I don't have anger issues.
I have anger.
But it's not an issue.
I have anger.
But it's not an issue.
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The monkey shouts at me
Hey! How irritating this person is Don’t you find them stupid? Don’t you want to rebuke them? What’s wrong with you, man? Why aren’t your nerves active? Let’s bulldoze this person with our superiority The mighty fire of our snide remarks and anger I smile at the monkey and pet its fur My dear friend, let’s eat a banana I’ll show you the might of kindness The art of mindfulness The thunder and lightning subside in my head Like the calm after a downpour As I politely deal with the irritable person I see the monkey mind rescind into the background He visits the plot where his grandmother
reposes, it shows a number and has a tiny wooden cross. He recalls studying a photograph: she was young when it was taken she smiled as she walked out of the sea brushing back luscious locks, feeling free. No, she is not just a number for it was only a blink in time when she strode upon the earth but he has brought her to life again remembering a youthful figure in the ocean. How fine and magical these moments are, yet transient...like a shooting star. Plot twists are a lot
Like coincidences, and Stories by Dickens His wife has departed
He knows The chest It no longer Rises and falls The heart monitor It no longer beeps He leans down and A tear rolls down his cheek He kisses her on the forehead and Whispers in her ear: “Sweet dreams, my beloved.” “Till we meet again.” Winter has turned a corner
Spring is in the air Snowdrops push through soil White flower buds ready to unfurl. If I could be just something else,
I’d be a tremendous ocean, an endless spate of that ocean an infinite wave of that spate a shade of coolness of that wave splashing away your fervent body at high noon warm ocean current
sea ice melts en masse – anyone for tea? Erasing Mistakes
Defies Possibility But Learning Does Help Oh, the empire builders
Don’t thee have a soul? What is in all the monolithic wealth? Does money bring thee health? The eternal sunshine of the soul The glory of our Earth Humans live for one another Not for solely making wealth The money never brought joy Oh, thee foolish wealth chasers Eating thyself from the inside Toiling away as nihilistic robots Blessed are ye whose life is full of meaning, the citadel of thine enlightenment Every breath a joy to behold, every minute filled with divine love Wealth, a by-product of thine passion The magnificent empire of thine inner world Shallow holes cover the tree’s bark--
A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker feeds while a Hummingbird beats its wings. A68 broke free from the Larson C Ice Shelf
in Antarctica, swimming for freedom though with ever-weakening strokes. Its blue base and sparkling white made it appear immortal but everything is transient as it wandered ghost-like towards South Georgia measuring one-third of Wales, a new country never destined for old age. Like a crashing fluorescent tube it shattered into a million pieces doomed just as the snow that clings onto the peaks of Kilimanjaro, a stark warning of the perils we face as it dissolves...soon without a trace. obese cannibal
in a moment of hunger eats Jenny Craig Today was a hard day
And so tonight I will pray That soon will come a new day I awake and see no sun ray Rain rain go away But wash away my tears you may I go out to the rain to play And you tell me I will be okay Since you wipe all my blues away By the coming of the new day Happiness will be underway Threads
Providing warmth While assuaging Dread Sometimes worn on a head Or while in bed, Yet fabric is the Connective material That can make fashion statements, And also address social issues While action does more Than simply open doors Because clothes simply cover While fully-realized people Attempt to discover The meaning of their own lives A mask covers my mouth.
My eyes will tell you a story, Please listen closely. Death showed up to warn Peter one day,
that his time to die was coming next May. Peter then spent every cent that he had, Parties, carousing, and drinking like mad. The days until May were growing quite slim, But Peter decided death would not find him. So he shaved all the hair from the top of his head, And into a dimly lit theater, he fled. Death walked around calling his name, Angry at Peter for playing this game. Finally concluding he needed a break, Death decided a movie he’d take. After some popcorn and one matinee, Death looked at his watch and called it a day. Returning with no one would be very grim, So he took up the bald man sitting beside him. Glancing through portholes, my eyes follow people
departing the ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle when employment seemed stable, the future promising; before masks became a mandate and simple caution drove the cure, feet nimbly navigated docking ramps to Seattle’s Terminal without hesitation or reluctance. Seven thousand horses spin the vessel’s mighty propeller; whirling, whirling, whirling, its paddles push the ferry along at 17 knots, indifferent to pandemic timetables or new normal delusions. At twenty-five percent capacity, the return journey’s now different; commuters breathe on glass windows, leave sheets of human fog across transparent surfaces…engrave initials on water vapor, write names, messages, graffiti underscored by mythic symbols; relations discouraged, even Puget Sound spray seems to practice social distancing and avoids mixing moisture with passengers. Contrary to facts,
Myths sometimes originate From misconceptions. In fact, First impressions Are sometimes incorrect, So find a new point of view, For people do what they do, And discover all that is new Through sensation and perception It's Easter although a polar breeze blows
as the poor daffodils sway and shiver, shadows like ghosts in the sun. Their white and yellow hues are vibrant but it is early April and some petals are already brown, soon to turn to dust as eventually...everything must. Snow clouds form, blinding the sun and a surprise army of flakes drop on the freezing daffodils which had hoped to spend their final weeks basking in warm sunshine but it is just a passing shower it seems as snowflakes melt...as quickly as dreams. I got the idea to write a 100-word story submission,
even though it might be easier to live on an overseas mission. Then to write a heartbreaking story about romance, death or people who are insane. Just keeping the story down to 100 words is enough to give most writers some kind of pain. But I wrote anyway, about happy stuff, and waited for comments from an editor I expected to be gruff. I still haven't heard from an editor about my story. I knew I should have been more gory. midnight hush
echoes of the last train in the tracks The metallic wail of summer
carries through sweltering nights, scattered by faint breezes among the swirling mosaic of stars. Years of xylem sustenance and tunneling in the Earth’s sunless belly propel the insects’ passion, excite their chorus, as they excavate a path toward the sky. Clinging to the rough bark of trees, they leave the delicate shell of more than a decade behind, exchanging their wrinkled, tea-stained skin for the viridescence of the surrounding leaves and grass. It's been a year since I strolled here:
now a rowing boat is planted in the flower bed and a large boat snuggles against the harbour wall although skeletal wrecks still remain. Oh, it feels so fine to return with the fresh wind caressing my brow listening to the crows and seagulls screech, it is low-tide on Barry Harbour beach and the sun creates jewels in the Channel as a tanker languidly slides across, a few dogs and their guardians roam. The Quantock hills are shrouded in sea mist, the little estuary sedate, shallow and silver with transient miniature lakes on the sand which is darkened by the sea, waves of tranquillity roll over me. People sometimes do annoy,
Yet there is actually no need to destroy. Instead, simply take a break, Rather than experiencing heartaches, And as the heart heals and The soul purifies, People could try To do anything that they can To defy the odds, And soar high While remembering that, With all due respect, There is actually no need to cry, And to utilize self-respect |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
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April 2021
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