The future home of Brantley family miscellaneous tidbits of writing.
Mac’s book of poetry is now available | “Down to the River” Buckeye Creek Press, 2007
Below are poems previously posted at brantley.net
I miss my imac
a surge of power rushes through the tiny wires and microscopic views of bionary vains
now with severed and mangled memory, gone is the synaptic life of my sleek, clean imac
and with it, the draining jolt, comes the certain non-responsive shell of a tool
that now sits waiting for it’s own value to be questioned and rejected.
It had become my conduit to creativity, now stimied and slammed shut
the brushes are now broken, the strings ripped from their tuning key, the chisel now dulled.
O for the day that it may be revived or repalced
These apples do not grow on trees, nor do the leaves that pay it’s barrel bent wages
So I wait; I search. I sell and I save. I explore and I hope on one foot waiting to run.
I miss my imac, some day we will be back
and make use the of the scattered thoughts and musing of mine and your order
that gives freedom and structure, grace to fleeting memory and thoughts.
(this time I will have a better backup plan, try carbonite today!)
I have some buggers in my nose; they must have been forming as I slept, I suppose
now they are lodged, intrenched with neolithic purpose
I blow my brains through my ears, to see if my breathing clears
freed at last with a mighty blast; my shnoz is free from clogs and nasal casts
Yes, I might rather rest some more, but then my nose would continue to snore.
Thank goodness, morning blows clear the oriphas of breath and life.
Let it blow, Let it blow, let it blow. JTB(C)013008:2157
it cost so much to be burned
lives and cultures pitted in war
wealthy billionaires distanced from the common person by exponential leaps
to fill the ever empty tanks of guzzlers and status symbols
yes there is an increase in the pocket and purse
but there’s also in increase in the power of its curse
let’s look to other elemental powers to push pistons and combust fires
In the meantime, let us make choices to choose wisely our actions
Kiss Me and I Won’t Tell On You (JTB:080207)
Along the road so wild and free
Flowers of whitle like breaths of snow
I always heard them as, Kiss and Tell
and you, as not tell, they are lovely, just as well.
Now gathered with purple, green and yellow
The mountail way is paved with kisses now
That DOT mowers threat to trim and mame
So skip the flowers and just kiss me, how.
Certainty Certainly isn’t Certain, For Sure (JTB:071807)
I may say I know what I know, because it is certainly so
but that is subjective and not always correct, let me show:
Here I might think you think just like I think but my thoughts are mine
Not yours. I don’t know what you think unless you know I know what you know.
Don’t Throw Away My Easter Bunny! (JTB:041807)
I promise I will not misbehave, as you have told
I will stop my whining, like turkey, cold
I will not fuss or hit or scratch
I know in you I’ve met my match
Please! I’ll do any thing you say
Just don’t throw my chocolate bunny away.
I know the rules, I know the chores, I don’t want to do any more
I like being independent as I can, and stubborn like my old man’s
wife that is, she shows me how to pitch a fit and grown and howl.
And that is how I get my way, now, tonight and in the day.
A Day of Rest (JTB:041007)
A good nap is twenty minutes behind closed doors
Three nights of sleep or seventy two naps you take you pick
Calling Sunday the day of rest, now that’s a trick
It’s filled with prayers and songs and praises
Concerns, death, dealings with diseases
Fears, complaints, trials the one’s hair raises
Tugs for power, attention and wheels for grease’s
Don’t get me wrong it’s first and best.
Hear the Good News, Sunday’s coming and it’s hardly rest.
Praise the Lord.
DO OVERS? (JTB:112206)
If I could I surely would, take my mullagan, once again
Call it grace, or call it chances, I’d take them back now, as do old friends.
Clean the slate, wipe the code from magnetic plates
Free to try from freshness starts, unburned meals, words of hates
Let’s just open our hearts to was is real
Pray for forgiveness and seek power to heal
New experation, use-by dates, new reality with new fates.
Rebottled with seals unbroken, not just vain empty tokens
But for the ground hog day of grace I’l rather play,
and learn from the past, I hope, to build a better me and us today.
DO I WANT TO HEAR? (JTB:082606)
Sometimes it seems not hearing would be good.
Doctors, collectors, complainers all dropped like wood.
Ignore the world, the truth, the heart,
Stay in silence, un-tained, all apart.
No more blaring info-mercials,
Quiet, stillness, peace rehersals.
But without the choice to hear my hearing I would prize,
Better take the good and bad and noises, let them rise.
So if I am to hear, let me hear it all
Truth and lies, joys and cries, let the ole chips fall.
So if I will hear and listen, then open my mind and ears.
Give me grace and strength to bear, the sweetness and the fears.
Sometimes it seems no hearing would be fine,
But that is only truth, when one’s no-options are on the line.
LITTLE YELLOW PENCIL, John Brantley (JTB:021306)
Little yellow plastic lead pencil
All scattered here and their
Try to escape one, if you ever dare.
Three in the kitchen, four in the den
Seventeen in the bedroom, all better than a pen.
Never have too many, never do without
If I see another one, I think that I will surely shout.
Oh the comfort of the little yellow friends
A neat and cleaver instrument, with lead that never bends
How did ancient humankind ever get on by
With my little yellow plastic lead pencil, its ready day and nigh
Where ever I look or ever hope to reach
I’m never disappointed, nor left in the breach
How many different models and advancements they will make?
My love for yellow plastic lead pencils shall never ever shake.
Mac’s book of poetry, now available | “Down to the River” | Buckeye Creek Press, 2007
A good night’s sleep claims to be eight or more