Why do I make resolutions?
Will I ever change?
Every year a new solution,
yet I am still the same.
I inhale sweet pollution,
a different flavor every year —
but now with retribution
after ball-drop cheer.
My diet is a constitution,
guilty pleasures await.
My body, my institution —
I don’t care the date.
The ritual of absolution
of a commitment I must make
feels like personal destitution,
an action I’d rather fake.
Would you like my allocution?
Well, I have no remorse.
There is no attribution,
because I won’t stay the course.
Here’s a substitution —
my offering to midnight.
My only contribution
is nothing, out of spite.
Huddled poor the masses, did you say, not I.
Whirlpools hide the dragon and it's eye.
Needles would I thread upon one point.
Before the Gavel falls, I'd hear your allocution.
While one was never made, ambition grew.
Each priest before his god, one never stood.
Here a rose and there it's bud, yet beauty paused.
Lillie's look caused her to Donn a rustic mask.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
They came at dawn, no proof in hand,
Just whispers dressed as fact and brand.
A name, a nod, a hunch, a lie—
Enough to cage the passerby.
The cell was cold, the hours slow,
They said, confess, and you may go.
But truth’s no friend to those in chains,
It starves where silence still remains.
No witness stands, no weapon gleams,
Just shattered hope and broken dreams.
The judge—he sees, his eyes are gray,
He knows the truth but looks away.
Without allocution, guilt’s not sealed,
Yet justice bends, the verdict’s wheeled.
You sign the plea—your soul’s receipt,
A deal struck down where law retreats.
Freedom traded for a lie’s deceit.
A miraculously flat prison
A site of utter allocution
Bearing witness to decision
Beholding not of retribution
Conversations with it an act of utter futility
Covering does not instill a sense of humility
Dimensionally free
Damning still is thee
Efficacy is still eluding
Escapism found brooding
Finally, a simple pathway to contrition
Fracture this mirror, my final decision
Huddled poor the masses, did you say, not I.
Whirlpools hide the dragon and it's eye.
Needles would I thread upon one point.
Before the Gavel falls, I'd hear your allocution.
While one was never made, ambition grew.
Each priest before his god, one never stood.
Here a rose and there it's bud, yet beauty paused.
Lillie's look caused her to Donn a rustic mask.
James McLain Wednesday, October 28, 2009
We all hear about the habits of successful people,
My habits are not the same.
Successful people, whatever that means,
Their habits seem kind of tame.
I don’t read a lot, nor organize my year,
Nor ever get up bright and chirpy.
I enjoy writing my thoughts, living spontaneously,
Then waking up feeling blurry.
I dance in elevators, touch hot plates,
And practice arguments in my head.
And rather than minimizing distractions,
I live with color and music instead.
And when I’m on the phone I don’t sit
And pronounce with perfect allocution.
I walk the house laughing, joking and swearing-
It’s a trusted institution.
I would like to eat healthy, drink water, walk heaps,
And regularly go and press weights.
But I love my kebabs after a night at the pub,
Dancing, drinking and singing with mates.
Actually, the other day, I went for a run, through the rain,
In the car park, to my car.
It was a fun little run; I dodged bullets and missiles,
Pretending I was a big movie star.
Well, thinking about it, my habits are successful,
Other people’s just don’t match mine.
To me it’s about being happy, open and free, it was easy,
“Success” I would redefine.
It’s amazing how a simple glass of wine,
Can unleash a hidden thought or meaning
You’d think as much as I’ve consumed in life,
I would have a tome that’s gleaming
Full of wise, sagacious oratory
Of thoughts that help the mind
But maybe it’s all piffle, of the wrong kind
You see it’s a very simple thing,
If you’re a writer from the heart
It doesn’t matter how or if you cloud it,
It may someday become someone’s art
God has provided us one of many bounties, the grape
That sometimes helps unleash the sometimes hidden shape
Of some very blessed minds from the most blessed of us all
It may be a way to help reach our true selves, or sometimes break through a wall
So now that I’ve made this potentially absurd assertion
It’s time to prove the theory, with some not so perfect allocution
Of some wise, thoughtful insight into a single glass of wine
For without passion and effort in the making
It may not enable the divine
So maybe try a glass of the fermented grape
When next you feel the block of the writer,
And when others read your work thereafter,
Things may turn out brighter.
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