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.

The Workout

Dawn- hustle, bustle, begin the tussle

Sleep deprived; not worth the hassle?

Au Contraire.

Every effort at the local gym
makes my heart ready and my body limp
with fatigue. Good fatigue,
one might say
( though this is not really going the six pack way)

Fatigue that puts air conditioning in my head

for the day's heat ahead

Drowning out anguish,

kicking anxiety's butt

Slapping self pity's creep

Letting me breathe

Breathe in, go slow

Breathe out, there's the effort

Sometimes, it doesn't hurt as much

sometimes, a bit too much

Doesn't matter

Its not the body I'm healing

It's all in the head

Hustle, bustle, begin the tussle

here we go again

The secret I'm beginning to get:

The pain's really the gain.

Sobriety

Morning:

It was a meek, milky

blue sky
calling out
to say hi.

Hmm. So so long,
its been
that I saw a streak of white
race across my sight

It was passing jet fuel

posing as cloud

Look at me,

it screamed aloud

I'm going, I'm going

and you ain't with me

I figured that

It must've been some big journey

that a past self had been on

Well, the jet's gone and so has that man.

Noon:

Thought to myself

If it was a Jet

and I didn't see it

Maybe the sky was better

without it?

Sour Grapes always taste better

when they aren't w(h)ine.

Jets without traces

Leave no trace of crime

Evening:

The thought moved me and my day

along with it

till it became quiet night

I looked up for my next no- surprise.

(The city's bright glow

tends to overflow

and filters out factors

like stars and other non-actors)

Night:

Dust settled,the stars came on

with feeble might

wasn't even a fight

with attractive streets

and other pretty sights

But memory took over

and maybe closer

to things still sore.

Of course, it felt much more

As i replaced the sky I was seeing

With the sky I'd seen before

Mesmerised, I wondered

If this is what it is to be sober

Then I'd go beyond October(!)

and look at newer things

with older eyes

and older things

with younger guise.

to be (hopefully) continued...

The Joy of Boredom

Bring me my old self
And some ice-cream, cool drinks and a comic book or two.
 Ok wait don't;
The law of diminishing returns
 has ensured
That the ice-cream is blah.
The lemonade is not worth it
The comics are banal.

Bring me my old self
That was very sorted.
When all I needed was a day's worth of plans and dreams
and the delicious feeling of doing nothing about them.
And feeling better for it.

Bring me my old self
That will talk to my new one
And make him listen.
Listen to the music.
Of cigarettes smoked staring at the night sky
Of fences climbed to get rid of messes
Of motorcycle rides that suddenly got cold
Of stolen times when the heart got bold.

Bring me my old self
get him to slow down enough
To get bored and restless
and see the depth in its dullness.

Bring me my old self
I'll introduce him to my mid life madness
He'll get a kick out of it
and laugh. Of course, with a tinge of sadness.