Dysfunctional Poetry 101 for Bedtime Reading

by Phil Cross

  Don’t let them get out of your sight!

  For that’s how causes are trod:

  head down, marching on cue—

  all the way to Timbuktu.

  Fleeting Visitations

  I know not whence or why

  they come and go.

  I cannot make them come at will,

  but rather when they make it so.

  I do not know who they are;

  but expect the time will come

  when they will choose to let me know.

  For the Sake of the Children

  To show the faces of starving children—

  so drawn, so thin, so pleadingly forlorn;

  with also their parents, if they can be found,

  also in rags, and as filthy—since they were born.

  Then to be asked for donations—so hard to refuse—

  for the sake of the children so pleadingly forlorn.

  And so it is—for mercy and goodness sake—

  to give succor to those children so ill-fatedly born.

  But then, in future years, to likely see

  the faces of their children—

  so drawn, so thin, so pleadingly forlorn;

  needing succor for being so ill-fatedly born.

  Free Lunch

  I put out seed and suet for the birds to eat:

  chickadees, cardinals, woodpeckers, and such;

  but not for the black hoards of grackles and kin

  who, out of the blue, make racket and droppings

  while devouring the food for others intended.

  It seems I have produced a charity kitchen

  in which they fight and squabble

  as like rabble with no manners at all

  while crowding those intended away.

  So I will let the feeders go barren

  in hopes the intruders will go on their way

  to where they were going

  before they came my way.

  Full Circle

  When you become old and blue

  feeling there is nothing left to do,

  you might fantasize with the very young.

  Make them your friends tried and true

  not only to invigorate you out of the blue

  but to leave them with memories

  to recall when they become as old as you.

  Gonna Get There

  Racing to the summit.

  Without looking back.

  Gotta get there.

  Getting no where fast—

  slipping and sliding—

  falling on my face.

  Gotta get there.

  But—

  By God!

  I’m there!

  Retirement?

  Social security?

  Put up the house—

  to pay for nursing care.

  Hell vs Heaven

  Hell exists in ghettos, political prisons,

  and insane asylums for those in such places.

  Also for those suffering the loss of loved ones,

  hopeless drug addicts, and psychotics.

  And heaven? Where is it?

  Are the others of us already there?

  Who, not so gravely inflicted,

  are spared such overwhelming despair.

  Hospitals Per Se

  Once in temples and in caves,

  with healing Gods as the rage.

  Now in less durable catacombs,

  with technology as the rage.

  Still ranking high as where most fear to go.

  But out of necessity must usually do so

  to receive medical treatment,

  ranging from head to toe.

  With hand-maidens,

  usually for money-sake,

  but with others simply for pity-sake,

  driven by an inner compunction

  to perform some minor saintly function.

  How You Came to Be You

  Your father sired You.

  Your mother bore You.

  But who created You?

  Was it them, or was it You—

  no matter how taught or tempted,

  how chosen or accepted,

  from the makings You were given—

  to become You?

  Humans as Such

  Some say that humans descended from bacteria

  arriving from outer space—

  perhaps a different one for every race.

  Others believe humans were fashioned

  by a creator who, at the end of their stay,

  will decide their eternal way.

  But not matter how, humans are here as such,

  with the begins and the begets

  not amounting to much.

  Instead; what counts, is what they’ve become,

  evolving through adaptation—

  for therein lies the key to their extrapolation.

  If Ghettos Were Not

  I’m so afraid to go out at night.

  OH God! Oh God!—help me.

  I live in a ghetto.

  Granmie locks herself in the bathroom at night.

  I can’t even get to go in there.

  Mommy is out doing tricks.

  Maybe a knight in shining armor can save me.

  Maybe a frog who will kiss me

  and we will live in a magic kingdom

  as like once upon a time

  when princesses were real

  and ghettos were not.

  I’m a Big Girl Now

  Your skirt is too high.

  Your blouse is too low.

  —I’m a big girl now.

  Come home early.

  Don’t stay out late.

  —I’m a big girl now.

  Don’t go here.

  Don’t go there.

  —I’m a big girl now.

  Don’t go with them.

  Don’t go with him.

  —I’m a big girl now.

  Your belly is big.

  He doesn’t want it.

  —I’m a big girl now.

  In a Forsaken Graveyard

  In a forsaken graveyard, reposedly still:

  salt and peppered by those who cared;

  now tilting, lilting, leaning, lying.

  Peaceful it appears, yet restless it seems—

  as though from below—

  a feeble beating of hearts, as if despairingly so.

  As darkness falls a blanket is lain:

  every night, without disdain, over those beneath:

  no matter whether virtuous or profane.

  In Endless Display

  Dawn and dusk,

  morning and night,

  in never ending flight—

  restlessly around the globe.

  Mother Sun setting the pace,

  without missing a beat,

  in endless display—

  from day to day.

  In Need of a New Window Pane

  The first rain drops that fall on my window pane

  hesitate at first; then, zigzag and meander,

  blazing trails for others to follow,

  as if hanging on their coat tails:

  one after the other—

  dashing below—to loose their identity.

  And so it is in this world man has populated—

  leaving little opportunity for originality,

  it is now left to find a new window pane.

  And if that pane is not the universe,

  then woe be man, on this place called Earth.

  In Passing

  One morning,

  I do not recall where it was,

  perhaps a shopping center parking lot,

  when out of the blue, without thinking,

  I said good morning to a dower faced old woman.

  It was not something I would normally do.

  No doubt, we would have otherwise passed

  as though neither the one or other of us existed.

  But on my greeting, she suddenly beamed as though

&
nbsp; receiving a cherished gift, and likewise said good morning.

  I continued along as she did the same—

  as like two ships at sea having flashed at one another in passing.

  If I had said more, such as how are you today, instead of simply good morning,

  she might have stopped, no matter what her schedule or otherwise haste,

  to tell me—if I would only listen—and perhaps make her day.

  But I was too preoccupied with myself to spare a moment.

  Perhaps some other time when I felt more benevolent,

  not only to her, but to myself as well,

  and thereby also made my day.

  In the Shadows of Your Mind

  It seems that you might have been here before;

  but only vaguely so,

  as if through a window, or innuendo.

  So familiar—yet not finite,

  it loiters beyond your fingertip—

  denying you bona-fide acquaintanceship.

  Perhaps it is reminiscent of what has past,

  or groundless conjecture of what is to come—

  as often occurs in delirium.

  In Their Footsteps

  Have you ever wondered

  if you had been fashioned to be

  something other than what is you.

  That whoever your architect was,

  they must have been on drugs

  when they designed you.

  If only you could find them out

  so to take revenge—

  to make them you.

  But, what if,

  you are to find that

  they are really you.

  Incarceration As It Should Be

  A prison cell for murderers—

  having a tiny window to glimpse the sky,

  so no else to see, but to repent—

  is as it should be done.

  But for those unwilling to repent,

  showing no remorse,

  should there be a prison cell at all?

  But instead, execution—

  as should have been done.

  But if simply to be incarcerated,

  should not the key be thrown away,

  so to never, ever open the door again—

  in case it might be done.

  It Wants to Live

  I have lived it.

  I have anguished over it

  to become a passion beyond words.

  Thoughts into paragraphs,

  paragraphs into chapters,

  each knit into a theme.

  Now it sits—

  dog eared by me—

  yearning to be set free.

  But no takers can I find

  for the world to see—

  loved by only me.

  Just a Matter of Time

  Oh sun, why do you hold fast to us so—

  monotonously, monotonously—eternally so?

  We whirl around you from year to year.

  Spinning and spinning, yet still adhere.

  You are our mother—tried and true.

  But would you have conceived us if you knew

  what we would do to this earth of yours—

  pillaging it between its shores?

  But perhaps we here are but a passing race—

  with another some day to take our place.

  This perhaps; as you have anticipated—

  to occur after fallout and poisons have dissipated.

  And so too, will the new born evolve from club and spear

  while fashioning gods they both love and fear.

  To sacrifice their own and others too—

  until they too will disappear.

  But this cycle cannot be eternal,

  for the time will come when forever nocturnal,

  you will become a burnt out star—

  no longer beaming from afar.

  Keep Your Distance Please

  The day was sweltering hot,

  when on a train without air conditioning,

  it was my lot

  to be seated directly behind a young couple.

  When, to my amazement, the girl,

  leaning over her companion

  proceeded to pick and discard from his scalp

  what appeared to be minuscule insects.

  I was not alone in my horror and revulsion.

  For, seated next to me

  was a woman, who likewise had noticed,

  then stiffened, as though with epileptic seizure.

  Suddenly, as if by spontaneous propulsion,

  she thrust herself out of her seat into the aisle—

  on all fours initially, without regard for modesty,

  then scurried away without looking back.

  I immediately followed in her wake,

  then realized she wished me to keep away:

  fearing that what had been evicted by the girl

  might have jumped onto me—

  and next perhaps onto her—

  should I venture within jumping distance.

  Let Your Mind Run Free

  When alone, let your mind run free.

  Open the door and indulge in fantasy.

  Reach out—whether to heaven, earth, or sea.

  Let it take you where it wants to be—

  more often, than not, from memory:

  delving into those cracks and crevices

  into which fragments have slipped—

  lurking—waiting to be unzipped.

  Or, to take you to where you’ve never been before.

  New places, new faces, out of the blue.

  Let it entertain you.

  Open the door.

  Do it! If only to see what it has in store for you.

  Live and Let Go

  Remember the yesterdays . . .

  but live the tomorrows.

  Life goes on . . .

  regardless of the past.

  Loved ones are dead and buried . . .

  let them lie.

  If you were they . . .

  and they were you,

  wouldn't you . . .

  want them to live and let go?

  Making Final Contact

  I lie here divested of corporeal functioning,

  as a specter, embraced in apparition—

  where bags suspended with tubes attached

  reach down as arteries in hydroponic interface

  to prone forms beneath in need of subsistence.

  Monitors beep and blink above each bed—

  as like sonar—searching, searching, far and near—

  perhaps into space for something, or someone.

  And if encountered, pick up the pace,

  as though to embrace—then fade away. . . .

  Mutual Captivity

  I depend on you.

  You depend on me.

  I am here, you are there.

  We talk and commiserate;

  at times, more than either can bear.

  But even so—no matter how we relate,

  whether it’s to agree or to debate,

  no matter the subject or activity,

  whether real or imagined—

  we enjoy our mutual captivity.

  My Dirty Window

  As I look out my window

  the view has gone to Hell;

  but then again,

  perhaps I have been caught up in the spell,

  with no cause to complain.

  For on introspection I see

  the dirt distorting my view

  lies on both sides of the pane—

  so it is that I am at least partly to blame;

  and must also share in the shame.

  My Right to Die

  I’ve earned my right to die.

  Unlike an unborn child, I have run the course.

  Who then, other than God or I, should come between,

  and so to audaciously intervene?

  Do not they understand it to be a matter of life and death?

 
Or perhaps death preferable to life?

  It is my choice to make; my risk to take.

  What I wish to do is for my own sake.

  And so I would have it—suffering unbearable pain,

  or in losing my power to comprehend,

  and existing only in body and breath—

  that I should be allowed my right to death.

  Mysterious Doings

  No one can certifiably define what happens before or after.

  Many speculate, while others prevaricate—

  since scratched on cave walls,

  or onto parchment.

  Even today, bringing technology to bare,

  little light has been shed to confirm or refute

  who came from where, or where they are headed.

  It remains for prophets to hypothesize and sermonize.

  Can it be that in between, living is a form of suspended animation?

  If so, it seems to be cruel folly for those who take it seriously

  as a stepping stone to a superior encounter or haven

  for good deeds wrought or fraught.

  No One Would Have Ever Been

  To be, yet not, without a know.

  Perhaps merciful to avoid the show.

  But who can say what could have been

  when aborted before there was even a chin.

  But if the beginning of a new one was precluded

  before a mindful soul could be included,

  no one would have ever been—

  so that there is no sin.

  Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial

  168 chairs in the center of Hell—

  one for each who perished that day.

  Straight-backed without kneelers,

  they have been placed in array.

  How cruel to those who perished that day

  to be bonded there in such a way.

  Take those chairs way!