YOLO?

If I were to die tonight I'd die with
no regrets. There's plenty that's not yet done
and I know that I will not do a fifth
of what's half planned. For what is not begun
can only be missed through dreams in the day.
The meaning of dreams comes from the meaning
we give. What we think is told, dreams don't say.
All dreams do is a little brain cleaning.
Each day I re-decide that what I did
or did not do was what I required.
Why regret the outcome? Heaven forbid
I work through what may be undesired.
Still, while I'm young I keep regretting it
and must wait for age to be forgetting it.

J st T S y

There's plenty more to write whether it's
interesting or not the days sometimes
get stronger and the nights sometimes collapse
or it's entirely reversed and upside
down while backward while trapped in a chair with
wheels with no straps holding Us down then
there's the person who's the person who We
use to miss the most but now only miss
when We think about all that We have missed
in the North where the summer's not too hot
or the South with all the people moving
and moving and not allowing time for
a break because sharks are always going
forward or they die (bullshit!) on the camera
for the internets where the thoughts come to
life and are shared and are admired and
We're scared so scared of all that happening
to Us and those moments of fear happy
anger sad that rise to the base of the
throat but go no further would they overwhelm
and spill out of the box like the things ordered
last night most of which will come scattered
throughout the summer and waiting is all
there is all there is to do when the knowledge
isn't there or just tumbles around and
out and in and doesn't help anyone

la laa laaa

I am still around.
This morning there was
snow upon the ground.

Last week I saw Thor.
It was a bit of
fun, but not much more.

Just to have a look
I re-failed at life
and rejoined Facebook.

My five "friends" are
family, and for now
that's where I set the bar.

As the Song Says

I hate the world in the springtime.
I hate when flowers are in bloom.
I hate the world in the springtime when it sunny,
Because the pollen causes pain that ain't so funny.

I hate springtime every moment,
Every moment that it's here.
I hate springtime, why, oh why do I hate springtime?
Because my headache's so severe.

(With apologies to Cole Porter and Frank Sinatra.)

Sure Ain't Shakespeare. It Ain't Even Daniel.

There's someone who's distant in the night
curled up under down, hand under head,
waiting for the moment when things turn bright
hoping it washes away all the dread.
But even the golden rays of morning
can't push away all of the little fears
that have built over time with no warning.
Some of life's many stupid souvenirs.
That person stays curled, waiting for day,
hoping that enough small things will get better
that the little fears won't come out and prey
and squeeze and constrict like a shrunken sweater.
Always looking for a small piece of hope
to find a new and better way to cope.

Zombie Limericks!

Sort of like that Zombie Haiku! post. (Oh, and thanks to RhymeZone for helping when I got stuck.)

He said that he wanted my brain.
Not those girls exceedingly vain.
'Til he munched on a chick
Who was built like a brick.
They just won't eat one who's so plain.

Being dead doesn't mean being rude.
Ripping flesh with your teeth is so crude.
So, use knife and fork
To eat human pork.
It's the civilized way to eat food.

It's hard to remember having fun
When worried about your gun.
We see all we kill.
There are more on the hill.
Soon everyone will have to run.

The safest, they said, would be malls,
With barricaded doors and thick walls.
Well, now we're surrounded
And constantly hounded,
With nothing to eat but baseballs.

I shuffle and groan every day.
For my people, it's just our way.
When we're in luck,
We chow down on Chuck,
Or that grizzled old bat, Aunt May.

Please do your own and if you post it to your blog let me know in the comments.

Zombie Haiku!

Topless Robot is holding a contest to write the best zombie haiku!

These are mine, so far:

Wandering, aimless,
Trying to stop the hunger
Drops of water tear

They promised Heaven
Or they promised me the void
Nothing about this

We huddle for warmth
And pray the snow stops monsters
Creeping in the night

Day and night they come
An endless river of dead
We can't take them all

Brains get tiresome
Liver is the money meat
'Specially off drunks

Never thought I'd hate
Eating meat, but the Reynolds
Are very gamy

Well, those are the "serious" ones, at least. (Also, that last one is supposed to be from the point of view of a survivor.)

I did get the very first comment and used it to make a joke:

brains brains brains brains brains
brains brains brains brains brains brains brains
brains brains brains brains brains

Photo Phonday

Click if you want to read it.

Magnetic Poetry worked on from Jan 1, '07 to December 31, '07.

California Hills in August

By Dana Gioia

I can imagine someone who found
these fields unbearable, who climbed
the hillside in the heat, cursing the dust,
cracking the brittle weeds underfoot,
wishing a few more trees for shade.

An Easterner especially, who would scorn
the meagerness of summer, the dry
twisted shapes of black elm,
scrub oak, and chaparral, a landscape
August has already drained of green.

One who would hurry over the clinging
thistle, foxtail, golden poppy,
knowing everything was just a weed,
unable to conceive that these trees
and sparse brown bushes were alive.

And hate the bright stillness of the noon
without wind, without motion,
the only other living thing
a hawk, hungry for prey, suspended
in the blinding, sunlit blue.

And yet how gentle it seems to someone
raised in a landscape short of rain –
the skyline of a hill broken by no more
trees than one can count, the grass,
the empty sky, the wish for water.

Rain

drops fell from the sky
soaking through my green apron
the stone gathers moss

My Poem

so much depends
upon

the Starbucks
schedule

posted on brown
cork-board

with a green
push-pin.

A Poem

I thought this was right for today.

How to Write a Political Poem
By Taylor Mali

However it begins, it's gotta be loud
and then it's gotta get a little bit louder.
Because this is how you write a political poem
and how you deliver it with power.

Mix current events with platitudes of empowerment.
Wrap up in rhyme or rhyme it up in rap until it sounds true.

Glare until it sinks in.

Because somewhere in Florida, votes are still being counted.
I said somewhere in Florida, votes are still being counted!

See, that's the Hook, and you gotta' have a Hook.
More than the look, it's the hook that is the most important part.
The hook has to hit and the hook's gotta fit.
Hook's gotta hit hard in the heart.

Because somewhere in Florida, votes are still being counted.

And Dick Cheney is peeing all over himself in spasmodic delight.
Make fun of politicians, it's easy, especially with Republicans
like Rudy Giuliani, Colin Powell, and . . . Al Gore.
Create fatuous juxtapositions of personalities and political philosophies
as if communism were the opposite of democracy,
as if we needed Darth Vader, not Ralph Nader.

Peep this: When I say "Call,"
you all say, "Response."

Call! Response! Call! Response! Call!

Amazing Grace, how sweet the‹

Stop in the middle of a song that everyone kows and loves.
This will give your poem a sense of urgency.
Because there is always a sense of urgency in a political poem.
There is no time to waste!
Corruption doesn't have a curfew,
greed doesn't care what color you are
and the New York City Police Department
is filled with people who wear guns on their hips
and carry metal badges pinned over their hearts.
Injustice isn't injustice it's just in us as we are just in ice.
That's the only alienation of this alien nation
in which you either fight for freedom
or else you are free and dumb!

And even as I say this somewhere in Florida, votes are still being counted.

And it makes me wanna beat box!

Because I have seen the disintegration of gentrification
and can speak with great articulation
about cosmic constellations, and atomic radiation.
I've seen D. W. Griffith's Birth of a Nation
but preferred 101 Dalmations.
Like a cross examination, I will give you the explanation
of why SlamNation is the ultimate manifestation
of poetic masturbation and egotistical ejaculation.

And maybe they are still counting votes somewhere in Florida,
but by the time you get to the end of the poem it won't matter anymore.

Because all you have to do is close your eyes,
lower your voice, and end by saying:

the same line three times,
the same line three times,
the same line three times.