The whole family,
Can join in,
On this white-knuckle thrill ride.
An action-packed,
Tour-de-force,
About wayfarers in a massive vacuum,
Alone,
For millions of lightyears,
Of course.
What great TV,
With which to live vicariously!
The troublesome son,
The authoritarian father,
The doting mother,
The precocious daughter,
And a robot with a heart of gold.
Staving off boredom,
By playing card games,
And charades,
And moving forward uninhibited,
Except by an occasional asteroid.
Tune in,
Or don’t.
“Fee fi fo fum,”
Standing on stepping stones,
Overlooking the ocean.
Ancient and irregular,
Interlocking hexagons,
Standing shoulder-to-waist,
Crown-to-knee,
Washed by the sea.
Uneven scutes,
On a tortoise’s armor,
Lying on it’s belly,
Beached long ago,
Sacrificed in service,
Of those who watch the waves.
A savage wolf’s power,
Is rendered meaningless,
By a retractable red chord,
In the same way,
That a yellow Labrador’s,
Truck-chasing antics,
Are cut short,
By a stiff jerk,
A wag of the finger,
And a stern “no.”
Strength is nothing,
Without a capacity,
For restraint.
Without it,
Barks and bites,
Grow tenfold,
Get old,
And lose effect entirely.
If I could bottle that feeling
You get when you hear a great song,
Or receive some friendly words,
Or find a five dollar bill-
That one that makes you gasp sometimes,
That one that gives you goosebumps,
That one that makes you blush and jump for joy-
Then I’d have to resolve myself,
With the simple truth,
That I could never get enough.
What stands today simply cannot stay-
And there is no way to delay, to hold at bay,
It will all sway, grey and flay,
Forests filled with life, are also forests of decay.
The oak that falls crushes what is underneath,
In a massive faltering apogee,
It opens up the canopy,
And gloriously atrophies.
We run the same race at different rates,
And have different faces, yet the same fate.
“The end is a conclusion,”
That seems to be a delusion,
The end is an illusion,
Or an allusion,
There is some confusion.
I need back-ups,
I.E. plans B through Z,
A fail-safe
For each stumbling block,
May sound unnecessary,
But mistakes,
Congregate in flocks,
And I’d rather be on the safe side,
Than caught in a landslide,
On the wayside.
Going without,
A direction in mind,
Is like running through a wildfire,
While drenched in kerosene,
And even though the situation is dire,
All you have to say is “eh, c’est la vie.”
I’m the fly in the hall,
By the wall,
Drifting-
Like a dandelion’s seed on a gentle breeze,
Flailing like a cat’s tail,
Wishing-
For solid ground where my feet lay,
Somewhere to stay, to pray
Before I’m taken by a wailing gale,
Like a failing sail sounding an ailing wail,
A fervent, furious, futile flap.
Spinning-
So it goes,
Going where the wind blows,
Not the direction I chose, I suppose;
I’m on my toes in my throes,
I don’t slow in the flow,
Where I’m going doesn’t matter,
Like the guys on the other side, and their chatter,
If I ride the storm, I’ll find a swarm,
Somewhere warm,
I’m sure.
A blank sheet of paper can say anything,
It can say many things,
But get one in the mail, and all you’ll have are questions.
“Caution! Contents may have shifted during flight.”
Good suggestion!
The tenuous letters may have slid off the paper,
Turbulence will do that, I think.
Turn the envelope upside down and shake with vigor,
Scoop them up and lay them out on a table,
You’ll need to rearrange them.
It’s been so long since I’ve gotten mail,
Now I make my own tall tales.
In the same in vain, insane vein as the hanging gardens of Babylon,
Can you call that which hides the sky a “worldwide wonder?”
What’s more glorious, the grounds they fought their battles on,
Or the shroud the king in power cowered in the tower under?
A shadow is present because of its absence,
Isn’t that inside-out?
Yet empty space is where one finds all existence,
We are always within without,
Nothing to write home about.
Who’s there?
Who cares?
We fit into these impressions,
Despite asking those questions.
Records get scratches,
Locks have latches,
All that matters is mass and volume,
You wouldn’t be there if there was no room,
And you wouldn’t be you if you were naught.
The File Pile 