COULD HAVE BEEN EPIC Daily Poems from September 2012

Kenneth A O’Shaughnessy

Text & Illustrations copyright © 2012

Kenneth A O’Shaughnessy

Bad Bad Boy Publications

501 Agewood Drive Simpsonville, SC 29680

kempisosha@gmail.com

All Rights Reserved

This month’s book is dedicated to my sister Dawn.

May she always be able to laugh at my jokes,

and no longer need to cry.

Table of Contents

Contents six september, two-thousand twelve

seven september, two-thousand twelve

eight september, two-thousand twelve

eleven september, two-thousand twelve

twelve september, two-thousand twelve

thirteen september, two-thousand twelve

fourteen september, two-thousand twelve

sixteen september, two-thousand twelve

seventeen september, two-thousand twelve

eighteen september, two-thousand twelve

nineteen september, two-thousand twelve

twenty september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-one september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-two september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-three september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-four september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-five september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-six september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-seven september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-eight september, two-thousand twelve

twenty-nine september, two-thousand twelve

thirty september, two-thousand twelve

afterword

six september, two-thousand twelve

I think I need to craft a poem a day

Not so much to chronicle

The rise

And the fall

Of Life

As to make Life rise from the Fall

#

Could have been epic

But for the three line limit

So just a haiku

seven september, two-thousand twelve

Thinking

Okay but

Can't seem to

get

It out.

I can laugh at your jokes.

Please

Tell more.

I need to listen while I cry.

eight september, two-thousand twelve

The way that we were the way that we are

Seems like yesterday and forever ago

I can still feel your forgotten touch

I recall the memories I no longer know

And whenever I see you I go back to now

And hope for a future that's just like the past

Although you're not that you nor me that me

I want what we don't have now to always last

eleven september, two-thousand twelve

twelve september, two-thousand twelve

For whom the bell no longer tolls

Whose tongue against the lip is still

Whose sound upon the 'rounding knolls

Never again will boom or trill

And friends dispersed who late were called

To remember, with tears their eyes to fill

The instrument case then being palled

And set beneath the silent hill

thirteen september, two-thousand twelve

For all the time that we have spent

Underneath the open skies

Cavorting with fairies that went

Kissing with the dragonflies

I still can't keep from wondering-

Not that it's troublesome to me-

Getting older: is it something

Happening to everybody

Everyone seems just the way

Like they've never aged a day

Leaving us to watch them play

fourteen september, two-thousand twelve

Flunky the monkey that poor simian

Did whatever he was told with a hideous grin.

"Fetch me that whatzit" said Mr Magrew,

The man who had Flunky since the monkey was two.

Flunky went out with his grin hideous

And got him that whatzit without any fuss,

And drove it, still grinning, into Magrew's brain.

That grinning monkey was never Flunky again.

sixteen september, two-thousand twelve

what would jesus do?

that is the question often asked.

he would grow up with a stepfather

in a country where he wasn't born

with older brothers who bossed him

learning a laborer’s trade

in an average income household

and learn what he was taught

and do what had to be done

and treat people with respect

even when they killed him.

seventeen september, two-thousand twelve

Like rain that falls on upturned face

Or sun that fresh the weary mind

Unrav'ling knots of world too much

Is your smile or playful touch

Smoothing brow all worry-lined

Every wrinkle filled with grace

#

My thoughts are not only of you. Some thoughts of you make me have to

Remind myself to breathe, too.

eighteen september, two-thousand twelve

Lest you think I am single-dimensional

Everything I do centered around one pole

I will do something that is unconventional

Giving you a better idea of my whole

Here it goes, I'm starting to do it now

Anytime you'll notice another side

Nevermind, I guess there's nothing to show

Nothing besides what I just have to hide

nineteen september, two-thousand twelve

Phone Upgrade Blues

I'm waitin' for the upgrade

Gonna put it on my phone

'Cause until I have my upgrade

I just feel so alone

But the upgrade will come and I'll have upgrade fun

With my phone

I downloaded the upgrade

Seems familiar to me

I'm not sure that this upgrade

Is new functionality

But the upgrade's installed and I'm no longer appalled

With my phone

Now that I have my upgrade

I'm back in the tech zone

There's only one problem

No one calls on my phone

But I've got Jelly Bean and it's reasonably keen

On my phone

twenty september, two-thousand twelve

What do you do when you come up dry? Do you dive down deep until you touch land And grab a handful of water-wet sand? Or do you instead climb high? Raising yourself over hand over hand Perspiring, until you fly.

twenty-one september, two-thousand twelve

Sometimes more can be Said with silence . . . But not usually # "It doesn't matter" means it has no substance. But don't some say that only things without substance matter? If it fills your life so you have no room for other things Isn't that matter, or at least antimatter? Perhaps the maxim "Everything in its proper place" Would be the more appropriate response To one whose matters or antimatters Seems to be misplaced. If it can be felt, it matters.

twenty-two september, two-thousand twelve

Reaching the age of eighteen can

Almost seem like an end

Childhood.

However

Eighteen is just a number

Like every other age marker is

Kant said that happiness is

An imagination idea

That is, you can have

Happiness

Reason notwithstanding.

You just have to think that way.

Not that that’s easy at any age.

However, enjoy it while it’s Now

As that’s all there is

Really.

Valiantly

Enter adulthood with

Your childhood completely intact.

twenty-three september, two-thousand twelve

There once was a babe in a box

Who was wearing nothing but socks

He was always kinda cool

And there was nothing to catch drool

But laying around naked just rocks

twenty-four september, two-thousand twelve

Another day, another poem, again I write

Not that it matters, since so few are read

Yet I don't write for you, or even for me

All I write is for someone else.

twenty-five september, two-thousand twelve

Do you always pick opportune times to get sick?

Want to spice up your life with spontaneity?

Want to feel bad on days you don't pick?

Try our new patented "Sic-Sumday"!

Guaranteed to randomize illness and flu

Bowel distress and the sniffles, too.

So get "Sic-Sumday" and stay home in bed

You'll never again have to plan sickness ahead.

twenty-six september, two-thousand twelve

I never write I never call

How 'come we never talk?

I've gotten fat, no energy

Don't know why it hurts to walk.

No real prayer, don't read the Word

Why does God seem far away?

I do my work halfheartedly

Why don't I get better pay?

It must be someone else's fault

That nothing's going right

I haven't done anything

And that with all my might.

twenty-seven september, two-thousand twelve

Amazing, ain't it,

Like, how awful bad grammar

Dudes be usin' now

#

It is by design that we dance in the dark

Needing a partner to stop the stumbling

The edges are softened and light's just a spark

That reveals just enough to cause wondering

When we strain to see more than what is at hand

Or find a way to make flashes of light

We no longer can see and cannot understand

What is happening to our left or our right

Do not trade the little light that is there

For a blindness that takes ev'rything away

Keep a hand on your waist and a song in the air

And it won't matter if it's night or it's day

twenty-eight september, two-thousand twelve

Finished with supper, subdued they walked,

Peter uncharacteristically quiet,

Remem'bring his master bowed at his feet

And the feeling of water and towel,

Indignation at washing, not washing all...

Simon - the other one- was the betrayer -

Did he actually think he could have been?

Couldn't he go everywhere Jesus went?

Afterward could never be soon enough.

He would die before they took Him away.

Yes, he would kill to save the giver of life!

And he fell asleep comforted by his thoughts.

twenty-nine september, two-thousand twelve

Sorrowful beyond grief, beyond pain, beyond hope

And afraid of what all, even himself, might do

Turning away from his three year sabbatical

Until such time as he might feel alive again

Remembrance hopefully being forgotten

Down went Simon, back down to the seashore

And repaired his tackle, unmoored his boat, and said,

"Y'all, I'm going to go fishing." And they went.

thirty september, two-thousand twelve

Simon ran to the open sepulchure, stooping

Under the lintel and past the beloved disciple.

No body but his inside, and two sets of clothing.

Doubtlessly he went back home to his house

And prepared for another night of fishing. It was not

Yet time to fish for men - his nets needed mending.

afterword

A hearty thanks for reading this book

No doubt something here made you go “Huh.”

You should come back next month for a look

Another set of poems will be here for ya.

Kenneth A O’Shaughnessy

kempisosha@gmail.com