Moving Targets

Inanities grow wearisome
to mill away the muse
with surface grit that soon abrades my shield;
left raw by jagged odium
I sputter like the fuse
that longs to spark this ordnance I wield.

I always aim to be direct
but dread that fierce recoil effect.

Lean

Welcome to the golden age of senseless speculation
a mangle of mismanagement and mean misinformation
where every day’s an exercise of errant execution
tilting towards the entropy that fosters revolution.

Foothold

Before serenity abounds
the clash of constant change resounds;
keep heading for uncharted grounds
while crashing surf routinely pounds
to inundate your chosen route
with unrelenting waves of doubt
and though wet feet will often freeze
tenacious toes gain new degrees.

Turnover

Planning, prepping
Shopping, schlepping
Escaping, scraping
Ever scraping
Grilling, growing
Filling, flowing
Stirring, stowing
Always going.

Fa la la la la la la fa cue

Jolly thoughts are not extolled here
greediness is what’s expected,
crunchy snacks and lots of cold beer
help sustain the misdirected.

Seeking laughter’s bright forgiveness?
Jolly thoughts are not extolled here;
tepid hearts demeaned in darkness
propagate their lies and old fear.

Breaking free of every mold dear
couldn’t garner more rejection,
jolly thoughts are not extolled here
only scripted genuflection.

Mistletoe replaced with hemlock,
carols with a guinea gold jeer,
doomed to rot alone on this rock
jolly thoughts are not extolled here.

Not-So-Missing Links

The truth is often something
we will seldom truly see
regardless how intensely sought
it hides elusively
behind the chosen mantle
oft confused with destiny;
but still we sternly forge ahead
another lump upon the bed.

What's All That Screaming?

I learned of a strange correlation
Twixt shark bites and ice cream consumption
They say there’s no causal relation
But I think that’s a faulty assumption
The ultimate carnivore knows where it’s at
All of the flavor comes from the fat!

Mother's Day

She stoops and plucks a scraggly weed
that plots to nettle her sleeping seed;
refuses to wilt, serenely proud
in fields where mums stand silently bowed.

Why must the brightest growing tall
succumb to steel and finally fall?
There are no speeches anyone could say
to justify bringing her own bouquet.

You Want That To Go?

Well how is everybody? Me, tired but satisfied. After a month straight of working the 'day-job' and then going to the restaurant and cleaning, painting, planning, decorating and finally tonight cooking, we are ready to open. Hopefully people will enjoy the food and spread the word. We are right next to a Dominos Pizza place and they came over to buy some cheeseburgers with fries. They said it was very good, so now we have made our first buck. May many more follow. I've been working on the conclusion to Briar's Patch and should have it done soon, until then here's a little poem I wrote for a contest earlier this year that didn't seem to move the judges, but maybe it will say something to somebody in the blogiverse. Farewell for now,

Bob

Drone

Pensive
apprehensive
and well… just a bit defensive,
I’ve sloshed through swamps
with futile stomps
while self-doubt chomps

away

at

every

fiber of my being.

I didn’t choose to be alive
though opted not to live
but now I yearn to flee the hive
with all I’ve got to give—
released from those communal fears
the buzz of freedom in my ears.

Making Doo

When complications aggravate
two types of folks remediate:
those that make the best of it
and those that wallow in the shit.

Obtundent

Increments have quickly flown
to shuttle shadows past the point
that dawn could ever re-anoint
as chilling rime bites the bone.

Throughout the veins of stoic stone
a slowness creeps that won’t desist
when craggy crevices are kissed
by crystal climes it can’t postpone.

Those fading wisps of spring cologne
remind us not to squander tears
on seasons lost as solstice nears
when chilling rime numbs the bone.

Crumb

I find myself thankful for life
with all of its hardship and strife
at times fed up with our race
intent on a morsel of grace.

Haggled

Each day anew I fancy gains
while shrugging on these comfy chains
which help restrain what fight remains

but shining facets dazzle more
than any labored metaphor
a novice blade could underscore.

Beneath a sky as gray as I
myopic misconceptions ply
their tawdry veils before my eye

with livid shades that slowly scar
the fleeting gift to see afar
beyond this overwrought bazaar.

Variable

A different me?
I guess we’ll see
as factors form
a noisy tree
whose dialects
in all respects
confound my mind
with crossed effects
that correlate
to deviate
my goals beyond
the standard rate.

Revolution

Well this is it true believers, I am done with another chapter in my less than predictable life. I have successfully completed my courses and would like to thank all the staff at the University of Tennessee and PSPI for 3 great weeks; you really took care of us well. I’m heading back home earlier today to embark on new journeys armed with fresh knowledgeand high expectations. It is officially one year today that I started this blog to force myself to write more and it definitely worked. Browsing through my archives I can’t even believe the amount of material that came out of me in 365 days. Life has limited my creative time lately but hopefully the next year will be filled with inspiration that I can share here for anyone that is so inclined to read it. The poem I’m posting today is a direct result of all this statistical lingo I’ve absorbed lately, so take it for a spin and enjoy!

Tin Soldiers

The unrefined solder
that fabricates fodder
can weaken without proper flux
to make the seams flimsy
unraveled by whimsy
a cadre of slow moving ducks.

Briar's Patch

I

While walking through the woods one day
I heard a rustling sound,
by peeking through the leafy splay
a brand new world was found—
quite startled, I beheld an elf
who smirked then introduced himself.

"Be steady man, I mean no ill
consider me a friend,
my name is Briar from yon hill
an onus to expend,
so listen now as I regale
a strange and tragic sylvan tale."

Intrigued by this impromptu plea
I swallowed down my shock
meandered to the nearest tree
and sat upon a rock
"Okay" I said, intent on him,
"and by the way, my name is Jim."

He gave me an appraising glance
then let a chuckle slip,
assumed a most dramatic stance
one hand upon his hip
a scripted pause, then he began
the saga of his troubled clan.

"For eons we have roamed this place
at peace with all around
avoiding those who sought our race
by living underground
the shield of nature’s verdant arm
has kept us safe from any harm.

But one day not too long ago
a strangely shriveled sprite
found the place where we lay low
and told us of her plight
a necromancer very grim
pursued a sly malicious whim."

Once more he paused and slowly cast
a most discerning stare,
some kind of test I must have passed
for he said, "Now prepare
yourself to hear some gruesome facts
which just may drive you from these tracts."

My interest piqued, I merely shrugged
allowing him to speak
apparently the dam unplugged
and then in one long streak
he blurted out the ugly truth
his knuckle gnawed by nervous tooth.

"It seems this cur, by name of Zack
has somehow found a way
to siphon off what he should lack,
his power grows each day
but also warps his addled mind
which rots inside a fragile rind.

He seeks all creatures who possess
the mystic eldritch spark
to feed on them with eagerness
while welcoming the dark
that shrouds his heart with blackest silk
the foulest foe of fiendish ilk."

I cleared my throat respectfully
to interrupt his spiel
"So what’s this got to do with me?
Divulge the real deal."
Once more he chortled, eyes aslant
"My, my you are impertinent,

all right, here goes, I need your aid
our nemesis is strong
‘tis fate that led you to this glade
my instinct’s never wrong
so please come with me to our cave
we’ll sup, then plan to beat this knave."

I gauged his twinkling impish eyes
uncertain of this quest
but much to his unmasked surprise
benignly acquiesced,
"We’ll make an effort not to flub
now let’s go get some elfin grub."

II

And thus the human Jim
along with valiant Briar elf
would take a chance, though slim,
to reach beyond the centered self
to face a grueling test
defending those innately meek;
we bow at Fate’s behest
or scale the highest snowy peak.
So Briar led this gangly
man to chambers down below
where whispered spurts of slang
revealed how little humans know
his clan distrusted those
that weren’t conceived in open fields
they’d witnessed jealous throes
with all the horror hatred wields,
but kindly showed the hand
of truce proffering a repast
"Eat all that you can stand,
for this could surely be your last."
The food was truly strange
but still the best he’d ever had
amazed at such a range
of tastes Jim gorged himself like mad
from ant-encrusted cakes
composed of sticky honeyed grain
to frothy fruity shakes
which made him numb with frozen brain;
he sampled all the treats
he could, his gusto quite intense
apparently the threat
of death enlivened every sense
but once he felt his hunger
fade his fear began to grow
he knew the evil monger
would be ready for a show.
"So Briar, tell me what
the heck are we supposed to do?
This Zack sounds like a butt
head who will strike if we pursue;
perhaps a trap would be
the best, but who would be the bait?"
and gasping Jim could see
that this was sadly Briar’s fate.

III

A tempest came unleashing shrieks of doom
with sheets of rain that draped the brave in cold
together we advanced into the gloom
convinced our sense of right would make us bold
but fearsome shades of doubt began to loom
behind the landscape evil sought to mold
as fractured flora warped beyond belief
shook twisted limbs in pantomimes of grief.

We found a safe retreat not far from where
the darkest forces seemed to emanate
while Briar took a moment to prepare
my anxious mind began to calculate
the odds of beating Zack within his lair
and knew we’d make a bookie salivate
an underdog whose future looked quite grim
the perfect lure to snag a bettor’s whim.

"Ahem" I heard behind me so I turned
to see the elf adorned with fancy mail
he stared at me with eyes that fiercely burned
then said "I shall endeavor not to fail
but just remember" (as my stomach churned)
"to intercede the second that I hail
and strike with all the fury you can aim—
don’t hesitate to end this madman’s game."

I sensed that he knew more than he would say
but simply said "OK, I’ll do my best"
he grunted saying "Follow me this way
it’s time to face the viper in his nest!"
Then grimly marched to join the coming fray
a soldier’s heartbeat drumming in his chest
reluctantly I trailed my little chum
unease increasing over things to come.

Remaining out of sight but very near
to Briar, I controlled an urge to run
I strove to keep my jaded conscience clear
intent on seeing this injustice done
but still felt gnawed by feral fangs of fear
whose nasty nips I couldn’t seem to shun
when suddenly a ruckus up ahead
engulfed my mind in drooling jaws of dread.

From where I hid (behind a tree) I saw
a strange and truly scary thing unfold:
this foul behemoth with a gaping maw
made hungry gurgling sounds that turned me cold
and hanging there within it’s mottled claw
was Briar trying hard to break the hold
one hand enveloped a peculiar blade
which pulsed with yellow light when thrusts were made.

But Zack was ready, parrying with ease
then knocking Briar’s dagger to the ground,
his tactics were devoid of subtleties
he knew that there was no one else around
to challenge his unsavory decrees
his power had indeed made him unsound
in mind as well as form; a sad disgrace
that meant to dominate the human race.

I cowered there embracing prickly pine
uncertain how to prudently proceed
aware that soon the duty would be mine
to somehow make this fearsome creature bleed
and then I saw the weapon sleekly shine
with steely strength I knew that I would need
amazingly enough it seemed to call
"Come forward man it’s time to stand or fall."

I shook my head but stood as though controlled
exhaled a prayer for guidance from on high
I darted for the dagger, dropped then rolled
and neatly snagged its hilt while on the fly
then Briar screamed with agony untold
and in my head that voice said "You must try
to stab the brute in his tormented heart
my magic will make his evil depart."

As Briar writhed within it’s foul embrace
I looked to see a sight I’ll not forget;
all impish charm was gone without a trace
his tortured features glistening with sweat,
he groaned, then looked me squarely in the face
and said with labored breath "I’m not dead yet
so grow a set and strike you human shmuk!"
Without a thought I gritted teeth... and struck.

This Is It!

Well true believers I'm happy to report that I'm leaving today for the last week of my classes at the University of Tennessee. It has been a hectic 3 months and just when this is coming to a close I am in the midst of starting a coffee shop. I've never felt so frazzled in my life and apologize that I haven't been able to leave a lot of comments. I appreciate everyone who stops by and thank you all! I am leaving an unfinished poem that I have been working on for a long time. Someone left a comment a while ago that they would like to see something longer so I hope it's acceptable. I should have the ending together by the time I get back next week, but until then please enjoy. Bye,

Bob

Sign of the Times

Plastic placards populate
the lawns of those mistaken
to think the Lords of Liberty
were somehow rudely shaken
for pompous peacocks still parade
their ostentatious odium
as brand new speakers sidle up
to climax at the podium—

such a public display makes me go *ug*
could they possibly be more smug?

Sopped

Last night we meshed
I woke refreshed
to don new daring visions
which sixty ticks
saw fit to fix
with multiple revisions
cold streets resist
the colored mist
too stubborn to disperse
that dreams instead
it soon may spread
throughout the universe

where mermaids garbed in vibrant kelp
submerge regret within a whelp.

Sequestered

When browsing the aisles of containment
bedecked in my lower class raiment
I see them smile crisply clean
like they just oozed out of a magazine;
she cuts my hair if I need a trim
and each time more white appears
to feel the bite of mechanical shears
while I wonder how she stays so slim
and almost painfully prim.

Outside a fake owl holds virtue at bay
as pigeons keep flocking to flutter away
the trinkets they’ve earned
the marrow they’ve spurned—
it truly is pathetic
to gauge who’s more synthetic
the jury or the courtroom that’s adjourned.

XX

Well how do everybody? This week’s Ringing has been brought to you by Jo Janoski and it is once again a joy to behold, thanks a million Jo. I have been fortunate enough to be included in all 20 so far and I am truly honored. I don’t want to get too corny here but I for one have always been excited about the gathering of people from all over the world, even if it is only virtually, to share their creative efforts. And don’t forget about all the time and energy everyone put into hosting it – Great Job to all!

Comfort Food

We share a vow to show how much
we care within our heart,
we crease our brow whenever life
decrees we be apart;
I jot a line to emphasize
the thought that won’t desist—
a lust to dine upon the luscious
banquet of your lips.

Dancing with The Stars

With each twirl I was swept
as she moved my heart leapt
such a vision except
that it’s only illusion,

but I watch nonetheless
hoping someday to dress
in a tux and confess
my enamored confusion.

When her sequins ignite
we shall dance through the night
while subdued stars invite
our fandango of fusion.

The Best Spots Are Not On The Map

New journeys start when pavement ends
a constant trek towards blinding bends
where prudent drivers tap the brake
before each drastic turn they take.

A scenic summit soon descends
new journeys start when pavement ends
beware terrain that’s flat too long
you’ll wind up stuck behind the throng.

Perspectives change from state to state
in some you’ll find the cleanest slate;
new journeys start when pavement ends
an avenue that ever wends

around the forest and the trees
then over mountains framed by seas,
to get away? It all depends—
new journeys start when pavement ends.

Unleavened

I doubt that this all-purpose tripe will ever seem uplifting
or that the lumps will be removed upon repeated sifting
as paradigms of plentitude consume through proper shifting
the rising time a dreamer needs to let their mind go drifting.

Scary Ring

Hello to the very few who may actually read this. If you like scary stuff head on over to Paper Tigers to read the Ringing of The Bards Halloween Edition. Some really great creative efforts are there and even my crap. Great job Ozmo, you are truly a wizard. Take care!

Ghoul's Guild

Underlings

On pillars of the darkest stone
we sit and congregate,
ancient chants we loudly drone,
words of pain, songs of hate;
if silence falls we’ll lose the flame,
our spirits lost in abject shame.

We worship death, our Lady Fair,
for eons faithful acolytes,
without remorse we gladly scare
those who seek the endless night—
be wary when the last bell tolls,
we Ghoulies come to steal your souls!


The Ghoulie Chant

Do tread lightly when the final bell tolls,
dark tales told to frighten children are right—
we Ghoulies come creeping to steal your souls!

The beautiful light near-dead may extol
yet those truly lost know nothing but night,
do tread lightly when the final bell tolls.

Deep bowels of existence we patrol
in search of fools that cower from our sight—
we Ghoulies come creeping to steal your souls!

Lament at the abyss, blacker than coal,
your anguish provides us with grim delight,
do tread lightly when the final bell tolls.

Let us roughly devour your spirit whole,
sweet pain and tart fear whet our appetite—
we Ghoulies come creeping to steal your souls!

Once gone your fate you no longer control,
kneel down before us, overcome by fright.
Do tread lightly when the final bell tolls—
We Ghoulies come creeping to steal your souls!

Deviltry

Thriving in the swamp
‘bout a mile and a half from here
the tree of curses blooms
spreading it’s canopy of fear,
rotting corpses yield rich soil
black as Satan’s smile
roots dig deep into the muck
to drink the juices vile,
captured souls hang like fruit
bending gnarly boughs
a zombie with gangrenous thumb
tends it as it grows;
when the swollen moon hangs high
best leave the bayou be
or your spirit may be in the crop
swingin’ from that tree.

Pulp Affliction

Dripping orange jagged maw
a leering raven loudly caws
as treats designed to bust a jaw
cross the stoop to wee faux paws
a deadly gourd that no one saw
defying Nature’s normal laws
sought fresh sweets for its own craw
but sadly failed for lack of claws
and now the slimy worms will gnaw
upon this pump’ with fatal flaws.

Fear is The Mind Killer

Hexed, vexed
completely perplexed
I can’t help but wonder
what may happen next.

Weak, meek
of failure I reek
just a sad waste of life
hope gone, outlook bleak.

Pout, shout
fussing all about
a frail little puppet
on taut strings of doubt.

Gloom, doom
I’m locked in my room
go get the dirt
I’ll wait in this tomb.

Landmark

The patchwork of humanity
is sprawled across the land
a hodgepodge of inanity
we advertise as grand
but from the air impressive sites
are smaller than a flea
our greatest feats become new heights
inside of you and me.

Overlong

Last night I held Infinity writhing in my lap
her lithesome frame a tangle of seduction,
each gyration spun me deeper down into the trap
whose steely jaws imprison clear deduction:

as nubile nudges nullify inherent inhibition
erroneous extensions will entice
anyone confounded by a coital coalition
to contemplate the call of endless vice.

Stiffed

She dismissed me quite curtly
as I suffered overtly
from ill-timed unbending desire.
My high hopes now flaccid
I deemed to stay placid
and went home to humbly retire.

Burning ears I did cock
at a hesitant knock
her presence filled me with chagrin,
but to my surprise
hungry glint in her eyes
she sighed, "Please, won’t you let me come... in?"

Transit

I’ve found my place among the crowded seats and narrow aisles
but still I wonder how to best employ remaining miles:
above the clouds engrossed in vaporous platitudes of rhyme
or herded in the terminal until departure time.

On The Road Again

Well here I go for week two of my life altering course in Tennessee. I shall post as I can for my access is limited but once again I leave you with one penned last year while waiting for a flight.

Terminal

Beneath the stark fluorescent glare,
across a million miles I stare—
as heartstrings pull me towards my hearth
I wish that I was there.

The rumblings of those shiny birds
transporting lonely, weary herds
fade quickly in the dying light,
just like my mortal words.

Hope everybody has a great week, bye.

Bob

Framed

Could I be he,
or is he me?
two threads in veils
of fantasy;
through ice blue eyes
I fail to see
the faintest glint
of amnesty—

he turns his back
I walk away
to be recast
another day.

Inverse

Twixt illness and strife
my ill-conceived life
is much more unsound than the norm
so I delve into any old form
to shelter myself from the storm
whose inclement rages are rife
with droplets honed sharp as a knife
that slash like a sentient swarm
but I remain cozily warm
ensconced in a flowery dorm.

Snapshot

That thunder roaring in my ears
is it heartbeats or artillery?
When Johnson suddenly disappears
I dive for cover frantically;
my mouth is filled with salty mud,
an amalgam of earth and blood.

Another flaming rocket whines
its harpy scream of violent doom,
within my hand your locket shines
as crimson blossoms brightly bloom—
a gentle click and soon I’m free,
this glossy gaze my elegy.

Rise

It’s funny how an obstacle
can seem so insurmountable
and make your draft seem less than half a cup,
but shadows only block the sun
of those who don’t find climbing fun
the trick to height is how you measure up.

Snap Crackle Ring

Well this weeks Ringing of The Bards is an interesting excursion thanks to the imagination of our host Daniel over at Talking to Myself. He likes to keep things interesting and does so regularly, I highly recommend his site, as a matter of fact I've added it to my links. Thanks a lot Daniel for your time and efforts!! Oh and BTW don't forget the guy who started all this sharing of creativity, Billy The Blogging Poet. Last I knew he still was looking for a host this week, just wish I wasn't so busy but I'm sure someone will jump in there, just check here. Thanks Billy!!

Chain Link

Between imperfect diamonds
of a self-erected fence
that distant turret fortifies
the breadth of my expense
for fallow fruit lies buried
at the foot of this display
beneath those withered harbingers
of Eden’s ripe decay.

Cyberphim

Metallic wings calmly poised
head bowed in contemplation
my circuits tingle pleasantly
with the flow of information
ascended high above the rung
of my virtual incarnation
dutifully I kneel and pray
Man can grasp salvation.

The sanctimonious triune
of greed, pride and jealousy
burns a white-hot channel through
the core of my identity
I hum a song of absolution
crackling with sympathy
for mortals cannot know the peace
brought by detached clarity:

Yea, you lowly motherboards
and lost hard drives infected
you sorely battered implements
all rusty and neglected
any abused machine that’s been
broken or rejected
now into my caring arms
will surely be collected.

South of Nod

Once we glowed with holy light
God’s most faithful underlings,
guiding those who felt contrite
on these now vestigial wings
which, like burnt offerings
dissipated long ago
with acrid stench of bitter woe.

The human race, so arrogant
scorned its ancient pantheon
breaking every covenant
making sure all faith was gone.
Fed up with being just a pawn
they banished each deity
embracing foul depravity.

Exiled to this fiery plane
our Lord’s spirit now resides
within an endless sea of pain
beneath dark, forbidding tides—
when we partake His angst subsides.
Perhaps someday a brand new breed
will pray and soothe our burning need.

Angel of Vengeance

Desolation drapes the night like a funeral shroud
the frigid wind howls a mournful requiem,
a small tortured voice prays for vengeance aloud
trembling with pain and long repressed odium.

"Curse the creator that left me cold and forsaken
certain his absence would expedite my demise,
how I long to prove the heartless cur mistaken
removing his entrails right before his glazed eyes!"

Furtively clinging to the castle’s rough façade
this wretched aberration fights the gnawing desire
to feast upon humans like some dark angry god
rapaciously devouring their precious inner fire,

for only one repast will sate its emptiness
and soothe the foul anguish festering deep within,
to sup upon the master’s heart, savoring his distress
erasing the conceited smile from his mocking chin.


**Author's Note: Since it is October I shall be posting up a series of dark poems, many inspired by pictures on other sites for contests and such. Enjoy!**

Overdrawn

The aimless sorts prevaricate with ease
so anxious to defer internal guilt
they darkly shade a convoluted frieze
upon the wall their ignorance has built
but no design could ever help appease
the fool whose bovine brew is always spilt
diluting each unmitigated hue
with murky doubts that blur the final view.

Fit

Regardless how you curse your pleas
or flail indignant kicks
you’ll never find a way to squeeze
an eight into a six.

The Forgotten Ringing

Hi, how are you? Me, a little distracted lately. Seems life is determined to intrude on my creative time, but I still sneak out a few lines here and there. Seems I'm not the only one that's feeling undone lately, check out Billy's dilemma as he searches for a wayward poem in this weeks Ringing of The Bards. Great job oh founder of the fun, thanks for anything and everything you do to help others!

Lost Cause

My being is a tangle
of unfulfilled desire
a cobweb left to dangle
upon a blackened pyre
where ardent avatars have lain
consumed by zealous fire
the remnants of a lost campaign
predestined to expire.

Stir

Fried and feeling rather grim
chance of progress very slim
dismal darkness seldom plumbed
sentence of a soul succumbed.

Tea with Honey

Relaxed on the porch I try not to scorch
my lap with this fluid aroused by a torch
which clamored to steep these leaves that I heap
whose tendrils of flavor will pleasantly seep—
ringlets of steam like mist from a dream
entice me to try something other than cream
so I sweeten my stein with bumblebee wine
and savor each drop, your hand clasped in mine.

Ringing 14

Hello to the few who may read this, I am happy to report I made it back safely from Tennessee with a brain more confused than it was before, which of course doesn't bode well for my offerings already steeped in mediocrity, but I shall continue nonetheless. This weeks Ringing of The Bards is a nice way to come home and a big thank you to Jo Janoski for presenting another fine example of poetic linkage, so go check it out!

The Fall

The second day of equal measure
passed quite nondescript,
although a subtle change was in the air.
The angle of our golden treasure
dipped as terra flipped,
and hints of urgency were everywhere.

I stood beneath inviting globes
of crunchy-tart delight
where yesterday the blossom lured the bee—
behind those vibrant autumn robes
awaits the slip of night,
which all too soon will come to cover me.

Mean

We trudge through drudge
routinely fudge
the stats that hide
each little smudge
but nudge or budge
those stuck in sludge
they’ll plot a most
consistent grudge.

Lift

When cornered in a moving car don’t shuffle, breath or cough
for everyone knows who you are and when you’re getting off
maintain that stoic awkward stance we misconstrue as grace
negating each convenient chance to elevate our race.

Scale

Beneath the golden globe I wax
a million miles from home
my mountain of dissension long eroded,
though lost I’ve seldom sought my tracks
preferring virgin loam
but now I think a map must be encoded;
I’m weighing how to neatly pinch
my vast unease to just an inch.

Mourning Dove

**Have you ever heard one? Their song is very resonant and unique, known for its melancholy quality. That high pitched wail of lament, while a poignant reminder of nature’s beauty, can also cut to the bone when it rings in your ear with a painful accusation of arrogance long regretted.
**I was very young and still discovering the wonders of being outdoors, as well as just starting to understand how my actions affected those around me. My parents were conscientious people that stressed the concept of personal responsibility to all their children, and we took it very seriously. Of course when the naivete of innocence meets the imagination of a growing mind sometimes things can go awry, especially when a brand new BB gun is involved.
**Mom and Dad were very adamant about the rules concerning my new ‘toy’ - no shooting at my brothers (aw shucks) and no shooting at any creatures of any kind. They gave me paper targets and some clay pigeons they had secured somewhere, then instructed me in it’s use, pointed me towards the small copse of trees beside our house and said "Have fun."
**Well as you can imagine I was in heaven! Heroes of the day were the Lone Ranger and GI Joe, guys that knew how to use a gun, and I wanted to be just like them. I was already well coordinated with keen eyesight so shooting was almost natural for me. I burned through the targets in no time, then shot the clay pigeons until the shards were too small to hit. My brothers got some soda cans and bottles which also rapidly became rubble. We had a blast! We took turns shooting at trees and making pretend we were soldiers on the front like John Wayne (Dad’s favorite) taking down the bad guys with our last few bullets. "Charlie Company attack!"
**One day while stalking through the woods by myself, a slight movement caught my eye. I froze and slowly turned imagining a sniper drawing a bead on me, but it was only a bird, a sparrow I think. It was about thirty feet away, it’s head cocked sideways to get a good look at the intruder disturbing an otherwise peaceful day. I don’t know if it was primal instinct or seduction by the darker side of human desire, but suddenly I went into hunter mode. Feeling confident in my skills I slowly brought the rifle up and lined the sparrow in my sights. Within seconds my heartbeat seemed to double, sweat began to pearl on my forehead and my parents words echoed in my ears, "No living things..." and I hesitated. The bird must have sensed danger and flitted up into the higher branches of the tree making the shot much more difficult. I stood there for a long time it seemed debating whether this was a good idea, then finally decided it would be OK as my friend Pat had told me these guns weren’t very powerful; his brother had shot him with one and it didn’t even break his skin. I just wanted to see if I could hit it, like a real live hunter, so once again I sought my target.
**The sparrow was in the tiniest branches up on top of a tree and every time the wind blew it swayed a little. I clenched my teeth trying to ignore the lower branches that kept dancing in and out of my field of vision, took a deep breath, then slowly squeezed the trigger. I watched the little brass projectile fly and neatly miss the mark. I cocked the gun and aimed again, adjusting slightly for wind and distance, then squeezed - whoa close enough to make feathers ruffle. Now my heart started thumping even harder in my chest, my mouth was so dry it hurt, I knew the next shot was going to connect. I drew my bead and swoosh, the sparrow took off. No!
**I was a jumble of mixed emotions, largely relieved that nothing bad had truly happened, but also slightly disappointed that I didn’t find out what the result of a direct hit would be. I had heard family and friends talk about hunting, I understood the concept of death, or so I thought, but I just didn’t see it as a possibility. I went to bed that night feeling strangely dissatisfied, like I had somehow been cheated, but as we lived out in the middle of nowhere I was sure I’d get another chance to see what would happen.
**A few days passed and while trying to decide which apple tree on the other side of our house to climb, I heard a very distinct birdsong that was not familiar to me. Instantly I began to inspect each of about eight trees, slowly circling every trunk looking into the foliage for a telltale nest or movement. At the far left corner of our little orchard was a small pear tree, my favorite come fall for the fruit was plentiful and sweet. As I approached it there was that song again and a frantic flapping of wings. I actually ducked as this robin-sized bird with a long tail swooped over my head; It was greyish or light brown and landed a couple trees over. I quickly ran towards it and it took off again heading away from the pear tree. After watching it duck behind the house I jogged back over to the pear tree and instantly spotted the nest. I watched it for a while from a distance but nothing came back, so my easily distracted mind was readily occupied with my previous plan of tree climbing.
**As I lay in bed that night I thought about that big bird with it’s piercing song and knew I could definitely hit it with a BB if I could catch it in the pear tree, there weren’t many little branches or fat leaves to hide behind, nor was it very high. I began to devise a strategy for getting close enough without being seen and fell asleep dreaming of dark brooding images that made me wake in a cold sweat.
**After breakfast I managed to ditch my nosy brothers and headed for the door gun in hand. Mom, as moms will, sensed my impending brush with impetuousness, and said "Where are you going young man?" I informed her that I was going down to the creek behind the cornfield in back of the house. She gave me that penetrating stare, certain there was more to the story but I was careful not to let the devilish urges inside of me leak through to the surface.
**"Well you just make sure to be careful mister, and don’t you point that thing at anybody, got it?"
**I nodded as I swung the door open and zoom, I was gone. Down the hill, over the stone wall and into the sea of green leaves that smelled of earthy life. My face was stung by slightly moist blades that whipped me as I flew through the orderly rows, my small heart beating like the jungle drums in an old Tarzan movie. This was it, today was the day I would shoot my first living target!
**Instead of heading straight I took a sharp right and trotted towards the end of our property line. I passed our well and started to head back up into the scrub brush that bordered our land just beyond the orchard. Now I became the hunter again; each step was carefully planned to eliminate noise, it probably took me fifteen minutes to go forty feet but it paid off. There about twenty feet away from the lilac bush I hid behind was the pear tree and sitting pretty as you please was that bird, it’s broad breast calling me like the glint off a soda bottle.
**With deliberation I brought the barrel up and put my sight right in the middle of that unsuspecting birds gut. I had no doubt it would connect and imagined how loud beak-brain would squawk before it flew away. Once again my heart raced and my mouth turned into a desert but at last I pulled the trigger. There was indeed a brief sound of surprise but what followed was far from my puerile misconceptions. The bird dropped like a stone and hit the ground, a couple of feathers floating down near it, to lay silently beside that lone pear tree.
**I sat for a second, stunned. Perhaps it’s just knocked out, yes that’s it, I’ll just let it rest for a minute then it’ll be OK. After a couple of the tensest moments in my life I began to approach my victim expecting it to jump up at any time and fly away. When it was at my feet I noticed the slight hint of red beneath it’s right wing and my heart sank. I dropped to my knees and gently picked up the wounded creature, tears beginning to stream down my cheeks. Staring into it’s beady black eye I saw the spark of awareness go and felt, actually physically felt, the life force ebb then fade completely from it’s broken body. I sat there holding the poor thing, unsure what to do. I couldn’t tell anybody because I’d really get in trouble plus I was ashamed, I had actually taken a life and it was not a pleasant feeling. While sitting there in my nauseous stupor I heard a soft sound above me and a sickening revelation struck like lightening, this bird was a mother! Now I had to see so I shimmied up the tree and sure enough there were two small chicks in the nest. Well this was a disaster, my refusal to obey my parents had not only resulted in one life but two more were now on the line. I would have to feed them until they could survive alone, that’s all there was to it. I would dig up a bunch of worms and come every few hours to fill their little bellies.
**Burdened with pangs of unshakeable guilt, I buried the mother and headed back to the house with a sick feeling in my stomach but full of resolve to make up for my horrific act. I kept reliving that moment of senseless death in my mind, certain my folks could sense the evil that now tainted me. After a while I went back to the pear tree and to my great dismay the chicks were now at the base of the tree themselves quite motionless. They must have started crawling around when their mother didn’t come back and now they were gone too. This was too much for my young sensibilities to handle, I didn’t deserve to live! I ran back to the house and up to my room where I cried myself to sleep.
**Upon waking I felt slightly better physically but still devastated mentally. I knew I would never shoot the BB gun, or any gun for that matter, at anything ever again, but I had still caused death and this was anathema to me. I eventually told my friend about my crime and he informed me what kind of bird it had been. Turns out they’re considered game birds so hunting them is actually sanctioned but that never justified what is still to this day the most shameful thing I have ever done. I still like to walk in the woods, reveling in the abundance of life that thrives despite the careless acts of humans such as I, confident that at least my own actions will never cause deliberate suffering again, and occasionally I hear that haunting trill somewhere in the wild and stand for a moment with my head bowed in respectful remembrance.

Leavin' On a Jet Plane

Well I'm off to the University of Tennessee this afternoon for some work related courses. I started last year then got sick, and while I was home recuperating I started this blog which rapidly approaches it's one year anniversary. I would like to thank anyone who has stopped by to read and especially those that take the time to comment, it motivates me to write more which was the whole point of this thing in the first place. I'm not sure how much writing I'll be able to do this coming week but want to share a little ditty I wrote last year when my illness made me less than enthusiatic about traveling to this statistical process class:

Count Me Out

Collecting information, such a futile thing to do

as everybody everywhere sees naught but their own view

contaminating data, making it much harder to

see which way elusive truth is likelier to skew.

I am also leaving another of my melodramatic memoirs for perusal. I wasn't sure when I wrote the first one if I would do more but it seems these buried episodes are anxious to seep out as they will. Maybe someday I'll put a book together, but for now it's been enough just to get them out of my system. Take care, see you when I can,

Bob

Keep Current

At times it’s unamenable
this deluge of dejection
torrential torpor tumbles
into pooling introspection
the stagnant surface thickens
a morass of misdirection
whose slimy draft will sicken
to corrupt sincere reflection;
we all face damned impediments
but seldom dredge the sediments
rebuild your rocky riverbed
to let the silt flow free instead.

Linked

Can electrons bear emotions through the ethernet?
I’m not sure if they do, but am confident to bet
that surges of compassion can transcend having met
creating connectivity no wire could beget.

Catalyzed

Observing fluids percolate and flow
from flask to tube, my Bunsen burner flares
a bluish flame, reminding me of stares
your loving eyes would commonly bestow.
Those many fruitless nights I spent in search
of answers, you were painfully alone,
expecting that the diligence I’d shown
would bring success; but faith can only perch
upon its pedestal so long before
it falls. I heard the crash and rushed like mad
to see the single constant that I had
lie shattered, like a beaker on the floor.
I’ve struggled since that night without a break—
redemption is a compound hard to make.

Most Unwanted

I’m not a bard
who’s avant-garde
or rife with erudition
I can’t inject
my dialect
with facile intuition
I scrawl these runes
intone my tunes
as simply as required
and can’t refuse
this stubborn muse
that prods till I’m inspired
but do not read
or ever heed
these lyrical confessions
my heinous crime
is writing rhyme
the worst of all transgressions.

Bound

I Am Bound, I Am Bound

I am bound, I am bound, for a distant shore
By a lonely isle, by a far Azore,
There it is, there it is, the treasure I seek,
On the barren sands of a desolate creek.

—Henry David Thoreau


For so long I have been confined
within this plainly troubled mind
recoiling from a world unkind,
slowly rotting inside the rind.

Extensions of my inner need
through sightless eyes emotions bleed—
conscience calls, I don’t heed
negating my chance to be freed.

I snuggle up to this cold chain
embracing all my bitter pain,
reflection casts intense disdain
until just livid scars remain.

A lucent tunnel lurks unfound
beyond grim depths of Lonely Sound,
I need not search yon empty ground
to see the way that I am bound.

We'll Never Forget

We’ve paid for our freedom with blood and sweat,
to defend liberty, entered the fray;
heroic spirits we’ll never forget.

We stand tall to answer the thrown gauntlet
refusing to give up and walk away,
we’ve paid for our freedom with blood and sweat.

From rebels that caused a monarch regret
to brothers choosing on which side to stay;
heroic spirits we’ll never forget.

Evil tyrants causing global upset?
Grab a helmet, time to get underway!
We’ve paid for our freedom with blood and sweat.

This proud country once more was a target
but bravery, as usual, held sway;
heroic spirits we’ll never forget.

Victims unaware that they faced a threat
gave their ultimate due that fateful day—
we’ve paid for our freedom with blood and sweat,
heroic spirits we’ll never forget!

Illuminated

We mar the majesty of night
with all our paltry man-made light
distracting those that need to spy
an orange orb ascend the sky
discarding veils of twilit mist
engaged in its revolving tryst
while dancing higher through the dark
to help arouse a knowing spark.

Ringing XII

Week 12 and still going strong, ROTB is something I look forward to every week and this week is another fantastic offering. Head over to Russell's blog Yuckelbel's Canon and check out Ringing of The Bards 12. Great job Russell, thank you!!

Down Shift

I may have slowed down but I still get around
despite this attraction I feel to the ground;
each morning begins with a disheartened glance
at the drooping effect of my bipedal stance.

Apprehension

Baleful Bucky
the epitome
of evil-minded malice
killed the man
then meekly ran
denying righteous solace;
nooses tightened
defenses heightened
they’re closing on their quarry,
he’s left his hole
the cameras roll—
get ready to be sorry!

Happy 80th

The Great Defenders’ regal diadem
has sparkled brighter than ever before
to dazzle all viewers beyond its shore
beneath the glow of the fortieth gem.
The might of a nation is not in its size,
it’s gauged by the thunder of loyal hearts,
and none beat louder, as no one imparts
more pride than Lilibet, who never cries,
the fearsome blood of a conqueror still
alive within. So raise a pint and toast
with gusto, ringing true from coast to coast
saying, "God Save The Queen!" then drink your fill.
If future monarchs reign with half her grace
then England shall forever have a place.

River Song

I remember fishin’ with my friends down by the river
When I was just a boy of ten
There was a tug on my line, I reeled in my prize
But it felt like I had betrayed an old friend
So without a single word I turned and set that sucker free
We all just watched it swim away so peacefully

Then we sat beside the Mighty Mohawk as it rolled by
And talked of what we might achieve before our time to die
Watching that dark water on its way down to the sea
We dreamed about our destinies
Yes we dreamed of great destinies

There were many sunny days beside that river
All through my high school years
We’d play our guitars, singing songs of life
And talk about all our fears
We all knew that soon we’d have responsibilities
But we were in no hurry to face maturity

We played beside the Mighty Mohawk as it rolled by
Contemplating mysteries that made us wonder why
And as that dark water made its way down to the sea
We wrestled with our own insecurities
Yes we learned all about uncertainty

Then High School ended and we went our separate ways
I left to see the world 20 years ago today
Now I feel it’s time to head back home, settle down and stay
I’m looking for that river 'cause I know it’ll show me the way

Now I’m sitting here beside the Mohawk River
I finally made it back to Amsterdam
I know where I’ve been, got an idea where I’m going
But sometimes I still wonder who I am
I’ve heard it said before that you cannot go home again
But I just stopped by to visit an old friend

As I sit and watch that Mighty Mohawk roll by
I realize I am home, and it makes me want to cry
And as surely as that water makes its way down to the sea
It flows from deep inside of me
Yes it flows from within the heart of me

Goodbye Mate

A heart as vast as the world he stalked
as wild as the beasts he framed,
whatever he talked he always walked
the Hunter was finally tamed.

The Front

Forsaken babes of liberty are flung
like paper boats to face a hurricane,
expected to arise because they’re young
and stonily accept the pain in vain,
to sacrifice each tortured droplet wrung
contributing to those unjustly slain.
Back home the ramrod seeks a sign from God
while praying none will see through his facade.

Ringing 11

Hello, hope all is well with everyone. This week's Ringing of The Bards is another poetically inspired masterpiece by Pearl at Poetry Springs Boing, Curl, Sproing, so bounce over and take a look. Thanks a lot Pearl, great job!!

Professional Courtesy

Stiletto seams
and wit to match,
infrequent beams
a glimpse will catch.

That stalking gait,
fedora low,
imply a date
with sanctioned woe.

One lethal shot
right through the head—
a chalked-out spot;
regret long dead.

His holstered glee
awaits the blow
from someone he
will never know.

Festival

Another solstice fast approaches
certain limbs will dangle lower
thinning fruit recycles slower
the longitude of loss encroaches
and still we gather at the gate
to boisterously celebrate.

Medley

Amidst cacophonous confusion
harmonies in sweet profusion
issue from a madly whirring
mechanism made for stirring
giddy bouts of screaming laughter
to echo through each lighted rafter.

Something in the way she moves me
elevates my mood and proves we
sometimes have a credo worth abiding;
future fun depends on whether
people really come together
to use the stub we all possess for riding.

Back Off

Antipathy accentuates
Negativity,
Derogation demonstrates
Superiority,
Ostentation obfuscates
Whimsicality,
Hastiness humiliates
Authenticity,
Toleration terminates!

Tentative

How would life be without want
what would we grasp without need
would we have to devise a new font
to exclude connotations of greed?

How would time pass without pain
what would we bide without grief
would we shed all the doubts that profane
a much healthier brand of belief?

How can love grow without trust
what could we learn without faith
would we silently turn back to dust
our existence no more than a wraith?

Big Spenders

A bugle wails, a frantic mother cries
remembering a youngster filled with charms
as war birds reassert the call to arms,
recalling one whose eye was on the prize.
Oppressive notes fall darkly on the grass,
an honor guard routinely folds a flag—
the trophy youth are dying just to bag?
That melancholy horn’s not all that’s brass.
Another slab of marble stands supplied
perhaps this represents the vaunted goal
to go before your time and fill a hole
while shots ring out just like the day you died.
It’s funny, those commending sacrifice
are never too concerned about the price.

Ringing X

Yes it's happened again, same Bard time, different Bard channel. Tune in to Paper Tigers where Oz gives us a poetically inspired Ringing that is simply awesome. Thanks Oz for your time and most excellent efforts!

Slick

He slipped right in
negating friction
began his spin
with down home diction,
ignored the press
slid right on by
then made a mess
to gratify
all those that hose
the multitude
despite who knows,
now that is crude.

Immortalized

“Look at the runt.” those other gods joked
as they jockey to bask in the blaze;
I haunt heaven’s figure, my status revoked
but I’ll spin beyond all of their days.

Silent Type

**And so the saga continues. Once more I sit before this sterile scribe to peck away some meaningless verbosity I am loath to utter that will lie digitally dormant until such time as I upload it to the net, releasing it into the data stream like some vat-spawned endangered species I’m trying to resuscitate.
**I’m not really sure why, but I remember when my urge to communicate was turned inward. I had always been a gregarious child with a knack for getting people to smile. All through elementary school up to my pre-teens I was usually the narrator in school plays, or the lead voice in chorus. I relished the connection with other people when performing; that look in the eye which said they were totally moved by whatever medium I was pouring my heart into. Well that is until a character called puberty entered the picture accompanied by his brutish mate the bully.
**I discovered one of the biggest problems outgoing people can face: that eventually they will encounter other people that don’t like them, and sometimes these people can be violent. One of my worst tormentors was named Rick (which of course rhymes with what he really was) and through his painful intervention my inevitable withdrawal from the world began. He was maybe 4 or 5 years older than me, twice as big, and a whole lot meaner. I still to this day don’t know what I did to deserve his wrath other than exist but he definitely had it out for me. His favorite move was to park his much heftier frame on top of mine, pin my arms to the ground with his knees, and then torture me until I cried or some bleary-eyed teacher snapped out of their apathetic trance long enough to stop it. Back then you were expected to stand up for yourself but all I had were words, and all they did was get me beat harder! I refused to continually lay there and humble myself to this mindless savage, so I began to berate him with all the venom a desperate young lad possessing a robust vocabulary could muster. I questioned his lineage, sexuality, and any other trait imaginable until he would storm away in a rage because I refused to cry anymore.
**Well as you can imagine, I began to feel the need to be unobtrusive. If people don’t notice you, then they can’t pick on you. Suddenly being alone wasn’t so bad, I could do whatever I wanted, and never had to worry about unnecessary complications. I began to read in earnest, escaping my world of burgeoning uncertainty through the wondrous words of others. This is also when I first began to write for even though we may shun the physical contact rudimentary to meaningful communication, we still feel the need to voice that which roils from within, to share our own private impressions.
**Of course I was still relatively affable having been raised to respect everyone I encounter, but it was just the proverbial mask, a polite façade employed to keep the potential pain away.
**One evening our little community was gathered at the Town Hall for some function; I believe it was something with Boy Scouts (which I was a thrifty member of) and everybody that was anybody was present, including two of the most beautiful girls in my class. Well when it was suggested that an emcee should be appointed who do you think everyone turned to? Yup, you got it, good old me. Here in this room were teachers, local government officials, successful business owners; all people that were used to dealing with the public but no, they pick the skinny, self-conscious, borderline introvert me.
**I can’t begin to describe to you that feeling of wanting to shrivel up into a little ball that I felt at that moment. My face was flushed and my tongue actually got thicker, it was the strangest sensation, I suddenly couldn’t talk. And the more people egged me on the worse I felt; I kept casting quick glances at the two girls from my class and they were laughing, talk about devastating. I remember looking at my parents with a pleading expression that said don’t make me do this, but they like everyone else expected it of me because I had a talent for it and had always willingly done it in the past. This was without a doubt the turning point in my relationship with the rest of society. I learned that if you’re popular you don’t have as many options because you are bound by other people’s expectations and this cemented my decision to recede.
**Now thirty years later I still maintain a stout barrier between myself and the world, but I’ve come to understand the need for some kind of bridge to keep me in touch with the rest of humanity. I can count the number of friends I have on one hand, though I suppose that could be said of my enemies as well – I am a non-factor, a neutral bystander. I still write and have even started performing in a band again, and I find it endlessly amusing when someone says, “I can’t believe the voice that comes out of such an otherwise quiet person!” I guess three decades of relative silence got me primed.
**My most heartfelt exchanges though are those involving words. When you practice a lifestyle of humble reticence, there must be a release valve to expunge all the thoughts and expostulations an active mind is bound to explore. Sometimes I feel I have something unique to offer, but reveling in the intricacies of sound, rhythm, and meaning doesn’t always translate into communication. Regardless of how cleverly certain words can be arranged together, the ultimate question is – are they saying anything? But still I sit here day after day tapping away at my dusty keyboard, comforted by the sound, the only conveyance these pointless runes will probably ever make.

Heads or Tails?

Looking back I see it now
the day undone by change,
as recognition curves my brow
I’m staggered by the range
of truly foul proclivities
exhibited by men
when tender possibilities
present their wanton yen—
the dividend of greed and lust
has placed me at the brink,
bereft of even token trust
I lean before I think...

Carbon Copy

Churning, burning
smugly spurning
mother’s warnings
never learning.

Chewing, brewing
snidely spewing
deadly doses
past undoing.

Chilling, billing
slyly spilling
milky malice
quickly killing.

Pet Project

Your doomed endeavor lingers like the foul
ungodly stench of rotting flesh, like game
some vulgar beast set out to merely maim
in order to enjoy it’s dying howl.
You calmly stalk the unsuspecting sheep
to find a juicy morsel worth your time,
a sturdy buck made meaner by the clime
that often lulls those weaker off to sleep;
for only through their valiant dying heave
can creatures so beguiled by wanton greed
acquire the control on which they feed
and justify the doctrine they believe—
a flock exists to pacify the strong
when raised to stomach being led along.

*sighs*

Enlightened by an august sky
a subtle movement calls my eye
I slyly glance then chance to spy
a dime-sized orange butterfly;

to me, a man considered tall
it seems so very frail and small
but here beneath horizon’s thrall
we’re both infinitesimal.

Number Nine is Divine

Well this week's Ringing of The Bards, hosted by Katy is truly a delight as it was inspired by art which is something near and dear to my heart. All the poems are linked to wonderful images created by Miss Sam Duffy, go over and check it out. Thank you Katy and Miss Duffy!!

Thought That Counts

Coherency of mind creates
acuity that soon abates
complacency and activates
affinity, which captivates.

Study

In vaulted hallways sparsely lit
as footsteps ring on marble floor
the heartbeat tends to race a bit
twixt chambers housing ancient lore
excited by the musty spoor.

With alabaster elegance
her haunting gaze serene, opaque
she causes breathless reverence
in those who feel the sculptor’s ache,
a thirst no wine could ever slake.

Upon a dais, deified
this regal form reflects the care
a master used to look inside
ere chisel chanced to neatly pare,
revealing lines beyond compare.

As murmurs scurry through the crowd
like hungry mice that smell a crumb
so many state they’re truly wowed
while others stare, completely dumb
their flagging tongues becoming numb.

Another room displays a frame
through which we see an artist’s view
where gaudy strokes of great acclaim
make critics reassess each hue,
turn canvas into taut sinew.

Adjoining wings await their chance
to marvel more discerning eyes
that congregate to catch a glance
of wondrous whims the deft devise
when goaded by the Sister’s sighs.

While wandering these sacred vaults
belief is colored existential,
to spawn such grace with all our faults
belies a purpose quite essential—
to utilize our full potential.

Drinking It All In

Inky cup of bitter brew
drawn in shades of blackest hue
stirs my mind to slowly sip
and savor every artful drip.


**This little poem was inspired by a stimulating cup of refreshment provided by Danny over at Anatomy of Despair, I love his artwork and I think you will too so go check it out. Speaking of verse inspired by great art, don’t forget to ring in this week at Katy’s, check out the requirements and get creating!**

Wonder

I hear a lone cicada sing
as frantic mother finch takes wing
to lure me from her nested brood
that all too soon will learn to fling
their fragile forms beyond the press
of gravity’s insistent stress.

A sly one lopes across the trail
uncertain which one to inhale,
my rude intrusion causes him
to tuck his white-tipped rusty tail
between his legs then slink away
in search of less demanding prey.

The daisies wave as I ride by
while cotton clouds traverse a sky
so blue it’s hard to comprehend
the endless void through which we fly;
a lark the sighted must amend
when glowing gems of night descend.

It Is What It Is

Synchronized sincerity
Propagates polarity—
Versifying verity
Designates disparity.

Naked Ringing

If that's not enough to grab your attention then head on over to Naked & Ashamed for the Ringing of The Bards VIII where we get a vivid lesson in primary poetry. Thanks Dan, great job!!

Equinox

As dragons snap
and tigers flap
enlivened by the wind
a mother’s breath
inveigles death
to fleetingly rescind
its cold decree
allowing glee
some temperate time to bloom
and help adorn
the promise born
of those unmoved by doom.

Shaky Ground

Subduction pulls the surface down
undoing a facade,
appearances can quickly drown
beneath the road we’ve trod
when battered by the grim assault
of dwelling on an active fault.

Retain

As quickly as the leisure fades
from solar slathered skin
a gnawing sense of debt invades
to gobble up your grin.

Despotic deadlines denigrate
idyllic coexistence
as fervent traitors infiltrate
your weakening resistance;

defend the ramparts viciously
repel this greedy horde
expend your stores judiciously
and never sheath your sword.

Listen With Your Heart

I’ve always valued isolation
silence is my friend
a tactful comrade never too demanding,
in lieu of banal conversation
blissfully I spend
a moment graced by tacit understanding;

but how much comfort is eschewed
in lithesome arms of solitude?
For all the rancor and unrest
a caring word still feels the best.

Wolfed

Although the black’s decreased
we are tossed a bony feast
with lowered heads we calmly graze
not bothered in the least,
our primal urge deceased;
we gnash these neatly charred filets
resigned to being fleeced
in the shadow of the beast.

Elemental Extrication

Wisps of vibrancy in the air
counteract mundane despair,
expectation’s heady scent
stimulates my need to care.

Drops of buoyancy in the sea
cleanse away bleak misery,
determination’s bracing mist
invigorates my amity.

Sparks of clemency in the fire
cauterize untoward desire,
affirmation’s soothing heat
mitigates my pointless ire.

Grains of errancy on the beach
congregate and neatly breach
reservation’s barricade which
obfuscates new lands to reach.

Waisting Time

A gaggle of gluttons
with over-taxed buttons
and medicine cabinets packed
still searches for answers
to other foul cancers
while killer indulgence is snacked.

Sow What?

I pause before attentive rows
but leave without oration
bereft of proper pastel prose
to ply for presentation,
perhaps I’ll go where nothing grows
avoiding trepidation
and nurture the organic throes
of unabashed creation.

Ringing of The Bards VII

Hey all head on over to Erin's site at Poetic Acceptance for the seventh Ringing of The Bards, it is a wealth of poetic inspiration smoothly presented, great job Erin, thank you!

Shake

It was hot outside. A relentless sun generated the kind of heat that made you want to rip all your clothes off and lay down in the shade of a big bushy tree with your tongue hanging out. Such days made me wonder if I was glimpsing what hell was like, for after all it was a blistering summer day much like this so many years ago that I found out how quickly innocence can be burned away, leaving cold darkened ashes of fearful mistrust.
My childhood, while far from perfect, was quite enjoyable, even sheltered I guess you’d have to say. Born and raised on the outskirts of a medium sized mill town peacefully nestled among the rolling hills of the Mohawk Valley in upstate NY, we enjoyed the type of isolation that nurtures bliss – in other words I was ignorant as heck! Dad worked at what was the largest employer in the area at the time and Mom had a career in the health industry. Both were very diligent people, seldom missing any work, and helped instill a sense of pride in what you do that I and my siblings couldn’t help but emulate. They were also very caring, being active in local church activities and organizations which inspired a sense of community. We could leave our house unoccupied and unlocked for days with no problems, which of course resulted in our being a bit too trusting, but it was all part of the big picture being painted for me, that this was how everyone was.
So, imagine me, a bright, naive youth with boundless energy let loose into the world to explore with impunity – nothing could go wrong here! I became familiar with every inch of our modest little plot, from the small grove of apple trees on the right side (which later became our pool area) to the old dilapidated barn at the bottom of a small hill on the left. Inside the quaint structure we stored cord wood, a riding lawnmower with a cart, and my Dad’s turquoise colored motorcycle. Later on in my uh, let’s just say rebellious, years I used to siphon gas from the former to joyride on the latter, right before my parents eventually split up, but that’s another story.
Well as you can imagine I rapidly became bored being stuck on our property all the time, but once I had learned how to ride my bike – look out world! Where we lived there was very little traffic and it was so quiet that you could hear oncoming cars and vacate the road long before they got there, so my parents didn’t mind my travels. Of course the fact that they were at work a lot made it easy to disappear also, and I was getting older so they had much more confidence in me. At eight years old I was lean, tan, usually laughing, and always moving.
One extremely hot August day, I think it was a weekend because at least my mother was home, I jumped on my bike and started to ride hoping that the wind tickling my brush cut hair would cool me off. Pedaling as fast as my skinny legs would allow, I threw my hands out to the side and tilted my head back. The air was so hot and thick that it felt like I was riding through soup, but it helped. After covering about the equivalent of a couple city blocks I approached the house of one Ronny Hatford, an ancient looking man with white hair who always wore stained dark blue work clothes, a skewed baseball cap and walked with a limp. Across the road from his house were very rundown barns and a garage all connected, all sporting that weather worn red paint that is on 99.9% of the old barns from here to California.
As I slowly coasted past he suddenly appeared from inside the old garage where an early sixty-something baby blue convertible Cadillac was stored. The white top was frayed and cracked but the car was in decent shape with little rust. He squinted for the sun was intensely bright and looked at me with a big smile. I smiled back and rode over to where he was standing, just outside the open garage door.
“What’re ya doin’ out on a hot day like this? Yer mama know where ya are?” This query didn’t surprise me as everybody knew everybody in these parts.
“Yes of course she does” I said (though she didn’t), “What are doing in there? Are you gonna start up your car and take a ride with the top down to cool off?”
Ronny looked at the car, then at me. He seemed to be thinking but I could have cared less what about as my inquisitive eyes were scanning the walls of the shabby garage, fascinated with all the various old license plates and colorful oil cans. I got off my bike and started walking around inside the shed, asking all kinds of pointless questions and not really listening to the answers. My young mind was set on getting one of those bright yellow and blue pieces of numbered metal to secure to the front of my handle bars.
By this time Ronny had re-entered the garage and stood off to the side of the door. I continued my search of a small workbench on the back wall, picking up different tools and briefly ogling a calendar with a scantily clad girl on it. The air was so stifling that it was actually hard to breathe, but I was so excited at the prospect of getting one of these symbols of adulthood that I barely felt it. Finally I worked up the nerve to ask.
“Uh Ronny, um I see you have all these old plates around and um, well I was wondering if maybe um, I could have one?” I sheepishly said while moving a small pebble around with my foot and never looking up.
“Whatta ya want one of those things for? Ya can’t drive, what’re ya gonna do, put it on yer bike?” he said with a hoarse laugh while spitting a big squirt of dark juice from his white whiskered face. He always had a pouch of Redman hanging out of his pocket, his crooked teeth browner than old leaves.
“Well yeah, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do with it” I said, which prompted him to stop laughing, but he didn’t stop smiling and somehow his grin had changed into more of a smirk, though of course I didn’t realize what that meant at the time.
“Well I suppose” he slowly said, eyes furtively darting out towards the road, “but ya don’t just take stuff from people for nothin’ ya know, didn’t yer folks ever teach ya that?”
“Yeah of course but I don’t have any money” by now I had the one I wanted in my hand and was staring at it intently, “so I guess I’ll just leave it here.” and I started to reluctantly put it back on the bench.
“Well hold on, you can have one if ya want, I don’t want money from ya, all ya gotta do is shake.”
“Shake?”
“Yeah shake, didn’t yer daddy ever show ya how?”
By now I figured that he meant shake hands and I said “Sure he did” while sticking out my right hand and holding the plate in my left.
“First ya gotta close yer eyes” Ronny said. Now as trusting as I was, somewhere way in the back of my uncorrupted mind an alarm went off, but having no true experience with people I complied. In my head I wondered what extra treat he may have for me. Maybe a pen knife or a hood ornament, who knew, this place was a cornucopia of delights for any curious child.
“OK give me your hand.” I leaned towards his voice and felt his leathery hand grasp my wrist and plunk something warm into my palm. It was at this point that my view of the world changed forever, for there in my prepubescent hand was his thick wrinkled manhood, I knew without even looking. My first reaction was actually revulsion; I literally wanted to be sick. Immediately I released his member and simultaneously handed him the plate as I looked him right in the eye. I couldn’t bring myself to look down, but I wouldn’t look away and let him know how freaked out I was.
“Sorry I changed my mind, I gotta go now, I think I hear my mother.” As soon as the words left my mouth I realized why he had asked if she knew where I was before and I felt even sicker.
“Wait a minute” he said, panic clouding his impish face immediately. “I don’t hear her, come here and you can have whatever ya want.”
By now I had backed out into the sunlight and was stammering about my Mom; I kept saying that word because I felt it would protect me somehow, forming an indestructible shield that he could not penetrate. I jumped on my bike while he said something else and pedaled like a madman. Only one thought was in my head – escape!
I can’t tell you exactly how fast I made it back to my house but it seemed like a blink. I still felt nauseous and ran upstairs as fast as I could to wash my hand. I scrubbed it until I thought the skin had come off and then I scrubbed it some more. All the while incredulous that another human being could do something so sick, so vile; I didn’t even know what sex was yet but I knew what had just happened was wrong. I kept picturing his leering face and hearing those words “Ya gotta shake, didn’t your daddy ever show ya how?” until I thought I was going to scream. The worst part, who could I tell? How could I approach my church going parents and tell them some lecherous old man had just violated me physically and spiritually? I resolved to keep it to myself, avoiding any contact with Ronny whatsoever, but a darkness had cast its pall over my once radiant soul and it didn’t take but a couple of days for my perceptive mother to sense something was very wrong with her usually joyful little boy. It had been building ever since the incident to consume my thoughts. “All ya gotta do is shake.”
I had just started walking upstairs, the word shake ringing in my ears, when my mom called from the bottom. As I turned I felt hot tears start to burn my flushed cheeks and as soon as she saw them she ran to me.
“What is it, what’s wrong? I could tell something was bothering you, now tell me what is the matter?”
So of course there on the stairs, in the warm comforting cocoon of my mother’s arms, I bared my newly scarred insides and instantly felt a modicum of release. My mother was, to put it mildly, incensed and immediately called my father at work and then the local authorities, which in our rural location was the county sheriff.
The sheriff showed up and sat in the kitchen with my parents and me, and proceeded to tell us how he had spoken with Ronny and Ronny said that was certainly not how it happened. He had just extended his hand to me to shake and I jumped on my bike and left. He surely didn’t understand what all the commotion was about. Then the officer started grilling me as though I were the one that did something wrong. Why would I make something like this up, for what possible reason? I was so flabbergasted by this that I quickly clammed up and let the adults finish their conversation. This of course was my first true taste of ‘the system’ and to this day I still foster a resentment of authority because of it.
After deputy dog got done and left, my father assured me that he had had a ‘talk’ with Ronny on his way home and that I didn’t have to worry about any more funny business. My father is a good sized man and I knew how much he intimidated me when upset, I hoped Ronny felt that too. I was instructed to stay away from this sicko and to inform my parents forthwith if anything at all happened from here on in.
So, on with life right? Wrong. I just couldn’t stop thinking about the truth I had been shown, about the depravity that one human being could commit against another. They talked about sinners in church but those were just faceless characters in stories told to instill fear, the true nature of evil, I knew now, was the abhorrent thoughts and desires that bubbled like white-hot lava beneath the stony exterior of fake smiles. My young mind was inundated with thoughts an eight year old should never have to contemplate, and it was changing me. For the first time in my fledgling existence I felt rage, not the childish pangs of unfulfilled desires, but the deep malevolent churning in my gut that wouldn’t let me sleep or grant me a moment’s peace. “All ya gotta do is shake.”
Enough! I knew the only way this would be resolved for me was if I went and talked to Ronny myself. I let a few weeks go by, school started and my parents had a million things to worry about. The craziness of the summer slowly morphed into the routine of normal life and all was well. Plus it gave me enough time to get ready.
I waited until both my parents were at work one day then told my older sister that I was going for a bike ride. She said OK and off I went. As I pedaled towards the barn my heart was beating so hard I had to stop for a minute for fear it would leap right out of my chest. Ronny had his tractor out in front of the garage and seemed to be working on the back end of it. I slowly rolled up to him and as soon as he spied me a scowl hardened his weathered face.
“What’re you doin’ here? I don’t want no trouble so get on home and don’t come round my property no more, ya hear?”
Even though I had rehearsed my little speech I found my self suddenly talking like someone else, like I was listening to a movie. I wasn’t sure what I was even saying but I just kept going. “You think you got in trouble, I got spanked and sent to my room. The whole thing was a big mistake; I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”
Ronny’s sullen expression deepened, “Yeah well I don’t ‘preciate no cops comin’ to my door so just get along and don’t be comin’ back.” Satisfied that he had set me straight, he hunkered back down and continued his tinkering.
“OK but I just wanted to let you know that if you want me to shake I will and I won’t tell nobody.”
Instantly I could see that strange light come into his eyes which looked up and down the road before he said, “Didya like that? It wasn’t nothin’ bad now was it?” His tongue wiped a bit of tobacco off the corner of his mouth and then he squirted a big gob of juice over his shoulder.
“I guess not if that’s all it was, I just don’t want you to be mad at me.”
He looked at me for a long moment and finally decided to say what he wanted, after all who would believe me over him. “Well there’s more ya have to do, ya hardly shook it at all. Why don’t we go in the barn and ya can try again and then you can take whatever ya want from the garage.”
“OK”
So I followed him into the barn behind the garage, bringing my bike, for we entered through the huge side door that slid open on a rail. He only had a few cows for he mostly grew hay and sold it to other farmers, but the stench of manure was heavy in the air. Walking behind Ronny though, I was awash with the stink of beer, tobacco juice and stale sweat, my gorge was rising but I couldn’t stop myself. Once well inside and away from the door, where I had left my bike, Ronny turned and looked at me with that same impish smile he had sported a few weeks ago.
“Well ya ready ta try again?” and before I even said anything his zipper was down and his age speckled hand had fished out that fat wrinkled thing, “Well go on boy, take it in yer hand, nice and gentle now.”
Watching my body from above I saw my small hand reach up and cup his lengthening shaft. When I did he shuddered and closed his eyes. When he opened them again there was the unmistakable glint of terror, for while he wasn’t aware I had reached behind myself and taken out my father’s six inch hunting knife and was now holding the blade right to the mottled skin of his ancient mariner. It was a wicked looking instrument, finely honed for a quick gutting or skinning, and it was ready for business. I had kept it hidden in my back pocket with my shirt (bought a little big because I’d grow into it) untucked and hanging over it. I had always faced him so he never knew. And I had practiced, oh how I had practiced, up in my room, taking the blade out from its leather sheath over and over to make sure I could do it smoothly.
Now, with a ferocity that surprised me, I was going to make the cut. My eight year old mind wasn’t ready for such an influx of adrenaline and angst. I wanted this guy to suffer like I had suffered. Innocence should be slowly dissipated like a puddle in the sunlight, not like a drop of gas in a flame. This crud had robbed me of something precious, and he had to pay!
“H-h-hold on th-th-there, don’t do nothin’ stupid now. I was just playin’ with ya.” He sputtered, barely able to even speak.
This brief moment was enough to restore my equilibrium and I spoke in a voice that was frightening, it was the cold dead voice of someone who has been to the dark side and come back a different person. “What you did was wrong. I should just cut this thing off.” I paused to look at his face and let him know how deadly serious I was. “If you ever come near me or my brothers I will.” This made him jump but I had already started to back away, the knife in front of me at the ready. We stared at each other for a minute, then when he started inspecting himself for damage I turned and ran as fast as I possibly could, grabbed my bike, and rode like a rocket to my house. I ran inside, put the knife back, washed my hands a thousand times, and waited for the sheriff. I was pretty sure Ronny wouldn’t call, but I got ready just the same.
By the next day I knew I was safe. I went on to grow up out there relatively happy and even eventually went to work for Ronny when I was big enough to lift hay bales. He always paid me well and never said or did anything untoward after that day in the barn; I guess he liked to pee standing up. I look back now and try to discern what lesson I was supposed to learn, maybe it was just toughening me up for the ultimate battering that is life, I don’t know, but I’m pleased to say while that wiry eight year old boy with wonder in his eyes was scarred for life, he didn’t go completely. He’s still in there somewhere running through the open fields of my imagination. And occasionally he pops up to scold this person I’ve become, the cynic who is maybe a little too quick to put himself down and who, on some sweltering days, sits with the corners of his mouth turned up in grim satisfaction remembering that day… you should’ve seen him shake.

Dash of Humanity

The bell’s been rung
a song’s been sung
to echo through the wires,
I pass the rope
while grasping hope
our harmony inspires
all who read
to truly heed
the credo we are coining—
to overcome
the odium
and run a race worth joining.

Epilogue

Well it’s been almost a week and the clamor is subsiding. I would just like to thank everyone that participated one more time and encourage any new writers to jump in and contribute to future ringings. It was a lot of fun and it even opened the floodgate, as it were, to this urge I’ve had lately to try and write stories again, maybe even a novel. While the main thrust of this blog shall continue to be my daily dialogue of rascally rhyme, I just may post up a short story or two in the future, leaving them up for a couple of days at least to give people time to read. When might I do this you ask? Well you’ll just have to keep checking back to find out. 8^P

Ringing of The Bards VI - Into Cybernia

Hello fellow adventurers, I bid you welcome. If you are reading this Sixth Ringing of The Bards then you too have sought your own glowing portal and willingly entered the wondrous world of Cybernia, a place where, through the magic of words, anything is possible. Forget your preconceptions and problems as the awesome power of imagination meets the artistic ability of expression to transport your mind to new areas, and don’t forget – where the head goes the body follows.

The sky is preternaturally blue and clean as we approach the demesnes of our first and foremost Wordsmith – Billy the Blogging Poet. An artist, philanthropist, and an inventor of some renown whose latest contraption, a flying machine that doesn’t fly, helps him spread his words of wit and wisdom across the dimensions. As chairs slide on the floor and desks softly creak in the barely air-conditioned classroom we find ourselves raptly transfixed by a mild yet confident voice sharing a love of words that almost defies explanation. Listen now as he reads some verse on Day 3 In Mister Billy's Poetry Class:

Mister Billy said, "Write a poem

no more than five lines long,"

Now travel with me over granite gorges studded with dense clumps of lush evergreens that cradle nature’s mystery. We come upon a rustic home tucked among the sighing trees. Close by a beautifully tended garden is alive with vibrant colors and glorious scents which remind us of the beauty in this world. Here it is that we find our next cultivator of words – Shirley Whiting Allard of Housemouse. This lovely lady shares a tale of awakening, which will hopefully have a happy ending, sporting a title that applies to all of us at one time or another, Guilty of Innocence:

A troubled child in a grown up mask

so sad, your fate is sealed

burdened with a lifelong task

the sword, is now your shield.

Speaking of gardens brings us to another fertile mind, Rohn from rohnbayes journey, an elusive secret agent on a mission to share his unique point of view with the world. Of course escapism is possible in Cybernia, but social revolution – only time will tell. At the moment we find him on some distant beach, hot sand between his toes, and a blank notebook in his hand. Surveying the glistening bodies of sun worshipping vacationers he begins to jot, perhaps more clues to his intentions? Either way it’s bound to be a great read just like Soliloquy in the Garden:

it's over

the turning turns

we are building the new world my friends

right here hooked up on the internet talking

about it and demonstrating at least one simple fact

that we work well together when we're connected

Once more we zoom off; now approaching what appears to be a relatively isolated but bustling island community. Tangy salt breezes enliven our senses while the skies seem to sparkle with mystical energies as we near the fabled Aotearoa and one can hear a thrumming, as though millions of hearts are beating in unison. Here we find our next practitioner of wily wordplay Glenn of Crunchy Weta. With a style all his own and a lively mind attuned to the infinite, he mesmerizes us with the beat of Heart String Theory:

Dimension 0: From the void, the point of my existence.

Dimension 1: The line - the big I. I am.

Dimension 2: Fragments of being. My mind is split, my heart is broken. Continents drifting apart on a map

Before departing this remote place we are drawn to our next stop. This person proves just how powerful these words can be as hers were inspired by those of her fellow islander Glenn. Prepare yourself for another journey within and without, as our next vivacious versifier Leigh from Sleight of Mind responds to the pulse of creativity with some rumination that is anything but slight offering Ad Infinitum - In response to Heart String Theory:

I

move backwards

into the future

I don’t know about you but I am tingling with anticipation as we cruise up to another destination. Hmmmm seems like another academic setting. The musty smell of old books wafts through the air as the murmur of passing students gently lulls our next purveyor of prosody, Russell from Yuckelbel’s Canon, into a meditative trance where deep thoughts percolate. Pull up a chair and have a waking dream as ethereal language takes us along for a ride into the subconscious with Ruined Choir Exit:

This is that day we’ve been dreaming of

This is the day when all words rhyme

And are such sweet music,

Listen, do you hear that faint ringing? It echoes across the quaint streets packed with people of all shapes and sizes. The tantalizing smell of food from street vendors is intoxicating, and everywhere metropolitan commerce is in full swing. The former hostess of the dramatic ROTB V, Cecilia from clearcandy daily, sits on a balcony watching the commotion, taking a much deserved break. The smell of vinegar stings the nose as she digs into some yummy tocino, and remembers things that transpire on certain breezy evenings with Try Me:

on some nights,

your gargoyled chants emerge from the grounds,

riding the breeze that enters my room

And speaking of former hostesses we find ourselves headed over a rocky coastline, enchanted by the winsome Katy of somethingkaty, a dynamo of poetic inspiration and fellowship. This hostess of ROTB II gave us all a bit of fun at the fair earlier this summer. The glow from her portal is almost blinding as she is constantly heading into Cybernia checking on Poetship, Pilot Eye, and Wet Poems, some of the other sites she dedicates her boundless energy to. Here we get a chance to see her playful side as we are asked to consider the meaning of value with $9.80:

we took the kitten to the produce department

of the local grocery store to weigh him

Now on to a future hostess, as a matter of fact she is on deck for ROTB VII. Cruising over rolling hills we come upon a pleasantly rural setting. A lazy river is winding its way slowly onward, the muddy water deep and silent. There is a small trail that runs parallel to the river and it’s here that we find Erin of Poetic Acceptance, taking a leisurely stroll, thoroughly at peace with herself and the world around her. Take a deep breath and a long look at the journey with Fully:

I've learned to be comfortable

with my inner idiosyncrasies,

come to appreciate the peace

found in a patch of toadstools

and the sadness in spring.

There’s smoke on the horizon mixed with the smell of cordite and fear. Even in Cybernia the darker side of humanity finds a way to make itself known. As we celebrate our artistic inspiration others choose to harness their creativity to increase pain. If there is one thing that will always be universal, it is human suffering, and at this point in our existence it just doesn’t make sense to fight wars. Over the last couple of weeks Ashraf from arch.memory has shared his pain with us and many people have responded. Here we are asked to contemplate which does more damage, bombs, helplessness, or cold detachment as Ashraf pours his heart out to his Mama:

Mama,

_____my anger has eaten the best of me;

now I am farther from who you are

_____or you'd like me to be.

This time we go from the heat of battle to the fire of passion, descending through the clouds to touch down at a tropical locale. Palm trees wave as warm gusts carry the scent of coconut and ocean mist. We find our next essayer of eloquence, Danny Sillada from Anatomy of Despair, with his easel up capturing the perfect sunset on canvas. Here Danny paints a picture of the darker side of love with Upon Waking Up:

Your sweet-scented breath has turned

into a rotten rose, thorns growing on my chest,

poisoned blood decomposing…


We now approach someone so enigmatic that I don’t even have a clue what type of environment he may live in, but in Cybernia he is inviolate. With this tag line from his blog - MIXING HYPOCRISY AND PROCRASTINATION WITH SEVERAL SELECT VICES, I leave you to make your own determinations. All I know is that he is one of my favorite writers/people I have met, and from what I can tell a really nice guy. Displaying his usual flair, Ozymandiaz of Paper Tigers gives all new meaning to the term ‘all wet’ with his Immersion:

My body attempts buoyancy

To no avail

Follicle after follicle

I am consumed

And finally we find ourselves slowly coming to a stop outside a brightly lit window to visit our last, but certainly not least, bell swinging bard. The staccato tapping of a well-used keyboard greets us intermingled with the soft strains of soulful jazz. I would like everyone to say hello to Nadia from It’s Clever, But Is It Art? I believe she is a newcomer to our festivities and a very talented one. I chose this poem to close because it is exquisitely beautiful, and the title is one of the main reasons I like to enter Cybernia, Escape:

At night on the fairground

hanging upside down from

the monkey bars, clothes

falling from me, you

would kiss me in secret places,

Well that’s it, I hope this little virtual tour of one of my favorite places helped you escape, even if only for a little while. I can’t believe how many people responded and I thank you all. Next week we are fortunate to have Erin of Poetic Acceptance hosting so head over to her site and see what’s up. I’m off to an all day gig and probably won’t be back in Cybernia again until tomorrow. If anyone has any problems just let me know and I will address them asap. Now get reading these great poets!!