Life

Name of the book: Life
          Author: M. Warren Bell
    Type of book: poem (short fatalistic poem)

LIFE

Life is inheriently fatal.

You are born to die.

It is your destny.

Each day merely puts off rhe inevitable.

Name of the book:
          Author:
    Type of book:

 

Ode to Bill[1]

 

(reminisces
of an Internal Team Meeting he "chaired".)

 

 

Smooth words, flowing like honey, gentle

like diarrhea, before your anus gets chaffed.

Words dulling the senses, blinding the mind

till you're lost in a world of sounds.

 

Dulled, dazed, mesmerized by gentle words

lacking inflection, passion or breaks.

Agreeing with anything said: yes  yes!

YES! manning as blindly as a cult member.

 

Fearing to fall asleep, wondering why not;

praying I've not sold out totally!

Poor zombie! Dead to the world, hoping, praying

the coat of honey colored dung will wear off.

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Bill Nichols had this horribly irritating habit of
talking, talking and talking. Every so often, he would make some outrageous, asinine
comment and ask us if we agreed. By the time we hear this request for
agreement, we’re so dazed by the flow of words that we don’t know what we’re
agreeing to!

 





            





Ode to a Tornado Victim

 

Good thing that man is dead

cause I just saw his head

flying through the air

going who know where?

 

Tornado hit the county Jail

proceeded by a wash of hail

covered the ground in a blanket of white

somehow, this just isn't right.

 

Saw the inmates scampering, scampering,

falling debris hampering, hampering,

some ran hard, some ran fast

hope was fleeing, couldn't last.

 

Tornado hit the county jail,

was too new to possibly fail,

in the winds things did sail,

now the tax payers will start to wail.

 

(take 2)

Ode to a Tornado Victim

 

Good thing that man is dead

cause I just saw his head

flying through the air

going who knows where?

 

Tornado hit the county Jail

proceeded by a wash of hail

covered the ground all in white

somehow, this just isn't right.

 

Saw the inmates scampering, scampering,

falling debris hampering, hampering,

some ran hard, some ran fast

hope was fleeing, couldn't last.

 

Tornado hit the county jail,

was to new too possibly fail,

in the winds things did sail,

now the tax payers will start to wail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PTSD

 

You can't have PTSD,
you were never at war

(war comes in many
forms of pain and fear)

no one tried hurting
you body or soul

(bleeding souls hide
under flesh).

 

 

I am convinced I
wrote this poem.

 

If I had found and
copied this poem, I would have listed the Poet’s name or would have stated
where I found it.

 

I wrote this poem in
June 2020. I had been in lockdown from early March 2020 to June 2020. I
suffered from boredom and depression and PTSD (I was remembering painful events
from the past to deep past. I found this awful!

 

I have written poems,
short stories and novels which had stretches of text which, when I read them
now, are revealed as being powerful.

 

I can be proud of
this poem, my poem!



 

 

There are a series of
poems I wrote during the summer of 1985; 

that was a great
summer where I couldn't seem to write fast 

enough to write  down all the poems that were bubbling up in
my

head.  I thought that this was an embarrassment of
riches and 

wished it would slow
down or quit; unfortunately, the inspiration 

largely did stop. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Olympics (Berlin)[2]

 

A waltz played in the background

as the skaters wove their way

across mirror smooth ice through

clean air, air smelling faintly of wood smoke.

 

Their hosts smiled at their guests

who glided with the grace of hawks

cutting patterns but sailing 

ever closer to hidden thin spots.

 

The Jews were the first plunged through

and hosts sank the gypsies next, but,

the hosts and the guests said nothing,

nothing to ruin the wonderful day of skating.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                Sanctuary

 

I
walk the night alone,

wrapped
in darkness and quiet.

I
see without being seen.

 

I've
become a part of the night.

My
skin merges out with it

as
it flows around the houses lit

like
lanterns in the sea of night.

 

I move
apart from those within,

aloft
and safe from harm.

They
cannot touch me nor I touch them.

I
watch and walk as through a dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           The Hollow People

 

Last
night, I went to "THE" party: 

In a
room with a shimmering mirror,

where
all the guests wore smiles and elegant dress,

hardly
touched their drinks and

looked
only at each other's faces.

 

They
were so lively, yet

their
smiles seemed so sad; then

I
noticed their backs were bare and

looked
like the inside of cast figurines:

dull
gray and contoured to match their fronts.

 

Fearfully,
I touched my back and it felt solid.

In
that room, only I was real!

I
looked at them and felt pity.

I
frowned and found I disliked 

being
surrounded by these hollow shells.

 

My
back faced the mirror and

I
glanced back towards it.

In
shock, I turned away and gulped my drink,

trying
to forget the dull plastic where

my
back should have been.

 

Finally,
I donned the sad smile of the others,

sipped
a new drink and thought: I am real?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Insects

 

I
sat watching as an insect

slowly
walked across my arm

like
a hiker in a forest and

I
was godlike in size and

intellect
compared to it.

 

Casually,
I brushed it from my arm

and
killed it - then felt annoyed

as I
went to wash my hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               The Great Wheel[3]

 

The
great wheel turns; dead winter burns away

the
old; leaves appear like green jewel arrays

on
trees of coat hangers made. Flowers spray

their
need in red and blue and white display.

 

 

A
special language only bees can read:

They
slip into the flowers so smooth - casual

in
approach; take a bit, leave another's seed

and
flitter off in lust for renewal!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

              It![4]

 

The
boy clenched his mother's hand as he

dragged
into the kitchen to see the

monstrous
dog bought for him.

This
nightmare creature sat balanced

upon
his father's palm and whimpered.

The
boy stuck out a shaking finger;

the
puppy sniffed it and began to nibble

as
the boy giggled in delight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               Short Timer [5]                    

         

a
cloudlet leaves it's parent

white
climbing, sliming, up the sky

then
dying, drying, burnt by the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        Mr. Happy[6]

 

Mr.
Happy walks his garden

weeds
it, waters it, watches as:

 

      A ship burns in the sky,

      A bum freezes on a grate.

 

Perfect
fruit for the picking,  

in
Joy he gathers his Crop.

 

 

 

 

 

       Prometheus

 

Teacher/bringer
of fire,

White
smoke chases you.

Writing
your name on the sky

In
glyphs spelling death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

               Cranes[7]

 

Giant
young Cranes perching today, they say                                       

whale
eating, drinking from the Reflecting

pool.
Nesting in the Pentagon well way,

just
grandly perched on Condo roofs...broken things!

 

 

Giant
young Cranes chasing aircraft away,

when
they go brunch or munch the City Zoo!

Whose
mating rites are sights to see, I say

to
awe and thrill or chill cynic me or you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

Time

 

         0.

 

Time
flows like honey,

slow,
sweet, full of bubbles

and
twisting like a rope

in
a golden haze

obscuring
everything but itself.

We're
the bubbles thinking that

we've
always been there,

always
will be there,

not
knowing or caring

how
short our lives will be,

falling
in the sweet golden haze

that
seems to last forever.

 

 

       I.

 

I
feel time, time

like
a giant strobe

now
flashing in my youth,

now
flashing in my manhood,

now
flashing and I am gone.

                

                

                

        II.

 

We
are nothing, nothing

but
frozen images among the

multitude
in a scrapbook or

sparks
flowing upward from a fire

that
glows brightly for an instant

and
they are gone.

                 

              

                 

        III.

 

 We live in a now, now

"knowing"
tomorrow will never come,

 living in a frenzy feeling that

 endless tomorrow's await us

 and scarcely noting that days past

 piling up like debris 

 in a small prison cell

 from which we cannot escape.

 

 

 

 





 

     Temptation I

 

 I sit, impatient, to watch

 my sole light burn

 bright, strong, above

 and wonder when

 the light will end.

 

 I think to smash the bulb

 and raise my hand yet cannot

 bear the thought of darkness;

 again I stay my hand.

 

 

 

     Temptation II

 Brightly burns my light.

 destroy the rose?

 I smile at my inertia.





An
Old Uncomfortable Suit[8]

 

Fear
is a suit I wear

when
under pressure and stress;

it
coats my thoughts

like
batter on deep-fried scrimp

and
slows my thoughts like

some
bad drug that's still legal.

 

Fear
fills my mind like

steam
filling a shower stall and

I
see it, feel it coming

like
a small boy watching

the
belt fall during a whipping

and
I can't will it away.

 

Or
when I've surprised fear in a crisis

and
calm fills me insides like

a
cold glass of water on a hot day,

fear
can lunge at me

like
a shit-covered spear

impaling
it's victim without warning.

 

Fear
is like a thick coat of paint

and
now I have a paint scrapper

and
I scrap and scrap but

the
removal is slow, inefficient and

only
time and weathering finishes the job.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

      Middle Ages

 

When
we were young,

our
parents told us:

       "Grow up!"

       "Quit acting so childish!"

       "He's such a big baby!"

       "She's such a little girl!"

 

And
so we grow up

to
become adults and be told:

                

         "You grew up too fast!"

         "Remember the things you lost,

          in the carefree days of youth!"

          "You've lost your
childhood!"

 

Too
young and now too old is our crime,

we've
lived our lives at the wrong time!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FAME[9] 

 

Cherry
blossom blooming bright, colorful,

attracting
bees; dies, falls in graceful swoops.

Who
remembers its name? 

 

 





 

                        Wine![10] 

 

From
grape to squeezing to must,

yeast,
nutrient and CO2 in a gust,

from
fermenting vat to bottling;

aged
a year, it virtue to sing. 

 

Its
raw and strong and just a bit strange,

from
bottle to bottle the taste does range!

Now
drink that...wine! wine! wine!

I
made it...mine! fine! wine! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

My
Father was a USAF Captain and was transferred to Kaduna AFB Okinawa in 1954. My
Mother, little brother Jim and I went to Okinawa on this ship (USNS General MM
PATRICK) in 1955. The family – including my Father and baby brother Jeff - returned
in 1957.

 










[1]
“Bill” is William Nichols, a retired USAF Major, who worked as the Science and
Operations Officer at the Dodge City National Weather Service in the late
1990s. He was an insufferable perfectionist who had not mentally gotten out of
the USAF. Fortunately, he is very money orientated and transferred to a Weather
Service office in Iowa where he would have a higher income. He wasn’t missed…





[2]
This
poem was written in Fall 1985; it lacks something, a certain smoothness I
think. However, I liked the images (but then I can hardly be expected to say
negative things about my "Mind Child" (to steal a line from Seymour Papert).





[3] I wrote this poem as an
exercise in Bob Bauche's class; you will note 

  that it is in iambic pentameter and is the
first eight lines of an 

  Elizabethan sonnet. I threw out the last four
lines and the finishing 

  couplet because Bob Bauch didn't like them;
pity! The last four lines 

  were about human lust and the couplet
combined the themes of the first 

  three verses.

 

  An Elizabethan sonnet consists of three
verses each of four lines and 

  a finishing couplet; fourteen lines in all.
The rhyme scheme is ABAB 

  CDCD EFEF GG. The lines are in iambic
pentameter (and actually were 

  in my original poem!)





[4]  A neighbor's dog scared me badly when I was
in 1st grade; this 

  dog was almost as tall as I was. So, my
parents bought a miniature

  dachshund. This dog was as described as was
my reaction to it





[5]


  This poem was written around 5:30 am one
morning on Guam whilst I       

  was sitting on a roof and watching the
weather. We were in the          

  midst of an anti-terrorist exercise on Guam
called "Operation           

  Bulldog". The cloudlet was a bit of
strato-fractus that boiled up       

  from some morning cumulus.





[6]
These two poems were
written the day of the Challenger explosion. 


   I heard a couple of "jokes" that
same night! It is amazing how fast people

   people can come up with bad jokes...

 

   The middle two lines of "Mr.
Happy" refer to the mixture of rich and poor in

   our country. A shuttle is a very expensive
system and representative of a

   wealthy culture. The poor are representative
of a poor culture.

 

   "Mr. Happy" is a reference to the
grim reaper. 

   

   "Prometheus" brought fire to
people. Sharon Christa McAuliffe was a teacher

    and the rest of the Space Shuttle
Challenger crew were military and civilian

    astronauts.    It did upset a lot of
people that the press talked

    mostly about the teacher. Personally, my
thoughts were for the professionals.





[7]
The title of this poem
is "Cranes"; it is a joke. I wrote this poem when we lived just south
of Washington, DC and I had just started in Bob Bauch's writing class. 

 

They
were using the gigantic construction cranes in the Washington, Dc area

that
look like a "T". That is, a vertical post with the crosspiece on top.
When these cranes dipped down, they reminded me of living Cranes in a Zoo. So,
I used the image of birds effectively 150 feet high. The Reflecting Pool is a
very nice place to visit (or for huge birds to drink from!). The Pentagon Well
way is in the very centre of the Pentagon. (There is a cafe there called
"The Ground Zero Café”; this graveyard humour reflects the reality that
the Pentagon is an ideal target).

 





[8]
Since I wrote this for
his class, Bob Bauche asked the class: "How 

many
of you did your fathers beat with his belt?" Every man (including 

Bob)
raised his hand; none of the women raised their hands. Some of the

women
said they had trouble believing us. Lucky them!

 

Addendum:
In January 2010, we were having a dinner at my Brother Jim’s house. Jim
mentioned that our brother Jeff has complained the worst our Father had done to
him was slap him once. Jim and I just looked at each other. Clearly, we both
wished we’d gotten off so lightly, that we had not been whipped with our
Father’s belt, whipped with his sarcasm and his indifference. Our Father was a
cold and distant figure who did not seem to want conversation with his sons. I
don’t believe I have ever gotten over this and haven’t forgiven him.

 

I
have learned that I am like him in many ways and now realize that he probably
suffered from depression (as I have). I have also read that the depressed are
more likely to “spank” their children…

 

 

 





[9]
After being
interviewed on TV twice and having seen myself

quoted
in the local paper several times (including one quote that was

wildly
out of context in the Freeport paper), I decided to write a

poem
about "Fame". I did it in pseudo-haiku fashion. The syllable

count
is wrong but my poem has nature images (anyway). 

 

 





[10]
Must is the
pre-fermentation liquid and CO2 is produced from the fermentation container.