June Bug Shuffle

There once was a girlie named Catherine
Tying bugs onto strings set her gigglin’
Danced, looking excited
Need to pee, not delighted
Her poor panties, she left big stain therein


Ken Goree




For those of you who have never heard of the June Bug, the ones referred to in the title of this poem were in the southeast United States.  Every few years, when I was a kid, our family would go to visit my mom's relatives on the ancestral farm, in the Smokey Mountains of eastern Tennessee.  One of the things to do as kid in that area, if you are lucky enough to be around when the June bugs start swarming, was to adopt one as a pet.  This may sound lame, but it was pretty fun, because you could tie sewing thread to the beetle and take it for a walk ("flight").

I must mention, I was forced into writing this poem.  I had reminded the "real girl" about this "real event," earlier this year.  I didn't want to write the poem and embarrass her (internationally), but she kept reminding me to write the poem, so today, I did.  

We were standing on the back porch of the log cabin.  My grandfather built that cabin himself, from trees he cut and shaped with adze, ax and saw.  My father had just given us some of my grandmother's sewing thread and we were tying loops in one end and a June bug to the other.  After bringing the string, my dad took his leave of us. I was quite young, and not very dexterous.  The girl, was older and had her pet tied off and flying in moments.  Like any self-respecting little kid, I begged for help; said, "This is stupid;" whined; and pouted.  

Soon, I noticed that "the girl" was doing a dance while playing with her pet.  "Now, that is just showing off," I thought to myself.  Then, I realized there was something very familiar about the dance she was doing.  "What is it?" I thought.  "Hmm, what is it?" Then it came to me.  I knew the dance, I had done it a hundred times, especially at school.  This older girl was doing "The Pee-Pee Dance."  In her confusion of growing excitement over her pet and the growing pressure inside due to three bottles of old fashion Mountain Dew, straight from the glass bottle, which you had to use a bottle opener to get into.   The pressure won before she was able to figure out a way to tie off her pet and make it to the bathroom.  

I saw the growing dark stain on the front of "the girl's" faded bell-bottom blue jeans.  My first thought was, "That's what you get for not helping me get the leash onto my June bug."  Later, I realized that that hadn't been a very compassionate response to the girls distress ... much later ... like about ten minutes ago, while finishing this poem.  

So Little Left

So little left
Time
Pushing
Me
To
The
End

An appreciated finish
Is
All
That
I
Ask
For

What I’ve wanted
Is
No
More
Than
Your
Interest

If you Smiled
Then
I
Have
Been
Truly
Fulfilled

Your shaking dread
I
Fed
Without
Trace
Of
Remorse

Fluttering, warm hearts
I
Feel
A
Special
Kinship
With

Grand childish dreams
I
Pray
I’ve
Rekindled
within
You

Your clear presence
Has
Helped
Me
See
The
World


Ken Goree

Last Minute

The time is running late for me
I really should soon be there
I’m feeling a little jittery
I haven’t a moment to spare

This day’s been in the planning
Many a day before now
If as one of the planners, I was late
It’d surely cause a row

I guess this poem will have to wait
At least an hour or two
After a drink or two with friends
That’s when I think we’ll be through

Ah, now I’m back in poetic saddle
Grabbing my poem by rein
Urging it on to the finish
‘Til no other words remain

Now that I mentally return home to write
Hoping I’ll seem just a little bit bright
Pounding the keyboard on into the night
Last minute, one word, will finish it right


Ken Goree

Fading

As the
Supply of
Water and
Nutrients dwindles

As the
Attention of
Others diminishes
And wanes

As the
Time spent
Away from
Home lengthens

The time
Of celebration
And Gifts
Is fading


Ken Goree


The Christmas tree is about to go.  I think I’ll let her celebrate the coming of the new year with us, however.

Fibonacci’s Rabbits

How
Does
Rabbit
So increase
Itself to attain
A significantly larger
Population than it had previously so known?
With subtle variation he
Probably uses
The same means
As you
And
I


Ken Goree


I agree, this is an odd poem.  It came about as I was researching different poetic forms.  As I was doing so, I wondered whether anyone had based a poem on a Fibonacci sequence.  I didn’t find any.  However, I am sure there have been countless numbers of people who have done so, especially given the interest so many people have in the Fibonacci numbers. 

So, I chose to base the poem on an ascending, then descending syllable count: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1, 1.  The reason I chose the content I did was,  I read an article about Fibonacci and how he came up with the sequence.  According to the article, Fibonacci came up with the progression when solving a problem in the growth of a population of rabbits, under ideal circumstances.

My Toes

My Toes


Socks
Dry, fuzzy and snugly
In front of crackling fire
I’m warm
Down to

~  My toes  ~

Don’t like this day
So much
They’ve been trapped
In cold, wet
Boots

Ken Goree

Smile

More than
Just good wishes
Or friendly
Feelings
Sweetly crinkled
Flesh
Deep dimpled
Cheeks
Framing
Red, moist lips
Shining
Eyes
Unfocused
Seeing
More than
Paints the
Surface
Flushed, blushing
Skin
Heats the night
From
Just
A smile


Ken Goree

Season’s Best

In the presence
Of fair folk
Upon this
Holiday
Celebrating
Our good health
Means more than
I can say

Some are new friends
Others old
Spirited
We do play
Light the candles
Share the food
This very
Special day

Into late night
We laugh on
Enjoying
Grand display
‘Til parting words
Of good friends
“Come again,
Don’t delay.”


Ken Goree

Delayed poem

The poem Good Time was written yesterday, on December 23rd.  I tried to post it from my phone last night, but it didn't go through. Sorry for the delay.

Good Time

So much time
Falls in between
The space
From day
To day
That long
Frienship
Through the
Years
Holds true
And always
Stays


Ken Goree

Different Roads

So passionate a dialogue
And each does feel they’re right
Amazing that we want the same
Why is this such a fight

Want my children to grow up strong
And want them to be kind
Wish them goodness all ways through
And happiness to find

And know you want the same for yours
Won’t  imagine that they can’t
Live a life of carefree joy
What else would good God grant

Though on and on we argue
The way that gets there best
Sure you don’t know what you’re saying
And sure that our way’s blessed

When this all is said and done
And the end point is quite clear
I hope for all our children’s sake
We can all stand up and cheer


Ken Goree

I had a fantastic evening with wonderful friends, tonight.  We had a spirited dialogue about how the world should be run.  Interestingly, we all left feeling that the others there didn't get the points that we saw so clearly.  The most incredible part is, we all still left with love in our hearts, wishing the others would someday see more clearly.  

Carmel Sauce

Just a little more perhaps
Of salted caramel
Dripped upon my ice cream
Would go down very well

I know I shouldn’t, but can’t resist
That sweet and tasty treat
And when it’s done, I can’t restrain
And just may have a repeat

I know it isn’t good for me
At least not physically
But wonders for holiday mood
Taste buds most distinctly

So when talking to a friend that’s down
With sadness overwhelming
A bit of caramel on ice cream
Makes troubles seem like nothing


Ken Goree

That one is for you, Julie.

Light Shed

Light shed
On darkness
Should be bright
Bright
Showing in
Stark
Contrast
The foul
Black heart
Which
Torments
Innocents

Light Shed
On Darkness
Should bring forth
Light’s defenders
Calling to draw
Sword and
Shield
And protect
Without reservation
The masses of
Virtuous
Innocents


Ken Goree


Too often, the offenders are warmed and comforted, while the victims are left in the cold, without comfort or protection.

Stepping Away

Stepping away
From whispers
Unhelpful
Choosing a path
Of words spoken
Beautiful

Seeing a way
To life filled so
Joyful
Starting anew
Living each day
Delightful

With every step
Our actions good
Prideful
Fresh charted course
Intent on
Insightful

Whispers behind
Strong voices sing
Cheerful
Wonders ahead
Your heart no more
Sorrowful


Ken Goree

For those who have recognized the foul whispers in their lives, and have charted the course to set their souls free.

My Child

My child

Light of my life
Racing through confusing years
Maturing into womanhood
Daughter


Ken Goree


Today's poem, is a cinquain.  The traditional cinquain is a 22 syllable poem  with a syllable per line pattern of 2,4,6,8,2.  The cinquain begins with a noun and ends with its synonym.

Whispers

Whispers for another
Can be a tool
Of power
To
Raise the heart and
Plant a seed
And help it grow
To flower

Whispers for another
Can hide the strength
To tilt
The soul of one who
Listens in, and
Cause the flower
To wilt


Ken Goree


I was thinking about friendship, today.  The friends I keep around me support me, love me, and call me out when I am not heading in the right direction.  I am a happy, lucky man, and I know it. 

Unfortunately, I see others, who have friends around who are not helpful to them.  These “friends” support their sadness and help to magnify the interesting inconveniences of life as if they were malicious demons singling us out, one by one. 

I choose to keep my wonderful friends close, and gather innumerable more of the same breed.

Each End

Each End

Winter

Dark, cold

Snowing, swirling, blowing

Lights, family, friends, starlight

Baking, sweating, browning

Bright, warm

Summer

Ken Goree

I went back to my list of poetry forms, realizing that I had left some unattended for quite some time.  Tonight I thought I would throw in a diamante.  The diamante is a seven line poem, which usually transitions from one noun, to its synonym or antonym.  If choosing an antonym, the shift from the first noun to the antonym should occur in the mid-point of the fourth line.

This poem may have been better suited to the winter solstice, as the shortest day of the year.

Bringing Me Back

Again and again your smiling faces

Greet me in the morning
With any other class I’ve had
I might take that as a warning

But with you all I recognize
An attitude superior
The closer to getting back to you, Class

I feel my mood get cheerier

It’s nice how daily I receive
Compliments on my clothes
With all your kind and pleasant acts
Your wonderfulness shows

So when each Monday comes again
Some folks are feeling sour
I’m thrilled to realize I’ll soon see you
I count minutes and each hour

As winter break approaches me
I anticipate the parting
And as you walk out, I’ll try not to
Cry while you’re departing

Then through two weeks of holiday
Sitting solemn as fireplace burns
Once again I know that I will be
Happy at your returns


Ken Goree

Sparkle

Bright colors and
Twinkling light
Reflect off ribbons and bows
On this warm still night

Missing an angel
I might need to borrow
It should be on the top
I will get it tomorrow

Penguins and snowmen
On wrappings there
Thoughtful gifts of love
That soon we will share

Kids would like
To their wishes consenting
But, two weeks away
‘Til day of opening


Ken Goree

Hard Consequences

Hard Consequences

We lose

When others lose

Instead of realizing that our

Desires to conquer show no

Wisdom or knowledge and

End in 

 ~ Hard consequences ~

Begin a

Long life of learning

Developing great wisdom

And the understanding that

When others win

We Win

Ken Goree

Blight

Vile
Soul
Burned
Empty
By own
Black flame
Mindlessly
Aiming to
Light and fuel
Fire,
Fume, and
Poisonous heat
Upon the lives
Of the innocent
Scorching
Earth
So that
None
May
Survive


Ken Goree


It is quite sad to see friends, and closer, trying to outlast the unearned, wicked hatred of others.

Silent Assemblage

Muted figures
Weak daylight
Movements subdued
Mist inscrutable
Unheard discourse
Whispers deadened
Undefined faces

Drained hues
Indistinct forms
Features blunted
Identities indistinguishable
Cryptic intentions
Enigmatic gathering
Silent assemblage


Ken Goree

Bad Bart

Bad Bart

There once was a man named Bart

For whom cruelty had become quite an art

He defied the law

And would not withdraw

But still doesn't realize his part

Ken Goree

The Blessing of Absence

I have never understood
How evil can persist
When the foul folk do take charge
Good souls stand and resist

Evil comes in many forms
Some of them are quite small
Other’s tower hungrily
Try to devour all

In my life I must sing loud
That I don’t currently
Have that darkness in my world
Life does treat me gently

Absence of my own blackness
Has yet not blinded me
To wicked deeds around me
Of them you should be free

Karma is a funny thing
Universal balance
It seems it work better
With a more timely stance

A flaming sword of justice
With a merciless sweep
Could balance things more justly
A consequence replete

I never want to play God
Though willing in a thrice
To write his vengeance list
And give some small advice


Ken Goree


My life is good, and I have no call to complain for myself.  However, I witness intentional cruelty, destruction and pain heaped on some of my friends, and I spend great thought on the question, “Why is this evil allowed to persist.”  In a less “civilized,” but more just and fair world, a community would have dealt with these problems expediently, without guilt or remorse, and the world would be improved.  Darwin’s theory of natural selection (interpreted by a laymen), has died.  We provide protection for the sick and twisted, which would have been removed from the gene pool, as it should have been, be, long before this point.

Second Sister

Second Sister

Such marvelous joy

Friend evolves into sister

Happy laughter reigns

Ken Goree

My wonderful friend and I went out for dinner and drinks tonight.  There was a lot of laughter, and me talking too much, as usual.  We told people we were brother and sister; a silly game for grown-ups, but quite fun nonetheless.  

Laughter

The
Sweetest
Symphony
Children’s voices
Giggling
Telling stories
Excitedly interrupting
Wishing to share with
Greatest
Joy
Teenage confusion
Forgotten
For bright, shining
Moments
Engraved in the
Memory
As sparkling
Smiles
Happiness blushed
Cheeks
To the background
Music of
Innocent
Unrestrained
Laughter


Ken Goree


Some moments are meant to be savored, and remembered, long after childhood has left us.  These images are recalled anew, when each following generation conjures again the magic we had let diminish and fade.  Tonight, the gift that never wears beyond value was shared with me again.  Thank you.  And thank you also, for not spraying me with the whipped cream.

Being Human

Were we to be perfect
We wouldn’t be human
We spend a few priceless moments
When brought to life
When innocent,
When we haven’t felt doubt
Wondering
Who we are
Waiting for the answers
Walking in our tired
Worn shoes
Willing grace and strength
Working to correct our
Well-worn mistakes
We wouldn’t be human
Were we perfect


Ken Goree

Lighted

Fir bough
Scent
Fills each joyous
Inhalation
And it is
Up
To
Me

Bundled package
Branching
Setting firm, strong
Foundation
And it is
Up
To
Me

Spreading arms
Reaching
Waiting to carry
Decoration
And it is
Up
To
Me

Proud symbol
Touching
The expectant senses
Heightened
At your arrival
And it is
Up
To
Me

Guiding parent
Leading
My young blessings
Forward
Showing what’s lighted
And it is
Up
To
Me


Ken Goree


I put up the Christmas tree tonight.  My kids will come home to the lights and scent that set the holiday season in motion.  My mother used to be the one who carried on the rituals and traditions that put the final polish on our wonderful lives.  I guess now, it is up to me.

Untouched

Unfeeling,
Unfocused,
Shoulder to wall
Seeing,
Tasting,
Smelling,
Cloud crystal halos
Circling winter moon
In cold night,
But
Drifting
Soul,
Realizing the rift,
Wonders at emptiness
Sad
To
Be
Untouched


Ken Goree

Frost

Frost

White crystal blanket

Covering in cool beauty

Bringing forth shivers

Ken Goree

Foot

It used to be, that when I said something

Those words would roll out with just the right ring

When spoke in the past, t’was diplomatic

Calming effect, didn’t cause any static

But now, no matter, what I happen to say

It never seems to come out the right way.

I open my lips, and try for a song

My words don’t you know, they come out quite wrong

I do honestly try, not to offend

I really do wish, my “mis-saids” would end

So I realized that, apparently

The foul taste of foot, must appeal to me.

Ken Goree

I didn’t actually say anything to “put my foot in my mouth,” but I have seen it done repeatedly by acquaintances lately, and I have been in situations where it seems like it would have been a very easy thing to do.

Cauldron

Cauldron
Boil and
Tumble
Of mist filled
Crater,
Stretches outward
Cloaking
Unknown
Cruel
Dangers

Descending
Into shrouding
Vapors
Of low sunken
Cloud,
Sounds dampened,
Deprived
Senses
Construct
Mysteries

Figures
Materialize and
Darken,
Solidifying their presence
Ahead,
Common, made
Wicked,
Within
Alien
Landscape

Murmurs
Speak softly
Of
Unseen black torments,
Grown
Vivid, perilous,
Born
From
Magnificent
Imaginings

Crashing
Sound, causes
Bolting panic, conquering
Logic,
Racing scramble,
Fleeing
From
Gaining
Terrors

Shale
Kicked away
By
Frantic scrambling feet
Gaining
Abyss’ rim
Sunlight
Evaporating
Foul
Nightmare


Ken Goree


This morning, I was enjoying the dense fog swirling around me as I stood on my back deck.  I sipped at my coffee cup and watched it add its own mists to the morning.  Ducks in the wetlands pounded wings at the water as they, startled by fear of some thing real or imagined, took flight through the trees.  As the day wore on, memory of the morning slipped from my mind.

This evening, while in my writing group, the subject of fog and its beautiful mystery was brought up several times; conversationally in one person’s description of her day, and another time in a poem shared. 

It seemed like a good direction to take, as I sat down to write my poem.  I hadn’t intended to write something that seemed “dark.”  It just evolved that way through my process.  Like many of my poems and stories that have a malevolent presence to them, I don’t think of them that way.  To me, they are a recollection of the wonderful, delicious fright that one can produce with the imagination, especially as a child.  When my writing takes a dark road, I am experiencing my own special brand of nostalgia.