Ramblings


do you ever feel

lost in space

you’ve misplaced

that thing

you know

that thing you forgot

maybe it was your brain

but that is insane

you can’t misplace your brain

can you?

maybe you are just tired

that’s it

you’re not going crazy

you are just a tad sleep deprived

happens to everyone

so. . .

what were you thinking about?

oh yeah

maybe you did misplace your brain

if only it was raining

you would be lulled to sleep

pulled into the land of dreams

that you will not remember the next morning

so what is the point of dreaming?

maybe your brain just gets bored

when it has but the company of your subconcious

the movie of your dream plays

and your brain has no popcorn to go along with it

the syrup in the soda fountain has gone sour

the nachos are stale

and the concession stand is all out

of sour patch kids

Saying Good-Bye


curled up in a rough blue towel

she is sleeping

soft black fur

cold silk under hand

she is sleeping

unblinking eye gazing at nothing

beautiful whiskers twitching no more

she is sleeping

kiss her un-moving ear

catnip spread across her head

she is sleeping

a few feet underground

where she’ll never be cold again

good night

dear cat

P.S.  Happy belated Veterans Day.  Thank you.

Deleted


You can’t seem to understand me
I know I can’t comprehend you
The sounds coming out of your mouth
Jumbled up like alphabet stew
Too thick to be real
And too passionate to be fake
This sudden barrier between us
Seems so hard to break
We used to be in sync
Or was that all a dream
A look a laugh a gesture
All we needed
Now you talk
I hear the words
But just can’t see it
Our two-person dictionary
Has been deleted

Copyright Paranoia


Has anyone ever had an idea come to them – for a poem, in my case – and it’s so easy to write the thing that you worry that you are somehow unknowingly plagiarizing someone else’s work?  That you heard it before and your sub-conscious stored it away. Or that no way could it be original, and another person has already put the exact same words on paper/internet….. and that sooner or later they will come proverbially knocking down your door, righteously screaming that they wrote that poem first….. even if there’s no way you could have known that, or known they existed, or that they were writing poems, or that somehow you both wrote the exact same thing?!  Because writing has a reputation for being hard, editing and revising until you want to tear the thing up, takes days to write even a short poem, or else the writing either sucks or isn’t original………

I’m having all those doubts about the poem I wrote this evening, which will be posted tomorrow.  It was too easy.  It either sucks or  I accidentally stole it from some other author.  And then they will find out and sue or arrest me or something, even though it wasn’t my fault!

Urrgh…. paranoia……

Untitled Poem


he sits and stares
at the rose he took
plucked from

the bush in his
lover’s garden when he
arrived and she

stands at the
griddle her head bent as
she scrambles eggs

he squeezes lemons
for fresh lemonade and
thinks of how she

took the flower
from his hands and smiled
called him a hopeless

romantic she put
it in her best vase
and though she knew

it was from her own
front yard he could tell she was
pleased with it

they eat in content
silence happy to be simply
near each other

then the couple
finishes and stands up
goes over to the

next room and gently
waltzes to the low murmur
of the news on

the radio as
they twirl around the worn
couch his hand warm

on her waist she grips
the plastic of his other
hand and softly smiles

Summer


Disclaimer: The following story contains references to alcohol, drugs, and other objectionable content.

The Start-of-Summer festival was held every year at the end of school, which was actually in late May, and still technically during the spring.  The five neighborhoods that hosted and attended the festival were rather large, with roughly 300 houses each.  However, only the younger families came, the ones with teenagers or couples under 50, and only then whoever wasn’t out of town on a business trip or vacation.  There would be anywhere from 800 to 1500 people there every year, though the park where the festival was held was very large.

It was basically a brag-fest for the adults, who drank expensive wine, gossiped, and consciously ignored the fact that the teenagers were getting drunk on cheap beer, stoned on illegal drugs, and dancing inappropriately on the other side of the park, music blaring, but not too loud that parents would grow irritated.  Every year, authority ignored the many breaches of law, as all the families had either connections with the police or enough money to pay for lawyers so good that the unfortunate officer to actually do their job would be, somehow, successfully sued by said family.

This year, Sara was sitting against a tree, gulping down Miller Light.  Maybe if she drank enough, she could block out the world, the confusion, the party around her, the steady ache in her chest that threatened to take over at any moment.  If she drank enough, maybe she wouldn’t be sad.  Maybe the bruises on her shoulder and face would disappear.  Maybe, when she woke up the next morning, she would have a different life, a happier life, along with the inevitable hangover.

An hour and a couple too many beers later, the small girl had thrown up once and felt too tired to move.

“Hey.  You have a safe ride home?”  Another girl, who was about Sara’s age and completely sober, crouched next to her.  Sara hadn’t seen her before – if she had, she was too drunk to remember.  Instead of replying, she leaned over and started throwing up in the grass again.  The girl held back Sara’s hair, her fingers cool and gentle.  When she started sobbing, the girl held her and gave her tissues, then wiped away tears and snot when it became apparent Sara couldn’t use them.  After a while, when she thought Sara would be calm enough to talk, she said “Did you drive here alone?”  When she nodded, the girl asked for her keys.  For some reason Sara couldn’t determine, she pointed to her bag.  The girl fished them out, slung it over her shoulder, and helped Sara to her feet.

“Come on, let’s get you home.  Don’t worry, I moved into the same neighborhood a little while ago.  I’ve seen you come and go from your house before.  You don’t need to give directions.”  She whispered, but Sara heard, and gratefully leaned on her as they walked through the parking lot, the girl pressing the button on the keys until the car beeped.  She helped Sara in and buckled her up.

Then, the stranger drove her home.