The one-l lama,
He’s a priest.
The two-l llama,
He’s a beast.
And I will bet
A silk pajama
There isn’t any
Three-l lllama.*

* The author’s attention has been called to a type of conflagration known
as a three-alarmer. Pooh.

** Erundur would like to call attention to the brilliance of this poem.

The concept of Haikoo.org is a pleasant one and simple. Each person contributes one line of the haiku.

An example. I begin a haiku by giving it a name and the first line. I began one yesterday, and it has already been completed.

Sixes
A Saturday thick
with smoke, fear, and promises
that Sunday will come

(Participants: anwamehtar, kellynisms, tom)

He recently added another feature that allows people to add Youtube videos of the poem being recited. I particularly enjoyed the following one:

streetside
little old lady
release your grocery cart
those shackles are loud

(Participants: vixy, chrispin, WEContact)

Click here to view the embedded video.

And this one by marmay9, dimelane, EnFeu and performed by kellynisms is worth having a laugh about:

confetti
life keeps taking me
by suprise, and it makes me
separate, explode

Click here to view the embedded video.

It’s worth admiring the completed poems, and if you like the premise sign up and try it out.

When you go the same place every weekday morning, you tend to start recognizing other people who come around a lot. In particular, there’s one homeless man I end up seeing most mornings who comes in and sits in the chair next to me. He’s usually wearing several layers of clothing (because the weather has still been cold here) and laden with a bag or two with his possessions in them.

Yesterday morning I saw him walking towards his chair and holding a box labeled “Mostly Muffins.” I assumed it contained muffins. On closer notice, I realized it contained scones. Cinnamon scones.

I looked at his scruffy face as he asked the question, “Do you want these scones?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay, I already had some breakfast.”

“No, go ahead, you can have them,” he encouraged.

“Okay, sure, I’ll try one of them,” I acquiesced.

“Here, have a granola bar, too. You can save it for later.”

I took the granola bar and put it in my messenger bag for later. I picked up the box of scones, tore a hole in the plastic covering, removed a scone, and proceeded to eat it. Twenty minutes later, I took the other scones with me as I left for work.

Not being able to eat six scones by myself, I shared them with my coworkers. They praised the scones and stated how delicious they were. I felt glad to share the scones with them. I never told them they came from a homeless man.

Events like this offer a strange view of the world. Typically, homeless people are considered the dregs of the society with nothing to offer. This man, who had received an excess of food, freely shared it with me.

I’m thankful.

Random guy sleeping in chair on first floor of tower. Probably homeless.

He woke up, repositioned his brown felt blanket, looked my direction, and said “Those are nice shoes.” He was referring to my three year old grey Reeboks with orange highlights — the cheapest pair on sale at Kohl’s at the time.

“Thanks,” I replied.

He pointed to his white shoes and stated, “These are spartan shoes. For a while I wasn’t sure if I wanted to live or die, but I decided to live and became a Spartan so I got these shoes.”

“Cool.”

A few moments passed as I glance towards my book deciding if I should continue reading or keep talking.

He continued talking. “I don’t know if I like this jacket, I don’t think I want it anymore.” As he said this he threw a blue windbreaker onto the unoccupied orange leatherish chairs. Four chairs sit in the corner of the first floor in a mini art gallery on the first floor of the Municipal Tower.

I suggested, “Well it’s important to stay warm though you might need it.”

“Yeah. This weather really has been bothering me lately.” He lowered the hood from his red hoodie. His dark brown hair and youthful face indicated his age to be mid-twenties.

The Spartan began to talk more about his lifestyle. “There’s two elements of life. There’s the solid and there’s the risk.” He points to me and says, “There’s non risk…,” and then points to himself before continuing, “…and there’s risk. Do you have the time?”

I dug my cell phone out of my pocket, “7:49 AM. Which means I’ve got to go to work actually. It pays the bills — it gives me somewhere warm to sleep.”

“Another part of being a spartan is breakfast. I’m going to go find breakfast. See you around.”

“Alright, see ya later.”

O, the dark pendulum swings
naught comes to naught
forward on hope’s deft wings

O, the dark pendulum swings
ought comes to ought
reverse gears, friction sings

nights end, enlightened
forever it brings

reach the chaliced sky
never seize

touch birth, touch earth
be

O, the dark pendulum swings
the arc, the seeker’s relief

O, the dark pendulum swings

Motion City Soundtrack – L.G. FUAD:

…
I wanna know what it’s like to be awkward and innocent, not belligerent
I wanna know how it feels to be useful and pertinent and have common sense.. yeah
Let me in, let me in to the club, cuz I wanna belong
And I need to get strong, and if memory serves
I’m addicted to words and they’re useless
…

Sometimes I still want to go out and get slammed. Stephen King describes his alcoholism well in his book “On Writing.”

I had forgotten the trick of being straight–and out of shame.

Hemingway and Fitzgerald didn’t drink because they were creative, alienated, or morally weak. They drank because it’s what alkies are wired up to do. Creative people probably do run a greater risk of alcoholism and addiction than those in some other jobs, but so what? We all look pretty much the same when we’re puking in the gutter.

He writes of a friend:

“How much do you drink?” the counselor asked.
My friend looked at the counselor with disbelief. “All of it,” he said, as if that should have been self evident.

I can relate. As so kindly pointed out by generations of alcoholics and their kin, alcoholism doesn’t end when you put the bottle down. Now I’ve got to learn to put down the pizza, the television, the HIMYM and Scrubs, the music, the movies, the books, the news.

Heck, while I’m at it maybe I ought to deny myself, take up my cross, and follow him.

I polish the plate and put it away
pile on the stack and push it back
its placid destiny set
no more memoirs of food to write tonight
the tableware beholds no more

Everyday, the war continues
with flaming arrows flying far.
The warriors fight for countless hours
going forth, never back, beneath the stars.

A Hero arisen leads the fight.
He’s drawn many people to his side
and constantly they live in light
of His love. He gave all to stop the tide.

He gave them life, his life, and they live.
“I have come that YOU may have life!”
He shouts for men and women to give
their chains to him and leave behind eternal strife.

Many join – many, but not all.
Some hate the light, prefer blindness,
and run through broad streets until they fall
forever because they refused a Hero’s kindness.

Rally, men, rally to his cry!
Turn, women, you must open your eyes!
Look now, all, and realize
you must be on the right side
before you die
fighting for lies.