Frozen in Time

Take care as time continues

With all the folks you've met.

If relationships don't grow,

The beginning's all you'll get.

If their budding maturation

should, for some reason, stop,

They'll freeze into position,

As ice might in a mop.

I'll say how my folks treat me,

and you'll see what I mean:

They always will be forty

and I'll always be fourteen.

Old Jon

For the old me, life was black and white,

Or at least a bit less twisty,

and I hardly searched for inspiration

Because it rarely missed me.

I had a consistent, long term mission

Just a bit too big for me,

and, in case I gave it up, a consistent

Political philosophy.

If you upset me, I could just go off,

Or be passive-aggressive.

But now, I'm too lazy for all of that,

With far fewer rips to give.

The old me still had the passion of youth.

He wanted to jump your bones.

I think I still remember his number, but I

Can't get him on the phone.

Why I Write, Part x+269: Accidentally On Purpose

Though I wish I were more painstaking,

I imagine how tight it would bind

If it weren't merely a saying

To truly be of a single mind.

I would be thoroughly discontent

Without those thoughts everyone gives

On accident, absent all intent.

Those thoughts are where poetry lives.

Give Up and Let Your Side Win This Time

The first didn't have the right face

To enter your desired place,

To do what both of you wanted to.

The world chose him instead of you.

The next was too old for the job,

With hair and clothes that said “slob.”

He embraced a taboo label

That most would keep under the table.

In other years, he would be toast.

In your year, he kept it too close.

The third was nothing less than wrong,

A human show ordered by gong,

The wrong color for anything,

Could say the wrong thing just breathing.

Everyone said you were a lock,

That you could just run out the clock,

That the game was no more in play,

and Mr. Wrong won anyway.

Next time, commit the lesser sin.

Just pack it in.

Why I Write, Part x+268: Not a Daddy or a Dadaist

How nerve-wracking, to parent or paint,

To send my creations wholly away.

As a writer, my poems are with me to stay,

and I give the world copies, exactly the same.

Art's medium changes the nature of selling,

Which, in my art, is as safe as re-telling.

Stupid Questions

Why are they trying to sell hockey

To yet another warm-weather city?

If politicians are famous for lies,

Why do we voters still vote for these guys?

If I pay myself first, why not pay me

With time, instead of money?

Why trust one to manage heaven and hell

Who can't even handle the weather well?

Why isn't democracy

an extracurricular activity?

Why don't we have democracy practice

Like a driver's education class?

The Number-Two Reason (After Lack of Talent) That I Am Not a Famous Author

There's a million emotions I don't really miss.

I can't recall fear, but I still can feel bliss.

When I write, I feel happy. Do I ever feel sad?

I sure do get angry—take the good with the bad.

I never feel stress, and go years 'tween premonitions.

I daresay I'm no expert in human emotions.

My favorite one is probably “motorcycle,”

But the one I feel most would be nothing at all.

My Personal World, Part 25: Open Up Old Times

I get out this album, again, and I open up old times,

Improved by melody, meter, and rhymes.

I remember the one who made my good times better,

Improved them with sympathy, laughter and letter.

I remember this one gave me understanding, stimulation

When I was at my worst, with no career or avocation.

I remember how this one served as my armor,

Protection from myself and enemies at my door.

I remember the ones who supported my foreign years,

Who forged a connection 'tween my home and my heres.

I listen and remember, or at least I try,

and I smile because I forgot how to cry.

Changing Without Changing

Anywhere, anytime, and without fear, I go:

The version of me that backed down died years ago.

Yet, my sin of sloth should still send me to hell:

The version of me that gave up is alive and well.

These versions of me, the same version of me, is laughing:

My amusement at coincidence of preposition is still growing.

What Have I Become?

Once an endurance athlete, and now a bowl full of jelly,

I hardly gave a thought to work; now I work in front of the telly.

Between my fur and my taste for cold, I was once a polar bear.

Did I migrate? Yes, and south at that. To a tropical island, that's where.

Mine was once the almost-famous name of a blazing ace of test-taking,

and lately I've found myself unable to memorize a thing.

(In my mind, ideas are illegal immigrants—that's how head-blows affect a poet.)

At some times, under some, I was a patriot; now, I'm nearly twice an expatriate.

Some years ago, I worked with passion, on fire for teaching

Now I spend half my week just waiting for the weekend,

Longing for time to write, and the time I wrote, and the quiet.

From would-be novelist to erstwhile storywriter to dormant poet,

and now neither prolific in the first nor productive in the other,

I've become a motorcyclist, though that one only shocks my mother.

Worst Year Ever

Half the nation called him “President,”

the other nasty names.

He served his eight. The president

now could not stay the same.

Though the parties knew incumbency

Was guaranteed to end,

No single worthy candidate

Did either party send.

One candidate was famous,

a liar and cheat,

The other famous for being

as dishonest as he.

The news and truth got messy

in their public divorce

Though they still saw each other

On the side, of course.

So the land made a king of a

Big, windy, orange liar

and in making, made itself

A big dumpster fire.

Now we're left here, together

To pick up the pieces.

It's a task we must master for

The good of the species.

Ketchup and Catfood

Most folks need an occasion to go out on a date.

I need only a lost fork or a broken plate,

Or cookies and bread, or a blade to shave my face

Or new lock to keep shut the gate at my place.

To put more texts on my prepaid cell,

To clear my head when I'm not thinking well,

Ketchup and catfood, or any of the above

Gets me a night out with my two-wheeled love.

Four Wheels Good, Two Wheels Better, pt. 2

Perhaps to see the road rush by,

Perhaps to feel the breeze,

To take the turn at 45

and forty-five degrees,

Perhaps to go there just for fun,

Then take the long way home,

Perhaps to seat exclusively

Wherever I may roam,

Because no jurisdiction's law

Holds traffic to its letter,

Wherever I've heard four are good,

I've found that two are better.

A Limerick Eaten by a Thesaurus

I utilize uncomplicated words when I compose,

Admitting it appears a smidgen mundane and hackneyed.

I scribble what I recognize,

Allow my rectitude to appear,

and I'm confident that I apply the words properly.

Macklemore Might or Might Not Dig It

What's wrong with wearing something gauche or passé?

Why spend down to the lint to keep a wardrobe up to date?

The answers don't suffice, because nobody really knows

What's wrong with wearing your father's old clothes.

Think about it a second, that's all it takes to realize

That the same genes might make the man the same size.

If the shoe hurts, don't you dare just grin and bear it.

If the shoe feels good, why, then it's a good idea to wear it.

Hunting the World's Most Dangerous Book

The thesaurus is a dangerous work.

Behind its calls, writers' folly does lurk.

The thesaurus might make jesters of us all.

If into its trap do we wearily fall

By mustering new talks up into the fold

And serving them as they were just like the old.

One Day a Year (I Miss Big Box Stores)

The weight of our culture's priorities

Bows many of us to our bended knees,

and one day a year turns the whole world pink.

Through rose-colored conscience, we choose not to think:

Why just one person? Why just one day?

Why mothball steadiness, friendship away?

I guess everyone, every day would be kind of demanding,

and I sure do love the candy.