Head Down, Keep Punching

Never, never, never

title the work before

it’s done,

it’ll doom you.

I just start

wherever I am

and go

but I don’t

look at the screen.

I look at the keys

and I keep typing.

If I look up

I’ll immediately get stuck

on the errors,

and the whether

it looks like

a poem.

Sometimes it’s a rant,

or a deathbed confession,

or an impossible seduction

but I don’t think about it.

Just keep that head down

and keep punching those keys.

To the outside world

it probably looks

like I’m having

brutal and angry

computer sex,

but I don’t care.

I just keep following,

giving the ideas free rein

because I know

they’ll take me

somewhere.

If I keep my mind

and my hands busy,

then my thoughts

can get out of the way

and I can keep dancing

and singing,

looking for the spotlight,

or maybe that cliff

to fling myself from

and then marvel

as I glide down

like a beautiful flying squirrel.

Finally

when I lose my steam,

I stop,

and look up

and wonder

what the hell

I was saying.

Now,

comes the rewrite.

[Written for #MeetingTheBar for www.dversepoets.com a warm place in the cold, cold internet.]

Sweet Sixteen (for Sarah)

You’re 16 today,
and I've been here for 12 of them,
(that’s 75% -I know how
you hate anything with numbers,
thinking its math).

We share a love of language
and arcane vocabulary,
and I’m sorry I gave you
my flashpoint anger
with its unfortunate
attendant profanities.

We share a sense
of the dramatic
and an affection
for the absurd.

By question and answer
I've tried to teach you
how to think critically,
and I love it most
when you cut through
pious hypocrisy
like a buzzsaw
through a lemon meringue pie.

We both like fast food
and memorizing lines from
“The Office.”

We both soothe ourselves
with music.

The only thing we don’t share
is DNA.

Very few know you
the way I know you,
and even fewer still
have added
my last name to theirs,

which is proof to me
that at the core
of your soul,

you are sweet.

Ok,
you can roll your eyes
now.

    Sarah (at 15)

Guilty

The “ I've never had anything
near as horrible
as her rape” guilt
kept me in a
doomed relationship.

The “wanting to leave”guilt
kept me there
twice as long
as I should have.

The “I want someone else” guilt
made me secretive
and conspiratorial.

The “I’m having an affair”
guilt led me to crying jags
in my car at the far end
of the Target parking lot.

The “I can’t leave
my primary relationship,
but I also can’t commit
to my paramour and
that’s preventing her
from finding true love” guilt
helped me let her go.

The “I’m trying to be a good
repentant partner but failing
miserably at it” guilt dragged on.

The “I can’t believe I’m starting
another affair” guilt crept
into my life.

The “this new woman
deserves better than being
the other woman” guilt
jolted me into decisiveness.

The “pretending to go into
couples’ therapy as a ruse
to break up with her” guilt
played out.

The “she went through
my things and found all
the evidence of
my scarlet adultery” guilt
baptized me in shame.

The “Yes, I admit
I did you wrong
and I’m a scumbag
confession” guilt monologue
tumbled out of me.

She sent me the
“this is not personal,
but I need $1,000
for house repairs
because I didn’t have
any warning
that you were planning
on leaving me...”
guilt invoice,

which I remitted
in two payments
of $500 each,
thinking I’d be free.

12 years later,
the guilt still remains.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - come on along and bleed a little poetry along with us!]

God Isn't

God isn't
the steady hang of the clouds
inching across the sky

or the moment changing
from fearful to forgiven

or pink smiling lips
stealing a bit of chocolate

or the concentric rings
of a pebble splash in a pond

or the instinct that
feeds and comforts the weak

or the sacrifice of
a convicted criminal on a cross

or the mysterious melody
of the birds a capella at dawn

or a warm and soft pillow
to rest your head upon

or the sweet fragrance
of a perfectly cultivated rose.

God isn't
any one of these things,
but all these things,

et cetera,
ad infinitum,
amen.

[Written for http://dversepoets.com/2013/01/10/the-medium-is-the-message-dverse-meeting-the-bar/  and God.]

After (for Sarah)

When doctor after doctor
shrugs their white-coated
shoulders

and all they
can produce is
misdiagnosis after misdiagnosis,

and after they've prescribed
drug after drug
which don’t do anything
except make you groggy
and fat,

and all the distractions
that used to help
(like writing and music)
no longer work,
and it’s become
a mocking
frustration after frustration,

and it seems like every
hope after hope
only brings
inevitable
disappointment,

remember
there are rainbows
after every storm,
and sunrises
after every night,

and there will be
something else
after this dark period.

So, hold on, Sarah,
there will be better days
after these bitter days
have vanished.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, a poetic oasis in the arid internet wasteland.]

The Christmas Show

Roll up the tents,
shut off the lights,
The Christmas Show
has left the planet again.

Don’t worry folks,
it’ll be back next year,
unless the Birthday Boy
returns
and takes us all with Him,
or the Iranians
or the North Koreans
or the Christian dispensationalists
blow us all to smithereens
with one impulsive
fanatical, self-righteous
push of The Button.

No, Virginia,
Santa Claus ain't been seen
since his marathon night
of slipping down chimneys,
taking perfunctory bites
of homemade cookies
of varying quality,
and navigating uncooperative
union reindeer.
No wonder he goes on
a three-day drunk
and hibernates until August.

It’s just one great big
international extravaganza
with garish green and red costumes
didactic sitcom narratives,
and musical adaptations
in every genre
wafting through every open space,
and you haven’t lived
until you've heard Tiny Tim’s
version of “Silent Night.”

Even the topless bars
are strung out
with Tinsel and Holly,
appearing nightly
at 8 and 11.

From His perch in Heaven
I imagine God squinting
searching His profaned,
cigarette-butted landscape

looking for
homeless teenage mothers
and the souls
who invite them in,

and the robbed,
bloody ones
(presumably unseen)
left for dead,
and the Samaritans
who carry them to safety,

because He knows
they are there,
and we know
they are there,

they’re just hard to find
amid the hustle and bustle
of The Christmas Show.

The Endless Detective

I admire
the puzzle solvers,
for they've more stamina
for the finite
than I.

Puzzles are solvable,
but mysteries
are not.

Curiosity
fuels the search,
and many soon tire
of the journey,
the plodding dedication,
the following
of false leads
into sometimes mocking
cul-de-sacs,
but it is our duty
to persist,
undeterred.

I am
the endless detective,
and everything
is a mystery,
and each revelation
leads to an even more
compelling mystery,

and thankfully,
I've nothing but time
as I dive in
deeper and deeper
exploring
the infinite
blue abyss,

chasing truth and beauty,
hour after hour,
day after day,
lifetime after lifetime.

Overload

Walking through
the supermarket,
hidden speakers insinuate
Christmas music,
and in different parts of the store
it’s different music,
purposely disorienting,
and it seems there are
so many different types
of everything
and I can’t remember
why I came here
and did I want it
strawberry, Buffalo wing,
or teriyaki flavored,

wending through the throng,
I smell perfume,
nauseating aftershave
and the need for
smaller doses of both,
and I look to see
where I’m walking
but do not hold the gaze
a second longer
than we’ve wordlessly agreed,

my skull is stretched
as details from a news report,
simultaneously
horrific and banal,
echo like a sadistic
drum loop,

and none of these stimuli
respect the other,
as they fight for pre-eminence
it’s more than I can
stand,
so I leave without my purchases
and drive silently,
out where the roads are unpaved
and even though
being apart
from other people
usually scares me,
I don’t feel afraid
as I calmly look to the sky
searching for that star
that led them to the baby,

but I can’t find it,
so I content myself
with the quiet,
save for the wind
blowing past me
as I stand in
the silver moonlight

exhaling and emptying
my overloaded head
to my invisible lord,

until the faint thud
of hip hop kick drums
from a distant
passing car
pound a beat
that my body picks up

and
from somewhere
inside,
I hear singing
“all is calm
all is bright”.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - the best site for poets on the internet.]

Virgin, Don’t Forget Your Helmet

Choose wisely.

Your essence,
your sweet perfect vulnerability
can only be shared
for the first time
once.

The act,
powerful and primal,
bond souls
like cosmic superglue,
compelling the heart
to attempt
to fit mismatching pieces,
to re-calibrate standards,

but first loves
are rarely meant
to be last loves.

Each of us,
with eyes closed,
steps off the cliff
in faith,
never knowing
the value of
our choice
until afterwards.

As you enter
the arena of adult situations,
heartache and ecstasy,
don’t forget your helmet,
because the bonding
is so strong,
it can knock your brain
so silly,
that you can be persuaded
into mistaking
a dream
for reality.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, my favorite site for poetry on the internet.]

Places Uncomfortable and Disturbing

When given long stretches

of unconsciousness,

my dreams go to places

uncomfortable

and disturbing. 

Technically

they’re probably

nightmares,

always involving

characters

on the periphery of

my life,

doing disturbing things

in squalid, macabre

circumstances,

and they look at me

like I’m supposed

to know why

they’re there,

like I’m supposed

to be

one of them.

If I have the

luxury,

I’ll lie in bed

and

interpret them:

they’re mostly

about ugly things

that

I don’t want

to think about,

things

I don’t let

my rational positivity

entertain

when conscious.

So I allow my mind

to dissolve the memory,

let the images

slip away

into my unconscious,

dreading

with the certainty

of gravity,

they’ll be back,

knowing they’re

never fully erased,

never totally forgotten.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com, my poetic home away from home on the internet.]

Milk (Nov 30 Prompt: Milk)

The first thing
introduced to us
upon our arrival
is milk,

warm and
(in the absence
of any other flavor)
sweet.

Delivered
as the newborn
lays soft head
upon softer breast,
close-eyed
and softly suckling
in an open-mouthed kiss
attached to
a loving mother,
this becomes
our unconscious archetype
for care,
for love.

Imprinted
in our souls,
this universal
relaxant,
this calming
trusted sedative,
still works
on sleepless nights
filled with worry
and doubt

about
what happens
next.

Another Birth (November 29 Prompt: Birth)

In defiance
against the default settings
of death and destruction,

the rosebud blooms,
the fingers hit the keys
in a glorious, surprising melody,
children wobble first steps,
lovers intone “I Do,”
and the process
begins.

Even though
we always know
the end is imminent,

we rise,
we try,
we fail,
we triumph,
we despair,
we plod on.

Everyday
is a new birth,

and even though
science can explain
the need and function
for sleep,
I still cannot fathom
the mystery of why
I was given
another chance,
another birth.

So, I will rise
and try
and fail
and despair
and occasionally triumph
and plod on,

if for no other reason,
than
mere thankfulness.

The False Accusation (Nov 28 Prompt: Workplace Adversity Poem)

A year and a day
after I received my
Certificate of Excellence
(signed by the College Chancellor)
I was hauled before
the Vice Presidents of
Human Resources and
Administration and Finance
and was threatened
with termination
because a
female co-worker made
the false accusation
that I raped her,
when all I’d done
was have consensual sex
with her
and then have the temerity
not to beg her
to leave her husband
for me.

Obviously, a lover spurned,
classic and predictable,
but when the person making
the false accusation
possessed a vagina,
she was believed
without a critical thought
(ironic for a college,
I know).

I looked at
Walt and Jim
and said
“Both of you
have female assistants.
Don’t you see
how easily
the false accusation
can bite you too?”
They wouldn’t
look me in the eye.

I had to bring in
notes she’d sent
from the college
email server,
which used her own words
to contradict and discredit
her story,
and then
the false accusation
of rape
magically went away.

Moral:
While honesty
is usually the best policy,
in personnel matters
with Human Resources,
email evidence
sometimes trumps
the false accusation.

[#novpad]

Death Is No Villain (Nov 27 Prompt: Heroes & Villains)

Death is no villain.

He has always
played straight with me,
offering no illusions.

He’s coming
and when he does
he won’t be deterred.

He reminds me
there is no time
but now,
and that the bird outside
is not just singing,
but he’s
sounding the alarm
to live NOW!
and the joy in my chest
when the music falls
perfectly
is death reminding me
to dance NOW!
and not think
about the end of the
song.

He never told me
he wasn’t coming,
and he keeps his word
by taking my parents,
aunts, friends
and other heroes,

sometimes
one at a time,

sometimes
in great, dispassionate
handfuls,
every single day.

Death is my hero
because I can trust him
to have the integrity
and keep his word,
to follow through
on his promise.

Until he comes for me,
I live,
skipping with impunity,
until that inevitable knock
on my door.

[For #OpenLinkNight @dversepoets where poets gather and encourage one another and #novpad]

Writing Is Easy (Nov 25 Prompt: Opposite)

Anyone who tells you
writing is difficult
just doesn’t know
what he’s talking about.

Just sit
at the word processor
and tear off
into the blue,
and let your mind
just connect
ideas together.

Never mind if it makes sense,
it came out of you!

Don’t worry about half-finished ideas
or about being repetitive,
or saying the same thing over and over
or being redundant.

Just get it all on the page
and then hit spell check.

And you don’t need
to do it every day,
just wait
until Grand Inspiration
strikes you.

When it’s done
force everyone you know
to read it
and make sure
to watch them
as they read it.

And for goodness sake,
don’t be so critical of
your own writing.

Remember,
you've already done the hard part
by writing it.

Now it’s their turn
to carry the ball.

[#novpad]

The Truth About Love Haiku (Nov 24 prompt: The Truth About...)

There’s no mystery:
unmistakable action
and no exception.

[#novpad]

Deep (Nov 23 Prompt: Deep)

Deep
in the crush
of hungry shoppers
more to avarice
than goodwill,

deep
in the holiday displays
tarted up with tinsel
and discount pricing
for snap purchase,

deep
in the bleary-eyes
of the minimum wagers
robbed of holidays
with families and
sweet memories,

deep in hundreds
of Ken and Barbie
news reports
documenting this melee,

way down deep in
all this is
the one reason,

the only reason.

Paradise (Nov 22 Prompt: Paradise)

...is sitting in a backyard
of a house I thought
I’d ever own

beside a woman more
beautiful and necessary
than I’d ever seen

listening to the laughter
of beautiful children
I never thought I’d adopt

in a world more
surprising and bountiful
than I ever imagined

all wrapped up
in love that I can hardly describe,
and can barely fathom.

[for #novpad]

Christmas, 1970 (Fullerton, California) (Nov 21 Prompt: Five Song Titles)

It is 1970,
in Fullerton, California,
and the only way
I know
Christmas time is here
is that my brothers and I
are huddled around the TV
(in pre-videotape days)
to watch
the single annual showing
of “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”

Seeing the clear blue skies
bordered by the palm trees
in manicured front lawns,
I couldn’t fathom
the appeal of a white Christmas.

Stores decked themselves out
with festive tinsel,
evergreen garlands
silver bells, and
there was that familiar, comforting
music everywhere.

Even then
as a 7 year old
I sensed the season
was about more
than colorfully wrapped presents,
or diving headfirst
into a marshmallow world,

and I still try to find
a quiet moment
on Christmas Eve,
if not an entire
silent night,
to be thankful
for a gift that
I may never fully
appreciate.

Catch and Release Memories (Nov 20 Prompt: Catch and Release)

As I have
no discrete memories
(and a few
indiscreet ones),
I catch them all
into one giant
ever-shifting collage,
perhaps as
Jackson Pollock
would have
if digital arts existed.

Then
I release the good memories
from their collective inventory,
sifting and tossing them
like dice,
spilling some onto the page
as a precaution,
before they are
no longer retrievable,

and I pray the other memories
slip through a hole in the net
and get lost
in some undiscovered bit
of the infinite darkness,

where they’ll never
hurt anyone
or haunt me
ever again.

[for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - my favorite place for poetry on the internet - #novpad]

Christmas Card Carousel (Nov 19 Prompt: Circle)

I scan the racks
of card stock,
a patchwork in
shades of
mostly red,
some evergreen,
like I’ve done
every year.

I spend a lot
of emotional time
standing there
trying to find the
perfect sentiment:

I remember
in the late 1980’s
going from store to store
looking for
tarjetas en espanol
and practicing writing
“Querida Abuelita”
for a grandma who didn’t
speak English
from her grandson
who only learned
Spanish from public school.

Now, I skip
the “Parents” section
and find a card just for
my Mom,
but if I’m in a
really masochistic mood,
I’ll read the cards for
Dads,
until a single,
resigned tear
surrenders down
the side of my face.

I wonder
how many more
more Christmases
I’ll have to send
cards to
my godparents,
among my other
adopted parents.

I smile at
the cards for
sweethearts,
girlfriends,
and other
non-committed lovers-

“For the One I Love”
cards bought
almost exclusively

before Anita
came along
and gave me reason to buy
cards embossed
“For My Wife.”

Then, all my maudlin,
morbid musing on
mortality
ceases

and I set out to find
that perfect
Christmas card
for her.

This usually requires
buying at least
two cards.

If You've Ever Wondered Why My Archive is Entitled "I Hate Poetry" (Nov 18 Prompt: Write a Glosa)

Prompt: Write a glosa. 

"This involves 
an epigram of 
4 consecutive lines 
from a favorite poet 
that the challenge participant 
believes they can 
write successfully to. 

Then, 
write a poem 
consisting of 
four 10-line stanzas 
where the final line 
of each stanza 
is a line 
from the epigram, 
in order. 

Within each stanza, 
lines 6, 
9 and 
10 must rhyme."

Once done,
then go back 
and switch 
every other verb
for lines 1 through 7

and then replace 
the very next 
present tense verb 
with "fellating."

Go to the second stanza
and replace the
last two lines 
with your horoscope
from the local newspaper.

Review stanza three 
and if the letters you've used
cannot be rearranged
to provide a 
combustible chemical reaction,
then you to the nearest
graveyard 
and copy the epitaph
of the 17th headstone
and force fit it
(at gunpoint if necessary)
into your poem.

In stanza four, arbitrarily
replace the first three
adjectives with the following:
"steatopygous"
"flatulent"
"zalid."

Re-read the work,
if it remains intelligible
and / or accessible,
start over.

If you've ever wondered
why my archive is entitled 
"I Hate Poetry",

now you know.

"How To Go to Your Cousin's Wedding, Stay Late Dancing at the Reception and Come Home Way Too Late to Even Consider Turning on the Computer, Much Less, Writing to the Prompt" (Nov 17 Prompt: How to ...)

Inescapable (Nov 16 Prompt: Start Poem with Last Line of Previous Poem)

To test that theory
I’ll use the old
punchline:

“who are you going to believe,
me or your lying eyes?”

I cannot see
the air I breathe
and depend upon,
yet I know it is real,
because I see
what happens
when it is taken away.

It is
the same
with God.

Just because
you can’t see God
doesn’t mean
God doesn’t exist.

If I try
to take away God
to see what happens,
I can’t.

God doesn’t exist
just because
we believe in God
and therefore
will God into existence.

Thomas Talbott called
God’s love
inescapable,
and for me,
that makes it
as basic as air.

[For #novpad - to get Talbott's work go here.]

Lady Booze (Nov 15 Prompt: Trade Off)

I haven’t had
a drink now
in almost 23 years,
and as the
holidays
roll around,
I still stare
longingly
at the rows
of bottles
in the
liquor aisle,
lined up
and waiting
like willing
concubines.

Everyday is
a battle,
and some days
are bloodier
than others.

So, Lady Booze,
here’s the deal:

I’ll keep bringing
you willing suitors,
drinkers who will
celebrate and revel
in you,
who will
never betray you,

and for your part,
please
stay away from me.
Don’t blow me kisses
or whisper carnal
promises in my ear.

This way
I will appear
to be strong
and determined,
rather than
the weak,
craven addict
that I am.

They say
God’s grace
is stronger
than your boozy
siren song,

but most days,
I’m in no shape
to test that theory.

When I’m Stuck (Nov 14 Prompt: Stuck)

When I’m stuck,
I’ll just sit there,
not
budging,
just
waiting,

because
someone owes me
an apology,
an explanation,
respect,

as precious hours
and days dissolve,
never to be seen
again.

That’s when
I have to remember
the wisdom
God has
shared with me
many times:

“Don’t be a schmuck,
swallow your pride,
get unstuck.”

Simmering (Nov 13 Prompt: Recipe)

Start with 1
39-Year-Old-
Adulterated Cynic

then add 1
The Most Beautiful
Woman in the World,

then divide their time
by 3 children
of various ages
and temperaments.

Place all ingredients
into a 1,000-square foot
house,
let simmer
until overflowing,
then pour contents
into a larger house.

Add assorted
dogs and cats
to the mix
to suit your taste,

continue cooking
through homework projects,
overflowing plumbing,
summertime cookouts,
improvised Christmas traditions -

Season with tears,
sweeten with laughter.

Keep this recipe
simmering
year after year,
and let it
fill your house
with an inviting,
irresistible scent,

and always welcome
everyone in.

Bon Appetit!

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - my poetry home away from home on the internet, #novpad]

A Selfish Prayer (Nov 12 Prompt: Needed Technology)

Heavenly Father, this is my prayer
as I lay me down to sleep:
protect my friends and family,
the ones I wish to keep.

And send us someone to erase
that daily, silent death,
that coats our mouths when we awake,
that horrid morning breath.

Veteran's Haiku (Nov 11 Prompt: Veteran's Perspective)

We don't need parades
or the memories of death,
just don't forget us.

Adios (Nov 10 Prompt: Foreign Word Title)

Flowery eulogies
sometimes seem gross,
to the dearly departed,
adios.

It is not stoic
nor lachrymose,
to the dearly departed,
adios.

Expresses perfectly,
is not verbose,
to the dearly departed,
adios.

When He’s Gone (Nov 9 Prompt When He's Gone)

When he’s gone
his petty poems and
thinly veiled pleas
will cease cluttering
the internet.

Maybe nobody
will even know notice

he’s gone.

Just in case 

I’m leaving
detailed instructions
on how he wants 

his ceremony:

cremate him
and put his ashes
into helium filled balloons
and then
set them free,

so that they’ll
land or explode
completely at random.

Make sure you play
“The Secret O’ Life” by James Taylor
“(It’s Not Easy) Being Green” -
the Frank Sinatra version,

and for the closing
play the Charles Brown recording of
“I Don’t Want to Get Adjusted.”

He knows 

you will be 

too emotionally

busted up
to plan all this,
so he’s left all these notes
on his computer in a folder
labeled “Final Show.”

You’ll also find there
suggested anecdotes and insights

for his eulogy
and pictures 

he found especially

flattering
that can be used in a
slide show,
if desired.

Don’t mistake his
planning for 

morbid fascination,
or worse, narcissism:

he’s just trying
to help 

make things easier

one last time.

Detour: Never Gonna Give Up Control

Another audio detour. Name the samples, win my respect!

Dear Dorothy (Nov 8 Prompt: Dead Poet)

Dear Dorothy,

With your unsentimental eye,
and that firecracker wit,
I would’ve been a goner,

especially as I prize
brains and humor
highest.

I would’ve followed you around,
as would a puppy dog,
waiting for you
to see me as more.

Were that the case,
I might’ve broken through,
and with my feelings
reciprocated,
you might’ve changed
course,
and all the classic verse,
the tales of unrequited love,
might have gone
unwritten.

It’s best
that we never met,
except in the
pages of a book,
for if you loved me
way I loved you
there’d be
no need
for your
longing and poignant
poetry,

and perhaps
as you entertained
my petitions,
I might’ve even
made you laugh,
and that would be
a gift
only the cosmos
would be able
to summon.

Love,
Mosk

The Process (for me) (Day 7 Prompt: Circular poem)

Blank
white page,
waiting for the muse.
Suddenly, she quickly flies
in the window sometimes straight,
sometimes on an angle, and the ideas
race like wildfire across the plains
of my imagination as I pluck
the right words to tame
the moment, before it
goes, taking with it
the life, the zing,
before returning
once again to
blank.