Once the “go to guy”
I linger, ever hopeful
Of a need to fill.
Long for the
Tickle
Of long grass
Crackle
of fallen leaves
Scent
of the garden.
I am older
my handle
slightly splintered
my tines
bent
several missing.
Mocked
by motored newcomers
I wait
knowing
there are still times
that situations
will call for
The “go to guy”
John G. Lawless
©1/8/2023
Categories:
motored, age, dedication,
Form: Metrical Tale
Words drained, blood empty.
Liquid poets imploded,
Poured and stained upon each page,
Given to the superficial sacrifice of meaning.
There is no truth
Which we did not participate in making;
Ours for the taking
In downward spiral steps contrived.
All stars our own to swim,
All space our whim.
Our standard stopped.
Desires dropped
Intermittent fires out
Behind the eye of every host.
Fighting memory, now a ghost
Encased in stones.
Trading one another;
Slingshot yo-yos born
To farthest reaches.
Each annoyance adding
To the proof of scales.
We wear them as a cloak,
Then shed their skin.
Our new man never comes.
The old, erupted once; always
Hung by tinsel strands and strung
Upon a pleasured dome
That some call home,
Yet we dream a coming dawn.
Carriages and motored monuments
Stilled in rarer moments, filled
With each ones essence.
Dwindling our quality of existence
Until we meet at dawn
That man who never comes,
To walk the earth
In shoes that never were.
Categories:
motored, future, passion, remember,
Form: Rhyme
Let me try to go by pioneering heroes' spirit
That motored their antique tides of phrase,
And treat rapt souls to a mild sublime ode,
Forged to rhyme with old sonneteers' pace.
Now where does a tottering novice start
As he pens such a crystalline work of art,
To honor champs in grave's dark repose,
And regale pupil protégés in equal dose?
Let me like Andrew Marvel swiftly pen
Authentic tropes to the best of my ken;
And as Shakespeare debug tart myths,
That wit eschews meekest wordsmiths.
And deal Wordsworth such fitting due
As meets his laudable classical styles;
And for Sidney weave echoing rhapsodies
That tell masked sagas via metered guiles.
I'll like Robert Frost's swiftly twined twists,
Blame melancholia for path-splitting mists.
Categories:
motored, allegory, allusion, art,
Form: Epic
Flashback to Fridays when I was a wanted guest
a common companion strolling the riverside
with more than just the moon willing to chat
where words resonated with hand-cut diamonds
lighting up my vision and your restful eyes
where missed lessons were backtracked
and praise was left to pigeons hiding
in the shadows pretending not to be seen
Harlequin days have passed us on by
and what once were sailboat dreams
have quietly motored ahead
I'm relegated to slip silently in the cracks
chasing down demons with a crooked stick
fighting off the famine in air too thick
left with thoughts lingering in a darkened sky
broken in heart and spirit I'm left to die
Categories:
motored, lost,
Form: Free verse
-On my way to Higher Learning-
On my way to higher learning
Thirst for knowledge hotly burning
holes into my soul left yearning.
Dazed once more by heedless turning,
causing me to dodge by swerving.
This time though I stopped, and cursing,
approached the latest jerk, unnerving
this moron with knuckles turning
car door glass into a churning
mass of tiny razors flying
bloody shards of chaos slicing,
As I grabbed his face, and smiling,
slammed my points on proper driving
His retort made null and voided
my closing statement not avoided
Knuckles sent to redefine
this moron’s use of his own mind
Repeatedly I made it known
by bruising flesh and cracking bone
Until my point was driven home.
I did then leave this fool alone
to contemplate his use of phone.
Reclaimed my bike and motored on.
Mind and body back on task.
Once more on my way to class.
Categories:
motored, class, corruption, dark, desire,
Form: Free verse
Now this is a little story of the caravan that rocked
Whether parked in roadside lay-bys, the locals were never shocked
They travelled from the Highlands and motored so far and wide
Exercising their freedom, oh my! that you couldn't hide
They lived just south of Ullapool, and further north than Perth
But no matter where they parked, they always made it worth
Now this couple they liked to journey, to places so far from home
To York, Scarborough and Edinburgh, so capital in their roam
Where ever they went they took in the sights, so beautiful they grace
But every so often their caravan rocked, but never in a windy place
Their holiday nearly over, it's time to head back up the road
Passing places where their caravan rocked, their travelling home abode
They pass such lovely places, like Stirling and Callender
Stopping of at Granton On Spey, their holidays take them afar
Now very close to home, boo! it's work in a couple of days
But they don't mind, for their caravan rocked, without a wind to sway
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland-4.php
Categories:
motored, love, people, placesplaces,
Form: Couplet