Let There Be Karma

GIFSec.com

Oh, please dear God, Goddess,
or Deity du Jure,
Let there be Karma,
I pray to something I’m not sure
Would be interested enough to tune in
To my selfish petition—a kind of ammunition.
Then, just as soon as I realize
That Karma would interpret
My noble thirst for justice
As a bald-faced lust for revenge,
Karma does a double-take

and catches me, red-handed

Building a nest for vultures
In the dark corners of my soul.

Illustration Credit: GIFSec.com and hinduperspective.com, “Is It OK to Leave Justice to Karma?”

A Hot April Sunday

Sitting in church on a hot April Sunday
Wishing you’d sat in a shadier spot
And wore something brighter and a little less tighter
Forgetting to plan more often than not.
But forget the plans because they serve nothing more
Than to stifle your whimsy and nail your feet to the floor.
And if it’s in church that you feel you must be
Sit near the back where you’re freer to flee
To watch the wind chase the clouds to the sides of the sky
As you bask in the warm breeze of April’s sweet sigh.
If you’re Heaven bound, there’s no need to die
Because Heaven’s right here—just step outside!

Photo Credit: “Deconstructed Church” (www.lovethispic.com, Image #24536)

The Mother of All Bombs

 

I was going to write a poem
About The Mother of All Bombs
But the only words
I could find
That exactly matched
In rhyme and time
With “bombs”
Were psalms and palms.

A ridiculous poem this would definitely make
But, wait,
There are psalms hyping Armageddon in the wake
Of a war of many nations that are warring today
With its dangerous implications
It behooves me to say
That although I believe such claims to be fake
Make no mistake
This stuff makes me quake
And a little bit nervous
That all three branches of our military service
Are led by a loose-cannon Commander in Thief
A jerk who shirks responsibility
Tweeting state secrets with impunity
Filling top posts with dolts who cause division
Who only qualify because of nepotism
Where are the adults
To provide the supervision
Of his captains of war and industry
Whose conflicts of interests
Confer nobility
Upon the skeletons in his closet
Who are manning the helm
Using pushbutton hellfire
To kill and overwhelm.

He makes a point to anoint
Non-professionals
Leaving life and death decisions
To his generals
Who might be reading psalms
Or palms
Or the zodiac
To get new ideas
For a plan of attack,
Taking all too literally
The inevitability
Of a prophesy
Fomenting Armageddon
Via World War Three.

So he unleashed the rabid
Dogs of war
As gleeful as a kid
In a candy store
Too many Democrats
Now think he’s presidential
As he gets more recklessly detrimental
To safety of our planet.
Is it time yet to panic?
Each bomb he orders dropped from our planes
Is just to remind the world that we hold the reins.
“America First,” he shouts
Shaking his fist
How dare he call anyone a terrorist
When it’s our mushroom cloud
That hangs in sky
Courtesy of our future
Squandered by this crazy guy,
Who wishes us all
A really great, very happy Easter.
Oh, and God Bless…America First!

Illustration Credit: http://www.memorymuseum.net

 

 

First World Problems

I freaked out a little bit yesterday
When on my smart phone
I was trying to play
A podcast I love to listen to
During the five miles of walking
I try to accrue.

My podcast app had just disappeared
All familiar features had all been cleared
From all the screens I know so well
And suddenly it was as clear as a bell.

“My phone’s been hacked!” I lamented
As all four buttons I frantically poked
I watched myself becoming demented
Surprised that I’d get so provoked.

The only screen that persisted
Demanded pin numbers and names
No “x” appeared to resist it
This screen was playing no games.

No other screen
Was remotely accessible
While this one was stubbornly
Incompressible.
Even shutting off the power
Couldn’t close the window
Leaving me and my phone
In digital limbo.

I threw the phone into my purse
And decided not to swear and curse
And instead filed it under
The Luxury Column
Of being grateful to have
A First World Problem.

Five minutes later I sought some advice
Inside the tech store where everyone’s nice.
I asked the sales person if she thought I’d been hacked.
“The solution is simple,” she answered with tact.

She said that the software had been updated
With a two-step verification
So I re-entered my data, relieved and elated
As I laughed at my former vexation.

Technology thankfully is here to stay
And permanent will be its incumbency.
That being the case, if our data’s erased
We’d all better create some redundancy.

Illustration Credit: http://www.bennesvig.com (Book Cover, First World Problems: 101 Reasons Why The Terrorists Hate Us, by Ben Nesvig)

The Perfect Bag

The perfect bag is just the right size
For the things you need
Should the need arise.
Not too big or not too small
And whole lot lighter than a cannonball.

I always start out with things deemed essential
But I quickly digress to the random tangential:
Lipstick, hairbrush, keys and glasses
I.D., checkbook, old boarding passes,
Cell phone and charger and candy molasses.
And one more morass would make two morasses!

I should stop there, but just to be fair
I’d rather be safe than sorry.
On the side of caution I try to err.
Just in case of a sudden safari.

Now please don’t think that I’m slightly dotty
But I could get beamed up by way of Scotty
And wind up on some weird planet,
Doing battle with an evil pomegranate.
Entangled in vines, I’ll fight for my life
And I’ll cut myself free with my plastic knife
That I didn’t throw away but stowed in my purse.
I’ll be glad that I cleverly prepared for the worst.

Because getting wet can be a pain,
I have a mini poncho for the rain,
A tiny mirror and small pair of scissors
Just in case I’ve got to cut my hair
In the middle of a couple of blizzards.

And just remember,
You never know,
You could get stuck in traffic.
That’s not too bad,
but you could get sad
If you don’t have a
National Geographic.

And that’s why I don’t go anywhere
Without my Jews harp and harmonica.
When faced with something dismaying
I breathe deeply and just practice playing
Songs from Weird Al, Christmas and Hanukkah.

Little packets of salt and pepper
Make random snacks taste better.
Sometimes there’s Mustard and Texas Pete
And duck sauce and sugar for something sweet.

Ketchup and soy sauce
Band Aids and dental floss
Rubber bands and paper clips
A notebook and a sewing kit.

Pens without caps
For my writing pleasure
Outdated coupons
And a tiny tape measure
And wads of tissues
In case I’ve got “issues.”

Plastic bags for picking up trash
And a few dollar bills to share
And loose expired aspirins
Sporting sandy fuzz and hair.

For civilized dining on the run
I have nice plastic cutlery.
It sure beats eating things with your hands
That are slippery, wet and rubbery.

I confess that my bag is a random mess
But it’s also a grab bag of happiness.
A trashy treasure trove to be mined
I’m always surprised at the stuff that I find.

After all is said and done
I think it’s fair to say
It’s almost always the little things
That quite surprisingly save the day.

Photo Credit: http://www.funnyandhappy.com

 

 

 

The Status is Never Quo For Long

Oh, no, don’t tell me I’ve lost my lease
Because somebody else is claiming this piece
Of Heaven I’ve rented for such a long time
That I started thinking was actually mine.
I cleaned and upgraded and kept my shop nice
And my presence here lends sweetness and spice.
I’m right where I’ve always wanted to be
I love my community and they love me.
But because I held the lease forever,
My rent stayed low which helped my endeavor
And allowed me to pay a near-living wage
And if my uniqueness is any gauge
You know no one can compete with me
Except for online shopping which we increasingly see
Where you can get things fast and almost free
Order it instantly right from your phone
With same day delivery shipped free by drone.
Because bricks and mortar are going the way
Of high button shoes from back in the day
Which we don’t sell but if you look on EBay
They cost ten bucks new, all the way from Indonesia
Which is why I’m now gulping Milk of Magnesia
Which I buy in bulk from a big box store
Cause I’ll go broke if I buy it from the store next door.
To see our steady flow of friends, you’d think we were thriving
They’re cool and hip and give us props, but we’re barely just surviving.
Between a rock and a hard place I feel like I’m glued
Where five dollar lattes and cheap fast food
Are changing the landscape of my sweet home town
Where the charm of yesteryear is getting torn down
To make way for high rises with a parking garage
And upscale dining to attract the incoming barrage
Of well-heeled people who hear that this town
Is on its way up from having been down.
This is called progress, which I’ll have to accept
But when we are happy it feels good to expect
That the status quo will stay the same
But it never does because we can’t stake a claim
On the outcome of what tomorrow might bring.
That’s just as true for the Joker as it is for the King.

Photo Credit: http://www.inhabitat.com (Story about Edith Macefield, the 84-year old who refused a million dollars and forced a shopping mall to build around her house)

The Good Neighbor Award

My neighbors’ dog continued to bark
Until I thought that I’d go stark
Raving mad,
Which if you know me,
You’d certainly know
That I certainly don’t have too far to go
Stark raving mad.

Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf
Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf

Their place looked empty and no one was home
And I’m sitting here trying to write this poem
And nothing rhymes or makes any sense
And if you know me
You’d know that the sense I might actually make
Might actually be an actual mistake,
But the only rhyme I can possible make is:

Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf
Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf

My normally normal blood pressure, I think
Was starting to rise and although I don’t drink,
I found myself quickly
Approaching the brink
Of considering an option
Like a high-octane concoction,
Since the barking has changed the equation
This is officially a special occasion.
But if you know me
You’d certainly think
That certainly I
Must certainly drink
A lot.
But I don’t.

Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf
Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf

But maybe…

Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf
Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf

This might be a good day to start!

And then
Is when
I wrote
The note:

Your dog’s barking like crazy
And it’s driving me nuts
And now I’m worried that you
Might think I’m a putz.

But I’m sure you’ll forgive me
This point I’ll not belabor
And mention instead that it must be said
That you are the very best neighbor.

Finally I pushed the send button
And she responded immediately
Gracious and kind and very concerned
Just as sweet as I know her to be.

The barking did cease.
No palms were greased.
No one called the police.
And my talent increased
(OK—that was stretch,
So nobody kvetch!)
But if you know me
You know I’m so happy to be
Right here at home
Writing this poem
In such heavenly
Heavenly peace.

Illustration Credit: http://www.quickmeme.com, “Driving Dog: Let Me Put it in Bark”

I’m Already Against the Next War

Nobody wants the immigrants
That our bombs create
We only know that when we’re scared
Our first response is hate.

We attack a sovereign nation
Who’s killing people wrong
So we drop our bombs to kill some more
Just to show them how it’s done.

But bombs can make things better
For our warring sides here at home.
Now Repubs and Dems can get together
And plan a proxy war by drone.

Eating steak tartare at Mar-a-Lago
While wreaking havoc with no shame.
Making deals with others’ lives is fun
When your skin’s not in the game.

Humanitarians and Barbarians…
Who is who and who are we?
Both vying to claim the cold comfort
Of a Pyrrhic victory.

Killing for a “moral” cause
Keeps our hands and souls pristine.
But in the end, dead is dead
And our noble charge obscene.

Illustration Credit: “Perpetual War,” by Anthony Freda

Le Pain Quotidien: Getting a Rise out of a Crummy Poem

 

Give us this day our daily bread
And let’s hope that it’s really quotidian.
Just in case you should happen to fall on your head
And you happen to cross the meridian
That separates carbs from things that are not,
Then I’d suggest something Euclidian.

But what’s geometry to do with bread?
Only to take measure of all that is said
And to find the angle that’s least obtuse
Just to find any facts that could be of use.

Bread doesn’t smell bad
Nor bleed nor cry
And it won’t make you fat
If you don’t eat it fried.

Cold or hot,
Toasted or stale,
It’s the solid form
Of beer and ale.

So I don’t understand
Why bread you’ll eschew,
And curse those poor carbs
While swilling a brew.

But everything is relative
Or at least that’s my perspective
And as you can tell, I’m a zealot of
Making twaddle more connective.

But at the end of the day,
It’s safe to say
That a day without bread
Is a day that I dread.

Photo Credit: smileyland.com

The God of the Wind

The God of the Wind has spent a sleepless, storm-tossed night,
Hard at work, sinking a ship or two, here and there.
Today he is as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.
Not knowing where to unleash his unfocused rage,
He writhes and thrashes in spastic gyrations,
Grabbing at frantic starlings that pepper the steel-grey sky.
A tormented soul, he rattles our windows,
And shakes our walls to their very foundations.
He makes airborne those things not meant to fly.
A spoiled, angry child, hell-bent on a binge of destruction,
He rakes his giant fingers through the tree tops,
Delighting in every limb he snaps
And every tree he rips out by the roots.
He must have coughed up a lung or two
Knocking down every garbage can in town.
He blows up shirts,
Exposing hairy belly buttons and poochy love handles.
He blows up skirts,
Revealing things we’d rather keep under wraps.
He blows hats off heads,
And grit and sand into babies’ eyes.
He plasters big sheets of newspaper against chain link fences and
He snags plastic bags on trees.
All of out spite, you know?
Even the nagging crows get their comeuppance
As he dives between their little strutting black birdy legs
And puffs up their feathers in precisely the wrong way
Just to wound their false bully pride.
“There, take that,” he blusters.
A frenetic peripatetic
Bringing brass knuckles to a slugfest.
Everyone’s invited.

Illustration Credit: terraoko.com, “Stribog, God of the Wind”