Darkness Over Judy, By Brian (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

He was watching over you
Protecting you
He didn’t want people
Hurting you Judy

They were nasty to you
Always taking advantage of you
He saw you were innocent
He was your “guardian angel”

In a wave of rage
The music played
He shot the pawn broker
Though he never met her

732
5577
All good dogs
Get to heaven

Your first was a sailor
You thought was a narcotics dealer
He was in Honolulu
For the first time

Of dates
You were obsessed
You wouldn’t dare give
Judy’s enemy’s rest

You killed the Royce
He gave you no choice
The bank president embezzled
Judy he had implicated

Lott stole not the Van
But Steve would find his man
Employ the cartoonist
That was the plan

Danny put on his blues
Showed up in the funnies too
The killer to protect the moon
The cop he did pursue

But it was
All a ruse
Arthur had no clue
What Steve was up to

It was all a trap
The killer was finally caught
The truth he did not see
There was no Judy Moon.
(end)

This poem is an ode to one of my favorite episodes of the Original Hawaii Five 0 “Draw Me A Killer”. It is about a disturbed person who confuses a Sunday cartoon as real life, and picks victims to kill that look like the cartoon characters in the fictional “Judy Moon” cartoon in the episode. The killer “Arthur” even stumbles on a woman who looks like the lady in the cartoon and harasses her in the episode trying to convince her he is protecting her.

OPEC Pie, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

It seems to be
Blasphemy, to many
If you dare speak of
Pineapple on pizza

Sardines, sardines
Smelly, slimy, why me?
Even if I don’t have to eat it
The smell is savage

Mushrooms, who decided
That rubber and cheese
Belong together
On a pie?

Fine, fine, fine
It is no business of mine
If I am not forced to eat it
How other people dine

But there is one thin line
Chicago, thin, NY,
Stuffed crust
I absolutely don’t like

Why do people like OPEC
Their pepperoni on top
Filled with grease
Like little Jacuzzis?

It looks like the sweat
Of a pimple faced teen
Acne red, oily, nasty
Greasy, yucky

I cannot see, cannot see
For the ever loving tastebuds
Why anyone likes this
I don’t like that on top of my cheese

My pepperoni, sees not
The light of day, I want it
Six feet under, I always
Like it that way.

I don’t like OPEC pizza
I am not that kind of guy
I don’t need an oil change
When I go to get a pie.
(end)

To be sensitive to teens who have acne, trust me I know, I used to have horrible acne myself. It is no fun. But lets face it, it is an unfortunate part of many lives at that age, but also at the same time, nothing at all to be ashamed of.

Rated G, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

The proud father
Of four, flipped through
His morning paper
To the entertainment section

He was thinking
Of what he could do
On the weekend
With his family

And there the words were
“Opening Friday, rated G
Fun
For the entire family”

The night came
Putting them in the lobby
Buying their popcorn
Soda and snacks

All impatient
During the previews
Anticipating
The excitement to come

As the credits rolled
The ominous music
Pounded out
Their immoral movie

But it was not butter
On their popcorn
It was the blood
Of indoctrination

If Dr. Doolittle
Had sold Lot
Or Malachi 2:3
Would the movie be rated G?

If Luke Skywalker had said
“Kill all the boys
And save the girls”
As in Numbers 31:17-18

Would this proud father
Take his family
To that movie
Or call it moral?

If Harry Potter Said
“Kill the firstborn”
Would he be a hero?
Should he be a hero?

When they talk of the flood
None of these parents
In reality would
Take their kid to a morgue

Drowned bodies
Are bloated, distorted
And smell
On the slab

This “blockbuster
Is not cute
Nor suited
For the young

It is full of gore
Immorality
Incest
And genocide

Rated G
Would hardly be
An appropriate rating
For this horror film

The pulpit actor
On Sunday’s screen
Shouts to the young
“You should fear him!”

Crippling them
Into needless submission
No chance for them
To decide for themselves

If that does not work
He becomes the concession stand
Selling them fictional Goobers
Popcorn and Junior Mints that don’t exist

This same poor player
Bribes them with farm animals
In pairs
On the tables in waiting rooms

No sane parent
Is going to expose
Their child that young
To Misty Beethoven

So to these parents
I ask the following
If rightfully the case
Then why the hypocrisy?

If that book
You falsely call “good”
Then read all of it
While they are young

Shout at them
Like you claim
God threatens us
For our own good

Advocate violence
Beat them
Like you say
We deserve

Read every word
To them
Rape their minds
While you can

You recoil at these words
As sick blasphemy
But the poor player
Sells it on Sunday

It will never be
“Rated G”
And it will never be
A “Good book”.

Otherwise
You could read it
All of it, every word
Without censorship.
(end)

ONCE AGAIN, this is not a poem of hate. It ESPECIALLY is not about promoting violence. I abhor violence.

It is a criticism of what I see as a mere book, and not a history book. I read the bible like one would go see a very bad movie that everyone else likes.

It is funny how holy people and parent skip over the nasty stories, the gory stories, the violent stories, and the stories of advocating taking children and females as prizes in war. Or killing off the male firstborn. And who did Adam and Eve have sex with if they only had two sons? And who did the 7 or 12 people of the Noah story have sex with to repopulate the planet?

And could you imagine if a real court judge behaved like God did with the Pharaoh? Imagine if a bank robber got 20 years, but the judge also sentenced his firstborn male to death too.

Point isn’t to call for the end of religion one bit. It is however a call to stop blindly swallowing everything and skipping over the inconvenient parts.

Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath have invaded my refrigerator.

Cosmic Orwell, By Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Every second, half second
Nanosecond, it is on
All the time

It watches you
With your partner
It watches you in the bathroom

It cares whom you love
It will burn you and torture you
If you think for yourself

Your neurons are his
Not yours
Your thoughts are dependent

On doing his bidding
But the camera is hidden
Invisible, everywhere all the time

It records crime all the time
But the 9-1-1 dispatcher
Takes selective break time

While you have cancer
While your kid is missing
While your wife is murdered

And you are ok with this?
He roots for you favorite sports team
You found your missing keys

He can destroy your house
He can destroy your health
He can to what he may please

But you have no privacy
And you are ok with this?
This constant intrusion?

You are the broken horse
Tied to the invisible post
The one with no bridle or rope

And you live so out of fear
Big brother is always near
The blackmail is all so clear

And you are ok with this?

Amplified Part 2, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

My baby, split in two, half gone
This is not justice, meeting halfway
This is a crime, raping my psyche

You deceived me, suckered me
I saved and saved and saved
And you taped over and over

Erasing everything before
Smearing the black chalkboard
Throwing everything into

The trash bin, over and over
And over, letting me think
I was simply adding another car

To the train, on the right track
And all that work, 2 months worth
Gone, gone, gone!

You use 30 years of poetry
As your tinder, kindle, switchgrass
Dropping the diamond ring

Down the sewer grate
Have my legs, have my arms
Have my sight, have hearing

Leave my poetry alone!
(end)

For the past 2 months I thought I had been meticulously saving each copy of each poem from my original host thread at Rational Responders. And I seemed to have saved everything correctly, UNTIL….. I checked my old laptop hard drive and my backup thumb drive. GONE, ALL THAT WORK GONE, cannot find it on either.

Fortunately I did print out each poem after copying it. AND my friend John saved almost half of them on a backup thumb drive he still has. BUT it still means I have to go back and redo all that work again to get back to my current tally of total poems. I cannot begin to tell you how pissed I am at myself and how I had been literally crying for the past 3 hours.

I don’t have kids so my poetry are my kids and the thought of losing them is death to me.

Severed Limb, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

It could be a bear
It could be a lion
It could be crocodile
It could be an eagle’s talon

It could be a blown red light
It could be an icy road at night
It could be fog blinding sight
It could be a blown stop sign

It could be a crash landing
It could be pilot’s error
It could be blown hydraulics
It could be nasty weather

It could be no sight of quill
It could be my keyboard’s ill
It could be the power’s out
It could be why you hear me shout.
(end)

I feel naked, broken, and like my arms have been cut off when I cant write my poetry.

Mug Shot, By Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

You have such a magnetic personality
And so to are you a brave secretary
Hanging out on my company fridge

Facing off that tornado too
I had to, I had to, arrest you
Get that Jackie O’s mug shot too

That giddy smile I will see
Upon my rise every day
Your book of poems bedside

I read at least one at night
But don’t feel lonely Anne
Plath is on her way.
(end)

I had a custom made fridge magnet and mug with a elegant picture of Anne Sexton on them. I will be getting my Sylvia Plath fridge magnets end of this coming week. No I do not own a company. I was just describing my home as my company.

My best friend from Oklahoma bought me a small tornado shaped fridge magnet which has a tiny barn, horse and tractor implied swirling around it.

Subway And Other Railing, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

Support many, hundreds of thousands
A day. The fireman’s hook and ladder
Buried under, they go up and down
Every day

You, their fans, you the player, carrier
You hold their hands, as they submerge
To enter the tube, the bank teller sends you
On your way

They lean on you, they grab you, clutch you
As you enter the court, the rink, the field
Autographs of sweat, grease from lunch meals
Perfume feels

Far far away, the escalator packed, racked, stacked
Chest to back, boot to wingtip, wingtip to high heel
Sneakers, shoestrings dangerously lingering
About to get entangled in

The injuries of the day. This is the witness
The palm reader, the silent witness
Who touches you, but cannot say
Which way

Who will end your pain, how will you ride
In stride, with intimate pride, low tide
Swells and foam, the crimson tide
Work till you die

The steam of breath, in winter’s wreath
The chill of bones, the lonely bequeath
The body heat, makes not your sheath
No contact high

The thaw of spring, and colors bring
The stirrings of love, lost, lingering
Passions ascend once again, holding
Holding, holding, the railing

Yet never of others touching.

I’ve seen your touch, I thank you much
I am too far away, to the dead I say
I wish I may, I wish I may, I may
Meet Anne someday.
(end)

This is a response poem and another ode poem to Anne Sexton. It is based on her line her poem “The Touch” describing subway railing as being unfeeling cold contact with no human intimacy even though countless people touch what you have.

It is like being in public in a large crowd but totally impersonal and disconnected from personal relationship.

But no, I do not believe in life after death. So the last stanza is strictly metaphor in saying I wish I could have been an adult back then and met her in person. I will unfortunately never get to meet her.

The “fireman’s hook and ladder” Is basically a visual implement to imagine you could slice an escalator down the side into the subway the firetruck would be the platform and the ladder would be the escalator going up to the surface, with those in need of rescue going down the ladder and the firemen going up.

Handkerchief, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)

This tongue of serpent
Forked three times
If not more

You fooled the Moor
But long before
The seeds of lore

You sewed seething
In her father’s head
Made him angry

This envy bred
Inside your head
That it was Cassio

Which thus promoted
Not you, yet instead
You plotted plots

The body’s dead
He stabbed his wife
Upon your word

A peace of cloth
Emilia picked up
The Moor knew not

The evils you wrought
But your wife exposed you
It was all for not

Into you
The blade he thrust
You lied to him

Broke his trust
And all from envy
All from lust

It couldn’t absorb
All that blood
You drug her name

Through the mud
She was innocent
But you cared not

Collateral damage
All to be, for your ill gains
You did not see.
(end)

This poem is about the giant tool bag Iago for plotting everyone against each other and getting innocent people killed because he got passed up for a promotion, and was jealous of the power and class and status the Moor Othello had and was pissed that Cassio got the promotion and not him.

And as history knows of this play, Iago failed ultimately and Othello stabbed him before he died. Iago survived but his plot was exposed by his wife telling the truth. Iago ends up as implied, taken of to prison to be tortured.