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Saturday, August 25, 2012


common man becomes uncommon
the world at his feet
the knowledge of generations
generations of knowledge
every where
every thing
and life has been forever changed

little bits of yesterday
lots of tomorrow

 the all seeing eye
gave us the tool
GOogle gave us the opportunity
go where we choose
to use our minds
to expand our horizons

to give ourselves a glimpse
of greatness
of struggle
of weakness
of glory
of all the challenges

and our hearts are bigger
our minds richer
and our spirits enlightened

one algorithm
changed the planet
the rapier
to eradicate ignorance
to wipe out fear

and the fearful
with the ignorant
fight the knowledge of change
or the change of knowledge
and try forever to bury us
in the desert of despair
the emptiness
of control through

Without the song of the spirit

the land of gOOgle

is no mans land

and noMAN is lost in the desert
if ignorance and want
living with fear and greed

without the algorithm of
we are adrift in a sea
aboard a ship
with no rudder
with no oars
with no direction
with no where to call home



Tuesday, August 21, 2012


Leaves clap with the breeze
A chime resonates
ears vibrate
message to brain

birds hop through leaves
travel to parched dry lawn

hot summer day
a hushed melody
heat sings into night

Distant pond shrinks
cowering from heat
shoreline reaching,stretching
fish hurry to cooling depths.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

ticks slow

I did not die today
I don't know why

maybe tomorrow
when then I will
I shall
until then

Live I will
and go on
with life
as does one
awaiting to die

There is much to be done
in the meanwhile
papers to sort
to put ones life in order
not to leave the mess for others

In doing so
it is difficult
as the proccess begins
there is courage and purpose
get the job done
sort through
put things in order
discard the irrelevant

And then
one old magazine discarded
old bills discarded
old note reminder to buy milk discard
birthday card from him, ah, a sweet memory
put it on the side, to discard after

papers to keeo, medical bills paid
medical records of tests results
bank statements keep
another card, ah, she is such a good friend
we have been through much hardship together
it is feels good to know we have a friendship
that has lasted the years, her children are
grown with children of their own
odd to think she, a granny

The time it does fly
her card is like a hug
felt from all the miles by

Names addresses and phone numbers
those we knew, before they died
why keep those
I often wonder why
and then I remember
so i won't forget
when i want to remember their names
and i can't recall
I have a place to check
because I want to remember
who they are
that were in my life
all the years that so quickly went by

When living
at times
the clock ticks slow
and we wait for the time to go
till the time we want for the clock
to stay still, a moment longer
stop, stop
let this moment last longer

The time that passes
we judge and vote
to let it go
to keep it close
the time of our life
Oh, where did it go.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012


   When it is time to move on the past moves to the present
Packing one box of memories brings forth yesterday
The gift you got when you got engaged, one of which got broken
The gift from a parent
The gift you inherited
The thing you bought when you went on vacation that time
The time you really enjoyed yourself with the person no longer alive

You are still in the room with the box and wrapping paper, only one shelf's worth of memories are safely packed in the box
And already there is a melancholy of fatigue

All the time travel to all those places with all those people whom you knew who are no longer here

And the things that have collected dust, that you haven't looked at in months that you never use, that you will have no room for in the new place,
And yet, it is difficult to part with those links to the memories of who you were
Before you are who you are
And you should part with them
But maybe you don't want to
You are not ready to let them go
Those ghosts of yesterday that make you feel the feelings you felt then
That you do not feel now

The feelings of youth
The feelings of newness
The feelings of discovery
The feelings of playing

And the box is half full and the fatigue has slowed you down
You look at the cabinet and the shelves yet un packed
And the mind flashes to the closets waiting with their things to go

And it is time to sit and rest
The rest of life is still going on
And it is time to close  the past
To prepare a meal of the present.

2012 Olympics

  It has been a few days since the close of the London Olympics. An we are  still disappointed by the performance NBC did not do. Once every four years hundreds of nations join together to give their young people the opportunity for an international competition. This is a chance for all the peoples who are represented at the games, to share pride, anticipation, and joy. That they all contribute their time and dollars to 'play' the games.

  England and all her people, as China four years ago, made the effort to show the world a good time, and that they did. What of it we saw.

  NBC could have shown us the people, they could have shown us the other medal winners from the countries who only sent a few athletes, and the countries that won their first ever Olympic medals, but instead they opted to show us Mary, Bob and other NBC staff, as if we have not seen enough of them.

   Then, there was the lack of information, like with the Equestrian competition. They once in a while told us that a horse was gelded but not where it came from, Arabia, England and so forth. How high they jumped, is that the way it always was, how about some history?

   NBC really went on the cheap, instead of showing us an international event they chose to stay with the home time, the English and the Chinese, DUH! there were more countries competing. And the opening ceremony was washed over, and the closing ceremony was shown from the blimp with the lights in the stadium the star attraction. What a waste of energy. England should especially be annoyed with NBC, all the volunteers who dedicated themselves to putting on a good show, that we never saw. Even the diving stunk.

  Even their writers are tired, with dumb dialog stating nothing to give perspective or history or charm or interest to the games. We saw lots of parents of the American athletes, who cares. We came to see the Olympics, when will they show us the Olympics. If this was the ancient games at Greece or Rome, they, NBC would have been fed to the lions, instead, they will get to do the winter Olympics and Rio.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

olympics 2012

Oh NBC, there is a whole world out there
and yet you choose not to show us
There are other stars
other winners
other people
yet you care not for geography
your writers are tired
they keep telling the same story
and we hear and see no more
tis a pity
such a waste
thousands of people
and all you show us is nbc.

Saturday, August 4, 2012


     The 2012 London Olympic match of Serena Williams and Maria Sharapova. Another reminder of the inequality.

      A technician who excels is a pleasure to watch, to dream we are the star. We are in the competition using all our wits to win the day. We make believe we are in the thick of it, that we have prepared, invested the time it takes to be the best. We make believe we had the resources, the team to back us up, the strength of will to persist through the physical test, that our commitment is equal and surpassing the opponent.

     We dream about being the star, internationally renowned, recognized instantly. The thoughts of the days, shining brightly, working towards a goal that is achievable, being the best.

      And once every four years we imagine that it is us with the camera following. And we enter the arena, ready to battle. The past four years we have prepared, spent the time to hone our skill to meet the challenge.

      We are on foreign soil, representing our nation, one of the few,' the chosen, the proud '. We are anxious. The years spent fine tuning the focus, devotion, poise, strength, skill, polish. All of it, we have everything to be the greatest in the world. And we enter the arena.

      And when we win, they bow to us, they salute us, they honor us, rewards, recognition, accolades, every gift imaginable has been laid at our feet. We have earned our place at the top of the ladder, the head of the table, first in line. And no one can take that away from us, 'we are the champions', at fifteen at sixteen at thiry one, we won, and representing the country, all the people, everyone. We have made it a success for every person in our nation, big and small short and tall, mothers fathers, sisters brothers, good guy bad guy, each and every one of them. We did it for them, and we did it for ourselves. We were driven, we were pushes, we were there, and we won.

     And everybody is happy, everybody on our team, everybody that rooted for us feels sooo good, and we did that, we worked so hard for so long to make so many feel so good.

     And our manners don't matter, they did not and do not care, that we are out of control in our social skills. They make excuses for how we act. They overlook that we are rude crude selfish and ill mannered. They let us get away with everything because we are their only chance at winning and they want to feel to know what it feels like to win. The 'common man' wants to know what it is like to be a star and if they root for us, and we win, they get a little glimpse at what it is like to reach the top, and it makes the rest of their day tolerable.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

It is the middle of the night
a time of quiet
when all are asleep
the place of repose
the place of replenish
the body working to repair and rebuild.

The moon light the sky
The air still, filled with the remnants of the heat of the day
All is quiet

Stillness echoes the tick
 the sound of the  clock marking the passage of time, it bounces off the walls singing the chorus, time, time, timmme
 the clack of the keyboard the base backup softening the echo  to a hum.

The cats are returned from the prowl, they have finished eating their fill for the fuel they need to keep them too in a place called sleep. They are resting, grooming each other, purring the pleasures of comfort, the security of indoors, each other, and the leather love seat where they found their favorite groove of repose.

The kitten  we call boots, still uncontrollable with his aggression, still learning his feline ways has just disturbed the peace.
He begins to jump and play at the game of attack, he rises straight up in the air like a Mexican jumping bean or a kid on a trampoline.
Gus, the elder of the two, wants no part of of the game, strolls away from the center of the stage and finds another resting spot, away from the bouncing baby kitten.

The August moon sits high, it lights the landscape, with soft shadows of dusk, the eyes can see afar and the night seems like day, letting the eyes view the hidden time, the hour of night when the creatures of the hour share the horizon as their domain, and no one interrupts. It is their arena, and they are free to roam to travel their territory to do whatever it is that they do. And there are no eyes on them, it is their tennis court, their hour on the field, their place and hour, and the moon lights the path and maybe changes their manner, on this moonlit night.

The stillness marks the surroundings, the fireplace more noticeable, it appears larger, more massive, closer. The fan overhead rolls with a silent whirr as the reflection of light spins with the shadows. The reflection of paddles softly wave images rolling in a circle on the ceiling.  The dancers are twice the measure they are reflecting the maidens tip toe with the sheer fabric anchored in their fingers, the ballet of the maidens of the fan waltzing in the night, they fill the roof of the room bringing the ceiling closer, beckoning, inviting the mind, to join with its steps in time.

Now the walls are calling.  Each painting animates, awake in the stillness, yawn, stretch, alive.

Can you hear the sound of the river by the cabin in the woods as it rushes to its destination down into the valley.  It is flowing at its pace with its partner, gravity, travelling, a journey. They have little notice of the scenery their interest only in the going, they, always together, must keep going.

Heard by the trees, those, the constant spectators, is the ripple and splash, ripple and splash, as they look to the snow capped mountain away in the distant memory of the rivers past its star of the start .  It could be day or night, there are clouds masking the time, anytime, day or night . If there is smoke coming from the cabin's chimney it is hidden by the rooms dim light, and I can not recall if there is a  fire or not. I shall wait for daylight.  There is too much magic to turn on the overhead lamp.

The queen, an African, reigning on leather with a background in earth tones holds court at another wall.  She is her alert usual self. She  reigns with no opinion, neither happy nor sad, regal in posture, elegant and noble.

Sitting below the queen, two small landscapes, with fir tree focal points, stars,  separate from the group, alone in their sphere. It is  always winter in these scenes, cold, even though there is no snow, always a chill.

Near the cabin in the woods is a chrysanthemum. A painting larger than the others, with the center of the mum filling the painting. A brownish beige with white reflections of petals.Look again at the shadows from the fan.  It is the only painting in the house that the housekeeper remarks about. She  crooks her neck and looks at it. First standing in one spot, then another. She comments about her eyes always seeing it in a different way. It seems to be growing on her.  She is not sure why.

An abstract pony rides alone on another wall. The neck stretches upward  raising the head with strong muscle, a stance that evokes ancient memories of wild mustangs free to roam, standing at the mountaintop, silhouettes  against the sky and the air and the ground.

There is a chalk of fruit in burnt oranges on a table that is anyones. It is near the larger still life, a classic of flowers in vase with splash of pink that brighten the panelling. Nestled between them  two abstracts of sombre colors, pictures that you stare at, not knowing why and what one is thinking, the out of mind experiences, the trips to other galaxies, comfortable besides the  bowl that has holes in it. Little craters of netting or a netting of craters, it would not be good to hold food, definitely a no to liquid, it would be lost forever. Would we have to use the brass door nob besides it. It was a gift, years ago, presented by a scant acquaintance. It is an official bank door knob from Wall Street. A large triangle with the door knob at the center. It is on the wall now to remind us to keep opening doors instead of closing them. It did not work rather well as a paperweight.

The two Japanese prints have villages, walkways and rooftops nestled on a mountainside. A dense population rendition of life in Japan. It is done with fine lines, and soft hints at color. A genteel view of a community of friends and neighbors. A tranquil scene,  of a peaceful place.