Medley

Amidst cacophonous confusion
harmonies in sweet profusion
issue from a madly whirring
mechanism made for stirring
giddy bouts of screaming laughter
to echo through each lighted rafter.

Something in the way she moves me
elevates my mood and proves we
sometimes have a credo worth abiding;
future fun depends on whether
people really come together
to use the stub we all possess for riding.

Back Off

Antipathy accentuates
Negativity,
Derogation demonstrates
Superiority,
Ostentation obfuscates
Whimsicality,
Hastiness humiliates
Authenticity,
Toleration terminates!

Tentative

How would life be without want
what would we grasp without need
would we have to devise a new font
to exclude connotations of greed?

How would time pass without pain
what would we bide without grief
would we shed all the doubts that profane
a much healthier brand of belief?

How can love grow without trust
what could we learn without faith
would we silently turn back to dust
our existence no more than a wraith?

Big Spenders

A bugle wails, a frantic mother cries
remembering a youngster filled with charms
as war birds reassert the call to arms,
recalling one whose eye was on the prize.
Oppressive notes fall darkly on the grass,
an honor guard routinely folds a flag—
the trophy youth are dying just to bag?
That melancholy horn’s not all that’s brass.
Another slab of marble stands supplied
perhaps this represents the vaunted goal
to go before your time and fill a hole
while shots ring out just like the day you died.
It’s funny, those commending sacrifice
are never too concerned about the price.

Ringing X

Yes it's happened again, same Bard time, different Bard channel. Tune in to Paper Tigers where Oz gives us a poetically inspired Ringing that is simply awesome. Thanks Oz for your time and most excellent efforts!

Slick

He slipped right in
negating friction
began his spin
with down home diction,
ignored the press
slid right on by
then made a mess
to gratify
all those that hose
the multitude
despite who knows,
now that is crude.

Immortalized

“Look at the runt.” those other gods joked
as they jockey to bask in the blaze;
I haunt heaven’s figure, my status revoked
but I’ll spin beyond all of their days.

Silent Type

**And so the saga continues. Once more I sit before this sterile scribe to peck away some meaningless verbosity I am loath to utter that will lie digitally dormant until such time as I upload it to the net, releasing it into the data stream like some vat-spawned endangered species I’m trying to resuscitate.
**I’m not really sure why, but I remember when my urge to communicate was turned inward. I had always been a gregarious child with a knack for getting people to smile. All through elementary school up to my pre-teens I was usually the narrator in school plays, or the lead voice in chorus. I relished the connection with other people when performing; that look in the eye which said they were totally moved by whatever medium I was pouring my heart into. Well that is until a character called puberty entered the picture accompanied by his brutish mate the bully.
**I discovered one of the biggest problems outgoing people can face: that eventually they will encounter other people that don’t like them, and sometimes these people can be violent. One of my worst tormentors was named Rick (which of course rhymes with what he really was) and through his painful intervention my inevitable withdrawal from the world began. He was maybe 4 or 5 years older than me, twice as big, and a whole lot meaner. I still to this day don’t know what I did to deserve his wrath other than exist but he definitely had it out for me. His favorite move was to park his much heftier frame on top of mine, pin my arms to the ground with his knees, and then torture me until I cried or some bleary-eyed teacher snapped out of their apathetic trance long enough to stop it. Back then you were expected to stand up for yourself but all I had were words, and all they did was get me beat harder! I refused to continually lay there and humble myself to this mindless savage, so I began to berate him with all the venom a desperate young lad possessing a robust vocabulary could muster. I questioned his lineage, sexuality, and any other trait imaginable until he would storm away in a rage because I refused to cry anymore.
**Well as you can imagine, I began to feel the need to be unobtrusive. If people don’t notice you, then they can’t pick on you. Suddenly being alone wasn’t so bad, I could do whatever I wanted, and never had to worry about unnecessary complications. I began to read in earnest, escaping my world of burgeoning uncertainty through the wondrous words of others. This is also when I first began to write for even though we may shun the physical contact rudimentary to meaningful communication, we still feel the need to voice that which roils from within, to share our own private impressions.
**Of course I was still relatively affable having been raised to respect everyone I encounter, but it was just the proverbial mask, a polite façade employed to keep the potential pain away.
**One evening our little community was gathered at the Town Hall for some function; I believe it was something with Boy Scouts (which I was a thrifty member of) and everybody that was anybody was present, including two of the most beautiful girls in my class. Well when it was suggested that an emcee should be appointed who do you think everyone turned to? Yup, you got it, good old me. Here in this room were teachers, local government officials, successful business owners; all people that were used to dealing with the public but no, they pick the skinny, self-conscious, borderline introvert me.
**I can’t begin to describe to you that feeling of wanting to shrivel up into a little ball that I felt at that moment. My face was flushed and my tongue actually got thicker, it was the strangest sensation, I suddenly couldn’t talk. And the more people egged me on the worse I felt; I kept casting quick glances at the two girls from my class and they were laughing, talk about devastating. I remember looking at my parents with a pleading expression that said don’t make me do this, but they like everyone else expected it of me because I had a talent for it and had always willingly done it in the past. This was without a doubt the turning point in my relationship with the rest of society. I learned that if you’re popular you don’t have as many options because you are bound by other people’s expectations and this cemented my decision to recede.
**Now thirty years later I still maintain a stout barrier between myself and the world, but I’ve come to understand the need for some kind of bridge to keep me in touch with the rest of humanity. I can count the number of friends I have on one hand, though I suppose that could be said of my enemies as well – I am a non-factor, a neutral bystander. I still write and have even started performing in a band again, and I find it endlessly amusing when someone says, “I can’t believe the voice that comes out of such an otherwise quiet person!” I guess three decades of relative silence got me primed.
**My most heartfelt exchanges though are those involving words. When you practice a lifestyle of humble reticence, there must be a release valve to expunge all the thoughts and expostulations an active mind is bound to explore. Sometimes I feel I have something unique to offer, but reveling in the intricacies of sound, rhythm, and meaning doesn’t always translate into communication. Regardless of how cleverly certain words can be arranged together, the ultimate question is – are they saying anything? But still I sit here day after day tapping away at my dusty keyboard, comforted by the sound, the only conveyance these pointless runes will probably ever make.

Heads or Tails?

Looking back I see it now
the day undone by change,
as recognition curves my brow
I’m staggered by the range
of truly foul proclivities
exhibited by men
when tender possibilities
present their wanton yen—
the dividend of greed and lust
has placed me at the brink,
bereft of even token trust
I lean before I think...

Carbon Copy

Churning, burning
smugly spurning
mother’s warnings
never learning.

Chewing, brewing
snidely spewing
deadly doses
past undoing.

Chilling, billing
slyly spilling
milky malice
quickly killing.

Pet Project

Your doomed endeavor lingers like the foul
ungodly stench of rotting flesh, like game
some vulgar beast set out to merely maim
in order to enjoy it’s dying howl.
You calmly stalk the unsuspecting sheep
to find a juicy morsel worth your time,
a sturdy buck made meaner by the clime
that often lulls those weaker off to sleep;
for only through their valiant dying heave
can creatures so beguiled by wanton greed
acquire the control on which they feed
and justify the doctrine they believe—
a flock exists to pacify the strong
when raised to stomach being led along.

*sighs*

Enlightened by an august sky
a subtle movement calls my eye
I slyly glance then chance to spy
a dime-sized orange butterfly;

to me, a man considered tall
it seems so very frail and small
but here beneath horizon’s thrall
we’re both infinitesimal.

Number Nine is Divine

Well this week's Ringing of The Bards, hosted by Katy is truly a delight as it was inspired by art which is something near and dear to my heart. All the poems are linked to wonderful images created by Miss Sam Duffy, go over and check it out. Thank you Katy and Miss Duffy!!

Thought That Counts

Coherency of mind creates
acuity that soon abates
complacency and activates
affinity, which captivates.

Study

In vaulted hallways sparsely lit
as footsteps ring on marble floor
the heartbeat tends to race a bit
twixt chambers housing ancient lore
excited by the musty spoor.

With alabaster elegance
her haunting gaze serene, opaque
she causes breathless reverence
in those who feel the sculptor’s ache,
a thirst no wine could ever slake.

Upon a dais, deified
this regal form reflects the care
a master used to look inside
ere chisel chanced to neatly pare,
revealing lines beyond compare.

As murmurs scurry through the crowd
like hungry mice that smell a crumb
so many state they’re truly wowed
while others stare, completely dumb
their flagging tongues becoming numb.

Another room displays a frame
through which we see an artist’s view
where gaudy strokes of great acclaim
make critics reassess each hue,
turn canvas into taut sinew.

Adjoining wings await their chance
to marvel more discerning eyes
that congregate to catch a glance
of wondrous whims the deft devise
when goaded by the Sister’s sighs.

While wandering these sacred vaults
belief is colored existential,
to spawn such grace with all our faults
belies a purpose quite essential—
to utilize our full potential.