Thursday, December 11, 2014

not for the faint of heart


contains approx. 5 good poems and 77 bad ones

do not open poetry-in-a-bag unless you are prepared...for the FULL POETRY EXPERIENCE!!!

windrows, rising
high rover!
sunday morning
cups of inspiration
scattered on a fence

was that a bad one or a good one?

i think you know

more poetry for aliens

your letterpress
and speak into your hat
tis all the same receptacle
it's like a little vat

of pleasantry
and other things
you would not understand

the world
the one who can

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

birthday part 2

"one thousand years ago today i fell off my parent tree, and began to root immediately!" "you lucky bastard (sic). i had to crawl for weeks before i found a place. terrible soil! the parent was almost dead, it was his last yield."

"and no sun either, i suppose," says the third one, rolling his 'eyes'.

"it wasn't very good sun," she replies seriously, then turns back to her friend. "but you! sun, good soil, your parent right there..."

"yes, he was young and the leaves were thin. there was plenty for both of us."

"some people have everything, eh?" says the third one, bitterly.

"oh, what about you?" she asks belatedly.

"oh, i have a story of woe far beyond yours, young one. i had to roll into the stones and stay DORMANT for centuries! then the ash covered the land. that went on and on. it was cold, but i slept. others were not so lucky. when i finally emerged, i knew that many of my half-siblings had perished. i was alone. there in that dusty soil i struggled to find enough nutrient. the clouds blew over the sun, night and day. somehow, i rooted. but i was never able to grow large, nor to send out offshoots. all my life, alone. no fruiting, no leaf exchange. finally, the ash returned and i slowly lost life. petrified, i remained conscious a few more decades, and then discharged. i knew nothing, until i woke up here."

thr first two are silent. that small gnarled tree, blown by the bitter winds against the rocks, for so many centuries...they were humbled, and sad. now the troubles of sun-competition, inadequate harvest, water retention, seemed as nothing. how could they have wasted so many cycles on bemoaning it? poor elder, never once to sit in full sun, never even to exchange a leaf-message with a friend. how could it be borne?

the old one laughs. "but i had the joys of becoming stone! that you will never know. the peace that passeth understanding! the pure solidity."

suddenly the sunny days and leafing seem as small potatoes (sic). but one must make the best of it.

i hear it's your birthday!

floating in space, we reminisce.

"back on earth, it's my birthday now," says one. "and mine was last week," says another, and they compare notes. the cards, the presents! the free pizza at dominos! "what about you?" they say to a third.

"oh, we didn't have birthdays as such, " he says modestly. and as the rest exclaim with surprise, "there's mother-laid-the-egg day, there's the initial cracking of the shell, and final emergence day. the shells are very tough."

"wow, you get three of them! do you send cards?"

"well...something like that."

"twas forty years
since the egg was laid
that contained you, wonderful you!
the shell is no more
but we hope you will continue
a hundred other seasons
and lay caches by the score!
upon that distant shore"

(i was just at the reproductive age, he explains)

"wow, i never got a card like that." says mike.

"actually, they were leaves, large leaves."

"oh, ok."

"my ancestor transmuted me on this day 17.5 great cycles ago," says one hitherto silent.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Aliens Like Poetry

they like the way it rambles
underneath your window

one day at a time

a year ago, or many
he came to my apartment
trying vectors
in the frightened night

wandering, solo
windy days
by wind and energy
entropic means, meandering
why, tis the void!

he cried, with enmity
a record ending, endlessly
cracking, by the side

they stroll
across the waters

you do not know
she cried!

they stalk the streets like midnight
agape, unruined, garments fluttering
soon, he died

in chariots of heaviness
creaking by the wheel
and on, the road, it tries

carry over

Friday, June 13, 2014

bringing it all back home

a classic album by bob dylan, yes, but as a way of life it is not entirely feasible. how is one to ship many tons of stuff halfway across the galaxy? if everything one has found or learned from here were to go, one would have to hire a large size freighter! as it is, one will be lucky to find transport at all. the cats may be somewhat surprised at first, but will soon be enjoying the lower gravity.

meantime we are sifting through the many years of accumulation, a pastime even known to the natives if not much practised. how many boxes of old recipes etc can a person acquire in one short "lifetime"?

well! what will i actually take? a few small items from the collection of oddities, perhaps. some of these so-called books. all the old notebooks and "letters" can be removed in advance, not at all interesting, other than the funny parts. where is the invention of fruities, the colorful cheerful fun treat? now with accessories! and how about the self-propelling pants? or perhaps i made that one up just now. save yourself a trip to the store, with new "walkin' jeans"! just attach the handy money belt and carrying sack, and in minutes you will have that box of wheat thins and all-natural cheese. without even leaving the couch!


just kidding. reassignment is many years away.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

it's all relative!

my sense of relative size is a bit weak, he said. for instance, only this morning there was a vast obelisk towering over me, swatched with massive sheets of heavy linen; must have been twenty feet high at least! i was afraid it was going to fall on me.

and i suppose it was just the kleenex box by your bed.

that's it!


and the other day, i went out for some groceries, and there was this little flat box, about three inches wide, this little gray box on the ground, and these tiny ants crawling in and out. well, that wasn't going to do me any good!

what happened?

oh, i got a cart and went on inside.


what happens when you want to watch tv, jones?

ah, well you may ask! it's either the size of a sugar cuge with little flashing lights on it, or it's this vast gargantuan thing the size of mount everest. the booming! it nearly breaks my ears. and just imagine barbara walters three miles high!

no thanks!


dinner at the joneses.

first mr jones spends half an hour trying to walk around and/or row across his bowl of soup. "harold!" says mrs jones, "snap out of it!" "oh right" says he, picking up his spoon.

then he's all right for a while, but then it's time for spaghetti and you should see him heave those ropes! "takes ten men to pull a one of em" he cries, clearly back in the ancient world of sailing ships. "harold!" shouts the mrs, and he gets on with it.

dessert is no problem, but the cream pitcher for his coffee seems to have turned into niagara falls. "other people would like some too, dear" mrs j points out.