Bound to the life we’ve created
and not necessarily the one planned,
each woman and man has a choice.
We can use our voices to call out the
unfairness that abounds, or remain
the prisoners we have prescribed to be.
Our enslavement can be nothing
from which good can be extricated.
Chained to these walls of self-doubt
and indecision, our mission is clear.
Shout out for all to hear and cheer
for the hero who escapes from the
tretchery of the villianous and destructive.
The only way to be productive
is to set yourself free and flee.
This code that we must live by,
to be true to ourselves,
to live with compassion
and fill this life with passion
for the things we do that make us
vibrant and vital; this tidal wave
that will save our souls. An S.O.S.
to all alerted. We will not be swayed;
not be diverted from our charge.
It is a large order to fill. but
if we instill these qualities
into our progeny, they will be
on the road to a proud humanity.
The world’s sanity will be dependant
on their survival. Await their arrival,
it will be a grand parade! Crack the code.
Teach your children well.
**Written for Poetic Asides “School” prompt and conforming to Poetic Blooming’s “Song Lyric” prod
The wind across the lough is playful,
a fine mix of mirth and inversion;
diversion comes as a daily dose,
a closer walk with The One Being.
A cloud pocked horizon lays nestled
with beams of solar sweetness teeming.
I’ve been dreaming of a day like this
for a forthnight and now that it’s here
I take my pause to refesh, so blessed
in the dawning of every new day.
Each more precious than the next for sure.
A cure for the aches and pains of life.
Strife vacates and it’s never too late.
A glorious day to be alive!
A new poetic form developed by Marie Elena Good of Poetic Bloomings:
Poesia di Tema
Grief, she’s a loyal mistress
to a fault, but not hers.
Colm MacNish has been
both suitor and antagonist,
an anarchist in the ways
of a fond and common heart.
A quiet alcove, a point where
rendezvous met passion,
fashioned from a molted overhang.
But interludes of his romantic
crassness, served no purpose
of self or otherwise. Her eyes
Haunt him: pleading, beckoning,
luring him to despair’s crumbled edge.
Her melody plays within him,
a din whose volume rises
with each sordid thought of her.
Her hands, no longer caressing,
lay resting acrost her still chest.
Gentility abandoned in stark reality.
And grief has replaced her.
Colm longs for her countenance,
a remembrance most sad,
had he paid heed to her supplicant
cries, she may have averted
deaths forceful grasp. But alas,
gone she was. Colm MacNish
had an eternal wish. A projectile
befitting a man of his caliber
burst from its chambered rest.
Their bench sits now, vacant and decrepit,
worm meal in their absence.
Dyson Douglas and Iain Douglas,
brothers of different mothers; sisters
bearing together. Whether you can tell
or not, we’ve got a lot of commonality.
But the reality lies in our disticnt differences.
He is tall, I, verbose. His vacant stare, distant.
Mine closer to the vest, a chest full of white hair
matching the window treatments. He, a store-bought
couiffe (more handsome without). I bear the family nose,
he, our predisposition for the distilled beverage.
Ambition brings me closer to my dreams,
but it seems Iain dreams throughout. Not a lout
by any stretch of imaginings. Generous and caring,
I’m wearing the shirt off of his back. But, I have a knack
of romanticizing our connection. It’s for his protection.
Iain is ravaged; dementia his executioner. He remains
on this plane lost in someone else’s brain. His smile
takes the circuitous route to expression, brief as it is.
I am pained in the witness I must become, but feel
all the love for my brother, my comrade, my friend.
In the end, isn’t that what cousins are?
Daughters bring joy.
And any boy who dreams,
yea, even schemes to abscond
with my darling lassies
had better love and care
for their needs and welfare.
They deserve no less, the best
life could offer in petite packages,
the ageless continuance of my being.
Long after I’m gone, I will find life
in a grandson’s smile, I will delight
in a granddaughter’s wile; she will hold the cards.
It is hard to imagine their mother
in their genetics. No frenetic rant
comes forth from within;
it would be a sin otherwise.
The spectrum spans wide,
and I can not hide my exuberance
at their contrary existence.
Da loves his girls.
My ex? Not so much.
My nomadic existence takes me,
it literally makes me pick up
and move from time to time.
A well-worn traveler, an unraveller
of the fabric of my making.
An undertaking that take me
down under, a wonder in its own right.
A forth night from Melbourne,
an unborn yearning to make
my presence known.
North to south, hemispheres
exchanged and it is a strange feeling.
Stealing moments to enjoy this escape
until my longing heart starts
to pack and leaves for home.