Nature hedges its bets with candles and suns.
Some lives flash briefly in fecund swarms.
Fireflies, mice, lice and mayflies—
scatter their bright fireworks shoals of living sparks
with a fanfare of hope into the wilderness.
Others linger slowly through centuries:
whales, tortoises, redwoods, sloths, and—us—
cherishing and nurturing a precious handful of progeny.
Evolution never chose one way to survive and bargain with time.
Scatter a hundred thousand seeds—or guard a precious handful of few?
It's either careful maintenance, patiently sustained and nurtured—
Or throwaway spam replacements with no warranties.
Yet nothing blooms forever here—not even the daisies.
Even the white stars in the sky above age to orange giants.
Collapse to dull red dwarfs,
then fade further, and implode into dark black holes,
where even time itself forgets what day it is.
So make hay while the sun shines.
Count not the days you're left—
count what makes days glow, and linger long in memory.
Hideaway
Hideaway
Put it all in the attic
Runaway
Runaway
From the world when your manic
Giveaway
Giveaway
All your things when your depressed
Cuz maybe they’ll care when you’re dead.
Throwaway
Throwaway
Those thoughts. You know You’re a god
Go away
Go away
From all this, start a million things you’ll never finish.
Stowaway
Stowaway
The negativity and overconfidence
You’ll seem more normal if you do.
A struggle everyday
Cuz disorder doesnt go away
No matter how much booze I drink
No matter all the thoughts I think
Just think about what you would do
If you were me, and I was you
Saint Patrice day
In 1957 my ship docked in the town of Cork (Ireland)
If you think that is a long time ago, you are probably right
but in my head, it was yesterday.
Life was slower back then, cargo was lowered into
donkey carts, there were many mules waiting
we went to a pub, a stone a throwaway and drank Guinness
Never did I tell my mother, but I told her of the Irish girl
I was going to marry had red hair and green eyes
she had the aroma of an angel.
Leisureliness has ended ships leave as ships do
On the shore, she waved, we cried, and people smiled
they didn’t know; no one had loved so deeply as us.
Our letter writing petered out, so many adventures for young
minds I met a girl in Amsterdam, she had a bike.
My mother asked about the Irish girl. Her name was Catlin.
Offices built but seldom let,
Houses without bricks,
How much higher can rents rise
For a home made of sticks
It would not take a tornado,
Or even a light breeze,
If you can afford a cheap house,
Be careful if you sneeze.
Nothing today is made to last,
That is to our shame,
Unlike the architecture of the past
Designing was their game.
A craft that took dedication
A craft that took time to learn,
It was a vocation.
Not for money they could earn.
Where are all the artisans,
That we are losing every day,
Is it because most people,
Cannot afford to pay,
For fine carpentry
And items made with pride and care,
Created masterly,
With passion and flare.
It is a throwaway society,
Sadly this is true,
Integrity and Morals,
Truth. and justice too.
Nothing seems to matter,
Fewer people seem to care,
Choosing to close their eyes,
At the mayhem going on out there.
I do not like the idea of abortions, naturally,
But then I do not like to see abandoned kids
I am a firm believer in equal opportunity,
Yet, I see so many in our populace on the skids.
In my lifetime I’ve watched children suffer,
And I have thought better never to have been
Than be jerked up by a drug-addicted monster
Or a sexually abusive, ingrate…what a sin!
I’ve read of little kids forced to live in a box
Slowly dying from abuse, neglect, and starvation
For them no golden opportunity ever knocks
And I ask, can this happen in a civilized nation?
Seeing pictures of their ravaged little bodies
Surmising what hell they must’ve endured
I say to myself, “better not to have been born”
Than to have lived briefly, then forever obscured.
But I will never forget them, some I even taught
With only an inkling of what their life was like
As a child I, too, was abused and I never forgot
Better not to be born than die an unwanted tyke.
Written June 27, 2022
[I have conducted funerals for unwanted,
throwaway children who committed suicide!]
Some adjust to the plow,
they learn to shape their lives
around what they push through.
Assembling plastic throwaway things
blind hands adjust.
The Buddha breaks rocks
in a quarry, adjusts his mind to emptiness.
Jesus
paints roads signs. Teaches the law
of infinite directions.
Most harness themselves
to the unseen work within the work,
do what we must do to break away
from a hitched-up life.
I found it necessary to get rid of some things
I don't usually argue with myself
so I cut some questioning pieces
those unnecessary chunks, you know?
but I think there's little left of me
I didn't have the naughtiness of this throwaway world
I never had the malleability of the insensitive
my soft and permeable heart dries up easy
dies if the shape of the clouds is not friendly
or feel the cold abandonment
when the roads are steep and bleak
when he hears the menacing rustle
of dark foliage hiding uneasy things
he imagines a block of pain that swells
I actually don't think I was ready
to the wild rage of this life
to these embarrassing final steps
at what point did i forget how to survive?
I am a victim
To the imagination of my own
I have been tricked in
By my mind, to walk among the tombstones...
I feel shallow within, without backbone!
Once I loved myself, but now I oppose...
All these thoughts when my mind turned
Into an evil sanctum!
I am one of those throwaway dreams
That I’ve been dreaming
If you give me the time, maybe I could retreat
if my life still holds a meaning
I pretend as if I need no help
But I want a ray of light, for I see my dark life!
I’m stupid emo whose depressed
And my anxiety just knocked, there it arrives!
I worry my creativity has turned me insane
Yet another reason for my heartbreak
I once for sure dreamed of a perfect life
But I guess I won’t be able to pay the price
For a life called correct
As my imagination, victimized
me into somebody even I don’t recognize!
She was a throwaway girl
who lived in the background
like a low humming mélange
of laughs, tears, and breaking glass.
I smiled, nodded, or frowned--
mostly at the right moments,
till…she left,
wearing her colorful melting mask.
As she shut the door,
quiet filled the room again.
He is a hollow man.
For this fairytale romance
I forgave the wrongs,
excused the slights, and
tried to be more attractive,
more patient, more interesting,
more…
until I realized I’d been a ventriloquist…
and left.
11/13/2021
America has gone and its
probably not coming back.
Some see that as a good thing -
that’s depressing,
but I think in many ways
we are bereft no matter what.
Life has its challenges,
we wear masks
some are throwaway
others remain
Send out the clowns
make them mime
disorderly bonfires,
ignite the fright.
Obviously
I can’t say much
about you know what,
and it would be forward of me
to speak out and outrage
the ever watchful,
(the you know who’s),
least I find myself
deemed to be
a you know,
and maybe even
a whatever.
Wolves now roam
sniffing out the questioning.
They are leading
the disconnected and willing
into a glorious future
and everyone now is a clown show
on the edge of town.
Homeless, she was devastated:
her heart shattered into a thousand pieces,
she sold her body to survive the streets.
And a trail of needle marks tattooed
the arms of this throwaway girl;
whose spirit seemed as broken as her heart.
Crushed under the heel of reality;
she had no money, no future, and no choices:
but the one thing she did have was talent.
She expressed herself through street art,
drawing on another level, outside the box;
for a curious world to critique.
Spray-on paint morphed into her voice
as her muse mirrored what she saw;
in mesmerizing murals of lost hopes and dreams.
Someone posted her artwork online
and she was an instant hit;
going viral overnight.
But fame slowly stripped away her anonymity,
day by day, piece by piece.
And as time revealed the woman behind the art:
she attracted sponsors.
And this broken, gifted girl, metamorphosed:
from an insignificant caterpillar,
into an astonished butterfly;
who discovered she had the wings
with which to fly, all along.
Waste has worsened widespread.
World's oceans polluted.
Wonder throwaway mind
Wadded to poor beings
Wreckage of planes and trains
Wastage slash-and-burn seas
Worldbank work tackle trash
2nd place in the W Pleiades contest
Written: May 9, 2021
Pleiades W Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Merryman
Don't look back
In this theater of modernist art
And wish what was
Worth being hung
Worthy off the space on
wall and hanging holes
it was hung
Patronage in thrones have
spent well earned coin to see
In order to say they have
Been kneeling before like the
grace of ages
Was and is till this day
The artist is remembered for
Yet never wishes they we're
Because it was a throwaway
A B-Side track
Never expected to attract
But somehow did
Who Tell lies?
“Hey, this is the internet everybody lies.”
this was a throwaway sentence in a TV program
forgotten by the one who spoke the line or when
it sounded right.
It made me think is the world less honest now we have internet?
If this is so is it because we don´t see the people we lie to.
What about me do I tell lies?
Yes, at times when intrusive people ask questions
I find no ground to answer. I´m also a writer and use things I have
heard or read what happened in my and others live to tell a story.
but in my private life, I`m scrupulously honest and take a dim
view of lies told to make the teller bigger
to borrow money because they have fallen on a temporary
a hard time when in fact they try to use people.
My ex-wife is on the cellphone
Tiring me out
She lives on Facebook
Her life is images and itineraries
She’s a good woman
But I see way too much
Of her food nowadays.
America has gone and its
Probably not coming back
Some see that as a good thing
That’s depressing
But I think in many ways
We are all globally bereft
No matter what
Life has its challenges
We wear masks
Some are throwaway
Others remain
Obviously
I can’t say much
About you know what
And it would be forward of me
To speak out and outrage
The ever watchful
You know who’s
Least I find myself
Deemed to be
A you know -
And maybe even
A whatever
Wolves now roam
Sniffing out
The questioning
And the voiceless
They are leading
The disconnected and willing
Into a glorious future
And everyone
Is a hero now
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