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Iambic Pentameter
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How do you like me as I am today?
Twenty years young, triumphantly boasting
Success through all you had been foreboding.
Casting my vast nets as far as the sun
While you cast your line in small empty streams,
Passionately chasing visions and dreams
While you bury your head in sand or run.
Do you still see no hope for my future?
See the wounds you thought I couldn't suture?
In my past I was but a ball of clay.
Shaped by your hands and your verbal roastings;
Scarred by abuse and spiteful goading.
I'm still not the one who mocks or makes fun.
I still don't pick guys last for my sports teams,
Because I know what hardship and hurt means;
How it feels to wish tomorrow won’t come.
Here I stand, the scar-ridden suitor
In full war paint, looking back with humour.
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Iambic Pentameter
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A friend is one who sees you not as weak
But in the process of becoming strong
Who listens long and well as others speak
Not judging but encouraging along
Though in the very prime of life, a friend
Thought not of me as old or out-of-style
With genuine affection he'd extend
A laugh, a handshake, hug, or friendly smile
And you, kind sir, were just that friend to me
Although we met not frequently enough
With not a bone of insincerity
You lived as advertised: the real stuff
We spoke of sports, for this was common ground;
Of baseball, football, hoops, and favorite teams
Of quarterbacks or pitchers on the mound
Of Super Bowl, Olympic, World Cup dreams
You're gone too soon; too many words unspoken
Too little water passed under our bridge
Now through my tears I see that bridge is broken
But to have known you was my privilege.
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Iambic Pentameter
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I sit, gazing at my bountiful fields;
Cattle graze and meander upon the grass;
Flapping, a shadowy figure soars near;
He perches on the railing of my porch,
still saturated from the morning dew;
"Hello, my old friend," I say with a sigh;
He wears blackened fur and sports darkened wings;
“What brings you here to visit me today?”;
His masked bill stirs with curiosity,
Balancing himself on the old, cracked wood;
Through a gurgled croak, the bright outlook transforms;
Dark clouds emerge above dangerous peaks;
Pockets of pure salmon sky are swallowed;
Green fields decay to a hostile landscape;
Pestilence ravages the strong cattle;
Their corpses fester where maggots mingle;
Shaking, I try to clear what my eyes see;
The thumping of my heart intensifies;
My lungs seek oxygen but there is none;
Bleakness encumbers my soul, my being;
My only release sits on a table
Beside me in a cloudy container;
I grasp the bottle and clutch the white pill
With a strong gulp its powdery flesh makes
Its way deep into my troubled system;
I close my eyes and suck for air again;
Minutes pass, and the malignant world mends;
I open my eyes to the greenery
And perpetual beauty undisturbed;
My old friend departs into the blue sky;
I wave him goodbye but I know he will
Return tomorrow with an avalanche
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Iambic Pentameter
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Wally Weasel Goes Skiing
Wally still loves painting, but he’s now discovered sports.
He made his reservations at a faraway resort.
He’s never skied but has a book with lessons showing how.
After reading it two times plus one, he thinks he’s ready now.
With wooly scarf around his neck and hat upon his head,
he picks up shiny skis and poles that lay upon the bed.
Heading out to hit the slopes, he stops - ‘cause he’s decided
to wear his wooly socks so that his toes won’t get frost-bited.
He puts his ski poles in the snow and gives a great big push,
but all his effort got him was a wet, snow-covered tush.
Brushing off to go again, he says he will not quit.
This time he flies right down the slope – yes! All two feet of it.
He did it! He’s a skier now, and feeling very proud,
but that’s before he hears the laughter coming from the crowd.
It takes a lot of practice, as our little Wally knows,
and he’ll keep right on trying ‘til his weasel nose is froze.
With bended knees, he leans a little. This time he will do it.
When he starts to fly downhill, he says, “There’s nothing to it.”
He turns this way, then turns that way, he’s graceful as a breeze.
He’s being very careful to not run into the trees.
With all the other things he’s learned, he now feels life’s complete.
He’s shown the world that weasels, too, can be good athletes.
We’ll visit him another time and hear his tales of glory.
For now, we’ll have to wait. Another time, another story.
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