POEM: Pâté Time Is Soon Over

She re-lied
Over
And over
Up on safety in numbers
A calculating codeness
Betraying her art
Sow low and be holed
In common denominations
A loan in security
As helled together
Buy fences
And dam banks
A laundering cache
Never coming clean
Wile every thing stat
Like awe get out
Eating it up
And getting
As goaled in goose eggs
Nothing
Fast
As pâté time
Is soon over

This poem addresses a familiar theme in my poetry: the hollowness of chasing money in the vain quest for security.  Love Greater Than Money (Heart) - POLITICAL BUTTONThe signature puns in this poem — “goaled in goose eggs” and “pâté time” —  serve as a bit of a screening mechanism to cull out those familiar with high society.  Many might recognize the golden goose reference from the fairy tale, as well as goose eggs signifying zero or zeroes.  Fewer will know what pâté is, a highfalutin French food that is mixture of cooked ground meat and fat minced into a spreadable paste.  Even fewer will know that goose liver is used in an even more highfalutin version of such swanky sustenance.  I suspect that awe will eventually know that none of this matters.  As Shakespeare so aptly noted, “All is vanity.”  Certainly, life doesn’t add up.  Though, life does seem better lived looking up.  May we find the value of life in such presents.

Feel free to browse my designs about the role and value of money in life and politics:

What Money Can't Buy - Medicine But Not Health, A House But Not A Home, Finery But Not Beauty, Luxuries But Not Culture, Amusements But Not Happiness POLITICAL BUTTONMoney is the Root of All Politics - POLITICAL BUTTONMake Love, Not Money POLITICAL BUTTON

If you want to know what god thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to. Dorothy Parker quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONYou cannot serve both God and money. (Matthew 6:24) Bible quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONThere Is No Gift Like The Present SPIRITUAL BUTTON

Someone Else Is Happy With Less Than You Have POLITICAL BUTTON

POLITICAL POEM: Elections Bought and Souled

What due
You
Know choice candidates
Fenced by kleptocrats
And undebatable Republicrats
Their exclusive promise
A system fixed
Throwing political parties
Incorporations wee trust
In-firm ideologies
The body politic
Under the whether
Or worse yet
Riddled with ballots
Everlustingly powered by fossil fools
In a match we cannot win
Insurmountably ante
In that roil flush
Heil to the chief
A fight un-till the deaf
Trumped and trumpeted
Victor and Victoria
Dubiously herald and maudlin
Never to be
Over looking
Assuaged by aristocrat videos
On line with your own
Thinking
In auditorium pact
And in undrivable streets
Razing hell
Is the key too city hall
Lo expectations
Unmanageable hopes
And unbridled promise
Be dammed!
Wholly our own
What will we elect
Too due
Bought and souled
Buy the damned and the elect
Won and the same
Decidedly over turn
Your choice

99 percent of Republicans give the rest a bad name POLITICAL BUTTONThe end is coming…to the Republican national convention.  BOTH Parties Are Revolting, Why Aren't You? POLITICAL BUTTONThe Democratic national convention is coming next week.  Well, I guess we are more like in the middle of the end.  The careening authoritarianism of Donald Trump will be supervened by the triangulating trajectory of Hillary Clinton.  These daze long political ads prestidigitate the non-binding platform in the raze to see who can commandeer the Commander-in-chief helm, sans the funny looking hat of other scary clowns.

Republican, Democrat, Not Playing Your Silly Games Anymore POLITICAL BUTTONThis poem exposes the juxtaposers, who adorn false choices in efface of chronically neglected issues and give rare acclaim to the canon fodder of their revered platforms.  I Don't Care Which Party Is In Control, I Don't Want To Be Controlled POLITICAL BUTTONAwe that is sacred will be parsed into bite-sized pieces in keeping with easy consumption.  We are the promised people, wee are tolled.  Bootstraps for awe.  The souls will have no wholes.  Sow the aristocrat’s state, agin and agin.

The time is ripe to stop following these crumb bums.  In the revolution, you will turn around and see your neighbor, not these professional posers.  Democrats Think The Glass Is Half Full, Republicans Think The Glass Is Theirs - FUNNY POLITICAL BUTTONHumanity needs human faces, not friendish facades.  If our future wrests soully with electoral politics, that literal ballot to ahead bids us quite miraculously to walk away, a cross bridges yet unbuilt, over walls however deliriously high, to a fresh future steeped in ancient wisdom and teeming with expectant vitality.  The choice is ours, ever worth more than can ever be printed on paper, or boxes checked out.

 

Feel free to check out lots more funny election designs, cool third party designs, and hilarious anti-Republican designs:

Some People Say We Need A Third Party. I Wish We Had A Second One -- Jim Hightower quote POLITICAL BUTTONThose Who Ignore History Are Doomed To Vote Republican POLITICAL BUTTONGOP Pledge of Allegiance - Why Plague Leeches to the Flag Unguided Statesmen of America-FUNNY POLITICAL MAGNET

GOD is NOT Spelled G.O.P. POLITICAL BUTTONGOP - Greed Over People - POLITICAL BUTTONFriends Don't Let Friends Vote Republican - FUNNY POLITICAL BUTTON

 

POEM: Adumbrating My Too Sense

Teeming with errs
Their egos agin
They took their best shot
Sow prod of themselves
In citing
Your poetry makes no cents
As if
The golf between us
As driven in sanity
From goad above
Rather demanding
A stroke of genius
Wringing hollow
In a tin cup
That fateful hole in won
In things looking up
And people looking down
At storied little balls
And exclusive clubs
Beating with in
No bogey men hear
The par will always be with us
Not sow stuck on the short game
Put on buy the green
Razing polls and flags
To victory
Only to wind up
Being
In side job
As aww some coinage
Of mine a loan
Tempting too undue
Being so much as a cad he
And he he he
Left behind with scratch
Knot even ahead

This is a poet’s poem.  This poem has one of those bonus titular words, adumbrate, which means foreshadow.  I must confess, as highly alliterate as I am, I only discovered this word in the thoroughs of my joyous addiction to Thesaurus.com.  In due course, the title begs “a dumb rating my too sense,” as standing speechless is an awe-too-common response to reading (or trying to read) my poetry.  This poem dismisses the gulf between making cents, buy tailoring and valuing a poem by its popular, a peel, rather than glorying in singular glimpses of awe that can be mined in a fantastical mountain of meaning.  My poetry is not for the feign of heart or to revel as IQ smarts.  As most beauty in this universe is never experienced by humans, as we pass up the illustriously novel for the merely comical, I stand in solidarity with the better share of the universe.  Sow it shall be ridden, commanded by fire that does not burn, in stone that knows how to roll.

POEM: Gift Hoarse

The dumb bell rang
As he looked
The present
Like a gift horse in the mouth
And in every witch way
Reckon as knot so fine
Looking forward and backward
Of what might be
Only seconds
As has been
A head and behind
And in know time
Looking down
The apple of his eye
Given in digestion
And looking up
The wrong end
As scene through faulty means
Only now
As passed tense
Or posterity perfected
As dumb founded

This poem is about living in the present, the eternal now.  Like they say: if you have one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you’ll crap on today.  In this poem, it happens by looking up the wrong end of a gift horse.  That was Zen - This is Tao - FUNNY SPIRITUAL BUTTONMany moral lessons are more easily grasped as cautionary tales, rather than straightforward instructions on wise weighs.  This paradox linking foolish and wise is elicited by the first and last lines of this poem, which, not surprisingly, employ puns to say two opposite meanings in a singular phrase.  The opening line, “The dumb bell rang,” signals both complete uselessness, a bell that cannot ring, and a call to silence, as a way to better experience the present.  The last line, “As dumb founded,” wraps up with the twin perplexity and wonder of realizing that silence can offer a quality of experience that will only be degraded by the static of past thoughts and/or the noise of unrealized futures.  May you find yourself, completely, in the present, that is your gift right now.

POEM: Free Verse

You are trying
Too figure out
Perhaps even singularly a verse
Paying sum game
Never getting
A head
Dis integrating
As a metaphysical meting
Of meter and anti-meter
Unmoved
Object
And unstoppable farce
With unending meanings
Crying
Help
Lessly under stand
In during a sublime accost
The prize of free verse
Only getting what
You pay for

This poem is about the difficulty inherent in understanding most poetry.  There is little doubt that most of my poetry is — sit down for this one — difficult too under-stand.  My poetry niche of puns, word plays, metaphors mixing, and parallel, interweaving narratives dancing in tension, calls for the exertion of effort to unlock its treasures.  That good things require effort is a paramount law of life exceeded only greatly by the law of grace, that life and its goodness are even available to us at awe.  Poets learn both of these laws well under the tutelage of muses of most any sort.  You get what you pay for.  But don’t look too deep or you may very well get way more than you bargained for!

May you plumb the depths and scale the heights of artists looming a bout, and may you find more than mere scraps…

POEM: There Is Something About Dusk

There is something about dusk
A gentle luminosity
Embracing the culmination
Of a day’s chores
Twilight invites any weariness
Into a slow motion space
Where tomorrow is unkneaded
That in-between place
Where light lingers
And shadows soften
As a sentient glow
Soothes the spirit
And vivifies the soul
Swaddled in the gossamer rest
That has no resemblance to sleep
But akin to dreams

This poem is is unusual for me in that it is not jam-packed with puns, with only one obvious pun and another very subtle one.  I wrote this poem last night after taking a leisurely stroll at dusk through my neighborhood, the Old West End historic district in Toledo.  I have loved dusk as long as I can remember.  I have long loved dusk because of its forgetful knowing.  I find a special feel in those in-between places that knead not the past nor the future; a gentle now suffices.  There is peace in being freed from any insistence to grapple with awe that looms.  Dusk offers a luminosity that is lucid but not urgent.  May such refreshing glimpses capture your tension, even if just, before you loose your soul…

POEM: As the Show Must…Go On!

As the Show Must…Go On!

theatrical-masksDesperately seeking an audience
With kings, queens, and commoners
Call in the troupes!
Who will perform her
Aspiring thespians
Willing to do Shakespeare
Or any low brow play right
As parts are parts
Whether broad way
Or way, way off
A bawdy comedy
As familiar as drama
And as Greek as tragedy
Of chorus
Getting a leg up
On those with less rhythm
Two bit players
Ticketed by seasons
Perhaps a woman of an uncertain age
Seeking the roll of a lifetime
The lines are long
And few are chosen
Luckily
Protagonists
And amateurs all
Make for stiff competition
Breaking a leg
To be cast
Blinded by fancies
Of bright lights
And paid with applause
In dark rooms
Only wishing they were someone else
Until curtains for all
Calling them out
Unmasked
And wearing customs
Both foreign and familiar
Giving spy to private moments
And public scenes
Usual suspects
And unusual characters
Tugging hearts
And funny bones tickled
Inhabiting the dreams of others
Constructing story after story
With strapping sets
And suggestive facades
Getting down to it
With a portending fear
Of under study
Practicing your lyin’s
Until with sincerity
Putting on
A peril
As gossamer as taut
Utterly made up
Like guise and dolls
Hoping to hold up
To bright lights on disquieting duds
As once alive audience
Recumbent in such getups
Prone to rein checks
Less than charitably
If over season
Choice words
Employed too generously
Making out like a bandit
As if
Amateurs turn pro feign
Still putting on errs
In a sense
Beyond approach
Unless crying
Author! Author!
Then too
Their credit
Setting the stage
For public scrutiny
And curtains
For private dramas
To play right
And becoming actors
As some life long
Vocation
With every few weeks run
From the on set
Fashioning a dress
Rehearsal
Imagining you’ve arrived
Opening night
Wear all cheap talk
Is exchanged for some notorious scrip
Taking another’s word
As one’s own is silenced
Propping up delicate worlds
That can be destroyed
Like cellophane crumbling
A hard candy to swallow
Or cell profane
Making a bard dandy too hollow
To see stars circling and falling
Uniformly emptying the stage
For the row to follow
B4 you sunk my battle
Ship ahoy
Can you hear me now?
Ushering out
The end of
A cacophonous patron
Of coarse, it could be
A night mare to be ridden
Into the next production
A play within a play
Full of mock puns
Yielding false starts
And startling double-takes
As hearts race
And our worst fears ketchup with us
Dying on stage
Putting our best end forward
Too sad a claim
Enough to bring the house down
Or perhaps so fetching
From the edge of one’s seat
To recover
As unruly
As the show must
Go on
In her dialogue
Not with standing
Ovations
Out laud
A cross the country side
Only just surviving by assuming another’s name
A compelling ingénue-ity
Making up for every pre-tense
As you take the stage
With your commanding presents
Though petrified
Masking it well
With a wink and a smile
You totally rock
And given props
Taking flight
Not walking on water, but skipping
A stones throw from the coast
Safely in the pocket
Like music in your years
One for the ages
And all for won
Giving berth
To the generations
Of awe uplifting
And knaves razing
Ever suspending disbelief
As a play
Like a child
Takes a village

This poem is a gift and a tribute to my sweetheart and muse, Maryjo.  She is an actress about to be in a Neil Simon play, Proposals, put on by the Village Players, here in Toledo.  Her son, Connor, is also acting in this play.  Maryjo has fulfilled many of my dreams, not the least of which is dating a beautiful actress!

You can download a printable PDF version of this poem here.

This poem was accompanied by a prop: a pocket-sized, polished orthoceras fossil which looks like a theatrical mask winking!  This serendipitous token helps explain the verses near the end of the poem:

Though petrified
Masking it well
With a wink and a smile
You totally rock
And given props
Taking flight
Not walking on water, but skipping
A stones throw from the coast
Safely in the pocket
Like music in your years
One for the ages

May all of life’s theatrics bring you real joy!

POEM: Word Jonesing

She said
Your poetry seems like a lot of work
I said
It’s less wordsmithing
And more wordjonesing
Or sew it would seam

There is little doubt that reading my poetry takes some work.  It is commonplace in my poetry to have multiple meanings (puns), multiple parallel narratives, quickly shifting mixed metaphors, and erudite references, whether scholarly or from obscure pop culture.  This often makes for a highly alliterate reed, demanding enough flexibility to bend with the shifting winds of meaning, and seeing passed the tides of meanness.

In this poem, the launching point is from the reader’s perspective, implying that it is both difficult to read and difficult to write, or “wordsmith.”  While the former may be obvious, this poem shifts the focus from mere difficulty of work to the underlying passion fueling such effort, “word jonesing.”  At its best, in writing poetry there is an irresistible pull from the allusive muse.  Sometimes I even experience the poem writing itself, from whence I dare not say!  Thus, transforming the Smith and Jones of words into something transcendent.  The concluding line, Or sew it would seam, references how this process results in a seamless body of work, where I typically hold out some healing message, even to be unfrayed in kneading knot keep up with the joneses.

POEM: Come Alive

At a party
A stranger
Approaches several guests
With great anticipation
Won by won
Not asking them
The routine inquiry
“What do you do
for a living?”
Instead asking them
“What do you do
that makes you come alive?”
Though it soon becomes clear
There is only one real question
Will they ever be the same?

This poem is inspired by one of my favorite quotes, by Howard Thurman, a theologian and activist: “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”  This poem uses one of my favorite poetic devices, other than puns of course, the intentionally ambiguous pronoun; specifically, they in the last line.  This can refer to the several guests, or as to whether the answers to the two questions will ever merge into the one same answer.  As you would have rightly suspected, both of these interpretations reinforce one another.  The only use of a pun, twice, in Won by won, is a tip of the hat to another favorite quote of mine, by Gandhi: “Be the change you want to see in the world.”  This line infers that change comes about not simply by pondering questions, but my living and modeling the change that we want to see in the world.  The inquiring guest adds their own life to the weight of the question.  In a related quote, by the great Albert Schweitzer: “Example is not the main thing in influencing others. It is the only thing.”  The poem is mine.  The quotes driving this commentary are others’.  Of course, plagiarism is the highest form of flattery — a quote attributed to an unknown but highly flattered author.

POEM: Unending Vocation

She summoned me
To tell me
Of my new job assignment
I soon realized
That it was
Not beneath me
But behind me
So I moved on
In my unending vocation
As I was tolled

This poem is autobiographical.  This experience of mine could be viewed even as the first step in my unending vocation of poet.  I have often used the phrase “Not beneath me, but behind me” to describe the process that I experienced leaving my “regular” job and career.  This specifically applies to the new job assignment referred to within the poem.  In retrospect, I don’t think that my supervisor/boss expected my job reassignment to be a discussion, but rather a simple informing me of the way in which I was to me managed.  This disconnect exemplifies why I made a relatively quick decision, within a matter of days, to not accept the new assignment and request part-time work entailing my old job duties which were being curtailed.

I also knew that any job with this employer was terminal.  I would have to do something different.  It took me almost two years to quit the part-time work afforded me while I was starting my own business.  Though the decision and timing were more about my emotional and spiritual health than financial.  I hadn’t netted dime one from my new business.  Nonetheless, I knew that my toxic job environment was killing me, bringing out the worst in me.  Certain death is a good motivator.  I choose life, however uncertain, than certain death.  This choice seems somewhat obvious, but I think that it is a choice not made nearly as often as it should be.  Probably something to do with learned helplessness, settling for mediocrity, and false pride.  I took pride in being autonomous and tough, living on breadcrumbs.  I would rail against the stupidity of my employers for not even providing me breadcrumbs for my high aspirations.

Fortunately, I eventually came to realize the great gift that this total desert was, for me to be able to separate myself from such toxic work relationships.  It reminded my of my divorce, in the sense that I felt that my chosen profession, of which I was well-trained, was mine, and these fools should leave, not me.  Of course, this wasn’t going to happen (actually, in the case of my divorce, this did happen).  So, I left.  The leaving of my profession was entangled in another reality, that of having 50-50 custody of my kids and not willing to move elsewhere for work.  So, fate had its way with me…and I am all the better for it!  I sort of backed into parlaying my unique talents into a new vocation: as the greatest punster for peace in the English-speaking world!  How many people can say with certainty that they are the best in the world at something?  What a privilege to not relegate such a momentous reality to a mere hobby.

This whole process was very humbling and awe-inspiring for me.  I have grown a great appreciation for going through “bad” stuff, trusting my own instincts and the benevolence of a higher power to come out on the other side even better off.  I consider myself to be a very creative and imaginative person.  I consider myself very intelligent.  I could not have predicted the good things to come.  I fooled myself into thinking that I could foresee and control the future.  Fortunately, I could not.  Fortunately, my future was better than I had even dared imagine.  From this experience I have come up with a saying: God doesn’t give me want I want; God gives me something better!

May you find the courage and wherewithal to follow your instincts and dreams, trusting that there are powers at work that will bring good things into your life, even better than you dare imagine!

POEM: A Forgetting God

Remembering God is almost as hard as God forgetting us

Remembering God can be difficult.  Remembering God can be particularly difficult if we are not trying to remember God.  I believe that we all experience God, though some of us may not name it that.  Most simply put, God is love.  If we remember love and imbue our life with these loving experiences, then we will be well on our way to living Godly lives.  Every healthy relationship is reciprocal.  While remembering God may be difficult at times, recalling occasionally that it is even more difficult for God to forget us can bring comfort and serve as an invitation to a deeper relationship.  God’s call is better characterized by the woo of a lover — Love itself! — than a jilted lover in an unreciprical relationship, waiting by the proverbial phone for a call back.

I wish that traditional religion would harness this metaphor of lovers, the wooer and the wooed.  I think this meets resistance because some people think that it may imply some type of equality of humans with God; though most religious conservatives don’t necessarily see a reciprocal equality in human sexual relationships as an ideal anyway.  However, perhaps most importantly, institutional religion seems to have real issues with sex and sexuality.  The story of the virgin birth is perhaps the pinnacle of this disconnect: God has sex without really having sex, or daring to imbue a human sex act with divineness.  Then, Jesus is overwhelmingly seen as some asexual being.  My view is that these narratives are massive barriers to Christianity embracing a healthy human sexuality.  Jesus is purported to be fully God and fully human, yet the Christian narrative is notably silent on how Jesus manifests divinity as a human sexual being, except for not engaging in sexual acts.  I don’t consider total, lifelong (in Jesus’ case until age 33 at his death) abstinence as a feasible model for the perpetuation of the human race, or as particularly helpful for most people’s lives on earth.  Surely, there is a fuller picture that can be drawn.  Intimate sexual human relationships strike me as fertile ground (time to pull out the big puns!) for experiencing deep love, which is the stuff of God.  I pray for a way for Jesus to better redeem sexuality, which would go a long way to redeeming Christianity.  And the Church said, “Woo!”

 

POEM: Author Author Original

Author Author Original

Many great authors
Veritable prose
Composed
Many glorified pages
Of legends owed
Epitomizing a theme
Depicting perfect variations
Epic anecdotes
In firmity
Contracted
By edifices
Of many stories
I prefer the novelty
Of a single sentence
Unleashing countless perspectives
Leaping tall buildings
Condemned
To freedom
Facing immanent decomposition
A tale doggedly wagging
Kneading not
A collect
The preyer of singular digits
Followed by zeroes
Offering
No cure awe
Beyond
Ne’er rating
Guttenburgers
Serving billions
In the court
Of public opinion
In loo of
Author original
Nameless

This poem is an ode to the commercialization of the art of writing.  This is less an indictment of authors trying to make a living than the nature of others trying to make a living off authors.  Also, this poem speaks to my preference for poetry versus prose.  I must confess, I had a great laugh with the epiphany of “Guttenburger,” a literate hybrid pun, unduplicated in its meatiness.  The image of a hurried run of trashy novels on the jacked up modern equivalent of the Guttenberg press, like fast food burgers on a conveyor grill, about sums up art meeting modern civilization.  As Western civilization quickly monetizes and copies right any art sufficient to the task, artists continue the eternal struggle to pay worthy homage to the original author nameless and unnamable, reproducing endless originals.

POEM: Poetic License

One day I went to get my poetic license
I drove them crazy with their test
at the DMV
Perhaps next time I’ll try NASA

This poem reminds me of the scene in the movie, “Dead Poets Society,” where the teacher at an exclusive boy’s prep school, on the first day of class begins:

The teacher, Mr. Keating (played by Robin Williams) sits at his desk at the front of the classroom and opens up one of his books.

KEATING
Gentlemen, open your text to page
twenty-one of the introduction. Mr.
Perry, will you read the opening
paragraph of the preface, entitled
“Understanding Poetry”?

NEIL
Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans
Pritchard, Ph.D. To fully understand
poetry, we must first be fluent with
its meter, rhyme, and figures of speech.
Then ask two questions: One, how artfully
has the objective of the poem been
rendered, and two, how important is that
objective. Question one rates the poem’s
perfection, question two rates its
importance. And once these questions have
been answered, determining a poem’s
greatest becomes a relatively simple
matter.

Keating gets up from his desk and prepares to draw on the chalk board.

NEIL
If the poem’s score for perfection is
plotted along the horizontal of a graph,
and its importance is plotted on the
vertical, then calculating the total
area of the poem yields the measure of
its greatness.

Keating draws a corresponding graph on the board and the students
dutifully copy it down.

NEIL
A sonnet by Byron may score high on the
vertical, but only average on the
horizontal. A Shakespearean sonnet, on
the other hand, would score high both
horizontally and vertically, yielding a
massive total area, thereby revealing the
poem to be truly great. As you proceed
through the poetry in this book, practice
this rating method. As your ability to
evaluate poems in this matter grows, so
will – so will your enjoyment and
understanding of poetry.

Neil sets the book down and takes off his glasses. The student sitting
across from him is discretely trying to eat. Keating turns away from
the chalkboard with a smile.

KEATING
Excrement. That’s what I think of Mr. J.
Evans Pritchard. We’re not laying pipe,
we’re talking about poetry.

Mr. Keating then proceeds to instruct the students to tear the whole introductory chapter out of the book.  This peaks the interest of some of the students (and a little horror in others).

Of course, the heart of my poem pivots on the dual meaning and paradox of getting a “poetic license.”  A license is typically some form of certification or accreditation indicating that the applicant (they don’t just pass out licenses!) has successfully demonstrated adherence to prescribed rules based on the conventional wisdom of the era.  In contrast, “poetic license” refers to the freedom a poet takes in order create an artistic expression.

I view poetry as first art, and second science.  Now, to be fair, a fluency in linguistics can greatly aid one’s expression.  Nonetheless, if you put random words on a piece of paper and meditated upon them, strangely poetic relationships, phrases and themes would likely emerge (in the mind of someone).  In fact, this is one method to my madness.  Usually a poem is first born of a phrase or two that strikes me out of the ether of my life.  Then with a general theme, I associate related words, phrases and concepts.  Mining the infinite juxtapositions of puns, alliterations, metaphors and irony, characterizes my basic style of writing.  In my longer poems, I typically develop parallel narratives that are in tension, sometimes paradoxical.  Often there are several different ways to read a set of words or phrases, depending on punctuation and where one begins and/or ends the phrase/sentence.  This is why I often avoid punctuation and put short phrases or single words on a separate line.  This allows the reader to more freely experience the dance of associations and multiple meanings.  While my own basic point of view usually emerges with some clarity, sometimes by simply ending on a particular note, I definitely see truth as living in the neighborhood of paradox, and the struggle for and the balance of these tensions is at the heart of most of my poetry.  Poetry is less “laying pipe,” than flooding the reader with images and ideas, thoughts and feelings, that expand our consciousness and enrich our experience.  Of course, you are free to live by your own rules… 

POEM: She Came

She came down the street
With such a scowl
Such a deep…
Well…
One-couldn’t-imagine demeanor
Her whole body
Like a wrecking ball
Laying waste
To awe before her
Everyone’s back to this wall
Only hoping
To escape
The coming wrath
A tsunami
Only as dry as ice
Wear winter takes all
And there I found myself
As I had taken that place before her
Like a frozen desert
Hopeless in every bearing
Destined that the last shall be thirst
And all else is a mirage
Drawing lines in the sand
Wading patiently
In a sea of tacts
As some badass mama deity
Protecting cubs who weren’t
To be
Over run
Only too cross
A beach no less
As we meet
Whirls, a part
For what
Could she give
Me
A tidal wave
Bending this read
She screams out, “God!!…Man!!”
As she passes
Gone as soon as she came
Onlookers mumbling
Dude, what were you thinkin’?
I don’t know
I wasn’t paying attention to the outside
I thought I caught a glimpse of her inner beauty
As down the street she came
And I said to myself
Wouldn’t it be nice
If she were to scream out my name

POEM: Not Unlike Hope

Here is a poem about hope, sometimes on the run, sometimes on the lam.  Hope is never lost, and hope often lurks in sometimes unrespectable places. This poem has plenty of puns, hidden jewels, drama, chase scenes, and victorious poetry.  Enjoy!

Not Unlike Hope

Take heart
Breaking news
Hope is believed to be
Residing in an undisclosed location
The authorities have undertaken
To apprehend hope
Dead if need be
Vowing to devote all needed resources
To the hunt
For citizens
Good
Neighbors
Turning in
Suspicious
Character
Turning out
En masse
Lady Justice
Courting
Blindly
Dated
Expects her clues so
Much like a pink panther
Only rarer
Insulated by specious arguments
A trade mark
To protect and serve
Up
The last
Ne’er do well
Un-till
Hope rears
Her ugly head
Once
More
Only aft her
Out laud
In the vicinity of
Lincoln and MLK Way
Where the scufflawless meet
The police force
O Captain! My Captain!
Flailing too
Resolve
Issue
Press
Release
Dashing
Up the poetry
As we cooly add verse
Shelling out what is ode
And the sonnet rises
Not unlike hope

POEM: Life is a 45 Record

Life is a 45 record
Most of us are playing it as a 78
Or perhaps we are being played
Few are old enough to get this
Even fewer are wise enough

Most of us lived life rushed.  For those of us old enough to remember 45 records AND 78 records (or record players), 78s were played at a much faster speed.  Playing any 45 record at 78 is likely to sound more chipmunkish than human.  If chipmunk sounds normal to you then you probably don’t get this.  If chipmunk sounds envelop your life and you find this annoying, then there is hope.  The wise slow down and experience life as it is meant to be…

P.S. If you don’t know what a record is, don’t worry, it isn’t any kind of record.

POEM: Running Like Chickens With Their Heads Cut Off

POEM: Running Like Chickens With Their Heads Cut Off

Have you ever looked a chicken in the eyes?
Most of us city folk probably never have
Where are you?
Chickens can look quite different in the city
Just the same
Their bodies run around
Like death will catch up with them if they slow down
Their heads flit about
Ensnared by nothing at all
Abiding mirror fax of life
Who has got one’s back?
Missing only you, won’s greatest faux
Possessed by a vacancy
That will soon enough be dismissed
Wading for something more
Unable to see what’s beneath their own feat
Where we are grounded
Still, six feet is better than two
When it’s not yours!
As if one May fly!
To live but for one day
Today
Even four proves oddly better
Fore what can thou dust do, in turn?
Don’t you see?!
Chickens re-member!?
They are almost everywhere
Though they are practically invisible where I live
So I am bound to run into more than a few
Even more so if you cross to the other side
Just, please, don’t bother asking me why
I must
Have chickens
Incite me
To a whirl
Without
Chickens
Running about
With their heads
Just being
Cut off
Like trafficking enflesh

I wrote this poem a while back, but thought that it might be a good poem for the month of May, given the reference to the short-lived May fly.  Nonetheless, this poem fits on a long-standing theme, particularly for those living in Western civilization, of busyness and not being present in the moment. Like many of my poems, you may have to read it several times, because it involves a lot of puns and multiple meanings depending on how you read various phrases.  It’s difficult for me to comment on longer poems, because I end up commenting way, way longer than the poem itself.  Sometimes I like to leave the poems to speak for themselves.  Still, I think it’s probably comment on one strain in this poem.  The phrase: Still, six feet is better than two is a reference to being buried 6 feet underground and a reference to a chicken with its head cut off lying on the ground looking at the 6 feet of three other chickens and taking some small comfort that it is not their two feet that they see in their last moment of life.  Also, this is an allusion to the apparent ease at which we will trade other people’s lives for our own.  If you find this somewhat morbid, then take some comfort in the line: Even four proves oddly better.  In our fixation on the quantitative in our culture, it might seem odd that four is actually better than six.  However, the four refers to two sets of feet and a pair of chickens or people.  This refers to the comfort that we find in companionship with one another.  This value of companionship strikes a sharp contrast to the hurried busyness that tramples our presence of any given moment, and rushes by authentic relationships with others.  In this crazy world, which may seem dangerous and short at times, especially if you are chicken, companionship and solidarity may prove to be the reason or purpose in our lives.  I guess the message is: pay attention to the people around you.  Oh yeah, you may want to pay attention to the chickens around you as well.

I’d Give My Right Arm for No Arms

I’d Give My Right Arm for No Arms (bomb graphic) – FUNNY ANTI-WAR BUTTON

I'd Give My Right Arm for No Arms (bomb graphic) - FUNNY ANTI-WAR BUTTON

I’d Give My Right Arm for No Arms (bomb graphic) – FUNNY ANTI-WAR BUTTON

This cool design is linked to a button, but other great Top Pun products like T-shirts, bumper stickers, mugs, caps, key chains, magnets, posters, and sticker sheets can be accessed by scrolling down the product page.

View more Anti-War Buttons.

This design is a really bad pun for a really good cause.  The phrase I’d give my right arm for… paints a rather dramatic picture of what one is willing to sacrifice for something.  Of course, this design carries it even one more dramatic step farther, implying that one might even be willing to give up both one’s left and right arm to end up with no arms if that means disarmament, both literally and figuratively!  I find much inspiration in people who are willing to put some skin in the game.  I find all the more inspiration in people who are willing to put some bone and sinew in the game as well!  What would you be willing to sacrifice for no arms?

Mock Funeral – Occupy Toledo

Yesterday, April 1st, April Fool’s Day, was the one and only performance of Occupy Toledo‘s Mock Funeral — in life (and death) there are no rehearsals, this is it!  If you missed it, I truly hope that you were doing something else as fun and inspiring!  Thanks to all the players, readers, eulogizers, ushers, HOMElessLAND SECURITY, providers of food, and all who helped make Occupy Toledo’s RE-BIRTHDAY possible.  We rose like a phoenix from the ashes!!  Occupy Toledo will re-start the physical re-occupation of Toledo on May1, May Day, the day of a worldwide general strike!  Join us May 1 in Levi’s Square, downtown Toledo, St. Clair at Madison.  In the meantime you can come help plan the occupation of Toledo at our General Assembly meeting every Wednesday at 6:30 pm at Third Space.

Below is a picture of our own Rev. Ed Heilman serving as mock preacher (note the dollar sign on his bishop’s hat and the dollar sign cross on the altar)

Mock Funeral Preacher (Rev. Ed Heilman)Here is Occupy Toledo’s Obituary from the Mock Funeral:

“Occupy Toledo was born October 10, 2011, to it’s parents, the Arab Spring and Occupy Wall Street. Born of hope, Occupy Toledo burst onto the scene in its own charmingly childish way. However, from the birth of Occupy Toledo, few people could understand what it wanted. Onlookers mumbled again and again: “What do they want?” “I don’t get it.” Occupy Toledo flailed around for about 6 months until it realized that it was too small to succeed. After scrutinizing corporate behavior, Occupy Toledo in due course discovered that the nobility of American corporations was unparalleled. The dearly departed realized that in these great United States of America, injustices are so few and far between, that it could no longer even occupy itself. Unavoidably, Occupy Toledo came to its senses, recognized its irrelevancy, and accepted that resistance to corporate rule is futile. Fortunately, in the end, Occupy Toledo had gained at least the good sense to crawl into a coroner’s office and die. Occupy Toledo died on April 1, 2012, due to apathy. Protesters were the Time Magazine Person of the Year in 2011. Gracefully, protesters like Occupy Toledo are stepping aside to make room for the inevitable Time Magazine Person of the Year for 2012: the Corporate Person, born of Citizens United, the true will of human persons across America. Occupy Toledo is survived by countless cousins around the country, many of whom have not achieved enlightenment, so they have not yet abandoned their vain struggles against corporate America, which is obviously too big too fail. The bad news is that Occupy Toledo is dead. The good news is that its condition is stable.”

Below is a picture of our own local activist doctor, Johnathon Ross, M.D., reading Occupy Toledo’s Death Certificate and pronouncing its death.

Mock Funeral Doctor (Johnathon Ross, M.D.)Here is Occupy Toledo’s Death Certificate from yesterday’s Mock Funeral:

“I hereby certify that Occupy Toledo, born October 10, 2011, has died on this day, April 1, 2012. The immediate cause of death was apathy. The underlying causes of death included: 1) an atrophied brain due to an overexposure to TV news and infotainment, talk radio, and so-called “reality” TV; 2) learned helplessness, due to an enlarged gullibility, making it susceptible to corporate propaganda and so-called political pundits; 3) a weakened constitution due to lack of exercising freedoms and widespread metastases of planetary consumption; and lastly, 4) pure exhaustion from running on the treadmills of trying to earn enough to maintain a decent household and fend off crushing debt.”

Of course, after the 1% overstepped their hand with their crass compulsions (by bidding on the Phoenix egg for their breakfast), the Phoenix’s prophecy was fulfilled:

“Hear this prophecy: The crass compulsion of the few to buy anything and everything is complete. The few dare to literally buy and consume the HOPE of the many. Because of this abomination of the few, the Phoenix’s prophecy is complete. The many, the 99%, Occupy Toledo, will be re-born one month from today in this same place. HAPPY RE-BIRTHDAY OCCUPY TOLEDO. Join us on May 1, May Day, a world-wide general strike, for the re-occupation of Toledo. Thus speaks the Phoenix, ‘You, the many, the 99%, shall arise again and be free. Join together with the peoples of this land and from around the world, and the few, the 1%, will be vanquished.’ “

Below pictured is yours truly, Dan Rutt, alias “Top Pun” (it’s just, my pun name), with the HAPPY RE-BIRTHDAY card placed over the tombstone announcing the re-occupation of Toledo.

Mock Funeral RE-BIRTHDAY CARD! (Dan Rutt as Funeral Director)

Here is some Toledo Blade coverage for the Mock Funeral.

If you’d like to read the Occupy Toledo Mock Funeral script, you can re-live the event, or get a greater taste of the drama of the day.  Here is a printer-friendly PDF version of the Mock Funeral of Occupy Toledo.

POEM: Everything Reminds Me of Everything Else

Everything reminds me of everything else.

This one-line poem is a quick way to get into my mind and how it works.  I probably love metaphors as much as I do puns.  This short poem cuts to the chase, so you don’t really have to deal with all those messy details.  My thinking and belief is rooted in the idea that everything is connected.  Thus, if one is paying close attention, then everything and anything that you see, think, hear, or feel, can be traced back to everything else by some undisclosed number of degrees of separation.  Poetry is just playing with all of these connections and associations.  Metaphors are just representations of the next level of connections and associations that recognize that everything is connected.  People who are not poets may consider such things eminently impractical.  However, consider this:  if everything reminds me of everything else, then I don’t need Post-it notes.  Who says the mind of a poet isn’t practical?