No green card needed

I know that we can't be alone
to think this we'd be ever so pompous
West of the moon, South of Cancun
I"ll bet they travel without a compass
.

What makes them all so gosh darn choosy
must I be driving a pick up truck
Perhaps I need a wife named Pearl
or maybe it's just plain 'ole luck
.

I'd gladly take them to my leader
all they'd have to do is ask
I'd even undergo some testing
don't they think I'm up for the task?
.

I could make millions selling my story
if they would let me snap some pics
All they'd have to do is pose
not perform strange farout tricks
.

Aside from the money and front page press
I think that this would be so rad
To end up with a martian penpal
would as they say it, be oh so "bad"
.

So if you know an alien or two
you just might want to steer them my way
because I know I'd love to meet them
and also sure I'd make their day!

eeney,meeny,miney,me

I wish that's all I ever was
just an April Fool,
Left with some eleven months
feeling like a jewel
But no, my life is lived like I'm
the third leg of your stool,
Knowing that I can't but help
to shoulder all the cruel
I wonder if it's in my head
this slimy, viscous gruel
And if I'm always slipping on
my constant dripping drool
Or are the feelings of alone,
sinking, drowning in a pool,
A course that I failed to attend
when I should have been in school....

Wonderella

Don't ask me if I still love you,
what more need I do to prove it to you.
What is it that I do or don't do
that even makes you condider this question
I've always done as I thought you wanted
always placing myself in the second row
Your needs, like my needs however, must be made known
or should love include reading scattered thoughts
If you really want to make me think and ponder
ask me WHY I still love you,

then give me a week

A weed indeed

Like mountain crests in alpine air peeking through the fog
Cypress knees protrude above the algae coated bog

.

The winsome spires conjure thoughts of a prehistoric day
when lifespans could be cut in half by your natural prey

.

To cure they gathered herbs and bark for potions they would make
and crushed and ground them into tonics the sick would gladly take
..

These medicines of theirs they cured all ailments, every sting,
they'd fling their fear into the wind and circle 'round and sing
,
Today our standards say they're quacky, these natural healing men
our doc's will try if you're insured, maybe, perhaps just then
.

Some times you feel they want it all, your cranberry colored blood
and when you're dry they'll toss what remains, into the primordial mud

.

So, if I had the chance to travel, back several millennia ago

I'd miss my lattes, sushi and my Hybrid car yet though

.

When I arrived I'd know that I could easily foretell

the days when roots and weeds become the biggest known "hard sell"

Crispy Critters

Solar rays like shredded glass
now wage a special war
Skin once pink and slightly pale
now itchy, red and sore
.

To bronze our skin was once the rage
chic at the very least
We'd march our tails down to the beach
half naked and well greased
.

A healthy look we thought it gave
we all feel so good tanned
Token days on towels with
big coolers at our hand
.

Remember when we thought it was
a good dose of vitamin D
Yet there was no question, that too much,
could cause a third degree
.

I think we used to have more time
to romp within the sun
It seems as if the fun's become
a deadly loaded gun
.

Since now we know the ozone's weak
earths filter is no more
The yellow ball we used to love
will now cook us to the core
.

So throw away your oils and balms
that claim to help you tan
Buy something with SPF 10
and stay out of the frying pan

Crack in a smile

Centuries ago it was decided
that when our loved ones leave this world
their remains should be saved for posterity
so that we could later visit and feel
.

I can't explain the reasoning
the ancients had when the choice was made
to keep the dead eternally prepared as if
Sunday dinner was just a week away
.

Nor can I understand the outings,
the family trips to the park like setting which
has become the new abode for ones we once
held so close, those we wish hadn't moved so far away
.

We go bearing gifts of flowers and the like
all standing around gazing at a stone
knowing full well any conversation will be one sided
yet the wrought emotions supposedly help
.

Are we not becoming one with the rock itself
as our unmoving, carved features just stare
at the granite, their granite slab of a roof
that only helps us remember the feelings of loss
.

Perhaps we are secretly hoping, attempting
to forget the separation, wishing that our hearts
become hardened to the experienced pain, the weight,
much like each layer of developing shale does
.

Although I may not get it, I do it, like the elders
before me I also peer at the etched memorial
my secret hope however it that I will know when
to move on before the stoniness takes me completely

duh

Have you ever written a post and then in looking through blogs that you haven't visited in a while discover that the post you just wrote is similar in content or at least topic to another very, very recent post of someone else? This has happened to me more than once, actually many times and I can't understand why. Sometimes I wonder if I go online in my sleep and read these posts and unconsciously write something similar..........it's not as if they're world news or something we have all heard of recently where the topic is on every ones mind..........what gives here?

bored

This is my answer to boredom........

Yellow roses still must die
wingless people yearn to fly
prophets secretly asking why
what's the reason I must try
why can't I just sit and cry

Bored or.......Zwkat

As I have mentioned before I truly love puzzles. They can be words, numbers, pictures, you name it and I will try it or already have; and I'm sure I enjoyed it. One of my favorites are those substitution puzzles, you know, the ones where sayings or adages have their letters replaced with a simple substitution code; I really like working those. Anyway, I tried my hand at creating one of those out of a simple poem I wrote and I thought I'd throw it out and see where it wound up. I wish I could say the one that cracks the code wins something grand but.....well, you don't. If by chance you're bored, like I was this evening, you might want to try to let me know what this says beneath the code. Like I said, I was bored.

Grffnd enprp phykk ciph kyr
dyuakrpp jrnjkr orqeu hn lko
jenjsrhp prberhko qptyua dso
dsqh'p hsr erqpnu y ciph heo
dso bqu'h y miph pyh quk beo?

Want a piece of me?

Carlotta was crystalline; made
of assorted layers and coats,
a sharded shield of misguided protection

One day she'd be sweeter
than jasmine in a springtime bed
and could attract any man she chose

Other days you had to be careful
of the venom she exuded from each pore;
heed her fangs, heed her claws

We never knew what the day would bring
until we saw her enter the room
her eyes would always betray her

First time acquaintances couldn't see
the thorns neath her blue silk chemise
nor did they know the sweet hid the sour

Yet a typical week can allow you the chance
to get a peek at every piece of her soul
to savor all that is Carlotta; as a whole

.............It's you who needs protection

Endless

I have to thank Rose Dewey Knickers for putting me on to One Single Impression and the haiku prompt "Circle".....again, thank you both.

.
Eternal in form
sashaying forevermore
blind to the corners

Snowbird Mania

This is inspired by a promt at Writing Companion "are we there yet". It seems that some of us long to be "there" yet won't admit it when we arrive. Here it is:

It is here now
but not there yet
as the bulbs
begin to bloom
.

As coldness fades
to warmer days
and sunshine
replaces the gloom
.

Deep in the south
spring has arrived
yet the northerner
still wears his coat
.

In this respect
they can't claim tops
so I guess
it's our time to gloat
.

These are the days
they pile in cars
and head
this way yet they fret
.

They'll spend a week
declaring we're slow
not admitting their words
"are we there yet"?

Scavengers three

This was almost too embarrassing to post yet these are the current feelings I have based on the last months conversations and what occurred to me the other day........I wish it were different.

It took all their lives
year after year
to collect and amass
the things that they loved

.

To them it meant more
than you'd ever know
to have and to hold
the things that they saved
.

The books and the lamps
the furniture nice,
what they deemed art
the things that they bought

.

Old computers and china
the silver and brass
all nicely upheld
the things that they owned
.

With clothing enough
to open a store
many tags still in place
the things that they had

.

Then one day they left
all their treasure behind
to be picked over slowly
the things that they loved
.

To others it meant
less than you'd expect
to keep and retain
the things that they saved

.

The cash, house and bonds
now that's what was sought
the big ticket items, not
the things that they bought
.

We all have our couches
our dining room sets
we'll sell all the jewels
the things that they owned

.

So don't leave for others
the things you hold dear
and expect them to love them
the things that you have
.

Many things become trash
when you're no longer around
so make them all happy
turn your cache into cash

Smorgasbord

Who else I might have been

It was about 1920, I think, when I last
had an appetite for doing the Charleston
with my favorite flapper, Flo; she knew how
to make my nights last forever and was
responsible for the good times, but then

.

I vaguely remember a hanging post
with gallows creaking beneath;
a rope of pinching hemp surrounds
my bristly neck in anticipation of the drop
which ends with a sharp twisting crack, and
.

As I stood waiting for the crowd to finish
the deed they had begun I recalled
a queen, a beautiful dame who was
deeply in love with her stable boy,
but at the time I thought I was dreaming, yet

.

Being a horses attendant, a queens "boy" was OK;
as I lay in a mound of hay I wondered why
all that my memory saw was that trip across
the ocean to that far off, unknown land that
was supposedly the place to be that day, however
.

Someday I might remember being me, today,
and perhaps question who else I might have been
if just one day, one hour, one second was different;
Or if I'm lucky I'll not remember at all and
the comparisons, the regrets, will never exist

W,O,R,D,S

All arduous askings avidly answered

by beloved brothers become bothersomely boring

causing classic coolness countrywide.

Dearest dominions defy dramatic disasters

every effervescent evening, each ego

freely forgets frought fondling, forever fooled.

Gleefully golden glimpses grazing goodness

have honeydew horizons held highly

inside individual introspective intentions.

Joyful journalists jibber-jab jealously, jibing

knock-kneed, kewpie kabuki's, keenly

lamenting lewd livid loveliness, lixiviating.

Memorializing monotonous morons motivates

nothing, no one, never needed Neanderthal

Opponents offer opposite oppression often.

Professional people persuade paliatism

quickly, queerly, questionable

results rapidly reappearing, rampant retorts.

Small stimuli sometimes stroke soundless

tenacious tendencies throughout temperate

undertows unless unwanted umbilicus uncloses.

Vandalized venomous variations vaticinate

without weighing wholly, wondering why

x-rayed xanthans xerophious.

Young yodelers yearlong yearnings yield

zig-zagging zealots zymogenic zombies.

A yard by any other name

This week at MadKanes the promt is either yards or gardens. I decided to do one on each however both mentioning yards, yet still different types of yards.

.

.....Limerick

..
Whoever invented the game
would likely think I were lame
since three hundred yards to me
is farther than I can see
and of course running it's sadly the same
.

.....Haiku

.
Trimming lawns and yards
has never been an option,

I have no mower

The Night Mare

Are they real
or need I wake
these things that make
me want to quake
A freckled child
a sylph, some scones
invade my mind
like sharpened stones
.

A dancing maiden,
dismembered thumb
all mixed together
where from they come?
Like a flat rootbeer
no longer fizzy
if I arouse will
I not be dizzy?
.

Some cows on ice
skates that gleam
all rabble 'round
within my dream
The suasion mounts
it does proceed
the laughing horse
begs me to heed
.

Haunted hours
spent in my bed
crazy thoughts
zip 'round my head
I toss and turn
why do they mock
I wish I'd hear
my alarm clock

Hidden but here

Part of me says I need to stay, not hide
yet part of me tells me otherwise
which part do I listen to, which should I heed
or should I just go and don a disguise?

Just a thought

Thoughts that meld
words that rhyme
a story to tell
this is where I belong
Asker of questions
teller of truths
defining lines
this is where I belong
Times of passion
causes to fight
numerical longings
this is where I belong
Loving freely
outstretched arms
faithful dreamings
this is where I belong
Childish reasons
happy moments
days lasting forever
this is where I belong

The girl's a nut

Sherry was not what you would call the average mother; at least not by the standards of the local child welfare agency. There was no doubt that she had given birth to the little boy nor could anyone question what she wanted in her heart but when it came time to actually loving the child she found it very difficult, almost impossible. This was not the way she expected her life to be but the raw deal that she had been dealt was obviously her fate as she had been told over and over again.

When she was just fifteen, she had been sent to visit her aunt Martha and uncle Burton in Chicago while her parents went to Hawaii to attend a coworkers daughters "destination" wedding. She had wanted to go with them, simply for the trip to Hawaii but her parents funds could not be stretched to take her along. After much consideration she had been shipped off to her godparents for the week. They were much older than her parents, almost old enough to be grandparents, but they did after all have a nice apartment overlooking the lake and it would be a treat; sort of Sherrys own vacation.

She liked aunt Martha and uncle Burt enough, that was never a problem, and from the gifts, cards and letters she had gotten from them over the years she knew it was reciprocal. It wasn't until her third night there when it all began to go downhill. Apparently her aunt and uncle were very heavy drinkers and by 7pm each night aunt Martha was passed out cold, almost dead to the world. The night that uncle Burt came into her room and forced himself on her was the worst night of her short life and once she was finally able to free herself of him she wanted to die. The next morning when she confronted aunt Martha, with uncle Burt sitting right there, they both just laughed at her and told her it must have been a bad dream; what she was proposing could never ever have occurred....foolish child!

By the time she realized that she was pregnant she was back in Connecticut, at home, and she had never told her parents of that night in Chicago. She knew she would never see her uncle again but had decided not to say anything since they both acted as if she had been nuts...laughing at her...who would have believed her anyway? She told her parents that she was pregnant in the hopes that they would help her with an abortion only to discover that they wanted her to go through with the pregnancy and have the child...they would help her get it adopted afterwards.

During the nine months that followed, Sherry would pray every day that the baby inside of her would die, that she would die, that the world would end...anything that would halt her from having the child, anything that could help her forget that night. She contemplated suicide, but could never go through with her plans. She just couldn't wait to have this thing out of her and no one understood why, except maybe that bastard uncle Burt.

The strangest thing happened though. When she gave birth she felt a love for the child, so sweet looking, he had her blond hair, her blue eyes; she decided to keep the baby boy and loved him deeply as did her parents. It wasn't until a few years later when she again realized that she wanted to kill the baby. Her precious Jason was beginning to look like his father, like the son of a bitch who raped her that night and her love for him immediately began to fade. Sherry didn't know what to do but she knew she felt numb inside; she knew she now hated Jason, simply for what and for who he stood for.

Although she hated the boy she knew she could never kill him but also knew she could not go on like this; he had her parents to take care of him. She finally got up enough nerve to do it. The night she swallowed the entire bottle of her mothers Valium was the calmest night she had in years. At eighteen years of age Sherry was finally at peace yet no one left behind, not Jason, not her parents, not even her drunk aunt and uncle could understand why she had chosen to end it........well, maybe uncle Burt did.

Life outside the Beaker

I often question if there is more than just

the obvious
outcome to the parade I've
marched in for so many years;
not headlined, not starred,

steadily marched
.
I ponder where it is headed, where I myself

am headed
if in any direction at all;
would it matter if I knew beforehand
and if so would I really, truly,

be happy I knew?
.
Might being aware of the truth, of the results, change

the way
that the days are spent;
would the droning still tire me
or would this sacred knowledge offer healing powers

otherwise unavailable?
.
Onlookers wave as I pass; a bevy of casual smiles become

less and less
meaningful as I continue to trod
past others who must wonder as well;
I think I sense the fear in many of them much like my own;

perhaps I hope
.
They should, they have to, mustn't they? I cannot be alone

in my thoughts
yet knowing so provides no answers
to where and when "cut" will be called,
when the curtain will drop and the show abruptly ends;

no encore
.
I could experiment a bit, sure just a bit, cutting ahead of the line

and taking
a peek at the beyond but what if it
is not what I'm hoping for; what if it's as I think,
what if the parade ends at a dead end and there are

no former participants?
.
Perhaps it's better to leave the laboratory to the rats,

let the proverbial chips
fall where they may and hope for the best but be willing to just sleep,
still knowing that acceptance doesn't really matter.
So can you tell me why the hell I'm wondering

about this?

Dirt Roadkill

I thought I'd try writing something using exactly 50 words. I have seen it before and read it was difficult, and true to what I read, it is! But here's my attempt at a short, short, short, story. This was fun!

Dirt Roadkill

The Rodeo Clown found a new racket on the side. While busy distracting bulls he'd pick up each trampled varmint. There were green ones, red ones, colors that would boggle the mind. During one stint a shoemaker who made snug fitting footwear from the skins hired Jocko "the snake trapper".

Automat

Then..........

.

Auto this, Auto that, do you recall

the Automat?

Buster Brown, Buster Keaton, mowing grass for

Mrs. Seaton

.

Cracker Balls, Cracker Jacks, visiting the mail box

not the FAX

Penny Candy, Penny Lane, summer days long and

inane

.

Shooting marbles, Shooting stars, would we see man land

on mars?

Mister Greenjeans, Mister Magoo, Saturday mornings with Captain

Kangaroo

.

Golden eggs, Golden rule, days we woke to go to

school

.

Now.......

.

Morning coffee, morning paper, let's read about the latest

caper

Digital Cameras, digital watch, preferring vodka over

scotch

.

Wedding rehearsals, wedding rings, sometimes lose their status of

favorite things

Driving kids, driving range, sleeping in is oh

so strange

.

Days become, days gone by, years have passed where did

they fly

Counting blessings, counting bills, current thoughts regarding

wills

.

Growing up, growing old, rarely ever so pleasant

as sometimes told

.

So.......

.

Auto this, Auto that, what happened to the days of the

Automat

Liquid Lies

Like water connecting with chalk
on childhood sidewalk writings
yesterdays memories can become smudged
when beloved prompts disappear

.

Ideations of lost years; loves
are never thought of, not once
until they no longer exist and then
are considered twice, thrice, eternally
.

The rest of lifes offerings simply
fill the voids between the emptiness which
seems to encumber the days of the ones who wish
to remember the happiness and forget your pain

.

Yet like the runny words of yore, mix and bond the cement we're trapped in..........