The thorny bush of resentment enwraps my heart and soul,
Suppressing the blooms of joy that try to spread their petals;
Like hemlocks, nightshades, castor beans, and oleander knolls,
It poisons my pure environs blemishing fine fettles...!
I'm enraged, often, my inner equilibrium gone,
I am imprisoned in the jail created on my own;
Carrying in my pocket the snake of hate I'm angst prone,
Peacefulness is fully gone, there's a constant cyclone...!
When there's no anchor for rancor soul is shipwrecked, often,
I, as responsible captain, with awareness control;
Mind in Brahma, to stop rancor I should take precaution,
Through a life one with God, I can save my body and soul...!
Why couldn't I embrace each creature and exist for all?
Why couldn't I travel within and put things in order?
Why could not I through my good thoughts, words, and deeds bliss enthrall?
Why couldn't, one with the divine, turn a peace accorder...?
Categories:
fettles, anger, angst, life,
Form: Rhyme
Verd meadow yon shadowed sequoias,
Patterns has lent the scope neath the petals,
Pixies wake on the tips of true choices,
Heightens an ochered sun amidst voices,
Looms about a faint trace of pink mettles,
Verd meadow yon shadowed sequoias,
Tattered remnants of coral sprays joyous,
Whilst they'd be assets in blossom vessels,
Pixies wake on the tips of true choices,
Grooves a pass graced with nectarous noises,
Virtuous domain sprung through laced specials,
Verd meadow yon shadowed sequoias,
Noble claims dotes a wishing well deploys,
Nigh, not far they'd be for all our revels,
Pixies wake on the tips of true choices,
Submit the crush much, us the true toilers,
Sparkled dusk fades long lives of their fettles,
Verd meadow yon shadowed sequoias,
Pixies wake on the tips of true choices.
Date: 06/10/2019
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Categories:
fettles, allegory, crush, endurance, fantasy,
Form: Villanelle
The “Smithy”
Written: By Tom Wright
4/28/04
The anvil’s peal breaches the mid day air,
and his four pound hammer fettles the shoe.
At the forge’s cinders in thought I stare,
and listen to the wheezing bellows spew.
The portrait of a bygone period in time,
when the aproned “Smithy” was still king.
Massive arms, covered with carbon grime,
powering out tunes with a hammers ring.
The livery and spreading chestnut tree,
like the buggy whip, their time is past.
If solely for the sentimental like me,
“Smithy’s” memory will for evermore last.
Categories:
fettles, nostalgia,
Form: Rhyme