Figurehead

Everywhere are shades of gray
forgotten in our haste to say
that someone else is black or white
regardless what is wrong or right—
the polls of straw begat their son
when mindless masses chose the one
dogmatic demons deftly groomed
and now the truth is truly doomed.

Reel

If only trailers constituted life
the most important moments flashing by
without those empty spaces that supply
a place to store inconsequential strife;
imagine (if you can) that throaty voice
embellishing each action packed event
with clever little innuendos meant
to help you always make the proper choice
so sentimental scenes will never drag
beyond the point that no one really cares
or make you see how many empty chairs
resulted when the plot began to lag—
and at the end, what kind of teaser lurks,
perhaps another sequel in the works?

Grace

They were strangely reserved
as I speedily swerved
and narrowly missed their buffet,
three gulls keen to taste
a wad of McWaste
have much to give thanks for today.

Despot

The moon is snugly nestled
in the nimbus of the night
refusing to be wrestled
from it’s dreams by pesky light

that pokes and prods insistently
with such transparent aims—
to rule the sky, if fleetingly
with fierce unyielding flames.

Breakdown

Every drip is just a drop that drizzles drearily
outside my window where I watch the world so wearily—

*plink*

a puddle’s penetrated
perfect circles generated

*splash*

a lonely man frustrated
remembers days less inundated—

the gutter gulps down gallons and the wind begins to gust
as iron tenets slowly turn to silent ocher dust.

Angel

When traveling each day to class
the bus went by a little church
and every kid, except one lass
ignored the weathered concrete perch

where someone much less fortunate
would stop to pray for needed aid,
she knew that he was indigent
so secretly, her plan was made.

Her birthday came but she eschewed
a trip to splurge within the mall,
instead she bought a bag of food
and gave the greatest gift of all.


***Story***

Caws and Effect

Some messengers of malice make their way across the field
determined to descend upon a town whose fate is sealed
I quickly scurry cross the lot employing hands to shield
myself from all the ordnance these brutal bombers wield.

Stability

The problem is balance—
which way do you lean?
We all tend to teeter
suspended between
the two fixed positions
we need to traverse
avoid looking down
it can always be worse.

Corona

Although it seems too early
the winter sun will set
no point in being surly
or fostering regret

as Jupiter and Venus dance
across a twilit sky
some haughty ravens gaze askance
at he who cannot fly

despite the best alignment
we often find ourselves
repressed by a confinement
where sunlight never delves

but every body interacts
with every other thing
though beady eyes ignore the facts
and savagely take wing

beside the green container
where refuse lured the flock
examining who’s saner
will make one gauge their stock

while improvised confluence turns
this knave into a knight
a blinding burst of starlight burns
with unabashed delight.

Obscurum per Obscurious

The words they left were vital
to help inspire me
a spineless sort whose title
is now obscurity.


***Hello. Can you believe that 3 years ago today I started this blog? I was home healing from gall bladder surgery and decided to continue my online offerings with the next logical step - self publishing. It's been interesting and I thank all who have left comments over the years. The first poem I posted was inspired by an annual garage sale I went to. It's sponsored by a local church and always has a great book selection which yielded that year the complete works of (are you ready?) Keats, Byron, and Milton all for a whopping $1.50. Well at any rate, this year I went and found a pair of old books by Thomas S. Jones Jr., a poet I had never heard of, one book even says it's only one of 600 printed! Well in honor of my three year anniversary, and to expose Mr. Jones' poetry to a global audience, I present to you a poem from his book Sonnets and Quatrains printed in 1928. I chose this poem because it is beautiful and it also was the day my Mom's service took place.

All Soul's Night

On a hill, an empty nest that swings
From a bare tree bathed in tranquil light
Of a slow-rising moon; in lazy flight
A flock of crows drift by on ragged wings;
A fitful breeze from the far valley brings
A blend of sounds that die into the night—
Hoofs on the highway and the echoing fright
Of a sheep-dog, the stir of startled things.

On quiet slopes that to the river spread,
Where scattered leaves a shroud of scarlet fling,
Row upon row of silent gray, stones gleam
That mark the resting places of the dead;
Dead!—lo, they share the joys of deathless Spring,
Theirs the reality, and yours the dream.


But at least Mr. Jones came up in a search, my next obscure poet has the distinction of being the oldest published author in my collection, at least in the age of the book. This book was printed in 1868 and contains verse by one S. Stockton Hornor, enjoy:


The Dying Prayer

I always wished to die at sunset

May I behold, by light of day,
The fields below, the skies above;
As life's dim shadows fade away,
Let me gaze on the face I love!

And may I hear that voice once more,
before my heart's last throb shall cease;
That gentle footstep on the floor,
With echo softly whispering peace!

Oh let me see the sun go down,
Then calmly sink ere it shall rise;
And may I gain that priceless crown,
The angels wear in Paradise!

Seesaw

As jaded ravens jabber raucous jeers
from barren autumn branches amply bent
a lonely figure lumbers feeling lost
for callow trinkets couldn’t tame the cost
of vicious hatred’s vengeful heated vent
that plainly wounded pity wielding peers.
The dimness slowly dwindles, sending dawn
to open up the options users opt
for, quelling nervous questions’ nagging. Quit
the grumpy kicking, grow some kind of grit—
your mama isn’t missing if she mopped,
but younger efforts yielded errors (yawn).
To zero out the zenith of your zeal
will undermine the solid with unreal.

Sympathetic

Love is bound to multiply
when you freely give
and life will never pass you by
if you learn to live,

faith can often be reborn
with strength enough to cling
in pensive hours of the morn
when Nature starts to sing,

and hope routinely catches one
completely unaware
like when the folks we coyly shun
show how our kind can care.


***I wanted to take a moment to apologize for all the gloominess lately, I'm just having a hard time this week and this helps to get it out of my system. I would like to thank all the people that have taken the time to send beautiful cards with beautiful words in them. I cherish these more than mere words can explain because it is helping me get through the darkness. You are all in my thoughts and prayers.***

Prognosis

When someone’s ears are burned away
What do you say?

And if their skin is horribly singed
Is it wrong to have cringed?

For bandaged eyes too scorched to see
How brave need you be?

When at last they are freed from this sod
Will they walk with God?

Worn

The block that laid between us
was a chunk of granite hewn
from the quarry where the detritus
of broken dreams were strewn,

a dismal place of mourning
too extensive to contain
that spawned a jagged mountain
with regret in every vein.

I told myself I’d tried enough
erosion though revealed my bluff.

Maneuvers

What benefit is there to doubt
except to live without
though sadly that just isn’t so
for lies are all we humans know,
but still we strive to act devout
delivering a worthy show.

The emptiness we can’t deny
despite our bravest try
becomes consuming if allowed
and often we are too damn proud
to realize we must rely
on help from those we’ve disavowed.

An armistice must be maintained,
agreeably restrained
developing our friends with care
avoiding those that fuel despair
so trust can be sustained
throughout the whole affair.

Long Nights

November lingers listlessly
like frost upon the grass
a never ending mass
regret that will not pass—

December holds no mystery
just frigid, barren days
devoid of healing rays
till solstice sun allays.

Playground

What a race
was fiercely run
they set the pace
then really spun
but screw the grace
or work to be done
see Nancy’s face
it’s about who won.

Faith

Questions I can’t quell
continue to confuse
and doubts that won’t dispel
are sapping my sinews

asking for an assist
isn’t rallying relief
but I instinctively insist
on buoying belief.

Very Shady

The soldier battled viciously
conditioned to attack
but failed to expeditiously
get into the black;

the speaker vowed to spread the cash
like Jesus sharing loaves
and then a most resounding crash
sent them out in droves.

Is Lincoln proud of what we have
would Jefferson abhor
the fact that Pennsylvania Ave.
ain’t so white no more?

Legacy

With auburn tresses, skin that fairly glowed
and sturdy heart that overflowed with good,
she nurtured us the only way she could
while hazarding her own uneven road,
a private path that had more dips than hills
yet always seemed to somehow level out
for faith was much more powerful than doubt
when harbored by her feistiest of wills,
whose spirit brightly sparkled when she spoke.
But tragically, the journey took its toll
and every dream she had of being whole
ascended in a final puff of smoke.
At last, she’s free from all the painful fuss
and hopefully her best lives on through us.

In Loving Memory of Katharyn Ann Hazelton 1944-2008

My Mother passed away tragically in a house fire earlier this week. The poem above was read by my Sister today at the service. We found this photo with her stuff and I think it is so beautiful...

We also found this little gem from my parents wedding day (they're split now) but I was blown away by this tender shot

I don't usually do any type of PSA but I urge anyone who reads this to pick up the phone and call that relative or friend you haven't talk to in a while, or drop them a line. Time is so short and you never know what may happen. I'm taking a few days off for a head break but I ask that anyone so inclined to say a little prayer for my Mom to finally have peace. Thanks, and I would also like to thank my friend Shirley for inspiring the end of this poem.