War
Brewing
On the verge
With one own self
Mirror tells no lies
Staring back in despair
Heart races with time in hope
The demon in me does not wake
From the deep slumber of my conscience
Breaking the shackles of my remorse
To prey on the less suspecting
And rejoice at their anguish
Avenging every scar
Inflicted on me
And returning
To dust; Yields -
To death;
Peace.
Days of poet motivate calm compassion.
Sheer injustice evident—every turnpike
manned by soldiers’ wild unfamiliar passion
planned around harsh Strike.
Summonsed lamb to slaughter, but still respecting
burning bush—obedience lit by daydream,
Ares now advance with his pride, suspecting
alter in regime.
Bending truth to suit the occasion’s essence,
whispers coil in shadows of veiled renitence.
Glow of waters lap at the swirling valence.
Ebbing of sentience.
Psappho wept—her dream has dispersed as token.
Rose-fingered moon’s face will exceed all starlight.*
Silence now descends tableau muffled, Brocken
Spectre of moonlight.
the moths seem duller
the butterflies are bright
the moths are plain
polka dots adorn the butterfly
the luna moth is enormous
she makes the monarch seem small
the butterflies love the flowers
moths go after my curtains, eating holes in them
yesterday I saw a dark black butterfly
I followed it around, suspecting it might eat me
but it went for the zinnias
so, I knew I was incorrect; it was a butterfly.
Not a moth.
Maria’s kiss lit a fuse,
That Thomas never knew he had.
Now the fuse runs fast,
Through the heart of a man gone mad.
Derrick’s death was bitter,
And Thomas’ heart ran sour.
His head was quickly spinning,
As he drove for half an hour.
He made it to the plains,
Where he planned to drop them both,
But his fire turned to frost,
When he heard the cars approach.
“Where you going, stranger,
In such a mighty rush?”
The lawman rudely squinted,
Suspecting beer or drugs.
Thomas drew his Luger —
The officer fell quick.
He hit the cold, hard ground,
As Thomas’ blood ran thick.
Thomas missed the other pigs,
Who saw the nasty crime.
They blew through the windowpane,
And Thomas passed the line.
Nobody deserves death,
But those who play with life.
No one should lose that light,
Until god’s given time.
I opened a matchbox
and found a city
woven from shadows and desires.
People carried their lives,
fragile as unspoken sparks,
never suspecting
how my trembling hand
could ignite
their infinity in a single moment.
"He won’t paint", cried out the Father
suspecting a flame of genius
in the toddler’s eyes.
The painterly parent bought paper, acrylics,
oils, brushes, chalks, and crayons,
not even a finger painting emerged.
The child steadfastly refused to paint.
The father pleaded:
“For the glory of God why not paint!”
His offspring only turned away
to suck a thumb.
Months past…years.
The child grew to be a sullen teenager.
He began to write poetry – and such woeful,
doleful poetry!
Exclamation marks rose up in heaven
as thick as bamboo forests.
His father read them, his face grew ashen
with a sickly alarm.
The poems spoke of phantasmagorical visions,
hordes of screaming demons, dismembered
herds of hapless humans.
Abysmal were the visions the boy unleashed
from his newly erupted consciousness.
Presentiments flew up from the pages
as horrid as the blood-red dragons of Hades.
Upon reading his son’s latest works
the father exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, NEVER paint!”
He took the young man for long walks in the country,
forced him to join a local soccer team,
suggested a military career,
alas
the boy began to paint.
Every family has them
These unsettling times these misunderstandings
Times when many things come into play
In most cases these wee spats are soon over and forgotten
But sometimes differences run deeper
Because of other factors
Such as jealousy, middle child syndrome personality
It's only human nature at play
The necessity for all to find our place
In the overall scheme of life
To establish one's self in the pecking order
And accepting it without malice, without jealousy
A hard lesson to learn when we're brand new at he game
Always suspecting that siblings
Are the ones receiving preferential treatment
In reality, they are reacting in exactly the same matter
Trying their best to learn the ropes
To understand what life means what life is all about
But we never do have all the answers
Even if we survive those uncertain early years
And live to the ripe old age of thirty
Well that is what old age is when you're a teenager
Please be assured, you WILL get through
And be a well adjusted adult
in youth Chardon became king of the dark forest
his intricate lacy antlers showed strength and purpose
the other animals felt God had personally created this handiwork
they nominated and elected him king for life
None of the suspecting he was the antiChrist
But some knew....
JUST ONE THING
Perhaps I should just believe in fate
Whatever is due to happen, let it be
Or is that being weak and submissive
Ignoring the future is to be dismissive
So maybe merely shrug, as it’s destiny
And the only thing one does, is wait
There are actions that one could take
That may change the course of history
Such choices always so full of tensions
As the future splits in two dimensions
One is known, the other is a mystery
It leaves one with a decision to make
For me, I cannot choose just one thing
Each change made, triggers yet another
Maybe limiting changes to one’s own life
Suspecting that it may bring joy or strife
And would the world we know, recover
Fearing what an intervention may bring
Would I press the nuclear button or not
Stand for election, to change the world
Or make a podcast that makes the news
Quoting some potentially upsetting views
Burn the national flag or leave it unfurled
Knowing every sentence ends with a dot
PATTERNS
?
The
Brain
Wakes up
To the dawn
Never suspecting
That numbers in nature can grow
In a specific sequence that some now understand
The basis of shapes and the way we see nature - compliant, yet proud to be seen
If I had alternative choices with a D
I would take my druthers all over the world,
making a difference
choosing other ways of seeing.
I will need a million trail-cams,
and a million gateposts, trees
or lampposts
to attach them to.
I want to see what's going on
when we are not looking.
I want to choose
between the strange, the ill-defined,
the inexplicable and
whatever other world
we are interacting with.
That would be my mission -
my druthers.
A million trail-cameras
snapping the world
while we all sleep or wake,
none of us
suspecting that our pictures
are being taken.
The poinsettia is a rare plant, indeed,
Its vivid red leaves outperform its tiny flower,
In Africa, it achieves the height of an oak tree
Exploding in vivid red like a bedecked tower
Decorated for a special holiday occasion.
Our guide was astounded we paid for a frond
While here bouquets are had for the picking,
Making me feel like, back home, we are conned.
They grow, he said, from a stick in the ground
I never can keep one alive for more than a week
Then, I looked at him and noticeably frowned.
Six dollars I pay for a stem with two blossoms,
Suspecting they’re a cutting that will not thrive.
As I stared at the magnificent poinsettia tree
Clement blithely said, “Well, here they’re free!”
Written December 3, 2022
I left at sixteen slamming the front door,
I returned at seventy-four,
gently pushing against rusted hinges.
I won't say I took a long road.
I'll not wail of the shortness of it.
It was just a road,
one that walked me,
flew me, rode me
tramped over me
took me high as low can go.
I'm not gonna say I am at the end of it,
I am just back
and only now entering
a house once left
suspecting that all storm shelters
were the same.
We prefer putting blame on pastor-counseler
For secretly meeting her without him
He, not suspecting, divide & rule strategem
She later explained, I gave Dean my side
In case you blamed me for our "fall"
It was indeed love (of this world) after all
Best way forward, Dear Heart, seek His Will
Our free will always is our freedom, personality
LORD God never canceled The Commandments Ten
Months piled up on themselves,
became a road block.
I can still hear
the sound of falling rocks.
I am concussed by the years.
Bought a pair of new sneakers,
bought a wristwatch that counts steps,
bought a wish and a hope
from a thrift store.
In-between the turning of the days
time flips the script,
becomes a shadow on a sundial,
gives you a plow to push uphill,
the mind falls ill
becomes a landslip
bars a way.
The morning is upside and sunny,
Lilliputian restraints
pop and loosen ligaments.
I am on the road again
but taking it slow
no-place is a better place to go.
Ears pricked, waiting,
suspecting,
ever recalling
the distant sound of falling rocks.
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