As the sun sinks past a white picket fence,
still, toils an ingrained meaning all had sworn,
past distinct dead plus dying, still, naught sense,
prostrate souls taxes, lain of blood-stained worn.
Behind atoned stones built by measured hands,
preserves naught abandoned lead their resolve,
strengthen the talents, challenge tyrant stands,
conquered presumption masque as they evolve.
Since childhood days, artlessness goes caprice,
it sparked this wayward inaneness they craved,
grip naught like festering mid-shadowed peace,
tarnished stoked o'er wars honor of the brave.
Life's freedom o'er all harmless they bestowed,
absent of pride -- gave their lives ... those they owed.
The Sedulous Knight
Prostrate souls taxes, lain of blood-stained field,
still, toils an ingrained meaning they had sworn,
past distinct dead plus dying, still, naught yield,
amidst dense hearts like their steel armor worn.
Behind atoned stones built by measured hands,
preserves naught abandoned lead their resolve,
strengthen the talents, challenge tyrant stands,
conquered presumption masque as they evolve.
Since childhood days, artlessness goes caprice,
it sparked this wayward inaneness they craved,
grip naught like festering mid-shadowed peace,
tarnished stoked o'er wars honor of the braved.
Life's freedom o'er all harmless that they owed,
they'll present, their lives...their sedulous code.
2022 October 07
*1st Place*
Best N-A poem of 2020
~~John Hamilton: 2021 January 16
I stand tall among the same restful souls;
Within the shadow of a broken heart.
Trumpet of harmony sweet fragrant bloom,
Restored innocence after death consoles.
Unbidden tears force to submissive lull.
Soil sprinkled over after forced away.
Loosen soil waiting to heal, seductive.
Scents warble throughout spring began to mull.
The eternal frost of forgetfulness.
Hand carried sweetly before the bells ring,
Fragrances bewitching the afternoon
Fields of empty plainness and artlessness.
8/19/2019
3. Within the shadow of a broken heart
Poetry Contest: One In Four
Sponsored By: Joseph May
Advancing from the earth to reach up high,
From passageways and subways emerging,
To strain with ribald fingers at the sky,
The virus of the rage distilled and surging.
To spray paint on the tiles cursed to grey,
Chipped and peeling from the ransacked wall,
Created in the night, steam cleaned by day,
So does the poverty of artlessness befall.
A motion blur upon the grille and grating,
There she stands with lustrous legs and thong,
In the shadows sits a poet dissipating,
With a voice that cracks more desolate each song.
And stand, dream, dry hump the slipstream panic,
When the tickets flutter, turnstiles clack and turn,
The chewing gum dries almost like ceramic,
The heaps of rags in bundles flap and churn.
So how to make me sad when I am happy,
And how to make me happy when I’m sad,
Four words: “This too will pass,” and make it snappy,
They’re all I’ve ever known or ever had.
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