TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE

I have too much time to sit here
and just as much to think,
for in my ruminations
I expose my armor's chinks.

The broad facade of this "perfect" life
is laced with cracks and holes,
and the time I take to stop kidding
myself is when I regain control.

My vocabulary's practiced;
my turns of phrase, an art;
my stories have a certain flair
and have right from the start.

I choose my muse to serve me,
but it sometimes refuses to amuse,
this random course my ideas take
are paths I rarely choose.

I've had my fun and lived through pain
as others have, I'm sure,
and placed each in this prompted verse,
thinking my soul was cured.

But, reality is a pointed sword,
an epee straight and true,
and has a way to cut the fat
to render the truth from you.

So you paint your mind with
a palette wide and hope your colors pop,
but you speak your heart in black and white
and pray it never stops.

Some people will thank you for your candor,
and other will look askance,
and you hope to really sell your tale,
if given half the chance.

But those around you know the truth,
you have that way with words,
a story teller par excellence,
the best they've ever heard.

How do you struggle with the facts
in words that they'll believe?
With that imagination,
how can you not deceive?

A writer walks this tightrope
a tether drawn and taut,
a balance of his verity
not blanched by words distraught.

If you cannot dissuade yourself
to keep your convictions strong,
then every word that escapes your soul
will invariably come out wrong.

So trust your instinct and your heart,
they're all that's left to you,
for to color your world with honestly,
you must, to yourself, be true.

JEOPARDY

Welcome contestants,
This…Is…Jeopardy.
Here are your categories:
Potent Potables,
Mothers,
Great Inventions,
1956,
Things Green,
States ending in “Hampshire”.
Make sure your answer
is in the form of a question?

**

There’s Trebek, he’s the “star”
hosting this trivial quest.
Cards at the ready, answers to give,
I didn’t know there’d be a test.
There’s two other people vying for cash
hoping to make me look lame,
with loads of minutia stuck in their head
where formerly resided their brain.
“Green” for a hundred, “Mothers” for five,
“Inventions” makes Jeopardy double,
don’t offer a dare for the year I was born,
you’re certainly asking for trouble.
Round after round, asking questions profound,
this trio with encyclopedic knowledge,
will volley and smash this trivial trash,
while wishing they’d all stayed in college.
So we get down to wager, Jeopardy’s final call
and you put all your cash on the line,
your question completed, your foes are defeated
and frankly you’re feeling just fine.
You’ve made a small fortune through nonsense retained
which gave you a chance to appear,
But you have one more thing to ask of Trebek,
“Why in the hell am I here?”

And yes, it was in the form of a question!

OPEN CAMP - BUFFALO STYLE

A new season is upon us.
Are you ready for some?
Training camp is in session,
time to have some fun.
Vets and rookies have convened,
roster spots for the taking,
nervous jitters rule the day,
players knees are shaking.
Combatants on the team for years,
hope their slot's assured,
and first years guys with bulging
eyes, fight to be secured.
But all attention's on the one,
that player of renown,
riding in to save the team
like some bad-ass circus clown.
No other team would take him,
but he holds all your keys,
and you pray to the football gods
amidst your heartened pleas.
He's known by his initials,
his hands are sure and steady,
and all he asks the fans TO do
is "Get your popcorn ready!"
So Bills fans all around the world:
Americans, Brits, Samoans...
buckle up for a bumpy ride
courtesy, Terrell Owens!

May God have mercy on our souls!

A RUNNER'S VERSE

The starters pistol reverberates
in the canyon of athletic pursuit,
an arena graced with spectators
and the enthusiasm of thousands.
Staring, he surveys the scene
spread out before him, lengths
of ovular concentricity stretch,
in this pack of sinew and muscle,
a lone harrier stands, nervous and anxious,
running his own internal race without
obstacles or changes in grade.
The sound of cleats scraping upon gravel
keeps a solitary rhythm, pacing his
pulse and breathing, as he pushes from
the starter's blocks, rejoining life's marathon.
He runs this race with the passion
his heart provides; the vibrancy of
his every thought expressed in words
resurrected from his tired psyche.
The pistol echoes. A whistle blares.
Striding into the mass of humanity
holding his own until the opening
gapes, breaking him through to offer
the opportunity for the rest to
follow this man's lead. Sprinting for the line
needing only to finish to feel accomplished;
to feed whole again. These words are true
motivation and his power, driven as he strives
for poetic placation. Fellow runners,
poets all, cheer and encourage this man,
willing his "legs" to go through their
cycle of stretches and contractions.
The starters pistol echoes loudly
in the canyon of academic pursuit,
the arena of ideas graced with a myriad of muse,
and the electric enthusiasm of our
eternal souls best expressed.

TUG O' WAR

We stand in opposition
across a chasm wide,
a length of rope between us,
our footing well in stride.
A flag to mark the center
stretched above the muck,
our stand-off's purely physical
and not so much on luck.
Our stance becomes more static,
the tether tightens too,
the winner sure will be the one
that doesn’t land in goo.
We both pull at the signal,
our muscles flex and strain,
this bold attempt to hold our own
is evident through pain,
you right foot starts to hydro plane
across the moistened grass,
but my purely cocky attitude
just put me on my ass.
So you continue pulling
while I just slip and flail,
sliding face first in the mud
through poor attempt, I fail.
This winner take all Tug O’ War
has placed me on my knee,
“One tug doesn’t prove a thing”, I beg,
“Let’s go two out of three”!

BRITISH INVASION: FEBRUARY 9, 1964

Half an hour, half an hour,
half an hour onward,
all in the broad way of lights
rode the four fab men:
'Forward, assume the stage!
A charge for admission Ed had said:
Into the broad way of lights
rode the four fab men.

'Forward, assume the stage!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
not tho' the young ones knew
some one had wonder'd:
Theirs not to make with cry,
theirs not to reason why,
theirs but to scream and sigh,
into the broad way of lights
rode the four fab men.

Camera to right of them,
camera to left of them,
camera in front of them
close-upped and pictured;
storm'd at with twist and shout,
boldly they played and well,
into commercial break,
into the second take,
rode the four fab men.

Flash'd “Gretsch” and “Eppies” bare,
flash'd as they fill'd the air,
left-handed “Hofner”, the bassist there,
charging while an army watched
all the world wonder'd:
Plunged into the cinemascope,
right thro' the barrier they broke;
ladies and teeny-boppers both
reel'd from ring'd backbeat-stroke,
fluster'd & faint'd.
They ne’er look’d back, all
the four fab men.

Camera to right of them,
camera to left of them,
camera behind them,
capture'd and slihouette'd;
storm'd at with twist and shout,
while fan and screamer fell,
they that had played so well
sang thro' the second set,
back from commercial,
all that was left of them,
two more songs and history.

When will their glory fade?
O the wild new music played!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the Mersey beat they made!
Honour the quartet that played,
noble Four Fab men!!

***Structured on "CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE" by Alfred Lord Tennyson

COUNT TO TEN

There's not a lot around that gets my goat,
just mostly when I'm driving in my car,
my driving skills do give me cause to gloat,
the other drivers fail to earn my star,
you'd think they all were homeward from a bar.
That's when they act like monsters in a cage
and fill the streets with terror from road rage.

Their antics push my buttons, I must say,
and gives concern to safety they neglect.
I guess it's just the price I have to pay,
I'll give them lots of room, but no respect.
Their attitude's a thing that I expect.
I pray to God I never reach that stage,
a victim of the anger called road rage.

In stressful times I tend to count to ten,
and hope the problem leaves before I'm done.
I feel it both from women and from men,
these treks on open roads aren't that much fun.
My instinct tells me "Go and get your gun".
I've learned quite young the way I should behave
and hold my tongue to keep me from this rave.

One, two, I start the countdown as I go,
the guy besides me flips his cigarette.
Wondering just how much this jerk will show,
before this journey ends in my regret.
I should count faster, or I'll get upset
and lose my cool to end up in a heap,
I'll not fall prey to anger from this creep.

Three, four, five, the teen beside me's speeding,
see her weave in traffic with so much ease.
Speed limits for sure she is exceeding,
"Try slowing down you moron, if you please?
Her tail wind seems to kick up quite a breeze
and as her miles per hour are increased.
I pray to God nobody ends deceased.

Six, seven, eight, that guy is on his cell,
he is so darn distracted, there's no doubt,
his skills are on a one way road to hell,
"Please park along the road and talk", I shout.
Park he does, but then he starts to get out.
To look at him, this guy is surely pissed,
I drive away as phone-boy shakes his fist.

So I reach ten, my stomach starts to churn,
this counting didn't save me from this fire.
A rumble with a slow and steady burn,
this isn't the effect that I desire.
You caused this skid to conflagration's ire.
I turn the wheel hard, my car does pitch,
"You cut me off, you stupid son-of-a...

PUTTING OUT THE FIRE (The Poetic Pyromaniac)

A mind at rest.
Languishing in the excitement.
Thoughts still simmering, but coming to rest.

Monday, and your ember,
that had been sparked last Wednesday, has been
consumed in a wordy residue of ashen rhyme.

You feed on this;
the thrill of expressiveness
fills your vacated soul, needing to strike again.

You live for this.
It is your passion and desire;
your wanting and your requirement.

You stack your papers on your desk,
and douse your thoughts with the gasoline of possibilities,
ideas just waiting for an open flame.

Tuesday, you toss about random words,
limericks that refuse to ignite, Haiku in a hideous
veil of smoky indifference, a parched pantoum waiting that spark.

And Wednesday morning you wait in a nervous tremor,
hands at the ready to strike, poised to provide
perfect alignment of your now random words,

waiting for that incendiary prompt to light your blaze within,
that internal fire that all poets possess to perpetrate their poetry.
Your bonfire of beauty rises in long tendrils of unbridled thought.

You give your fire the oxygen it needs to propagate,
the breath of passionate purveyance longing to fuel your pyre,
poetic words of a warm and beautiful soul left to crackle incessantly.

For every Wednesday you scurry to put out your new fires
that were allowed to simmer all week, only to implode into the conflagration
that others with your “sickness” clamor to read and comment upon.

The ground swell of these combustible imaginations
conspire to fill the world with the kindling to inflame the
responsive sparks that their poetry provides.

There’s no stopping a Poetic Pyromaniac’s passionate pyre!

UPON THE LAKE OF PASSION'S OFFERING

The caress of your skin, soft and supple,
is laced with the fragrant faintness
of perfumed sweat. Fighting the resistance
buried beneath the cool midnight sands,
breezy summer winds waft from the lake
to peer down upon us, a voyeur of the
night. Our eyes lock briefly,
wishful for the opportunity,
to surrender all our qualms. My lips,
probe tenderly as if lost in lust,
and dip into the bottomless reservoir
of longing, awash in the throes of
our hot and rapid breath to greedily
imbibe the vintage of our desire.
Becoming inebriated with those spirits,
our clothes are dispatched salaciously
leaving no more hiding places to occupy
for the two gleaming and wanton figures.
Ravenous hunger devours this heated moment.
With flesh upon flesh, we lose ourselves
in this drawn-out tantric dance .
Kissing me, as your hunger is sated,
the gasp of that interrupted kiss reverberates,
I smooth the stray tendrils away
from your moistened forehead,
becoming entwined in your tresses.
This deliberate rhythm relinquishes,
capitulating to the urgent demand of passion.
You arch your body upward
as we discover ecstasy’s abode,
and with the strength of our conviction,
we are left panting and perspiring,
thrown into the depths of wanting again and again.
From the back of your throat I hear my name,
as we engage in the give and take of our erotic longing,
high on the passion of life. You tighten your grasp,
then released me, trying to offer control back to me.
The taste of your skin on my lips,
is the sweetest of nectar.
Your plea for mercy is not begged,
but is offered in compassionate supplication.
At that moment you evacuate the breath
from my labored lungs, and in doing so
you find a way to resuscitate me.
And my fingertips find themselves
wound in your hair, forcing us
to the precipice of bliss,
our rants to reverberate like
a victorious echo under the stars.
You accept the gravity of me,
as I collapse the space between us,
our fire still hot and burning;
glowing like an undying ember,
a welcomed illumination,
should we perchance dare to tread
to passion’s door once more.
The lake waters soothe, returning us
here from eternity, subdued awakenings
of long languishing lust.
Doused to relieve,
but never to be extinguished.

NOBODY GETS WHAT THEY DESERVE

“…you can’t always get what you want,
but, if you try sometimes, you get what you need.”
~ Rolling Stones

What is the worth of a well-turned phrase,
a line full of meter and rhyme?
How do you value a passage of prose,
a moment’s depiction in time?

What is the cost of a sentence or two
that rolls off the tongue so refined?
Is there a price to a word of advice
that sits in the back of your mind?

To live for today, there’s a price that we pay,
that is just “what the market will bear,”
we all set the value for our wants and needs
whether it’s fair or unfair.

We have some set notion of our own worth
commensurate to our dexterity,
and we sometimes feel slighted when the things that we write
get lost in our search for some clarity.

So, how is it as poets that we set the bar
to get the respect that we crave?
We beg and we plead for someone to just read
and accept in our minds that we’re “saved”.

But that phone seldom rings extolling the things
we offer the world, full of pride,
opportunity knocks rarely, we’re hanging on barely
and pent up our emotions inside.

So we just keep on writing while ideas are fighting
to be the next thought that inspires,
and use that spark to flame our muse,
to kindle our poetic fires.

We post our submissions with our kind permission
for those of our ilk to admire,
we bolster each other, poet sister and brother,
and encouragement is what stokes our pyre.

And so it is true this thing that we do
won’t always “pay” what we plead,
we will still plug away and pray for the day
and work hard to get just what we “need”.

NOBODY’S WORTH; SOMEBODY’S VALUE

She stood in the shadows
and watched life go by,
her clothes all disheveled,
thread worn and dirty,
Left to her defenses
to struggle; survive,
abandoned by a world that
deemed her unworthy.
Who did she think she was anyway?
She was a child of God in her mind,
but that thought had escaped
her in down trodden times.
How could He have left
her here all alone? How could she
find her way back to her home?
She by no means was worthless,
this kid knew her stuff, but ability
alone was in fact not enough,
she hadn’t the drive to
be all that she could.
She hadn’t the faith to
believe that she would,
she just saw herself
as an extension of him,
he just kept her down, and
for some reason she let him,
only to find herself here in this place.
What to do, what to do,
how to vacate this space?
And as she sat there and
questioned her worth,
The clouds slowly parted and a light
filled her berth showing
the realm of true possibility,
a perfect venue for her ability,
and all she need do is
truly believe, that she had it all,
she had what she’d need
to rise from these shadows
and walk where life’s trod,
realizing that this gift from God,
this epiphany that her value
was priceless and her strength
was her faith and by that
she’d suffice. Yes, she IS
that child of God so assumed,
an un-nurtured blossom
that by Love’s light did bloom.
She found her life’s calling,
she knew what she’d need,
it was not based on her wanting;
her greed, it was based on the love
she had found for herself,
a worth more than gold,
a personal wealth and a vow
that she’d never be swept
from her berth, for she was a person
Of principle, value and worth.

NOBODY IS WORTH LOSING SLEEP OVER

Go to bed, you maniac,
you over-tired insomniac,

your bloodshot eyes are really red,
get off the couch and go to bed.

The sleep disorders you’ve acquired
mess with you when you get tired.

Nearly nodding as you sit
in your narcoleptic fit,

anytime and anywhere
you can sleep, you just don’t care,

but indeed, you start to nod.
For about five minutes, but it’s odd

when your disruptive sleep apnea,
takes the breath right out of ya.

In company, you are a bore,
then you nod to nap, and snore,

loud enough to wake the dead
and blast the pillows from your bed,

causing you to lie awake
as your RLS makes your legs quake.

Sleep is an elusive prize
when gravity affects your eyes

from wide awake, to fast asleep
you lay in an exhausted heap,

Praying for a solid night
to sleep until dawns early light.

But alas, you know the scene,
you won’t fall asleep to dream,

you’ll just start to toss and turn
and stay awake ‘til your eyes burn,

So go to bed, insomniac,
You over-tired maniac.

You don't believe in taking pills,
to subjugate your slumber ills.

No one’s worth you losing sleep,
close your eyes, try counting sheep.

NOBODY IS WORTHLESS WHO HAS FRIENDS

That’s right, Clarence! That’s right!
Living in the moment
instead of imagining what a life
would be like if it never happened.
The people we’ve influenced.
The people we’ve saved.
The people we’ve loved.
Being failures for lack of us.
Being lost for lack of us.
Being alone for lack of us.
For in the darkest times,
there is a light that shines;
a beacon that brightens your world
and illuminates your life.
That is the light of friendship,
the beacon of possibility.
A chance to “lasso the moon”
with the love and support of friends.
Friends who believe in you and
gather around you in your moment of doubt.
It’s that realization that makes you
know you’re alive. Makes you
shout “I want to live!”
Your revelation. Your epiphany.
Your “George Bailey” moment.
For nobody is worthless who has friends.
It’s a wonderful life!
That’s right!

NOBODY IS WORTH NOTHING

They say that each of us has a price,
of that we can be sure,
quick to offer some advice
as if it were the cure.
And when we're feeling not ourselves
and mired in self-doubt,
think about the things you have,
and you'll have it figured out.
We truly have a value,
Every gal and guy,
which pays our way to live each day,
the best life cash can buy.
We're all somebody's someone,
we have so much to give,
we pay our "bill", and give our thrill,
we nurture and forgive.
In the scheme of God's grand puzzle
we are that "missing piece",
we fill the void up with our gift,
which gives us a new lease.
If you are a wiz with wood,
some baker breaking bread,
an alchemist with a heart of gold,
(which yesterday was lead)
A parent with an open ear
and a heart that matches that,
A friend indeed to a friend in need,
or the clean up guy at bat,
a writer with a way with words,
or Amish butter churner,
a teacher who devotes their time
to a struggling young learner,
we, all of us carry so much weight,
our value surely something,
and give it back to all humankind,
for no body is worth nothing.

NOBODY IS WORTH THAT PLAYER TO BE NAMED LATER

Nameless.
Faceless.
Not a used to was,
more of an ain’t been yet.
Unproven.
Unseen.
The promise of potential
in a mysterious package.
You’ve given your heart and soul;
taken your lumps for the team.
All you wanted was a shot,
and this is how they repay you.
You’ve just been traded
for THAT guy.
What’s his name?
What’s his face?
Is he any good?
Who knows?
But he’ll be getting your spot
in a year or two.
You don’t deserve this.
There ain’t nobody worth
that player to be named later.
You’re more valuable than that.

A SUMMER SONG

‘A Warm Summer Night’ which seemed to last
‘All Summer Long’, gave us a chance for that much
‘Celebrated Summer’ for which we had hoped:

A ‘Cruel Summer’ which languished between
‘Dusk and Summer’ mornings, dew covered and misty.
The ‘Electric Music and the Summer People’ complimented each

day of that ‘Endless Summer’ which faded into
‘Endless Summer Nights’. My heart cried out,
‘Farewell My Summer Love’, as we prepared to part,

with each heart singing the ‘Feel Good Hit of The Summer’.
It ‘Feels Like Summer’ I commented,
With the ‘Girls In Their Summer Clothes’ and me

spending ‘Happy Summer Days’;
in this ‘Happy Summertime’.
‘Here Comes Summer’.

We were ready for some ‘Hot Fun In The Summertime’
with a ‘Hot Summer Day’ building up to climactic
‘Hot Summer Nights’.

This ‘Idiot Summer’ asked no questions because
‘In The Summertime’ there are few answers.
We basked in its brilliance until ‘Indian Summer’

knowing well that ‘It's Summertime’,
with the endless possibilities of ‘Lonely Summer Nights’
transcending into one ‘Long Hot Summer Night’

thanks to a bevy of beauties luxuriating on these ‘Long Summer Days’
‘Looking For the Summer’;
that ‘One Last Summer’,

to fulfill our ‘One Summer Dream’
in the promises we made on that ‘One Summer Night’
as we shared that last ‘Picnic In The Summertime’.

For even the ‘Rain In The Summertime’
made me glad I had my ‘Someone, Somewhere in Summertime’
beneath the ‘Starless Summer Sky’.

The realization came ‘Suddenly Last Summer’;
the gift of you that ‘Summer’ presented to me
and the transformation of it into a ‘Summer of Love’.

‘Summer (The First Time)’ was magnified by the intensity
of our inexperience, my ‘Summer Babe’ and I
making love in the temperate ‘Summer Breeze’.

‘Summer Breezin' we called it, but in reality we were
‘Summer Cannibals’, as we ate up all that it would serve to us.
These ‘Summer Day Reflections’ fill me with thoughts of that night.

During those ‘Summer Days’
we had our ‘Summer Fling’,
‘Summer Girls’ and I, the shy suitor,

off to spend a ‘Summer Holiday’,
(which had to be better than that ‘Summer in Siam’).
My ‘Summer In The City’ took this lump of clay

and made me man enough for my ‘Summer Lady’.
I was losing it in the ‘Summer Madness’ but hoping
to find myself as ‘Summer Moved On’.

Of my most revered ‘Summer Nights’,
the ‘Summer of '69’ topped the list,
for it was the ‘Summer of Love’.

And crediting the thunderous outbreak of ‘Summer Rain’,
our ‘Summer Romance’ blossomed in the guise
of the ‘Summer Side of Life’.

For even if there were such a thing as ‘Summer Snow’,
your influence on me was a security blanket, ‘Summer Soft’
and as warm as the ‘Summer Sun’.

I relished the days in the ‘Summer Sunshine’ of my youth.
Feeling the ‘Summer Wind’ blow my more abundant (then) hair
and helping to age me well, as if my life were ‘Summer Wine’.

Sometimes, an overcast ‘Summerday’ and
the declining warmth of the ‘Summerday Sands’
would be a harbinger bearing the message that ‘Summer's Almost Gone’.

So I sing a song for ‘Summertime’.
Be it ‘Summertime’ ballads, or ‘Summertime’ Rockers,
always steering clear of the ‘Summertime Blues’.

The memories of ‘Summertime USA’ caused my excitement,
making me, with raised fists in the air, chant ‘Summertime, Summertime’.
‘Summertime's Calling Me’ and I am at its beckon call.

The ‘Sunshine and Summertime’ sets the mood for
‘Sweet Summer Lovin', fond recollections of
‘That Summer’ in which we lost each other, to each other.

Forget ‘The Boys of Summer’; they were cheap imitations.
Just hitch your heart to ‘The First Day of Summer’ when we met,
And smell ‘The Green Leaves of Summer’, ever-present and alive.

Soon we will be brought to the brink of ‘The Last Days of Summer’,
and when we’re on ‘The Other Side of Summer’, we’ll hold dear
everything ‘The Summer’ had given us.

We’ll relive ‘The Things We Did Last Summer’ and know
we had 'A Summer Place' all our own.
Even though ‘This Ain't The Summer of Love’, we came close to it.

‘Those Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer’ seasoned my youth.
I always asked myself, ‘What's Gonna Happen When Summer's Gone?’
But, I would just shrug, and sing ‘A Summer Song’.