The Wooden Ninja’s Attack
There’s nothing as unnerving
As a splinter that is swerving,
Like a ninja about to begin
Invisibly under my skin.
Though I’m swearing like a sailor
My tweezers must prevail or
Let this wooden ninja beat me,
But I can’t let him defeat me.
If I can’t get him out, then I’ll break him in two
This poor little ninja won’t know what to do,
He’ll become part of me with his ninja ways
And I’ll be more ninja the rest of my days.
Dinner Guest
There’s nothing like a dinner guest
That lets the conversation rest
While letting our own ears digest
A comment like, “it’s not the best”.
I wish I took more elevators so I could fake a sneeze
And then ask you, “Please excuse me and my saliva breeze.”
Meanwhile I’d extend my hand, because that’s what you do
When you welcome someone to the club that people call the flu.
My Children’s Hero on Garbage Day
On a magical day of the week
My children come to take a peak
On the couch pressing the window
Where they watch our garbage go.
For little girls and little boys,
It’s more exciting than their toys.
They’re beckoned by the rumble,
A garbage trucking grumble.
Jumping on the cushions of the couch
Like they won an Oscar the Grouch.
Their excitement verbalizes, “I can’t see,
Where is it?” Leaving my response to be,
“Be patient, the garbage truck will get here.”
Their delight is mixed with a whine of fear
That they might miss the garbage truck,
They’d blink and then be out of luck.
Sure enough the truck rolls into view
The heroes grab a can or two
And hurl contaminants inside
The truck they stand on when they ride.
And that was just the neighbor’s trash
That caused my children’s glee to thrash
In jumping motions looking out
To watch the garbage truck in route.
Now it was our trash’s turn.
The garbage that we made would earn
It’s rightful place in the unclean,
Massive, mystical machine.
My children were already big fans
When our hero one-handed the cans
As if they were filled with vapor.
He tossed the bags like Christmas paper,
And like empty shells from a good guy’s gun
The cans rolled on as witness, he was done.
Off to clear the streets another day,
While my children jumped inside singing “hooray!”
Power Tools and the Hypostatic Union
I’m not saying Jesus wasn’t skilled
But maybe He tapped eternity and willed
Some power tools to His time back in the day,
Kept in the back of his place, out of the way.
So when someone had some project to be done
That Jesus thought wouldn’t be as fun
As spinning the world on his finger
He might take the project and linger
In the back for a much briefer duration
Before emerging with a woodworked creation
That was routed and sanded much faster,
Since His tool selection was vaster.
This granted Him more time to pander
Why His human intellect would wander
To things like what exactly is
This hypostatic union of His.
It’s Monday
It’s an overcast-without-the-Sun day,
Weekend’s passed and now it’s Monday.
Clock blinks twelve oh what a fun day.
Running late un-mundane Monday.
I spread the grounds of coffee on the counter,
A Sleepy-eyed, spilled-over mistake.
How many scoops am I … should recount or
Welcome one more weakened coffee break.
Looks like the dishwasher didn’t run last night
So I add more soap in hopes it might
Actually save me time by doing the dishes
But Murphy is victoriously vicious.
“I want one more weekend coffee break”
My mind says as I get ready in the dark..
I grab some mismatched clothes and take
That dress shirt with the weird shaped coffee mark.
I pour a to-go cup of coffee, leaving it on the table
Lack of caffeine makes my hands unstable
As I’m scraping off my car that’s caked in ice.
One more day of weekend would be nice.
I drive all the way to work before I notice
that the coffee cup I’m holding’s awfully cold,
And it’s slushy, which makes me want to throw this
cup of coffee from last week, now four days old.
I balance the cold coffee on my shirt against my chest
Then step into my office, close the door to get some rest,
But Murphy steps in too and once again retorts
As I somehow spill slushed coffee on my TPS reports.
Fell In Love With a Belt Sander
What I learned this time around
Is that I like the feel and sound
Of a belt sander.
My wood plane and chisels on the ground
Didn’t understand her
They looked up but saw dust flying above,
Termite manna from God,
that must have looked odd,
With my smitten face in wooden clouds of love.
The Halloween Social Contract
Don’t stare with your eyes all a glaze,
As if it’s somehow my fault
When you don’t say the simple phrase,
And your race comes to a halt.
On my front porch, if you don’t engage in
The Halloween social contract,
Don’t try to convince me we live in an age when
The candy’s simply sacked
Without the secret code that tells me to release
Sweet sugary droplets into your bag.
My stash of candy depletes so yours can increase
So your pillowcase fills and starts to drag,
But only when the words are spoken
Will I give you a sugary token.
If you hold out a bag and our eyes simply meet,
That’s not the same as saying “trick or treat”.
Careful What You Wish For
I’m going to have a great day today,
Even if it kills me.
On second thought, that depends on the way
My Lord and Savior wills me.
Still Life
If a picture speaks a thousand words,
How does a painting get through a conversation?
There must be hundreds of things I haven’t heard
Staring at this representation
Of an apple and a pair.
The complexity of the gradient on the sphere,
The shadows and light draw me near
To what it is that I can’t hear,
And so I simply stare.
Perhaps if I cock my head just like so
Then the words would start to flow
And maybe my mind could retain
The words the painting speaks in vain.
Hmmm? … Nothing
***
The Painting above was done by Carrie Mitchell. If you have money to buy some nice art, go to her site and buy some art. If you don’t have money to buy nice art, go to her site and flip through all the paintngs she’s posted up there.
BonjourPoetry 