Anura Chordata, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter/X).

Our arrogant species assumes falsely
We are leaps ahead of the rest
Because of our brains, the best

Boil boil, oil our trouble
Deforestation on the double
Nephropidae quickly spoil

Coral coral bleached bone white
Ocean currents soon could die
This is no disco the Trammps of sing

Burning CO2 the inferno brings
The evangelicals shout with glee
Of end times genocide and misery

Hotter summers, storm’s frequency
Hubris, ignorance
Human’s company

Bells bells bedlam’s fire
Burn some more, earth’s a pyre
Seconds to midnight, a trip wire

Nuclear war, we all expire.
(end)

I don’t want the end of my species to happen, much less the planet. But when theists, especially Christians and Muslims claim the end of the world has to come so the select few can get into an after party, fuck you. That is sick and it is based on old mythology on top of that.

The planet can handle climate change, and even a nuclear war. But what it won’t be able to do is support humans , if we continue to increase pumping out CO2 and burning greenhouse gasses. If we kill ourselves off as a species it will not be because of a Bearded guy in a white robe vs a man with a pitchfork. It will because humans chose to ignore science.

Our species demise will be because of burning too much CO2 which will cause more frequent and more intense weather events like thunderstorms, flooding, hurricanes, wildfires, drought. It can also cause more dead spots in oceans with no oxygen for sea life to breath causing mass extinctions. And ocean temperatures rising can cause less cold water to sink to the bottom of the ocean which causes the currents to move the world’s oceans. That will kill a huge portion of human food sources.

All those things combined, weather, drought, food production disruptions in turn will cause political infighting in nations, and among nations and ultimately a nuclear war. Humans need to stop focusing on old mythology and invisible beings, and worry more about solving our energy and pollution problems and poverty issues.

Satellite Feed, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter/X)

Indeed, our closest neighbor
Blemished, cratered, companion

The dawn of our species looks up
To ponder. Slow waltz back and forth
Blood red, sometimes a sultry song

Of blue. What of paintings, drawings
And poetry, innumerous surely
In ode to you. Cosmic inspector

Invoking silk passions, rippling reflection
On a clear beach night. Haunting calls
From wise birds, canine howls

In cloaked forest frightened night
Tug you do, on the seas, like a spouse
Involuntarily pulls on your share

Of the blanket, then gives it back
Maybe you were proud for the ages
That out of reach you were for us

Until that small step and footprint
Made us hunger for more. I hope
You don’t feel discarded or jealous

Of the red planet. You will always
Be our first, our celestial muse, waiting
To take another night to avenues

Of embrace, silent in confidence
Our heads rest on pillow, we stare out
The window in dream, or in anxiety

Wondering if slumber will greet us
And impatient for dawn to come
Annoying us with insomnia

Or in want of a lullaby into the sweet
R.E.M. bringing us images of desire

What witness you’ve been to the
Turmoil of earth and to all creatures
All it’s storms, volcanic eruptions

And you’ve taken the hits of meteors
Like a bodyguard, Secret Service
But you stepped aside for one collide

Cretaceous impact terrible lizard died
You’ve reigned over every pharaoh
Every Caesar, every Prime Minister

You’ve watched all of our wars
Wars of futility, because ultimately
You will outlast us

So regardless of our arrogance
Or perhaps humble inadequate words

We will look upwards and write
In contemplation and delight.
(end)

Paramecium, By Brian37 (AKA Brian37 on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter/X)

In my pre stripling bloom
A chore that brought me gloom
Dred would always loom

Oblong tiny leaves
That had been taken
By strong breeze

Brown from season’s fall
Wind would carry all
Down the concrete steps

If they had gotten wet
They would stick like stamps
To envelops embedded camps

Mom ever the perfectionist
Would insist that none be left
The broom that had not swept

In October chill
My fingers had no will
Pealed them until they were raw

Bones brittle and frozen
After a couple dozen

Hours it seemed
Though probably just 15
Minutes

I hated that shoebox
Townhouse, and outdoor
Basement steps
(end)

The house chore I had as a kid I hated the most was having to sweep the outdoor basement steps and these smallest leaves were oblong and would stick like stamps to the concrete steps like stamps on an envelope, and using a standard broom would not get them up, so I would literally have to peal them up with my fingers.

Pine Tar, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

This resin resonates with me
Not of baseball or Louisville
Yet a double base you see

A glove instead of bow
Made the sound you hear
Flame shooting, city crushing

Monster we hold dear
Roar, roar, we want more
Mothra, Mecha, all on tour

Some like sharks and cable bites
Some like Freddie, no sleep at night
Hockey masks, campground fright

Roar, roar, king of lore
Tokyo Bay you rise on shore.
(end)

I literally learned this yesterday. I got curious as to how they made the famous high pitched but bellowing roar of Godzilla. It was a pine tar resin covered glove rubbed against the strings of a double bass cello.

Odoriferous, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on @Twitter/X)

The rancid rancor bellows the fire
In the faces of lemmings rotting
Eagar to consume the expired meat

Maggots writhe out en masse to the tune
Of compost bovine dung, slung from
The mouth of the Mar A Lago hog

Blowflies in bowties no longer at the anchor desk
Of the howling mad F-team from down under

Gotti now the underworld boss, if there was one
Would probably think to himself, ” I wish, I had
Thought of that”

To run from prosecution, by running for office
It is a milk carton, bloated, and has a welcome
Well overstayed, fish and 72 hours, left out

It is the smell of a neglected portable potty
In the abandon construction sight
Baking under the blistering August sun

Wafting over the indignant dullards
The pungent potpourri, of belligerent
Amorphophallus titanum corpse flower

Reeking of despotism, fascism, authoritarianism
Wrapped in the slick veil of patriotism
It is a smell no amount of Vicks could mask

Musty dank basement, the cobwebs grow
From neglect of civics, in favor of fervor
For the fragrance of absolute power

And we know what that does absolutely.
(end)

I think this is self explanatory.

Notes on the poem”

“Howling mad” Murdoch was a character on The A-Team. My apologies to that character and the real actor. Just a metaphor, no indictment of them. No relationship to the asshole Australian who destroyed ethics in reporting. “Blowflies in bowties” I think you can figure out which former employee I am talking about.

Recipes, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter/X)

Chalky, crumbly, stale powdered cookies
The pie sits in the window, wafting apples try
To fly, gone is the butterfly, I hear my interest’s sigh

The lime rims the glass, salt sprinkled for alas
Margaritas at midday, burned is the New York strip
I toast an empty glass, I have no clever quips

Some tart strawberries, whip cream to be atop
Petals line the floor, to the bedroom door
Even though so sure, my overtures were no cure

I shot for wasabi, she wanted maraschino cherry
I shot for pepperoncini, she wanted shrimp linguini
I shot for peperoni, she ordered me anchovies

I am the limburger, with black and white stripes
I should have made her blueberry crepes

They say there is a sunny side
The yokes I always break

Thumbs all five, all 10 I should say
I am as smooth as a porcupine
In every clumsy way

Anthony Bourdain
I will never be
Don’t follow my advice

Or my recipe.
(end)

Shutter Speed, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter/X)

This tapestry, imperfect cadence, no rhyme
The aperture pinpoint or diaphragm wide
When I shoot at high speed I get to decide

So slow to worry, what goes where
Deliberate with meter, some take care
The filters off, my colors I share

My trading cards not meant to be mint
The coins I collect are all a wheat cent
My prose are that rose, missing a petal

My silver unpolished, tarnished this metal
Cracked is the caldron, split is my kettle

Dare not to ask me, if I can whittle
Not even a toothpick, to pick my teeth with

Perfection is a road that does not exist
Precaution to the wind, my pen will insist
Volume my tactic, I wont resist

If of squares, the orange is imperfectly cut
If of grapes become jelly, instead of wine
If of ivy, on old brick homes now climb

If this is written under clouds not sunshine
If this is more salty and full of brine
If this kilter is off, I’ll claim it as mine

There is no dust on my bookshelf
I’ve read the encyclopedia
Of the critic’s harsh belt

My shower curtain is missing a rung
Works just as well, no one can tell

Smudge on the window, some might see
I left my fingerprint if it bothers thee
I have no baggage I carry with me

Succession, succession, numbers be
Volume my practice, my therapy

Blades, beveled, serrated, anticipated
In crosshairs, my words, countless times
The triggers and clips and bullets spray

I will not let them get their way
Their bitter almond arsenic smell
On that negativity I will not dwell.
(end)

Another poem about why I ignore my critics.

Falling Figs, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter/X)

Oh Esther, you wanted to do better
Than Buddy and Constantin
The plethora of falling figs

Overwhelmed you, what could you do?
You didn’t want to be a domestic
You wanted a life of variety that’s hectic

To pave your own path, not to be part
Of that sedentary patriarchy, you wanted
To be the writer of your own stories

You felt stuck in fear that your only lot
Would be taking dictation from madmen

The options falling in front of you
Only to rot, for you took too much time
To make a choice

Failing from indecision, you wanted
To learn German, and speak
The idioms of Russians

You wanted to shake the shackles
Of gender roles, you had your goals
Your college days almost over

You didn’t want to be that letterman
With the trophy marking your tombstone.
(end)

This is an ode poem to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar”.

In the book Esther sees herself as paralyzed by the fear of making career choices as being like ripe figs falling to the ground and not knowing which one to pick off the tree. She sees the hypocrisy of men being able to brag about how many women they slept with, but female purity was expected. She feared her career being limited because of her gender too.

Sylvia in her real life mentioned admiring people with skills she didn’t have and always wanting to pick their brains about their knowledge of things she was unfamiliar with. Thus the part about learning German and speaking “Russian idioms” in the book.

You’ll have to read Plath’s The Bell Jar to get the references. I highly recommend that book.

Nothing More To Do, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter/X)

Forever in that cold, sanitized
Examination room we waited
After the obligatory poking, scanning

You’d been that soldier, trench master
With your other surgeries
And your mobility issues

Always a Phoenix, rising, out of adversity
Nobody expected less, yet your frustration
Was clear, your discomfort and pain an irritant

We thought, there will be something
Something they can do, and then
He walked in, that face, is something you

See and know, and my chin went low
Suddenly looking at the ground
Then up and all around

It was a risk/reward thing, but here’s the thing
My mom was that trouper, over many times
And it could only be her decision

Inside my head silently screaming
“PLEASE MOM, PLEASE, KEEP TRYING”
This time not to be the case, she was done

Done with the dry veins, and blood drawing
Done with the lack of mobility, losing
Her independence, and always depending

On others. Done with being woken up
Every hour from beeping noises, and nurses
Taking vitals, and medicine regimens

Tired of being hauled out of bed
Like a boat in a marina, and no
Scooter to transfer to on her own

And still I screamed in my head
“PLEASE MOM, PLEASE KEEP TRYING”
But truth is I would be lying

Lying to myself, that she could
Continue to rise, and I’d be selfish too
I wasn’t the one going through

All that pain and discomfort, it was her
Every fiber in me screamed
“PLEASE MOM, PLEASE KEEP TRYING”

And it was heartbreaking, when she
Finally answered, “No” when asked
If she wanted more treatment

It was like a grenade going off
In my chest, my body wanted
To go limp, I wanted to crawl

Out of my skin, as I was holding her hand
As I listened to her words, “Send me back
To the nursing home”

She wasn’t giving up, she simply felt
Like a decommissioned officer
Battle warn and ready to retire

And between that diagnosis
Her decision, and last heartbeat
She was only concerned about me
(end)

This poem is about my late mother Jane. When we went last time we thought this would be something easy to cure her with a pill or something, but they said it required more surgery, and she declined. She had simply gotten tired of her quality of life declining. She was a very independent woman and that was most of her decision. She was also tired of the pain too. She was very stoic in her last days. I was told by her nurse after she passed away that she constantly talked about me after I went home for the night, and how much she loved me, and wanted my friends to keep an eye on me because she knew I would be devastated. That was 6 years ago. I still deeply miss her. She was my biggest support my entire life.

Nihilism, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter/X)

Poetry is not owned by the religious
It owns no patents on the art
And to accept one’s finite existence
Is not to say life is not worth living

I see the duckling and smile
I see the kitten and smile
I see my friends and smile
I hug my loved ones and smile

I leave the theatre and smile
I leave the concert and sing
I put the book down and reflect
And it’s last punctuation

Is not to be feared
But all all words prior
To be relished
And though consciousness

Is not eternal
Those who remember you
Those who love you
Will look back and smile

I feel no need
To be forever
For now
Is plenty of sustenance
(end)