Lore

Any local knows
the growing darkness brings
the coming of the crows,

they swirl like ebon snows
while raucous cawing rings;
any local knows

when creeping coldness slows
the blood, they’ll hear those wings.
The coming of the crows

and their gloomy innuendoes
is just one of those things
any local knows,

as certain as the wind that blows
with biting force that stings,
the coming of the crows

means months of frozen woes
till brilliant flora springs.
Any local knows
the coming of the crows.

Hopeless?

That tattered cape
you try to drape
about your slumping frame
just doesn’t fit
so you should quit
and save yourself some shame
this world in need
will never cede
the role of hero born—
they can’t applaud
for someone flawed
by weakness to their scorn.

Subjugated

The sun was burning hot and bright
the moon was lurking, ghostly white
but as the daylight slowly waned
the silver luster that it gained
made it bold with borrowed might,
a phase that couldn’t be sustained.

When regal robes of star-flecked night
are draped around the gods in flight
whose bodies have forever reigned
we try to seek the clues contained
but seldom get the angle right,
our confidence completely feigned.

Across a quickly clouding sky
the ebony marauders fly
and if one finds a juicy scrap
there’s bound to be a raucous flap
despite how hard we all may try
to flee this convoluted trap.

Callous

Apparently your thickened skin
prevents your heart from feeling
the waves of unabashed chagrin
your hurtful words are dealing.

Secret Woods

Will there always be forests to roam
for little ones far from their home,
a place where the whispering trees
invite them to rest on the loam

or just do whatever they please
away from parental decrees
that choke the inquisitive sort
with ‘Do As I Say’ disease,

that rotten, self-righteous retort
concluded by ‘OK Sport?’
To heck with that stuff man,
they’ll build an impregnable fort

who needs a stupid plan?
They’ll just do the best they can,
content to keep their secrets deep
in every wooded span.

Unstrung

I cut the strings so long ago
they never had a chance
to script my role within their show
or make me crudely dance

and now I’m sulking in the wings
extraneous at best
who knew you had to have those strings
to be among the blest

I know their truth is just illusion
manufacturing confusion
so no one sees the glaring lack of joy

a product of the pedagogy
that makes true volition foggy
when will I become a real boy?

We Are Stardust

Venus was so scintillating
her radiance beyond debating
I cursed my craven hesitating
and cried aloud, “My Love!”

At once She started coruscating
with brilliance that was captivating
my pulse acutely palpitating
just like a startled dove,

abruptly I was levitating
my earthly cares evaporating
and soon I was cohabitating
with my brethren up above.

Review

Hello all,

I have been taking a few days off as I am feeling a little negative lately and don’t want to write with all that angst in my blood. Work is better in so many ways due to a team effort, but only certain people have seen any reward (I guess they’re the only ones with bills to pay). I realized a long time ago that I’m not enough of a sycophant or a liar to get a decent salary in this or any company, and I have no degree either so, are you starting to sense the frustration?

But then I received some great news that I was in the final eight for a John Lennon Poetry Contest sponsored by The Beatles Story, and I was ecstatic to a degree. I haven’t sent anything out in a while because I was picked second in the Poetic Genius Society’s last contest, then I got a bunch of rejections in a row with letters saying “You were on the short list.” This just said to me that my stuff was good, but not good enough. So I take a chance and send my poem in and what do you think happened? Yes, I came in second, and to top it all off they misspelled my name as Haselton on the web site.

Sooooo anyways, I received an email last week from a Luke Armstrong that is generous enough to follow my blog, and he asked me to check out his book and give it a review if I wished to. Normally I shy away from such endeavors because I feel it will expose how truly ignorant I am, but since my writing is only serving to irritate me at the moment, I figured I’d give it a shot. Luke is currently in Guatemala and in his own words—

I live and work in Antigua, Guatemala. Here I am the director of an educational development organization called Nuestros Ahijados. Through schools, clinics, sustainable micro-financing programs, social work, anti-human trafficking efforts, and other programs; we work to "break the chains of poverty through education and formation" for our 12,000 dependents.

As a writer my poetry, fiction and non-fiction has been published in scores of magazines including, Outside, Perspective Travel, Foliate Oak, Long Story Short, The Sheltered Poet, Intrepid Travel, and CNN Traveler, among others. My just finished novel, How One Guitar Will Save The World, will soon be looking for an agent. I am a contributing editor for TheExpeditioner.com. This fall our book, The Expeditioner's Guide to the World will be released. My first book of poetry iPoems for the Dolphins to Click Home About, was published March of this year.

Well Luke, all I can say is that I loved your book and would have bought one had you not been kind enough to send me a copy. Luke’s style is very edgy and irreverent at times, which I really enjoy, and his use of words is spectacular. He uses many poetic tools adeptly, and really has a great sense of humor. The name of the book is iPoems for the Dolphins to Click Home About, and you can buy it at Amazon right now.

I would like to close by thanking everyone and anyone (except spammers) that has left a comment here over the 5 years I’ve been blogging, hopefully I’ll have something in print soon.

Remedy

I’ve pondered the arrangement
that led to our estrangement
and realize it’s mostly my own fault

an addict is an addict
and they’ll always choose their habit
over any type of meaningful gestalt;

without a solid answer
regret can be a cancer
that eats away our willingness to live

but constant flagellation
can’t change the situation
it’s much more therapeutic to forgive.

Flipped

We take our lumps without a yelp
until the day we go berserk
and start new lives – like that’ll help –
we couldn’t make the first ones work.

Someday

Someday
what I say
will seem okay
in some strange way

until then
I’ll just pen
about my yen
and wonder when.