You worry about my comings and goings,
as if I am tied to someone else’s life.
But life is rife with opportunities
and the unities we have established
do not serve to anchor a heart when
feet continue to seek new ground.
My acquaintances know my nomadic ways,
and I spend days and weeks at a time
enjoying what’s mine when I find it!
(Mine AND the time!) So let me be,
and I’ll be. Just leave your message
at the beep. I’ll get back when I am!
Brain and braun and a mean streak
a mile long, with hands and a stronger head.
He could have been anything,
but he chose to be a pugilist instead.
A mighty upper-cut has he,
and a jab to keep his foe at bay.
In a way, a choreographer in this
ringed dance. Fighting for his life.
One more concussion and
all discussion of his future will include
warnings of permanancy. It is he
who chooses his fate;
who is to say if it’s not too late?
And the longer that he waits,
the gong will eventually ring his finality.
The banal refusal to concede with words
unheeded, will kill him. Boxing is all he knows;
it is all that thrills him. Life’s battered heavyweight.
The winds chill leaving remnants
of September’s sour breath lingering.
In the hollow, the animate search
for the place to settle, to join in their
sedentary brethren’s hibernate states.
Rivers and streams convey their coolness,
a restless meander through valley
and hill. The trees are still holding
the foliage foisted upon them, barely
releasing the palette presented.
The sound of October’s afternoon
sings like an anthem; a stoic hymn
to nature’s wonderment. But, there
is a resentment in the fading of the light
as night comes earlier and the days
are an endless play, friendless in a way
that lonely hearts can attest. At best
October is more appreciated in decline.
A case of mind over decayed matter.
Through the clearing there is hope.
But it seems months removed.
Treading to keep your head above water,
catching a lungful from time to time.
Going down too many times to count,
but you struggle to survive. You remain
alive with the words that drip with the emotion
that has always been your forte. Drowning in a sea
of night sweats and blankets tangled, and things
that go bump have you stumped as your sleeplessness
offers only anxiety and paranoia. Hold your breath
and allow rest to resuscitate your muse.
You’ve abused yourself far too long. Be strong
and let nature heal what it has destroyed.
The king is not dead, he merely sleeps.
We think it is about time.
You can’t keep a good poet down. Best wishes and thoughtful prayers for Walt Wojtanik an extraordinary poet who has fallen prey to his demon. He will surely bounce back.
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?
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.