Wrightings

 Internal conversations  I used to argue with her mercilessly  I usually won or at least she’d let me think I had I used to question her morals clause “Where is it written?” “Who was its influencer?” She came up with some of the craziest ideas; “Travel until you find where you belong, Help everyone you meet,  Trust until you’re hurt.” “Life’s an adventure,” she said. “I need to live to be adventurous,” I replied.  It often ended badly. “Oh, but the memories you’ll have!” She insists.

  Nicknames Pumpkin round and orange  Dented here and there  Sitting in its own rot Tiger striped in orange Ferocious and wild Pacing in a cage Colorful Nicknames  Told me who to be

  I was three picking blueberries on the edge of the wood. We weren’t far from town in fact town may have grown to there by now but I was sitting amongst the blueberry bushes one in the pail two in my mouth when momma bear came out to join me. Mom became aware, slowly backed away, and called to me “Just stay still, I’m right here,” as the bear sat not five feet from my and began to eat berries.  Suddenly another rustle on the edge of wood and a cub appeared, then another, momma bear rose, galloped toward them, chasing them back into the wood with a crash of branches snapping.  But neither mother of me got the tattoo, instead my ex wife as part of our separation got a colorful memory inked on her upper arm, a bear class image of sunset or sunrise in the wood where she longs to live. 

  Texas blue trilium  Slow growing, long lived Gender fluid 

  As a Texas Poet, I try to tell a story Not cowboy swagger, but tales of warring. So the day I packed my bags to visit a friend in Austin I learned she became a victim of the marathon Bomb in Boston You know, America’s corrupt when people try to kill athletes For those who run in free air,are an obvious danger to beat When we find the boys who made their mark It’s a psychological trip on which we embark Trying to think like those corrupt Has our brains feeling like it will erupt

Ascending elevation  to the New Mexican signage the continental divide, a place where rivers choose  their destiny, their final resting place, they all flow  To an ocean, and I think, which one will you choose? Besides ashes to ashes we are water Which plants will I wet as biological refuse If I am planted in the ground a single oak or maybe elm If I am cremated my steam might dampen a neighborhood   If I convert greenly, my water may become your drinking water Awestruck, tears roll down my cheeks, evaporate Into the water cycle, the earths cycle, the cycle of life

 ABCs of Love Appreciating existence each breath               converting oxygen to continued life Being someone better               than you’d imagine yourself to be Caring deeply with intensity                that vibrates change

  Day 14 technological advances They say Galaxy can create beautiful  images but there is no depth in lines without heart, an image of an image is a reflection of art not a true representation of soul They say Suno writes music Brings song where none hummed but discord and throaty Yoko Ono already surreal cannot be compared  to mixing and matching previous polished performance They say Claude can speak human Predict what you’re (were) going to say But it took three times to type that Because AI can’t read a poets mind And his vocabulary is connected To his history no my herstory 

 Deep in the wood, where shadows grow, The branches claw the sky, A hush that hums beneath your feet, As something passes by. From moss she rose, with earthen eyes, And breath of loam and rain, The rock of granite loomed ahead— With threat of doubt and pain. Castle or prison, none could tell, Its windows dark as night, From within monsters groaned, As if they feared the light. The wind whispered through the pines, A name we could not know, Our courage thinned like spider silk, But still we chose to go. Our wooden weapons, raised with care, And finger guns held tight, We faced the dark with pounding hearts Then broke it with delight. Rang out with TV themes so bold, Through gloom and ghostly hue, We laughed and sang our fears away Like Scooby and his crew. Monkeys danced in nonsense tunes, Bananas in the fray, The forest shrank, the shadows fled, And night gave way to play.

  I wanted to be her first  Oldest memory  I wanted her to love me Like a mother but more Her favorite aunty  Of course the others  Did not know her But I was so proud I wished her to be mine We dressed up for the show Got in to the 1974 Ford Placed the lap belt across her Buckled in for safety But I was a new driver Overly cautious  So when a car pulled out Too close, I slammed on the brakes And she a wisp of a niece Slid under the lap belt  from the clean vinyl seat  to the floor Don’t tell anybody  Is her memory ingrained  (happy birthday Carrie Jo)

  THE END OF JAEL AND SISERA (by ANTHONY TROLLOPE) JAEL was  sitting  the day  arrive mean  hoping  to see Clara,  and make her fail found it  impossible  to say  painting-room, during intervals  A man  allowed fifteen minutes  on  offers  and his heart;  had  twelve minutes  The turban! mean time,   Brought explaining  favour  in respect  she ought a  little more liberty  On this occasion  his friend,  able as  he had wished  the matter  himself. found  talk  exclusively  about  affairs.

 A poem of grief with rhetorical questions and a little rhetoric,  An onion skin peeled  leads to another onion skin  not quite dry. The one  that will make you cry. Why do I go from tapping my toe  to a song to the tears  running down my face?  Both are universal responses.  When will this end?  Like the onion in evolves over time. The knife cuts the skin,  blood spills like onion juice.  Both burn.

  Bottom-Dweller Beneath the shimmering surface lurks a creature vital: the Bullhead. of the catfish family, true survivors, From distinctive barbels to parental dedication, Bullheads offer the tenacity of freshwater life. distinguished by their smooth, scaleless skin barbels around their mouth sensitive chemosensory organs, underwater antennae to detect food in murky waters. body shape is somewhat stocky, coloration varies mottled brown or olive green; dark olive to black; or yellowish sides and a paler belly. sharp, serrated spine located at the front of their dorsal and pectoral fins deliver a painful prick a mild venom, a deterrent Preferred homes slow-moving or stagnant waters muddy, or silty bottoms. ponds, lakes, reservoirs, rivers, even ditches. amongst dense aquatic vegetation submerged debris, Bullhead a testament to ingenuity and resilience. humble bottom-dwellers, vital components of freshwater ecosystems, unsung heroes (A blackout poem from Bullhead - Description, Hab...

  Contradiction Being human is a contradiction  Having high moral values You do not, cannot follow As you sit in traffic and watch  A small domestic animal Darts amongst squealing tires You’re glad it made it across the street But you don’t go back to look for it Capture it, take it home or to a shelter Instead you curse those responsible  Being human is a contradiction  Wanting to help the man on the street But turning your nose up to his stench Refusing to give him a dime for drugs Not trusting his moral compass Or thinking he no longer has one So one your high horse you offer Fast food and a list of resources Being human is a contradiction 

  Something to make you jump Bad chicken or bacon I don’t know which Something in my system just turn the switch Reject this now expel it all It doesn’t matter how big or small Run to the bathroom sit down first Then wrench into the sink then  and burn for thirst. 2:30  til 6:30 ought to clean you out But I as try to lay down I have one more bout

  A normal day, with a touch of surrealism As I pack for my trip to Round Top Poetry Fest, I remember last year. I can’t afford the motels in the area. so camped at Oak thicket Park.   It was lovely. So few campers this time of year, April, early in the camping season. For me it’s the perfect time. I don’t mind the rain if I have a roof. I rented a screened shelter. It’s nice because I kept my things inside  and lock the door when I leave but am still out in the open air. I hung my hammock sleeping amongst the trees. I befriended a cardinal.  He was fascinated that my hammock was such a bright orange. The cardinal decided it wanted to mate with my hammock. It would flutter  and dance, just outside, on the ground and do a fabulous mating dance for me.  Turning, fluttering its wings this way and that. Head down head up cooing  and chittering. I welcomed the rituals of this beautiful male showing off.  I took down the hammock, wrapped myself in it an...

  I hate Catullus, the first-person poetic speaker  the real-life poet now long dead I hate his tales of woe, observations  translated for two millennium still riveting, relatable, relevant knowing full well my words will barely be digitized into binary blips  and my prolific proliferation  of pithy, poignant, provocations  will gladly be; reduced, reused, and recycled 

Lightening A crack of bright light from ground into cloud lightning ignites thunder sounds loud hairs on my arms dance in the dark ears pricked to measure the storm’s echoing mark a shiver up my spine concern in the night the scent of sulphur and burned, flashing light

 Why do fisherman prefer steak mechanics Drive crappy cars And counselors have the most issues? Why do the beautiful think they are ugly the dumb claim their intelligence  Or writers refuse to read? Why do humans think they’re gods Men compare themselves Or women mother others?  When “why” is answered  with “because, “we learn there was never one at all.

  Middle finger right hand a pencil nub, red from wrong grip stressed like the spelling trying to coax the rules but neat enough to be accessible  Even her name was misspelled  Deborah became Debra

 Birding in the dark the grackles sing lullabies to blinking red lights even the semaphores sleep and I am an April fool

Auditions Fifth row center end  Neck cocked to catch  Almost every word Relaxed into the smell of musty velvet seats  each mid-April honoring fellow poets getting inspired writing new shit Naomi Shihab-Nye can be found in Roundtop,TX

 

  When I am in the city When I am downtown in the city especially near the towering buildings the street vendors, the traffic, and the crowds , they give off such hints of filth. I would almost say that we all deserve to die. I am so distant from hope  in which goodness, and discernment, ever existed in the world so I walk quickly, holding my bag tightly. Around me the throngs stir in their fast pace and call out, “Tourist, go home.” The disdain flows with each word. And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say, “you have to keep moving, don’t look up at the buildings, don’t block people trying to get somewhere, and  don’t be afraid to eat on the street.”

 March should hold no terrors, so they claim, Beneath the glow of full moon’s watchful eye; We count backward, reckon loss and gain, And whisper debts we fear we can’t deny. To Jupiter, great lord of sky and flame, Whose thunder shakes the hearts of mortal men, We cast our sacrifice, invoke his name, And pray misfortune shall not rise again. Yet shadows stir where trust once firmly stood, For closest hands may turn with hidden blade; In halls of power, masked by noble good, Ambition’s cost is dearly, darkly paid. Heed well the signs ignored in fateful hour— Pride invites the fall of mightiest power.

           WRIGHTINGS and friends celebrated poetry on PI day with PI-kus from Washington, D.C. to Washington State, from Minnesota to Corpus Christi, TX. Please enjoy and share the idea for next year! 

  I was bumped, tagged, notified  that we would be all a Glo for poems in 2026 we’re looking for a home a Facebook prod made me smile my words will be expelled not judged for more than  first pass through or  ‘New Shit!’ as some might refer to But it’s begun so let have fun plan your April writing this way and stop by here for some cheer of poems written each day

  They say you killed yourself, but don’t we all The pain thickened when your first husband called you fat even after you had the surgery he insisted upon.   The pain intensified    by your second husband loved you so much and worked so hard that he didn’t have time to be with you. And when you wanted to finally give him a child. He dropped dead of a heart heart attack.  The pain deepened as an alcoholic after the stomach surgery, which you were warned about.  The pain darkened because your mother needed assistance and you couldn’t give it  Then as your third husband used PTSD as his excuse for his affair and you finally came home to help — everything was already taken care of.  Everything except you. So as you tied    to piece together a life with the car given to you    in the home given to you, and the jobs given to you, your life became disposable.  Like all of ours.  For me, I give mine up little by little one ho...