The Wind's in the Wendigo

upside wrong 

right side down 

here we go 

round and round 

I feel a spiral coming on

like migraine black and blue

confused by the colors

no idea what to do

Make the bad man stop

trying to stem the tide

with a goldfish net

with holes open wide

all my hard work ruined

The painting washed away

my beautiful creation

where antelope did play

chilkoot befuddled

muddy rainbow puddled

Tlingit blanket frayed

Seed beads all muddled

The wind's in the windigo

Now my fine pine time 

Dissolved by acid rain 

One more nightmare of mine

Milo's tree fort

my grandson Milo and I

found a tree fort made of pine

near a school playground 

we thought it mighty fine

carefully he inspected 

another's house design

in ice-cream drip shorts

explored evergreen shrine 

Tipi-d tripod branches 

leaning companionably 

like friends on each other

just like Milo and me

we admired the needles

arranged upon the trees

prepping for the winter

to weather wind and freeze

He found moss growing

softly wild in the wood

upholstered a log chair

as great-great grampa would

Then he kindly invited

Omi to take a seat 

all pillowed in moss green

so I could rest my feet

we imagined a bedroom

"quite small" judged he

perhaps it was a closet

where the broom would be

The smell of the wood

and the fir and pine cone

in the forest by the beach

which he is taking home

a gestalt wonder feast

painted thistle and lime

marram trails to wander 

in a dune old as time

I shall dream tonight

of our cozy timber home

I know he treasures like me

our shared lakeland roam. 

with love from Omi to Milo. 7.21.2026

Wear the Bay City Roller trousers and the damn tam-o-shanter too!

As the moons spiral by

and wrinkles in time, add

elder Omi repents some

missed chances I had

mummified by fear

wrapped tight in gotta bes

hampered by conventions

and will they judge me's?

their demands included

lots of work from me

yet excluded from perks

nor any reciprocity 

two sets of double standard

hats I didn't choose to wear

expectations handed down 

Burdens I never agreed to bear

Shrink-wrapped universe 

bespoke sizes too small

foreshortened horizon 

artificial fences too tall 

Too many vested interests

in the style cramped scapegoat

in muddy wedding dress

and tattered overcoat

I recant land-locked dreams

staying safe on the floor

shoulda punched the box out

and kicked down the door

too scared to smash ceilings 

for fear of falling glass

can't never did nothing 

by sitting on her ass

so locked doors remain

woodland trails untraipsed

too many effs given

so many not tasted grapes

Here's my advice to you

unsolicited though it be

you don't have to cower

learn a lesson from me

eat plums from the icebox

seize the ring of brass

fly your freak flag loud

don't let the parade pass

wear Bay City Roller trousers 

in Stewart tartan Blue

if dad says you look a fool

wear the tam-o-shanter too! 

in this game called being

you only get one shot

so take aim and make it

give it all you've got

play your cards to win

even if ya got a shitty hand

make your entrance with flair

strike up the kitchen band

The tilt-a-whirl will end

it's not that long a ride

you do the choosing of 

the direction of your stride

when the band's played out

when it's time to bid adieu

I hope you went with neon

and danced to your own kazoo

when Charron arrives

in ferry of tie-dyed hue

I wish blessed journeys

and Elysian fields for you

May you be met by

eternal arms open wide

may we all gather on 

Loch Lomand's bonny side

May all your by and bys be sweet

those were the days, in

Russian Dorogoj dlinnoju

around Formica table

mem'ry muted gray- blue

a doll-sized dwelling 

cramped trailer home

tiny shtetel paradise

micro, but all our own 

blowing kisses at the wind

making love and holy vow

promises to the future

benediction on the now

enough was a bounty

no room to store much

got by well on basics

lots of laughter and such

sad times there were, plus

mad with some bad

but boisterous joy was

mostly what we had

like the Lady of Shallot

the doom came only

when gloom was allowed 

to squat there rent-free

in a time when excess

was something to strive for

we enjoyed much muchness

behind our torn screen door

our abundance was us

such riches to behold

what larks, Pip, had we

a king's ransom untold 

I won't end on cant

Nor judgey sermon preach

but I will say joy

is well within reach

it lives in little things

nestles with the smalls

it's about priceless moments 

not what hangs on walls

May you find as we

deep gestalt bliss 

May you revel in

pure and kindly reminisce

May by and by's be sweet

May you take as you find

may the road greet you 

blest be the ties that bind

 

Who is me? No, seriously

When you look on past times

what is it that you see?

when I go back to back then

all I see is empty

No seriously. there is no thing

I recall with continuity

in my foggy effogged up

Forgotten memory

littered busted driftwood

Like Lake Michigan shore 

sacrificed on campfire show

woodland gods seen no more

campfire other kids enjoy

Me ever seeing, never seen

never heard till she screams 

and is hoarse from crying

scolded for saying

Feeling, needing, being

daring to exist after

her memory was wiped

of good clean memories

leaving only bad left to me

memory of the child erased

Tossed with the Christmas tree

For a kid who's been round the block

I contain so much within

I've been in so many places 

and so many places live in me

no evidence I was there

I never seem to stick

no address to call mine

no DNA baked in brick

The OG AI spirit digital

No bricks and mortar me

footprint-less, hands-free life

Incognito window to see

hacked, identity theft victim

Drive wiped but for the virus

poison lives in just me

And in what I have done to us

no picture on the wall 

Once but now all gone 

Landfill fodder now 

It's all gone and done

cataloging others' selves

Reaching out longing arms

Reaching arms touch empty

And then you just give up

never making contact with 

those that reach out to me

The perpetual disconnect

Guess it's what I'm supposed to be 

beamed up then forgotten

soul failed reintegration

behind two-way mirror trapped

So much for the great generation

a cyborg, an entity not permitted

humanity where the dream 

world is more real than 

reality. 

Lady of Cellophone

there's hunger and hunger

one will be filled soon

the other gnaws forever 

in a broken blue moon

I thirst for a love

that never shall be

the love of parents was

always denied to me

Hid with no one seeking

Lost and forever unfound

to transparent self-image

I'm quintessentially bound

That's how I see me 

hidden in plain sight 

don't know why or how

kept blinded by dark light

Mrs. Cellophane by name

and I can see right thru 

clearly no point to me

Can you see thru me too? 

All my innards on view

faults and failings on display

Vulnerabilities exposed 

to sun-scorching day 

Where are the parents 

with the hat and sunscreen

to protect the little child 

making sure she's safe and seen?

 

This one is free-falling...

Once it starts it's over

this addictive syntax

can't help myself still 

rhyming, achoo, plus tax

And  I go down to ships

and ride again to hounds

just a lot of gibberish 

but I like the way it sounds

Homeric and Om-eric

my epic Omi tragicomedy 

I sink and think as I drink 

such a big lot of memory

how to explain so little 

that exists of past-tense me

it only tangentially lives

in my fractal multiplicity

In all other verses I saw 

with semblance of clarity

this one is taking me to places

I've no framework with which to see

got no Alaska recall to 

guide me on this journey

grope frantically for hand rails

that aren't available to me

This one is free-falling 

no Michigan fine pine rhyme

no clue where it's heading 

will I finally crash this time?

I can't see the bottom nor 

the edges of trajectory

I'm shooting blind from the hip

to mix drinks metaphorically 

There has always been a vision

an encompassing to my rhyme 

Even if it changed direction 

it eventually got there with time

What scares the hell out of me

is I'm a ghost forecalling the tune

I'm my own ghost writer   

I hope it will end pretty soon

Or do I? Another fine Mar product

the sexy kazoo key change...

Yanno if I'm honest IDK

where this spirit writing will lead

this poem is writing itself 

it's my job to shut up and heed

I  wonder when I read in the morn

after the wine has worn off 

will  I see what I see now

or will I just headache and scoff

this free-flowing wine verse

is easier to write than the rest

the others are clumsy and exhausting

this one is just flies off my chest

But for all the Walden existence

for all my Thoreau clarity 

in my ever transcendentalism 

I still seek some unity

Thank God for the family

the ones that I call mine

help me brother to bring this

into a state of sublime. 

I am weary with the speaking

talking with out saying a word

sonneting my hurt in poems 

I just finally want to be heard