iwritesomeThis new collection will be comprised of 99 poems; not the usual 72. Here are a few to wet your whistle
Its only words,
But beware of their strength.
Words to make mountains
Come tumbling down.
Where blanket cessation
Of reason abounds.
Droning in monotone,
Boring the furniture.
Singing in baritone,
Thrills for the soul.
Spreading the news so
Broadcasting views to
The suffering folds.
Beaches awash in
The white sands of history
Seeking to separate
Sane from absurd.
Time prattles on
Without judgment, unruffled.
On a single word.
Would you make a sagging willow
Weep from lack of sunlight?
Tear-stained earth her pillow as
She cowers in dismay.
Rivers ramble rakishly
Between her hills and highlands,
Stumbling and bumbling
She knows no other way.
Flying high above the fray
Through multilayered billowings,
With eagle eye that seeks to spy
On details rarely seen.
And willow hugs the riverbank
To watch the ever-constant flow.
Peaceful her meanderings
Among the meadows green.
Will you give your gift of life?
Service those who patient wait.
Quench the thirst of all in need
Before it is forever late.
Dawning sun lifts by degree
Rising out of tragedy,
Blazing into ecstasy.
Poets find epiphany.
All this foolish blathering
A constant melee of dismay,
Seeps and creeps from hence to whence,
A spicy searing sausage bite.
Tantalizing tempting taunts to
Mesmerize and cauterize these
Burning, bleeding bogus eyes.
When will logic realize the
Waste that walks on thunder-thighs?
That leads astray the senses and
Explains away with alibis.
Keep your senseless blather.
Hold your restless tongue at bay.
Save it for another.
I’m not listening anyway.
I was gonna, honestly!
Wasted brain cells foolishly
Detract from what is meant to be.
Freakish how it’s there, then not,
Vapor vanished from the pot.
Apparitions cold and hot of
Things remembered, things forgot.
I’ll get to it. Write it down,
Every adjective and noun.
Planting feet on solid ground to
Stay alert to sight and sound.
Might just need a helpful hint,
A nudge until my mind is bent
Around the central element of
What it was, where it went.
Where’s the trick? The finger twine?
The one sure thing to help remind?
Hopeful that a cure I’ll find to
Remedy this absent mind.
Life is just a shish kabob,
Little this, little that.
Skewered, seasoned, marinated,
Grilled and eaten on the fly.
Finger food to tempt the tastes of
Every epicuric yen.
Flame-fired fuel on a stick
To please the palate and the eye.
Savoring the flavoring as
Drippings splatter on the coals.
When it’s offered up to you,
You take it without asking why.
Eat this… skip that.
Pass those on to someone else.
Compliment your gracious host
Before it’s time to say goodbye.
All you cowpokes gather round
The bangle, dangle, jangle sound
Of booted spurs that click the ground
As Wrangler saunters into town.
Pocket full of month-end cash,
Suited up and talking trash.
Looming large with daring dash.
Does she see through his disguise?
The innocence behind those eyes
That beckons with hypnotic rise
To underscore the hidden prize.
Is our Wrangler more than play?
Will he own the ranch someday or
Is he simply molded clay?
Will he cling, or run away?
Gathered in a silent warehouse,
Banking off of subtlety,
Building thrust on borrowed feet
To stand, to walk, to jog, to run.
Sprouting wings as if to fly on
Whiffs of light angelic air,
Climbing to the jet stream where
Her boundless energy can ride.
Now the flow cannot be quelled.
Now the air can only bend
Concentric circles one on one
To wrap around, around again.
Trapped inside this angry vortex,
Miles and miles from hearth and home,
Seeking merciful protection,
Waiting for the rage to end.