Long swings of outrage to apathy, cries the pendulum. Settling low, windmills blinking as one. The man in the high collar staring down burnt ends of a smoke trail, looks up and smiles, “Well, now.”
Tag: Poetry
The poetic expression of my artistic and aesthetic pillars along with some choice mixed-media.
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Collared Green
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Clad
Give me one more blustery good night. More of a past, dead silence spoken from dark moon’s hollow bite. Down below where I like it. Down below, an ill fate sealed tight.
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Another Compromise
Awakening on its journey, a smell of slight decay. Leaves sloughing from the canopy. A zombie losing the safe promise of summer fruits. Scurry and hurry to the beat of a sacred, albeit fatalistic, yearly routine. Close to where we started, but no less sweet to see, the two by two's; the families; their long sleeves
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better, then
a cherished few return
Friend, I’m sorry, what even happened? Tolerable enough that "hey" would do.
like a boomerangI cannot stay, only come back. Tell me what you need. A wax figure constant to the flame. How do you see fit?
picking cherries out of lifeHusks on the ground, a shell of a man. The kernels rotten, ugly and obscene.
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Aequitus Non Forma
Universal responsibility without universal consequence. A convenient argument for those who never slept without food in their stomach, lived without love in their past, and never suffered doubt for their chances or passion to prevail.
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Meta Bits: Do you believe in poetry?
The poetry exists in ignorance of my musings.
It clings to the crevices of life
in the nooks of idle minds and stolen glances of would-be lovers.
It does not care if I write,
though, I know that I must.
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Filthy
Leave your scrap. I am the excrement of the world. I crawl to the edge of the trash pile, salt it with earth and devour. Leave your disgust. I am the crazy you loathe and the strange you fear. I sing platitudes like a skipped record, scratching the cliff holds for dear life. Lay me in the dirt. I suffocate there thousands of years watching the strata pass. Cast me your stones and throw me in the pit. Belabor your glorious effort at my humble expense. If all else fails, burn the witch.
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A Most Patient Game
A quizzical creature bundled down. Quilted together, cut, from the same cloth - different scissors. Warm until tattered, somehow catching wind. A tired, musty dry line sagging and swaying. Moreover, the unreachable often still reach you. Crooked, but as usual, the only one in town.
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Benched
The bench spoke to me. I waited so long: the daily walks, the nervous glances, - hoping. I made excuses, now thinking about it, to walk by. Deluding myself to believe. No, I do like walking. I do like that bench. Around and around that gnarly, blood-footed path. And then sat, “please leave“ it requested. An underwhelming introduction, but chills and flutters still. I walk on.
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Lunch Break Microcosm
Watch the ants wander Cherries soften into earth Scattered leaves garnish
Scribbles 'n Bits 