Ode to Uncanniness

Sarobia-golf-ball-s

Life is Like a Golf Ball Stuck in a Tree, Surrounded by a Spider Web.

What is it about thee?
A penchant to look past and not see me;

Observing only what thou wishes to be,
Expressing admiration predominately,
When complimentary to thy own bland cup of tea.

Ignorance is thine,
Self-pity is mine,
Time after time, after time.

It’s always been that way.
Why? I really can not say.
I think I’ll blame it all on an older sibling named Ray,
Under whose foot as a child I did stay.

Living in fear and pain, lasting throughout each day,
Wishing for comfort and not feeling at bay,
Tortured by a tyrant whose jealousy is felt even today,
Although he is long gone from this astral plane.

Being a threat to another’s autonomy,
Is what I gather the cause must be,
Seeming as if a sign is planted perpetually on my back that reads, “Ignore me.”

Another month has passed us by,
Why is it that I want to cry?

Could it be that it went so fast,
Knowing that my time won’t last,
For very much longer?

Life is filled with so much uncertainty,
Why doth thou add to my soliloquy with thy ability,
To make me feel worthless, untalented and unfulfilled with ambiguity?

I apologize for this rant in rhyme,
Something that’s a specialty of mine,
Inscribing thoughts that come to mind,
Of what seem to be bothering me at the time.

Writing is a friend with a listening ear,
Who offers a kind bit of cheer,
Always letting me speak when no one else doth hear.

The pain and sorrow I hath reared,
Doth take away my happiness and return it with jeers,
From them who care less about anyone but sub-peers,
Who fill their own agenda, boost their egos, and not realizing mine own tears.

Perhaps I should go out and have a beer.
But my five hundred words are nowhere near.

So I’ll continue until I reach the quota,
Three hundred and thirty-three words thus far and not an iota,
Of sense doth this make, so let them eat cake,
Frosted in iambic pentameter.

Another one hundred and fifty words to go in this epic poem,
Which started out seriously and now makes me want to leave home,
To seek some entertainment other than my words of groan.

I’ll need to throw on a pair of pants,
Taken off before starting this rhyming rant,
Sweating after putting away all the food-shopping I had made,
This evening much to my disdain.

Why is it I hate to do that dreaded deed?
A friend calls me silly, for otherwise how would I feed?
There’s always take out and home delivery,
But that can be quite costly on my fixed sustainability.

Telling me she likes to shop, tooling around with a shopping cart,
Something methinks that’s ingrained at birth for every little female tart,
Who grows up later into a money drain while visiting every boutique and super-mart.

But enough of that, for my poetic diatribe has now reached its five-hundred words,
Even more as I type, this is really getting to be absurd.
Thanks for allowing me this bit of poetry,
Your continual support, and weekly reading of my non-sensibility.

So until next time I doth so uncannily rhyme,
Thanks for being so kind.

The End

P.S. Oh, by the way, allow me to share our latest tune,
Sung by Rie Waits and yours truly in honor of the Harvest Moon,
With the accompanying video for good measure,
Of one of  my last few joys for surrealistic pleasure.

One more thing, but it doesn’t rhyme, is my latest novel, Sarobia: Sanctuary for Human Beings, Birds and Animals, which is now available at Amazon.com and on Kindle; https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07663KZYC/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_x_TdV1zbPGMTXQ6

Please pick up a copy. Thanks in advance.

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About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at Lulu.com.
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2 Responses to Ode to Uncanniness

  1. Jack Maher says:

    Good Stuff again Mike

  2. Thanks, Jack. Appreciate that.

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