Comments Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas

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The word: Wormhole

Portals

Cross an event horizon,
Go through any threshold’s door,
You will be at an inception
To engage in metaphor.
Perhaps, some grand opening
Such as St. Peter’s Gate
Or a trip into a modest rabbit hole.
You’re late, you’re late, you’re late.
Sometimes it signals imminence
Of a transition or great change
Or only a subtle shift in time or place
That cannot be less strange.
Other times, immanence,
Inherent and pervading.
No reason for a change
Or places to be trading.
Down the hatch, they sometimes say,
As one descends into the hold
Or one decides to take a shot,
Consequences will unfold.
Sometimes there is a turnstile.
You can only go one way.
But, get stuck in a revolving door,
Should you go or should you stay?
A portal marks the brink,
The verge from here to there,
A passage through space-time,
A continuum to new where.
Every doorway is a wormhole
Like the kind in science fiction.
It’s possible to be swept away
To paradox and contradiction.
Every day’s an open door
Inviting new events.
Also a closing off
To a while passing and a whence.
Every entrance is an exit,
A moment opportune.
You may wish to think on this
Next time you leave the room.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On April 20, 2018 @ 4:04 pm

The word: Enforcer

Cruising for a Bruising

Let’s take those old cruise missiles.
Start shaking off the dust.
Launch them to the sky.
Show we are Syrious.
They’re not doing anything
While parked in the garage.
They only do us any good
When used in a barrage.
So, why don’t we light them up?
Send them off into the sky
To some unhappy landings.
They’ll know the reasons why.
You can’t kill your own people.
At least not using gas.
But if you blow them up, starve, or shoot them
You will get a pass.
Why is it that we do this?
Draw these lines upon the sand?
When waves erode from underfoot
We lose ground on which we stand.
Bombast and bravado.
Who’s got the biggest button?
Trump, Assad, or Puttin
May make it all for nuttin’.
So, further push this war.
Show them our displeasure.
Let’s waste allot more innocents,
Our nation’s youth, and treasure.
Will we never learn
When we’re spending arms and legs?
It rarely is of help.
It’s the victims who must to beg.
Let us not let loose
Those mongrels of war
Trying to enforce
By giving them what for.
Again, these pompous asses
Are raising a big stink
Emitting noxious gasses
And we are at the brink.
We’ve got these bigtime egos
With their preposturing
Who won’t be the ones to suffer
While they do their thing.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On April 12, 2018 @ 12:19 am

The word: Ephemeral

Recycled from July of 2016 when the word was also “Ephemeral”

A Fly in the Annointment

I met a real nice girl this morning.
She’s really, really smart.
Not like other gals on the fly.
She’s not some kind of tart.
We’re going to spend the day together.
Spend some time aloft.
There may be something special here.
We’ve really hit it off.
OMG! She says she wants to love me!
I must be one lucky guy.
She said she wants my children.
And I’m going to let her try.
We may spend our lives together-
That’s my dream and reverie,
Enjoy life’s joys and sorrows
And all that’s meant to be.
What!? She says we may not have much time.
That we’ve got no time to waste.
Well, I guess I’ll repent in leisure
As we consummate in haste.
Oh, no! She says we have no future.
I’m not sure just what she means.
This is so confusing but,
I’ll take things as they seem.
I may not be the brightest.
She said she likes ‘em big and dumb
She says I’m good for breeding
Big, dumb, and full of…I should take things as they come.
That doesn’t sound too bad for me
And I may not know it all,
But the lady thinks I’m wonderful-
She says I’m “e-fee-mor-all.”
That’s a pretty fancy word but,
If it means that I’m the one
To be spending all her days with,
We will have our fun.
So, I’m going to go ahead and do it.
I’m going to give our love a try,
A love for all tomorrows,
A love for a mayfly guy.

The mayfly, in its final developemental form, does not survive for long, rarely for more than 24 hours. In some species, it may last for just a few minutes. – Wikipedia

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On April 5, 2018 @ 9:13 am

The word: Quixotic

bee longing. Good one.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On April 7, 2018 @ 11:48 am

Fun! I’m glad you didn’t.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 30, 2018 @ 2:38 pm

Permanent Impermanence, Perdurable Perturbation

Constantly we organize
But it’s a mission most quixotic
Just as constant is unravelling
To a status quite chaotic.
Maybe I should give up
So entropy can reign
Let go of my vexations
Enjoy transitory gains.
Why should I clean house?
Too soon there comes the dirt.
Pristine is just a concept
With which my efforts flirt.
It always seems to me
That nothing is achieved.
Even with best efforts
I strive, I’m not relieved.
Clothing soon is wrinkled,
Shoes become untied,
And ceramic bowls are broken
As my will is tried.
Sturdy iron rusts.
Walls of paint are peeled.
If the proof is in smooth pudding
It soon crusts, becomes congealed.
Once I saw some epitaphs.
They were etched in stone.
A mere four hundred years of weather
Saw inscriptions worn, undone.
What am I to do?
Be engaged in constant war?
Will ever I know peace
From depredations I abhor?
Why must I endure
Constant trial and tribulation
As achievement is undone
To perdurable frustration?
Permanent impermanence.
That is what I dread.
Will I only find eternity
After I am dead?
I explained this to my therapist.
She said I’ve got some OCDs
I find that I am thoroughly pissed
Being brought down to my knees.
Sure, I could go on,
And on, and on, and on, and on,
And on, and on, and on, and on,
And on, and on, and on, and on…

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 30, 2018 @ 2:20 pm

The word: Curiouser

Thank you, Patty. I’m glad you are back. You and several other early and long-time poet participants have been missed.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 28, 2018 @ 2:02 am

One more indulgence. I know. You do it every week. But I have been honored to have one of my poems selected for the 2018 Austin International Poetry Festival anthology. This is the third year one of my pieces has been selected. This year, a version of my poem “Bad Rooster! Let’s Put Him in a Pot!” written for the prompt word “Crestfallen” from last December was chosen. You can still access that poem on PFS. Thanks Elisabeth and Everybody for inspiration, indulgence, and reading my stuff.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 23, 2018 @ 2:18 pm

Malice in Wonderland, Part Two, The Cat

Malice took her leave
As the caterpillar morphed,
“I wonder what’s next.
Could it be a troll or dwarf?”
She still had the two morsels,
The portions of a morel,
Promises of two world views
Ones setting up a quarrel.
“Truth is stranger than fiction,”
Kept running through her brain,
“Cause fiction must be plausible…”
To paraphrase Mark Twain.
“It seems I have a choice to make,”
She looked into her hands.
“Fantasy” and “Reality”
Are the labelled brands.
Slowly, she decided
“Some of both might be best”
To the sound of her lips smacking,
She put them to the test.
“What a damned dilemma!”
Was the thought that crossed her mind,
“We have a Reality TV President
To put us in a bind.”
Just then there appeared
A leering cat up in a tree.
Even as he smiled…
A strange malignancy.
“Hey there, pretty girl.
Do you want to be a star?
If only you will trust me,
I can take you far.”
“Why do you smile that way?” responded Malice,
“There must be some kind of catch.
You say that I must trust you.
You’ve got a plot to hatch.”
“Only, you must rub my belly.” purred the cat,
“I will scratch your back.
Deduce what is infurred
It’s only tit for tat.”
“You should be ashamed!
I’m not that kind of girl!
You’re a creepy thing!
Get out of my world!”
Slowly, the feline faded,
The cat who ate the catenary,
‘Til what was left of his chagrin
Was something less than airy.
Curiouser and curiouser…
Can we trust what we can see?
Is imagination just a weapon
To defeat reality?
Why is so much of what is real
Stuff that is absurd?
What can Malice learn?
Is there a final word?

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 23, 2018 @ 2:04 pm

I hope you will indulge me. I submitted this last May for the prompt word “Transition.” It is part one to this week’s part two.

Malice in Wonderland, Part One

Malice sat her down
Underneath a tree
She thought that she might nap
Or engage in reverie-
“Some people run amok,” she thought,
“But first they have to crawl?
Do they ever walk amok
Or sit amok, at all?”
Suddenly she awakened
In a peculiar time and space
It seems she had transitioned
To somewhere out of place.
“Maybe I should find myself
And take that amok walk.
Maybe I can find someone
And we can have a talk.”
Malice found the caterpillar
Sitting on a ‘shroom
“Take a bite from each side
But be sure to leave me room.”
“You don’t need to worry,” replied Malice,
“Cause soon you will transform.
What you have been doing
Will no longer be the norm.
You will feel like cocooning,
Then take a little snooze,
Soon you will awaken
To a life you did not choose.
But it’s going to be okay.
It’ll be a life that sings
‘Cause you can go aloft
Riding on your wings.”
“Harrumph,” said the worm
“I don’t like the sound of that.
I’m used to be here eating,
Eating… getting fat.”
“Let me tell you something,” said Malice,
“It is going to sound quite strange.
But the only thing that’s static
Is the constancy of change.”
“I’m not going to listen
To any of your ilk,”
Said the hip-cat upon his pillar
As he wrapped himself in silk.
“At least I’ve got my ‘shroom snacks,” thought Malice,
“One is labeled ‘Fantasy’
And the one on the other hand
Is called ‘Reality.’
I wonder which tastes better,
I’ll give each one a munch,
It’s a good thing that I have these
‘Cause I think I have missed lunch.”
Transition, metamorphosis…
Can you spare some change?
How is one to prepare for
A life that’s rearranged?

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 23, 2018 @ 2:01 pm

The word: Starlit

Oops! Should be called “Starship Apocalypse”

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 14, 2018 @ 12:42 pm

Starship Apocoplypse

We who wish upon this starship
Just want to find a home.
Until we find a class M planet,
Among the stars we roam.
I was born on this craft.
My parents speak of Earth
They left that planet for good cause–
Rampant famine, death, and dearth.
Too many cooks spoiled the pot,
Too many mouths to feed.
Poor Gaia found her overpopped
Her children now must bleed.
She tried last ditch bitter medicines-
Pestilence, Famine, War.
Cull the crowds as remedy
In ways which we abhor.
As stewards of the planet,
My forbearers failed.
Upon their selfish need to procreate
Their coffin lid was nailed.
Maybe it was not their fault.
They seemed to be hell bent.
As one plan for survival,
Our starship’s heaven sent.
I like it here on Ob deck–
It’s always starlit night.
I wish and dream upon the stars
For an ending to our plight.
My mother taught me an old song,
An ancient childhood ditty.
If there’s any God of the universe,
Hear my plea and take pity:
“Star light, star bright,
The first star I see tonight;
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight.
Please, take us to a paradise.
Can’t we have another chance
To get it right for humankind
Underneath your starlit dance?”

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 14, 2018 @ 12:36 pm

The word: Heartless | Ice Cream

Kevin,
Lately it’s just you and me, bud. I enjoy your contributions. This one especially.
Martin

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 12, 2018 @ 6:00 pm

Heartless Ice Cream, It’s To Die For

Heartless Ice Cream…
No, it’s not my brand.
It lacks the smoothness and the sweetness
That I define as grand.
But I will say that it stays frozen
As a confection very cold
With a taste that’s bitter
And undernotes of mold.
It melts not in the mouth,
Its texture is of grit,
High notes are of chemicals and
May make you want to spit.
They have fun with name flavors
Like the one called Chocolate Ship
Or the one called Excremint.
Fruity-Pooty is a trip.
Don’t ask about “Fudge Cripple”
(Poor images of fudge)
A scoop will cancel your bm’s
Nothing soon will budge.
Enough of the scatological.
Some smack of a disease.
A cone of “Bubonilla”
Will bring you to your knees.
They’ve one flavored habanero,
Naively called “Scotch Bonnet.”
It will scorch and scathe your buds.
You’ll shed some tears upon it.
My least favorite is called “Yuck!”
It is flavored like pond scum
And is just as it sounds—
It’s the opposite of “Yum!”
The good folks at Heartless Ice Cream,
Though some might call them evil,
Are working in the bugs
Starting with the weevil.
There used to be a saying—
“You can’t make ice cream out of shit.”
But they have a “can do” attitude.
They’re the ones to do it.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 12, 2018 @ 12:14 pm

Best Served Cold

You did your best to take me down.
It was unanticipated.
Your crass attack, stab in the back
Left me one humiliated.
I may be wounded. I’m not dead.
In time I will recover.
I will abide to turn the tide.
In time, you will discover.
Revenge is much like ice cream.
It’s best when it’s served cold.
Only when you’ve got your just deserts
Will I ever be recovered and consoled.
Just when you think that you struck
At me and had gotten clean away
Will you come to realize
There is hell to pay.
Life’s a bitch and then you die
And payback is that bitch.
You will suffer and know why
Your life’s now in a ditch.
I am waiting for my moment
With the patience of a cat,
Lying here with baited/bated breath
For the moment that…
When you are feeling most secure,
It’s then that I will strike.
He who laughs last, laughs the best
Your head upon a pike.
Enjoy your triumph while you can
As I am planning, scheming
Retribution will be mine–
Your nightmare is my dreaming.
You may think I’m a fool.
It may appear I’m artless.
You’ll not survive my lightning strike
Where you’re concerned, I’m heartless.
I am sorry that the ones you love
The innocent, your buffer,
If they are in the line of fire,
They must be made to suffer.
Yes, reprisal is like ice cream.
It’s cold, it’s smooth, it’s sweet.
I think I’ll celebrate with two scoops
When you’re lying at my feet.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 8, 2018 @ 10:10 pm

The word: Cognizant

BeMused Literati

We, the Literati
With adjective BeMused,
Feel we’re more inspired
Than bamboozled and confused.
Cognoscenti in the wheel,
We’re known to turn a phrase,
Our knows in the erudite,
We hope, deserving of your praise.

“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.” – Edgar Allen Poe

We desire to be writers,
Wrighters who have wrought
Words, paragraphs and phrases
Into coherent art and thought.
We’ve paper, ink and pen,
Computer, mouse, and ‘board
We are creative and inspired.
Literature- our work and our reward.

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared dream before.” – Edgar Allen Poe

From the sacred fountain of Pieria
We are known to drink
Deeply of the waters
Divining one to think.
Cogitating and creating
Are simply our first stage
To exclude what we abhor–
The blankness of a page.
Many times we stumble
But sometimes, as is by chance,
Something worthy is composed
Fruit from our Muses’ Dance.
We are daytime dreamers.
We may suffer our delusions.
Will you suffer us
As we proffer our illusions?

“All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.” – Edgar Allen Poe

BeMused Literati is our writers’ group in Austin, Texas

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 5, 2018 @ 11:05 am

The Wizards’ Ruse

At the Council of Grand Wizards
Came the key address
By the Most Esteemed Magical Magister,
Her High Supreme, the Sorceress.
“Gentle men and women,
Necromancers, Enchanters,
Witches, Wizards, Warlocks,
Magic Users and Enhancers,
It seems they’re getting on to us.
They are less bamboozled and confused.
The people are becoming cognizant.
They’re unraveling our ruse.
We have tried to convince them:
We’ve woven our conceit–
That the world acts on predictable principles–
Lies now, in shambles, at our feet.
Long have we endeavored
To encourage folk’s reliance
On something understandable–
This fiction we called “Science.”
When, we’ve been the ones to gift them
With light, water, heat, and cool air
At the turning of switch, faucet, or dial
When they’ve need, a whim, or care.
We’ve given them transportation
And seen they’re entertained,
But, it seems, their search for truth
Can no longer be restrained.
I know there are objections
Because ever it’s been thus.
We’ve operated in the shadows
But created quite a muss.
So, esteemed colleagues,
It is now proposed
That we come clean with the populace
Before we are exposed.
We must admit to them
That it’s only been a trick that’s tragic.
There is no causal thing as Science,
Just this power we call ‘Magic.’
Let us go boldly to the future
As we leave the ‘Age of Reason’
And celebrate new possibilities–
Ignorance is, now, in season.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On March 2, 2018 @ 12:19 pm

The word: Lymph

Social Lyphoma

Another school shooting.
Another open sore.
Bleeding, oozing buboes
At our social order’s core.
Rending of our clothes.
We wail and we keen.
Violence aimed at innocence.
Acts of the most obscene.
Once again we enter
In argument, debate.
Do we do away with tools?
Ones used by those who hate?
We know that this is evil
Caused by the lost insane
With nothing left to lose,
And nothing to be gained.
It can’t be understood
Because it makes no sense.
Planned and random bursts of violence–
Hatred at its most intense.
Makeshift memorials.
Vigils of candlelight.
With thoughts and prayers, we try dealing,
Coping with the spite.
Time will pass again.
In a year, we’ll ring the bells.
We’ll still be wringing helpless hands.
Echoes of death knells.
How can this be prevented?
Engage some lymphocytes
To deal with these infections
And avoid these plights?
I’m with you, I’m helpless.
I don’t know what to do.
Except we try to help these lost ones
Before they do what they must do.
Sure, we could lose our guns.
There are still hammers and the knives.
In the vastness of our numbers,
Some will take our lives.
In fighting this pathology,
Maybe, we could make some gain.
Engage in sympathy and empathy
For those in psychic pain.
Do what you can do
And, as a “we,” let’s act
So more can be kept from falling
Through our social cracks.
I’m pretty sure we do this,
But are there more that we could save?
I only know we must commit to trying
Before those lost become the damned depraved.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On February 21, 2018 @ 10:33 pm

The word: Starmony

Not All in One Place

“Son, what you do is up to you,”
Is what the Captain said to me.
He had some advice to give
On spending Starmoney.
“Take some of what you have
And then set some aside.
Keep some, if you will,
For the longer ride.
If you heed what I am saying,
You’ll be ahead of more than just a few.
There are allot of knuckleheads
To count amongst the crew.
These are good people
But they like to ‘blow off steam,’
The accumulated tensions,
You know what I mean.
It really doesn’t matter
If you’ve a taste for Cyran brandy
Or if you want to rent a wench
‘Cause you’re feeling kind of randy.
But you must remember
That you represent our race.
They will long remember
What you do in outer space.
Listen to my words.
There is sense to what I deem
With many hidden benefits
More than, at first, it seems.
One who is reserved,
Acts in circumspect,
And marshalls meager assets
May be next up on the deck.
To sum up, in conclusion,
I give this shortened homily
‘Don’t spend all your Starbucks
In a single galaxy.”

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On February 18, 2018 @ 9:30 pm

The Change of the Lights Brigade

The Constellations in the Heavens
Sing in perfect starmony
As they move in unisong
And a choired choreography.
That is until they swhorl
To the center of the bowl
Where the Eater of what matters
Is demanding of its toll.
There is no escraping
The Great Attractor’s core.
Forward the Lights Brigade
Into what we must abhor.
Half our League onward
To Death, there’s no avail
Six hundred, then six hundred thousand million billion…
Our death knell is quite a wail.
Canons to what’s left of them
It is absolutely canon law–
There can be no elusions of
The depredations of the Maw.
For now, we live securely.
We’ve, more or less, eternity
We’ve woven other worldly worries
That threaten with infernity.
For us the stars still charmonize.
We’re on the outer edge
Of our galactic wing.
Time and distance are our hedge.
They say the end is near.
These are the ends of time.
The abyss is beckoning us
To our fate as the sublimed.
But, as long as we can witness
The sign of the Southern Cross,
And we keep Dipping at the Greatness,
We’ll not be soon at our loss.
It is in the meantime,
And our times they can be mean,
We face defeat by our own poignorance
And all the lives which we demean.
The Constellations in the Heavens
Are where our ultimatum’s scribed.
We are all Star Cross Lovers.
It’s time to act as one great tribe.
It is time that we get on to it.
Why must we let our glory fade?
Let us be charged with our wild changes.
Honors to the Lights Brigade.

Thanks to Alfred, Lord Tennyson

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On February 15, 2018 @ 12:49 pm

The word: Inspiration

Meet Me at Mount Helicos

It seemed my mouth was dry
As were the fluids of my pen.
Ideas and words refused to flow.
Complications of my zen?
What am I to do
Short of yielding to my wroth?
What did the ancients do
When afflicted by the drouth?
What did Homer do?
Archilochus, Isyllus, or Hesiod?
And Other’s names I can’t pronounce?
What was the path that they once trod?
Did they make the journey
To the foot of Helicon Mount
Where solace can be sought and found
At Aganippe’s Sacred Fount?
It’s said the Naiad hosts soirées
Where versifiers, poets, and skalds
Can meet the Aganippides
But only if they’re called.
To receive an invitation,
Sit in quiescent contemplation.
You may, then, notice a sensation–
A divine gift of inspiration.
Be quick to write it down.
Afflatus does not last.
And, as brilliant flashes,
Muse’s gifts must fade fast.
Your verses are your thanks–
A tribute for their gifting
To Man and Womankind–
A legacy uplifting.
Inspired by epiphany,
The gifts from gods to bards.
One can sit in waiting
Or work just really hard.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On February 8, 2018 @ 3:18 pm

The word: Knitting

The Fabric of Space-Time

In the fabric of space-time
We have the drives of warp and weft.
The Captain says “engage”
In an instant we have left.
Klingons’ brows are knitting.
Where is it we have gone?
We are many parsecs distant
Before the knowledge dawns.
With embroidered speech,
The crew is spinning yarns
A stitch in time saves nine.
We surely avoided harm.
The warp drive shifted space
As the weft drive transposed time
It happened in a jiffy
Like turning on a dime.
Hail to space/time weavers
Who invented lightyear travel.
Those who picked at threads
Caused the Cosmos to unravel.
Bobbing and weaving.
We hold to the prime directive.
Live to fight another day.
Use maneuvers most deceptive.
The frustrated Klingons
Have got runs in their stalkings.
Can’t find our filament in the firmament.
Our balking did the talking.
Action and response
And so we knit and purl.
Our Captain is laughing.
We sure took them for a whirl.
“Set a course for home,
It is time for us to go.
To use another metaphor,
Helmsman, make it sew.”

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On February 2, 2018 @ 10:17 am

The word: Contracts

Oh no, Martin, not another one!

Last Call for Alcohol

I had to read it twice
‘Cause it wasn’t what I thunk.
Advert in the paper says
“Small City Needs Town Drunk”
“Must have a tolerance for ridicule,
Be colorful and a buffoon.
If you think you qualify,
Apply at the saloon.”
Now, this may be up my alley
‘Cause I’m tired of AA
And all those pithy phrases
That they make me say.
So, the next day, I went down there.
I said I want the job.
The bartender sized me up.
Said, “You could be our slob.
Take a look at these contracts
Before you have a drink.
See if it is really something.
Have a real good think.
Be sure to read the small print.
You don’t want be surprised.
It spells out in some details
That do not pay to be surmised.”
So then I took a gander.
I scanned and I perused.
I was gettin’ kinda thirsty
And was thinkin’ on the booze.
It said there were no benefits
Beyond what one might think.
Only bar food offered
And as much as one might drink.
Some behaviors won’t be tolerated.
Do not puke on people’s shoes.
One must be amusing
To get one’s share of booze.
Do not be belligerent.
Do not be morose.
Do not threaten patrons
By being bellicose.
And free passouts will be limited
To once or twice a week.
Slurred speech will be tolerated
As long as you can speak.
We would also like it
If sometimes you could sing
Some delightful ditty
As an entertaining thing.
And, yes, we have a bouncer.
He might throw you out
For the enjoyment of our patrons.
Then you may shout and pout.
We know it can be expected
For a drunk to fail.
At those times you can expect
To spend the night in jail.
Also, you must know this,
That each night as you get fried,
The City, as said party,
Is, absolutely, indemnified.
“Well, I think I’ll pass.”
Is what I heard me say,
“I might have more fun
At a meeting of AA.”

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On January 28, 2018 @ 2:38 pm

Let’s Just Have Deserts

What is this? This thing
You want for me to sign?
Non-disclosure contracts
On the day I’m to resign?
Look at all the whys and wherefores.
They should be “dems” and “dees”
Delivered, not by lawyers but, by
Guys who’ll break my knees.
It seems that you’re ashamed
Of all your past behavior
And you’re looking for a fat check
To become your salve and savior.
It was so disgusting when
You brought me to the floor
Made your threats with some enticements,
Said, “submit or there’s the door.”
I admit that I was broken
In abject humiliation.
It was your harassment that
Convinced me of my station.
Yes, you had your way.
Now, I may be slut shamed
But, maybe, you have noticed
There’s a climate, here, that’s changed.
You want to slap me with your upper hand,
Sign my name in blood,
And live my life in silent pain
As you rise above your mud.
But now, it’s time for you to squirm.
Do I reclaim my pride?
Care to add more zeros to my check?
Now, it’s you, I ride.
You say that you will ruin me
But, if I may be so rude,
Victims, now, are finding voice.
It’s you who are now screwed.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On January 27, 2018 @ 10:25 am

Contracts with America

They contracted with America.
We contracted a disease.
We are always at the brink
Of coming to our knees.
It may be our only hope
That while we’re there we’ll pray
That these self-serving politicians
Are not here to stay.
I say they should be “devoted.”
By that I do mean fired,
Turned out of their offices,
And not to be rehired.
Nowhere in our Constitution
Are Parties even mentioned.
Our system does not operate
As it was, at first, intentioned.
It seems that we are stuck with
“Assets” that serve themselves
As the welfare of our citizens
Is left up on the shelf.
“The Party Uber Alles”
Is what it seems to be.
No hands up for the helpless.
“Give it all to me!”
It seems that they are best at
Kicking cans on down the road
Where they become “cannots”
Intended to corrode.
Declare a major victory.
We’ve a budget for two weeks.
While the rich steal all the treasure
Provided by the meek.
Why is it we can’t tell them?
It must be that our gestalt
Is that the Contract with America
Has ended in default.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On January 25, 2018 @ 8:35 am

The word: Fret

More (or Less) Morose

The erosions of our worries
Are what cause us all to fret.
Will we have redemptions
From the sins we did beget?
That, and nagging fears, wreak
Corrosion of our souls
And we find we rust in pieces
At the elusions of our goals.
Why is it we must suffer
From contunding and contusing
In Dorian Gray areas,
All contentious and confusing?
It is this inner turmoil,
Like an infection of low grade,
That undermines our confidence
In that of which we’re made.
Dis-ease often goes unnoticed.
Does not evoke response.
Subtleness and deviance,
A contagion in nuance.
It is, nonetheless,
Constant and relenting
And almost impervious
To efforts by repenting.
It is the death of a thousand cuts,
A torture drip by drop,
Tolerated by our sufferance
Until, worn out, we stop.
Is there any antidote
To poison’s bitter pill?
Can’t we end this lamenting reverie?
Get off this dread treadmill?
I can only think of
One prophylactic measure–
Be indulgent in your joys
And the moments that you treasure.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On January 22, 2018 @ 12:45 pm

The word: Voyage

Destination Reckoning

Life is a voyage or,
For some, it is a journey.
Either way that you perceive it,
It ends up on a gurney.
Metaphor or Simile
It is, like, y’know–
Is there an end to travels and travails
When it’s your time to go?
For most, our faiths tell us
What happens when we die.
Myths tell of the wheres and whenfores
If not the reasons why.
For some, they find some comfort,
For others, abject fear.
Most likely, some of both
As our endtime’s drawing near.
One moment we are here
Then we slip on past the veil
But few, if any, return
Once gone beyond the pale.
The Celts got around
They took turns upon time’s wheel
Life’s end was a beginning
A new birth and a reveal.
In like manner for the Hindi,
When you end your term,
If you’re bad, you might reincarnate
As a lowly, squirming worm.
Heroic Vikings had Vallalla,
Others went to Hel.
She, half radiant/half grotesque,
Goddess of Beauty and the Fell.
The Elysian Fields were Heaven
For Greeks of gone times tolling
But punishments of Sisyphus
Were what got the boulder rolling.
Is a judgement awaiting?
Is Saint Peter at the gate?
Was your life spent loving?
Or was it one of hate?
Punishment/Reward.
What’s at the end of your montage?
All I wish for your sending off
Is to have a “bon voyage.”

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On January 13, 2018 @ 3:21 pm

The word: Generosity

Dear Father Winter,

When it was hot last summer,
We often thought of snow,
Pristine blankets and some icicles,
It seemed the way to go.
But now that you have come here,
I don’t like it though I’ve tried.
My car’s radiator is frosted.
It’s battery just died.
I’m stuck here at my house.
Don’t know why I have been chosen.
Can’t get a drop of water
‘Cause my pipes are frozen.
I can’t even flush the toilet.
The situation’s sad.
Forgive me, I’m not grateful.
It really is that bad.
Thanks for your generosity
But too much is quite enough.
It’s become atrocity
Please stop it with your stuff.

Respectfully, Me

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On January 5, 2018 @ 8:48 am

The word: What if

Resolved

“What ifs” are what give us
Reasons for a change.
Without new possibilities
Wouldn’t life be strange?
“What ifs” breed invention
And new discoveries
So that our lives don’t end up
In stasis and at seize.
Entertaining “what ifs”
At this time of year
Is part of our tradition
With a slate that’s clear.
Resisting those temptations
Or vowing to improve,
To ourselves we promise
That we’ll get in the groove.
So, as the year is passing
From the reaper to the babe
You may hear me nuncupate
On how I may behave.
I am going to “what if”
And it shall be resolved
That, with the coming New Year,
My “me” problems shall be solved.
And, if I fail myself,
I’ll probably say, “So what.
It’s been pretty comfy
Living in my rut.”

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On December 29, 2017 @ 1:12 pm

The word: Antiquarian

The Luck of the Find

Archaeologists and Antiquarians
Visit potter’s fields
To see those who are in shard’s there
For historic insights they may yield.
It is rare, but on occasion,
They may find a vase or pot
Intact and in situ
Within a sinner’s plot.
Who can know the joy they feel
On finding artifacts unbroken?
And the luck of unsullied contents
Must be taken as a token.
The romance of such endeavors
Ain’t no Indiana Jones.
But still it is exciting–
The finding of old bones.
These ancient folk had lived their lives
So that we might be here.
It’s a kind of eternal life
That we can hold as dear.
I like to feel the reverence
I find in a museum.
I’m sure that they’re there in spirit
When the living come to see ‘em.
I think I could be happy
With trowel and brush tools for my toil
Uncovering those ancient lives
Living still in soil.

» Posted By Martin Mayland, Austin, Texas On December 21, 2017 @ 5:11 pm

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