Short Story: "The Man Without A Town"

I know, I know, another short story – UGH! – but I think you'll like this one. It's a little humorous, a little sad, but ultimately rewarding. I think so at least. It's a little bit longer than my typical story, but still not too long to read in one sitting. Enjoy!

THE MAN WITHOUT A TOWN

Buster Ackland lived in a two-story, Victorian-style house on the corner of 3rd Street and MacMillan Drive. You know the place, I'm sure. It's the house with all the junk in the front yard – pink flamingos, lavish birdbaths, lawn furniture – you name it. Buster never did have any taste.

As you know, Roxburg is a quiet, peaceful town. Just like in that old cliché, everyone here knows everyone else here. And everyone surely knows Buster Ackland. Since retiring from the bottling company six years ago, Buster has been anything but a recluse. In fact, he's been somewhat of a town nuisance.

I know you've only been in town a few weeks, but I'll bet you've already heard a story or two about old Buster's eccentricities from the local gossips. I know folks are prone to exaggeration; but there's probably a bit of truth to everything you've heard, even if does seem unbelievable.

**************

Mr. Rice, the boarder who's spent the past six weeks living in Buster's house, was telling me just the other day about Buster's morning routine. Apparently, Buster would wake up every morning at precisely a quarter till six – no alarm clock, he'd just wake up. That wasn't too unusual, since Buster had risen at the same time every day for years when he worked at the bottling company.

But here's where it gets a little strange. See, Buster's only got the one bathroom in the house, and it was situated right across the hall from the room where Mr. Rice slept with his door open. Well, Buster would get out of bed and head straight to the bathroom and take a nice, long shower. Only thing is, he never bothered to take off his pajamas! Mr. Rice said that Buster would come out of the bathroom, still fully clothed but wrapped in a towel, dripping from head to toe.

The next time Mr. Rice would see him would be when Buster passed by, dressed in his finest three-piece suit, heading toward the door to take his morning walk.

**************

If you happened to see Buster strolling the streets of Roxburg, he might seem to you to be a very pleasant fellow indeed. He always stopped to pat dogs and small children on the head, he never jaywalked, and he always tipped his hat to the ladies.

But beneath this carefully constructed charade of competence, Buster was a mess – and we all knew it. Everyone in town, at one time or another, has been affected by Buster's absentminded antics.

**************

You might have heard about the fire at Mr. Dawber's hardware store last March. We all thought Mr. Dawber had set it himself. Business had been slow, and he aimed to collect on the insurance money – or so we thought. But if that were true, wouldn't Dawber have burned down more than just the storage room?

The truth is, Buster Ackland set that fire. Not intentionally, mind you, but he was nonetheless responsible. As we learned later, Buster had been sneaking in the back door at night and using Dawber's storage room as his own personal game room. Buster would bring his chess set or a board game, and always a deck of cards – and he would play by candlelight. Lord only knows why Buster's own house wasn't a good enough place to play.

Well, that night Buster fell asleep playing a game of solitaire, and when he woke up the room was ablaze. He tried to put the fire out by swatting at the flames with his Monopoly box, but that only served to ramp it up even more. He high-tailed it out of there, stopping only to call 911 anonymously from a pay phone down the street.

He later confessed what had happened to Mr. Dawber, and the "sympathetic" store owner agreed not to press charges as long as Buster provided him with a third of his social security check each month for the next six months. And Buster, that old fool, agreed to the deal.

**************

Griffin Hennessey is still coping with the after-effects of Buster's lack of judgment. About six weeks ago, Buster came in to eat at Hennessey's Bar & Grill. When it came time to pay the check, Buster realized that he was a dollar and a half short of the total. Old Ackland begged to be allowed to charge the rest on account, and Hennessey – a good man if not a great businessman – reluctantly gave in.

Buster was so overjoyed at Hennessey's generosity that he felt compelled to tell everyone he met in town what had happened. Since then, an astonishing number of Hennessey's customers have conveniently come up "just a little short" of cash to pay for their meals, and Hennessey has felt obligated to extend the same courtesy to all his customers that he did one time for Buster. As a result, Hennessey is now losing more money than he is making.

**************

Being new to town, I'm sure you probably got a visit from Buster Ackland the first or second day after you arrived. He always made it a point to greet newcomers with a plate of vegetables he'd collected from gardens around the neighborhood. (Well, collected is one way of saying it – stolen would probably be more accurate, though Buster would have never thought of it that way himself.)

Buster probably strolled up to your house, rapped ferociously on the door, and as soon as you opened it he greeted you with the finest buck-toothed grin he could muster up. I would even bet money he was wearing his lime green suit – he called it his "visiting duds" – with that hideous paisley tie that didn't match anything.

Then, if you were so kind as to invite him in, Buster likely stepped just inside the door, flung his hat to the floor, and shook his mop of yellow-tinged silver hair back and forth like a wet dog. You're probably still trying to get the smell of old man sweat out of your clothes and living room furniture, aren't you?

**************

One thing's for sure – if you met Buster once, you would never forget him.  In spite of the man's obvious shortcomings and his continual, bumbling antics, we all tolerated the old coot. But that was about as far as it went.

He did have his good points, I suppose. In addition to his genial personality, Buster Ackland went to church twice every Sunday and every Wednesday night – though no one dared sit next to him. He gave a portion of his monthly check not only to the church but also to other local charities.

So why did he have to cause so much trouble? Truthfully, I don't really think he could help it.

**************

Now I am left with the dubious task of having to write Buster's obituary notice. Being editor-in-chief of the Roxburg Informer, I generally save some of the more important jobs for myself. When I heard about Buster's passing last night, I knew the task would rest on my shoulders.

What do you say about such a man? In a small town such as ours, gentle lies would only be hypocrisy. Yet the truth is harsher than any lie I could formulate. So here it is, for lack of better words, and more time to prepare:

Mitchell "Buster" Ackland, 71, of 100 MacMillan Drive, died Thursday, February 26th, in his sleep. He is survived only by the town that could not love him – his one true joy, Roxburg. Visitation is from 7:00 to 10:00 PM tonight at Matthews' Funeral Home. I'll be there – and so should you, citizens of Roxburg. All is forgiven.

Flash Fiction: "Scummy Butterscotch"

Happy Tuesday! As I rewrite my old stories and come up with ideas for new ones, I'd like to keep testing the waters now and then to see what you think. This one's silly, I know, but it's supposed to be. If you didn't know me better, Reader, you might think this was a standard blog post rant for me. But I actually wrote this little story years ago, long before I even knew what a blog was. And certain elements of the story, which is written in first person, do not in fact describe me personally (I'm specifically referring to the last phrase in the third paragraph). Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. As always, I welcome your comments and/or suggestions....

"SCUMMY BUTTERSCOTCH"

There are three things I love to hate – mummy movies, crummy people, and scummy butterscotch – and not necessarily in that order.

You may think I'm a little peculiar, but I would beg to differ. In fact, I am a lot peculiar. 

I'm picky when it comes to cars (I prefer foreign), food (I prefer spicy), and women (I prefer foreign and spicy).

I have to set my radio at precisely the right volume – not too low, but not too loud either. Driving safely requires my undivided attention.

I won't work out at the gym on Mondays; that's when the buffest guys and ladies show up to pump iron. I don't need that kind of insecurity.

But on these three things in particular I am the most vehemently opinionated.

First of all, I don't see the point of mummy movies. Who in their right minds, or even in their insanely twisted minds, would be horrified at the sight of a man-like creature wrapped in full-body Band-Aids? Seriously, no matter how loud it growls and snarls at me, I can't help thinking, Okay, bandages mean injuries, injuries denote weakness, and weakness means I'm definitely getting out of this alive. Where's the fear factor in that?

And even if I can convince myself that beneath all that wrapping lies a truly frightening being and I can rationalize running from the creature, what are the odds that it can even come close to catching me? I mean, one little snag and that sucker's a snowball rolling uphill. Am I right?

Secondly, you've got your crummy people. Before there's any misunderstanding, let me give you my definition of "crummy" just so we're on the same page here. "Crummy" is an adjective used to describe a specific type of behavior in which a person responds unreasonably in comparison to the way they are being treated.

Case in point. I toil away my days at a retail gift shop. Now when I'm doing my job I don't always feel cheery, and sometimes when we're swamped with business, I don't have time to put on my happy face. But one thing I always strive for is to do whatever it takes to make the customer happy.

So when the little blue-haired lady wants me to locate a medium-sized jewel box with blue flowers painted on top, I'm going to do my best to find her that box, or something close enough to it that she goes home happy. But if I don't happen to stock a medium-sized jewel box with blue flowers painted on top, and I can't find anything remotely akin to it, I'll apologize for being unable to help her and politely suggest another store nearby where she might try to locate one.

Then the little blue-haired lady can react in one of two ways. She can be a sweetheart and reply, "Well, thank you for checking, dear, I'll certainly try someplace else." Or she can be crummy and say, "A fat lot of good that does me! I'll bet you've got a dozen or more of 'em in the back room, and you just don't want to sell me one! I want to speak to your manager – NOW!"

Sad but true, crummy people walk among us every day. And while they may not strike fear into the hearts of moviegoers like mummies inexplicably do, they certainly have the power to hurt people, which makes them just as much of a menace as any monster Hollywood could create.

I've saved the worst for last. Scummy butterscotch.

There's nothing I hate more than unwrapping a scrumptious-looking piece of butterscotch and popping it into my mouth, only to find that it's old, scummy, and nasty-tasting.

You can never tell about butterscotch until you actually try it; and once you've done so and discovered you have a bad piece, it totally ruins your butterscotch craving.

It should be a federal law that all pieces of butterscotch should have a freshness date stamped in edible ink on the candy itself. It should also be a crime – preferably punishable by death or dismemberment – for anyone to sell out-of-date (and therefore scummy) butterscotch.

Please understand that I am making a specific distinction here. Chocolate candy is entirely different. You can eat a piece of old chocolate candy long after it goes out of date and never know any better. I once ate a chocolate Easter bunny that had been sitting in the bottom of my refrigerator for five years, and I couldn't tell the difference between it and a chocolate bar I bought yesterday.

But butterscotch is no laughing matter.

I generally put up with the things I despise, because I don't have the resources to implement the necessary changes. But together we can make a difference. 

If we boycott mummy movies, they'll eventually stop making them and the only thing we'll have to fear will be fear itself.

If we imprison crummy people, then everyone we interact with each day will be nice to us. We'll live in harmony with all people, we'll teach the world to sing, and all that other hippie-dippie stuff.

And if we outlaw scummy butterscotch, we'll never have to weather a sweet-tooth craving unfulfilled. We'll all be fat and happy. And what a wonderful world that will be.

Jokes That Aren't Funny

I've never been a great joke teller. I've always wanted to be. But all I can seem to come up with are halfway-decent puns, which are always sure to elicit more groans than chuckles.

But today I'm feeling jokey, so here goes nothing. I know most of these are just silly and truly not that funny, but I did have fun putting them together. Don't feel obligated to laugh – I won't know either way if you do or don't.

To the best of my knowledge, they're all original (if I've copied someone somewhere or somehow, it was unintentional) – so if they're as awful as I think they are, I've only got myself to blame. Anyway, I hope you enjoy them, or enjoy groaning at them. Whatever...


Q:  What is Ken and Barbie's favorite dish?
A:  Barbie-Q Chic-Ken.


Q:  What did the mafioso say when he introduced his dwarf girlfriend at the party?
A:  "Say hello to my little friend."


Q:  What did the airplane propeller say to the sweaty guy standing in front of it?
A:  "I'm not a fan."


Q:  Why did the Mac user's productivity suddenly plummet when his keyboard went on the fritz?
A:  He lost "Control."


Q:  What did the dust bunny say to the vacuum cleaner upon being discovered hiding under the couch?
A:  You really suck!


Knock, knock!
Who's there?
Doctor.
Doctor Who?
No, but I love that show!


Q:  What did the camp counselor say to each kid when they had finished arranging their sleeping bags?
A:  "You made your bed, now lie in it."


Q:  What's the capital of Djibouti?
A:  Djibouti....Why is that funny?
Q:  It's not. I just like saying "Djibouti"!


Q:  What did the cop say to the stupid criminals who had super-glued their hands to their weapons?
A:  "Way to stick to your guns!"


Q:  What did the orthopedic surgeon say to his patients when business was slow?
A:  "Break a leg!"


Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Guess.
Guess who?
I asked you first.


Q:  What did the constantly-falling-off shoe say to the person wearing it?
A:  "I think it's time we tie the knot."


Q:  What did the mime whisper in his lover's ear?
A:  Sweet nothings.


Q:  What did the student say to his abacus?
A:  "I'm counting on you!"


Q:  What did the music minister say to the directionally-challenged pastor?
A:  "You're preaching to the choir!"


Q:  What did the hyena do on payday?
A:  It laughed all the way to the bank.

What Happens When You Sleep With The Window Open In The City

When you live in the city, and you leave the window open at night, this is what happens.

You listen to the sound of falling rain as it pat-pat-pats against the leaves beneath the trees in front of your house. It soothes you, and welcomes slumber.

You hear the sirens of ambulances and fire engines as they race to or from emergencies down the main road that leads to and from the hospital, which is only a block away from your house. It doesn't keep you awake; you've heard it a thousand times before, and now it's just a noise that's there. It neither stands out nor disappears.

You hear cars passing on the street in front of your house, and hear the gentle squeal of brakes as they slow for the speed bump. Occasionally, you hear the thumping bass of high-powered speakers doing their jobs all too well. This too is a sound that simply is, and seldom disturbs you or awakens you if you've already lost consciousness.

You hear snippets of conversation from across the street, where two or more people have gathered outside their houses to discuss who-knows-what in the middle of the night. You can't make out all the words, but from the tone of their voices it might well be an argument. You hope they find common ground soon, because these are people, and you can't simply shut out the sounds they make.

You wake up in the middle of the night, chilled to the core, but too sleepy to get up and close the window. So you burrow beneath the blankets for extra warmth, and you quickly fall back asleep.

You dream about "witnessing" the sounds of brutal crimes not that far away. A woman's terrified scream. A gruff male voice saying, "Get back here!" A gunshot. You wake up, scolding yourself for watching that last true crime show, too close to bed time.

You awaken in the morning to the sound of birds chirping and, surprisingly, the rain still coming down pat-pat-pat on the leaves. You smile contentedly. This is bliss.

You have to be careful as you get out of bed and cross the window, since you're dressed in very skimpy clothing you've slept in, and the sun is up now, and the people across the street (probably still outside their houses) could see you.

You're thankful that your bedroom is on the second floor, and that only a very determined and very reckless burglar would dare take advantage of the open window to slash the screen, steal your valuables, and possibly harm your wife and yourself.

You reminisce about the Good Old Days, long before you were born, when everyone slept with their windows open, because there was no such thing as air conditioning, and before that, when there was no such thing as glassed-in windows; when you'd be far more likely to have a friend or neighbor pop their head in your open window to say hello or ask to borrow an egg; when the threat of home invasion was there, but was so highly unlikely that worrying about it didn't keep you up at night; because people were nicer and more trustworthy; when humanity was actually humane. Or maybe that's all just a fantasy...

I Can't Believe I Wrote That!

In going back over literally hundreds of pages of my old poems, stories, snippets of ideas, intriguing titles, and what-not, I am amazed at the sheer volume of worthless (pardon the slang) crap I have written over the years.


True, I was much younger and far more inexperienced as a human being when I wrote most of these. But even taking that into consideration, I have written some truly lousy stuff in my time.


Some of it isn't even all that horrible as much as it is embarrassingly shallow and dreadfully self-deprecating. (You want teen angst? I got teen angst, in spades – or I did, at least!)


So, despite the fact that 99.9% of this drivel should never, ever, ever see the light of day, I have a blog post to write today, and I figured that you should have to suffer through some of this junk every bit as much as I have had to in rereading it recently.


There's little value in the pieces to follow, so consider yourself forewarned. It is interesting, though, to see how much I've learned about writing in the years since these pieces were written. I'd like to think I've come a long, long way...




1)  "Ode To Lunch Meat"

A long and lovely road I've traveled

To the supermarket

I would have driven the car

But I forgot how to park it

I came to get my lunch meat one day

When I suddenly found that it had gone away

They had sold out my lunch meat

And I was quite sad

The manager said, "Sorry!"

But I think he was glad

They've stopped stocking lunch meat

Since I've come around

They don't think that lunch meat

Belongs in their town

But I am trying to show them the light

That lunch meat is cool, and harmless despite

Of its bad reputation in North Dakota

But what do they know

They're from North Dakota

Lunch meat is fine

If you're hungry or starving

And even if you aren't

You can use it for carving

Lunch meat sculptures

Can bring big high prices

And who was it that said

Those lunch meats aren't nices

Well, no matter what

The whole world may say

I like my lunch meat

And here it will stay

In my stomach

And mostly hanging up on my wall

Happy lunch meat to you

And happy lunch meat to all.

2)  "Strong"

I know there's gonna be some hurtin'

But I must be strong

When it's time to close the curtain

Another love will come along

I know that when you left me

I was cryin' but then

My heart's still weak

And it will break

Time and time again.

I must be strong

Only way to live my life

I must be strong

For love, I'd give my life

I'll carry on

Baby, it's so plain to see

Our love is gone

That we weren't meant to be

I must be strong

Ya know that I must be strong...

3)  "Just A Freak In The Side Show"*

No one really likes me

No one ever did

Just because I'm not cool

I'm just a stupid kid

'Cause I don't like their music

And I don't wear those clothes

They treat me like a nerd or freak

And sometimes both of those.

People like to put me down

Just 'cause I'm a little weird

They look at me and frown

I'm criticized and jeered

People laugh and try to

Make me feel so low

Because to them

I'm just a freak in the side show...

4)  "Blinded By Tuna"

Where has the time gone

Since the last time we were here

And how come the time passed by so fast

And why does it seem

That I have never met you, dear

Things were so different in the past.

And I can't recognize you

With a tuna on my eyes

Please, baby, tell me truly

Will I ever realize...that I was

Blinded by tuna once again

Thought I was living in pretend

Thought I could make it in the end

Blinded by tuna once again...

5)  "Soda Biscuit"

I want to smell the furnace

I want to eat the fire

I want to know the answers

I want to bleed with desire

I want to be so self-absorbed

I don't know who I am anymore

I want to dance barefoot in the garden

I'm gonna fling myself at your door

I'll teach the world to sing off-key

I'll pull the worm out of the earth

I have to find my origins

I gotta know just what I'm worth

I want the brains of an ostrich in the wilderness

I wanna scratch the chalkboard after midnight

Hey, Mr. Gravity, why am I doing this

Why is my head spinning off into the night?

I think I have a serious problem

'Cause I wanna be with you

Guess the fire drill didn't warn me

So I'm stuck not being blue

I told the psycho I was crazy

And he said I shouldn't risk it

There's no sense in being lazy

'Cause I am just a soda biscuit...

6)  "Take A Sip Of My Thermos Bottle, Baby"

I don't have no germs

And I don't even slobber

And you don't even like me

So why should you even bother

What real harm could it do

I just wanna burp with you

So won't you

Take a sip of my Thermos bottle, baby

It won't be too disgusting, maybe

It's not like I ever had rabies

So won't you

Take a sip of my Thermos bottle, baby...

7)  "Udder Confusion"

I went to the barnyard in the early morning

The cow was in the stable

And she gave me no warning

I went to milk the cow

So I could have some milk for breakfast

But the bucket was dry

'Cause the cow wouldn't give.

I tried once more 

Till my hands were achin'

But the cow wasn't willing

And the sun was bakin'

"Moo," said the cow

And I kicked her lightly

I said, "I'd like to kill you, Cow

But only slightly."

It was udder confusion

It was udder confusion

The cow wouldn't give

And the bucket was dry

And now I'm here to tell you why

It was udder confusion...

8)  "The Love U-Boat"

I was cruisin' on the highway

On the way to my appointment

At the U-boat

Which was settin' sail at one

I had brought my new explosives

They were burnin' such a hole

In my pocket, but so what

I was havin' fun!

At the U-boat I was smilin'

As I parked my old jalopy

This U-boat was my only ticket out

I was lookin' forward to the trip

But didn't quite expect

What was comin' when

I found what love's about.

I saw a blonde-haired German chick

And this is what she told me

She said, "Guten abend, ist wunderbar, ja?"

In my crudest German accent

I said "Ja" and smiled, and knew

That this girl Gretchen

Was gonna steal my heart.

We were floatin' on the water

On the love U-boat

On our way to fight in World War II

Then I took one look at her

And that was all she wrote

I fell in love

Hey, what else could I do?...

 9)  "Dah-Dee-Dum-Dum"  (a rap song)

We got da syllabillic dream

Psychedelic, don't it seem

Jumpin' on da music scene

Gotta tell ya what it means

Funky lyrics, groovy beat

Make ya wanna move ya feet

Shut ya mouth and take a seat

What a Philharmonic feat,

Sing it!

Dah-dee-dum-dum (repeat 4x)

Catch a ride on da rhythm

Take a trip on da beat

Sing "Dah-dee-dum-dum"

And move your feet!

Now ya better recognize

That we gonna harmonize

See da passion in our eyes

Dat'll make ya realize

Nappy-headed, broken-hearted

Can't remember where we started

Seems we never have departed

Guess dat makes it a little harder

Kick it!

Dah-dee-dum-dum (repeat 4x)

Catch a ride on da rhythm

Take a trip on da beat

Sing "Dah-dee-dum-dum"

And move your feet!

Now ya heard da funky lyrics

Gotta feel dat funky groove

Make ya spastic like elastic

Get ya butt right on the move

Get ya goin', you'll be knowin'

That ya epidermis showin'

Don't be spreadin'

What you're gettin'

'Cause the weasel will be dead

And then you gotta clear the scene

Leave the syllabillic dream

Psychedelic, yeah it seems

That you trippin', that you mean

Gettin' better, get my letter

Put the pedal to the floor

Better put the clunker in reverse

Before ya shut da door

Call me stupid, call me lame

Just call me any afternoon

'Cause I always listen to

The things ya tell me in my room

Sing it!

10)  "Torpedo"

Here's the chocolate cake I made for you

Before you threw it in my face

Truthfully, I really think you're hostile

Is there any way that you can change?

Well, over there are all the memories I've forgotten

The good times at the supermarket where we shopped

The flame is dying, as the muffins start to burn

And love has left us, like a salamander does.

If you don't love me, just say it

If you wanna scold me, just do it

Apathy's not in my credo

So why don't you just

Shoot me with a torpedo....

OK, OK, that's enough of that for now. I have plenty more where these came from, and I just might torture you with more in the future. At least you know now what you're getting into next time....

* Co-authored by Don Spivey

26 Poems For Your Perusal: Alpha Poetry

As I may have mentioned before, I'm working on compiling some of my writings for three separate e-books that I hope to put together this year. One will be a short fiction collection, one will be poetry, and another will be a collection of the "best" of my blog posts (if any even qualify as "best").

Back in my younger years, I used to write a lot of mostly silly love (and anti-love) songs and poems that I never ended up doing anything with – a good deal of which are really, really bad (more on this in the next day or so). But some of my newer stuff still seems workable, with some minor (and some major) editing.

One of the styles of poetry I've been doing the past few years is something I call "Alpha Poetry." It's a simple writing exercise that gets the creative juices flowing when I'm in a rut; and occasionally, actual decent poetry comes out of it.

The concept is simple: I go down the alphabet, one letter at a time, and compose a short (one stanza) poem in which the first line begins with that letter of the alphabet. I write an "A" poem, then a "B", a "C", and so on.

Often the poem is nothing more than a thought in verse form, and most of the time it doesn't even rhyme. That's okay – it doesn't have to. Capitalization is also much less important in these than it would normally be, especially for a hard-nosed grammarian like myself.

Occasionally the poem will end up being longer than four lines, but that's usually what each one ends up being. The poems are usually unrelated to each other, and can range from the absurd to the profound to the macabre to the "religious" (I hate that word, but you get my point). I never know what words will flow out until they do.

I will likely use a few of these Alpha Poetry "cycles" in my upcoming poetry collection, as they seem to me to be somewhat of a unique idea in poetry – a sort of flash-fiction poem, if you will. Here's one cycle that I dredged up. I hope you'll enjoy it....Let me know what you think.



a ghost told me
to tell you
to forget the past

buy me a postcard
send it to my house
if i don't answer
assume i don't care

can you tell the difference
between love and hate?
often the symptoms
go hand in hand

dreading your arrival
i lock the doors
shut out the lights
and hide
where i can't be found

eat your words
before they get cold
before the flies come in
before you remember
what you said

from a phone booth outside
i dial your number
knowing you're there
seeing you answer
but i cannot speak

good
for those who are bad
is easy to come by
because so much of it
is never used

half of what i feel
is reflected in
what i let you see
the other half never sees
the light of day

i can't explain the comings and goings
just knowing that you want to know
is all i need to know

just five seconds
that could change my life
depending on what i choose

keep her in your thoughts
and prayers
and on your mind
she may be gone
but you don't have to forget

little do they know
that they are doing us a favor
by not showing up
without them
we are better off

maybe there is some truth
in every lie
but what i said
was nothing worth repeating

no, that isn't right
but then again, what is?
it's a relative term
but the family's always feuding

on the first day
of every month
i look at your picture
and wonder why

physical beauty
was never one of his assets
though he did look better
with his eyes closed

queen of my heart
i crown you now
a useless offering
i know

right around the corner
they say i'll find it
or the next one
or the next one
sometimes i get tired
of walking

say it like you mean it
or don't say it at all
two words – "I'm sorry"
i want to hear you lie

this is the first time
i've looked at you
through rose-colored glasses
and yet i feel as though
i've read your face before

understanding everything
would take forever
limit yourself
to the things most difficult

victory is ours
but in a conflict
who really wins?

what's that song?
i can remember the melody
but the words escape me
it said something about love

x marks
where there should be checks
don't say no
we need your help

you brought me more than enough
of what i needed most
how did you know it was love?
thanks for your pity

zookeeper
don't let them get away
i'm coming back for one
the one with the saddest eyes



Now that I've given you an example of my Alpha Poetry, why not try it for yourself? Even if you don't usually write that much, this could be a good starting point, or maybe just a few minutes' diversion. Feel free to post your own Alpha Poetry in the comments box below. I'd love to read what you might write.

Thank You

If you're reading this right now, you likely fit into one of the following three categories:

1)  You read this blog frequently.  Maybe even every day. If that's you, I'd like to say thank you. You truly make it worth the time and effort I put into each post. For you, I must keep writing. For you, I will.


2)  You read this blog occasionally.  Maybe only once or twice a week. Maybe only when a post's title particularly piques your interest. If that's you, I'd also like to say thank you. You inspire me to write better and more interesting posts in hopes that you will want to read me every day.


3) You are reading this blog for the first time ever.  Maybe I'm one of your "fringe friends" on Facebook and we don't really know each other that well. But today, for some reason you decided to click on the link out of curiosity. Maybe you were redirected here from someone else's blog. Or maybe you simply stumbled onto the site by accident. If that's you, I'd especially like to say thank you. You are exactly who I was hoping to reach. I've been waiting for you to arrive. I sure hope you'll come again some time.