Short Restrictive Poems

Heart shaped stone on a band of gold
Once brought happiness and promises...

Today the band is restrictive;
The stone has lost it's luster

Time takes, dims and withers
    emotions are sad and numb to reality

Waiting for......

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prone to
bouts of 
spontaneous
impulsive
self-restrictive 
avoidant 
emotive 
interactions
full of in-actions 
that appeared 
to come on 
suddenly 
automatically   
without prior
planning so 
it seemed at the
time...

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got to the poe...
at tree site

admission being...
coded restrictive

entered...
and stood

before...
a mirror to

toil....
letting my

reflection...
be as the

entry code...
p n u

sounded...
pee'n you

stans sand...

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COUNTENANCE
attention
 to detail
with
the
passion
of
subtle
expression

 the
stark
instinct
blurring
reality
in
the
   indistinct
recognition
so
restrictive

demonstates
an identical
 purpose
to
overwhelm
in
 relief...

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The day is long
 the night short
filled with restless dreams
 crisscrossing imagery
 of fictional and unfamiliar parties
trying hard to encumber life
 by restrictive containments
 anxious in the tossing and turning,
fearful wakening
 only to find
 it is reality....

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Coming from my hand, 
I knew the story well!

Putting words to paper;
somewhat tough now,

but; altogether, 
tougher when imagined

For, that's what imagination is.
It's a free thing:

Not,eliciting restrictive parameters:
more; a seizing notion that perpetuates....

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Untamed unruly 
Insubordinate strands coiled into a restrictive pose
Chemical warfare and arson to my scalp to straighten you out
For a while you complied but you always get tangled up in a mess
Arrested for disorderly conduct
Failing to yield to a comb
Robbing me of my sanity
This delinquency I can’t tolerate
So I had to lock you up...

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Grey rabbit... White paper...


I am the grey rabbit
Snared, trapped by restrictive wires
Unseen
I reach for the quill of significance
Yet she teases
Just a tug too far
Ink wells spilt upon verde grass
Parchment paper
Leaves me parched
I cannot paint nor write
My fluffy tails lost it's sheen
I'm off down the burrow
To lick my wounds
And
Ensure my hovels clean...

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I could buy you a present
And it could go one way or the other
But, I know a bouquet of flowers
Will make you a happy Mother

I was going to send this to my Mom
But for some reason it didn't sound "Quiet right"

.....and due to the restrictive number of characters on the card
     I settled for this ... 

Violets are blue
And roses are red
So, I'm sending you
Colorful Tulips instead. Ha!...

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On rain drenched mornings
words may feel too heavy
to absorb dense Truth,

May smell too bleached
to taste thin Beauty,

May sound too restrictive
to recreate revolutionary visions.

Yet, absence of words
may sound too drenched
in universal drizzle
to comfort,
to circulate lively blood
for warm interior climate cleansing

Rain water
distilling
tomorrow's more fertile
silent soil
silk skinned soul....

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I fear I have little time
I've lost all that is mine
From this world I will soon resign
I'm afraid the stars just didn't align
Setup for failure by design
I was always out of line
All I loved will confine
itself into a restrictive fine
Nowhere to recline
Nothing to enshrine
Watch it continue to decline
Because it's no longer mine to define

I fear I have no time 
In this world we've been forced to consign...

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A mother that hears the cry of her baby 
does not turn deaf ears to show indifference.

A woman prepared for a culinary task, 
by all means, gathers the condiments required.

A barricadoed road, however restrictive, 
suffices not to keep an incubating hen off her eggs.

A nocturnal darkness does not stand to disorientate 
a hand to miss its way to the mouth.

Scavenging any available heaps in sight 
reflects the missing of a valuable....

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Inside my head, I hold a thought,
Sweet thoughts that guide my pen to write,
And as I write the ink is naught,
Naught but words upon their flight.

A little thought begins to grow,
It grows beyond restrictive mind,
The mind with words must let it flow,
A flow of thought in ink defined.

In words of love and words of hate,
The hateful verse that spews from death,
The death of words must surely wait,
Await the thought on poet’s breath.




Form: Wreathed Quatrain...

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