The Closet Optimist

Every time I see a spark

of hope in me

I feel crushed.

Nope.
I will not have this beautiful feeling
of both unease and joy
Dictate my life
only to have me reeling
At the last moment,
As clouds of doubt seeded
From both skeptic and cynic
Makes me wonder-
is this still worth it?

The startup that wasn't supported

The project that wasn't funded

The relationship that never got the right chance

The health that did a deadly dance

All seemingly bright and beautiful

at first glance?

My reluctance as an optimist

Perhaps is a silent tribute

to all those left in the mist

With A Bewildered face

and an Angry Fist

That's shaking at the world

as they get hurled.

Many of us, then,

The other garden variety of dreamers

The closet optimists

We won't get taken to the cleaners.

We believe in the goodness of a thing

As we wait for the rest of the damn world

To get the right neurons firing

But hope we won't

Although

Dreaming we can't avoid

We accept the non acceptance

with equanimity if not poise.

Poem for poets who wrote a poem on #poetryday

Good lord,

We have a poetry day too

And if my dog made some poo..

We'll toast that moment hard
I'm sure you have a clue
where I'm going with this?
I'd give this day a miss
( with apologies to all
who wrote good stuff today:
this is still a diss)

Relax, sir. Relax, Ma'am.

Just a meaningless rant

on the strange creation

of super meaningful days

that could wither away with

a deep gaze

At them, but still

We simply need the memes

Need that gate-pass

Need that permission slip

Can't celebrate life

without themes.

And here I am,

as I contribute to the banal

As if I'd rather have a root canal

(now that's trite, but just out of spite)

Smirking from my pulpit

at the monkey tribe below

not knowing

that the tribe below

is the schizophrenic version

of my own reflection.

Happy Poetry day, then, everyone.

Story

What's your Story

today, as you stir

What'll make you blur
the bad tidings
Face the music
of another day?

Better make your tale

strong and true

Lord of your manor, are you

or the hapless victim

of a crime

Playing a bit role

An Extra

in your own life?

Whatever it is

sure your story has layers untold

And plays out in technicolor

(well, at least in silver and gold)

Oh wait. I forgot. Today,

you got up on the wrong side

and found no story

that kicked in

Fear crawled up your skin

Without that soothing balm

without that justification

How will you ever

take any action?

With nothing at all in your damn head

you climb down the stairs

You look at others in despair

You find no real people

just ghosts with stories

with their angst and their glories

Just walking around, doing this and that

But when you talk to them

it comes out pat

My life. My relationship.

My money. My bad hip.

So interesting, so tiresome

for sure there's no outcome

For a person without a story

is a story without a person

Outsourced

Ive outsourced

my heart, my mind, my memory,

my life
I'm in too deep
my smartphone's
got me by the jewels

I've outsourced

my past, my future

my present's sutured

up by a distant cloud

apparently there's an app for this

and there's an app for every that.

I've outsourced

my skill, my motivation,

my drive

I'm a happy little piggy

on Netflix and Prime

I've outsourced

every possible way I exist

and yet I do?

Must be something like love

that I can't outdo.

Maybe there's reluctant Hope

that I can't outsource too

And maybe Dreams

although getting someone to work

on my plans will do

Perhaps all the outsourcing

Finally helps me and you

Find a moment that's true

and use currency that's real

About time too?

Errorism

To err is to sin

And to sin is to miss the mark.

Mark these words:

Easy to say

Tough to live by.

For any Errorist.

He'll give it his best

Whatever cause he's fighting for

(and mostly it's a him. Give it a rest)

.

Guess the Errorist must realise

that it's a short life

and a long knife

won't give it any more meaning.

Not stunning as a realisation

People are saying these things

on every TV station.

Me, with no skin in this game

You, I don't know how much flesh

We've both not given much

to any cause we celebrate

Perhaps the Errorist

missed his mark

Ironically, when he ensured that

he nailed his target and made it flat

He made people like us angry

confused, out of their comfort zone

We looked for meaning and found none

Embittered, but without teeth,

We snap and growl with every sound byte

We give pompous advice

and sound real nice

when we make wise statements

about strategy and choice

Tomorrow,

it will be the Kardashians.

And we'll be the Errorists.