Monthly Archives: August 2013

Summer Poetry

I have never really tried my hand at poetry, but I couldn’t shake these words ringing in my head.  Although I am feeling a little hesitant and vulnerable, I thought I would just put myself “out there” in order to allow you to continue to hear the voices in my head—even when they are shouting from the less masculine side of my nature.

With the end of Summer break upon us, I’ve recently reflected upon the last handful of months.  My boys are back in school—one of which is starting his high school career.  When did I become the father of a freshman student?  Crazy.  So here goes (I’m a little nervous), a completely original poem written solely by myself which I will simply title:

Summer of 2013

Welcome to the new age, to the new age
oh, oh, oh, I’m radioactive.

I’m gonna take a good girl
I know you want it
You’re far from plastic
I hate these blurred lines

I’m up all night to get some
She’s up all night for good fun
I’m up all night to get lucky

I’m waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow

You make me wanna roll my windows down
…and cruise

I know you want it

This poem, my one hundred percent original poem, simply wrote itself.  I was just hanging out this summer, listening to the radio, and the words just came to me.  That doesn’t normally happen, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Unrelated to the poem composed above, these other words came to me too:  Copyright infringement, Florida Georgia Line, Cruise, Imagine Dragons, Radioactive, Daft Punk, Get Lucky, Robin Thicke, Blurred Lines.  Although these words don’t seem to flow as nice as my completely original poem, I thought I would include them here anyway.  I’m not exactly sure why I feel compelled to do so, but my gut feeling says that it may be for the best.

There once was a book from me.
Who’s contents were filled with glee.

…never mind.  I think my poetry career ended before it began.

Murder in the Cul-de-sac

There is a dead raccoon in the middle of my street.  I once believed that my neighborhood was safe.  Now murder runs rampant, everyone is a suspect.

My street is a short cul-de-sac.  Beyond the road kill, there are only ten driveways.  Each of these houses are occupied by couples with children are not yet old enough to drive.  Which means, of the eighteen drivers that call themselves my neighbors, one of them is a raccoon murderer.  Nineteen if you count my wife.  Twenty, if you think I should be a suspect too.

Did you know that cul-de-sac is Swedish for “no-way-out”?  Use that fact the next time you’re looking to impress someone with your sophisticated knowledge base.

My wife is out of town this weekend.  The lifeless carcass was discovered shortly after her departure.  What if the slaughterer-of-Rocky is actually the woman I call my wife?

Did you know that cul-de-sac translated in old English actually means “raccoon-death-trail”?

Now, I have to look at my neighbors in a completely different light.  All of their behavior seems suspicious to me.  Was that my neighbor’s garage door that I heard in the middle of the night?  It could have been.  I think it was.

Did you know that Native Americans used the term cul-de-sac as a way of saying “you-hit-it-you-clean-it-up”?

It seems to me that everyone on my street has reduced the time it takes to get their car into the garage as quickly as possible. Was that a little patch of fur on your front bumper?

Did you know that when using American Sign Language to convey the word “cul-de-sac” it is a common mistake to interpret the hand motions to mean “would-someone-please-clean-that-crap-up-already”?

Somewhere out there in the nine houses surrounding mine, is a cold blooded killer pushed over the edge by the crazed nocturnal beast with an appetite for household garbage.  If only their garbage can lids snapped shut with a resounding click.

Did you know that if you use the term cul-de-sac in Western Australia, you might be mistaken for saying “someone-needs-to-push-it-into-the-sewer-before-it-starts-to-stink”?

Rest in peace, my little night dwelling consumer of household garbage.  May your afterlife be one big gigantic landfill.

In most translations, cul-de-sac actually means “buy-my-books”.