Friday, March 31, 2017


A new adventure soon begins,
But still, I wonder, who all wins.
Long habits do not quickly break,
And I am accustomed to take
A dimmer view on what I see--
Even when I should feel glee.

Thursday, March 30, 2017


I like to have my quiet morning time.
It lets me put words into metered rhyme
And into measured prose.
But when I may receive some welcome news,
I cannot trumpet it to those whose views
Matter most to me.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017


Yes, I know that I am slowing down,
Struggling to drag myself around
As I go from town to town
Plying the trade shown by my gown.
But that I'm slow means I've not stopped,
And I can see the grass uncropped
As flowers from it now have popped
And rabbits have within it hopped.
I ever seem to need more done.
No sooner that I have begun,
My set of tasks will grow by one--
And people demand I have fun.
I trudge along. I will succeed.
I will answer all my need,
And I will some old wisdom heed.
I go; it matters not the speed.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017


I feel as though I did not sleep.
I know my slumber was not deep,
So now I must struggle to keep
Myself awake for the day.
I cannot simply go back to bed
And once again lay down my head;
I must turn to work instead
And earn my keep for the day.

Monday, March 27, 2017


I found myself reading
A webcomic archive,
And I finally finished the damned thing.

It was good to be reminded of
Why I read the comic,
Why I kept reading
After I started
So long ago.

I have been thinking about
Such things
About why I do what I do
And where I came from
In terms of my mind.

I need to do more reading.

Sunday, March 26, 2017


Things are changing.
They seem to be looking up.
I wonder how long it will be
Before my neck begins to hurt.

Saturday, March 25, 2017


Praise them with great praise whose work ended the days
Of the dark dominion of Sauron's wicked ways,
Gorthaur's cruelty quashed, Annatar's lies rephrased,
And a new age started! Praise them with great praise!

Friday, March 24, 2017


I am still looking to find a way out,
But that there's a way, I anymore doubt,
Unless I am hindered, though I am devout,
By the onus of Stupid God's blessings.
It's to be avoided, whenever I pray,
That I seek with devotions offered each day,
To divert the notice, turn that face away,
And gather no Stupid God's blessings.
But, evidently, my prayers all go wrong,
And I am in-gathered, though I don't belong,
Among the great masses who sing the damned song
That revels in Stupid God's blessings.

Thursday, March 23, 2017


All the damned time
Bees, at least, work amid flowers
They fly
They feast on sweetness
I am simply
Working while I
Try to find work
So that I can work just
One job
And that's the dream
One job
One that stays
One in which
I can stay
And so be less

Wednesday, March 22, 2017


Again I sit on that throne that I share
And write as if a reader e'er will care
About the word-work in which I do bare
Thoughts I have and how my mind might work.
I know that what I say will often irk,
For I am often called far worse than "jerk,"
Yet even in the irking, I will mean,
And in the meaning ensure I am seen,
And only in the seeing can I glean
A chance to better where I now do stand,
To make a better place in new-strange land
Where the Stupid God has free command.
But if I will perform my little show,
How it will end is a good thing to know.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017


Most days, I drive the long and winding roads,
Twisting asphalt ribbons through the hills
Of oak and cedar and mesquite that stand
Rooted atop limestone that cracks in layers.
Often, they are black and grey on brown,
The kiss of the Hill Country sun that comes
Too near too often for our hearts' content.
When, at times, the sky will mate the ground,
Brown will shift to green and green and green,
Making monochrome that still will please
In an age of color. But in the past few days,
Each day has seen a little more emerge
Of pink and yellow, red and purple,
Texan white and blue, standing at the roadside.
I look, I love, but I do not pick up hitchhikers.

Monday, March 20, 2017


The students were off last week.
I had not meant to be, as well.
I usually am not.
But I was.
Some of me wants to regret it.
Most of me does not.
I think I will listen to the majority.

Sunday, March 19, 2017


Even now
My wife and my daughter
Are joys to me
I had thought of how I might speak of them in symbols
But none suggest themselves as fitting
I find I do not need them
Not for this
Not today

Saturday, March 18, 2017


Sometimes, the words do not want to come.
Sometimes, it is more an issue of ideas.
In the former case, there are thoughts that want to emerge.
They struggle against the inside of the mind,
Trying to tear the membrane that keeps them captive
So that they can scream out into the open air
And be heard.
But in the latter case,
There are no notions,
Or if there are, they have died before birth,
Remaining flaccid grey things in the mind
Taking up space until they are expelled
One way or another.

Friday, March 17, 2017


I seem to have some seventeens today,
And yet I cannot seventeen array.
What comes in seventeens, I cannot say.
What stands alone, it is easily seen,
And pairs and triplets take many a scene.
Quartets, quintets, too. A sixth is keen,
Although a seventh isn't. Eight appear,
But groups of nine are usually quite dear.
Decades feature well; elevens rear
Up less than twelves, and thirteens are accursed.
Fourteens happen seldom save in verse.
Fifteens group well if they are rehearsed.
Sixteen, as a power of two, makes pairs,
But seventeens are seldom anywhere,
And noone seems to offer it much care.
I, therefore, will take a little dare
And make my verse today the number fit,
And I will hope that folks will enjoy it.

Thursday, March 16, 2017


I wonder if, the next day, all those folks
Who approached Caesar, showered him with pokes,
Regretted what they did and saw the spokes
Of Fortune's wheel begin to turn away.
I wonder if they realized that they
Would ignominy have for deeds that day,
That two would in hell be by Satan gnawed
In famous words, amid ice never thawed,
The teeth demonic each being a prod
To punish treason. I am sure they knew
That they would have cause to their actions rue,
Yet I think they thought "This we must do,
But though we may well suffer for a time,
We will come to be praised in song and rhyme."

Wednesday, March 15, 2017


Today is the kind of day
That works for getting rid of Caesars,
Aging tyrant autocrats.
One might wonder
Who will be the modern Brutus
And who will gasp out
Et tu
After being harshly patted on the back.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017


There are some limits on the sonnet form,
Some tasks it is not suited to perform,
Some things that do not do well to conform
To fourteen lines that rhyme and run in place.
Some things do not require so much space,
While other cannot keep an even pace,
And others yet cannot be made to rhyme.
Their senses are such as do not them prime
For taking on that paint for any time;
They yearn instead, or seem to yearn, to speed
Along and many structures not to heed.
But I have never understood the need
To race along and strictures to forsake;
I need a pattern to my making make.

Monday, March 13, 2017


I find I have a bit of break today,
A gap in tasks, a chance, perhaps, to play.
I'll likely not; I try no idle way,
But instead shift the work that I will do
Until my tasks are all full carried through
And I can turn to work again, anew.
I do not mind the work, though I'd prefer
That I advance since I don't work abjure
To settings such as provoke speech azure.
I find that I face such a setting now,
And to me extricate I know not how.
A short break may well help me not be cowed,
Or so I hope. The break is come, and I
Must fill it if I'd end on a note high.

Sunday, March 12, 2017


The problematic Daylight Savings Day
Remains a plague despite what people say,
That any cause for it has gone away
And its maintenance now does no good.
All of this is widely understood,
And yet, in town and field and neighborhood
The rule that hours shift remains in place,
And people come to it with sullen face,
Save in those places that offer the grace
Of shifting not because it was once done--
But in those places still many a one
Must deal with the effects that are not fun,
And they have problems of their own each day,
Despite not being under savings' sway.

Saturday, March 11, 2017


For a cause I do not understand,
I this morning thought about a band
I did not listen to. I did not brand
Myself as doing so would make me do.
(For each such choice so serves, as I then knew,
And that I'd not fit in with them it's true
Who did align themselves in such a way.)
It's strange that I would think of it today.
It's not as if I've heard the music play,
Nor is it that I want to hear such song.
I know that I still don't--never will belong,
That I am not part of that teeming throng.
Yet still I have that band inside my head.
The mind will work despite what might be said.

Friday, March 10, 2017


A work-week draws close to its end, and I
Cannot my happiness at that deny
Or at the longer break that stands hard by,
Even as I know the joy is made
By games that owners' forces have long played
And that a time of rest will be delayed.
For I well know that breaks from one workplace
Do not mean breaks from others. The work-pace
Will shift its rhythm for a little space,
And I will work more in another role
Than I do at present. It's the toll
I pay to climb from out a fiscal hole.
Yet steep and slick are the sides of the pit,
And I but little grip e'er seem to get.

Thursday, March 9, 2017


Today, I take my daughter into town--
Her mother usually will take her 'round--
Because I will today be going down
To that small school in which she is enrolled,
And I will go because it's going to hold
A small event of which I have been told.
Her mother works, and I do not today,
So, rather than at home and alone stay,
I'll make sure our daughter gets to say
Her parents came to see her have her fun
And do the kinds of things that she has done
That we could not have taught her. Every one
Of them has been a boon, a joy to see.
I am glad to help her find her glee.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017


The flooding is somewhat abated, now,
But we are still monitoring the situation,
And we will bring you updates.
In other news today, wear red
Or be in solidarity. The latter
Ought not need be said,
And it is to our shame it is.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017


Flooding continues, although it is somewhat abated.
Dams have burst, allowing backed-up flows to be released.
Cleanup efforts continue downstream.
More details will follow as the situation unfolds.
Next, some puppies or something. Stay tuned.

Monday, March 6, 2017


Localized flooding has blocked several paths,
And the alternate routes that have had to be taken
Have disrupted the nights of those accustomed to sleeping
In the quiet provided by the normal roads.
Repeated service interruptions do not help matters.

Sunday, March 5, 2017


Old man McLuhan might be right to say
That medium is message, that the way
A thing emerges has somewhat to say
As much as what it holds, if not some more.
But if he is, and we should seek to pore
Over what we see to gauge its score
Then what do we say when a work is seen
On a page instead of on a screen
Or in small chunks instead of one work's sheen?
How does it change when here instead of there?
Does it alter whether any care
If the verse of itself makes a spare?
If triplets and a couplet stand apart,
Can they form a single work of art?

Look for #v201703050920 on Twitter.

Saturday, March 4, 2017


Today's John Philip Sousa Day,
And so today the bands should play
Jaunty marches and away
Take themselves in fine array,
In tight cadence find their way
To some end I cannot say.
For it's John Philip Sousa Day.
March forth, therefore, without delay!

Friday, March 3, 2017


The funny thing about it is
I write these while I take a whiz
Or drop the kids off at the pool,
As was said in my old school.
It could be said I crap these out.
Then I spread the crap about.
But that would make the lines a stain,
And what would readers be, again?

Thursday, March 2, 2017


The Stupid God is working in the land
With wrinkled citrus avatar at hand
To ensure that we do not understand,
For in the understanding there is hope,
As those unknowing do not know to cope
With all the wrong into which they are roped.
In greater numbers, they occlude the noose
That swings about them, widely since still loose,
But soon to tighten so 'twill be no use
To fight. What matter any struggles be
When done suspended from the standing tree,
The soiled oak that spreads for all to see
The horrors it has worked? It is no dream
Select most, though to some it will so seem.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017


Since still the wrinkled citrus avatar
That Stupid God has sent here from afar
The work of hands and minds will seek to mar,
And still a throng will cheer for every move
The avatar will make and thereby prove
That Hobbes was right and it would behoove
To know Machiavelli better yet
So that some cynic vision still may get
Ahead and perhaps itself firmly set
Against the foul, unthinking, rushing tide
Of ignorance. All I can do is hide
And wait for its recession. I but bide
My time, although I know I'm like to drown,
And the avatar to show its crown.