“You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” ? Wayne Gretzky”
Where courage sleeps, and doubt begins to bloom,
There stands a chance, unseen, unheard, unknown.
A fleeting moment, poised to meet its doom,
Unless brave hands reach out and claim its own.
For in the realm of dreams, where shadows play,
And whispered fears may hold ambition fast,
A single shot, though missed, can light the way,
A lesson learned, a challenge bravely cast.
So let not trepidation hold you back,
Nor fear of failure dim ambition's fire.
For even when the target's mark is black,
The act of aiming sets the soul afire.
Categories:
unfired, anxiety, courage, hockey, sports,
Form: Rhyme
Collapsing inwards,
Been someone else outwards,
That’s who he desires to be,
Someone he wants others to see,
He’s fame-hunger stricken,
His coast he intends to widen,
He craves to be the cynosure of all eyes,
Life out of the limelight he deems unwise.
The charlatan's song,
A song of hope on wheels,
The charlatan's gong,
Loud it sounds but none he feels,
An emptiness resides within,
A journey with no destination in sight,
His unheroic acts are sitting,
Taking a place on an ivory tower height.
He’s revisiting his handiwork,
Pulling out the unfired bricks from his stonework.
Categories:
unfired, change, identity,
Form: Rhyme
Lifeless bullets asleep as captive
In the restive barrels of the cold guns
Cold as the shadow of death
Waiting camouflaged in the dark
Wake up at the strike of the trigger
Pulled by crooked fingers of insane men.
The bullets to accomplish the mission
Whiz on fire to their feral freedom
Carrying the slices of mad men’s spite
On their zooming shoulders
Shoot off toward the fated targets
To deliver the message of murder.
Would the bullets stop midair
Abandon the fatal flight
Refuse to become cold blooded killers
Stop and shed the flakes of fury
Fling the lethal intent in the thin air
And disappear forever.
Would the life they get from fire
In the stillness of the deadly barrel
Blossom into flowers of the verdant vale
Would they let the living
Breathe free the fragrant air
In this beautiful world.
Won’t we listen the mute voice of fallen lives
Imploring our humane sensibility :
Let the bullets sleep forever unfired
In the rusted barrels of the discarded guns
Let the shooting ones stop midair
Drop as flowers on graveyards.
________________
April 24, 2021
Categories:
unfired, analogy, death, evil, fantasy,
Form: Free verse
Lifeless bullets sleep captive
In the barrels of the guns restive
Cold as the prison bunk
Sleep and wait in the dark
Wake up at the strike of the trigger
Pulled by men burning in anger.
The bullets to satisfy the hunger
Eat the fire and get their freedom
Take pieces of the angry men’s venom
On their hot shoulders
Shoot off toward the living targets unaware
And deliver the message of murder.
Would the bullets stop midair
Refuse to become cold killer
Stop and shed the pieces of anger
And throw the bloody message in the air
To disappear forever.
Would the life they get from fire
Blossom from the deadly steel into flower
Would they spare the living and rain love
Let people live in freedom and safety they deserve.
Would we not listen
And listen with some patience
To the muted voices of the lives fallen
Imploring our senses humane :
Let the bullets sleep forever unfired
In the cold discarded gun barrels rusting
Let the shooting ones stop midair
Drop as flowers in gentle shower
Cover and bury the world of anger.
Would the bullets stop midair?
Categories:
unfired, anger, hate, hope, life,
Form: Free verse
Which one first to the fire?
Who stokes with his oils
And his bones and his brush
The kiln and the pyre?
Who, so pointlessly young,
So tragically sired,
Can say to the Potter,
"My fuel is unfired"?
Who, squat on the rack,
In the depth of the fire,
Can say to the Potter,
"My clay is unfired"?
For the Potter to bake,
And the oven to make
Us (kindling and clay)
Must our union desire,
For when kiln door is pulled,
We prove our designs:
One, by the firing,
One, by the fire.
Categories:
unfired, dark, death of a
Form: Rhyme
God factories abound upon the mountains
and the plans are written in the holy books
but lack consistency from page to page...
reason enough to keep the cubicles apart,
unwired; the laborers are always free
to improvise.
So there are gods for sale
Choose yours.
Some are free of charge
but then the prototypes are never up to date.
Others willingly accept a sacrifice or two
but do expire if not renewed.
There, I just made mine again,
my lump of clay as yet unfired.
Do you like Her? Yes?
It is a pity that I cannot say the same
for yours.
~
Categories:
unfired, allegory,
Form: Free verse
Battle weary joints in intuitions arrayed lines,
Reconnoiter the ballistic armor dish,
Spy work encounters soft voluptuous designs,
Muzzle lifted arrogant projectile as gripe ball?
Overshoot or underplay enemy rights,
Miss fit charged by the trigger happy brigade,
Blooms and bottoms out in fine rivalry points;
Self propelled guns to leave unfired shells around?
On the home front Howitzer powder monkeys,
Rest in peace to pleasure new silent glitches,
Old stories of their valor and fighting skills,
Victims of love bombshell hits, in stun attacks.
Categories:
unfired, life
Form: Free verse
Wandering through verbiage
needing a Muse buttress
against the blue-lined emptiness
toward an expression to
portray the day,
the gift to uplift this life
sprung forth in a 3-ring binder.
Titillating thesaurus (....huh?)
lends only separation from a pen
point. Whats the point?
Wearily mundane homonym's
whistle through synapses
left unfired. Finished?
No, I don't think so ...
and there's the point ... aha!
I can wander and wail
and the reward is all
in the line whether it rhymes
or oozes into oblivion.
Categories:
unfired, on writing and words
Form: Free verse