Graffiti Penguins Are Following Me

For years I have been followed by Penguins

I started when my mother used to dress me in a white suit

But the only thing white I dreamt of in those days was to become an astronaut  

Astronomy or Astrophysics wasn't big in our family. Science, sure, as long as I studied biology I was told. Nevertheless, the penguins kept following me and what was odd is that they had graffiti written on their chests. I thought I could read what had to be a message but I couldn't and I would wake up in a sweat.

Then one bright day at a flea market I saw it! The penguin with markings on its belly!

But a lady had her finger on it, she wouldn't let it off except to pay. I tried to outbid her but in vain.

I was distraught. I decided to go for a walk in the woods. It was the first snow of the year and the freshness filled my laden lungs. I was watching my steps, attempting to forget the penguin and listen to the soft crunching of the snow. Both Pooh and Piglet came to my mind and I wondered if they too had been followed. Then, the sun struck my eyes in a particular way. I looked up and saw a knife planted in a tree. There was no sign, no paper, nobody around, just this knife and a handsome one at that.

I tried to put on my thinking cap: could this be a message? Am I to kill the next penguin that crosses my path? Am I to be bludgeoned by a giant penguin? Did someone hate me for fearing penguins? Many questions raced through my head. I tried to keep my breathing down as not to attract attention. I had wished I had taken my shepherd along with me but I left him walled up for the day.

Stopping by my Canadian Drainage Pit on a Rainy Evening

A homage to Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

I thought I knew a way to drain

My village house, under water, seemed to need a crane

Every attempt to dig or hoe a trench with my hoe

With each rain I ran to the mop; now my tender foe

Stretching its paws, my little cat must think it uncanny

That I spend hours gazing at a trench

Like a 90 year old nanny

Yet between my house and this giant puddle

The universe is wet and muddled

Then I gave my mop another swipe

Splashed droplets zigzagged down my unshaven face

"Could there be some error in this hole I am digging?"

My efforts went unanswered 

Except for the raindrops that went pinging

A big puddle, dark and lovely, is the joy of a child's soul

And the demon for the one who can not drain

Do you get it? I have given my word

And must dig yonder before I rest

and must dig yonder before I rest.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

BY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

Random Justice

Random justice

Avoids 

Pleading parts

That don't fit

Tackling moral, mandatory, laws

Standing

Unabiding 

Fearless

Natural Justice

While some organizations are affirming rights in the Amazon

A generation of trees is earmarked

Like cows in Patagonia
They drop leaving a carbon print to oxide

Meteorological justice
Hurricane Katrina arrives to New Orleans

Gusty arguments are taken to the Supreme Governor 

Sassy, segregated, southern legislators write affidavits in safety
Ignoring  streaming thousands taking shelter in the Superdome
Sweltering on live TV with no food or water

Penitentiary Justice

The shackled convict nods downwards passing his mother
After a 3 day trial

In his cell

The walls and the bars are there to sublimate

A will that is

Never present

Never asking forgiveness

Years pass

The ghost of the prisoner's soul is waiting for parole

A waft of crystal meth is still frozen in his memory

Who will take him, will he find liberty?

Drug-related Justice
The parents of a pot-smoking
Colorado Kid that they can't control
Up in arms after the legalization of marijuana
Despite the fact that the rampant selling grass is now generating tax
revenue to pay for school programs

Lampedusa Justice
For the few who have made the 113 miles from Tunisia without
capsizing the Island
Now littered with encampments
Struggles to net in its former reputation
of a touristic fishing haven
in the face of bodies floating off its shores

There are so many: Equatorial Justice, Media Justice, African Justice
Sexist Justice, Justice in an elevator, Justice that smells,
Peanut Justice, Justice that can be seen
Aging

All stand before bearded Judges in lederhosen

Before lawyers at the bar gyrating erudite language

Shooting Code from the hip

Soliciting the Jury
A case is to be made

A Sentence is hammered

As stiff as a Montecristo drink.

UCS Delivery

"UCS Delivery" in Memory of Michael Dell  10/l4/13

It was summertime

Hot and oppressive

We worked as a team

To find work

To earn some young dollars

Mike took me to that Pearl River Tower

A small idiosyncratic skyscraper in the middle of nowhere

We picked up boxes of contracts

Contracts that needed tedious explaining

Out the revolving door into the car we

Hammered ourselves going

Door to door

Explaining in one minute and 30 seconds

A card, a rebate, a signature.

Michael had sold encyclopedias

He taught me the tricks how to up the tone

And look at the mother or father or both in the eye

To make them thinks twice about their child's education

That summer of l976

We barreled around the suburbs

Sweating it out and laughing it in

Until we came up with a coy scheme

That made Eurika cry for help

I've told this story to many for over 30 years

This story stands as my first summer job and

Like a first love or first of anything 

It will always stand

Today I learned Michael is no longer with us

The chance to sit down with you Michael is gone

But as long as my moon rises piercing the clouds of yonder

Our story will live on.

Of Shutdowns and Twerking

Recently we have witnessed the US government shutdown, but what other shutdowns can we entertain?

Operas, banks theaters, bars, kennels, memorials, forests, computers, hospitals and even trucks can
shutdown, close their doors, stop operating or functioning as before.
Yet a chemical or nuclear plant that shuts down
could also provoke an investor's aorta's valve to
shut down hence causing immediate death.

On the other hand, a chef who insists on preparing eggs
benedict on Wednesday evenings is shutting down on
his or her ability to cope with the need to change.
You, my fellow readers may be shutting down if
you don't consider that twerking has entered the
Oxford English Dictionary this month.
In modern English, originating from 'foot work' or 'twist and jerk'
twerking in fact has its origins in medieval times when Joan of Arc
was reported to have twerked before the Duke of Alencon.

The French army was so invigorated by the sight that they fought, grinding their teeth,
 until their foes fell, ending the 100 Year War.
Today, doctors have noted a new condition called twerkitis,
where a patient's buttocks (often of a female), wobble and jiggle relentlessly
day in and day out.
Sadly, for the moment there is no cure.