Dueling Fronts

He wanted efficiency.
The energy wanted to be frenetic.
A cold front sort of formed
And his thoughts of being a thermostat
Carved at his instinct to be a thermometer
Simply there to measure the heat.
As the storm sort of became organized,
The wisdom of efficiency
Cut to the chase,
Leaving energy to run its course,
Either unbridled or managed.
Parenting can be tough.

End of April

The calendar says it’s nearly May.
This day said, “Yep.”
I mean, how much more perfect could it have been,
Blue skies, gentle breezes, honest efforts
And a little skeletal system discussion for good measure.

May this fifth month
Take its lead
From the end of April.

Just Figurin’

Dripping with satire,
His tongue wagged a tale
Of redemption and rehabilitation,
The likes of which had never been heard in these parts.
He waxed poetic of absurdity
And how the theater of such
Brings about laughter
In those gifted with egos
Forged in butter.

And doesn’t butter taste so good? Of course it does.

He spun a yarn loosely based on Swift, but
Instead of selling the young and eating them,
He suggested the youngins’ be put in power
To eat the adults,
A message few in the stodgy crowd understood
Until he explained
The young represented unchecked emotion
That flares up when
Angry youths lose hope and burn the mother down.

Both modest and immodest proposals go over poorly, huh?

This storyteller had a way with perspective
Able to draw the audience to a relaxed comfort level
Only to snatch all security in their belief systems
By pointing out the hypocrisy of dominion
By mere mortals who disdain the favor of humility,
Instead, choosing to believe they have all the answers
In their unbuttered mental frameworks
That would even entertain that
Someone might sincerely advocate for
The consumption of people.

“Thinking is the butter,” he said.

Had To. Cut Me Off.

In the morning
Useless texts flowed
During the course of learning.

Inside the hypocrisy dome
Understanding became more difficult
Despite the attempt to enlighten.

Inconceivable, this quick little research query
Under the guise of freedom and
Defended by the bravado of tenure.

Instead of being comparative,
Utility came to my rescue
Distilling favor over fire.



So relaxed,
I can’t even write.
So relaxed,
I can’t even change the channel.

So relaxed…

These days
Happen so infrequently.
These days
Happen with favor.

These days…


The causes wither away
For they never amount to much.
The fights fade into nothing
For they are rarely worth it.

Didn’t Dalton say, “Nobody wins a fight.”

Anymore I’m learning to not care.
The upheaval of wanting things
Is too much to bear,
Not just for me, but for Our sustainability.

Wasn’t it Ragnar who said something about being a patient man?

Of course Dalton and Ragnar are just characters
Who both survived in the hypocrisy of their quests,
As do I, although,
I’m learning.

A Friday Carry Me Back To Old Virginia

These Virginia peanuts and
Cold hitting my stomach
Put the fire out
That accumulated throughout
This lackluster day.
The peanut dust and salt
Send me back to my days on the James
Cracking shells and skipping stones
On the river’s peaceful waters.
So on these days when nothing at all
Brings boredom’s belch brigade
To the point of esophageal reflux,
I’m thankful for the Conway Twitty on the radio,
A cold Chesapeake Bay rinse, and these most glorious peanuts .


Change is the constant.
Information changes.
Knowledge changes,
Both moving quickly.
How come attitudes and behaviors
Take so long to catch up?

Rain Today

How unbelievably bright the sun was this morning
The beauty of nature’s light adorning
All who were willing to bathe in her rays

In a few hours she changed her mind
Leaving the soulful energy behind
And releasing torrents that kept blue skies away

She is calm now, her energy tired
But the mood around her is still wired
After her stormy foray

Punched Out

A man got home after work,
His day symptomatic of weariness.
He found his running shoes
In the middle of the living room,
No where near where he left them.
His dog sheepishly grinning
At the mystical way in which the shoes
Got off the chair.
They walked,
Coming back for snacks.
Dog treats for the pit,
Fritos and ranch dressing for the tired worker with
Libations courtesy of Lord Baltimore.
The dog begged,
Pandora showered the room with Jackson Browne,
And the haze began to lift
As the snacks hit
With the land’s pleasant living liquid washing
Over the frayed nerves.

Both were thankful.