Dysfunctional Poetry 102 for Bedtime Reading, p.1Phil Cross
Dysfunctional Poetry 102
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 101 for Bedtime Reading ISBN 9781301829767
Dysfunctional Poetry 102
for Bedtime Reading
A Curtain Call In Their Names
Give thanks to Gods for wars,
and for what they have done
to keep the populace under the gun.
If not for competing Gods and genocide too
there would be less space today for me and you.
Holy wars in Their names have been fought.
But if for Their glory–they have been for naught.
But perhaps glory has not been the intent at all;
but instead, to herald a curtain call.
A Glimpse Beyond
Some say they have seen the other side.
On the verge of death they have experienced the event,
claiming it not to be hallucinatory in extent.
But so too, do those in asylums claim revelations of similar ilk;
yet, they are cloistered away in rebuke.
Perhaps such visions are conjured by the mind
from memories that lie sublime
just waiting for the time
to make dramatic appearance—
when garbed in robes and shrouds,
they will emerge from beyond the clouds.
A Hospital Stay
Corridors stark, dispassionate, and cold,
flanked with doors—open, shut, or ajar—
to rooms where patients are on hold,
awaiting their prognosis to be told.
But whether cured or not,
all will be let go one day;
either as a dis-spirited body,
or to return on another day—
more often than not—
for a similar stay.
And in those rooms left behind
are often flowers meant to cheer;
but having been deprived of life support,
now droop and leer.
But they too, are destined to depart—
without ceremony—in a garbage cart.
A Rose is a Rose
You can tell by your nose
that a rose is a rose.
Other things also by smell:
plants, animals, and humans as well.
To see and touch
may also give you a clue
so that whatever it is
becomes known to you.
And so you learn as you progress
from child on through adulthood
by learning from those who know.
Also, you learn on your own
as if each is a new adventure:
whether simple and sound,
or riskily profound.
So that when encountered again
you know it is genuine:
retrieved from memory.
And so it is, that in such cases
where tangibles are self evident,
knowing comes easily
through smell, see, and touch.
But how trivial all these seem
in contrast to that intangible world
where life and living is the thing;
where love and hate, and in between,
are the things that really mean.
A State of Mind
In youth, with vacant mind,
I was sometimes asked,
“What are you thinking?”
“Oh nothing,” I would say.
Now in senility, with vacant look,
when asked that question again,
“Oh nothing,” I would say—
Fettered and coagulated in disarray.
A Walk in the Rain
A walk in the rain
to wash your mind
to cleanse your soul
to absorb the pelting downpour
as if being baptized
But acid rain it’s called
so that even the heavens are poisoned
crying to be cleansed
spitting back to man
what was sent up disgracefully
pelting, pelting, on your head
They give me pills to quiet me—
so think to set me free.
Doctors and psychiatrists in a row.
Uncles, aunties, grandparents too;
all fantasizing they are in the know.
Me within, they from without.
Not a clue among them
knowing what I am—
am really about.
So it is I am caught in between,
lost and lonely in between,
refusing to be turned
into a human bean.
Across the Desert
I’m a lifetime into the desert on a trek once a lark,
but since has become dreadfully stark.
The mountains I seek lie dead ahead.
Now in better view, they maintain their mystique,
and have allayed my fears of them being bleak.
I am almost out of hope and it is as hot as Hell,
but from the mountains I hear a distant bell
that spurs me onward those last few miles
to escape the ghosts from which I flee—
that loom up around me menacingly.
They tug at me to discourage my flight,
as bogeymen—whether during day or night.
It seems to me I have been here before;
but not quite, to where I can shut the door—
on my addiction—
for ever more.
An Autumn Morning
The sun looked old.
The breeze was brisk.
The dawn was cold,
putting tender shoots at risk.
Puffs of clouds fleeted by;
as if on a mission across the sky.
Crystallized dew sequined the ground,
as though fragments of stars—
And as the sun rose on high
it bid those earthbound crystals
to say their good bye—
to become gleaming pearls,
melding with air or ground—
to quietly depart, without a sound.
As Black, As Black Could Be
on the stark arms of a gaunt tree,
on a raw winter day,
with leaves having fallen away.
as black could be.
perched still, as still could be.
Perhaps they are harbingers
of what is in store for me;
as black can be.
Authoring as Such
Think before you write.
Then write without thinking.
And in a blinking
it will come about.
Let it flow,
have a full blow,
let it take you,
where it wants to go.
Those who ponder looking yonder
are likely to squander
those moments when seat of the pants
will get raves and rants.
Do it! Do it!
Night and day—
for then you will shout, Hooray!
and to Hell with what anyone else has to say.
Before the Sun Came Up
mother was up
before the sun came up
stoking the furnace
shoveling in coal
before the sun came up
to bring up the heat
then off to the factory
before the sun came up
no cold floor
to meet our feet
when we got up
To place nation above all
is to be addicted to no political party.
To vote for the best candidate,
to fight for the right cause,
is to be true to your country.
If everyone were to think this way
what a grand democracy it would be,
with all for one and one for all,
right down to the lowest on the totem pole
with nothing in mind but your country.
Being On Welfare
In conscience . . . how can I accept a handout.
Food stamps . . . Medicaid . . . a way of life.
To accept . . . to belly up . . . to crawl.
To lose my self respect.
I've paid my way all my life . . .
No handouts accepted . . .
To take them now. . .
To acquiesce . . .
To live a lie.
There has to be a much better way . . .
Let me work . . .give me a job . . .
Not menial . . . nor fawning . . .
If just enough to get by.
If not . . . and only welfare remains . . .
To feed, cloth, and provide . . .
Then I must accept it . . .
To survive, then die.
Bolt the Door
I must go out for a few minutes.
Bolt the door after I go.
Don’t open it for dear life’s sake.
It might be someone we don’t know.
Find something to do while I am gone.
A game perhaps, but not TV.
The shows are not the kind for you—
but for those of base mentality.
And stay away from blogging too—
it’s only for those who have nothing to do.
Born To Be Me
Perhaps my mother
had hoped for me
to be like someone noteworthy.
Happy I am though,
not to have been named
after some celebrity.
For, as like a snow flake,
I was born with my own identity.
So then, who else but me
could I ever hope to be.
And so it is
that throughout the day
I can never be free
from simply being me.
But often at night,
in spite of the real me,
my other self
goes on a spree.
Sometimes to portray me
as a celebrity.
But even then
I know it could never be me.
So no matter when,
no matter where,
for good or bad,
better or worse—
as far as my mind can see—
I will always be
Caught in Between
At times . . . . I feel . . . .
I have two heads.
One says this,
the other says that.
If only I had one more . . . .
somewhere in between . . . .
to show me the way,
while keeping the other two at bay.
“Why did you put your finger there?” she objected.
“I . . . I’m nearsighted and . . .
I wanted to see if they are real,” he stammered.
“And . . . ?” she wanted to know.
“They’re great,” he beamed.
“Next thing,” she said, with a sly grin,
“you’ll be putting your ear in my mouth
and telling me that you’re hard of hearing.”
Dealing with the Beasts among Us
Whether crouching on all fours, or walking upright,
skulking with eyes ever keen,
stalking with nostrils sniffling the air—
anti social—in need of a lair.
Ready to pounce on defenseless prey,
to steal, to rape, even to kill.
When caught, to cop a plea—
to then regain their liberty.
If imprisoned, soon to be set free,
to resume carnal ways as before.
But when exterminated—as it should be—
so to desist forever—as it should be.
Destitute and Dying in an Abandoned Slaughter House
I served my country,
but then went astray—
getting lost in the shuffle.
Perhaps my deck was stacked at birth.
Perhaps I was dealt to be destitute.
Now, as my kind refuses me sustenance
with a morsel of food,
or warmth from their fires;
so I am here where no other creatures venture.
Oh—how providential for me to find this place.
The grease and slime from unfortunate animals
caused to cease their existence while in their prime
has accumulated like thatch in a lawn,
and over time, will leave no trace
of those who were slaughtered here without grace.
Their fearful screaming once echoed throughout,
as skulls were crushed and carcasses dismembered—
to be digested, displayed, or put to civilized use.
If only the mothers of those creatures could have known—
would they have been so cruel to conceive?
Perhaps to remain alive is the driving force—
whether millenniums ago in caves,
or today amidst seething technology—
whether clothed in rotting leather or synthetic fabric—
there is human flesh and bone beneath,
harboring a growling belly and animated existence.
I see a length of rope covered with filth and mold.
Perhaps it is fitting I use it to cease this life of mine.
I have nothing to write with, nor to write on,
to leave a note to make them guilty or glad,
to let them know what I did to myself, or they did to me.
I will be put in a plastic bag tied at the top;
and buried as though a victim of genocide—
just another worthless bum whose mother has long since died,
and whom I more than once denied with a show of affection
that might have stemmed my tide.
Does the Garment Make the Person
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 normally do;
particularly since I have never been inclined to wear a hat.
I could not help but feel that people had taken notice,
as I found myself bidding them hello,
while tipping the brim of my hat—
neither of which I would be normally inclined to do.
I wonder to whom that hat belonged 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,
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.
Dreams and Promises Filed Away
Keep a place in your mind
for you to file away
ear marked dreams and promises
in conspicuous array.
So throughout the night,
to bemuse from dusk to early light,
or on recall throughout the day,
to honor dues you are obliged to pay.
Every Beginning Has A Future
Starting with a slap on the rump
to fill the lungs and jump-start the brain,
the world becomes your domain.
What you do from then on is your affair.
For it is left to you, through trying,
to earn the right to joy or despair.
From preacher’s silver-lips
it comes gift wrapped,
to all those in need.
Both sinners and saints;
for them all to take heed,
with the gospel as basis,
to exemplify the deed.
Figments of My Imagination
They are there because of me.
You are there because of me.
If not for me, they and you would not be.
So then my universe is I—
beholding them and you in my mind’s eye
as figments of my imagination—until I die.
For Goodness Sake
And so they sit on benches,
in rocking chairs,
or propped up in bed;
not yet, entirely quite brain dead.
Tottering on the threshold,
spellbound in the past,
striving to revive memories
while they still last.
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