Finite

Every sunrise sparks a thrill
that maybe we could yet fulfill
a destiny of grand design
forsaking hate as we refine
the art of learning not to kill
when others cross the line.

Every sunset stirs a twinge
of wonder that we still impinge
upon the vacuum dark and vast
which seems to be expanding fast
as we attempt to binge
on seconds much too scant to last.

Well Played

Please don't fret
for no one should
I'll live on yet
within the wood

and every time
you touch my neck
the strings will chime
with every peck

and though your pain
may make you wail
the love you gain
is off the scale.

Compromised

The floor will heave
the structure grieve
whenever frosty barbs deceive
a level spot
ensuring rot
contaminates a placid plot.

Call Me Pontius

If Jesus came back
as a strung out heroin addict
shuffling along
in such a drunken stupor
that you'd swear he was leaning
at a forty five degree angle
and looked at you
with tears streaming down his face
and mumbled about
needing seventeen dollars
for a bus ticket to Virginia
with so much pain in his voice
it hurt to listen
on one the coldest nights
in recent memory
then asked if he could come in
to warm up,
what would you do?

I ran inside and started pouring coffee
while my wife most prudently
called the centurions
who showed up rather quickly
and subsequently took him away
to be persecuted
until they investigated
and found he was from Utica
but had a warrant in Buffalo.
They didn't want him,
apparently no one did.

Buyout

I cashed in my liesure
to cancel a siezure
and keep things all toasty inside
a standard procedure
for slackers beleaguered
by duties they shouldn't have shied.

Workout

Another painful episode
of unexpected stress
no wonder the obsessed explode
when cleaning up the mess

but once I'm finished with the crud
I put away the broom
and save myself a pointless flood
of self-inflicted gloom.

Misleading

I saw four robins today
that ruffled their orange and gray
absorbing the lengthening beams
despite the frigid extremes
and then went on their way
for spring is no closer it seems.

Plant One On Me

Lavender's soothing
Violet is nice
Petunia, so vibrant
and Lily? No vice

Daisy's a looker
and Rose has her hips
but who's that young blossom
with luring red lips?

Sedatephobia

The howling winter wind is drear
and I can barely battle back the gloom
but soon the silence will be here

that settles after every storm is clear.
In later days one thought will loom:
the howling winter wind is drear

will I be blessed with someone near
to hold me when I face that doom,
the silence that will soon be here

that sidles closer each new year
despite the hopes that also bloom?
The howling winter wind is drear

it fills one with a certain fear
like parents watching children groom,
that soon the silence will be here.

We struggle to stay cavalier
as evanescent moments zoom;
the howling winter wind is drear
but soon the silence will be here.

Discombobulated

I'm trying to shut down my mind
but the switch is a challenge to find
I'm wandering halls
and groping the walls
denying the fact that I'm blind

a person in need of a break
that's hoping (for everyones sake)
to hear a click
pretty damn quick
before I have all I can take.

Pigeonholed

A dozen grayish pigeons were in flight
surrounding one that looked completely white
as though they could rescind their compromise
by shadowing the flawless through the skies

ad nauseum

You have the right to annoy
I have the right to ignore
accost me once more with your ploy
and you might end up on the floor

you're also entitled to brag
as I am to likewise berate
or follow the instinct to gag
when you're telling us you're so great.

Out of Will

Everyone stopped
as the firemen chopped
and the temperature dropped

the ice was thick
they didn't need to be quick
I felt a little sick

things looked bleak
they pulled him from the creek
this world disowns the meek.

Pattern Maker

We measure out materials to make what we desire
oblivious that all our plans begin with someone higher
who spins the thread that binds the fabric bolt by wondrous bolt
and sometimes hurls the other kind when scoundrels need a jolt.

Endgame

Rituals of death are grim
is our existence but a whim?
No one living knows for fact
if they'll rue their foulest act
or cease to be when day grows dim.

We leave behind an empty husk
departing in the daunting dusk
removed from plans that failed to gel
and praying if there be a hell
the stay is brusque.