poetrythreesixfive

[poetrythreesixfive]

Sticks

I spent the entire day picking up sticks,

though not counting them, only tossing

them into a bag, dragging that bag out

to the curb, and then coming back for

more, over and over, all day long until

my back was burnt and my knees were

buckling, and there is no more efficient

manner by which to do such a chore as

simple as stick-picking-up, neither with

rake or blower, for the tall and tangled

grass held each of them in the dew-wet

grip of its greenness and would not let

them go unless by with the greatest care

like picking lice from child’s long-hair

with both care and loathing, the tender

aftermath of mother nature’s firm hand.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

One Day

I now realize that I’ve been spending my entire life

training to be an old man, the coolest old guy you’ve

ever met, the one who dresses well and uses words

like ‘snazzy’ and ‘sharp’ and ‘stylin’, who partakes

of unusual drinks and tells you about them while he

shares them, who shows off his collection of finds

from far corners of the globe, each with an adventure

divulged over pricy whisky and cigars in a deeply

wood-paneled room, who knows his way around a

pub as easily as a library, who has secret bundles of

cash stored away in unusual places, who has rubbed

elbows with famous people, some of whom are long

dead, who can still scare the pants off the young ones

with a ghost story on a snowy winter’s night, and as

I ponder this role, preparing my lines, it allows me

to cope with the fact that my entire life has been a

failure, as it has all been prelude to my greatest part,

but sometimes it still stings my heart that nothing I

do, nothing I think or say or write really matters, yet.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Reminder

So the storm blew in unexpected, tearing up

everyone’s plans, sending them down the street

like confetti; the news never mentioned a thing,

and the apps missed it by a mile; even the Ouija

board couldn’t predict the darkness of the clouds

that sailed up from the South and laid waste to

everyone’s trees, sending limbs twisting off into

erroneous contortions and penetrating rooftops

and smashing windows, cutting the electricity

to half the county, making us all semi-medieval

for a night, reading by candlelight, using our

cellphones as the paperweights they ought to be,

worried about the pot-roast thawing in the box

formerly known as a freezer, and if we fail to

learn from nights like this how little control we

have over this sitcom, maybe we deserve to fail.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Disaster Report

When he asked me, What keeps you going?

I said, the worst thing that could ever happen

has already happened, so it can only get better

He looked puzzled, so I said, What about you?

What is the worst thing that could happen?

No hesitation: To lose my wife and children

I told him, for me, that has already happened,

though in my case, the plane blew up before

it even got off the ground, crashed on purpose

I am the lone survivor, staggering out of the

wreckage, charred, bleeding, picking up the

pieces, looking for scraps, finding only ash

And everyone keeps telling me, Don’t worry,

another plane will come along shortly, they

always do. Sure. I’ve been waiting eight years.

I beginning to think the airport is closed,

but nobody bothered

to tell me.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Sew-bugs

I think about the things that preoccupied me when

I was a child, the difference between purple and

violet and how close either of them were to blue

or red, and of course, periwinkle, crayon research,

testing their many blushes on smooth white paper,

coloring, drawing, tracing, letting my hands travel

upon the pages with the gravity of nuclear plans

the reluctant sew-bug and the wondering of why

they curled into balls when I turned over a rock

and placed them in my tiny palms, their multiple

little legs, their lack of eyes and ears and antennae

and my strange childhood guilt at ripping away

the roof of their world and inducing them to bend

into contortions, rolling away back into the soil

do fish feel pain when I stick the hook into their

pulsing lips? is it the same acute suffering we feel

when we stub our toe upon the ottoman running by?

these remain the mysteries of life unresolved, and

what bothers us today gets buried tomorrow, yet

in the moment, we lose our minds, over and over,

never learning the truth that none of it truly matters

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Lone Palm (Quitting Time, part II)

Somewhere, there’s a palm tree

above Bermuda grass,

a perfect, shaded sanctuary

just waiting for my ass

Beyond, blue, glassy water

with a perfect, curling right

where boats on the horizon

are the only things in sight

Above, a sun unclouded,

below, the golden sand,

and not a single piece of trash

upon the perfect strand

I hope one day I get there

without too high a price,

and maybe you can join me,

just don’t forget the ice.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Quitting Time

I want to play with fire,

I want to play with rocks,

I want to run upon the grass

without my shoes and socks.

I want to dance to music,

I want to waste my time,

I want speak in gibberish

and somehow make it rhyme.

I want to run in circles,

I want to lose my clothes,

I want to reach for cookie jars

upon my tippy-toes.

But all I have is numbers

and data I should crunch,

so maybe you and I should go

and take an endless lunch.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Trending

Why do we bother with legacy

when the world is trending now,

concerned what it will ponder

once we’ve had our final bow?

Applause is in the moment,

the present tense is it—

and what of all our efforts

if they never give a shit?

To hell with future critics

and monuments to fame—

just lose your shoes, have a drink,

and just enjoy the game.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

The Difference Between Men and Women (Sick Day)

How are you?

I’m sick.

Huh?! What do you mean!?

I mean, I’m sick. I have a cold.

Are you taking any medicine??

Medicine? Like what?

I don’t know, something! Anything!

What the hell am I going to take? It’s a cold.

You have to take something! Aspirin. Tylenol. Cough medicine.

Uh…

Did you go to the doctor?

For what?

You said you’re sick! What if you need antibiotics??

I really doubt that…

But what if you need them???

I think I’m gonna be okay.

Howabout Urgent Care? Did you go to Urgent Care?

No.

Why not??

It’s just a cold…

But what are you gonna do?!?

Nuthin.

What do you mean, nothing?!?

I mean, nuthin. I’m just gonna rest, drink some orange juice,

and wait for it to go away.

What?!? That’s not enough!

Uh…

What if it gets worse???

Then… maybe I’ll do something.

But what if it’s too late???

Then I’ll go to the doctor.

Oh! THEN you’ll go to the doctor!!!

Yeah…

You know what? Just suffer then.

Oh, I’m suffering. I really, really am.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Come and Get Me

They say, beware of fortune

to never press your luck—

it’s Friday the 13th

and I couldn’t give a fuck.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Dangerous Beasts and Where to Find Them

Otters, and beavers, and geese! Oh my!

more dangerous than we knew;

pursuing pedestrians walking by,

otters, and beavers, and geese! Oh my!

bedeviling boaters until they cry

and golfers just playing through;

otters, and beavers, and geese! Oh my!

more dangerous than we knew.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Shade

There’s shady shit a-going on

most everywhere I look,

the kind of shady business

that you read about in books

There’s shady folks in cars

parked down on the street,

or waiting in the parking lot

when you go out to eat

There’s shady cops in shades,

just sitting in the park,

and shady groups of shady kids

just wandering after dark

If there were just more sunshine,

then we would have less shade,

or maybe it’s suspicious minds

that finally need to fade.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Friendless

Just when I think I’ve found a friend,

I end up brokenhearted;

I feel I’m finally around the bend

just when I think I’ve found a friend,

and just when I think I’m at the end,

I’m right back where I started;

just when I think I’ve found a friend,

I end up brokenhearted.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

People

People keep disappointing me

like a picnic marred by rain;

the disillusion is disjointing me,

people keep disappointing me,

as if destiny keeps appointing me

to be the one who feasts on pain;

people keep disappointing me

like a picnic marred by rain.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Bouldering

If you want to create an interesting dynamic

in your backyard water feature, just put a rock

in the way; just plop down some big boulder

in the middle of your stream flow and watch

the water crumple, protest in folds and splashes,

trying to get up and over it, and when it figures

that is impossible, it will go around it almost

instantly, or create a drop in elevation or depth,

deepening on one end, shallowing on the other,

unforeseen twirls and dances, a sound discussion

of trickling and gurgling heretofore unheard

Do the same for yourself. Are your days flowing

straight and narrow with nothing intriguing on

your flat horizon? find yourself an obstacle

and splash it down in the middle of your day

and see what happens; challenge yourself,

go climb something; maybe an actual boulder,

maybe a mountain; scale it, stumble, fall, get up,

go on—block your path with something you

currently don’t have the skillset to overcome

and watch yourself bend and flow, and grow;

that’s what it truly means to be like water.

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Anything Better

Is there anything better

than Beethoven in the rain?

a handmade, woolen sweater,

is there anything better?

a handwritten paper letter,

the gold of autumn grain;

is there anything better

than Beethoven in the rain?

-GeorgeFilip

[poetrythreesixfive]

Waitress

What should I say of the waitress who smiles

to your face and frowns as she walk away,

leaving a trail of scorn flitting about like errant

receipts written in vacant stares and pauses?

Do I act as if I have noticed, or sway with

the breeze lilting across the hardwood floors

with patent leather redundancy, staccato-like,

in and out of the kitchen swinging door?

As mindless as that, sifting and shifting her

face with the ease of batwings or that playing

card that kids place in the spoke of their bike

wheels, the queen’s visage a murmuring blur

What I have done to deserve anything in life

remains the ultimate mystery, so I have no

defense at the ready, no plea, other than the

usual shit about being a human being and all.

-GeorgeFilip