Christmas Circus

Christmas Circus

There’s quite a show happening
on our Advent Wreath.
An Advent Wreath arranged on a white oval plate
with a cushion of evergreen leaves
and twigs with red-orange berries.
An Advent Wreath sitting
in the middle of the kitchen table.

There are two black specks rappelling
down the candle sticks!
And another speck of spider stringing
tiny silky lines from the pink one
to the three purple ones.
Three trapeze artists rehearsing,
with the greatest of ease,
for the annual Christmas circus.

Gregory Zeorlin 12/5/2016 @3:28pm

(SHARE this odd 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….

Jake & Jayleen Push Obscure Poetry

My last blog post had a big impact on many imaginary readers. Surely this post will generate even more interest by real and imaginary people out there. And if it does, read these poems from a digital book titled “Ten Cent Poetry” as they are real… . (If anyone reads this, share it. Ah shucks, why not?)

Jake and Jayleen promote poetry


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.

Tranquility (a spring poem)

Winter’s transition to spring and the ways our habits and rituals change with the seasons inspired this poem. (If you enjoy this poem please share or re-blog it so your friends can read it too. Thanks).


The faint neon glow
of dainty purple pink blinking blooms
suspended just above the dormant brown grass
confirms we have made it through
this southern fringed winter
of light frosts and rare occasional flurries
which shut down schools and hasten
the tossing of sand on streets so drivers can
speed as usual around this polite microcosm
some assume is the center of the world.

I’m just a bystander who will soon engage the seasonal change
pushing a mower without any rage
over clumps of weeds I should kill with poison
to ensure I am looking green without living
that back-to-earth philosophy proclaimed on
monster sized trucks and SUVs racing to
softball games, baseball games, soccer games
where everyone else is the blame
for your kid’s team losing, again.

Winter is never the same
on retreating and the different ways
are as subtle as an insult to a priest or minister
over a sermon they’ve given to drum up guilt
increasing collections and reflections on
the sin of the day.

Oh hell, I guess I’ll quit now
and go outside to play
with the sinners and saints
and observe spring’s superstars
and car drivers who will cut me off
as I drive to a park seeking tranquility
and a fresh breath of spring.

Gregory Zeorlin 3/23/2015 @ 4:31pm

Read more of my poetry at

Play Is Serious Work

Those familiar with my fine art may have seen a few of my “Veil Series” paintings pictured on this blog. Although my recent blog posts of “lowbrow” bumper sticker note cards could make it seem I’ve lost focus for the series. That is not the case. Sometimes diversions are necessary to let the next ideas drift without too much scrutiny. So the study image I posted of a white chair may appear in some of the next Veil Series paintings. I will see…so will you.

The chair pictured is a white metal mesh outdoor chair with light surface rust. After my parents both passed away my siblings and I had to clean out their home and disperse their belongings. Even though decades of things slowly amassed piece by piece they were all accessed suddenly. It comes down to keep, give away, sell or toss. So this chair came to my home. I’m sure stories were told on other porches while people sat on that chair. Now my friends sit on it to tell stories on my porch.

In the image below the rust on the chair has changed to bright white. It is as if all color absorbs into brightness. Look around, you’ll see chairs in your place that have new places to go at some point. The image is not complete as is. and much will happen over the next few months. I just thought my real and imaginary readers should know I’ve not given in to the lowbrow side of art. But I need to play on that side so my fine art can also evolve…So you see, play is serious work. As if something is brighter when darkness is near. Tenderness seems accentuated by harshness in our world. So it’s a bit of opposites attracting with my artwork.

White Chair (study)

White Chair (study)


How Stories Begin

We have stories about our lives that we tell later in time.  When they begin happening they may not even be recognized as stories.  We make choices to get a story going and are its characters and not the author.   It’s not that we don’t have some control over what we do.  But these are not stories we rehearse for a play.  We incorporate ourselves into our stories until the plot is almost instinctual.

Once the story of some event or situation has concluded we might not even realize it is over for a while.  But the story debuts at some unforeseen moment.  Then we stop being a character in the story but are still not the author.  We transition into editors of our life stories.

As we account for what we did, the details provided as well as left out, shapes the story.  Some details change in priority based upon how we deliver the story.  A written account of a story often differs from a verbal rendition.  For example, the responses from listeners could queue different details being included in a verbal delivery of a story.  So these stories continue being edited and revised over time.

Does the story eventually change enough that it is nothing like the original?  This often happens and the story becomes part truth and part fiction.  Such stories have the potential to become familiar within a given group who often create other versions.

But most of our life stories start in unassuming ways.  We are going somewhere or have something to get done.  Most of what we do each day is straight forward.  And within all these days that often seem so similar, a story begins that makes life an evolving mystery.