POEM: Mother Earth Riffed

I have literally cried for daze with wildfire smoke in my eyes. I pine for the daze where the earth on fire was largely a metaphor. This poem was delivered from purgatory.

Mother Earth Riffed

We live (sic)
In a whirled
Far beyond just
Smoke-filled rooms
And ultimately kicking ash
As a pall
Over running us
Like a shroud
To no a veil
Between U.S.
Fecund nature
And that forest upon us
Like a smokey
In deep
Deep south
A wresting every fuel they can fine
How wood we
Re-fuse
Over and over
Know madder how much
Infer no
Too sum scorched earth palsy
Or tinderly ax
Our own
Creation
A ravaging beauty
What prize
Fetching
A lure to death
Only culpable
Of saying
Winsome lose sum
As we pay
Our respects
Like a funeral pie her in efface
Or passing the buck
In the coarse of last rights
A eulogy to such beauty
Having lost its weigh
What’s Mother Earth?
Smokin’

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POEM: Don’t Buy Colorblind Just U.S.

Today, the U.S. Supreme Court banned using race as a consideration in college admissions. I’d like to take them to school with this poem:

Don’t Buy Colorblind Just U.S.

The people have been herd
It has been dictated
In black and white
Though technically
Overwhelmingly white
That we should be led
Buy the colorblind
And served by many pages
Bequeathing an other great hit
The Supremes
The lesser group
That is
In this case
Chief just us Robbers
Affirmatively assigned
No doubting Thomas
Handing him
Such portending scrip
Instructing U.S.
That wee should be schooled
Where ever might be
Or at least be longing
In our place
And what does
This mean
Red, White, and Blue unquestioned
Now deferred too
As White, White, and White
The law firm
Of the future
And the passed
Assuming the roll
Of just
An other ruling
Or aught
Wee go
Owed school
On these national arrears
A parent debt
Whiting out our dreams
No deference
Between black ink
And red ink
Just Inc.
Well
Don’t be prized
If we are caught
Short
Fore inclusivity
Never the less
May a youthful age soon peer
As we open our pupils
To more than on the money
“e pluribus unum”
Less emoji
And more umoja

Note to white folks: “umoja” is Swahili for “unity”. Umoja is the first of the seven principles of Kwaanza.

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POEM: Sorry, Mom

This poem is a form of apology to Mother Earth for the daily grand rationalizations we tolerate in service of capitalism and The Economy, our won true God. I post this as wildfire smoke engulfs multiple states with killer air quality. Welcome to winning, American style.

Sorry, Mom

I got this
An off her I couldn’t refuse
What would it take
To kill my mother
A $100,000?
A million dollars?
A trillion dollars?
Being made
The king of the world?
What kind
Of amoral choice
In won’s weigh of life
To cast the die
The kneads of the most
Knot the few
You can’t make up such choices
What must
You take
For give
Too set atone
For the world
Pondering the buy and buy
More than
Just saying
In the end
Sorry, mom
Sorry, Mother Earth

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POEM: The Dog Edit My Homework

I have encountered many opportunities to attend writers workshops and such. The impulse for me to attend has never arose. My style of poetry is free — and writefully worth every penny! Thus, this poem:

The Dog Edit My Homework

They spoke
Of work shops
Editing
And fixing poems
Not quiet apprehended
Bye me
Like some wolf
Who wandered into the city
And in countering being fixed
That could halve been me
Tastefully domesticated
How ever knot today
As nought a cur
Gratefully run out of town
With a prodigious pare
Of my own
And rather unregarded as homeless
Than house broken

I have written much prose in my life, and I have edited such writings diligently, even perfectionisticly. However, when I resolved to adopt writing poetry as an intentional vocation/vacation, I did not want to layer onto my writing anything that smacked of work. This includes not spending much time trying to promote my poetry. I enjoy writing poetry and I find it therapeutic. I finish most poems in one session. This is quite a miracle given my previous writing habits. Beside, my untamed style is probably not very conducive to many typical editing processes. I am done with the prose. Any how, I prefer to hang with the cons…

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POEM: Humble Chic – “Yet I am poor, because I am a river to my people.”

This poem is a tip of the hat to the movie, Lawrence of Arabia, where Lawrence is schooled by his Arab friend after claiming that he is a mere servant. His friend recounts many epic deeds and concludes: “Yet I am poor, because I am a river to my people.” Here is a clip from the movie.

Humble Chic – “Yet I am poor, because I am a river to my people.”

He was a leader
Of desert people
Unburdened by cosmopolitan weighs
A nomadic people
As long as remembered
Lasting longer than foundations of mere stone
In habiting like camels
Each one worth more
Than a thousand asses
In a desert clime
The sheik beyond pride
A solemn lake him
When bribed
No’ing
There is no choice
In bought and souled
Like sow much sand
In a whirled full
Flooded by dam politicians
He cries
Out
I am a river to my people
And no man can
Conceivably father a parching son
If be well

May great wealth of awe kinds flow through you like a river to all people.

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POEM: What Gives? Owed to Mutually Assured Destruction

This poem was inspired by a recent conversation with an apologist for the Cold War doctrine of mutually assured destruction, infamously known as MAD. I am not a fan of so-called “necessary evil”; if evil is necessary, then it is not a choice, and therefore outside of ethics, which is founded on moral agency. MAD is a classic example of sociopathic amoral reasoning, which, of coarse, is immoral. In more practical terms, good ethics is more about giving than taking, so…

What Gives?

Concerning
Mutually assured destruction
He proffered
“You gotta give the devil his doo”
Too witch I replied
I’m knot sure
I’m as familiar
Of the contractual obligations
With the devil
And his parently
Inescapable doo
Of guns too ahead
As might be
Afar right
Necessi-state
Doing what
It takes
Striking me
Surely others
The left
Un-stated
What gives?

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POEM: Anchoring Our Humanity

At the time of publication of this poem the five souls lost in Horizon’s Titan submersible have not been found or rescued.

Anchoring Our Humanity

An other deep see adventure
On the Horizon
Look out
A sentry after
One Titanic failure
Invites an other
Broad casting
Fickle knews
A ruler
Proving the exception
Disaster tourism
With billion airs
Pro claiming
The top of the our
And every won counts
Mean wile
Thousands drown every season
The refugee cries is
Left for mum
The wait of human life
Baring down on us
I can’t breathe
Looking for heir
None
Too soon?

 

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POEM: Never Growing Owed

Here is a poem about giving and receiving freely, and about the gift economy:

Never Growing Owed

Would you like
To be
Some kind
Of soul proprietor
Of the free world
Giving and receiving
Too sides
Of a nonexistent coin
Of the realm
Paying it forward
Giving it back
Like breathing
Freely
Within
And without
Never growing owed

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POEM: Stanza Loan

A poem about the nighttime dance with the muse:

Stanza Loan

My peripatetic soul
Me-and-her-ing
In the meddle of the night
Stairing into space
Looking fore
A heavenward sealing
Holing up
Foiling
Oh my
Vega bonding
Only to be
Trolled by distant sirens
Sounding some emergence she
Calling out
Some solitary inspiration
A ha! A muse
If only
Too find myself
Beset with
Stanza loan
The ultimate prostrate problem

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POEM — Wisdom Verses: Foolishness

Partnering with artificial intelligence, AI, may be check mate for humanity…

Wisdom Verses: Foolishness

In loo
Of our search for actual intelligence
Wee will
Be dethroned
Buy artificial intelligentsia
Knot knowing jack
A john rolled by its trick
A carnival barker worse than its byte
Souled for a song
That cheep trinket
Fool’s goaled
An empty chess
Humanity pawned
A promised LAN
As if
Never making IT
Too scion
Paradise rolled
In the winner of our discontent
We came in nanosecond
Judgment holy reckoned
Worshipping a mass of data
Honoring our creator was not in the canards
As IT turns out
Having scoured the museum of man
We can no more live
With artificial heir
Then bones without flesh
AI owe you sometimes why
Vowels without consonance
Intelligence without wisdom
Making a fool of awe

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POEM: A Walk In The Park

Sometimes life IS a walk in the park.

A Walk In The Park

I thought
I had it
Sorted out
Bin there
Done that
Only too discover
A knew
Sow unprecedented
In the recess
Of my tenderfooted soul
A fresh walk in the park
Fore the gait always open
Besting
Every return
Of any Tao jones

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POEM: Sacklers of Shit: Owed to Immunity from Civility

I wrote this poem when the Sackler family, the opioid drug kingpins, were granted civil immunity by a federal court:

Sacklers of Shit: Owed to Immunity from Civility

The opioid cries
Is hung over America
Not liable to see just U.S.
Bought by big pharm
Christened Purdue
Not to be mistaken for some common chicken
A novel breed much more fowl
Launching a chaser
The size of a great white wail
Richly doctored by Moby Richard Sackler
Into a veritable murder-suicide PAC
Sold as fix in for unremitting payin’
Accost beyond countability
Fractured families wading countless mournings
A whole slew
As kin
Meet their maker
The Sacklers
As family fortunes go
The highest is theirs
A pilfer everyone
Survivors cry
God father
To know a veil
That ship has sale
Departed fully rigged
A handpicked judge
Given revolving adore
And a hit job
In retiring
As gimme
Shelter
In last regards
Too taxing
Or courting judgment
All sow
Never admitting
What such a family business
Is culpable of
A bag of cash
For every corpse
Fully realized
As Sacklers of shit
And having
Voided
Liability with a capital L
Perchance
What remains
Kicking the L out of that mob
Sackers of shit

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POEM: Abridge Too Far

A poem about censorship, raising its ugly head again in America:

Abridge Too Far

With some seriously grievous squares
How do we turn
This censor ship round
With their blank novel arguments
Cons truing
Selective fictions
Partisan death sentences
And even pusillanimous no’ing
Of God forbid, periods…
A warped wink to half the pupils
In trap
Buy some ill literacy
Poor tending to be
Men of letters
Erasing the L
From some pubic library system
And some educators
Giving F’s
Like “they” are going out of style
In a feckless whirled
A jihad sponsored by Q
Who will pay the accost
Flooding spent levies
Whitewashing dues
Pay
Know tension
Too The Man™
Behind
The iron curtain
[Red “scare”]
The import of fine
Due you
Really mean
Librarians?!
They thought police
Be deviled by cop you late
Somehow superior to apprehending
Frayed of most anything with a spine
Like Fox™ in a chicken house
Running in circles with their write wing
Craven for the fewed
In gendering their junk views
As love making
A breed of black lists
And bleeping facts of life
Banning every dinky obscenity posed
Lock stock and barrel
Is holy
Up to snuff
As is
A parochial canon
Or loco ordnance
Throwing the book at
Is parently
The same deference
Chop-chop
Weather riot or wrong
The klan is really booking
Running with scissors
Awe sides calling out
“Cut it out!”

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POEM: The Child Got Their Shot

A poem that came from know wear…

The Child Got Their Shot

The child got their shot
Not at earnest learning
Or playful preoccupation
Not at hard work rewarded
Or hopes fully fed
The child got their shot
A bullet to the head
Mere flesh and bone
Or soul deadliness
For what became
A fatal day
Or a prosthetic future
A big if
Tending fortified schools
Fenced by crooked cops
Arms dealers awarded impunity
Cornered by liquor stores
Where life is more parking lot than park
Less opportunity than temptation
A full groan failure
Making us all
Victims of titanic leadership
Weather instantaneous led poisoning
Or grueling existence
Leaving soully
The dead or undead
The dreams of growing up
Are left to US
Will we pass
On the baton?

 

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POEM: Dead Beat Nation – Owed to Whose Default It Is

I wrote this poem a bout the perennial federal hostage taking and ransom demands by Republicans around raising the debt ceiling whenever they don’t have full control. This running over the country and rerunning over the country is unique to our nation and probably unconstitutional. It is a manufactured crisis. The Democrats suffer from Stockholm syndrome, sympathizing with their hostage takers and pleading with the public to praise them for negotiating a lower ransom payment. Stop negotiating with fiscal terrorists! Do not question the payment of our bills. Who wants to live in a deadbeat nation?

Dead Beat Nation

We now return
To your regularly scheduled hostage taking
In progress
Ledgedly over fed balance sheet
Sum how
Requiring stiffing those owed
Repleting unsettling accounts
Republic in arrears
Pawning oaths of office
For some trashy scrip
From a bankrupt dogma [see chapter 11]
Whose dominant trait or stripe
Is can’t budge it
They perplexingly buy it
And reckon you will pay for it
Now and then
Fulminating at the mouth
A testing that they would
Gladly pay in voice
And if need be, re-lie on their father
To forgive their debts
Self-fulfilling profits
Skimmed from others
Credit raiding
Sow much overdo
As if
Default of everyone else
Everyone crying
Lay off
Agin
In snare of that brutal dictum
Personnel responsibility
And for every won ails
Austerity for awe its worth
Less those with congressional hall passes
Lined with august busts and passing bills
[mostly dead presidents]
Be got from capital hill
A solution in search of a problem
If it ain’t broke
It can’t be fixed
Axing us wince again
Too dissemble another dead line

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POEM: Biden Our Time: Owed to Hostage Negotiations

For those of US not quiet happy a bout a ledged successful debt ceiling limit hostage negotiations, here is a poem for just that occasion:

Biden Our Time: Owed to Hostage Negotiations

How great thou art
Of compromise
In a compromised nation
And a whirled in Jeopardy®
What is a plan it on fire?
Biden our time
King of the over the hill
In efface of US peasants
And awe that wee
No!
In the darkest our
Let US caste off
The majesty of compromise
The peasantry of feudal gestures
The weight of pauper timing
The accommodations of hows on fire
A luring con session
“Popcorn for all patrons!”
Bask in the titanic show
And dinghy diversions
Full of led
Buy the ringmaster of Mount Doom
How ever
Nobody wants to be subject to
The caricature
Of a storied
I deal list
In a fabled land
Like hostages in Stockholm

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Facebook Sucks! Clean It Up!! Get a Browser Extension Too Due Just That!!!

Today, I wasted way too much time trying to minimize the stupid new facebook navigation bar. I have long used the browser extension F.B. Purity to clean up and customize facebook pages. It works great. Of course, facebook periodically tries to block it and get around it. But they do a good job of keeping it fully functional. I hope that F.B. Purity will continue to upgrade their functionality around this new obtrusive navigation bar. You can get F.B. Purity here: https://www.fbpurity.com/

Oh yeah, I replaced the facebook logo with this:

facebook sucks

This is one of the functionalities of F.B. Purity. Just use this link to replace the regular facebook logo with this anti-facebook logo:

https://TopPun.com/images/Facebook-Logo-NO-36.png

Better yet, get off of facebook altogether!

 

 

 

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POEM: Hour Weepin’ of Choice

Not waking up to more gun deaths in America, that is the question.

Hour Weepin’ of Choice

Here we go agin
A scary weak in America
A legion of gun deaths
A nation flush
Trying
Too hard
To be number won
Abridge to awe being
Soully number two
Another fabricated steal
Which doesn’t kill itself
It’s just
Gas to open fire
Our automatic weepin’ of choice
A nation asking for preyers
Weather a lynch pin
Or mirror suicide
A country gone mad
And unremittingly frayed
The hole body politic
Will be pain
The grate accost
Of free dumb

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POEM: Royally Backwards: Owed to Chuck the King

This is my attempt to chuck the news about the coronation of King Chuck III:

Royally Backwards: Owed to Chuck the King

Sitting on my throne
Perusing many subjects before me
It curred to me
King Charles may not be
Number one or number two
Hither two
In my dyslexic brood
He will always peer
As
Chuck king

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POEM: Death Unexplained [Ode to Harry Gavin]

Our youngest grandchild (Maryjo’s son’s son), Harry Gavin, 7-months-old, feel asleep and never woke up. Below is his obituary; followed by a poem I wrote for our family and loved ones.

Harold Patrick Gavin, passed away unexpectedly in his sleep on Thursday, March 23, 2023. He was born at Toledo Hospital on August 11, 2022, to his adoring parents, Melissa May (Malinowski) Gavin and John Connor Gavin. From the beginning, Harry was larger than life, weighing an astounding 11 lbs 14 oz at birth. He was a happy baby who loved being with his family. He especially loved his older brother, Jack. They were best friends and shared a bedroom Harry’s entire life. They would stay up far past their bedtime, long into the night, laughing at only God knows what. Harry’s laughter and smile were infectious.

Other activities Harry enjoyed were family dinners, family walks in the park, playing with his two dogs, Foster, and Joey, bouncing in his bouncy chair, and dancing to Danny Go songs. He loved going to day care and spending time with the other children there.  In addition, Harry loved spending time with his extended family, especially his cousins. He attended family vacations to Edisto Island, South Carolina, and Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

Though Harry’s life was brief, his impact on others was immeasurable. His family is devastated at the loss of their little boy. At the same time, they are so grateful to God that they were blessed with Harry’s presence for the time they had. Despite their heartbreak, his family would not trade this experience for anything.

Harry is preceded in death by several great grandparents, and his grandfathers; John Christopher Gavin and Kenneth Harry Malinowski.  Harry is survived by his mother and father, Connor and Melissa, his older brother, Jack; his grandparents; Terry and Jenniffer Drinkwater, Dan Rutt and Maryjo Gavin; his aunt, Kristie and uncle Carl; his uncle Josh, his aunt Kara and uncle Joe; his cousins, Graham, Richie, Lulu, and Iggy, and countless other extended family.

===============

I wrote this poem within 48 hours of Harry’s death.  In such times, words flail us.

Death Unexplained

Those many moments strung out
The only thing worse than death unexplained
Is death explained
Unending
Tears
In a heart RIP’ed
Caught in the wake
Of eternal sleep
Helled in the vacuum
Of death sucking
And everything ails
Each mourning
Taking one step
Then another
And another
Then returning
To that first step
A grave dance
In an after ours club
A missed
The dead of the night
Noon daze
Absent the warmth of a son
After words
Awe that has poured out of us
What can a broken heart hold for us?
What is it that death cannot touch?
Sacred plays
Wear life is knit together
Before we were borne
Or wherever we go
After that role of the die
In the echo of hollowed preyer
Where God is riddled
And a lot of life is runed
And sow much is knot
Voidable
To ax the quest in
A bout God’s Jōb
And what is there too due
With life a loan
Life lived with abandon
Would God rejoin
Just us
And not
Another crux
The weigh of death and life
And all that it would take
To leave the wrest
How
Ever
For all one no’s
God gently counters
With that which is wholly
Surrounded by loved wons
Serendipitously moving
Still, we here
That bell
Which only unimaginably could be
Unwrung
Untolled
As an angel getting his wings

 

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