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Cybersurfing netizen flounders...

analogous to a fish out of water

Ever since being a little gull hubble buoy,
I bobbed (while donning square pants)
like spongy flotsam and jetsam at sea.

Now as one decrepit
humble lumpenproletariat neopoet,
I experienced existence
with pronounced sentience
heavily accentuated courtesy
acute social anxiety,
which fostered kinship
with all creatures great and small.

Camaraderie long fostered
across global - webbed, wide
whirled real estate
among flora and fauna,
especially animal and plant species,

Blank Canvas

My future was once made of fireworks Exploding with vibrant sensations My life was planned like a novel And drenched in my elders’ elation My future is now a blank canvas And all my inspiration is gone It vanished with all of my innocence It is a toneless, rhythm less song My hands can tell no more stories My eyes are lifeless and grey My mouth speaks nothing but nonsense And my words are worthless to say When your future is planned to perfection And crafted from everyone’s mind The dreams you dreamt as a child Are forced to be left behind My dreams were painted in watercolor So fragile,

Maid For The Ungrateful

She's 33, single, her Mom babysits her 5 year old son, she reassures herself it's just 2 more hours, then it's the blessed weekend with some delicious sleep, no nest egg, just getting by. There is one kind aging matron who makes her lunch when she cleans her home, yet other well-to-do homeowners cast their false superiority heavy in the air as she in imaginings wipes off their smug faces with Pledge. She hums to a catchy pop tune while scrubbing toilets and spraying down whirlpool bathtubs as her own muscles ache, maid for the ungrateful, she smiles remembering her First Holy Communion, her

INSTEAD OF AN ELEGY

Two of my friends committing suicide in the same twelve months. One of them on his birthday, his mobile phone full of unread messages, his body full of drink and drugs, as if he’d been having too much fun. The other found on the street, as if she’d flown down from her high window, following the pigeons that she loved. Both were alone in the end, both sociable. I swim in the evenings late, alone, like some half-hearted suicide. The other half of my heart stays waiting on the shore, keeping watch. It wants to be alive.

Truths to Live By

Time of life, Time of strife, Time of purpose, Time we suppose. Nobody can tell what's behind the veil, We don’t want to see what’s pale, Nobody can see what's behind the door, We’re a far cry from the core. Someone desires to wear our shoes, They don't want any encomium to lose, They desire flowery days, Can they an edging turmoil face? We can't escape life's midnight, Even though our chamber is pervaded with light, Every shooting star loses its radiance, Nature’s music ends and halts our dance. Time is not in our hands, Time is beyond the sands, Time brings and it takes, Time placates

Our Douglas Fir

I heard a chainsaw slashing into wood,
heard heavy branches breaking, understood
that by day’s end our noble Douglas fir
will be no more than sawdust. Minister,
come say a eulogy! For when the moon 
appears, the owls will all have vanished. Soon
the spry red tree voles will no more be seen
munching its needles. Oh, that tree has been
here seven hundred years. Its lanky grace,
which tossed from tempests, felt Sol’s fiery face,
and given Douglas squirrels its cones, now gives
helmeted men their daily bread, their lives

Exhale

Exhale

I took my first breath in the middle of autumn.
In the years that followed I held it there.
Stuck somewhere in my throat.

This time of year breeds a certain panic.
I can feel its motion as I watch people
rush from class to class.
Moving in straight lines
eyes straightforward
or straight down.

A motion I clumsily follow
as I tilt my neck up to the sky,
Watching as the maroons and mustard yellows
descend neatly to the floor to join
their brothers and sisters.

I like feeling them under my boots.

Argh daylight savings time ends – 2:00 AM November 6th 2022

Hour hands of o'clock get set back
sixty minutes gaining extra hour of Autumn
round about this same day of November
every year, what a bum
er, and inconvenient truth diverged
from this wayfaring chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold
over sans yesteryear
(first implemented in United States
with Standard Time Act of 1918,

a wartime measure for seven months
during World War I in the interest
of adding more daylight hours
to conserve energy resources)
doth rat a tat tat drum
a plain sensation of jet lag
(with earthling in the balance)

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