Surfing on an Atomic Bomb - POEM of the MONTH!

Surfing on an Atomic Bomb

While surfing on an atomic bomb

"Dr. Strangelove or:
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)"
by twm1340 is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Dad sipped gasoline in a honking line,
With waves of heat several blocks long,
Tempers soared, but we kids were fine;
Hell! We were promised flying cars
Despite Martians eating our guitars.

Prom queens with feathers took flight
As we soared to the highest volume,
In a world decreasingly black and white
And a color TV in every living room,
But we totally knew who our enemy was
As we fought the political Santa Claus.

While Mother Russia ate her own
And answered to our Olympic boycott
We fought to avoid a bogus chaperone
To drive Route 66 for the best snapshot;
For we had dreams of skipping midterms,
Then felt like a truck stop meal for worms.

We dropped F-bombs in detention,
A fragile club for the misfit elite;
We danced to beat out any tension,
For our music would never be obsolete;
These waves pounded the golden beach
Like we always had something to teach.

For the holes in our jeans were natural
And the mousse a permanent fixture;
Like the endless Cold War was surreal,
Games played on the almighty computer;
But at least M*A*S*H was on syndication
As history became a comedic distraction.

We need a convertible Bug on half-throttle
And not another colorful flag unfurled!
Drop these singular words in a bottle
Because one second can change the world;
But hell! We still inhale repeat sitcoms
While surfing on our atomic bombs!

~

(If using a phone to read this piece, turn your phone horizontal for the best view of this post.)

The Parallel World - POEM of the MONTH!

The Parallel World

I wish I could find the parallel world;
Not just by any portal at random 
But to the world of the perfect dream
Unblemished by the pride of man.

There is no need for weapons
Because no one ever goes hungry;
And there is no need for towers
Of cities with polluted industry.

Injustice is not in their dictionary,
Nor greed, envy and indifference;
People walk in villages without fear
And abide in the path of providence.

Neighbors are valued more than gold
And no one has the need for tears;
Nothing breaks, not even hearts --
It is the first and final frontier.

I wish I could find this parallel world,
Not with the need for an adversary
But the one in which no one sinned --
And I'd trade places with the perfect me!

(If using a phone to read this poem, turn your phone sideways for the best view of this post.)

Silver Creek - POEM of the MONTH!

Silver Creek

Running wild, Silver Creek is more valuable than gold

It flows into the heart of the river as it flows through mine

A late summer mountain rain is the canvas for a rainbow

Reflecting off the catch at the end of my line

Carry me away to these waters, a new story

Show me the love created as wildflowers intertwine

Reveal to me once again the secret of blissful therapy

Guide my spirit through the evergreens above the treeline

Let me remain beside your musical, calming water

Until the day I abide forever with creation's Author!

(If using a phone to read this poem, turn your phone sideways for the best view of this post.)

No Man's Land - POEM of the MONTH!

No Man's Land

 

Less strength is required in a peloton,

Tucked in the draft of a pack of riders;

The protection from the wind,

Managing effort for all the kilometers.

Two large packs form by error,

Or by strategy, or by the elements,

And one rider is caught in the middle;

A position requiring greater resilience.

Stranded in no man's land,

Although sometimes by design

To bridge up to the leaders --

Or just struggling in the Alpine ...

Alone with a bicycle in the playground

Or perched on the highest floor;

Fashioned or fooled by society,

Hearts flatline behind a locked door.

Anxiety is the companion of solitude,

Whether calculated escape or unplanned,

The risk of failure is over the horizon

When stranded in no man's land.

Daisy Haze - POEM of the MONTH!

Daisy Haze

In a brief moment of time

Through my diffused sight

Time and space are still

Absorbing the flower light

Paint my garden yellow

Let rain sing on spring days

I call out toward Heaven

Give me the daisy haze

An intruder steals dreams

Vulnerable to the monstrous

A phone call late at night

A shot from the darkness

Guide me on streets pure

Shine on summer days

I call out toward Heaven

Give me the daisy haze

In a flash before my eyes

Life on the silver screen 

Thrown off two wheels

By a larger machine

Although a present mystery

You are eternally here

Even when you are there

The daisy haze is clear

With the weight of my world

Flowers smile in the dark

Even when I am lacking

You are my hallmark

On the other side of doubt

Through the hazy days

I call out toward Heaven

Give me the daisy haze

The Great Question - POEM of the MONTH!

The Great Question

"Where are we?" asked Location.

 "The question isn't 'where', 

but when are we?" replied Time.

Before Reason had a chance 

to ask "How?" Purpose interjected, 

"No my friends, the great question is: 

why are we?"

The Fool laughed "Say what?"

Then Wisdom patiently came along

and expanded, "The 'why' is not what we say, 

but looking out for who -- 

however, 

whenever 

and wherever we can."

And Love paused to smile.

~

"Love your neighbor as yourself." - Luke 10:27b

"By this everyone will know that you
are my disciples, if you love one another." - John 13:35

Painted Ladies - a short story

Painted Ladies 

While on vacation in the city by the bay, I turned the corner and there it was! A row of houses, each painted in different colors from hues of purple, red, yellow, blue and green -- as if they were different people with their own life experiences. Their own ancestry. Their own culture. Yet, they were the same. The same as the focused university student just a few blocks away at The Mill who enjoyed her coffee and pastry the same as the retired gentleman who held his granddaughter with a similar passion. The same as the gruff opinionated homeless veteran alone in the crowded coffee house, and the well-dressed business woman intent on leaving if her beverage was not finished by her standard of two minutes as indicated by two fingers forming a "V" -- but not for peace.

A row of houses each filled with history -- like the rows of tables filled. Filled with dreams -- fulfilled and lost, planned and forgotten. Yet at the same time, unable to erase memories. Foundations of imagination. But I was stranded in a circular thought, like circling the block. I thought it should be renamed Writers Block. But last night, in the comfort of my own home, my wife Clarity lovingly urged me to consider it's not my surroundings necessarily in need of change.

After soaking in the last drops of coffee I scribbled down the street with a pen held by a hand living in the land of freedom. A liberty unprecedented, but blocked by a blank page. Blocked by various degrees of cowardice; or was it something else? Everyone held their own pen. Every home protecting their own.  We lived across the park for years, but I did not know the name of a single neighbor. I presumed they did not know mine.Across Alamo Square Park stood the row of Painted Ladies, with the city in the background -- like the strangers in a coffee shop, with their respective day on the forefront of their minds. I crossed the street, walked up the steps to the door. A door with a blank stare -- which should have developed into a nod or greeting. This was a repeated occurrence, door after door. Frustrated at the threshold of a lost original thought. A thought to be formed somewhere in the living rooms of tomorrow. My page yearned to expand.

But was kindness on vacation? Curious if my self-imposed dilemma added to the regretful repetition previously encountered, I stumbled back to the coffee house. One block at a time. One table at a time. Not in step like a drunkard, but absent in word. A repeated occurrence, table after table. Yes -- there I was! On Writers Block, a neighborhood of various colors filled with experiences, and experiences filled with various colors. If only I had the courage to knock.

~

Partly inspired by the poem entitled, Writers Block.