overnight, new ones had formed!
Just through his Conformity for Acceptance,
In him stifling Tiger of Resistance.
Pretty pancake peacock pointedly persuaded powerhouse pig
To publicly plan porcupine’s playful pink planetary probability placement.
Pleasure palace princesses provided puny particulars providing big
Porky plebes who placated porcupines, poking peacock’s replacement.
I shall fan you out with my feathered tail
Strutting and preening
Pointedly marching my peacock toes
You will be amazed and faint at my feet
For I am a male, and this is what peahens do
You will be overcome with my glorious plumage
My gorgeous blue and green feathers with pops of gold
My beauty will astound you, and break you down
You will melt like a snow cone at my feet.
The plain brown peahen rolled her eyes.
She was astounded by his modesty of course.
And by his pompous arrogance.
She could live the rest of her life without this in her life.
She walked off, never to return to this barnyard.
Where there was only one peacock.
Who lived the rest of his life not understanding why she had left.
Not realizing how annoying and vain he was.
Moral of the story: You do not have to say every thought in your head
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