One Limerick Everyday

On Writing

2011-09-29T22:27:00.000-07:00

[Something I wrote a very long time ago and updated....]

They intertwine, these sentences of molten fire,
deeper, secret, carnal desires,
screams, stifled by echoes in an expanding gyre,
I follow dreams, of London, of Yorkshire.

Everything said before, wearily watches a has been,
tattered soul in black typeface,
purveyor of crevices in a dream.
Sell it! Sell it! With a squirt gun and a mace,
Sometimes trite praise settles like a weary sheen.

In the head eddies of lava,
flow through the blood,
crusted uncertainty of a volcano fuel cups of kava,
and eruptions the color of mud,
some settle ash in my brain – m.a.y.a…

Words I don’t understand…
But their power holds and sometimes paroxysms of laughter,
reverberate against a thick tympanum that withstands,
smooth voices like honey, lashing rain, and the loneliness of despair, now and ever after…

Baby Squirrel

2010-08-18T13:57:00.000-07:00

Hold the live, squirming thing in cupped hands,
bony vertebrate back flips into a ramrod-straight wand,
or a droopy tail that wraps like a languid snake,
and trembles as you inspect the make,
of this downy prickle of fur,
that someone brought in to work,
along with squirrel formula and stories of hurt,
and entrapment from crevices in rooftops filled with dirt.
This wild forager now used to human touch,
when released, will it amount to much?

Sailing

2010-07-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

Sail through Corkscrew slough,
in a trimaran stocked with fizzy brew,
On the glittering business of urban water,
past the sewage treatment plant and urban matter,
beyond the Waterworld set still serving time,
past the Redwood City harbor line.

That quixotic reference to the push and pull of tide,
marks a white line along the marsh grass to one side,
and a beach that may not be one,
built by mud and shells disintegrating in the sun,
and the pelicans that fly high above,
flock here to their private bathtub.

Think of what you don't think about when you drive by here,
the seals, for one, look worse for the wear,
in their flaccid bellies lies the fate of populations,
from their dwindling numbers you talk about fluctuations,
Or not, because the day is too nice,
why talk science when you can traipse,
around that flotilla of sailboats,
in a beer can race for the best float.

Binaural Beats

2010-07-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

They say that today more parents worry,
their kids are getting high in a hurry,
this has to do with kids that sit alone,
and listen to music on a headphone,
what they listen to can induce a drug like trance,
and that's too bad because it won't make them prance,
or do anything different with stimulated expression,
because their ears receive two different sounds, this can lead to depression.
How did this story wind its way into NPR?
It stymied my "light rock less talk" plans in my car,
and got me thinking of kids in overachieving school districts,
if all they get to do is fake a high on music - so be it.

Chant

2010-07-15T11:10:00.001-07:00

My favorite chant,
is a Kurt Vonnegut rant,
it goes, "Rented a tent, a tent, a tent,
Rented a rented a tent."
A weary soldier haunts and vents,
the senselessness that life invents,
and puts fear and caprice in my brain,
which by day's end is a drain.

Circular Run

2010-07-13T16:33:00.000-07:00

A Dr Suess rhyme,
comes to my mind,
why do you like to run, run, run?
I run for fun in the hot hot sun.
Or maybe Dr Suess is not what I'm thinking,
someone said when the cramp comes you should be winking,
or smile your way through the beauty of pain,
go run your heart out in rain or hail.
Or that time when my dad read a book on running,
and found his interest was waning,
he said he didn't know what the fuss was about,
that Haruki Murakami chap only wrote about doubt,
which then makes me doubt that guy with the GPS watch,
it goes beep beep beep every mile that I'm wrought,
he comes back to me to help pace my run,
I doubt I'll ever tell him that I run for fun,
He tells me his life story at mile 8 and a half,
beep beep beep at plot points and heightened tension in the calf,
I think about how historically there have been incidents,
Yukio Mishima was a writer who once made a commitment,
to commit seppuku before he grew old,
and he followed through and left a gaping literary hole,
does that mean then that I need a spectacular reason to run?
I'm running to cure cancer, and I hear a shout, "On yer left, you bums!"
Whatever, you moron, you think you're Lance Armstrong on a bike,
you think you have biceps, you think you want to fight?
But no one says anything and the road is a slow weary wind,
I see that bend near the creek, now I will push, I will grind.

Seaweed

2010-07-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

The three-year old treads through water,
for him the seaweed and fish don't matter,
he tastes the salt of the ocean,
feels the Atlantic breeze is an omen,
a harbinger of things he cannot yet articulate,
and emotions he cannot facilitate,
except by a capacity,
to establish the veracity,
of a claim his dad has made,
that mommy needs to stay in the shade,
because she is afraid to wade,
through seaweed that makes her toes curl,
oh, she is such a girl.

Hot Potato

2010-06-23T12:53:00.000-07:00

After calibrated measure,
for my company's pleasure,
he dropped me like a hot potato,
when talk featured the husband, my hero,
so in the pursuit of training,
the guy, he went sprinting,
to greener pastures in the crowd,
See how green he is, how eager, how proud.

Camp

2010-06-21T22:41:00.000-07:00

Summer camp,
sweltering swamp,
spotted, a rainforest cafe,
fight the hordes for that latte.

Bad News

2010-06-18T15:04:00.000-07:00

The three year old yells, yells, yells,
he seems to do this very well,
I tell him the neighbors will call 911,
they will take away my only son,
He pauses because this wild claim may be true,
Then throws away his other shoe,
"I have bad news too," he says as he runs,
"the bad news is that I'm not having fun."

Status Quo

2010-06-16T23:01:00.000-07:00

No drama Obama,
pack BP off to Havana,
else do something strange,
throw a tantrum for a change,
pace or race us, or negate us,
at least on a podium you outlast us,
tell us how we like to live,
go on say it as it is,
we cannot reduce our dependence,
and profess to maintain independence,
and thus remains the status quo,
tell us what we must know,
that the more things change,
the more they remain the same,
and that is what seems strange.

Allegiance to Art

2010-06-15T07:51:00.000-07:00

The three year old says the Pledge of Allegiance,
and will not listen to reason,
says his teacher taught him to recite by heart,
one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for art.

Itsy bitsy

2010-06-13T22:56:00.000-07:00

Went looking for a bikini,
everything seemed so teeny,
between a full cup and a half measure,
lay the stressful pursuit of leisure.

Interruption

2010-06-12T23:03:00.000-07:00

I think I lost my phone today,
must have happened when I was out at play,
I put these words to a U2 song,
to it's tune I sing along,
What happens when life disrupts
and makes a routine's end abrupt,
and in five minutes I learn to live,
without need, want, and the desire to give,
then I find the phone in my car,
and I begin to call everyone near and far.

Memorial On Grass

2010-06-11T09:31:00.000-07:00

The three-year old stares at the revolving paper pinwheel,

looks at the paper flowers inside the rim of steel.

“That teddy bear has fallen over in the grass,”

“why are the pictures of kids there outside of class?”

I have to ignore him, there is nothing to say,

We’re at the stop light, we must be on our way.

“But I want to go there, that place looks like fun.”

“It’s a sad place,” I say, “and definitely not in this sun.”

“But…but…but…I want to go there, there are kids and a park and a bear.”

The red light is not green yet, I have a burden to share.

I tell him then that all is not well,

with these kids and their pictures decorated with pieces of shell,

that the place may look happy but in fact it is sad,

because these children don’t live on the earth anymore and no one should be glad.

The grownups made this place here so no one would forget,

the pictures of two teenagers whose lives became regret.

I can tell him about heaven and hell but I don’t know what I believe,

to tell him less is a better relief.

“So where do they live now?” he asks and the light turns green,

“I don’t know,” I say because I really don’t know what I mean.

“Where are their moms then? Are the moms very sad?”

“Their moms are very unhappy, their loss is very bad.”

“Why don’t you know where the children went?”

“I don’t know everything, I can’t know everything” I begin to vent.

We drive home in silence and I don’t know why,

but these words come to me from Anna Karenina, from a character who is shy.

And Tolstoy took these words from the Bible, and made this character speak,

And I recall these words in my mind for my son who is not meek,

“Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.”

Through this reverie I hear a piping voice asking if I will again bake cakes.

I say, “No, not today, why don’t you just play with your all your cars?”

He says, “Mama, you know, I think those children, they must be on Mars.”