Tag: poetry

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The Farm

Today would be my father’s eighty-third birthday, but he died on April 16, 2024. Rather than commemorate him, I celebrate what he took away. Secretly, sometime during his 40 dying days, he signed over title to a large portion of the family farm to the co-pastors of his church.

They say 75 percent. But other documentation indicates that he only had control over 7/12ths of the nearly 100 acres. Regardless, as I begin to grasp the extent of subterfuge and lies, presumably unprompted (but who knows) on his part, my feelings about him darken. My great-grandfather purchased the property in 1895.

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Epitaph (Revised)

With great sadness, I must report the passing of my father-in-law exactly one month after his 95th birthday. Bob often insisted that he would live to be one-hundred-and-eleven, and I wondered if he might. Aged as the retired engineer might be, he exhibited surprising vigor and sharp intellect. I will miss the gentle geek, who continually searched for ways to mature his spirit and improve—extend—his livelihood. If only more people, of any age, opened their minds to new ideas rather than crusting over into immutability.

On Oct. 15, 2007, my family relocated to San Diego to be closer to him, understanding that the solitary elderly rarely receive the respect they deserve. Someone in so-called official capacity would have placed Bob in an institution long ago, because of his age. But with a little assistance—our apartment is one block from his—he lived independently up until the end, passing in his own bed. I am especially proud of my wife for being such a dutiful daughter. Anne enabled her dad. 

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Pixel Me Life

I am in one of my moods today, waiting for the big Apple media event to start in about 30 minutes. For no reason, other than perhaps boredom thinking about what’s to come, I wrote a quickie poem—an ode to Chromebook Pixel. It’s all just for fun and doesn’t pretend to be anything more.

When you work alone in a home office and there is no one to tease with spitballs and paper airplanes, making fun is a singular effort. The poem is meant to be read with rapid meter. Confession: I don’t play a fife, but it rhymes with life. Maybe I will add more verses later. 

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Sunday Haiku

I never could understand the idea of Haiku, and really still don’t, but I heard something about the Japanese poetry on the radio last week that made me wonder about writing some. Just as an experiment. I don’t get the whole syllable thing, and don’t even try, instead focusing on juxtaposition—a concept core to my prose style.

Any coaching would be appreciated. As a writing experiment, I work fast, banging out the would-be Haiku rapid-gunfire like. I put together this lot in less than 10 minutes.

Friday paycheck
Sunday best
Church tax

 

Taste of blood
Torturer smiles
Water drips 

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Epitaph

On a blustery night in February 1978, I sat in my college dorm gripped with writer’s block. A song lyric wouldn’t come, so I decided to write a poem; a rarity. Pure poetry isn’t my thing. The verse is short, and I decided then, at age 18, that it would someday be my epitaph.

I originally posted the poem with title “Lay Me Down” on Jan. 31, 2004, when this blog resided at TypePad. Rather than restore the original post, I revive instead.