Category Archives: Poems about problems

Arms Race

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Arms “Race”

Millions of planets go spinning around
out of our sight and making no sound.
Because we don’t see them, are they not there?
And if we do not see them, have we a care
of what lies upon them or what it’s all for?
Is the rest of the universe simply a snore?

We are so taken by the mess of our world
that we keep forgetting that we’re merely curled
like a fist of small planets thoughtlessly cast
into a corner of a system so vast
that we’re barely noticed in the scale of it all.
It is not so important, our spinning blue ball

as we make it out to be, fussing and feuding,
warring and hating and bombing and shooting.
Like fleas on an elephant, thinking their bite
reveals such a showing of power and might,
our planet could vanish like that, in a puff,
and truly, the world would have planets enough.

Like millions of tiny balls spinning in space,
we’re in no competition. It’s really no race.
It’s nobody’s loss and nobody’s win.
We always return to the place we begin.
So put away guns and machetes and knives
and let’s simply live out our miniature lives.

 

The prompt today is planet. This is a reblog of an earlier post.

First Love’s Sting

 

 

 

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First Love’s Sting 

How deep the piercing, how sharp the sting
once young love starts to lose its bling.
Hearts start to stutter that used to sing.
You aren’t his princess, he’s not your king.
Your broken heart, trapped in a sling,
cannot follow when he takes wing,
taking with him everything.

No veil, no vows, no rice, no ring.
What passed for love was just a fling.
The love you thought would always cling
ripped cruelly with his exiting.
Your song of starlight, love and spring,
alas, was just a passing thing.
You’re left with “. . . . jada jing jing jing.”

No symphony, but just a ditty.
So goes first love, dear.  Such a pity.

 

The prompt yesterday was sting, but since the link still doesn’t work, let’s just say

sometimes, love doesn’t turn out to be as glorious as we might have wished.

Birds of a Feather

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Birds of a Feather

Tossed about in the storm—the tidepools and the heather.
Cast adrift in the air like a tattered feather.
Blown wherever fate decrees, determined by the weather.
One surrenders all control when they are without tether.
Blown up to the highest points, then dropped to the nether.
Never knowing what comes next. Never knowing whether
somewhere there’s another soul, skin weathered into leather
to furnish some protection once we have flocked together.

The prompt today is tether.

We Seem Meant to Argue

We Seem Meant to Argue

We seem meant to argue, to disagree and fuss––
to call each other s.o.b.’s, to blather on and cuss.
Somehow the world needs movement––the hurricanes and tides.
In every situation, there must be clans or sides.
There is a natural movement toward the pack or cult or gang.
Each game needs an opponent, and every yin a yang.

It may be named a congregation, a party or a cause,
but still there will be discord. There always is, because
there is something within us that draws us towards division.
Every peace march draws its crowd screaming in derision.
Some force within the universe that knows the whole of it
has decreed that everything has its opposite.

So though we may crave unity and hope one day to coin
accord between the nations, and for hearts and minds to join,
the truth is that the universe is like a pendulum.
For every radical event, the opposite will come.
if we just wait long enough, it will be peace’s turn,
but in the meantime hate will pillage, conquer, rape and burn
.
We would have it otherwise, but hope won’t make it so.
We may unite in nations, but we’ll still go toe to toe:
nation versus nation, like street gangs in a rumble.
The most sincere peace accord eventually will crumble.
Mere wishing will not bring on peace, but we can make a start
simply by appealing to that attitude of heart

that chooses to forget and start that upward swing
that can pull the whole world with it as it takes to wing.
The answer to the hatred is to start out one-by-one
to try to make the choices to set discord on the run.
To choose the dark sides of ourself is an act of treason.
We must conquer our own petty hates and choose to live by reason.

Today’s prompt is “Argument.”

Retired (For Daily Prompt: Clock)

Disclaimer: Naughty word implied in this poem. Do not read if easily offended.

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Retired

Mr. Clock, Mr. Clock,
though your advances I try to block,
my attempts you seem to mock
with your continuous tic tic toc,
echoed by my neighbor’s cock
crowing from his noisome flock.

No longer cheerleaders or jocks,
nor femmes fatale with flowing locks,
in Birkenstocks, flip flops or Crocs,
(worn in the winter complete with socks)
we huddle safe behind our locks,
afraid of terrorists with glocks
or neighbors’ children tossing rocks.

We hear your phone calls and your knocks,
we know you gather in your flocks,
your PTAs and your ad hocs,
while each of us sits in our box
as stubborn as a mule or ox,
busy in our painters’ smocks
or cooking spinach in our woks.

Our homes all sealed up like Ft. Knox,
we have no need of the world’s shocks,
its pestilence and chicken pox.
We have our pensions and our stocks,
our Lean Cuisines in our ice box.
We shun your CNN or Fox!!!

Our TV sets set to the past
neglect to show the latest blast
as all the world seems set to cast
Armageddon, coming fast.
So as you watch the latest drone
on your notebook or your phone,
as you predict and hate and moan,
please leave us the f— alone!

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/clock/

Scar

Scar

 

   All bear them                                          as badges of life.
Each marks a wound                               and then a healing.
Like most of life, good                 growing out of the bad,
producing proud new flesh to cover the inevitable
that we all face––the cut, the gore, the severing.
Life is arranged for some reason to complete
pain with healing, one way or the other.
Proud flesh, proud heart–an excess
in us all that needs smoothing.
First pain and then succor,
a generation dying and 
 another one growing. 
Forever scarring 
the family or
  healing 
   it.

For the past year, I keep getting these heart-shaped wounds on my arm. I think they are from the dogs jumping up on me or from wounds won trimming the bougainvillea, but it is amazing how many times they are in a heart shape.  I’d already written this poem before I decided to try to make a concrete poem out of it. As I progressed, it wanted to be a heart.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/scars/

Clarity: Words After an Armistice

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Words After an Armistice

I want to make this perfectly clear.
We are not close just because we are near.
There has to be more than proximity for
my heart to open its almost closed door.

Say something sweet to me. Say something rare.
I do not feel loved just because you are there
across a room that is filled up with things.
You must think of something and give your thoughts wings.

Speak playful words that will prompt words from me.
Then volley them back to me. Don’t let thoughts “be”
without giving them air to live in and grow
so they banish these shadows and fan fire’s glow.

Passion’s not something for us to remember.
It’s better a constantly glowing live ember.
Get up from your chair.  Give that remote a miss
and speak to me now with a word or a kiss.

Remove my hands from the keyboard and say,
“Let’s give the internet rest for a day.”
Take me to water and take me to sand.
Take off my shoes and take hold of my hand.

Walk me to tide swell and gull cry and light.
Say you’ve forgotten our last brittle fight.
Banish bad thoughts in the now and the here
So I can feel close just because you are near.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/clarity/