Compulsively Aimless

Trash  Day We know it's trash day eve when green and blue bins picket the street like sentries posted curbside to stand watch through the night until trash trucks smash the dawn and flip idiot lids relieving us of our discarded histories.  

  A new batch of February poetry. Put in your nickle of attention pull the lever and see what whether you're rewarded with something you like...     The Cost of Shadows Even when we're not there we leave lights on like burning suns in space because darkness would dominate better to fend off mysteries of Rembrandt shadows and keep safe with shinning sentries until your father says to an empty room "what are we made of...money?!" and flips the switch. ### YELLOW BUBBLE MAILER ​     Business yellow skin lined with bubble guts  on an international mission of commerce to a customer in Berlin. Special one-time emissary proudly appended with postage and customs clearances tossed on a belt and dropped into a dark hold Carried eastbound on a night time flight arcing over the North Atlantic intended for Deutsche Post's afternoon delivery for a reader on Karl Krugger Street Somewhere between here and there an interception yellow skin sliced length w...

  Crumbling black brick with white lettering Index finger smokestack Dismantled machines Lost workers Instruments of color creation Kindergarten perceptions of broccoli stalk trees and beaming suns an artist's rendering gauzy scenes of a Provence countryside cylinders of orange, mauve and maroon poured, molded, dried cut, packaged shipped opened in rooms of A, B, C, 1, 2, 3 abandoned on a June afternoon a worn palette of nubs rolling around in a busted box

Napoleon said that he could always recover lost space but never lost time.   At the battle of Gettysburg, 215 of 262 members of the Minnesota First Volunteers became casualties charging against a Confederate force that was six times its size.   Union General Hancock ordered them to charge all because he needed 15 more minutes to reinforce an open gap in the Federal lines. Vince Lombardi never conceded defeat, only admitting “we ran of time.”   Steven Jobs declared the most precious resource human beings have is time.   T his morning, I hit the snooze button for a handful of minutes that I’ll never remember.  

Humans invented words to help remember and communicate.   Socrates was a curmudgeon about it all and thought transforming words into writing would make our memories lazy.   More words got invented expanding our vocabularies.   Great ideas were turned into words that stood the test of time– The Ten Commandments, War and Peace , grandmother’s recipe for fudge.   Along the way, we fell in love with words and wrote poems.   We selected words for sound and meaning.   In modern times, daily newspapers shorted the lifespan of the written word to 24 hours.   More recently, social media shortened a word’s duration to only a few minutes.   Words buried other words under a nonstop and accelerating stream of updates that are themselves quickly forgotten.   What’s next for words?   Will they move fast enough for us?   Carry enough meaning?   Will the written word die off and we go back to using pictures like our ancien...

    Time won’t come out to play It won’t bargain for a return trip or make an exchange of …a year, a week, a day For any reason No matter how devout Wrongly condemned prisoners Released after decades Must hate time For not opening up And giving back what everyone agrees should not have been taken Or a persistent old scientist rediscovering a forgotten element He once encountered as a young lab assistant The one that could have made all the difference to his life experiment Killjoy time Has firm rules against a do-over. And I suppose it likes having sayings written about itself… If I knew now what I knew then… Making up for lost time… Since time won’t play along I compensate in the present   Willing as much experience into a single moment   as can be allowed. Take that -- time.

DOUBLE CORNER LOT They’re demolishing the brick colonial The one on the double corner lot That stood for 75 years For two generations of one family. They’re cutting down that 150 year-old maple The one that stands in corner of the double corner lot One tree, 150 rings Shade from spring to fall. The tree goes first It took them all day To chop off its limbs Cut down its trunk And grind up its stump. A perfectly good tree Offering up another generation of green in May To the brick house in the corner of the double corner lot 150 years gone in a day. The house goes second It took them two days To smash its brick and mortar The second floor first The first floor last. A perfectly good brick home Ready to offer shelter to another family On the corner lot 75 years gone in two days.  For more poems see http://www.verse-virtual.com/john-kropf.html