Puppet master 

Like empty headed marionettes
We let the puppet master use us;
Manipulated creatures, mute like
Dummies & well trained playthings.

Oblivious to right or wrong, fact or
Fiction, we do not question the 
Infectious dogma instilled as daily 
Rhetoric – scripted, biased, & edited
Comically with muddied ideologies.

We find ourselves dumbfounded, 
Living an existence like no other –
Like ghosts in the machine who
Continue to drink the koolaide
Again…& again.

Except the willing players who now
Try to hide sham & shame by
Cutting, tucking still attached puppet strings out of sight, yet not out of mind.

Unable to save face from the farce,
They’re now left with the painful
Purpose to express false loyalty no better than the foolish choreographer who makes
Up the dance.

Artist: Rosa Maria Plana “somos marionetas?”

Closure

Expressionless, guarded she stands in evening shade
Peering out the open doorway, unable to exhale
She waits in awkward silence, her stance firm until
The angry sound of his revving engine beckons her
Need a better view with one more cautious step outside
Upon the gravel rural, sharp & cold under her bare feet
Numb, unwavering to any pain, she is alert & all knowing
Her eye on the prize, she watches him fade away, still
She stands there, motionless until nary a sound nor
Lingering glint or red glow as tail lights become dim, final
This signal, no longer must she acknowledge his existence
And so, she turns away as summer’s darkness falls sweet
Surrender, organic & pure the relief she knows as closure.

Closure: Sunset on the Road
Photo by Dave Russell
MPP2016

 

 

The Sleeping Game ~ 

Insomnia, this maniacal routine
‘Tis unwanted playtime
For such brain games destructive
Frenetic bed-time activity –
Been here, done this
Sigh…

Acutely chronic, crazed at times
Noise filled, this rowdy, yet solitary
Confinement is cerebral in nature
The players are me – and me
Welcome to the sleeping game.

Nightly, I’m forcefully recruited by
“Scouts” who lure my unwilling,
Unwanted, irrational participation
Into game play – though
I plead forfeit, such requests are
Deemed overruled and often denied.

No matter season, nor inclement weather
No empathy for injury, nor illness
No giving up, nor allowance to quit
This match, the wrestle between brain
And body, alas there is no winner.

The game ensues, becoming quizzical
Scornful, guilt-filled lists flying about:
“To do” lists
“NOT to-do” lists
“WHY did I do that” lists…

Lists ongoing and ever changing
Permeate my conscience in search
Of resolution, answers, or acceptance
Full knowing, it’s all for naught
For the click ticks on.

4:00am has come and gone despite
Momentary lapses of rationale and
Lucid attempts to mediate my
Exhaustive, desperate pleas for truce
Give me A TIME OUT (for now) and
Ground me from this grandiose vs.fantastical reality.

Acceptance of momentary moiety will
Suffice until tomorrow – or until
The game resumes again
As it always does.

 IMG_0077

MPP2012/ poem revision 2017   

Normal 

Normal – strange how this word
infers a standard of commonality
deemed appropriate, acceptable as
a state of being, its origin I find
puzzling, also frustrating.

Normal, subjective in judgment 
theoretical, observations declare
findings unremarkable, natural.

Normal, an antiquated word misused
loosely, it dictates “right vs. wrong” 
standards in design by society’s scale 
I am not a mathematical equation –
No one has authority to define the
undefinable & ever changing status
of what used to be & what is now.

Normal, grieving normalcy, I catch myself loitering in “that word” again…
reflecting on decades past, future, &
who I was, how I’ve evolved – my life 
events forever altered; a new version
of the here & now – edited with
time to reflect, to embrace a pseudo
next to normal existence for today.


Artist: Lydia Emily – “Survivor” a self portrait