ave you ever had to walk around without a thought in your skull? How about an absent mind? It occurs to me. I can be a very thoughtless person. I’m kind of used to it, in fact . . . . . . . . . . . . . You’re still here. Are you waiting for something? I hope you don’t think I have anything to say. One might certainly expect with such a topic for there to be the opposite. Even more than usual. I think I’ve said all that I can say given my current mental state. What do you mean, if it occurs to me then I must be thinking something? There’s nothing that occurs to me when that occurs, got it?

I suppose I could wrack my brain to wring a thought or two from the folds of its squishy gray matter. It won’t be easy. First I have to decide the best means by which to get inside my head. Does anyone have a pickaxe or saw? A cleaver, perhaps? Or maybe a machete? How about a pair of extremely long pliers? While you scrounge up the necessary equipment, I’ll just contemplate the wind between my ears.

Ooo, nice! It’s like listening to a seashell. Hmmmm. If you listen to a seashell by the seashore, how can you be sure whether the sound of the ocean you hear is from the shell or all of those waves splish-splashing onto the beach?

But enough about that. How terribly thoughtless! I’ve left you dangling like a participle, haven’t I? I do tend to do that. If only I knew why. Being thoughtless, I haven’t the foggiest of ideas. C’est la vie. Que sera, sera. Around, around it goes; where it stops, nobody knows. I’m afraid that’s the best I can manage without giving it more thought, which I can’t do since I don’t have more thought to give. Does that indicate I’m brain-dead? I like to think I’m merely preoccupied. A wee distracted. Attention-deficit-disordered. I assure you it’s only temporary. It’s just most of the time and more often than not. It’s as if my thoughts wandered and never came back. Yes, that’s exactly what it is.

Of course, it’s possible too that my brain was consumed by a hungry zombie. Or picked apart by critics and vultures; inquisitioners and plagiarers; copycats and belfry bats; a patch of wandering fungus. Or surgically removed by a lobotomist. Stolen by a mad scientist. Extracted through my nose by an Egyptian embalmer who presumed me dead for simply being lethargic. (Hey, these things happen!)

Some people are thoughtless in other ways. Through careless words and deeds. By what they don’t as much as what they do. Then there are those who say what they don’t think and mean. Words without sincerity are hollow thoughts without the ring of truth, forsooth. It’s wise to think before one speaks, but not premeditate or calculate. Speak from the heart. It isn’t always the big things we say and do that matter. Sometimes the little things add up, amounting to our measure.

Ah, thoughtlessness. How I’d love to wade the shallows of its depth. But if everything we’ve ever thought might come unthunk, would our thunkenings become neverthoughts? Would our afterthoughts be too late? Would our shouldas become less than zero or lost in space? It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Typically, I don’t actually know where I’m going with this. If I could think, I would probably have a clue. Or I’d have never begun this rambling thoughtless preambling in the first place. Alas I did and so it’s done. I can’t erase the past. I could delete these words but then I wouldn’t complete my column. There is in that this, as in this that, and thus I shall have to be stuck in the muck of my own making.

While I claim no responsibility for any thoughtlessness that bursts out of my noggin, I will tell you this: Let an umbrella be your umbrella, because smiles only work for candy sprinkles, baby showers, and figurative monsoons.

April is the month of williwackery and fuddlebeduddlement, in which there are deluges of madness along with delusions of fools falling from the sky. There can also be bucket-sized raindrops that may require the genuine article, and a sturdy one at that!

Which brings us to the question, have you ever felt silly when wet? It’s a bit like being slippery when wet without the hydroplaning. It’s plain ridiculous is what it is, and I must advise against it. Which is why you should always remember your trusty umbrella, good for rain or shine. And if you should need to clobber someone. Or float downward with dignity instead of a lengthy drawn-out shriek.

I think I’ve managed to not say enough about anything. Which is almost as deep a subject as well, or as broad a topic as hmmmm. And entirely as conclusive as drat! Aw, the heck with it — let there be poems . . .


Can one, I wonder, run out of thoughts?

Is there a limit to your consciousness?

Like a sea defined within its shores

A line of finish, more or less

Can the thinking tank go empty?

This is one of my worst fears

That I could wind up like an idiot

And stay that way for years


How it plagues me drawing blanks

And will leave a loss for words

Thoughts might take to wing abruptly

Like a startled flock of birds

The threat is like a neon sign

A lightbulb blinking on and off

Intelligence can waver so

I may lose it with a cough


In the waggles of a bedraggled mind

Sprouts the minatory millet grain

Of the seed of doubt wherein lies out

That which nothing can explain

I have many specularities

Which come and go at will

Yet I can’t contain them in my brain

Through lips or ears they spill


As if my head has sprung a leak

And is draining me of inference

Which could spell the end of all implied

Would I even know the difference?

If my wells and sighs should runneth dry

Might I lose conviction and intent?

Shall I try to save what I have left

Ere my words become what isn’t meant?


My cranny’s neither sponge nor trap

Much more fell out than what went in

It’s filled with silent ponderings

That can cause a raucous din

But is every thought inside at birth?

Do we think them up as we go along?

Can ideas be replenished

Like the dinging of a dong?


Would it be all right if I cognite

And present a fleeting supposition

That opinions can be just as void

As unsightly recognition?

Well, I must conclude without conjecture

And in lieu of due deliberance

That the lack of thought, it seems to me

Would just leave us in suspense.

The Glowers

In a crinkled blink of a bloodshot eye

Was a thought reflected that made men die

Oh, the tremorous truth of the matter would be

That this eye had power to more than see

When an orb is evil as a wicked witch

And can cause the eyes of the beheld to twitch

It was said of olde and cannot be untold –

When The Glowers get you, the blood runs cold

Knees melt away like a candle’s wax

The chest fibrillates like twelve heart attacks

Flesh will split as if sorely whipped

Faces are peeled and severely stripped

None can escape once the look them eyes

For its gaze cuts deep and it never lies

You can’t guard against that awful glare

Or return it, endeavoring to outstare

When it targets you there is naught to do

But say your prayers and bid adieu

The only defense is to never meet

That Evil Eyer with a breath not sweet

Who reeks of rankness, skunken rot

Dragging the bones of a gaunt mascot

A snarly sabertooth mammoth glomp

That bubbled out of an infestuous swamp

This Eyer possesses no masterplan

Except to wreak such ruin as can

It walks in a shroud of mystery

And has stalked men’s souls through history

Should you find its gander trained your way

And detect the stench of maudlin decay

Too late, The Glowers have come to pass

A senseless fate, so cruel and crass

Your last thought will be, “Egads, why me?”

As you’re swept into abominy.


There’s a muddle in my head

And I can’t get it out

I’m not sure where it’s going

As it spirals in doubt

Out of answers, only maybes

Too much is never clear

It keeps going round in circles

And is neither there nor here

It’s like swimming in a goldfish bowl

Without a destination

Like hanging on to nothing

Or a thoughtless rumination

Like thinking in a box

Where there aren’t any walls

Or standing in a phone-booth

Yet making no calls

Crossing the line

That hasn’t been drawn

Mowing the grass

And never the lawn

Lending a hand

But giving a fist

Like seeing for yourself

What doesn’t exist

So I’ve come to the conclusion

I will leave it undecided

The solution to a riddle

Leaves the blank unabided

If I chose a single choice

I would have to be inclined

To never take a chance

On losing my mind.

one day it rained

The sky grew dark by Noon

Like Night without a moon

Its gale would wail as leaves set sail

A harsh unholy tune


The storm had reached a town

And did its best to drown

Low bugs and slugs with puddled glugs

’Twas really coming down


The people fled in fright

The heavens turned to night

While rain devoured, malignance showered

It was a wretched sight


You’ve never seen a squall

Could puncture through the wall

Each drop was fire, the town a pyre

Before the wet should fall


Amidst the flames then flood

Did also pour some blood

As black as oil, then red turmoil

That turned the land to mud


If this were God’s intent


The town would pay on Judgement Day

Descending souls Hell-bent


But with no verdict came

In no Creator’s name

The ghastly wave that none would save

Or ever be the same


Such tragedies exist

Manmade or lacking gist

They come along, no right or wrong

In the sudden of a twist


And so one day the rain

No weather could explain

What happened then could befall again

The world had gone insane.

ode to monsters

Some of us love monsters

And would hug them if we could

But their kind would doubtless rend us

For being so misunderstood

Those of tale or film transform us

Through their grumbliness and charm

We may tremble at their presence

Yet they never bring us harm

It’s the normal ones to watch for

It’s the human beast to fear

Whether deadly or just diabolic

With a weapon or a leer


All my life I’ve separated

True monsters from pretend

How I cherish made-up creatures

Like a long-lost childhood friend

There’s a sense of kindred spirit

In the heart of every fan

Who has ever loved a monster

Ever sought the boogeyman

They might not be comic heroes

And may even look disgusting

But they’ll be there when you need them

For some thrills while never rusting


Creature Features on the tube

Became a ritual event

Back when monster magazines

Were how allowance should be spent

The Wolfman, Mummy, Blob and Birds

Simplistic, yet they left their mark

Far more than fancier effects

I watched eyes wide and feared the dark

It was an era growing up

That shaped a Horror Generation

The Zuni Doll remains possessed

In my imagination


Now trilogies are commonplace

And graphics jade the budding mind

In splashy color, three-dimension

Gone the magical spellbind

Of youth so sweet in grayish tones

A life of books and films, game-boards

The slower pace of true embrace

When moments paused to be absorbed

The monsters of my past exist

As real as if they live and breathe

And through my words, my humble stories

I will their legacy bequeath.

A Larch

A larch grew in a shady grove

Where motion hardly ever hove

So dense the thicket and remote

Concealed, embraced by elaborate dote

A jungly mungly sheltered tangle

Riper than a newfound-fangle

Dense and dark and twice as deep

In all but smallness could not creep

The larch’s boughs were ever green

Needled, bristling, seldom seen

How sad, such beauty unadmired

Except the few least awe-inspired

A humble lot too preoccupied

To heed what Nature sought to hide

Until the day when stumbled on

Precisely at the hint of dawn

This treasure buried in the copse

An emerald tree with fears and hopes

The larch drew up to its full height

Presenting quite a splendid sight

To greet the hiker open-armed

The visitor was moved and charmed

Communing there till late at night

By solitude of lantern-light

Profundant silence did abound

In understanding without sound

An intertwining, mind and spirit

A song and dance, though none could hear it

Should others follow as they do

And peace be fractured, more the rue

A careless toss, a smoking stub

Would kindle flames and there’s the rub

For paradise will have its end

A perfect day cannot extend

Beyond the moment two lives meet

When worlds collide and time is sweet

Too good to last, it has to fade

As sunlight always turns to shade

And thus this larch must stand alone

So rarely glimpsed; again unknown.

~ Published ~
April 8, 2011

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