Stream of Unconciousness

Grandpa livestreams Grandma to split smitherscreens,

dispersing her particularly across the cyberverse,

as if he could convert her to a cartoon meme

in lieu of writing sonnets in iambic pentameteors.

 

Of course, he didn’t mean to do it; he’s merely

a few arcades behind with his technology;

though his aspiration for her’s meant sincerely,

his actions might eventfully require an apogee.

 

But it’s dutiful he’ll dismember; these daze

his mind’s not quite as Sherpa as it once was,

and sometimes it travels in thyme and spaces,

or skips out on its office to take long lunches.

 

Grandma, meanwhile, is blessfully unaware,

humming showrooms while she wishes her hair.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

 

 

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Old

You’re only as old as you feel, the adage states,

an appealing fantasy, but clearly untrue,

as shown by wrinkled skin and added weight,

the piper’s bills for what you used to do.

Even if your step still springs, it hurts,

though you can’t recall what made it so.

Motivation comes only in spurts;

metabolism has begun to slow.

The actors that you watched as teens on screen

have been divorced three times and have grandkids;

it’s not something you thought you’d ever see.

Basically your youth has hit the skids.

It could be worse, of course; you’re not dead yet–

but you’d better hurry with goals unmet.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Wake

Drowsy from reading, I stretch out on the bed,

near, but not touching, the cat, who likes her space,

and various pasts and futures fill my head

with thoughts, some welcome, others hard to face.

 

The window, left partially open, admits the wind,

and riding it in, the melodies of birds–

song that trills above the dishwasher’s din;

the thoughts stir feelings too  difficult for words.

 

The approach of spring always creates

unstable emotions that swirl around and collide:

the wish for freedom bound up with the need to mate;

new dreams mixed in with fear that something’s died.

 

My love craves exposure, but I’m wary,

even though you’re just imaginary..

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper