Makes Me Want To Cry

Just a few facts
that should make you want to cry…
Four thousand per cent markup
On each bottle of water you buy

Four per cent of all U.S. energy is consumed
In the making of plastic
So I’m guessin’ that our average person
Doesn’t think the energy crises is drastic

Doesn’t even matter
what you’re putting in it
One hundred forty four thousand
plastic bags are used every minute

At least four billion bottles
purchased in 2010
An amount that’s quite
Impossible to truly comprehend

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poem by David Whalen
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My view of fog

People often view fog in one way only
I personally don't see it that way, and...
the feeling it conjures is more than just lonely
It's totally different...
as night is to day

It depends on your age and your state of mind
to be able to see fog in a different light
To see it one way only is to be partially blind
and most peoples vision is locked in...
too tight

Fog, coldly defined, is water suspended in air
And while defined so, gives no true definition, and yet
we know fog can defy easy description and,
can tiptoe soft as a kitten....or slither snake-like
from it's lair

To a child, fog's a soft, hidey-place plaything,
droplets of laughter, giggling out of the mist

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poem by David Whalen
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Not If, But When

Not If, But When?

Dim sunrise on a gray, smoky city
Cars line the roads, slowly rusting
Winds blowing ash, harsh and gritty
Acidic smog gives an evil dusting

Tires melted to pavement, rubber pools of blackness
Window Glass sagging from kiln-like heat
All move no more due to nuclear madness
In gutters, white bones scoured by gray caustic sleet

Destinations and drivers no longer exist
no organic life forms survive
Only wind blown gray ash and solitude persist
Where aspirations and ambitions did thrive

Empty buildings pleading for workers to toil
Winds moaning through windowless walls
Papers bubbling about in a bleak breezy boil

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poem by David Whalen
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Pay Attention! Part 2 (listen with your eyes)

Pay Attention Part 2 (listen with your eyes)

Pay attention!
Truly watch the one you’re with and you’ll see what most miss
Let them do the speaking, and watch closely while listening
Don’t think what your reply shall be, as most people are want to do
nor interrupt or comment while they speak.
Instead, listen superficially and observe hypercritically.

As much of communication involves facial contortions
and body gyrations, as does the actual uttering of words and sound
Follow the subject matter with sufficient attention, enough
To satisfy your speakers desire to speak, then endeavour to
Observe the amazing physicality involved
In this most multi-faceted, supremely descriptive,
intricate act of tacit communication

Watch, and hear with your eyes!
Observe the unceasing gymnastics of your speaker’s dancing eyebrows

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poem by David Whalen
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Corpus Delicti

More germs are transferred
While shaking hands
Than are transferred during
Heavy passionate kissing

So if you don’t grab the hand
Of The next person you meet
And just kiss them instead,
just think of all the germs you’ll be missing

On average, women say
seven thousand words every day
while two thousand words
most men utter

That could be because
Women rarely pause
While most men’s minds
Are most oft in the gutter

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poem by David Whalen
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Lies About Tall Guys

Just seems like it’s that way to me

Taller guys seem to get executive jobs
Shorter guys work mostly as clerks
Taller guys never seem to be slobs
Shorter guys always seem to be jerks

Taller guys seem to get all of the action
Shorter guys seem to be quite invisible
Taller guys always seem to deserve satisfaction
Shorter guys are lonely and miserable

Just seems like it’s that way to me

Taller guys just seem born to play sports
Shorter guys kinda seem to like tennis
Taller guys certainly look better in shorts
Shorter guys look like Dennis the Menace

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poem by David Whalen
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Witchy Woman

Lost in the bayou!
It was funny at first
To an adventure lovin’ youngen
This wouldn’t be the worst

Just a night in the swamp
In a little flat-bottomed boat
Enough water for one night
a piece of jerky in a paper poke

Awakenin’ from a sleep
He hadn’t known he’d even fallen into
the full moonglow diffused softly
By the Spanish moss that it shone through

Waterbugs skitterin‘, gators aglidin’
Cajun fiddle playin’ some where out in the night
Katydids singin’, water moccasins slidin’
In the distance, through the swamp mist,
shone a faint ghostly light

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poem by David Whalen
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Good 'ol summer days (god, I love 'em)

Good ‘Ol Summer Days

Fireworks, hot dogs, hide and seek in the dark
Slope shouldered willow tree, by the lake in the park

Lightning bugs rising, living sparks in the skies
Prisms of light, reflected in toddler’s amazed eyes

Sausage and burgers, hickory smoke and barbecue smells
Ripe barnyard odors, sounds of far-off church bells

Redolent richness of honey locust, saturates summer air
Summery scents, like bramble burrs, seemingly glued in ‘lil girls hair

Short lives of dainty mayflies, mating dance o’er slow muddy rivers
Skinny dips, swimming holes, warm winds, goose- bumpy shivers

Coppertone lotion, peeling nose, wraparound sunglasses
Hangin out at the library, summer-school catch-up classes

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poem by David Whalen
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Most Memorable Valentine

I would see the old lady in the halls where I did volunteer work.
About eighty plus years old, with the bent over shuffle of the very old or very feeble.Pushing her walker laboriously, yet with determination as she went to her appointments.

I stopped often to talk to her, usually in the cafeteria where she had her favorite spot.

During one of these chats she excitedly told me the doctor had told her that very day that her cancer had seemingly gone away. felt good for her, and had a warm feeling the rest of that day.
I didn't see her for quite some time and began to think she might have died, so I was relieved on Valentines day to see her slumped down dozing in her customary seat in the cafeteria, her walker folded
Beside her.

I didn't bother to chat her up since she looked so peaceful, eyes half closed, head on her breast.I sat down in a booth just across a divider between us. No more than three feet separated us from
each other as I worked my crossword puzzle and had breakfast.

My attention was taken by the voice of a bus girl replying to the old lady, who asked again if she could get her another coffee and a cinnamon donut. The bus girl said 'of course, but it would be a
few moments before she could get it.' After a moment, I got up and approached the bus girl and told her 'never mind, that
I would take care of the ladies coffee and donut.'

I bought and paid for it and then tapped the old girl on the shoulder. She recognized me as the man who chatted with her occasionally and gave me a tired, friendly smile. I told her that today was Valentines day and I didn't have a Valentine to call my own, and that It would please me so much If she would be my Valentine and gave her the coffee and donut. 'just for today, okay? '

At first she looked taken aback, and then smiled broadly and said 'of course, of course my dear! '
I put my hand on her blue veined, withered hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. She put her other hand over mine and gave the squeeze right back. As I took leave I said 'don't forget…today you're my Valentine' and she smiled, winked, and said 'and you'll be mine.'

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poem by David Whalen
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The Man At The Bar

The Man At The Bar

I saunter toward the bar of my neighborhood tavern
For my weekly libation and some solitude in reading.
Tinseled ads dangle down like stalagtites in dim cavern
In this dark refuge, where world’s woes, no one’s heeding

At the bar sit’s a man alone, o’er long necked bottle, working-mans hands hover
Eyes unfocused, staring unseeingly, deep into space
While I, a book in one hand and cash for my pint in the other
Wait for my drink, when I sense his sad gaze drift round to my face

The palpable pull of his gaze makes me turn, nod politely and say “hi”
And his eyes slowly shift down to the book in my clasp
“Sir, “ said he, “might I have a peek at your book? ” A reticent request, soft as a sigh
“of course, ” said I, and placed my dog-eared edition in his work-calloused grasp

A quick, cursory page riffling, then a wry wrinkled look
The tattered book proffered back to me with a sad sibilant sigh

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poem by David Whalen
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