Sleeve of Oreos Silent like a sly raccoon I dine in the night
Eating an uncomfortable (for others) number of Oreos in the silent and judgment-free zone of night is not as easy as it sounds. I think the plastic packaging is designed to break the quiet so dramatically that it wakes up your neighbors. The trick is to hurry slowly.
I am consistently impressed with the innovations that occur at this cookie company, too. First they wowed us with doubling the stuffing. But these days you’ve got various and sundry flavors as well as options wherein the cookie is covered in things like fudge. Adam Smith can eat his heart out because I doubt there’s a better argument for capitalism than Oreo cookies. There have even been trickle down benefits for the medical industry, too.
I go through stretches wherein my daily routine is to be seriously concerned, first thing in the morning, that my arm died during my sleep. It’s unnerving (pun intended) to have my feeling be limited only to its weight.
The fix is in We left nothing to chance The fix is in We’ll sing and we’ll dance The fix is in You’ll know us at a glance The fix is in
They’re closing in All our rocks overturned They’re closing in Our dark secrets they’ve learned They’re closing in Our legacies burned They’re closing in
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Now I’m imaging Bob the Builder and his buddies all going to jail on some RICO charges.
I wrote this initially without realizing from whence at least part of its words were derived. After reading it a few times, I decided to go look for the potential source of my inspiration. It did not take too much searching.
It turns out that my brain conjured up the lyrics to a song by an English rock band called “Elbow” (I’ll link a video below) which I had not heard in several years. I do know the song though and I definitely must have ripped it off in writing this. Their song “The Fix” is about rigging a horse race… but you’ll see that the similarities are pretty obvious.
I confess all of this to you because I am fascinated by the way memory works and how mine drew from something creatively without my overt intention. I also just like this song and I want to share it.
All of the above said… a lot of this poem is my own work, too. I was thinking as I wrote it, about how most of the people who steal something probably feel absolutely confident after… until they don’t. It all just seems so stressful to me.
I enjoy haikus and wanted to write one featuring an event from nature. Both lightning and insults are things to hurl. “Barbs” felt like a good descriptor of lightning. Thus the theme of an argument emerged.
We travel in trains and cars Stare up at the stars Build rocket ships to Mars
But we can’t map the space between two hearts Don’t know where that journey starts Can’t build the vessel, don’t have the parts
Love rides in us, like a ship on the sea It pushes us to go, and commands where to be It connects earth and sky and you and me.
A lot of our greatest achievements are motivated by love in one way or another. You do the work and make the journey (literal or metaphorical) hoping to find something better and very love-like at the other side of the effort (accolades, beauty, a sense of accomplishment, etc.)
In short, love is always trying to connect with itself. We are the means by which it makes the voyage.
The world is dressed in fog As I walk with a friend Self-aware of sleep we slog To some uncertain end
My friend and I converse in rhyme As we approach our destination Though I speak, the words aren’t mine Control of my thoughts – now on vacation
We go inside and reach our goal A letter there for us to read Word on paper speak to our soul A distant warning we must heed
On paper, pink, a message sent From a friend who lives abroad She writes about a future event Is this from her, or me, or God?
The warning tells us of two men And with them doom will follow Judgments for the world begin Sometime soon – perhaps tomorrow
A word to the wise for seeking eyes Now given to you freely The men you seek, two languages speak One is Greek, the other Swahili.
I suppose this poem actually requires some explanation.
All the way back on Easter weekend of 2004, I had the weirdest dream of my life. It was largely as described above. It took place in a white foggy setting. In, the dream, I was walking with someone to a mutual friend’s house. I know the name of the mutual friend in real life and she moved to the place from where she sent the letter after I had the dream (though I had good reason to know before the dream that she would eventually live there.) I do not know with whom I was walking and talking. We arrived and read a note. The dream ended with the above stated ominous warning about two men who are identified with those two languages. The entire dreams – from the conversation part to the note – was entirely in rhyme.
When I woke up, I felt like my brain had been hijacked and that it was like I had watched a movie in my sleep. I obviously remember the dream pretty vividly even today.
To be clear, though the poem above is not the rhyme from the dream. It is something more like a combination of personal biographical record keeping and an homage to that cool thing my brain did during my sleep one time. The piece is – if you will – a tribute.
I do not purport to believe that the dream is actually prophetic. I am at present unaware of two people on the world stage who easily fit the described profiles (though one could make a case for a few people.) I suppose that it might be prophetic, though, and that would be simultaneously ominous and exciting. I might also have just eaten something strange for dinner that night. In any case, this is not a regular occurrence for me. In fact, it was a unique event.
If any of you have ever had a dream wherein it felt like you lost control of your own brain, I’d love to hear about it.
Bright light will reveal what is hidden The Darkness won’t always prevail Lost crowns cast aside to the midden Will gleam and once more be worn well
The Remnant is singing a new song The Body remembers the Way The People embattled – once more strong – Are driving out giants today
The sleepy will soon now awaken To old things reborn and made new Restored will be that which was taken A Kingdom reclaimed from a coup
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An enduring idea within humankind is the notion of a lost paradise.
That golden past might be subtle, or even somewhat recent. ”The Good Old Days” usually just refers to the time of the speaker’s childhood. Beyond that though, there is a collective sense of something better hidden within the deep past of our species. We can no longer see it, or much of the evidence that it was here, but something in the collective human unconscious tells us it existed and that we should look for it. The Abrahamic religions all look back to an Edenic paradise. Other people look back at Camelot, Atlantis, Sumer, the Ancient Egyptians, or some other time when “the gods” may have walked among us.
Can the echo of a memory be grabbed, made to reveal its secrets, and restored, or will it always elude us like smoke through our fingers?
: blatantly and disdainfully proud : having or showing an attitude of superiority and contempt for people or things perceived to be inferior
haughty aristocrats
haughty young beauty … never deigned to notice us—Herman Melville
Imagine visiting earth as an extra-terrestrial and having to choose which lifeform is the most advanced. Trees might argue with the visitors on behalf of themselves. There are roughly a trillion of them, many of them are enormous, and they have been around a very long time.
This haiku intended to depict a nature scene and to imbue the forest with the aforementioned sense of self-importance and pride. As the trees are being described, they abruptly face a challenge. The trees are undaunted and unbothered. The description shifts toward the greatness of their bark.
I decided to challenge myself with something new so I wrote a poem today. Perhaps I will write more. Perhaps I will never rhyme again. Who can say? I am a mystery to myself.
My bones are a burning bonfire but by flames I’m not consumed. You might flee if you see the pyre. So – for your sake – I am entombed in ice to hide heat and brightness from your eyes. You see me and know nothing. I show only whiteness. The forge inside rages hot, though. Our frozen shield will not survive. Winter must relent to summer. I can’t hold back and stay alive. Stay close. Burn with me if you can. Or else ring alarm bells and give warning – “Beware the burning man!”
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This poem was an attempt at a few things. I wanted to play around with meter and enjambment to create a sort of chaotic feel because the feeling of passion is a little out of control most of the time. The poem is about being knowingly passionate about ________ but hiding that from other people for social reasons. Of course, one can only hide a passion for so long. The hope is that when it gets out, someone shares the passion and burns with you, but the fear is that they are freaked out.
“Bro has an entire room in his house dedicated to Star Wars memorabilia.”
I like the poem, but while I think playing around with the meter and structure was authentic to the subject matter, it detracted from its readability.
Dusty Writes 