Tag Archives: poetry

Secrets in the Vault

The award that was given to me yesterday was not so much this blog as it was for my little vault.  I opened a can of worms a while back when I created a second blog on WordPress more or less by accident.  I wasn’t really interested so much in giving myself more writing tasks to do, rather, I decided I would use this other blog to store whole stories, poems, and cartoons.  I really haven’t figured out how to link this blog to that one, or that one to this… and since WordPress “improved” everything by changing all the controls, I really don’t know how to properly link something or put a URL into this prose, but here is the web address for that blog;

https://authormbeyer.wordpress.com/2015/06/

HK1

It is a place where I have posted more complete works that, though mostly still unfinished, will take a little bit longer to look at and read.  I know that my daily 500 words on this goofy blog is too much for most internet readers, and these things take way more time to read than is good for you.  But some readers of this blog have recently discovered that the thing exists, and I have had a sudden burst of interest.  I gained five followers to the vault yesterday.  I think I have six total.  I don’t post there often enough to generate traffic, but I do keep stuff there that certain of my followers here are likely to enjoy if they are foolish enough to buy into this whole artwork and wordswork nonsense that I constantly do.  So, there it is… a little bit more of me than you were probably ready for.

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My Dreams Have Wings

Wings of Imagination

My Dreams Have Wings (a poem)

Sometimes when I fall asleep,

I don’t drift down to slumber,

I grow great red wings,

And I take to the air,

To soar…

To escape…

To live…

Or simply fly away.

Adolphe-William Bouguereau Paintings 50 (1)

Adolphe William Bouguereau

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Chicken Soup Time (a twelve-line poem of recovery)

There comes a time when life really stinks,

A day when the life force grows green-brown and sinks,

Yes, I am ill and my every breath kinks,

And I cough and I burp and the end of the nose pinks,

So, I gather together under the covers,

The rotten parts of me over which the fly hovers,

And cook them in heat of the dreams of old lovers,

And fantasy dreams, whose richness discovers…

The stories that make the sum of my life,

And memories of people who’ve hurt me with strife,

And good things and great things and details all mixed,

And stew while I’m sleeping til things are all fixed.

Blue birdsxxx

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Who Am I?

space cowboy23

“Who am I?” the Walrus said,

“I have to know before I’m dead.

And if the Cosmos will not say,

I’ll ask again another day.”

“You are a simple Disney clone,”

Said Cosmos when we were alone.

“You draw and color with your brain,

And tell some stories despite the strain.”

class Miss Mcover

“You taught a while in the Monkey House,

And learned that students like to grouse,

But in the end will love your class

And will give you medals made of brass.”

Alandiel

“And your poems are filled with Angel words,

Both quite profound and yet absurd,

Because your mind soars far away

On winds of wild romantic play.”

“I guess that I can live with that,”

Said Walrus as he grew quite fat.

“And Mickey is the name I write

To sign my pictures in the light.

And that is all I have to say

To write myself in the crazy way.”

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Old Poetry By a Silly Old Poet

Okay, people, I am not a poet and I’m sure you know it… But sometimes cartoonists rhyme for no good raisin… and make bad puns too.  Today I will share with you a bit of versicular (verse+ick+ular) goofiness that I tend to call poetry.  I am putting some in my vault, here; Poetry in the Vault (Mickey’s House of Fiction)

Beauty

Sleeping Beauty (a Silly Poem of Love and Illusion)

In the dark and in the light

In candle flame and purple night

The beauty sleeps and fails to heed

The young man’s life of lust and need

What happens next is often sad

The want, the hope, the love so bad

And fluttering faery wings of light

Carry life and love and fuel the sight

With never a thought to what could be

If only love would call to thee

And wake the sleeper from her dream

To make the two but one to seem.

singers (800x600)

Hear the Music (a love poem)

The singer sings his song,

And wants the world to sing along,

Though the world has gone all wrong,

And the darkness stays too long.

The singer warms and croons,

Under bright romantic moons,

And carries hopeful tunes,

To the listening dolts and loons.

Can a song bring truth to light?

Can it help us win the fight?

Does it ease the world’s plight?

And set the wrongs aright?

Yes a song can save the world,

Though the truth must be unfurled,

And the listeners’ ears are twirled.

So the hurts will all be pearled.

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Mickey at the Wishing Well of Souls

I found a country well, and I thought I had a quarter,

But I fished in pockets hard, and found nothing for the warter,

And since I had to warp a line to make the poem rhyme,

I figured I would just look in, because I had the time.

I looked into the warty water which sat there still and deep,

And could not see the bottom, and I began to weep.

The water was clear and dark and black,

And the only thing I saw… was Mickey looking back.

And nothing of the wishing well, its magic could I see,

For only there just staring back, the secret thing was me.

Blue in the back yard

Mental Pie

I’d like to offer you a piece of my mind,

Though not a lecture, rant, or complaint,

But rather a piece of mental pie.

Its taste will be very sweet, you will find,

As I’m constantly thinking in ink and paint,

That gives you wings and allows you to fly.

The Cookie

Once I had a cookie… But every time I took a bite, It became smaller and smaller…

With each bite I had less and less cookie left.

But when it was gone, the sweet taste of it…

Lingered on… as memory.

Icarus

Icarus (A Song Lyric with No Tune)

“You never believe in me,

You only hear the lie,

You never believe in me,

You never even try,

You never see the good in me,

You only fear I’ll die,

You never hear the words I say,

You never tell me why,

You never care how I plan,

Or why I touch the sky,

You’ll never lift me up,

You never let me fly,”

That’s how it always was,

Between my father and I,

Until the day I reached the sun,

And burned my hands on high,

And so it is he’ll never know,

How much his son was worth,

Because he couldn’t understand,

The day

I fell

To Earth.

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Rainy Saturday Blues (a poem about depression )

Blue Dawn

I must make a confession about crippling depression,

Cause today I have the blues.

It requires a concession of time for regression,

And dark days enveloping all views.

There is no progression in a working profession,

Cause clouds leave me missing all news.

I start the procession of blue notes in session,

And all melodies tend to be blues.

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Filed under Paffooney, pessimism, poem, Uncategorized

Puzzle Fizzle

Puzzle Fizzle (a poem about pieces)

When life shatters into a potpourri of pieces,

One must pick up possibilities,

And puzzle them back together… into poetry.

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Yesterday was the bottom of the valley of a hard week.  I have to climb another mountain to get out.  And I can’t afford the psychiatrist I need because the health insurance we have gave us strict guidelines to follow for choosing one, and no one in our area fits their requirements.  My car is showing warning lights again, and I am afraid to take it in.  It runs fine.  But I don’t need that warning light giving any of the local mechanics the idea that they can charge me large fees for car parts and service hours when they might not actually be needed.  Money is running out and I do not have the good enough health required to get even a part time job.  I write a lot.  But my writing career at this point is an expense, not an income.  Many shattered pieces to this puzzle.  But I did finish the putting together of the latest grand Paffooney, the portrait of Mary and the Invisible Captain Dettbarn.

Mary and the Captain

So, how will I put everything back together?  My family depends on me doing so.  The old puzzle piecer must never give up and must always keep puzzling, fitting bizarre piece to jagged hole.  You may have noticed that this post is short of the 500-word goal, but a picture is worth a thousand words, and I have created two original pictures for this post.  And there is poetry pieced together by the penultimate alliteration of the proud letter “P”.

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Weirdie Poetry

Mr. R RabbitThe Man Who Had Bird Knees

I once knew a man…

Who had knees…

That bent backwards, like a bird’s…

And this man…

Could only walk…

Like a limping, lame old duck.

The children all laughed…

And pointed at him…

When he passed them in the park…

And it made him smile…

And laugh to himself…

That his handicap made them happy.

Every single night…

He oiled his weary knees…

And tried to fight the pain…

And every single day…

He used his silly legs…

To do the Chicken Dance for kids.

And then there came a day…

When the bird legs came no more…

To be noticed by kids at the park…

And the parents all learned…

That the poor man had died…

And the whole world brought him flowers.

The next day in Heaven…

St. Peter saw a man…

Whose knees bent backwards like a bird’s…

And all of Heaven laughed…

As he did the Chicken Dance…

While angels clapped in Heaven.

dorin 001

dorin 002dorin 003

The thing I find to be most witlessly true about both poetry and life is that things can be funny, and make you laugh, and at the same time make you cry on the inside.  Humor is hard to write because it can be both happy and sad at the same exact moment.  How do you define that quality?  The bitter-sweet nature of nature?  That’s saying it in a way that is both contradictory and odd.  It can give you a wry smile at the same moment it both confounds and confuses you.  So better just to shrug your shoulders and tell yourself you know it when you see it… and this either is or isn’t it.  Sorry if I made you think too hard, cause I know that sometimes thinking hurts.

Mickey at the Wishing Well of Souls

I found a country well, and I thought I had a quarter,

But I fished in pockets hard, and found nothing for the warter,

And since I had to warp a line to make the poem rhyme,

I figured I would just look in, because I had the time.

I looked into the warty water which sat there still and deep,

And could not see the bottom, and I began to weep.

The water was clear and dark and black,

And the only thing I saw… was Mickey looking back.

And nothing of the wishing well, its magic could I see,

For only there just staring back, the secret thing was me.

Kops

I apologize for inflicting poetry on you when you probably came here looking for goofy stuff to laugh at.  But my poetry is just like all my word-mangling and picture-crayoning.  It tends to be goofy and weird and walking a tightrope over a shark tank between chuckle-inducing and tear-jerking.  You probably can’t even tell which is the poetry and which are the burbled brain-farts of commentary that pad this thing out to five hundred words.  Four hundred and ninety six, actually.

mANDY

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The Doorway at the Top of the Stairs (A silly rhyme of Paffooney making)

20150915_103051

At the top of the stairs and the end of the hall,

Is a doorway to wonder and the pith of it all.

I have lived a long life, and I’ve lived it well,

But a life isn’t over with a story to tell.

So I set to work justly with my ink and my pen,

And I draw and I write and remember when…

But there has to be more to this door in the hall,

A studio’s not just a hole in the wall.

I write about Seuss and his silly red rhymes,

And I think and I write and remember the times…

And the verse can come faster, or the verse can come slow

But the verse is about all the things that you know,

And you must pass it on to them that come after,

And you post your ideas on door, wall, and rafter.

And when the long day finally comes to its end,

There will be a sharing with a good ear to bend,

And a book, or two books, or three they can read,

That reveal all the secrets that they’ll ever need.

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the Clarkes

DSCN4453

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Why I Must Write

Blue in the back yard

Why I Must Write

Life is simply poetry,

And I must write it down.

Without the rhyme and beat of words,

I am a hopeless clown.

But if I can but set the theme,

And manipulate the sound,

The music of the world is mine,

And Meaning is unbound.

Here is a simple truth about why I write.  I believe I have the power to define myself, a power that not even God can take away.  I hope to leave words and stories and poems and drawings behind to speak to others, especially my children, after I am dead and gone.  That is a writer’s immortality.  And you should probably know that as a retired school teacher, I have over 2,500 children.  But even if none of them ever reads a word of it, or looks at one of my Paffooney pictures, I will have made poetry enough to be me.  And that is really all a writer does.

Here are a couple of poems of mine;

sunnyface

Broken People Parts (a goofy poem from messed-up Mike)

Sometimes people break,

And then, they fall apart,

And it takes a jigsaw master,

To Puzzle back their heart.

And if a foot falls off,

Quite busted on Monday’s hump

They may be legless, headless, limp

And lying in a lump.

But no face is ever busted

sunnyface2

To a point of no repair,

And lips are pasted back in place

With a smile that wasn’t there.

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When Comes the Dawn?

We never seem to see it coming,

When the dark times are here,

Depression, black… is out of whack,

And everything looks drear…

And then a glimmer… maybe hope?

When will the sun appear?

But gray men in their dread gray suits,

Make the paperwork loom near…

And we must fill out in triplicate,

The forms you sign right here.

This dawn you want is pink and blue?

The proper form, my dear…

Sign it, scribe it, write in ink,

And make no mistake appear

And then you write and write and write…

To make the dawn shine clear.

20141209_065531

Fog in the City (A Melancholy Poem)

It doesn’t come in on cat feet.

That’s probably Chicago you’re thinking of.

It comes in on the sound of screeching tires…

and ambulance sirens…

because of all the idiot drivers…

in their silver-gray WASP rockets…

that don’t know how to slow down…

or turn on their low beams…

for safety in the big, cold city of Dallas…

where the air is yellow…

except in the fog…

and rush, rush, rush…

business never waits…

for a foggy day.

DSCN5213

Toy Tyger (a silly nod to William Blake)

Tyger!  Tyger! Burning bright!

I see thee holy in the night,

This for that, and that for this,

Shoot the gun,

And never miss!

A sillier poem there will never be,

And Tyger!  Tyger!  this poem’s for thee.

So, ultimately, here is my full understanding of poetry;  Poems are made by fools like (Joyce Kilmer), but only God (with help from Mickey) can make a ME!

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