The guide with his cheesy hat, and colorful umbrella
encourages us to: gather 'round.
His anecdotal spiel is by rote. His shtick is fact-slim
and slick, but it’s also my current gestalt as I am dragged
unwillingly along by his CliffsNotes speech.
What catches my wandering eye
is that one of those ruined effigies
is a fair facsimile of myself.
He (a god/king of some minor something),
looks mildly disgusted, as if
a bothersome fly had landed on his crumbling nose.
My world-weary face reflects perfectly
his sour mien.
At last, I am processed meekly
back onto the tour bus, where predictably,
my fellow passengers are already
peering forward into a new fancifully imagined past
from an equally fanciful present.
World-weary and at the end of my tether
Yonder lies my beloved’s abode
Random as the fallen flight feather
Magic horse for me is the only mode
Critical as it is to bring us together
Lamenting, toward the setting sun I rode.
That kid at eleven before his first kiss
is the kid that I really, really miss.
Every kid thereafter
was more tears than laughter,
molding the world-weary cynic that this old man now is.
If you are disillusioned use what you can, put not your trust in self-seeking men.' Or women for that,.In all events will not
Do.!! We need Jesus.' And also do our neighbours this
Is (the whole world through!) If you are honest to you
Look at the signs upon this earth.' And call to the only
One..Who is faithfull and true.' In princes and leaders
In presidents and kings in pharmica a type of magic.'
What are they intending to bring? Look back over four
Years from this two thousand twenty twenty five to see
Only Jesus put all the confusion aside.' Pray in your
Waking, as you drive before you sleep.' As you awake
Call upon Him.' To return! to remove all evil; to wash
Humanity in his blood that dissolves all sin.'
The guide with his cheesy hat, and colorful umbrella
encourages us to: gather 'round.
His anecdotal spiel is by rote. His shtick is fact-slim
and slick, but it’s also my current gestalt as I am dragged
unwillingly along by his CliffsNotes speech.
What catches my wandering eye is that this one ruined effigy
is a fair facsimile of myself. He (a god/king
of some minor something), looks mildly disgusted, as if
a bothersome fly had landed on his crumbling nose.
My world-weary face reflects perfectly that sour mien.
At last I am processed meekly back onto the tour bus,
where predictably, my fellow passengers are already
peering forward into a new fancifully imagined past
from an equally fanciful present.
Heart ache, a road break off route sixty-six
Over each river and every state line
Tour bus travellers all finding their fix
Everyone hyphened is heightened this time
Lost luggage losing it's share of the light
American dreams with shutters pulled down
Memphis blues music feels alright tonight
Elvis themed runners surprising the town
Rocky road blue grass fades slowly away
In between cities and one horse places
Cocktail umbrellas recall brighter days
Appreciating these world weary faces
Neighbours, travellers, old lovers and friends
Ask for directions to where this tale ends.
The mind is a traveller,
on an earnest quest apart,
link road to the innermost,
signpost for bold hunch,
meaning is a hazy sky,
lay-by as mere pause,
quietly we trudge in tight bands,
but never wonder why?
time doesn’t play that well,
showing few if any paths,
language can be strained,
notions, slants, angles, terms,
tangled oxymoron at risk,
stifling broad consensus,
world weary air a plague,
night shift, day shift,
life belt for the toiler,
spoken in camp phrases,
that spur to vocal fringe,
who might alter vacuums,
now passively endured
Evening is settling in.
I empty my basket at the counter.
A pint of vodka
(the kind that comes in plastic bottles),
a bottle of ’Tums’ antacids.
A box of frozen French Bread Pizza.
A jar of jalapeno peppers.
A world-weary Latino lady
checks the items,
then checks me over coolly.
Her look suggests that she knows,
has seen it all before,
probably guessing my wife is away.
“Did you find everything you need?"
“Yes Rosina.” I say reading her name tag.
Now she smiles!
I pick up my plastic bag,
as I leave I hear her call-out sardonically:
"Have a good one."
Cut loose, cast adrift
from all I set out to accomplish.
Thrown to the other shore
by a stream I was sure would carry me to the sea.
Stranded at the source
words replaced thought, images replaced word
to leave me speechless
mind agape
transfixed to glossy page after page
of color and pattern, wholeness and detail,
art and craft manifest
in perfect balance on warp and weft.
A beautiful obsession, from ideal to actual,
a literal magic carpet ride
to a figurative land before time
a land of light, and space,
barren hills
and broken hearts,
sheep and wool, plant and dye,
ceaseless wanderings and flights in the night.
A land of my dreams and conception
(there on the carpet as my parents lay)
a carpet beckoning and enticing
to stay and rest awhile, caress and stare
without inhibition
at the sheer beauty
only a fellow nomad could conceive
for the solace of another world weary soul.
(2/20/22, first published in my sixth book of poems, OUT OF TIME OUT OF MIND, 2022)
We who spangle wet eyes, salute proudly
our unflinching eyebrows.
We are the rubber band of rubber soldiers;
we who bundle the truth up-tight,
we war poets that never served
demand respect.
Some world weary solders
even claim they buried God
in a foreign field. “How sad” we say
and pray for those of such little faith.
We untested poets
simply ask that those in uniform
honor our literary efforts,
and try hard not to always see us
as firing pen, and paper ammunition,
at the foe,
while they laugh fit to bust.
Symphony sounds
52 sings his solitude song
My eyes feast, salivate for a taste
My quilted heart begins to fray
I am troubled
Vibrant, yet strung out on hope and desire
Princess of placid, patiently awaiting trial
I release the guillotine with my world-weary hand
For the sake of my own
I spoon feed deceit, drip on the bib of those I love
It is a happy spring and I crave a bite of daffodil
To remind me of what it is I deserve
Siren sounds
52 continues his solitude song
Sudden, I am inclined to sing along
And so I do.
I am lovelorn, she ditched me
If she comes back, what then?
The wounds she inflicted on me
If they begin in heal, what then?
The memories that I hold so dear
If they begin to fade, what then?
So I’ll pray with all my heart
If my dreams come true, what then?
I set out eagerly on life’s journey
If I reach my destination, what then?
I might close my eyes to dream
If I fall asleep, what then?
I am world-weary willing to die
If there’s an afterlife, what then?
Oh, I’ll battle my demons alright
If I win God, what then?
11/20/22
~Contest: A Brian strand Premiere Choice.
World-weary, war-torn, weather-beaten
A poet is but a beleaguered soul,
A hopeless wanderer, a rootless wayfarer
Misunderstood often
Misinterpreted, ridiculed
Scorned by his lady luck
Spurned by his muse,
Wizard of imagination
reigning over a fantasy land,
He’s of a ragged spirit
striving to shape an ideal world,
A Spartan without a spear
A warrior without a weapon
Yet equipped to inflict a fatal wound,
Never home when opportunity comes aknocking,
No stranger to passion
Yet true love eludes him—
Perennially lovelorn
Forever forlorn!
That’s all there’s in store for you
if you decide to be a poet.
~10/07/22
~A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest.
~Contest: X'd Second Chance Poetry
~Sponsor: Constance La France.
Dawn arrives in a dark widow’s shawl.
A hard sea rubs raw
the knuckled bones of the shore.
The first thing a sailor sees as he dreams of arrival
are the white hands. Sometimes the hands
are land marooned seagulls,
sometimes the hands are the open fists of the sea.
When in a stony village by the waves
he disembarks from the tossing dark,
when he clambers over its sea walls
he laughs, but it is not a merry laughter
more a harsh cry of a wild and restless of joy.
The cobbled streets are shedding their scales.
Fish heads are poking through net curtains.
Mackerels swim in world-weary eyes.
Old men leave their cots
shave their whiskers with a clam shell.
Seaweeds hang like dreadlocks from dripping eves.
Bare cold feet roll over paved stones
all is slipping backwards.
A sailor must wash his face with beer
while bailing green water out of his shipwrecked eyes.
world weary of iambics and prose ~ work with inkwells write from your soul
WORK PERSPECTIVE MONOKU Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Beata Agustin
how many syllables (17)
05/05/22
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