Could Have Been Epic by Kenneth O'Shaughnessy

COULD HAVE BEEN EPIC Daily Poems from September 2012

Kenneth A Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Shaughnessy

This monthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s book is dedicated to my sister Dawn. May she always be able to laugh at my jokes, and no longer need to cry.

Table of Contents

Contents six september, two-thousand twelve seven september, two-thousand twelve eight september, two-thousand twelve eleven september, two-thousand twelve twelve september, two-thousand twelve thirteen september, two-thousand twelve fourteen september, two-thousand twelve sixteen september, two-thousand twelve seventeen september, two-thousand twelve eighteen september, two-thousand twelve nineteen september, two-thousand twelve twenty september, two-thousand twelve twenty-one september, two-thousand twelve twenty-two september, two-thousand twelve twenty-three september, two-thousand twelve twenty-four september, two-thousand twelve twenty-five september, two-thousand twelve twenty-six september, two-thousand twelve twenty-seven september, two-thousand twelve twenty-eight september, two-thousand twelve twenty-nine september, two-thousand twelve thirty september, two-thousand twelve afterword

six september, two-thousand twelve I think I need to craft a poem a day Not so much to chronicle The rise And the fall Of Life As to make Life rise from the Fall # Could have been epic But for the three line limit So just a haiku

seven september, two-thousand twelve Thinking Okay but Can't seem to get It out. I can laugh at your jokes. Please Tell more. I need to listen while I cry.

eight september, two-thousand twelve The way that we were the way that we are Seems like yesterday and forever ago I can still feel your forgotten touch I recall the memories I no longer know And whenever I see you I go back to now And hope for a future that's just like the past Although you're not that you nor me that me I want what we don't have now to always last

eleven september, two-thousand twelve

twelve september, two-thousand twelve For whom the bell no longer tolls Whose tongue against the lip is still Whose sound upon the 'rounding knolls Never again will boom or trill And friends dispersed who late were called To remember, with tears their eyes to fill The instrument case then being palled And set beneath the silent hill

thirteen september, two-thousand twelve For all the time that we have spent Underneath the open skies Cavorting with fairies that went Kissing with the dragonflies I still can't keep from wonderingNot that it's troublesome to meGetting older: is it something Happening to everybody Everyone seems just the way Like they've never aged a day Leaving us to watch them play

fourteen september, two-thousand twelve Flunky the monkey that poor simian Did whatever he was told with a hideous grin. "Fetch me that whatzit" said Mr Magrew, The man who had Flunky since the monkey was two. Flunky went out with his grin hideous And got him that whatzit without any fuss, And drove it, still grinning, into Magrew's brain. That grinning monkey was never Flunky again.

sixteen september, two-thousand twelve what would jesus do? that is the question often asked. he would grow up with a stepfather in a country where he wasn't born with older brothers who bossed him learning a laborerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s trade in an average income household and learn what he was taught and do what had to be done and treat people with respect even when they killed him.

seventeen september, two-thousand twelve Like rain that falls on upturned face Or sun that fresh the weary mind Unrav'ling knots of world too much Is your smile or playful touch Smoothing brow all worry-lined Every wrinkle filled with grace # My thoughts are not only of you. Some thoughts of you make me have to Remind myself to breathe, too.

eighteen september, two-thousand twelve Lest you think I am single-dimensional Everything I do centered around one pole I will do something that is unconventional Giving you a better idea of my whole Here it goes, I'm starting to do it now Anytime you'll notice another side Nevermind, I guess there's nothing to show Nothing besides what I just have to hide

nineteen september, two-thousand twelve Phone Upgrade Blues

I'm waitin' for the upgrade Gonna put it on my phone 'Cause until I have my upgrade I just feel so alone But the upgrade will come and I'll have upgrade fun With my phone I downloaded the upgrade Seems familiar to me I'm not sure that this upgrade Is new functionality But the upgrade's installed and I'm no longer appalled With my phone Now that I have my upgrade I'm back in the tech zone There's only one problem No one calls on my phone But I've got Jelly Bean and it's reasonably keen On my phone

twenty september, two-thousand twelve What do you do when you come up dry? Do you dive down deep until you touch land And grab a handful of water-wet sand? Or do you instead climb high? Raising yourself over hand over hand Perspiring, until you fly.

twenty-one september, two-thousand twelve Sometimes more can be Said with silence . . . But not usually # "It doesn't matter" means it has no substance. But don't some say that only things without substance matter? If it fills your life so you have no room for other things Isn't that matter, or at least antimatter? Perhaps the maxim "Everything in its proper place" Would be the more appropriate response To one whose matters or antimatters Seems to be misplaced. If it can be felt, it matters.

twenty-two september, two-thousand twelve Reaching the age of eighteen can Almost seem like an end Childhood. However Eighteen is just a number Like every other age marker is Kant said that happiness is An imagination idea That is, you can have Happiness Reason notwithstanding. You just have to think that way. Not that that’s easy at any age. However, enjoy it while it’s Now As that’s all there is Really. Valiantly Enter adulthood with Your childhood completely intact.

twenty-three september, two-thousand twelve There once was a babe in a box Who was wearing nothing but socks He was always kinda cool And there was nothing to catch drool But laying around naked just rocks

twenty-four september, two-thousand twelve Another day, another poem, again I write Not that it matters, since so few are read Yet I don't write for you, or even for me All I write is for someone else.

twenty-five september, two-thousand twelve Do you always pick opportune times to get sick? Want to spice up your life with spontaneity? Want to feel bad on days you don't pick? Try our new patented "Sic-Sumday"! Guaranteed to randomize illness and flu Bowel distress and the sniffles, too. So get "Sic-Sumday" and stay home in bed You'll never again have to plan sickness ahead.

twenty-six september, two-thousand twelve I never write I never call How 'come we never talk? I've gotten fat, no energy Don't know why it hurts to walk. No real prayer, don't read the Word Why does God seem far away? I do my work halfheartedly Why don't I get better pay? It must be someone else's fault That nothing's going right I haven't done anything And that with all my might.

twenty-seven september, two-thousand twelve Amazing, ain't it, Like, how awful bad grammar Dudes be usin' now # It is by design that we dance in the dark Needing a partner to stop the stumbling The edges are softened and light's just a spark That reveals just enough to cause wondering When we strain to see more than what is at hand Or find a way to make flashes of light We no longer can see and cannot understand What is happening to our left or our right Do not trade the little light that is there For a blindness that takes ev'rything away Keep a hand on your waist and a song in the air And it won't matter if it's night or it's day

twenty-eight september, two-thousand twelve Finished with supper, subdued they walked, Peter uncharacteristically quiet, Remem'bring his master bowed at his feet And the feeling of water and towel, Indignation at washing, not washing all... Simon - the other one- was the betrayer Did he actually think he could have been? Couldn't he go everywhere Jesus went? Afterward could never be soon enough. He would die before they took Him away. Yes, he would kill to save the giver of life! And he fell asleep comforted by his thoughts.

twenty-nine september, two-thousand twelve Sorrowful beyond grief, beyond pain, beyond hope And afraid of what all, even himself, might do Turning away from his three year sabbatical Until such time as he might feel alive again Remembrance hopefully being forgotten Down went Simon, back down to the seashore And repaired his tackle, unmoored his boat, and said, "Y'all, I'm going to go fishing." And they went.

thirty september, two-thousand twelve Simon ran to the open sepulchure, stooping Under the lintel and past the beloved disciple. No body but his inside, and two sets of clothing. Doubtlessly he went back home to his house And prepared for another night of fishing. It was not Yet time to fish for men - his nets needed mending.

afterword A hearty thanks for reading this book No doubt something here made you go “Huh.” You should come back next month for a look Another set of poems will be here for ya. Kenneth A O’Shaughnessy kempisosha@gmail.com