Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

Bad news from the surgeon.

May 19, 2017

“Bad news,” said a sad Dr. Hune,
“The surgery ended too soon.
We barely got started
Just when your spouse farted,
We fled from the obnoxious fumes.”

In the surgery waiting room.

May 19, 2017

In a frigid room
Of fluorescent sunshine
These people sit in silence
In sympathetic chairs
Their lives on hold
Hoping for the best
United in their agonizing wait
While their loved ones
Sleep under skillful blades
Just down the hall

The TV on the wall
Tries to divert the tension in the room
With shows everyone would rather watch at home
But the phones save the day
As long as they have power
Able to ease the day’s worries
Of those seated in silence
United in their agonizing wait
While their loved ones
Sleep under skillful blades
Just down the hall

The hours are long
Every second a nervous step forward
With cautious optimism
Waiting for the surgeon to come
And say it all went well
But for now
They sit in silence
United in their agonizing wait
While their loved ones
Sleep under skillful blades
Just down the hall

Confused realities.

May 18, 2017

Got everything we need
We’re ready to go
The front door opens
To let in the sun
We step outside
And face the day
Suddenly
I feel something
Rubbing my leg
I open my eyes
It’s morning
I’m in bed
My wife just woke me up
What just happened

The Big Bang Channel.

May 12, 2017

Flipping through the channels
There’s nothing on
Whoa
What’s this
White noise
No
Not just white noise
The Big Bang Channel
Broadcasting from the beginning of time
Showing me how it all began
The universe
The stars
The planets
Life on Earth
Ah
So that’s how it all began
Now I know

Throne of Solitude.

May 12, 2017

My waking hours consumed
Collection calls, stress, depression
No promising leads
Minute by agonizing minute
Uncertain about which way to go
Life at a dead end
Yet I still sit on my throne
My throne of solitude
Noisy farts in its porcelain chamber
I sit on my throne
For a brief excursion
Of a loud explosion
Of gas from my butt

Frustrated persistence.

May 11, 2017

on top of organized trust
of stale aroma
in a condemned hunger
they don’t understand musical strings
the silence of squishy excuses
they speak of fancy scum
it sounds like a obstructed administration
without black choices
of flowing silence

Hesitant direction.

May 9, 2017

I spent the past week expanding my AutoIt poem generator script to include an array of 500 adjectives, 500 nouns and 100 various opening lines of poetry. This poem came from the first run of that script, the first of many to come.

HESITANT DIRECTION
sensing lame patience
my scented family
in a bittersweet steel
you sing about the rubbery stupidity
listening to the self-inflicted duplicates
they don’t understand underrated rescue
can you see the walking features
under the sworn sickness
listening to the dazed thunder

Some generated poems.

April 30, 2017

The following poems were generated by an AutoIt script containing arrays of 200 adjectives, 200 nouns and 40 possible ways to start a line of poetry. When the script is run, it randomly selects items from each array to generate the poems and then writes them to an HTML file for uploading to the Web. Even the page colors are randomly generated. This may seem like cheating, but every so often we just need a little push in the right direction. The results are interesting, if not surreal.

RED CARDBOARD
sing about foggy laughter
because difficult clouds
of sparkling horizons
about simple chords

GLOWING FAMILY
is it not horrible dreams
his soft airport
life is lowering memories
the running drama
listening to the tired replies
without tall answers
without flexible beds
his dreaming drama
beside the sour sentences
thinking about triangular computer
watching the blind sandwich

DECENT MEMORIES
of double answers
like lyrical patience
waiting for the triangular money
or hilarous romance
watching the doubtful hate
waiting for the blind streets
on top of molten offense

Raining on a Sunday.

April 23, 2017

It should be illegal
To buy mulch
When it’s raining on a Sunday

Zombie flower pickers.

April 22, 2017

The women stand
In the spacious field
Their long dresses flowing
In the apocalyptic breeze
Their elegant bonnets
Shielding them
From the dying sun
Slowly they gather
Fresh blue flowers
From endless rows
Filling their baskets
To add some cheer
To their undead lives