Arbitrary patterns, be it said,
Behove a poet who has nought to say:
Consider if you will, the holy dread
Descending on him when he has to play
Egregious games of lexicon and sense:
Ferocious is his hunt for weighty meaning:
Garrulousness has no innate value - hence
Hermetic references, frantic gleaning,
Intemperate allusions all too often
Juxtaposed with useful phrases in a
Kulturkampf, with memes supposed to soften
Lacunae like the way we treated Jinna,
Matriculee of Lincoln’s Inn. No joke.
Nehru, Inner Temple. Things you learn!
Our planet is a stellar artichoke,
papaveraceous, as the Medes discern.
Who luckily meets kids at home,
When they start to places roam
Or start arranging for Rome
To her nook and cranny comb,
Hopefully glimpse her Underground Gnome
Or try Rome’s own Cycles of Chrome?
Whoever jams kids at home,
Who by nature at a boring home
Begin to in their mouths foam?
Soon out for architectural sand and loam
To mount The Flat-Shaped and Dome
While worried or dumped parents at home
Rage and don’t fail to foam.
Finally left to be all alone,
For once forced to be on my own.
Luckily for the bereft
grieving through darkness alone
dawn is abundantly deft
at its medicinal tone.
When a new morning appears,
duty abruptly commands
focusing thoughts on careers
and some routinized demands.
During distressing ordeals,
structural chores are, of course
spokes on restorative wheels,
turning with rhythmical force . . .
Multiple labors assigned
(whether unique or mundane)
comfort the crestfallen mind
like an elixir for pain.
Physical efforts promote
pleasing endorphins to rise.
Mental endeavors demote
misery’s spirit and size.
Affable people abound,
sharing benevolent goals.
Meaningful purpose is found,
forged in incredible roles.
Muscular hearts can attest
circular time is renowned
for its centrifugal zest,
helping the lovelorn rebound!
E. V. Wyler
Luckily I am not yours,
To fondle and defile,
My beating soul lies elsewhere,
You can adorn me with recollections,
But I will be one goddess less,
One saint more,
I will come along the sunset,
To steer you towards the heavens,
Then in your mouth I spit anesthetic saliva,
And you are no more.
velvet lifted off my mother's bed,
the sheets all stained blood red,
my mothers face is pale with no color,
father says no other....
the police are swept away, my father watching me sideways,
then when everyone is gone he shuts the door,
waiting is no more....
he yells and shakes me, with furious might,
tells me to say not a word, or i'll die,
then drops me to the ground, and pulls out a gun...
he holds to my head with it, pressing hard against my face,
he shows me no mercy, even though he says i'm his grace,
how did this happen to me, but a girl aged six,
my mother was too weak, i couldn't beat him....
now i'm thirteen, and i know what to do,
i went to the police station, on Cantern avenue,
then once inside i told my story, while i gave no glory,
soon after i was done, they took my father to prison.....
so now i'm here telling my thoughts, for people are to blame for whatnot...