Game Ball

It’s out there now   groggy on the soggy, sprinkler-soaked lawn
A once nearly-bursting bladder - nearly totally now - deflated
Shimmer-red octagonal panels, scratched and color- faded

One last Friday's frantic semi-professional fixture - Wilson official game ball
Rebounds now the final and futile countdown scrambles, the clock almost expired
Another anti-climax of a yet another loosing season, and two dozen dreams retired

Kept guarded then as momento, for a decade, on a crowded closet shelf
Packed away - mostly out of sight and out of mind -  a token cherished memory
Passed on in appreciation it was,  to a young part time soccer referee

Then with passing permitted through neglecting of vigilance and vision
To become a kick around back yard practice ball for twelve year-old boys
Wallows now in its puddle of inertia   No more thunks that  thunking voice

Too ugly even anymore, insists my wife, to bring that damned ball inside
But I can’t point fingers at the boys outside, oblivious as they were, to the claim
That such a spherical symbol of a time and place when everyone knew my name

No  it wasn't autographed by the team -  I've sort of thing about things like that
But it was coaxed across some magic carpets by  enfamous Stan the Pizza Man
and 'twas banana-bent corner kicked by long-haired and handsom Yilmaz Orhan

mea culpa, mea culpa I admit near totally   in retrospect at fault
That such keepsake should be squandered, one I’d hoped to keep nursing along
So every now and then my nostalgia simmers into the rhythm of a Memphis song

The later in the game it's gotten  -  the more I  think   about those Friday nights
when I was one of those men in the middle - the whistle fixed in my firm fingers
The scoreboard clock - even then still  tic tic ticking, because it for no man lingers

Circumcircular

Around and around I paddle  small town to sleepy city
Forward   sideways  backward   bobbing from same   to same
Rarely the chosen one anymore  no longer what you'd call pretty
One of the last taken a rag-armed outfielder in a sandlot game

Over and once again red duck Drake the foremost first pick
Or one of my strutting sisters younger than myself  more agile
And damn those cheeky New-Kids on the blue duck clique
Nobody harbors any nostalgia for an old bird frail and fragile

So every night I swim without complaint  a circumcircular spinster
A guarded gleam gazes hopefully out past distant downcast eyes
Looking to the day some young tow-head  hay-seed youngster
Picks me up and turns me over and selecting me wins first prize

Happy Father's Day

Happy Father’s Day, today my Father
I really wish that I could call you Dad
You insisted it was never any bother
Your smiling firstborn ever made you glad

Seems now to have been just another stage
Supporting role well rehearsed and played
Punctually turned forward pianist’s page
Everyone knew you’d always make the grade

So with this ten bucks off discount coupon
From the local super outdoorsman’s shop
I scoped and searched for some wee token
Fact is, I shopped until I nearly dropped
.
But you never cared much for casting plugs
Not much a one to punt, pass or kick a ball
Maybe that’s why I shrink your hugs
It hurt too much to watch your fall

Ayn Rand's gospel of productivity / a backward glance

"Productive work is the central purpose of a rational man’s life, the central value that integrates and determines the hierarchy of all his other values. Reason is the source, the precondition of his productive work--pride is the result." ....Ayn Rand

As as willing and  well-read student, I'd come to adopt the "logical positivism" of Ms. Rand during the "great awakening" of my graduate school years, and had gone on to incluculate many of her assumptions in my affairs.  I'd loved the way she had adapted the novel to basically preach philosophical arguments, and had admired her fierce loyalth to the "No Bull S..."outlook.

I'd accepted on faith, that the proper place to be in life - animated toward a goal which is worthy and  to which one was well-suited to endevour - to be the guaranteed ladder to success up Maslow's hierarchy of needs.  I'd come to expect or at least  have the right to anticipate a fair amount of self satisfaction in life, however limited my financial successes.

Working for a commission, one learns to see the glass as half full, at least in theory;   throughout the years and on most days.  And I'd read the proper positive-programming books, and listened to the peak performance tapes, and attended the seminars in hotel conference centers and ball-rooms to keep the flame burning, so to speak.

I suppose it's this lack of positive feedback from the universe -  more so than the empty pockets - that explains this empty hour-glass feeling, and this place where I am right now.  Where the sands inside the shape, are  fewer   and    further   between:   after  the torrent has slacked  into a river, which  tapers  to  a stream,  which   fizzles    out    into    a      trickle,     that   tails   off    into   a    drip   drip    drip        drip           drip                   drip

Pink Red You

One persistently perceptible pink-red rose
Continues radiant at late autumn’s close
Her kindred siblings retired - long past red
One pink-red rose  one proudly raised head

One particularly part-Labrador black pup
Starry eyed tumble of overflowing cup
Begging to run free - discover better ways
Please don’t make me wear the leash today!

One surprisingly Motown sense of rhythm
And one pink-red rose in motion with them
Its flower burst fragrance remembered forever
And one romantic, slow-float dreamed together

One perfectly proportioned book of ledger
A pinch of everything that’s good and proper
Snugly fit together a tightly laced running shoe
Inexplicable and irreplaceable pink- red  you

Your Turn

It’s your time to twinkle little star
To smiling thus illuminate and thaw
Distant worlds within your orbit from afar

Your clime to blossom bashful flower
Unfolds unfettered unto summer sure delight,
Uproots and throws out thistles dull and dour

Perfect for the lead role in my film feature
Someone wanted to cast you as ugly duckling
Transfigured here this unmasked graceful creature

Your age, little Star to afterglow in kind return
Erase and spiff life’s near sighted clouded board
And write here in tidy bold block letters "My turn"

Lantern

Banished to the caves again
Love’s sour pickle satiation.
Listless leaking fountain pen

Angry at the world tonight
But mostly at my own self delusion
Seeking easy paths to make it right

Cursing at my luck once more
Flirted with but never took to bed
Fortuna - fickle lady whore

Called to mind, a Bee Gees tune
Garden-picked and hauntingly familiar
Like dish must have been with spoon

Reminiscing your touch - at midnight
Tonight however distant ever drawn
A lunar moth to your lantern light.

...Or Maybe

I’ve forgotten just now, whether or not
and what sort of tulip bulbs I planted last fall
Unconceivable to me it is that I’d forgot
but my eroding memory balks at any easy recall

Did I follow suite as per usual and bury
hundreds of pink pastels on promenade?
Or pregnant are we expecting tulip Shirley
with her charming changing-color fade?

Which species featured in which dollar store sack?
or color-picked by my wife on Christmas spree?
was woven in equal measure among narcissus and lilac
Up frong behind the Darwins so the neighbors can see?

I really have forgotten, I'm dazed and a bit confused
how these liquorish licked lavenders from Digger O’Dell
will co-mingle the mojo of whatever colors I’ve used.
However mix-matched, I reckon only time will tell.

Relic

I am a wax Christmas candle left to melt out in the sun
Goofy guy with macro hair and thigh high Adidas shorts
I never once then had to slow down wherever I would run
But nowadays I’m crawling;  reflux gags and nasal snorts

I am a Butterball turkey stuffed into a pair of waffle Nikes
Wrapped in Ace bandages basting in some smelly ointment
My once suave silk skin these day sprouts a forest of spikes
And this shag-carpet back begs chiropractic appointment

I am a no longer treasured trinket, cigar box souvenir
Stored now in a vacant closet beside baseball, glove, and bat
My once un-containable smile sedately snarls into sneer
And where rippled muscle reigned supreme, now loiters layered fat

I am a toy top    spinning   before school;  first grade
Beginning   Whirling madly with all the joy of discovery
Now nilly -willy wobbling  Inertia slacks and slowly fades
Wanting re-strung, re- flung  Ten small steps to recovery

I am a handcrafted relic flint, rescued from a farmer’s plow
A tank-topped teenaged tuff on a kamikaze Kawasaki
Archived and guarded on a shelf to show to a future now
Who can measure a craftsman’s skill?  Ancient contemporary.

Rosary

I keep a rosary dangling from my rear view mirror
Pendulous representation something far away superior
Simple rosewood relic  blood droplets linked with rope
So gaunt yet so strong, this thin taut tendon of hope

Looking ever forward and slightly to my right
Guarding a sort of blind spot with its beacon of light
Vigilant.  Unlike some talisman's rabbit’s foot hold
More akin to a family photo nesting in you billfold

Fortunate me! This rosewood emblem looks the other way
Unworthy as I so often am to gaze upon that face today
Let me fain retain a visual of a spear- torn side in sight
Behold one blood sopped brow recall one Holy Roman night

Circa 1886

It was our personal private clapboard galleria
Circa 1886 traditional pioneer family habitation
Gasping now the last breaths of a departed generation
Outflanked by more contemporary brick fascia dreams
Two-car garages cluttered all up with import SUVs
Bass boats or lawn mowers  mechanal muscle machines
Defiantly standing firm on seven thistle-choked acres
As renegade wisteria vines smother white-washed walls
while solemn ghost-rider ancestor stand sentry in halls
Integrated carnival and depression glass relics
Crammed elbow to elbow on communal knick-knack shelf
Each some gothic story to tell now kept quietly to itself
There,Aunt B’s hand sewn quilts  each scrap a stitch in tune
Careful in the kitchen there a film encases the gloom
 of residual pork sausages and country egg sunrises
and skillet cooked splatter-burgers with freezer fries
Redbooks and Reader’s Digests heaped up in head high stacks
Was the latest news  those yestdays, but nobody much looks back
Look! On top of Grandma’s Singer parked Papa’s replica Conestoga
Hand crafted to  acurate scale and whittled in complete detail
Propped up there in the corner still  his axe for splitting rail
Decorative bags stuffed fat full of Christmas past and mildew
brim full of baubles boxes and bows  Re-gifting as a virtue !
School Days photos levels 1 thru 12 uncle Eddy was scarecrow thin
Moth-pocked and moulded church clothes and bonnets from way back when
Her great-granny's glasses and jewelry transport us back to the day
when the greatest of sins was to throw anything at all away!

Nothing's Too Good

Burberry cashmere shrouds her China doll neck
Cost way too much money.  But oh well, what the heck?
Ann Taylor classics draping delicate shoulders
Like a fine cabernet, getting better not older
Prim Prada pumps protect petit perfumed feet
Some flaming gay stylist does her hair up so neat
Personal trainer, keeps her physically fit
Some heads will be turning, there’s no doubt about it
She knows, but won’t tell, Victoria’s Secret
Skin soft as suede, Estee Lauder helps her keep it
Leisurely lunching at Bistro P. F. Chang
Nothing unusual, drops some bucks for her bang
Mercedes Benz transports where ever she travels
When she gets home at night I start to unravel
She brings extra lean bacon, and whole grain bread
I’m crazy ‘bout this goddess!  Gone out of my head!
 Nothing’s too good for my baby.
 If you knew her, like I do, you’d see
 Nothing’s too good for this woman I love
 But she’s too good for the likes of me

Drained

Ghostly sound sucking swirling
Hissing slow refrain
Filthy oil-skimmed water circling
Clock-wise bathtub drain
Problem is these waves of water
Nagging soggy ears
Resemble-gurgles my persona
Circling dreadful spheres
Annoying drip  obnoxious bother
Valve not quite full closed
Plinks of this fools living water
drip drip  down fortune’s hose
Last coins drop on empty hour
I reap what I had chosen
Drip  Drip  This towel stinking sour
My valve not quite fully open

Out

Out of time and out of space
A dropped and broken antique vase
Out of fashion not in step
Some old geezer just thinks he’s hip
Out of energy and pace
Furrowed lines so easily traced
Out of options, out on a limb
A scented candle burning dim
Outside grace and out of favor
Chewing gum done lost its flavor
Out of money and low on gas
Always walking on the grass
Out of cigarettes and beers
And these damn glasses hurt my ears
Out of patience with myself
Unread book on a cluttered shelf
Out on the bases: down for the eight
Way out of balance on my slate
Out of pitons, end of the rope
A class five climb with little hope
Out of my head over you.
All you are and all you do.

New Arithmetics

You and I
1 + 1 which = somewhat > 2
1 x 1 which = a whole lot > 1
what convoluted arithmetics we have to learn
to come up with the right answers in relationships

seems to me
only way to get a grasp on the subject
is to make every attempt to un-learn
everything they taught us
in grade school mathematics

about long divisions since
two divided by anything will undoubtedly
end in a fraction and subtractions: because
2 - 1 does invariably = something
< or = to zero

Two Tickets to the Opry

And I blink and realize
Half life of nearly fifty five
Together in Tennessee with this incredible child

And rejoice in such due times
A dozen soft landing lifetimes
Permitting lumps of sugar to sweeten my karma

To offer such anointments
Covers thousands disappointments
And many of them at her undeserved expense

Struck  in manic realization
Next weeks 27th?  Celebration?
Best go right now and buy two tickets to the Opry

Before Adam

Before Adam's first election
Must have been the thought of Eve
Nothing less than pure perfection
Should so easily deceive

Before Cain fain claimed his brother
There was gain and thus defeat
Before Jacob conned his feeble father
and Issac took that bite to eat

Before Aaron's staff stretched fateful
When a night light led the way
Only then a remnant are found faithful
and only those few allowed to stay

Before Moses dreaded Zion's thunders
There were visions of how it ends
We kick the pricks against our blunders
And refuse half the help he sends

Good Man

They will say he was a good man
A doting Papaw to his and theirs
A sober and faithful husband
Who knew how to show he cares

They will call him a gracious servant
Always sipping from a half full cup
One who kept most every covenant
Always the first one to follow-up

Some will recollect his intelligence
He had a sort of gift for words
Others will recall his belligerence
Some good linens soiled with dirt

Preacher will spin, he's gone to pasture
To some blessed resting place
Then will pray he's found his answer
And a smile to grace his face

         And I say to you, "Why do you call me good?"
         There is non good but one, that is God.
         But if you would enter into life, keep the commandments.
                 Matthew 19:17

Gyroscopic

As a December sky strays from its drizzle to a deep
and with woebegone eyes waxing; worried to weep
When my detached visage sets-up distant to deeper
Truth and whole truth is, I don't deserve to keep her
Wearied I waiver from LockTite - on down to dizzy
My thoughts are gyroscopic- all mind-bending busy
Seeking a semblance of some sort sense of balance
Away! on a quest to recover Lancelot's lost chalice
Throbbing from the heart strings- that well up inside
Such  unspoken words; found so convenient to hide
The north wind curses me, and  I'm blown off-track
Wish to God could make her want to have me back

For Shannon

Pen up a poem to Shannon
Some wee warm words how I feel
Reverence every effervescence
SweeTart zest of citrus peel

Write a song for Shannon
Shake up a tonic for itching ears
Isn't this the whole wide world enthralled?
Listen for her joys and fears

Tell a tale of Shannon
Cast her in a movie with Sharif
Green splattered Eden yonder hill & vale
A heart's been stolen and she the thief

Write the book called Shannon
To reduce to words should be my curse
Fair Shannon speaks to my bumbling best
She wraps herself inside her verse.

knock-knock

Knock-knock.  Who's there?
Anyone I know behind that stare.
Knock-knock.  Well then?
Still the same as it's ever been?
Knock-knock. Go away.
Rather be by myself today.
Knock-knock. Still here.
Get so lonesome if you're not near.
Knock-knock.  Don't crowd.
You've no reason to act so proud.
Knock-knock.  You're nuts.
You don't love me, hate my guts.
Knock-knock.  Poor child.
Get like this every once a while.
Knock-knock damn it let me in.
Any idea how long it's been?
Knock-knock. Say what?
Only want me for what I've got.
Knock-knock.  Not true.
You know I love every bit of you.
Knock-knock.  Don't say.
Where were you all those other days.
Knock-knock.  Chill out.
You don't know what your talking about.
Knock-knock.  Me chill?
You yell so loud, your voice goes shrill.
Knock-knock.  No shout.
Just get emotional when we talk it out.
Knock-knock.  You're blind.
And you act the same way every time.
Knock-knock.  Time out!
You know I really don't mean to shout.
Knock-knock.  Boo-Hoo.
Always something going on with you.
Knock-knock.  Get real.
You know I can't help the way I feel.
Knock-knock.

Twogather

Clasp hold of my humbled hand;
we'll stumble together through a life span
It's forward marching and straight ahead
as we relish every little nothing said

We can chart a ship towards eternity
where it's forever you and forever me
We've shed our skins of yesterday,
awaiting brighter futures taking place

Velcored tightly forever to this as real
and every moment we can steal
Super-glued - fastened side-by-side
There is surely nothing left to hide

We're homeward bound and nearly where,
well-now-there-then baby, two may share

Frozen

Take my hand and hold it
You've already stolen my heart
Touch my life and mold it
May it complement yours equal part
Keep my dreams they're frozen
In you Love already come true
From any and all others chosen
For the rest of my life only you!