Throwback Thursday

I found this haiku in the comments section of something else.  It referred to my gassy daughter.  She's better now.  A bit.

On the Southern Front
Mustard gas was daily used.
Chemical warfare.

My Boy

Sometimes in the morning
My boy brings me coffee.
If I would have slippers
He'd bring me those too.
He's eager and willing
To serve and be helpful.
I need to make lists
Of the things he can do.


[I write this in a jesting kind of way.  But I really do need to remember to give him things to do.  I don't just want him NOT doing things, but taking joy in serving and being helpful.  He's already a natural.  I just have to help cultivate his God-given impulse.]

Squash

In a garden, the squash seems compelled

To flee from itself, so it spreads

And passing its borders it melds

With all in the garden bed.

And it ends up squashed.

Anxiety and the Possible Responses

The anxious guitar string just snaps.

The care-laden fingertip taps.

When one's feeling stressed,

Being put to the test,

Better by far to take naps.

Letting Go Is Hard

The small grey mouse was a thinking type,
A philosopher of a modern stripe.
He pondered problems every day
And how to make them go away.

Alas, this burden grew quite heavy
(A right big altruism levee!)
He grew so tense with anxious thought
It seemed so clear that he was caught.

"I really must, for my own well-being,
Doubtless my shrink would be agreeing,
Ask the question, "How to let go?"
Though how... it's hard to know.

The snake, in whom the mouse was swallowed,
Chuckled softly and then followed,
"Mouse, it's harder than it seems.
But go ahead, follow your dreams."

Apart

A bowl of egg drop soup
And a sharp knife
Are great and useful things.
But not together.

And fresh paint
And a brand new dress
As well.
But not together.

Sometimes apart
Is how it is best.

"Issue Definition as Incessant and Unnecessary Commentary on Existence"...or..."The Moth"

The moth I saw had patterned wings

With colored scallops, two-tone rings,

And varnished highlights here and there.

But it didn't care.

Of its ornament on display

Unchanged e'er since the moth's first day

Not one was chosen for its meaning

Nor to reveal a political leaning.

But Facebook pages 'cross the land

Are full of righteous reprimand

And earnest truths are there tattooed -

Quite often rude.

We seek, it seems, to justify

Ourselves, (or have an alibi!)

To prove we know the wrong from right -

And choose to choose the light.

But all we do is pound our chests.

Or with the wisdom we possess,

However shallow, howe'er mean,

We show, then vent our spleen.

Well... bollocks, fiddlesticks and fie.

There's but one thing to catch the eye:

Lives of beauty, quiet, free.

Would that will be me.  

A Poem's Necessity

A poem requires something concrete
Or even a skeleton if it's discrete.
This one is made of a simple idea
And the image of somebody's feet.

A fellow named Robert walked out in the wood
Walked with more clumsiness than he should.
He was a man with only no feet
And he didn't actually walk to the wood.

Let's try it again for the fun of the play
And ponder abstractions the length of the day.
Think of a potter with wet, dirty hands
But no wheel.  And also no clay.

He mainly just sits with his hands in the air
Fondling emptiness, the nothing that's there.
When he has finished there's nothing to see.
Of his pot?  Not a soul who could care.

Noodling

Oh my, how the days pass and shift
Not solid like something of earth,
But gauze and sound and mist.
Abstractions and attempts.
Of great importance, yes, but not
Solid enough to know they've not been missed.
To parent, to pastor, to husband
Is to have projects always unfinished.
There can be no drinking from those wells,
But only from the one marked,
    Child of God
    A Sheep of his pasture
    A Sinner of his redeeming.

The Way Spring Works

The breeze is cool
Only because the window is open.
The window is open
Only because it's getting warm outside!

Temperature

The temperature 

   Dove,

      Dove,

         Dove,

             Down.

                 Deeply

                     Discouraging.

Going Soft

I saw hope tonight and last:
In a possum on my doorstep
He was nibbling on the cat food
And I didn't seem to mind.
Last autumn when he did that
I went to fetch a broomstick
To curse him and to poke him
But now that seems unkind.

The Fall of the Republic

What could be sweeter than suckers for supper?
What more delicious than warm rotting meat?
What could be faster than cars without pistons?
And warmer in winter than thin cotton sheets?

What is more just than a fool being lauded?
What is more fitting than joy in a hearse?
Foolishness happily dances its victory.
And we're all lined up for a spin with this curse.

Stand on your head for a walk on the sky.
Go to the pasture to purchase a pie.
Or if you are conscious and have some heart left...
Then ponder the damage and cry.
Sit yourself down and just cry.

On Time!

My dear wife was pregnant for months upon end.
She prayed to the Lord a sweet baby to send.
Her others were late and her patience wore thin,
"Dear Jesus, please stop him from lingering in."

With joy then, on Saturday, she had contractions
A war in her tummy like fighting 'tween factions
And finally coming the wee hours next morn.
A big baby boy finished up and got born....
On time!

The Waiter

She lays there uncomfortable, phone in her hand
A pillow for knees and one on each end,
Searching on Pinterest, hoping to see,
The birth of her darn baby.

Alas, baby's comfortable right where he is
Or she? We don't know if it's Mr. or Ms.
And so my dear lady is lying in wait.
Praying the babe won't be late!

Gangland Birds

Raucous, unsettled birds those blue jays.
They moved into a nearby tree like a gang,
All swagger and coarse slang.
Then moved on to make sure some sparrow pays.

Perversity

Battered tin trumpets are lovely to hear.

Pouring sweet melody into your ear.

Holding you captive to each awful note

With beauty like songs from a goat.

Rotten bananas are subtly charming

With pungent bouquets 'neath their odors alarming.

Just the cuisine for discerning elites

To bring forth their media bleats.

Whatever is lousy is tastefully chic.

Whatever is awful is tres magnifique.

Whatever destroys is really sublime.

Whatever is true is a crime. 

Big, Fat Cat's Feet

An obese little kitty
Walked into the room,
Plopped down his bottom
And started to groom.
He sat there, a blob,
For what seemed like all day.
Then sauntered his bottom away.

The fog on my hilltop
Is much like that cat:
A lazy, unflappable
Layer of fat
Perched on the highland,
Heedless of all,
A cozy and comfortable pall.

An "Ode" to my Mother in Law

There once was a lady named "M"

Whose pipes were all plugged up with phlegm.

She scorned pretty verses,

But loved tradesmen curses.

And gleefully rooted the system.

John Banister Tabb - Poem Repertoire vol. 5

The Sisters 

The waves forever move;
The hills forever rest:
Yet each the heavens approve,
And Love alike hath blessed
A Martha's household care,
A Mary's cloistered prayer.

Perhaps this poem struck me because the times are so vituperative.  If one be on the one side, the other side is surely terrible.  Unless the vice be versa?  That's not to take a position on any position but this: God seems to have it in mind that people can be different, even opposed, yet faithful.  I should note that Jesus tells Martha that her sister was doing what was right.  But I'm not inclined to think that he was condemning her concern for hospitality so much as her anxiety.

Structure-wise, the poem is chiastic, I think.  The two first lines set up a contrast, which the third line resolves.  The fourth line likewise resolves the contrast which comes in lines five and six.

It's really just a sweet poem that might be tucked away as a reminder for acceptable difference in quotidian life.