Maintaining

It seems like I’m always a little behind
but that’s okay, I really don’t mind
for I know if things were going too well
they’d be on the verge of going to hell.

Futility³

I watch them departing the corner store
exuding the weakness I so abhor,
their sovereign spirit that blearily tore
apart the hearth impatient to pour;

what proof exists that will appease
these catastrophic tendencies
to disregard corporeal pleas
for jaundiced, gaunt indignities?

Distracted by the gentle clink
of rocks that help define the brink,
a ruddy face and carefree wink
is all you see before they sink.

Tools

Productive machines are dynamic
and need motivation to thrive
but just like the finest ceramic
they must be refined to survive
although an accomplished mechanic
can often finagle the drive—
to avoid a big clench
be discreet with your wrench.

Verily

Effort extended
need not be defended
provided the purpose is never pretended,
as forced affectations
can roast reputations
so try to stay true through the trite tribulations.

Mouthfuls

I watch them come and go from my food preparing station
stopping in to fight the pangs of overnight starvation,
they smack their lips and rave about the flavorful sensation
but the sustenance they savor is the spicy conversation.

Rootless

I’ve ripened in the rough for quite some time,
beside an orchard where the scent of lush
fertility belies the sudden rush
of woeful winter’s unrelenting rime,
which soon will steal the succor of the dew.
Amidst these blades I sometimes catch a peek
of distant canopies and wonder how
I ended up here, overcome by cow
manure pies encrusted with flies that reek
so strongly, often I can’t even see.
I think about the branch I never knew
is it the one from which my tartness grew?
There is no broader breadth (it seems to me)
than that between the apple and the tree.

Mega-Mart Must Die!

Surrounded by the artifice of printed polyester
I pause before an obelisk that spurs the spoiled spender
to sacrifice security and skinflint aspirations
for fabricated finery produced by starving nations.

Spring Ahead

The piney scent of distant youth
a wind that murmurs ancient truth,
expanding buds can’t wait to bloom—
emboldened bane of winter gloom
or future tributes for a tomb?

Briar's Patch - The Conclusion

Hello! I posted back in November what is to date the longest rhyming poem I have ever written and promised an ending too. Now four months later I finally have something to post and I hope it was worth the wait.


A perfect sun began another less than stellar day
but momentarily managed to eliminate the gray,
amidst a cloud of thistledown a silent figure stood
remembering his moment as the champion for good
when harried elves triumphantly extolled his fearsome strength
then eulogized their ancient texts which prophesied at length
about a human warrior who’d deal the fatal blow
to save their humble habitat and everything they know.
Engrossed in thought the troubled man was blind to all around
except for that one darkened spot reserved as hallowed ground
when suddenly a voice said, "Don’t succumb to your regret,
we knew the outcome ere the time that you and Briar met."
"But why did you neglect to tell me? Somehow we could have planned..."
"You know that knowledge would have stayed your less than steady hand,
besides your mind was on the edge, we feared that you may snap
thus ruining our one small chance to spring the fatal trap."
This prompted Jim to spin around, his features skewed by pain
"Tell that to your friend!" he screamed while pointing at the stain.
For moments, only silence met his unrelenting glare
then Bramble (Briar’s cousin) spoke, selecting words with care
"We never wished to cause you any unresolved distress
you must remember — Briar chose the path of selflessness,
he knew that in the greater scheme his life meant next to naught
and this is why he sought you out, then bravely stood and fought."
Once more the only sound was when the gentle wind blew by
as long restrained frustration leaked from Jim’s determined eye
which never left poor Bramble’s face until he said at last
"We humbly ask forgiveness for transgressions of the past."
These simple words expressed undid the stifling chains of rage
which held Jim’s heart a prisoner within a shrinking cage;
he stared at Bramble sheepishly, observing his attire
and noticed something weird so he said, "May I please inquire
why you have that crimson spot upon your tunic sleeve?"
Without a pause Bramble said, "Of course, it’s how we grieve,
commemorating the glory of our comrade’s final fight
by wearing badges colored like the blood he shed that night,
and now if you’ll excuse me Jim, I must get back to our cave,
stay well, we’ll always be here for you and lastly — behave!"
Jim watched his little figure disappear into the brush
then waited till the forest slowly settled to a hush,
he stayed there for a long time thinking hard on what was said
then sauntered home to find a piece of fabric that was red.

Keystone

I tried to pick
the proper brick
and stop a messy tumble,
but all I did
was run then skid
into a writhing jumble.

Ceremony

As stanchions storm a snowy hill
their steely limbs are stiff, but still
display a certain kind of stoic grace.
Conducting their dramatic drill
in radiance that seems to spill
from Venus’ alluring star struck face
just reinforces something we all know—
for passion there’s no peace we won’t forego.

Bearing Paul

I’ve known him for eternity it seems
but never truly came to know the man
we all avoided like the plague; we ran
in fact to try and dodge his endless streams
of rambling, over romanticized crap.
He always managed to corner us though,
his failing ears oblivious of low
ungracious snickers I hid with my cap,
to talk about the Great Depression or
the ‘Big One’, bleary eyes so far away.
My Mother, smiling wide, would save the day
by saying, "Dad, quit being such a bore!"
The burden of my shame invoked despair
is much more than the casket I now bear.

Truce

Confounded by the prideful scam
sometimes I wonder if I am
and then the days of cold disdain
where I really just don’t give a damn,

and on those days I can’t abstain
from voicing (though I vent in vain)
this emptiness inside of me—
a growing void I can’t explain.

Is substance only what we see
or is there more we need to be?
Such heady thoughts are well above
this vessel of simplicity

that seeks an olive bearing dove
to grant the peace they whisper of
so I can finally come to terms
with this world I long to love.

Iamb What Iamb

Foot by foot I fight the fight
designing droning dynamite
to plant upon the pixel-scape
and nudge the hairs on someone’s nape
but solemn silence signifies
didactic drivel I devise
will peter out in patterned time
robotic duds of rusty rhyme.

Pieces of Eight

Hello true believers, how goes the fight? I recently found this little blurb on another site I visit frequently and found myself inspired to pen a little verse (imagine that). I would be very interested to read some other takes on this and invite anyone so inclined to pen something of their own and post it to their blog or here in comments or even Email it to me and I will link back or post it here accordingly. Take care :^D

from Nietzsche's Human, All Too Human:

"Joy in age. The thinker or artist whose better self has fled into his works feels an almost malicious joy when he sees his body and spirit slowly broken into and destroyed by time; it is as if he were in a corner, watching a thief at work on his safe, all the while knowing that it is empty and that all his treasures have been rescued."


Within this chest I know I’ve stored
some sundry bits of detritus
but every now and then my hoard
divulges gems of veritas
and each time I dig deeper yet
aware that someday very soon
I’ll pay off my remaining debt
with one last shiny bright doubloon.


From Shirley over at Housemouse:

There’s a place I go, within myself
When I am all alone
And there I find a treasure shelf
Of things I call my own
Gems that go unheard, unseen
Unless I make them known.

And when my being fails to be
This cache of words will speak of me.

Thanks Shirley, very nice!! 8^D