Fun Writing

Monument to Self

Put a pyramid on me when I’m gone
for my life has been,
at best, 
and the other monuments
lack hubris.
Or better,
choose a marble 
Rubik cube
for many found me
a problem to be solved.
Or best,
a wheel within a wheel,
not for Ezekiel,
but the windmills
of my mind.*

*Borrowed line from song title by Alan and Marilyn Bergman “The Windmills of Your Mind”

Poem's author credit:: 
copyright Bill Kemp, 2017
Local cemetery

Jetlag and Cat

Out of a leave it to Beaver dream
my half-sized self
holding mom’s hand
through a vast airport 
to see father off
in 1960s style
waving at the gate
while propellors rotate
I remember the
graceful turning
three tailed constellation.

by the cat
walking on ribs
nosing at cheek
staring into my eye
to see if I am in.

But, where I am
is with mom,
having flown to take
her hand.
And returned
through cramped Midway
and the TSA.

Poem's author credit:: 
copyright Bill Kemp, 2017
TWA Constellation for business travelers like my father

The Hunt

The pelicans come in military precision
a trio low
as high as a three meter dive
as silent as angels
uninterrupted, eternal
youthful, insatiable

Nearer to my state
an older gentleman of their kind
unruffled watches
not needing to join this hunt

Poem's author credit:: 
copyright Bill Kemp, 2017
Aged pelican from Pittsburgh National Aviary

Higgs Collisions

“If I have to speak to you all again, I’ll just turn the car around.” This time he punctuated his threat by pulling the ’98 Taurus wagon off the road with a jerk.


Whole Life Project

I have discovered that

Patience and humility are interlaced.

The tapestry of a weaver’s shuttle,

Strand by strand,

Life is a thread of attention

Rhythmically tossed, back and forth,

Until relationships emerge in focus.

Poem's author credit:: 
copyright Bill Kemp, 2013
beauty and truth meet when you hold a child

Missing the Shrimp

I pulled a Houdini

Turning left before the table of cheese curls

pepsi, and dip,

and dipping beneath the wattled arm

of someone’s great aunt...

Poem's author credit:: 
copyright Bill Kemp, 2013

Putting down a Book

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. It was time. She was almost accustomed to the growling rumble of bombardment. The game of trying to discerned a pattern had worn her numb. A progression of booms, growing ever lower and more muffled, would be followed by a blast so close that you heard the rain of second story glass. She had hidden for three days in the linen closet, most of it curled fetal-like reading her book by candle light.

Bullet 25

Thaddeus McChesney leaned into you when he spoke. He gave you irrefutable advice and detailed explanations of the trivial. His job at the bottling company had involved adjusting the labels, truing them to lay parallel to the draft’s bottom and spell checking their fine print. I doubt he ever drank a beer. His edge was important to him. Why dull it? He ate organic, fearing to introduce the slightest dust into the well oiled machinery of his life. The fact that he expected such accuracy of others nurtured in many hearts a concern that he might never die.


The Law of Falling Egg Whites

“Ephron writes the following; ‘I cracked an egg upon my dining room table,’ Stop, ‘‘It puddled and pooled, glimmering like a jellyfish in the morning light’ Stop, ‘Then majestically it slid its finger across the boundary of the table’s edge‘  Stop, ‘Falling, it picked up speed, The whole jelly fish thing, gripped by it’s own surface tension, slopped onto my rug‘  Stop, and end of message.” 

Persian Decoder Ring