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Departure

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Departure

-for Baby, 2-10-86 to 9-14-12

His slide was steep,

over in two days as he went

from flight to fail.

His weak legs went first

so I carried him close to my heart

in a makeshift sling where he mostly dozed

until, with a look of surprise in his wide brown eye,

he lifted his left wing all the way up

and waved a final good bye.

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It’s finally come, at long last

it’s time to seek my overdue repast,

take a stroll over to the watering hole

hoist up a glass or two, and clap

my fellow napowhackos on the back,

strap on my open-toed stilettos

and have that dance with Dunc.

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Happy and sad, it’s a mixed brew

of feeling, this stopping for awhile.

Time to say goodbye and put aside

my pen and paper, take some time

to settle down and grow new eyes

before I look back at what I’ve done.

Maybe I’ll even be surprised and find

a nugget or two to buff to a shine.

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But for now, the muse is through,

the dishes are piled high in the sink

and the laundry bin is starting to stink;

my larder is bare and my home

is in a state of major disrepair, and

most importantly, I’m out

of booze and coffee and chocolate.

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So, without further adieu, I bid you all

a fond farewell until next year,

y’all take care

and join me now as I shout out loud,

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April’s over, Amen!

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He loved all manner of rich and fatty foods:  kitchen sink

ice cream sundaes, double stacker bacon chedder

cheeseburgers, the chewy crackling from a roast pork shoulder;

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and hated anything remotely related to dieting:

counting all those calories, removing all that lovely fat

from meat before cooking, salads with low-calorie salad dressing.

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The doctors warned him, but he developed dead ears.

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A vast vague white draws me
out of the night, says the moth
in his flight
away from the delight
and bodacious sorcery of dreams;

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away from a heaven of black and blank;
away from desires come unchained;
drawn back into the land of real
as Morpheus reclaims his morphine.

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Day’s awakening is akin to zombieland
and air sucked from a balloon is akin
to freedom’s end.
Time is needed to unstitch and mend;
release is not sparked when the door
is sewn shut to sanctuary.

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To not dream is to die, to be locked inside
a shifting multitude of pale scenarios, imprisoned
and wake-walking through mundane matters
where twisted ideals rule what’s right;

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and all hopes for escape are dashed
once the alarm blares from the bedside stand,
the snooze button only
a temporary reprieve..

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FROM The Uses of Light, by Gary Snyde

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April 9

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Interruptus

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After two double-strong,

double-sized, mistletoe mojitos

consumed over the course

of several lazy dazy hours,

standard orbit is attained.

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Circling in boozy vapors,

numbly floating around

in the cabin of my head;

while I sit in suspended inertia

words start to mesh,

start to course down the downspout

and splatter onto a blank expanse.

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The muse turns rambunctious

and tickles my writing hand.

But not now, the wash is done;

time to endure four flights

of screaming knees,

step by gruesome step

down to the haunted basement.

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I hope they don’t get too cocky.

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***Recipe for Mistletoe Mojito

Ingredients

  • 1 oz. fresh      lime juice
  • 1 tbsp.      superfine sugar
  • 8 fresh mint      leaves
  • 2 oz. white      rum
  • 2 tsp.      pomegranate seeds
  • 4 oz.      Pomegranate 7-UP
  • 1 mint sprig
  • 1 lime wedge

Directions

In a highball glass, muddle lime juice, sugar and mint leaves until sugar is dissolved. Add rum and pomegranate seeds. Fill glass with ice and top with Pomegranate 7-UP. Garnish with mint sprig and lime wedge. Enjoy!

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April Morn

Not much today, I’m afraid it’s slim pickinsville.  But at least it’s something.

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April 5

Image

A cotton candy sky greets the eye

as I pull back the curtains.  Outside

papa sparrow sits atop his house

while mama, inside, broods on their clutch

awaiting the first tap-tap-tap

of beak against calcium shell.

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Squirrels chase each other’s tails

in wild loop-de-loops while a small group

of starlings plays a game of tug-of-war

with a last nights’s bread.  Jays swoop

down in fits to forage in the grass.

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At seven thirty am the backyard’s busier

than the five o’clock freeway.

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APRIL FOOL’S!!

I told myself I was not going to participate in NaPoWriMo this year.  I built a wall of fierce determination.  My plate is just too full, and I have not written poetry since last year’s NaPo.  I am not doing it.  Nope. Nada. Nay.

d’oh! Should a knew better.

*sigh*

Well, I tried.  I really did. BUT, you know how it goes.  I’m such a wuss.

AND, well, this year PFFA is in the throes of a system/site failure, and we’ve no idea if we’ll be able to post our piddling pomes at the site.  A few ingenious thinkers have come up with a solution, but it has all the makings of the mother of all solutions, if you know what I mean.

Basically, when I’m ready to post the day’s poem I have to post it at a communal blog along with as many as 100 other people.  Then I will post a link back to the blog to a special Face Book document/posting along with said other participants.

heh.  hehehheheheheheheehehe.

God help us all!!!

SO, without further adieu, here we go!

April 1

Burning Bush

Flame tongue,
cardinals crest,
Sunshine Tree;
bright light on a dark day
neither rain nor frost can diminish,
even though you’ll fall someday
in showers of red, red sparks;
fireworks
borne on the back of a chill wind.

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