Best Mortared Poems

Who is this man laying beside me?
You’re not my lover and I’m not your enemy
Searching and hoping for a familiar touch
Wanting and needing it just a little too much

Where is the man I married prior to this war?
I want him back entirely as I had...

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She stood forlorn behind the chain link fence
Her mortared bricks still clinging to the earth
A battle lost with every gasping breath
Against the war of time and death

A monument behind a chain link moat
Reveals a glimpse of what had been supreme
With boarded eyes, the windows that...

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Within the woods, stood a wall of stone
molded by hands from a distant time.
Though roughly hewn, it had endured.

What narratives could it tell of its past,
this ancient bulwark,  built to last?
My fingers traced each pitted wound.

I wondered as to the tragic fate
of one missing...

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Winter finally moves his lumpen sluggish weight,

Spring is like a shy dryad shivering in his arms

Wind's whippets droop to trifling whine

Sullen rain hisses to a grizzle.

tiny fruit buds swell enough to moisten lips.

First daffodil maidens preen, bright faces so fair!

Chattering swallows check granite grey mortared...

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I hesitate for a moment outside the rod iron gates;
sensing behind those castle doors, a long past life awaits,
within those many mortared walls, rising high above the lake,
as my breath begins to quicken and my knees began to shake.

Step into the parlour, the old curator...

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"Cross Roads, Notes and Bridges"

Silence 
arrives 
in the spaces

between 

a conversation 
missing in the 
archives of love

music 
drowns 
the unnecessary

what point 
words then,
swords planted

in the spaces
sharp, clean 
and gleaming

the mortared 
existing in the 
spaces in between 

bleed 
unheard words
piercing hearts 

muddy 
unclear 
unseen 

the unsaid
unsung
dissolve

will-o'-the-wisps
wishing...

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The little brick school house
where Mama used to go,
sets quietly atop the hill
thru' summer heat and snow.

The bell on top is silent now,
the window shutters tight,
the door is weather-beaten,
and floors an awful sight.

The old stove is still standing
in the center of the room,
Lilac bushes, long...

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The Providentiality of Farming in Giantvillism (Continued)

Jake: Make sure the crop is irrigated Giant.
Giant: That means make sure we provide water to each acre?
Jake: Yes.
Maddy: Would you stay for another two days to help us develop a plan?
Jake: Yes, my plan was to stay at...

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Species sundry sentential 
Line the lost lowered loft
Whose weary wayward-ceiled 
Roof raises itself over the lot:
The diverse specimen bottles of pharmaceutic potations,
Mortared and mixed as by the Hawthornean sawbones 
And apothecary, yclept, poetically rendered: "The Quack Haunted." 
(Aye,) Haunted and hunted he was, by that...

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Reserving the right to break away unto a clear blue day; viewing

Certain labels upon the bottles and cans; time reeling in chains....

And they say that patience is a virtue as I drop them from my hands

Exiting lifes alleyways; fingers brushing atop the gray mortared bricks

Whileas...

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Mother buried hacked-up carp beneath 
pink rose mallow. She knew the filthy cats 
would come. A balled-up dirty rag 
and coffee tin of smelly kerosene 
were garrisoned behind a red berry twistwood. 
Mother would hide in a column of shadow 
near the porch. Ambush the...

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waiting in line.. in step... 
in monotones.. at mid afternoon.

waiting for a cup of coffee 
from a thin barista.

while outside it is raining..

outside the clouds float by in 
gray shades of indifference

 outside a few pigeons cheat the 
 sidewalks mortared lines.

 yet inside the...

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Even the ghosts have faded now,
splashes of gray like shadows
in a child's diorama.
They slip in and out of mortared cracks 
in my mind,
seeking a validation
I cannot besrow.
But they must remain in
their graves,
Wrapped in their gangrenous
shrouds, pursuing
redemption without me....

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my mood swung like an uncontrollable pendulum.
most of my time was spent lashing out at everyone.
the weight of my achingly sad body felt like bricks mortared my back.
the constant wonder of what went wrong filled my everyday thoughts.
it was supposed to be the happiest time...

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Wheels of fire burn at the potters hands and feet.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
Lamps holden in wheels created as before you see.
Sweet passion of mortared clay;
fashioned on a potters wheel to be carried away.
Between  the two...

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