Hello Porneia


Girly-girl, I feel you near…
thanks for stopping by (again).
You knock, then whisper in my ear
that S-word mightier than the pen.

I haven’t seen you for so long;
beholding now your rosy charms
let me let you right my wrong
within your warm and virtual arms.

Take me to that field of flowers
where the wondrous waters flow.
Temper there my raging powers –
none, save God, will know.

(Porneia and I go back a long way… but since we broke up, our relationship is strictly Platonic)


Hymn to Intellectual Curiosity

OK, all 4 of you who follow ConnectHook
I want you to know that I REALLY DID write this one today
(for NaPoWriMo) during a slow Friday afternoon at work.
Feedback appreciated – it is still malleable…

The cat once killed again takes up her plume
to write in the air with a sinuous tail;
a valiant attempt at true life to resume.
Penultimate of nine? Or eighth to fail…

The literate lioness’s spectral quill
dipped in fountains of blood-red wet ink
(along with sharpened claws) warns: time to kill – 
but God would give us all more time to think.

Although certain races and social classes
display not a trace of Curiosity,
Humanity (being higher than their asses)
should counter such donkey-like paucity.

Boredom is beastly – it burdens the mind
one should be able to sustain some good talk…
If you finally perceive they are not of your kind
then pity them. Smile – and let the dullards walk.

A good conversation (by block-heads reviled)
costs only the interest – it’s free of price!
This birthright of every man, woman and child
imparts life to variety, adding spice.

A bite on the tongue, or a shake in the pan
enlivens the food, while enhancing the taste.
Be it preaching or sophistry, blessed is the man
consuming such dishes, no wordage to waste.

Yet most are content to survive on stale bread,
or drive through for fries and a Happy Meal.
Then, quickly digested, the pleasure dead,
it’s on to the stop sign. Their tires squeal.

Attempting to talk with such silly people
whose frame of reference is mainly: What?
Can drive one to brewery, cloister, or steeple
in search of that city whose gates never shut.

When word, wit and wisdom flow out of the mouth
enjoyment sings welcome as springtime arrives.
But ignorance pushes the birds further south
re-freezing the surface of puddled lives.

If you need some assistance, go purchase a cup
or run down to the liquor-store. Brew up some tea.
Be sure that your affective filter’s not up,
grammar monitor running functionally.

Art, sports, philosophy, music or sex –
please make it a good one. The topic is moot.
Don’t bore me with shopping. Don’t mention your Ex.
But swim to the deep end or bend for my boot.

The cat is now road-kill, her mission has failed.
One pussy-life left. Let your next chat count.
Don’t claim that you didn’t know what it entailed,
were unsure of the topic, idea, or amount.

Eye of Delusion


Good sir – you claim there is no “I”.
Your Buddha says it’s just a sham;
that all is one, and that is why
we ought to merge,
repress the urge
and give a damn.

You say desire upholds the ego
(selfish bully, source of sin)
but void of self-hood where can we go?
Scale the mountains,
flow in fountains,
gaze within?

OK; let’s cultivate the glow.
We’ll sit and let Samsara roll.
(Be careful – lest your aura show!)
Then still the spin
and glimpse within
the Oversoul…

I find a catch in this your theory.
True, it sounds quite mystical…
in practice, though, it makes me leery.
Cynical jeers
give way to fears

without an “I”, who pays my rent?
Why learn, why sing, why plant or reap?
Why should the criminal repent
if there’s no he
who wronged the me
with no harm meant?

image: Tales of the Buddha Before He Got Enlightened
Writer: Alan Grant
Artist: Jon Haward
Colorist and Letterer: Jamie Grant

Hoofbeats, Hoofbeats, Hoofbeats !

I wonder, at times, how I got caught up in this useless obsession called Poetry.
Along with nursery rhymes, ad jingles, and pop music, it must have been immortal lines such as the Rex Trailer’s Boomtown show theme which cursed me with this love of rhythmic language and imagery. Listening to it today I am struck by the primal force of this TV cowboy poetry:

♪♫♪ Covered wagons were a-rollin’ out along the trail
on the way to the golden West…  ♫♪♫♪