Two Buckets of Dirt

Two Buckets of Dirt

We tossed and we turned.
We shredded and dreaded.
We traded and threatened.
“It’s yours! You have to take it.”
“It wasn’t mine. It was yours.”
“It was mine, but I don’t want it.”
“It was mine, but you can take it.”

As we sorted, we talked,
made up stories too.
Made up lies when we needed to.
Just to get on through the getting through
after our parents had dropped dead.

We cleaned out the attic.
We cleared the storage shed.
We searched under each and every bed.
We piled things in a dumpster,
burned documents on the grill.
We drank all dad’s old booze,
it didn’t make us ill.

We redistributed a lifetime of things.
Double-barreled shotgun,
gold pocket-watch on a chain.
Silver trolling motor,
bushel baskets of notes and cards.
Photographs stuffed in trash bags like leaves.
Nothing’s left behind.

What about those two buckets of dirt?
Buckets of dirt from an open-pit diamond mine.
Back when dad seemed to lose his mind
taking us to Arkansas for a get rich vacation.
We sorted dirt and rock all day
searching for the perfect diamond.
Even filled two buckets and hauled them home
so mom and dad could keep searching.

My oldest sister took those buckets to her home,
dumped the diamond dirt on a flower bed.
She never said if that dirt sparkled.
But somehow I just found 7 diamonds.
They’re sparkling now inside my mind.
Yeah, sparkling bright inside my head.
Can you see them? Can you see them?

Gregory Zeorlin 10/2/2017 @ 11:15pm

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Reading a Poem

Blue Spot

Blue Spot

 

Reading a Poem

There’s never a delay
in reading a poem.
The words don’t spoil.
The spaces between the words
don’t split open or compress.
And the periods
still make you stop.
See?

 
Gregory Zeorlin 12/10/2016 @ 8:14am
This was my email reply to a friend who said
he was sorry for the “delay” in reading a poem
I had recently sent him.

SHARE THIS POEM IF YOU WISH.

Out There

Out There

There’s frost sparkling on the lawn chair.
I do not dare go out there,
in my boxer shorts.

Picture me, or you, turning blue.
Puffs of steam float out our mouths.
Most birds up North have gone South
or just now pass overhead wondering…

“What are those humans doing down there?”
Well, we’re sipping coffee
in our underwear.

But of course not!
There’s frost sparkling on the lawn chair.
But in the spring, I’ll be there, half-bare,
coffee steam rising to boost you home.

Gregory Zeorlin 12/1/2016 @ 7:45am

SHARE this poem if you wish….

Island-Spaceship-Mall Planet

I recently entered a colossal glass roofed shopping mall spreading over acres of land. The structure seemed like something in between an island and spaceship or a mall planet closely orbiting earth. I generally avoid these environments as my spacesuit isn’t equipped to endure the atmosphere.  The gasses generated from such places suit the aliens who look like me but require another type of atmosphere to exist. Prolonged exposure to the mall planet’s atmosphere causes both people and aliens to succumb to impulse buying behaviors.

While walking on the surface of mall planet the sensors on my spacesuit detected fumes gassing from $800 dollar leather purses.  I notice many aliens carry credit cards and other charging devices in these show bags to continue generating high pressured debt.  But carefully designed exoskeletons allow these aliens to carry the debt burden while maintaining an expressionless look. Their deadpan faces are similar to the photographs displayed in the mall of fashion models wearing designer clothes while carrying highly coveted and priced handbags. But who noticed these trophy bags since most aliens walk with heads titled down to gaze at communication devices? Some aliens carry the trophy purses to the mall planet while wearing pajamas just to sit and drink caffeine.

Magical Purses

Magical Purses

As I venture deep into this unfamiliar planet I realize it is filled with millions of pieces of designer space debris. The openings on each side of the tarmac grant access to vast showy warehouses where pulsing music, shimmering homing devices and blinking beacons guide aliens to boots, polished metal trinkets, gilded suits and more.  It’s all available and acquisition requires only a credit card.  I’m relieved as warehouse workers evaluate my spacesuit and decide I am not one of the aliens.  These semi-robots sharply reduce their pre-purchase dialog with me (which gets modified depending on what exoskeleton an alien wears).

Gilded Suits

Gilded Suits

The island-spaceship-mall planet defies common sense. I see palm trees nearly hovering in space inside glowing blue glass boxes.  White flags hang above these full-sized artificial trees and serve as antennas guiding shoppers to the correct designer space debris depots.  Some consider these flags as displays of public art. The flags are without color or content and fill the void above the fake palm trees. The trees and the flag mean absolutely nothing.  Perhaps this is to remind us we are nothing until we buy something? Buy something, put the exoskeleton on, and fit in. To be an alien means we’ll learn to bear crushing debt and even feel normal racing around frantically in automobiles costing as much as some homes after departing from the mall planet.

Hovering Fake Palm Trees

Hovering Fake Palm Trees

I did see a pair of $215 dollar shoes I liked. I’m not sure, but my spacesuit may have temporarily malfunctioned allowing me to detect leather scent which weakened my logic. Or, the flag-antenna system successfully signaled “BUY ME” data into my brain. Fortunately a defense system in my brain will override it and guide me to a thrift store. I will eventually find those shoes in a thrift store where out of fashion space debris gets reacquisitioned by people living down on earth.

As Black Friday approaches (and all variations and renditions released by the alien mother ship), I wish all fellow humans  good luck and good shopping. Let’s buy stuff to cram into our closets and rented storage units! Buy even more stuff to leave in our automobile trunks until we remember to carry it into our cluttered lives. Or…RAISE YOUR SPACE DEBRIS SHIELDS! But…eventually we will succumb to the aliens vast marketing power.

…..High on my gift wish list this year….. the before you “go” toilet spray gift-set that cloaks my stink before I let it go. And all imaginary readers who made it to this point wish I used that toilet spray before I posted this c#%p. Too late.

Now get out and buy something you didn’t need! And if all else fails remember…Things Sell Better With Jesus (Yes you can buy this sticker/note-card…See! The aliens on the Mall Planet got me to make a sales pitch before Black Friday).

Things Sell Better With Jesus

Things Sell Better With Jesus

 

So….Peace, love and happiness to those who celebrate for many reasons between mid-November and January 1st.

Imaginary People of April

 

Imaginary People of April*

An imaginary person,
once said to me, or someone,
“Hey! Don’t send me
any more of your poetry!
Cause’ I don’t need any poetry.
All I need is television!
Can’t you see? Good god man!
Why can’t you see?”

 

So a name was dropped from the list
of imaginary people needing poetry
because another imaginary person
had lost their imagination to television.
And who can blame them?
It’s so pretty inside there.

 

Then another imaginary person
said to me, or someone, “Hey!
Hey don’t send me any poetry!
Dammit no!
Cause’ all I need is a telephone.
Yeah, a telephone
with a screen that glows!”

 

So that imaginary person
was dropped from the list
of those needing poetry.
Cause’ with a cell phone
you rattle words and text them too.
And what would an imaginary person
do with poetry,
I ask you?

 

Yet another imaginary person yelled
right at me, or someone,
“Don’t send me any of that poetry!
Oh no! What I need is
small batch fried chicken from KFC
and hand rolled taquitos, too.
Skip them hand written poems I’m telling you!
I can’t eat words and neither can you!”

 
So I, or someone, deleted that imaginary person
off the list of those needing poetry.
Fat had gained another mind.
And maybe cheese is more pleasing, than poetry.

 

Unfortunately another imaginary person
texted me, or someone,
“What the hell! More poetry?
What I need is more football, basketball,
baseball and wrestling too!
I don’t need any poetry you wimpy fool!”

 

So I, or someone else,
deleted and deleted
and deleted some more
until every person needing poetry,
was off the list.
But not a single person
removed from the list realized
poetry was gone.
Every person needing poetry
became part of a poem.
And these imaginary people slowly faded
into the unread poem until they were
forever and ever, forgotten.
Like this poem.

 

Gregory Zeorlin 4/3/2016 11:30pm

*April is National Poetry Month. Who reads poetry? Perhaps writers of poetry work for imaginary readers who should be allowed to fade away.  But if you do read poetry, you can read my new digital book titled “TEN CENT POETRY.

TEN CENT POETRY

My posts to this vital blog have been sparse due to working on a poetry book titled “TEN CENT POETRY.” It’s a digital book on a pdf file. No doubt the demand to read poetry by an unheard of poet will be high. Beat the rush and download the file today. (The pdf will work on a smart phone, iPad or other personal digital device). I suggest you read the book at your leisure. And since you’ll enjoy the book, please forward it so others can read it. Thanks in advance to anyone who actually shares my book with someone else.

white school bus ten cent promo v1 square v2

TEN CENT POETRY. A book by Gregory Zeorlin

TEN CENT POETRY. A book by Gregory Zeorlin

TEN CENT POETRY. A book by Gregory Zeorlin

Slow Leak

 

Another semi-sarcastic ramble…(aka, a poem)…written at some point to poke fun at the ego and aging.

 

Slow Leak

 

Three quarters through

the first day of being 60.

On entering a decade of sixes,

not much has changed.

 

I had imagined some commencement,

an inauguration was going to happen.

A retrospective of my genius

would pop-up like a pop-up store.

 

Nothing less or nothing more,

this day rolls towards nightfall.

I am falling towards the

reality of some unknown end.

 

Visions of grandeur linger

in my now shrinking head,

now shrinking body,

loss of muscle mass.

 

But I’m a feisty one,

as all newly 60’d say.

I will change the game,

slow the leak.

 

Oh such nerve, what gumption.

I write an epitaph

of my glorious assumption,

one pompous word at rhyme.