Family

I thought my family found me,

the other day.

Nothing too dramatic,

just another friend request.

I have a thousand friends,

none who know me.

But this request.

This request had my bizarre surname:

“Son of the Butler” in old English.

“Son of a Bitch” it might as well mean.

Why after nine years,

a computer literate one looked me up?

Second cousin had an adult son die,

but they still have that other one.

No need for their dead cousin’s kid.

I used to think their anger at my dead mom

could only last so long.

I thought one Sunday

sitting in a righteous pew,

their pure minds would hit on me.

The request was a fake profile.

I deleted it almost in relief.

No need to suppress my politics,

or pretend to be normal.

Appalachian cousins don’t forget.

But maybe someday.

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2019/03/thursday-thursday-poets-rally-week-90.html

The Holidays

I didn’t even know they did this anymore, Poetry Rallies. I haven’t wrote a poem in years. Maybe 2011? Be afraid. Be very afraid. In fact, if you think this is really bad, tell me, please!

Holidays

Back before everyone died;

Mama made turkey breast, boiled then baked.

Stuffing made of sausage and cornbread.

Cranberry sauce fresh from the can.

Discord from Grandma; Grandpa can’t see his plate.

New gifts and wrapping paper on the floor.

A feeling of home I don’t have anymore.

Now I go out to eat.

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2018/12/poets-rally-week-88-christmas.html?m=1

Poetry Potluck: Mother’s Day

 

Dianthus caryophyllus - Garoafa
Dianthus caryophyllus – Garoafa (Photo credit: Nite Dan – Enjoypixel) Really. The smell reminded her of funeral arrangements.

Happy Mother’s Day! they say,

Hallmark, K-Mart, even Safeway.

My mom’s dead, I say,

Mom didn’t like carnations anyway.

 

Written for

 http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2012/05/thursday-poets-rally-week-67-may-3-9.html

Thursday Poets Rally: Dear Adam and Eve

Adam and Eve
Image via Wikipedia Art Nouveau Carpet Matching Drapes

 

This poem was supposed to be for week 1 of the Poetry Picnic, but I didn’t get it done on time, so instead I humbly submit it to Thursday Poet’s Rally (two weeks later). Let me know what you think!

 

Dear Adam and Eve

 

Dear Adam and Eve,

 

Are you real or make-believe?

Did you exist in connubial bliss,

in a garden where only peace exists?

 

Or were you a seed implanted in

imperfect man’s head 

to explain all  the living and dead?

 

Myths spread to the ears of babes,

generation upon generation, 

a scribe writes and it passes to nations.

Did fiction become truth?

 

Was it 6 thousand -or 6 million-years ago,

you clothed yourselves in tree leaves

and from paradise told to go?

Why today your children suffer the same?

Our forebears’ sin forever our bane.

 

Or were you not Adam and Eve,

of dust and rib conceived?

Instead bang and poof, 

apes learn to live under a roof.

A new world constantly changing,

new insects for the naming.

Life made by God either way?

Only God and fossils can really say.

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Poetry Potluck -Nightguard

An image from 1300s (A.D.) England depicting a...
Image via Wikipedia "See if you lose this, b!#*h"

Depending on who you ask, bruxism (that’s grinding your teeth) can be caused by stress, OCD, your jaws doing weird things, etc., so forth. This brings me to my first real post on my new blog, submitted to you by the muse of losing my nightguard -later found. I decided  to post this to Poetry Potluck too!

The Nightguard

 

Dammit, damn, and damnation!

Losing one’s nightguard is such an abomination!

 

Night Guard?

You mean that invisible rent-a-cop the complex hired?

 

No! Hell no!

That’s not what I’m saying.

Nightguard, oh wretched nightguard!

This, this, is for which I lament.

 

What’s it look like?

 

A damned dental apparatus!

Once a plastic clear,

now jaundiced yellow sunshine

from the years.

 

Sounds lovely.

 

It’s the one that cut into my gum,

but going to the dentist…

That’s no fun.

Snip snip the scissors.

Fixed it, it’s done!

 

Not fixed, not really.

 

Been a bit loose since that day,

asking myself, as one may,

if I swallow the damn thing

would I be able to cry,

‘Alas, alas, I choke! I die!’

 

 

It’s doubtful.

 

Could I have swallowed the nightguard

in fitful sleep’s embrace,

my teeth no longer braced?

Wailing! Gnashing my teeth,

The damn thing I must find I think,

lest my teeth continue to shrink,

ground down to my gums!

 

Good luck!

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I Decided to Post This Comment Poem I Wrote: STD for the Heart

I don't remember what STD stands for.

Thanks Jammer for the idear. Now you can proudly say, “Lisa gave me an STD.”

 

STD for the Heart

Your love, my love, pains me to my heart’s core,
that I plead to you, Make this pain no more!

My heart is a flurry of tell-tale spots,
pulsating and throbbing with ecstatic fury.
My love drips down my heart’s swollen confines;
nefarious, necrotic, non-negotiable
dropping like tears.

Your love, my love , seduces and destroys,
no cure for it here anymore,
the penicillin is still at the store.

The Nowhere Road –Poetry Potluck

My latest poem for Poetry Pot Luck http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com is really depressing. Just warning you. It’s about death, not my usual fare. No, I’m not suicidal,  but if you don’t want to hear something unhappy, really don’t read this.

He went somewhere,

down a road no one mapped.

The road led to nowhere,

but he did not turn back.

It was too late, too tiring,

to look back or think forward.

No one lived there,

it was too dark to see,

and he couldn’t hear anyone

telling him, “come back

would you please?”


Is there a secret side road

where  sunshine reigns,

the dead never die,

and no one is to blame?

Hope so,

but  I’ll  stay here all the same.