Hi guys!
I’m sorry for my absence lately, things have gotten crazy with school and the like and I haven’t been writing quite as much as I’d like.
I will try to update this blog as much as I can, and I want to thank everyone who has stuck with me. You’re all awesome!
Thanks,
Matt
There is simply no way
to not communicate.
But there are times
When direct quotations
must masquerade
as pointless noise.
Working backwards,
the cipher takes
a clear line
of thought,
ties it into
a Gordian knot,
and casts it in to the ether,
to be parsed out,
piece-by-piece
by one side
or another.
Brilliant mathematicians,
turned prospectors,
decrypt, ascribe
and sift for grains of truth,
or pertinent words
in the cloud of deception.
The tools of the trade:
Cryptic plumage,
Hawkish mannerisms,
And a steady supply,
Of child soldiers.
The cuckoo lies in wait,
Standing stealthily,
Avoiding strife,
With her victim’s eventual lapse,
She strikes.
Though they care not for their neighbors,
They do have a knack,
For finding babysitters,
Despite their reputation,
As impolite guests.
The screaming chick,
Sounds like the clutch,
Of hungry children,
It jettisoned.
On the other hand,
In the other hemisphere,
The cowbird makes little effort,
To make its egg inconspicuous,
Instead it relies on mob mentality.
The mom pays a visit,
To her nest of choice,
Which will be destroyed,
At the first sign of resistance,
To their alimony.
If there’s any acrimony,
It isn’t apparent,
As the often very different parent,
Raises the imposter.
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IMAGE CREDITS:
https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/bird-and-wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/c/cuckoo/
http://jasonking.net/site/brown-headed-cowbird/
Like my Facebook page to find out when I post new poems!
Tinkering is the art of incrementalism.
The heart grows fonder with each quarter-turn of a socket wrench,
I invest my time to top off her fluids when she’s running low,
Check the tread on her tires,
Pull out any dents,
Because she can’t do that on her own.
In return,
she gets me where I need to go,
and only asks of me,
that I put in the time.
She works for me,
and I her
I’m just happy to help.
The well-timed,
precisely aligned,
Cathode ray tube display
found in old television sets,
is thrown into disarray,
with the pole of a strong enough magnet.
Perception becomes reality,
then misconceptions set-in,
which threaten the image.
You have to get in,
to reset
and rearrange things,
back to parity-
a return to clarity.
When you come to
and see the true view,
you’ll wonder how you
made due
with skewed hues.
Touts may tempt you,
To don rose-colored glasses,
Shouting:
“We can help you draw,
The finest lines,
With no more glare.
Blot out all aberrations,
Lock them out,
So that the spectrum is laid bare.”
Beware of blinders,
There is no one-size-fits-all approach,
To perception.
Light ricochets,
Unpredictably,
But without the full range,
You cannot expect,
Clear sight.
Seven mallard ducks flew in the familiar v-shaped formation they take when coming from or going to far-off places.
The land they cast shadows on grew more and more sparse the further they traversed.
“What a spring this has been,” the Second Lieutenant said with pride, he was sick that day.
The group was well-fed and riding high.
“I know,” piped the First Lieutenant enthusiastically, “I even got some french fries!”
At the apex of the V, the Colonel glanced at the Lieutenant Colonel incredulously.
“Love those things,” said the Captain.
“Guys, watch yourself out here,” sounded the Lieutenant Colonel.
“Yeah, humans were handing out bread like it was going out of fashion,” said the omega male, no one acknowledged him.
The leader stayed silent.
“We had the park all to ourselves! It was a great spring,” said the Major
There was a whooshing sound, then a smack.
The captain looked behind him, shed contour feathers twirled in the vortex of displaced air.
“Well,” the Colonel said, “seems like our idle chit-chat got our Second Lieutenant eaten by a peregrine falcon,” he said in monotone, “let’s try to keep our mouths shut for a little while, huh?”
It turns out,
Saying “don’t be nervous,”
Is a great way,
To be counterproductive.
Fear is self-sabotage,
And more often than not,
Fired in an unexpected,
Barrage.
Like a bull in a china shop,
It raises hell,
And won’t stop,
Prancing,
And dancing all over,
Your most precious,
Fabergé eggshells.
The floor,
Wasn’t a great place,
To put those,
If I’m being honest.
But that’s not important,
Anymore,
Because it’s time to acknowledge,
These animals in the room.
Quick,
Go get some tweezers,
And glue,
While I patch up,
The kicked-down door,
So no more,
Come through.
I’ve built you up quite a bit,
And I’m finding it harder and harder,
To leave than ever before.
If I could see in here,
I’d find unwound wires,
That cross-cross the cracks,
In the concrete,
And trickles of tap water,
That run down your façade.
But being off-the-grid,
Has it’s own advantages-
If walls could talk,
They’d tell you that,
We reach high here,
In spite of what we’re missing.
No sunrise goes unseen,
People stand on their balconies,
With nothing,
And also everything they need.
In trying times,
deep down inside —
you will find that
you are, indeed,
strengthened by division.
To rouse the energy,
to walk to the kitchen,
you must first
burn some molecular bridges.
Not to worry,
it won’t be painful,
the connections themselves,
were tenuous at best.
Throw the planks,
into that churning,
eternally burning,
internal furnace
of yours.
Congratulations,
you have metabolized.
Now you can take action,
or perform mundane tasks,
whichever comes first.
The File Pile 