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       Dysfunctional Poetry 101 for Bedtime Reading, p.1

           Phil Cross
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Dysfunctional Poetry 101 for Bedtime Reading
Dysfunctional Poetry 101

  for Bedtime Reading

  by P. C. Cross

  Copyright © 2012 by P.C.Cross

  Any likeness herein to persons, living or dead, is purely hypothetical.

  Intended as an easy read, no matter age, gender, social status, or mental condition.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and not to be resold or given away to other people.

  Also by this author:

  Summer Job ISBN 9780595509218

  Grandma Was a Bag Lady ISBN 9781301445448

  Murder, Werewolves, and Ghosts ISBN 9781301780198

  Dysfunctional Poetry 102 for Bedtime Reading ISBN 9781301585304

  Dysfunctional Poetry 101

  for Bedtime Reading

  A Crust of Bread and Wine

  O thank you Lord for this crust of bread—

  although as moldy and rancid as it is

  it will keep me for another day.

  Perhaps tomorrow I will find more—

  in the trash—behind the bakery store.

  Now to find a place to sleep;

  where alone, in solitude,

  I may recall and weep—

  of a life gone by—

  without intrusion from society.

  When asleep I will dream.

  My tears will be as wine

  to become the blood of Him: divine;

  and that crust of bread;

  to become His body: divine.

  And so to anoint my soul.

  To put me in a state of grace

  whereby I am in His embrace—

  to blessedly awake not in this place;

  but in another, where to be destitute

  is not considered to be a disgrace.

  A Dramatic Way to Go

  I stand between the rails.

  Life is but a blur . . .

  I am determined,

  and will not stir.

  It’s whistle is blowing . . .

  trumpeting the death angel;

  as I have chosen—

  to cease my existence.

  I will be demolished

  with a thunderous force—

  disheveled and dismembered

  most dramatically.

  In such fashion

  I have chosen

  to end a life

  of mediocrity.

  A Duty and Not More

  She felt that sex was a duty . . .

  to satisfy a husband.

  Performed in delirium . . .

  as though someone else.

  Being done as a chore . . .

  like scrubbing the floor.

  Something is missing . . .

  what might it be?

  A Hat for all Occasions

  Last week I purchased a hat at a second hand store.

  The next day on putting it on I set it at a jaunty angle—

  something I would not usually do;

  particularly since I have never been inclined to wear a hat.

  I could not help but feel that others had taken notice,

  as I found myself bidding them hello,

  while tipping the brim of my hat—

  neither of which I had ever been inclined to do.

  I wondered who had owned that hat before me,

  what kind of person were they.

  Had they purchased the hat new

  and accustomed it to being tipped?

  Or, had they obtained it as I had,

  from a second hand store,

  with it already set in its ways,

  as it had been before.

  At any rate, I have it now—

  to sooner die than let it go,

  for it has taken me out of my shell

  by putting me under its spell.

  A Pair of Oars Will Do

  If not to traverse oceans or seas,

  but merely to cross a pond—

  there is no need for celestial means;

  nor for a sail as a magic wand.

  Just two oars is all you need,

  with a strong will to propel you there.

  For to depend on other means

  more often, warrants psychiatric care.

  A Sanguinary Way of Life

  So goes life and death in the natural world

  in which predator vs victim is unfurled:

  as a lion downs a fawn,

  as a spider snares a butterfly,

  as a pray mantis embraces her mate.

  And so too, this trait holds for human kind;

  being neither to male or female confined.

  Avarice and hate are maliciously entwined

  in a maniacal rampage around the globe,

  intent on shrouding it in a bloodied robe.

  A View from the Moon

  Oh, how distressing to be the moon;

  to witness Earth pillaged so wantonly

  by those who, as her children, fail to realize,

  that as she goes so also will be their demise.

  From year to year the pace quickens,

  passing the speed of sound,

  with next to follow: that of light,

  when layers of dust will bring perpetual night.

  So then will night and day be one in the same,

  with the moon bearing witness as before,

  but no animal life will be in sight—

  extinguished by humans with all their might.

  Acid Rain

  How many times has this rain drop fallen down?

  Perhaps a million before there was ever a town.

  Since creation it ascended to the heavens as vapor

  to collect itself, to then descend on another caper.

  And so, ageless, the cycle relentlessly repeats,

  never considering to suffer defeats.

  On land or sea it endeavors to splash,

  perhaps by chance, on someone’s eyelash.

  But unlike the days of yore, when fresh and pure,

  it now falls as toxic as manure.

  What brought about this contaminated mass?

  The answer lies in your looking glass.

  A Writer’s Dilemma

  A wicker full of antonyms and synonyms.

  Which one to use, but none to abuse.

  All so promising for some place.

  None to throw away.

  Each inspiring. Yet so fleeting.

  Here now. Gone now.

  Catch them. Imprison them.

  Don't let any get away.

  Weave a theme, with a purpose,

  adhesively bound together.

  Smoothen it out. Bind it up.

  Tucking all neatly away.

  Package it confidently. Send it in.

  Pray for acceptance;

  while dreading rejection,

  keeping hope from fading away.

  All Colored Grey

  If only everyone could be colored grey—

  no blacks, whites, reds, or yellows—

  just greys— only greys—

  in the dark of night, and in the light of day.

  But if we all were to be cloned that way,

  with test tubes as Gods— all in array—

  then would it follow that all prejudices too,

  could likewise, be similarly distilled away?

  An 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—

  restlessly from day to day.

  At a Gr
ocery Store in Fossilville

  Finally gotten into a motorized shopping cart,

  helped in by my wife with cautions emphasized

  to keep my mouth shut no matter what I pined to say

  in response to who or what provoked me along the way.

  For she knew full well from previous experience

  that there would be those getting in our way:

  from gossiping old biddies who had not else to do;

  to dunderheads stocking shelves; further prolonging our stay.

  And so we arduously wended our way

  to eventually stand seemingly forever in line,

  where my wife fingered out-dated coupons tentatively

  praying that the apathetic cashier would take pity on me.

  Barring My Way

  They pull at me— those brambles,

  as I attempt to pass through;

  as though nightmares from the past,

  barbed hooks savagely tear and rake—

  alive, reaching out at me.

  I curse them to their roots

  as they try to detain me,

  to punish and injure me,

  as I retreat and lick my wounds—

  then realize they are forcing me

  to look for another way.

  Being Alive

  No one can certifiably define what happens before or after.

  Many speculate, while others prevaricate;

  since scratched on cave walls,

  or tediously on 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 between living and dying, life 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.

  Being on Drugs

  I am a coward.

  My destiny doomed.

  My soul pledged to the devil.

  My body racked and gone to Hell.

  Unable to cope.

  Hallucinations galore.

  To run away, then to return.

  So to continue enslaved as before.

  Fantasy upon fantasy.

  Piled higher and higher.

  Star bursts and brightness,

  chains, dungeons, and darkness.

  Between the Covers

  When I lie down, covers snugly in place,

  I lay face-to-face with my bookcase.

  Each book I know from end to end.

  Every one a very dear friend.

  And as I go off to sleep each night

  I do not have to recall with any might

  what is happening between those covers,

  for they reach out to me as with finger tips,

  as like once read to me from her loving lips.

  Books, Books, and More Books

  I entered the bookshop with great expectations,

  although having nothing special in mind.

  Lo and behold! What a marvelous sight:

  books, and books, and more books,

  in rows and rows, and stacks and stacks,

  on shelves and counters,

  all unsullied and new.

  Categories galore were boldly labeled—

  professing knowledge and stories from A to Z.

  Where would I start?

  Was there enough time in the day

  for me to browse this treasure-trove?

  But it was not long before I found—

  although I sought hard and eagerly—

  that among this voluminous array,

  there were very few for which I was willing to pay.

  Bury Me Where The Daisies Grow

  Bury me in a white cotton sheet,

  as stark naked as whence I came,

  in a field where the daisies grow . . . .

  Beneath their roots, so under the snow.

  To decompose without artifice,

  into the soil, in nature’s embrace,

  so to extemporize with those above,

  to blossom forth in a rhapsody of love.

  To surrender past years

  back whence they came;

  neither in a box, nor in a tomb,

  as though still in my mother’s womb.

  But if not in the way I’ve disclosed,

  then give me cremation out of necessity;

  but still bury my ashes in that earthen embrace,

  to dwell beneath those daisies—from now through eternity.

  Caught in the Shuffle

  Destined to be an addict—

  through heredity,

  or through circumstance?

  Take your pick.

  But no matter,

  the verdict is the same:

  Hell on earth—

  at home or away.

  For family and friends

  to grimace and bear it;

  or to pine and grieve.

  How else could it be?

  It is my life to do with as I will.

  Even if I have been dealt a stacked hand

  I will play it out in my own way;

  so that, no matter what, I will have the last say.

  Commuting Flank to Flank

  The bell and lights came alive, followed by a descending gate—

  giving notice of a commuter train about to swish past.

  The scene recalled those days, when as a commuter,

  I rode such a train, yearning for it to be my last.

  I thought of those morose passengers heading into the maze—

  so there to become engulfed in contaminated haze.

  Then, at day’s end, to re-board that train—

  day after day, again and again.

  Now retired, I shudder on recalling, when like cattle,

  we were herded and crammed, jammed into cars,

  elbow to elbow, nose to nose, flank to flank,

  usually in proximity to someone who stank.

  Deer in Suburbia

  Deer dung here,

  deer dung there,

  deer dung everywhere.

  In the driveway,

  on the lawn—

  every place you step.

  Lilies, pansies, and veggies too,

  all nibbled right to the ground,

  as though a herd of goats had been around.

  Build a fence as high as the sky

  in the hope it will keep them out,

  while sprinkling urine of all kinds about.

  Put up spot lights and noise makers too.

  Hang underwear and bags of hair—

  all with no effect; but for neighbors to stare.

  Dodging the Moonbeams

  Twins at birth, they went hand in hand.

  To play, to laugh, to dance, to fantasize.

  Occasionally to fret and argue.

  But never with tearful eyes.

  But it came to pass at an early age

  she left him standing at death’s door—

  as if whisked off in the wind—

  no longer flesh and blood as before.

  And so her image lingered through the years—

  so happy and gay and full of expectations.

  Never proceeding farther in life—

  she was spared its trials and tribulations.

  Then, as nature dictates,

  it was time for him to step through that door,

  and there to be with her as before—

  riding the wind, dodging the moonbeams.

  Don't Cry for Me

  If you thought I was old fashioned and unreasonable.

  If you felt ashamed of me before your friends.

  If you thought I was too strict.

  Don't cry when I die.

  If you didn’t listen to me when I
was speaking.

  If you hadn’t the time to get to know me.

  If you felt I neglected you.

  Don't cry when I die.

  If you feel I owe you for your being here.

  If you feel I’ve failed you in any way.

  If you feel I don’t love you.

  Don't cry when I die.

  Earth is Here to Stay

  Humans, given the ability of intellect

  ravage the earth in ways undreamed,

  sucking up treasures from down below,

  while pillaging and poisoning that above.

  All is justified out of necessity

  but the most out of sheer audacity

  assuming themselves to be as gods

  worry not about this earth.

  For it will survive the onslaught

  when the human race will be naught,

  and earth life will start anew,

  excluding humans from its venue.

  Experience Along the Way

  How sad it is that into middle age, reflection is held at bay

  when there is ample time ahead to bring experience into play.

  But then, on into old age, when reflection becomes obsessive,

  there is little time left, but to simply toil the time away.

  Fall in Line

  If he says it’s right,

  if she says it’s right,

  it must be right.

  Don’t ponder,

  don’t think,

  don’t put up a stink.

  Just fall in line.

  No matter what about.

  No matter who about.

  Don’t stray.

  Keep in step

  along the way.

  Nose to their hind.

  Just below their spine.

  No matter if seeming asinine.

  Follow the leader

  with all your might.

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