I've now posted a total of 388 poems on the ElectricPoetry website. I have 250 more poems to transcribe and post on the website. That's a total of 638 poems. So far for this year, 2004, I have 26 poems posted. I think I have two more from this week which haven't been posted yet.
Here is one of them:



"When 'Dog' Left This Existence"
For Robert Wissler
poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
May 24th, 2004 3:57 p.m. pdt

Ol' 'Dog' was simply 'Puppy' many years ago,
He'd run real fast to catch the bones that I'd throw.
He sometimes ate the morning paper 'fore twas read
And he'd squirrel himself under the covers of my bed.

'Puppy' was a treasure, and a pain at the same time,
But he was always friendly, as he'd find a couch to climb.
I could never be real angry when he angled up his eyes,
He was practicing dog psychology, this I realize.

As I grew from boy to man, and 'Puppy' became 'Dog'
Man's best friend accompanied me through holler, over log,
In and around the country, and running down the street
Never did he seem to tire, or did ache his hairy feet.

'Dog' was there when Dad passed on, when Mom went away as well.
Standing by with a pant and a sigh, helping me through bitter hell.
And I could only stop and smile when he his paw he offered me
To shake away the troubles with a crooked dog smile, free.

The dog-years passed, and I admit he slowed a bit
He ran twice as slow, and his one time barking fits
Didn't have the bite that they once did before
And at times I had to wait a while for him to go through the door.

Ol' 'Dog' was my pal, and my buddy, and my friend,
And as I grew up, his aches grew harder to mend
And the dog-years were plentiful, long and unseen
And Ol' 'Dog' had to go, blind and brutal, but clean

Now Ol' 'Dog' is in heaven, and he's 'Puppy' once more
He runs like greased lightnin' and has gumption to spare
He races the other Ol 'Dogs' round the clouds,
And though I sure miss him, I'm sure he does me proud.

Cause now he can see again, angling those eyes
He brings me a bird in spirit, he succeeds when he tries
To wake me and the heavens with his now hearty bark,
I will walk with Ol' 'Dog' beside Jesus in the park.

Here is the other. I wrote both of these yesterday.

"Insomniac Hours"
poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
Monday, May 24th, 2004 7:30 p.m. pdt


red square numerals shining in the dark
10:00
closing eyes attempting rest
but the lids flicker
like the red square numerals.
on my back,
cats cry in the night
soothing sounds
like
cacophanous clatter
eyes open
red square numerals
11:00
shining
mocking, silently laughing,
piercing through my eyelids
up again,
to the bathroom,
dribbling
upset, awake, woozy
left side
right side
upside down
eyes open again
red square numerals shining in the dark
12:00
four more hours
the buzzer will ring
do I want those hours
to pass like this
?
the bathroom again
dribbling
dousing myself with water
from the tap
dare I drink a glass
?
back to the bed's maw
open jaws nibbling at my sanity
red square numerals
silent but deadly
1:00
get to sleep goddammit
rock a bye baby
sighs escape like thundercracks
left, no right, no back, no front
can't breathe right
can't think straight
Is this a nightmare
Am I finally asleep
?
red square numerals shining in the dark
2:00
up again, open the door
the cats are running
around the living room
awake and having fun
I'm not
I'm dribbling again
back to bed
back to agony
red square numerals seemingly silent
yet bleeding like daggers
through my eyelids
shining
finally
falling
falling
away,
don't know if I'm on my
side back or what
goodnight
something cries out in the
night
the cat scratches at the door
eyes awaken groggily
red square numerals shining
3:00
up, in the bathroom,
a regimented torture
a final ironic abusive moment
back to bed
sleep finally arrives
as the buzzer sounds
4:00
red square numerals become the clarion
time to go to work.


I forgot, there are three. Here is another which hasn't been posted on the website but on the group.

"Another Vietnam"
poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
May 22, 2004 9:38 a.m. pdt


Another Vietnam for America
In the bowels of the birth of existence now
Another excuse for democracy
To roil with the political uncertainties of
All else
Another relative purpose
Proving above all else
That there can never be another way of life
As the way of life is lived in my country
My America
And the America of countless "tired, poor" immigrants
Who have chosen to make this their home as well

Another event shakes up the complacency
Another trial pointing fingers to inconstencies
False reports, and true reports mixed
As a salad of surrender or salaciousness
No one is right
No one is wrong
All are guilty
And all are innocent

What right does man have to quarrel?
He has been quarreling since the
Cutting of his umbilical with God.

What right does man have to fight?
He has been fighting since he
Was thrown out of the same Garden
Upon the banks of the Tigris
Where his troubles flay at him again.

I cannot blame the idea of democracy
For the cataclysms which occur as our
County rightly tries to establish right.

I cannot blame the plights of the enemy
At our hands for our seeming insensitivity
In the eyes of the enemy when we still
Seek answers for cataclysms which
Occurred on our own soil not too long ago.

I am saddened that the world is at grief
I am saddened by the rabblerousing and the
Death and the tears.

I read the news at lunch and almost lose the lunch.

Another Vietnam for America
In the sandy pit of a once proud city
Another faultless perogative in the dirt
Another Watergate of unheeded expectations.

All matter of conflict in the world
Stems from ironclad fists proclaiming the right
To cut down their enemies with whom they do not agree.
America, born of a purpose to
Realize humankind's foibles, and to
Recognize the fallible duality of this purpose,
Crafted a Constitution which still stands proud,
And which still offers us, Americans, my brethren,
A chance to quarrel without prejuduce.

The right to swing one's arms ends with the face of our brother,
And though we quarrel, and some hit that brother's face
Eventually they will be caught, and punished.
For the great thing about democracy
American democracy,
Is that no matter what happens, no matter what calamity ensues,
The Idea Stands Strong, and the duality of mankind is served.

We shall disagree, and the punishable minority shall still kill
But by and large we shall prosper and hold true to the
Established doctrines inherent in our Country's birth.

Another Vietnam might cause us pain,
But it was begun, as was the first,
with the Good Intentions of American Democracy,
To smite the enemy, and to gain information,
So that we might stand tall,
And never again see our towers fall
While looking out from our own front porch.


I'll have a total of 700 poems written by the rate I'm going. So far 2004 bests my production going back as far as 1983, when I wrote 35 poems, and 22 of those have not been transcribed. I think that 1983 shall be the next year for which I complete transcribing.