4.7, 4.8, and 4.9 for Good Measure

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The past few days, I’ve been toying with free-form verses that have a vaguely hip-hop aesthetic. I’m usually terrible at this, but then that’s the point of practicing, right? And that would be the point of this monthlong endeavor – to practice stretching out muscles and learning some new tricks!

Enjoy!

Post-Booze Brainstorm (4.7)

Buzzed with booze, a brain
Firing neurons terrified to lose
The wisdom of cups and relaxed blood flow
Is not done thinking
Chasing the siren song to dawn
Tied to the mast of exhaustion
Sinking in the unknown

Falling in Rain (4.8)

In Japan, it rains so heavily,
umbrellas are barely a remedy,
Rainfall patters out a melody where
I fall like a drop into reverie
Mess with the rhyme scheme
and pay a heavy penalty.
Soon words wild in anarchy
Make forms flown to thunderstorm cacophony
Little April showers ripped of all their piety
Best use that umbrella to fend off your anxiety
Lest you run down gullies of depravity
And settle into puddles of stagnant mediocrity.

Grey day Walking (4.9)

My mind is a Jane Eyre grey
Pinched in, cinched in every way
Until my voice goes quiet
And I lose the need to speak
People become my visual cues
Not to cross the streets
Muted eyes rest on blind sights
Unable to recognize my own fights
With attic-dwelling feelings
And a hollowed chest sounds a lone note
Suggesting fiery heights
Of deeper meaning
Lost in the repetition of day-to-day pattern
I do not wonder or wander, yet I do yearn
And hear the premonition
That the destruction of my worldly goods
Signal a break from Jane Eyre grey
And the woulds, coulds, and shoulds
Give way to brighter days.

Making the Rounds

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Round one, shields up
Pass the glass and down the cup
They’re not yet sure who’s foe or friend
And this night may quickly end
In awkward silences and doubt
So drink up, cocktails, wine, and stout!

Round two, here’s the sounds
Of similarities newfound
Cigarettes and movie quotes
The air is thick with jazz and smoke
And cups are emptying with glee
Let the barman bring round three!

And somehow reach rounds four and five
You wonder how they’re still alive
Well past the general niceties
They heading into stormy seas
Of politics and current news
Comparing angers, matching views
And by round six when all that’s done
They’re sitting silent as round one.

Glasses down, wallets out
Gone the cocktails, wine, and stout
And strangers are now almost friends
This is how a good night ends
Yet they hunt through darkened skies
For greasy meat and salty fries
I do not envy them the dawn
When all the rounds have come and gone
But wish them well the next time when
They meet to make the rounds again!

Margarita Moon

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Margarita Moon

Howl to the margarita moon,
The bourbon stars!
Stretch out your arms to the tequila sun
And smile, my new friend, smile.

Life a shore strewn with broken things
Pounded by surf and crusted in sand.
So reach out and smile a whiskey dawn smile
And rest in bliss, my new friend.

This ease will not last till sunset.
The tide is constant and true.
So howl to the margarita moon my new friend,
And I’ll stretch out my fingers, and howl along too!

Desperately Catching Up Part I

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Oh dear – between illness and work, I have been not doing a good job of getting this place updated on a daily basis. Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but shame.

(That’s strong, but Shakespeare understood words, Man.)

Now then, on to the process of catching up!

2.9
Drinking Haikus

Let the world turn on.
I’ll trace the full equator
Around my wine glass.

Rusty flirtation?
Clearly you did not drink your
Social lubricant.

He drinks whiskey neat.
She loves frills and twisty straws.
A perfect bar match.

2.10
Waking up

I had an unfortunate dream about you.
There were no giant catfish.
There were no one-toothed gypsies.
No, you soothed my troubles.
And though I was the harbor master,
And mistress of the manifests,
It was you that calmed me down.

I say unfortunate
because I awoke feeling peaceful.
Knowing full well that you
– the real you –
The you I would see
Was not my subconscious evolution of you.
No safe harbor to be gained from you,
But no squalls either.

My mind was calmed by the idea of you,
Yet you do not sail with me.
You are as distant as the lighthouse,
As vague as the foghorn,
And I cannot fathom you holding me
for longer than the three seconds
between my coat and the door.

Sleep deceives and dreams belie
The soundless depths of men.

2.11
Asking for Forgiveness

Asking for forgiveness
Forces us to look at the callouses on our souls.
Looking to faith hurts
Because we are hurting
Scared that we might not be healed,
That we may be hurt again,
That we may hurt again.

And we will.

2.12
New Earth

To feel the promise of life,
One need only run fingers
Through the decay of the fall.
That rich, cool promise of nourishment
Squishing between one’s fingers.
There is no time for dirt like spring,
When all life is waking
On the bones of the last season,
When Mother Nature is tossing her muddy head, exultant in the thaw!
Let it get up under your nails
And rub into your knuckle creases!
Enjoy it! Revel in it!
For soon it will turn into the cracked and hot summer dirt
And lose a fraction of its glory.
At least, until next spring.

Saint Brigid, Saint Patrick, Mary, and God

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Saint Brigid, Saint Patrick, Mary, and God

Saint Brigid saw Saint Patrick
Walking by her lake of beer.
She called to him, “Hey, Patrick!
Care to share a cup of cheer?”

Saint Patrick winked and nodded.
“Aye, but I will drink no beer.
It’s whiskey that’s my drink of choice –
Would you like a dram, my dear?”

So Saint Patrick and Saint Brigid
Got to celebrating days
Until their song reached Heaven
(Drunk voices carry quite a ways.)

Immaculate Mary descended
Down to the lake of beer
And Saint Brigid raised her tankard,
“Hey Mary, how ‘bout a mug of beer?”

Gentle Mary smiled at the pair
“I’ll drink something more fine.
If we’re in celebrating mood
I’d much prefer a glass of wine.”

So Brigid drank a mighty draught
And Patrick from his flasks
Sweet Mary had amphora brought
The angels rolled the casks.

The trio sat by the lake of beer
And sang hymnals full of praise
Until God himself popped into sight
(For he has mysterious ways)

“Across my kingdom’s reaches
Have I heard the noise you’ve made
You could awaken souls asleep
What happens in this glade?”

“Good Father,” said Saint Patrick.
“Come and join us for a drink!
Be merry and happy on a day of feast
Come on, Lord, whatdya think?”

“Holy Lord,” enjoined Saint Brigid.
“Let me offer you a glass!
Let’s celebrate the day of days
That many more may pass!”

“Almighty God,” spoke Mary.
“Come drink the grape’s delight
Let’s sing and dance and spin the Earth
Throughout the day and night.”

And God sat down beside them
By the lake of beer and song
He drank the whiskey and the wine
For God’s tolerance is strong.

Until, that is, God’s humor
Got the better of his mind
“Hey guys, check out what I can do!
Let’s see what I can find!”

Saint Brigid, Saint Patrick, and Mary
All paused within their drinking
Each wanting to see what the Lord would bring
To see what Yahweh was thinking.

With a mighty clap and a joyous noise
The Lord gave out a cheer
And all around the angels sang
And drank at the lake of beer.

Yet when the magic settled,
And the power had all been spent,
The only thing that God had made
Was an awkward looking rodent.

Its tail was rat, its fur was white
“I shall call it – an opossum!
It shall confound my mortal charges…
Now, which Saint had the rum?”

Saint Brigid cheered the creature
And Saint Patrick cried “Here! Here!”
Sweet Mary laughed and clapped her hands
By that merry lake of beer.

*****

Saint Brigid of Ireland is my patron saint, and her prayer involves providing beer for all eternity for the holy family. On this, Saint Patrick’s day, I like to think that God gets to enjoy him/herself with the Saints.

And like all drunks, strange creatures get made when God gets tipsy. I mean, the platypus, most deep sea creatures, the opossum (which I call God’s sneeze).