InkTober 2019: October 1st - 6th (speed round of poetry)

October 1st - Ring

Samwise Gamgee could have carried it all the way but
Frodo Baggins was a little selfish. Wanted to save the world,
wanted to be the selfless one. Took it all on himself,
when, not up for argument, he had the real hero standing beside
him the entire time. But we don't have time for great halls, or dark times, even though we live in them as a constant of every minute, of everyday.

The point being if you have a Samwise, who goes about "dropping eaves" while being curious about the general well-being of the garden and his master-friend, do not let that hero go on simply
being your cheerleader, share the load, carry that burden together,
that's what friends are for, so they say.

Each day brings about a bit of nonsense, but don't be a Frodo, don't be an attention hog, and whine about how hard it is, and let your Samwise watch you suffer, he's there to help you, she's there to help you, they're there to help you.

So don't be a Gollum-Smeagol and give up the ring already, you're only making it harder on the both of you.

October 2nd - Mindless

It seems a bit funny,
doesn't it?
To argue with a pumpkin,
with fish lips, and the language of a four-year old,
except for maybe rape, except for tax evasion, except for Ukraine.

But its not funny,
because you can't hold an empty gourd up to any standard,
can't beg it to be civil, when it don't even know how to
speak.
It seems funny,
but it isn't.

Doens't it seem so, though?
As the orange-whatever is rolled out in front of the podium,
unsure of how it got there,
never took the time to watch even a movie, let alone take a course in speech,
to understand you don't have to flail your arms around,
and if you flail your arms in mockery then you should probably
be filleted up in a garbage disposal.
But the orange-whatever,

pumpkin,
gourd,

is left to dangle arms in wild gestures, flailing back and forth, because
the puppeteer didn't get their training as well.

its a little unfair?
comparing a president to a pumpkin, unfair
to the pumpkin,
and unfair to us.

October 3rd - Bait

We catch and release for sport.
Sounds about right.
We are men,
I suppose, men as in mankind,
but it aint so kind.

Hook the jagged little pill into the cheek of some little guppy,
should be a blessing if it aint too big, too small to eat,
to small to bother to be chopped up.

The bigger you go, the more likely you'll be objectified,
stripped, and gutted, but then you gotta be filleted,
gotta be cooked up. but maybe not right away,
maybe you get put on hold, on ice, get locked away in
the dark, till the craving comes along.

i guess that's like men sometimes,
not mankind, but like men, but mankind too.
Catch and release, 
move on to the next fish in the sea,
not all men I suppose, some catch em,
and some toss em back, and some take great care,
admire what makes them unique in a fish tank,
but not as a prison, as a haven-place.

that's like mankind too,
and man, or woman, or them.

Not so black and white in the water,
though it can be murky brown,
there's still some green, some blue,
and if you go deep enough some bio-luminescence.
i think,

I'm not a nautical expert,
but I think we can be better to the fish.

October 4th - Freeze

Isn't that what they told them,
then they did,
they froze. Shot
them anyway,
why not, their frozen,
paralyzed by the light,
by the trained gun.
Considering that the owner
of trigger finger might
might might want to just
try it.
Freeze. You're it, tag, I guess
but no one wins it,
no one does.
October 5th - Build

How do you build for a future,
when the foundation was not there.
Because plans changed, didn't have any cement
to hold me in place.
How do I build this,
discovering self at thirty,
it's strange, isn't it, to think that
the future is finally viable-visible.

Foundation is going down now,
cement is being poured, mixed, I'm transfixed
on the notion that its tangible,
and difficult, but why is difficult
a bad thing.

I've never been a builder, an architect, but maybe
I was all along, after all I've come out someone
elses dream, and miracle, but these extensions
I nailed up myself, painted, and finished,
remodeled, and tour down, maybe I did have a foundation
in the form of a motherly hope,
maybe I did. I think so.
I think I did.

October 6th - Husky

It used to be a euphemism for fat.
"You're not fat, you're husky."
No, you're fat, a husky is a dog.
You are fat. Not as fat as you have been,
but still up there. Personally,
don't find that okay, personally
always wanted to change that, be nice
to walk up to a clothes rack and not have
to settle for what works for my frame.

Husky dogs are cute. Loyal, take charge,
vigilant. But maybe they are not husky,
maybe they are fat. 

Thinking of You OR The Erasure of Instruction in Favor of Rebellion at the Expense of a Wonderful Light - a prose poem

Memory is a funny thing when it is overcome by the present. Especially as the faded images of youthful wonderment are replaced with the angsty rebellion of young adulthood. When the innocent perceptions are thwarted by the absolute bitterness that comes with growing up. Betrayed by time, my promises broken, because when you were made promises as a kid, they were everlasting and evergreen.

Its painful seeing the ones you love, ignoring all the signs and times of instruction, and care, and understanding, and some how allowing themselves to twist it all into something horrific. Maybe its that I have witnessed true terror in the stories of those in my life, who have had awful terrors done upon them, that I can't quite see the demonizing of a saint.

Memories fluctuate like water. Like a wave that kissed the shore, and returns to strike it hard. Water that was once cool, and refreshing, now boiling to cause damage. Where did the shift even happen? When will, if ever, the world truth become clear, and the colors sorted out, instead of seeing in this black and white. Because, surely the world is not black and white, light particles that dance in the atmosphere being shattered into the sun, they create the colors. Prism patterns across space and time, on the surface and internally.

How do we only see ourselves, and our own self-hatred, and completely ignored the hands that have tried in vain to guide a bitter soul into some path of light.

How can you crucify a saint? A maternal instinct to protect, to provide love, to instruct, even with their own flaws, how can you burn them at the stake? Because you didn't like the way they spoke to you, because you couldn't accept a lecture, simply because you sucked at keeping notes.

Memory is this fickle thing. And its becoming harder to see the point in trying anymore, if the rose colored glasses have been replaced by glasses that are shards of their glass, that bleed out, and cause them some sort of victim hood.

The saint remains a saint, and you can only hope with time that they might see that, but you have your doubts. Memory is a funny thing, and none of us see it the same, but none of us should simply assume the worst, that is why the world suffers, has suffered and will suffer. Because none of us will take the time to inspect ourselves, will only point out the filth on the others hands, instead of the feces that has smothered our arms, so that it is impossible to embrace.

I will always love my mother, and that is something that not everyone can do, because she has always been the guiding light, even as she faced her own extinction, she has always been the saint for me. Memory is a dastardly thing, that it can be ignored, to create a present wrong, freed from the context of everything that came before, shame on that view.

This saint does not deserve that. Surely, she does not.

Stage Directive - A Hermit Crab Poem

Act 1 Scene 1

The stage should be lit with a red hue. Hell is the mood. Angry. This is a family drama. But don’t saturate it too much. Keep brightness lowered. Emphasize red, but a red that is not mistaken for love. Anger is the mood. This is hell. A family drama. The curtain will be open on these secrets. The red hue should highlight the sole kitchen table. Three chairs are present. They are empty. One for the mother, one for the son, and one for the father. He is never there.

MaryBeth: (Offstage) I never knew someone so horrible. I never knew them in my life. But under my roof. I never knew it.

Light is still red. But there’s a tonal shift. Gray scaled upwards so that its moving to marry white. The light should be dark still, but not as dark as the beginning.

Peter ENTERS. He’s a small boy. He climbs onto his chair and sits. He picks up a plate and throws it behind his head. It shatters. This should all be captured in the new red light.

MaryBeth ENTERS now.

MaryBeth: And as to prove my point.

MaryBeth grabs hold of Peter’s ear and lifts him from the chair. She slaps him across the face.

Peter: But it is only a plate mama. It is only a plate. Can’t you see, truthfully, that it is only a plate. And now it’s in pieces. But only a plate mama, see? Only a plate in pieces.

MaryBeth: No son. No son it is not. It is never just a plate.

Peter: Only if you say so mama. Only if you say so.

The action freezes on MaryBeth and Peter and the stage goes dark. Adult Peter steps into spotlight.

Adult Peter: I am what she said I was. I am. But I’ll still smash plates. And I’ll still not care. For a plate is a plate, just as a sentence is words arranged to make meaning. Make meaning, yeah, that’s what we’re doing. Making meaning.

Spotlight goes out. Stage is blacked out now.

Act I Scene 2

This is What it Is - a poem

the flower pot fell against the concrete.
you know that it shattered, so why should I tell you, fill in the blanks with you knowledge of flower pots.
the flower pot fell against the concrete.
but did it shatter?
perhaps this particular flower pot was resistant to breaking, blessed by a crafty witch, but this is reality, not fantasy.
the flower pot fell against the concrete.
this is just what it did, there need not be more to this story than that,
but so what if there was?
and so what if there isn't?

why does this story keep  coming back?
for what is the point of this narration if not to bring us back to our basic instincts of the rules of gravity, but there are no rules of gravity here, Newton's laws only graced the pages,
Newton's laws defined the natural laws but not the laws of pages.

the flower pot fell against the concrete,
but I don't give two shits after that
this is no story to be told, this is just a thing to write about
like anything to write about
we assign meaning, we assign truth,
these are but words, this is put a page

so,
the flower pot fell against concrete,

and so it did.

When There's Wonder Left At All - a poem

When There’s Wonder Left At All

I remember a night light in the corner

of my room to frighten little dust mites. They gave the monster

under my bed a terrible sniffle whenever they wandered

near. He would sneeze, and I’d say God bless,

though I wasn’t sure he cared. 

In case his nostrils were bothered by flakes

drifting sleeplessly through air so sheepishly, and should

he care to sneeze and I offer blessings of deity, I always kept a box

of tissue handy. He not only sneezed, but cried

at length too, and I too, cried too. I felt for him but would never

know what sadness a demon-looking-stranger might know,

maybe it was that he was stuck under a twin sized bed

in my american city.

The night light waned

one time. Dust mites went near its flickering.

Then it died, and the monster contracted a terrible

head cold. My mother said good riddance but I pleaded

with her to get a doctor to make a house call.

My mother said that this was America

early twenty-first century and no well intentioned doctor made house calls.

I would settle for my father in a chef coat to check-up on monster.

He said the beast was terminal, and would probably die

soon. I begged him to make him well, my father shrugged sure.

He gave me a piece of composition paper. He’d written

a diagnosis: a case of the gloomies.

And the treatment: no sleeping near teddy bears.

My mother came by a whole one year on to kiss me

goodnight, she bothered a  good night to monster

under bed. I told her it was silly, nothing was there. She patted

me on the head, and began to cry. She said time caused her to cry.

Adults can be pretty funny sometimes, I told her I couldn’t wait to be a funny adult too.

She then told me that that was enough

such foolishness, that I should stay a child eternal, like peter pan

she told me, never grow up.  Always believe in monsters under beds, the comforting

power of night lights to fight off dust mites. But I’d thrown out

my night light in the garbage bin.

They Say the World is on Fire - A Poem

Everything illuminated under a waning moon

that waxes nothing resembling poetry and thus nothing

resembling nuance. As sudden shudder of wind clasps

on back of unsuspecting the ritual feels weighted by

misery that cannot be beguiled back. For the setting

sun did not leave much to desire, and the pupils

went to rest behind the shade of fleshy lids

as the moon rose its midnight serenade

dropped on deaf ears. This swan song of sparkling

injustice was only heard by the few, the quiet sort

of night people who resembled owls in their wide

eyed miserable stares but who could not know who

it was who made the stink in the first place. Thus

it goes that nighttime ends and whines of moon

are left to its phases, but the people want a picture

book setting when all they get is a text they cannot

decipher, and all they get is a song they tune right out

and the sons and daughters are less well for it,

they are down right sick for it, for it is negligence

of celestial songs that got us to burning down

a rainforest, forgetting humanity were caretakers

of earth. Everything illuminated under a waning moon,

but everyone is sleeping, so no one is caring to be

awake.

Just a Prayer in America in 2019 - a poem

Just a Prayer in America in 2019

take a chill pill friend before your head pops like a pimple
on the verge of infection and mucus substances pour
on the helpless individuals that stand around you. It never helps
to stress too much, nor does it aid to stress too little and making
it all too late to change. There's a balance in avoiding collateral
damage, a little ballet to play with the brain as rain pats down in pitters
and dampens all that came before, and you remember how that went
when the world collapsed around you, suction created by black hole
dreads that deepened as you, you stepped farther away on thin air. Progress
was nil but you can't expect progress when you're ten feet off the ground
without traction, yes you'll slash and shout with hands and mouth,
but there's no way to make an impact if all that troubles you is at the back
of the hall and you aren't even on the ground to let gravity do its work.
Traction is important. Planting yourself in the realness of your surrounding
is important. It has to be tangible and graspable and changeable. No use spitting
on it when it needs to be choked up and removed from the earth. Don't get buried,
don't let a crash zone stretch back to black hole as you dig too deep.
Such a thing as burying too deep. Such a thing as digging your own hole.
Such a thing as burying yourself whole. Such a thing as a grave you dug.
Such a thing as a grave you dug.