Get Up & Go

My mind is seeking avenues by which it can skirt
the gridlock that renders momentum inert;
a nice quiet highway where I can just roll
avoiding the smog and an outrageous toll.

Trickle

As madrigals reverberate
the beat begins to quicken,
a highly flushed and fevered state
enlivens those thus stricken;

the endless cycle starts anew—
an ocean from a drop of dew.

No Class

It’s sadly true we’re judged upon
the color collar that we don,
or if a skin has gaudily stated
we stand among the educated;
if only all could see the same
that fortune, power, great acclaim
mean naught compared to how we treat
each fellow guest we chance to meet.

Love Text

Though it goes against my usual policy of letting a poem stand on its own, I feel I have to share with you the genesis of this little ditty. For poets, the growing popularity of ‘texting’ would seem to be a fertile ground to explore, but as with all things, there are limitations. Take for example this poem which was composed for my darling wife’s new cell phone to receive; it had to be abbreviated into chat lingo to be small enough to go through. Fortunately, I have a penchant for brevity, but even my usual succinct delivery was still too large, so here it is in all its shortened glory:

I luv u mor than words can say
I need u mor than u could know
I vow until my dying day
to hold u tite n not let go.

Perhaps the programmers/developers of this technology could be lobbied to increase the size of messages that can received, or we can just wait until capacity increases naturally, or better yet, the self-proclaimed poets can foster this new language by employing and embellishing it, after all that’s why I write, I love text. But just remember, until then – less is more!

Ollie Ollie Oxen Free

The vernal equinox went by and I,
quite anxious to enjoy the robin’s song,
instead encountered one that ere too long
encouraged graying doubt to cloud the sky.
A penetrating rime has chilled my bones
with icicles like daggers taking aim
at any understanding I could claim
to have of life; my sagging shelter groans
beneath the weight of blinding snows that swirl
in patterns previously unforeseen,
aroused by lively biting winds that mean
to change the scene with all the white they hurl.

Determined now to flee this lonely drift—
in debt to Frost for leaving such a gift.

Doing Time

What happens to a clock
when it no longer ticks,
does it quietly sit and pine?

Will it fret, and wring
it’s little hands,
or accept it’s fate, resigned?

Could the numbered face
form a frown
morose, and deeply lined?

If you ask me,
I think it would welcome the chance
to finally have free time.

Brook

The rapids rage, engorged it seems
with swirling songs of sylvan dreams,
each frothy chord cascading by
to sweep the sleep from waking eye.

Reclamation

And so, I feel I must atone
for all the times that I have shown
a penchant for the darker side,
those ugly spurts of youthful pride;
a lack of heart for those in pain
who hurt enough sans my disdain,
along with every grunt of mirth
at all who shame my lack of worth.
Behold this earnest supplication,
a humbly offered reparation:
respect and love shall flow unhindered
into the heartland of my kindred.

Wrapped Too Tight

This crown of thorns became a cap, which grew
as burdens do, into a hooded cape;
I watch my lifeblood pour from each sinew
that this infernal shroud has rent agape.
I cower in the cowl I cannot shed,
infused with dread, I hum a frantic hymn;
but still the anguish puddles deep and red
foreshadowing a future more than grim,
where everyday is just another scrape
without escape, enveloped in this shell;
a wretched raiment that shall ever drape
around one unrelenting private hell.

Within the folds I struggle to remain
as shadows help alleviate my pain.

Stand Up

Arrogant arrangements accent aggravation
belligerent belittlement begets banishment
expectation energizes every exclamation
formulating fantasies of fret-less fosterment.

Crasher

Words cavort and socialize
within my mind they mingle
I raptly sit and fantasize
a dream in which one single
brute comes in, then suddenly,
all the other prospects flee.

This crasher can be quite a drag
dampening festivities,
as cozy as a rocky crag
expressing dark proclivities;
a boorish lout that will not leave
tormenting me without reprieve.

When the party finally ends
each idea soon wanders away,
most of them will remain friends
except for one that ruined the day
sulking off to calmly await
another chance to rush the gate.

Waxing Poetic

I’ve got me this carnauba stuff
it seems ok, but I’m no buff;
a fluffy pad that’s nice to feel,
a haggard hulk of waiting steel
that gains a glint with every scrub,
inviting me to fiercely rub
with all the power I can muster,
yet every finish seems lackluster—
perhaps someday I’ll proudly beam
when I produce one brilliant gleam!

No Show

Self-indulgence only comforts those who cannot face
the fact that they were never even in the bloody race.

Mortal Wounds

Why is it that just when you lower your shield
you’re scarred by the lance that the malcontents wield?
Why does each endeavor we strive to design
end up being skewered by those with no chine?
If there’s no code of honor to which we adhere
then all good intentions shall die by the spear.

Contact

In order for an arc to flare
opposing points must somehow share
a common need to light the spark
whose aura helps assuage the dark.