A Father's Bedtime Story

Lie there my dear children and go off to sleep.
I'll tell you a story if I don't hear one peep.
I give you a tale of such wonder that you'll feel
That this newer old story could actually be real.
Goldylocks, the blonde, went out one day for a ride;
A ride in her Mustang that would hum and would glide.
The color was ruby and red as her hot-rodded lips;
And going around curves was like swinging her hips.
But soon she got tired of the top being down
And thought that she'd take a venture out of town.
She drove in the forest and found such a site
With still green and old brown that gave her delight.
She liked the forest she thought to herself;
And the rumble of cars that comes from cliffs that look likes selves.
Eventually she came to a part of the forest that was thick;
The stuffiness here would to skin easily stick.
She saw a little shanty by the edge of the grove
With interest she over to that house quickly drove.
With a screech she swiftly came to definite stop
And opened the door with a screech and a pop.
She marched up the path and then banged on the door.
She knocked and she knocked: one, two, three, four.
After knocking and knocking she heard no one home,
She opened the door to a house all alone.
The little small cottage was bright with family life.
She looked at the pictures of father, son, and wife.
'Twas three forest bears living in this small house.
They lived all alone except from one grey-haired mouse.

(continued tomorrow)

Dreams

I hear the pit and pat of my feet while walking
While a lion in my head with similar sound is stalking.
I often find myself lost in daydreaming,
Sometimes purposefully, oft' accidentally,
Wishfully I am my own future scheming.
I dream of right and privapedge,
Power and responsibility;
I fight with evil,
Run to far off lands,
Learn all sorts of things.
I have friends who, in my life, just perpetuate these things
They too dream, you see, and two dreamers often find wings.
And day by day I do this thing.
It makes me aim far away ahead.
I place a goal longer and further away,
But often fall shorter instead.
Little by little though,
I gain ground.
I take rule over new land,
Aim away again,
Plodding ever onward.
And bit by bit with fistfuls at a time I bring my dreams.
I bring them with me back to reality an conquer what I see.
Onward I conquer my dreams.

The Summer Toad

Waiting in the air conditioner water,
Between 701 and 703,
The toad stands in the hot summer
As still as a knotted oak tree.

Terrorizing flies
And running from feet,
He tells not lies
For he never speaks;

He waddles from lethargy
From stoop to his bed.
Only a simple philosophy
Runs in his head.

Paperless

I forgot the music as I walked today;
I instead listened to the wind in my ear play.
The on and off tapping of my slow feet
Gave me a poetic beet to meet.
I thought up a verse while on my way,
But in rarity I had nothing to write what I'd say.
I tore off home with a thump-thump and a phew.
Jogging and thinking more lines to spew.
Finally I reached home and entered with a pout;
Not a single word I thought would dare to come out.

Rain

From far away the thunderhead does roar.
It blows its coming, trumpeting the storm;
It's pround of all effects it holds in store
And boldly calls so all will be forewarned.

The power billowing on high-skyed wall,
The whiteness flecked with wounds of sorrowed grey.
So massive does it move--it seems to stall--
Larthargically the mass comes on its way.

However from its high and gilded throne
He saw the bright and sunny, long Monday.
The many people going to work and to home,
And, touched, decided to storm another day.

He just put a bit of a heavy drizzle in place
To wet the road and splash the Earth's face.

Ants

There
they
go
in
a
march,

all
of
them
with
big
loads,

Car-
ry-
ing
on
their
backs

food
for
them
and
for
all.

In
a
line
they
will
go

on
all
their
worn-
out
paths.


Far
and
wide
they
search
for

food
and
ma-
ter-
i-
als.

One
grain,
one
peb-
ble
each,

One
at
a
time
they
bring

and
build
Rome
bit
by
bit.

Car Wash

Slowly it begins.
Fizz, fizz, fizz...
Building up steam,
And with stronger bubbles,
It starts to clean.
Then the strength and speed come
Fast and full--
The most productive section.
Beat and beat and beat,
Swash and swash and swash,
Then slowing,
Showing relaxation.
After the hard fast times,
Finally fizzing again.
Two more passes;
Then it stops.
The water goes down the drain.
The cycle begins again and again.


(mom-inspired)

Madam Maya

Finger on the pulse of the world,
Proud and standing tall,
Rafting up tributaries to culture,
And seeing the beauty she carries.
Madam Maya taught how to be proud:
Proud of the herritage
Proud of the body
Proud of the mind.
She taught how appreciate
Even if others cannot give thanks.
Her rhymes were new.
But the beat,
The beat that she made,
It came from the ancestral drums of humanity.
She is life and she is love.
She is pride and she is confidence.
Maya the observer.
Maya the giver,
Maya the lover.

Old Man Poe

Living on the fringes
Of society's thought
The Old Man Poe
In measerured rhyhme
Tells what he sees
Without concern for taboo.
He tells of his friends
Macabre, Fright, Darkness.
Singing their tales and dreams
Making others shudder:
Their thoughts are where
Nightmares are made.
Their sanity is where
Psychoses are born.

Grandpa Robert

I remember you walking lonely in the fields.
You always listen to trees and bushes
And can translate to me their feelings.
You tell me of their life and emotions,
And oddly they always mirror your own.
You stop when others would go onward;
You dreamed when others would have woken.
You told me to leave myself and listen,
But I have often failed to obey.
Because of you I can love more deeply,
And I've finally come to know nature as a friend.


Furthermore, today I'm reminded of both my parents and the virtues they have taught me. This poem reminds me of them:

If...

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Odd Uncle Walt

I know that no one else understands you
Because your words to them seem confusing.
You see the beauty in everything around
Even when it is too beautiful to express.
And it's not that you can't describe it,
But it's that society did not want to hear it.
Well, Uncle Walt, they still don't want to hear.
You without speaking but through your words,
You've taught me beauty, You've taught me life.
You have shown me how to appreciate what no one sees.
However, I, I am still learning what you knew.
I cannot find ways to put down in many words
The many things that I think and see and know.
I strive to be more like you, able to express
All the things that no one wants to mention.

Aunt Emily

I see you in your room--In a chair by the window,
Your day filled with a world of paper and ink.
You in your simple dress, you sit by for hours;
You write of night and days of night without light.
I see you having sat there for such length,
And I, I wish I had your patience to only sit and think.
Hearing others talk of you in downward words
Hurts me past my skin -- A feeling in the bones.
Pen and ink, pen and ink, pen and ink--
Oh to have the diligence to sit and think.
You taught me to sing in a world of only words.

Life Scares and Low Points

Many things in life will bring one to their knees.
Stressfull situations--wondering how they came to be.
Sitting with a doctor who's concerned about your health,
Or fretting over checkbooks and bills depleting wealth.
Concern for a loved one or plans that go awry;
A lost and dear relative for whom one often cries.
Period's between work and times that're spent alone,
Being injured or stranded, unexpectedly away from home.
If one can keep one's chin from dropping,
one's mood from downward swinging,
Keep a smile and a gleam in the eye,
Then Life's journey will easily go by.

The Crazy Mild King

The crazy mild king,
In his youth he sits. 
Boredom he's never brought 
Surrounded by misfits.
He sits all day long
Barely eating a bit
'Cause the crazy mild king
Likes his clothes to fit. 
His people are happy
They're all proletariat:
They've no reason to complain
In a kingdom so fit. 
He sometimes makes laws,
But doesn't enjoy it. 
The crazy mild king
Would rather just plain sit. 
Those that are unhappy
Are thrown in the muddy pit;
Then the people and the king
All watch the sloppy fit.
Everyone does laugh
And use a bit of wit
The crazy mild king though
Just sits and sits and sits.
There's food and joy and beds
In this kingdom you won't forget
Somehow the crazy mild king,
Has performed his lonely bit.  
  

The Blonde in the Window

Sitting there quietly
A car pulls up.
Two chit and chat
And comment on life.
The one in the car
Asks, "Who drew that."
"Oh, that's from my son."
Then she replies,
"How old are you?
You're too young for that."
"I'm twenty-six now,
And he's six and a quarter."
Then the conversation turned:
Divorce, youth, and hair.
The car drives away
And she sits just there.
She's proud of her life,
Her son, her beauty, her love.
She'd never trade any
Of these things listed above.

We Are Made Such by Love

I have your heart.
It's my prized possession.
When e'er we are apart,
I hold it in obsession.

But being apart for prolonged years
Without you here in whole,
Makes me every moment close to tears.
I feel hollow and without a soul.

But ss you know, o're there each day
My heart goes along with you,
My dear love, so far away,
Making each day possible to start anew.

Never heartless do we go along;
We each a one we've not used before.
I in trust listen to your's song
And hope that mine to you is not a bore.

So we learn each others hearts this way
As these long years go by.
By choice we have chose this way
Even though we did so with a sigh.

We are made such by love,
And by such are almost undone.
We are made such by love,
You who're away from me but never gone.

Life

I hit a car--
Perfectly it was parked.
It wasn't far;
I just didn't see it.

I got out and knocked
To tell the owner my fault.
He didn't seem so rocked
By having his headlight hit.

Instead of nitty gritty
Insurance, quotes, and such,
He was alright with three twenties,
And I went on my way.

I didn't have cash
So in ten minutes
To the ATM I made a dash,
And remained responsible and unknown.

Serving in the moral moment
I realized how blessed I am.
Though not a time from heaven sent,
I realized how blessed I am.

I have loans and bills,
But I pay them.
Life has it hills,
But I go over.

I have a place to live,
Certain creature comforts,
And when I am trouble given,
I can get through.

Bad Day Events

Spilling a cereal bowl,
Forgetting a debit card,
Showering with socks on,
Breaking a coffee cup,
Shirts on backwards,
Does the Theory of Everything
Explain why a person--
Logical in their ways--
Would be upset
By such a something
They cannot control?

Toes in the Grass

Warm summer wind
Green leaves rustle and sway.
Barefoot again
Watching some children play.

Hair blown about
Sun kissing one's white skin
Symphony of clouds
Listening to summer's din.

Out of a suit,
Apart from air conditioning.
Feeling Earth's heartbeat
While grass keeps tickling.

The Bank Window

Legs crossed in my seat,
No customers to greet,
Sitting in dullness at work
And slowly tapping my feet.

Outside the drive-thru glass
Cars zoom slowly passed.
The winds makes the leaves blow,
And Sun shines making green things grow.

Sky turns somewhat gray
A dog nods his head this way.
I contemplate to keep from sleep;
My coworker files her nails away.

There are old magazines about,
Papers that need tossed out.
The fans blows back to and fro,
And the credit card machine starts to shout.

No customers to greet,
Legs crossed in my seat,
Sitting in dullness at work
And slowly tapping my feet.

Out to Play

Always kept pinned
To be disciplined,
Behaved, mannered,

Taught sitting,
Perfect at staying,
Fantastically heeling,

Coat all clean,
With a little sheen,
Not heard, but seen,

Occasionally though
In order to grow,
All these must go

And in carefree way,
Despite what all will say,
One must play.

If I Could Have

If I could have stayed,
Remained with my heart,
Together we'd've played,
And not now be apart.

If I could have gone
To the other school,
A better job have done,
And not now often feel a fool.

If I could have lept
Myself just a little further,
Stayed up instead of slept,
And not now have my druthers.

But I being me
Didn't stay or go or leap.
Yet taking two steps back
Take joy in all I'll keep.

Summer Wind

Laden with pollen, the wind does blow
Slowing a walk from quickened pace.
Sunshine always coming and berating the face.

Walking on curbs where the weeds do grow,
Bag on the back without socks on feet,
Gives one a chance to surroundings meet.

Summertime flowers and grasses flow
As streaming strong rivers in fields by roads,
And distant is heard all the locusts and toads.

Ants that do carry tremendous loads below,
Birds that compete showing who's song is best
They all do know with what gifts they're blessed.

Flower in hand with one's feet in a snow
Of Cottonwood flakes that have drifted on grass.
Footprints now left where there's a wearing pass.

Workers in cars do not see the show
Busily going, forgetting to slow,
And never will Summer's dear Wind come to know.

Missed Friend

Strange accents,
Talking about philosophy,
Two different arts,
Now turned catastrophy.

Comfortable with telling
All thoughts and wants,
But because of distance
Creativity wants.

Missing a friend
That lives far away,
Is like a child
That can't go and play.

たけぶ裕へ

Moving Day

Looking again at three lives I've had
Taking from each both happy and sad.
Friends from generations helping me move
With conversations changing to fit the grove.
Rockabilly and speed along with the space race;
Should we put the piano in a different place?
Music and poetry, modal changes and style;
Would you unpack the kitchen for a while?
Fever and cultures, love and distant talks;
If you put that there no one can walk.
Moving is tiring and inspiring and sore
So what does this new home have in store?

Package

The smell of a letter
Hand-written and new.
A gift here and there
Bidding adeau.
Obsessing over writing,
Addresses, and tape;
Oh, and forms for customs,
...with a few mistakes.
Items carefully selected
Now packaged nice and neat
To see the other's face
Would be such a treat.
I've received many,
And now it's time to give.
Both bring their joys
That add to how I live.
For a loved one far away
Desirefully I mail.
Please enjoy a package
Though it's slow as a snail.

A Break

I managed to make it this far before making asides. I started this project in order to be able to better examine my life and be able to write about it. However, this last week was my sister's wedding, and I didn't have the time to devote to this. She came first. I will go back and try to reflect on what I've experienced to make up for the lost entries. However, I'm worried. In my experience, writing outside the moment of the emotion doesn't make for better poetry.

Today's:

New Wine

There's a high barrier of entry
Breaking in to the vines--
The definition of finesse
In the form of bottles of wine.

It's an old industry that's full
Of the perfect, expensive, and refined;
Sultry, haughty, simple, or sweet
Nothing beats old bottles of wine.

But creating something that's new,
In something typified and defined,
How should one start to make
Newer bottles of older wines?

Drinkers' palettes all adjusted
Critics there are many to malign
The dreaming vintner should plug the ears
And keep making new bottles of wine.