I was going through my Mac, which is now a backup computer for my HP laptop, which is being repaired because the hard drive died on me, and came across a limerick I wrote in December of 2013. Thought I would share it here, in addition to Facebook and Twitter. You’ll easily recognize the subject:
Fox newscasts, so chock full of hate Render truth an impervious gate They so often dissemble We can’t help but tremble With hope they will soon meet their fate
I came across this interesting tweet from Texas Senator Ted Cruz (the Federal Government’s most reviled human being) and was inspired to pen a limerick in response. It was actually embedded in a response from someone I follow, so I had to go through a couple dozen tweets of his before I could find the original, which I’m sharing below.
I should point out that Senator Cruz may be the most disingenuous, execrable member of the Senate since Joseph McCarthy represented the State of Wisconsin, that wonderfully cheesy part of the nation that has gifted us Senator Ron Johnson, another worthless POS. Reading through a series of tweets by Senator Cruz was a bit disconcerting, as his ability (and willingness) to flat-out lie about almost everything is one of his strongest and most defining characteristics. I felt dirty after reading some of them.
So I spent about a half hour writing the limerick which appears beneath Tedward’s tweet. This included using a site for rhyming and, ending each line with a Spanish word in order to convey the meaning I wished to, which was—shall we say—an interesting endeavor.
There once was a displaced Cubano Who fancied himself a Tejano His efforts were juegos Cause he lacked normal huevos Plus we know he’s a fucking gusano.
I came across this bit of prose poetry yesterday. Someone, can’t even recall if it was a friend or merely a random post that popped up on my news feed, posted it without attribution and I was a bit enthralled by it. I’m tempted to break it down so it looks more like a poem, but I’m just going to leave it the way I encountered it. I don’t even know if that part about their taste buds is true, but I like to think it is … and I love the subtle twist with which the author concludes. I just now highlighted what I thought was a sufficiently distinctive phrase and searched for it on Google, immediately discovering who the author is … so I will now add a citation below. I hope you enjoy this very short, highly evocative bit of writing.
Ever since I found out that earth worms have taste buds all over the delicate pink strings of their bodies, I pause dropping apple peels into the compost bin, imagine the dark, writhing ecstasy, the sweetness of apples permeating their pores. I offer beets and parsley, avocado, and melon, the tops of carrots.
I’d always thought theirs a menial life, eyeless and hidden, almost vulgar—though now, it seems, they bear a pleasure so sublime, so decadent, I want to contribute however I can, forgetting, a moment, my place on the menu.
Listen! You can hear the wind howl And feel it shaking the house As the dog's quick to growl And is shushed by my spouse.
Patience! SCE proactively turned off our power Last night at 7 was when it went dead Hoping now in the kitchen the milk doesn't sour Yet the butter I've found is so easily spread.
Worry! It's not just the reefer I worry about It's more than the food that might spoil It's my iPhone's ability to let me shout out When its battery gets low on oil.
Resignation. So I sit here and wait for my phone to go dead And try to ignore angry thoughts in my head Cause they told us the power won't be back 'til tomorrow And I've little to do save to drown in my sorrow.
Thankfully, the power came on an hour or so after I finished writing this and nothing spoiled. We got lucky, IMO.
There’s a “tripwire” somewhere Out there, downstream Where . . . I’m not sure
Some discover its presence early For some the revelation is a surprise Everyone’s waiting for it Our entire lives Some wait with dread and trepidation Some with simple resignation Many in anticipation Of what lies on the other side
Are there any who give it no thought? Like our animal brethren Who live their lives on a daily basis, Not as an ongoing saga
Many of us prepare In numerous ways Some useful Some not I know I’ve been waiting For as long as I can remember Now, however, I’m beginning to Sense its presence more acutely I feel its approach Though it’s still amorphous and indistinct
And each time someone younger than me passes I swear I can feel its hot breath on the back of my neck
It’s been a while since I’ve written much poetry, but I do have some old poems I’ve saved over the years. This one is probably at least 25 years old. It was written to a woman I was absolutely smitten with. Unfortunately, she was struggling with alcoholism and was also (ultimately) afraid of commitment. I was ready, but it wasn’t to be. Someone familiar with the work of Kahlil Gibran may notice his influence on this particular piece.
What wonders have I known since first I met you I have tasted of your lips Yet it is the thoughts they have expressed Which ring in my ears I have suckled at your breasts Not nearly as a babe Yet it is the aroma of your flesh which haunts me in my reverie And the sound of your sweet sighs which fills my memories
To taste of the flesh is a simple thing Too easily exalted Too frequently abused To taste of the soul is a wondrous thing Too seldom found Too seldom used
It is not just your eyes I see But the depth which lies behind them It is not merely your lips I crave But the ideas which they convey These. remain with me during the days And calm my evenings That I may lie With images of you to lull me Softly as I drift to sleep
Your smile floats before me even now Your laugh softly fills my mind And I crave your presence Even as its memory fills me with joy
I have found in you a person worth cherishing A woman whose value I deem boundless And whose soul I have already partaken of I ask for little more Than to entrust my desires My hopes and dreams With one As sharing As giving As you
I can write a poem I can pen some verse I can make it florid I can do it terse I can be profane I can wax profound Or lay it on real thick And sling it by the pound I’ll take a slice of paper Slather on some ink Arrange the words just so And present them . . . Whaddya think?
Little by little I’m moving all of my posts from my old blog, The Cranky Curmudgeon, which still exists as a Blogspot site. This one is a bit over 14 years old, posted on 10 March 2006. Can’t say I’m particularly proud of these verses, but they are what they are, i.e. part of my “collected works” so to speak. Anyway, you be the judge. Frankly, the whole idea of Cowboy Haiku remains a bit strange, IMO.
I was reminded there’s a whole lot of Cowboy poetry out there nowadays. A quick Google shows lots of links. Here’s the first one returned http://www.cowboypoetry.com/. Anyway, I just wanted to be the first to publish a few Cowboy Haiku. I don’t have titles for them; they’re fresh off the ol’ keyboard. Here ya go, pard. Hope ya lahk ’em.
This cowboy wears spurs They will jingle all the night If he gets lucky
My hat does not fit Perhaps it is because My head is swollen
Blood on the saddle Could it mean I really have Hemorrhoids to boot?
This poem was written by a Facebook friend who I’ve never actually met and who lives on the other side of the continent, as do many of my FB friends. It’s haunting, poignant, beautiful, and not a little sad. I feel the same for my daughters, though my youngest is so troubled and needy, I can’t seem to do anything for her.
I’m trying to stay inside for the duration, but grocery deliveries are either delayed because of the demand or horrendously expensive. I will probably go through the weekend, but will venture out to Trader Joe’s on Monday, as I did this past Monday. Wish me luck . . . but please read the poem. It’s really a tear jerker (though, as a man, one of my superpowers is to choke ’em down.)
For Micaiah 3/26/2020 You probably don’t remember this: One day we were joking in the car after school. You said something about being a mistake. I corrected you. “I got pregnant by a…
I believe I wrote this poem in the early nineties. It was, at least obliquely, addressed to a woman I had fallen desperately in love with (this would be the last time in my life I fell that stupidly, at least until we adopted and I became a father.) The love of one’s child—especially the first—is far more powerful and nuanced than any other type of love I’ve ever experienced.
This poem, however, speaks to my desire to see this woman* open up and face some of what I thought were self-destructive fears that were keeping her from enjoying her life. It was complicated, as was she . . . and it just wasn’t to be. I have little doubt the somewhat crazy depth of my desire was just too overwhelming for her. Hey! I was just a kid . . . in my late forties.
There exists in all things A strength and beauty Unappreciated by those of us Who have suffered the constraints of narrow education Yet . . . it exists In repose Silently waiting for the moment of discovery In many of us it is doomed To remain unannounced unapprehended and, yet Undeniably It is there And there are those of us Who by some mad twist of fate Crush the beauty in ourselves Divert the strength And smother the fragile wonder of our lives Beneath pain and isolation Which we call self-protection
* I will not use her name in deference to my wife and children. She is a part of my history, but only relevant today to explain the motivation behind this particular bit of communication.
Since my retirement from Pratt & Whitney Rocketdyne in 2010, I have spent quite a bit of energy on developing work as a social media marketer for small business, a business manager for an AI software development firm, and as an editor/proofreader for a number of business books and a couple of novels, as well as a two-year return engagement at Rocketdyne from 2015 to 2017.
I have decided to stop actively pursuing business in these fields and am now positioning myself to be a writer. I have done quite a bit of writing over the years, but I’ve never really attempted to make any money at it; at least not specifically. I’m starting out with a couple of memoirs and, currently, I’m studying the craft, creating a detailed outline and timeline, and honing my skills as a storyteller. Pretty sure I’ll be writing some fiction as well.
The views expressed herein are those of the author. Any opinions regarding the value or worth of particular business processes, tools, or procedures, whether at his former place of employment, at a current client's enterprise, or in general, are his responsibility alone.