“Branching Out” © C.P. Hickey
“Branching Out” © C.P. Hickey
My second ProCrasstheNation Poetry Project has come to a completion with this last offering below. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all that have contributed. Whether it was in offering a word of inspiration to seed a poem, by visiting my website to view a post, or by commenting and sharing the work I’ve created; I appreciate your patience, consideration, and encouragement.
I ask for your continued support, and look forward to offering you fresh content as we move into a new and exciting year.
*The poem below is composed of the 29 words or phrases (all bolded and italicized) that were used as poem titles for the past month.
I share with you my witches brew…
My body is my home.
A place of profound and unconditional love.
It requires great energy to sustain a healthy esteem in modern society.
A phoneciety, wherein we lose ourselves in technology,
and withdraw from the world.
We miss the good things.
Perhaps, noticing that within every post rain rainbow,
or promise of inner peace,
resides redemption for a weary soul.
I weather the waves of naysayers and doubters.
Striking out into the wilderness,
and hiking in the isolation of doubt as it surrounds me,
and challenges every microscopic fiber of my resolve to not fold inward.
I push forward through the adversity of life,
like the Red Sox finally winning the world series after an extended drought.
Redefining what sanctification means.
Realigning my essence and my body into a cohesive syzygy.
What makes a man, a man?
“What if C-A-T really spelled DOG?”
The 1980’s Celtics/Lakers rivalry
No, nope, maybe?
Do I need to be a deviant daddy,
and stand akimbo in the middle of Boston Traffic,
wearing a pair of red skin-tight singlets?
Or do I need to be a Greasy Texan with a penchant for lobbying against the repealing of the 2nd Amendment?
Perhaps, I can regain the joy of feeling anonymity in a city?
Eating sandwiches and macaroons is the only way back to fine and dandy.
That, or an eight-ball of yayo in the secret pocket of your denim jeans.
A rolling stone gathers no moss, so they say.
Do you think there’s a German word for that?
Poem 29 in the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project was inspired by an idea that my friend Dominic named, but I hadn’t been able to articulate: Phoneciety. This is what we are devolving into folks. No way around it. Ironically, much of what I do in way of blogging and capturing content starts with my cell phone. Yes, I am a hypocrite. Does it absolve me from being accountable if I’m aware of the problem. No! I didn’t think so. I give you the Brave New World…
Soma never tasted so good.
We live in a society in its decline.
Gaining notoriety through ego masturbation.
Faces enthralled by an empty dead glow.
That’s as far as the light goes.
In the throes, of Apps and Emoticons.
Choosing icons to relay feelings.
No immediate accountability for what is said.
Devotion to a lower powered battery.
as towers of terror terraform the landscape.
Triangulation of your virtual presence.
Strangulation of your anonymity.
Bought and sold,
Heads bent down.
Procession of distraction.
Fixation on the false gods.
The serpent didn’t give the Apple to Eve.
It gave it to Steve,
Jobs are reduced to temporary service related baseline non-skill, cheaper by the dozen, minimum wage destinations.
Resumes have more bullet points than a mass shooting.
Compliance not coerced,
but willingly conceded,
one application at a time.
Plugged in fate.
Heads of State,
complicate globalization and geopolitical issues by firing insult salvos across social media frontlines.
Baseless insults are bullets in the work up to the final SEND.
Civilized civilization ceases to exist.
Succumbs to dumb elected officials with insecurity issues.
Elevated by an uneducated populace,
a rabble of ham-fisted hacks.
The drug of choice is in your palm.
It enters your eyes,
infects your mind,
leaves you a husk if humanity.
Chasing the first hit.
A void to be filled by consumerist considerations.
The stars in the sky still shine,
even though no one looks up anymore.
What difference does it make, now?
Sordid selfie, show the archaeologists of tomorrow our baseless pride.
Lucifer was cast out of paradise for serving his vanity.
Where will we be cast for serving ours?
Poem 28 of the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project involves food. A sweet thank you to Benjamin M. for filling the cavity of my sweet tooth with one hell of a snack.
I enjoy playing the spoons,
when I snack on macaroons.
On occasion, I spit chunky loogies,
into brass spitoons.
Or off the docks,
with longshoreman goons.
Going by the graveyard,
Getting lost with Loch Ness,
Ridden down by infantry dragoons.
Secret messages in runes.
Old West Saloons.
At high noon,
when lovers swoon.
While feeding each other macaroons.
Poem 27 in the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project was inspired by a writing colleague. Danke, Haley, for making me remember something I didn’t know I always knew and cherished.
“The joy of feeling anonymity in a city…there should be a German word for that”
German, for feeling alone in the woods.
Does that pass for the joy of feeling anonymity in a city?
Ironically, Emerson wrote about being alone in the woods.
But, where is the joy in that anonymity to be found?
Is there a happiness to feeling anonymous in a splendor of busy?
Traveling from block to block,
blending in amongst the throng of troubled travelers.
Heads and souls buried deep in their palms.
Electronic palms, that guarantee that you will never look up for the answers,
while looking up answers.
Standing on a corner, watching the world go by.
Hanging back, sipping on a chai.
Bearing witness to a thousand trivial concerns.
No one aware of your observations.
Standing on the periphery.
Unheeded, unknown, and able.
Seeing the people who are ignored.
And they, finding you, and your perception.
Your large ears and heart.
It doesn’t matter who you are to them,
except a someone who can witness their pain.
Anonymity in a city,
a gift to serial killers and people watchers.
Stealing the lives of those that meander through your sphere.
Sitting silly in a corporate coffee shop,
looking the part.
Quill in hand, pen in fingers, laptop on table, tomes spread out.
Serious writing business.
Accounting of life.
The meat of it.
Capturing the rotten rotting populace,
in a candid frame.
The warmth of the city lights as they chase the shadows away at dusk and keep them at bay.
Steam rises, cars idle.
The heartbeat noise of the city conceals your motives,
allowing you to move with unimpeded privilege.
The stone walkways,
luring you to the harbor.
The industry of rats goes on despite man’s interventions.
A hub of bustling activity,
where you can go and no one knows your name.
And could care less if you came.
The raptured joy of disappearing.
Folding in on oneself.
Born to run,
but happy to be static in between the raindrops when no one is looking.
Every once in a while, a wisp of memory will well up within a wary walker-on-by,
and they might stop and look at you in that deja vu sort of way.
Quickly rearranging their collar or coat lapel,
only to dive back into the sidewalk flow.
Forever forgetting that they might have spied something.
Nah, they missed.
Your secret is safe,
An anonymous city ninja,
blending with crowds,
holding court with the pigeons,
a ruddy smirk plastered across your unrecognizable face.