Appeal

Another round of failure
complete with facile fluff,
“Your stuff is really good
but not quite good enough.”

How many times must one be told
their pen is too mundane
before they shun that lone release
conviction can’t maintain.

Pew

The right denomination
can garner salvation
so flock to get fleeced
by this shrewd corporation—
forgive the mild sulfurous stench
they’ll never bench despite the clench.

Renaissance

I long to see the hyacinth anon
imparting salutations breezily
and breathe the sweet cologne that wafts upon
invigorating gusts that easily
dispel the winter doldrums dragging on,
accumulating drifts inside of me.
I pull my collar up to warm my chin
in lieu of golden kisses on my skin.

As angles change, the chance to see protracts
but only if a pupil seeks the truth,
hallucinations often pose as facts
when altered by the heady state of youth
and even sully patronizing pacts
of those a little longer in the tooth
that hide behind their overweening grin
denial of the emptiness within.

We all require temperate climes to bloom
and solid clay to hold us tenderly
when certain days of unexpected gloom
precipitate their misty misery,
and if tomorrow brings my final doom
I’ll face the end with much felicity
unburdened by my mitigated sin,
as haunting hints of hyacinth begin.

Name Game

The hitch to being frank
and salvaging a nick
you forfeit every hank
to become a plain old dick.

Tasty

Who knew a flaky little tart
could be so damn acerbic
to shrivel an absorbent heart
with venom—

but reservations soon depart
when teased by fruits endemic
as she practices her deadly art
in denim.

Partitioned

Retaining isn’t all they do
they stand for more than that
obstructing an improper view
or keeping out the cat;

at times they lend complete support
sometimes they’re just for show
defining a defenseless sort
with nowhere else to go—

so cry behind, or sit astride
or lean against these things
like rats that scurry on inside
the structure building brings.

Stinker

At the peak
of a week
without bathing
the reek
will be scathing

so

frequently scrub
in the tub
or they’ll name you
a grub
and defame you.

Brood

At last, a clan to call my own
a root to spur the seedling sown
when offspring of the average dust
surrendered to their primal lust
before the temple, cold as stone
could crumble, as it surely must.

Yon titan with a voice of silk
has helped identify my ilk,
Moneta emphasized the line
whose balm, at times, can be divine
while opposites serve curdled milk
more bitter than fermented whine.

This fever can become quite rash
and left unchecked, abruptly brash
to aggravate the thinnest skin
with shameless shares of sheer chagrin
that issue from a massive stash
unequal to the total sin.

Despite the tribal urge to dance
to celebrate my circumstance,
beneath this aerie I will lie
a mote beside a mountain high
entranced until I catch a glance
of blazing raiment streaking by.


***This may help decipher the above***

Help

It’s no surprise
what’s on the rise
to flee the lies
they choose demise

with pills or knives
or messy dives
self-pity thrives
on taking lives;

perhaps despair
would never flare
with someone there
to show they care—

if signals shine
that chill your spine
don’t say “You’re fine!”
proffer a line.

Tenebrous

I see the ray, but not the shine
I feel the heat, but not the warmth,
forever balanced on the line
between redemption and remorse.

I long for peace, but earn disdain
I look for light, but fail the task—
resigned to this obscure domain
until the day that I can bask.

Done

Bellies distended
appetites ended
spirit awoken
bondage broken
compliments tendered
substance is rendered.

Clime

My footing failed on icy tracks that coated the cement
I had to put some effort into every increment
expending energy that heretofore had no intent
and now I’m feeling less inclined to be inclement.

Lightness

Momentum stalled
a beacon called
to guide me through the shallow sea
of tears I cry for poor old me,
a silly stream
but now I beam.

Quill of Impotence

Pondering the human plight, this curse that is existence,
I’m painfully aware my meager words mean naught,
yet still wishing they could somehow make a difference
maybe even lend someone a warm and happy thought.

Liquid desire streams, scribbling impotent hieroglyphics;
remember as you read this jaunt, the answer lies within.
Forgive me, for I do not mean to be pontific
but much can be accomplished with hard work and discipline.

Alas these words are just so trite, I flounder in frustration—
I’ll never pen the perfect phrase or write the sweetest prose,
instinctively recording my descent into damnation,
dipping in the inkwell as my lifeblood slowly flows.

Regurgitation

Hello, how is everyone? Hope all is well. Me, I'm extremely tired and in place of my (almost) daily dose of rhyme that I dish out, I offer a blue plate special of plenteous prose spiced up with some chunks of recent history hurled (bad choice of words?) in.

For those that may not know, on top of my usual dreary hourly job which sucks the life right out of me on a daily basis, I also operate a small diner on the side plus play in a band at night. Needless to say it has been a challenge, but I knew it would be when it all started and I'm not complaining.

But on certain days I get cranky, particularly when I realize I have not had a day off in over a month. My head hurts and my eyes get blurry, making it difficult to engage in any type of creative endeavor, let alone even look at a computer. Hence my sporadic spurts of posting/commenting.

The hospitality business is often a thankless one, though I have encountered a lot of good eggs along with the few inevitable bad ones. From my observations, most people just need to be around other people communicating, great food is a bonus.

Which brings me to the heart of my impromptu (love that word) ramble, for you see, one thing we are 'famous' for, and which requires tremendous work to keep prepped, is our home fries, made only from fresh potatoes that must be boiled and peeled continuously. The other day while paring some spuds I came upon a perfectly heart-shaped potato. Not an anatomically correct one, but one shaped like those ubiquitous red blobs that Cupid takes aim at this time every year. Of course my pre-programmed response was, "How sweet, perhaps I should save it to show my wife." Then I remembered my last chance to rest, which was New Years Day btw, and I couldn't wait to slice into that little sucker, cut it into bite-size pieces, fry it up and eat it!

Thank you, please come again.

Virtuosity

I frequently fret
as fingers forget
the key to compelling expression
but sometimes the scales
tear off weighty wails
which prompts me to voice this confession,
for on those rare nights
that deftness ignites
my chops with harmonic persuasion
I know it’s a gift
from across the great rift,
a melodically mystic occasion.

Dandy Lion

Well apparently I have been tagged by 3 different people with this award ( Billy, Shirley, Dan) and I am surprised to say the least. Usually it feels like my meager mewlings are being issued by this guy:

But in the spirit in which it was given, I humbly accept and shall now list my obligatory three things that make writing good and powerful before listing my five recipients.

The three things I feel make good writing are:

1. Avoidance of cliches

2. Crisp unique images

3. Loading each line with ore

and now (drum roll please) I pass the feline ferocity on to these whose blogs have been a constant source of entertainment and inspiration:

1. Ozymandiaz at Ocellus

2. Soulless at Unguarded Utterance

3. Russell at Yuckelbel's Canon

4. Dr. Ng at Always More Beyond

5. Brian at Brief Poems