Spewage

This piece was prompted after reading comments on a poetry blog. I can't even remember the exact argument it was so drawn out and convoluted......something to do with the poetic process. The discussion eventually turned into personal attacks in regards to their poetic abilities! Can't we just enjoy each individual contribution for its strengths and weaknesses and not find fault with whatever process inspires each of us?



Much of what I read today
Seems garble in fancy dress
Feces wrapped in pretty foil
Failing to impress

Peeling back pretty wrap
Unveiling layer by layer
Disappointed with the crap
Wafting through the air

Both arguments reduced
Down to chalky bones
Left me feeling amply soiled
With their condescending tones

Tiny Fractures

Creeping across the frozen glaze
Miscalculation mostly mine
Amidst the foggy frigid haze
Seems I missed the fatal sign

Tiny fractures in delicate form
Belied emergent breach
Familiar calm before the storm
Safety safely out of reach

Fate would find me far from shore
When icy jaws bared jagged teeth
Opening up the frozen door
Revealing dismal depths beneath

Piercing shrieks turned to silent moans
Dribbling from my frozen lips
Replaced by creaking brittle bones
She tightened her icy grip

Traveling through my slowing mind
A single thought wound its way
Considering all I’d leave behind
Missing most the heat of summer’s day

Distortion

The purveyor of distortion
Masterfully works his art
Poisonous intentions
Dissolve purity of the heart

The unraveling of souls
Barely makes a sound
As do hopeful dreams
Lying prostrate on the ground

Exploiting cracks in armor
His twisted expertise
No need for gaping holes
Simply weakness of a crease

Gnarled fingers grip the victim
Bewildered by his charm
Whispering sweetly in the ear
Wary conscience to disarm

Massaging of the bed
To accept deceitful seeds
Promoting sense of self
While loathing others needs

Incapable of reign
Solely on his own
Resourcefully converting organs
Into worthless chunks of stone

Splendor Past

Decorated guests
Once graced her ballroom floor
Marble tile beneath their dance
Residence of opulence
Subjected now
To fateful circumstance

Crumbling walls
Find rest on rotten planks
Swallowed up in dusty plume
Shattered fragments
Of splendor past
Now soil the musty room

One single beauty clings
An anxious chandelier
While fretting grave below
One tattered rusty link
Postpones
The gruesome show

She takes a single
ragged breath
Reliving younger day
Smiling one last time
As the weary link
Gives way

The last precious portion
Now lay splinted on the floor
Rotten beams of torsion
Resisting fate no more

Spirit letting go
Collapsing in a heap
Loyal to end
Provides her restful sleep

Substitute Teacher

I patted his head, as I finished tying his shoe,
Unsure the method proper, but knew it would do.
I placed him into his seat, and fastened his belt.
The look of admiration depicted how we both felt.

I knew this lesson and others, better handled by father’s hand;
I’d willing serve substitute, until time he could understand.
I taught him to fish and to hunt, the things I knew best,
Knowing God and his mother could handle the rest.

Teaching him my trade, planting seeds in a row,
Nothing extravagant, yet magic observing them grow.
As he matured he helped me harvest the grain.
We shared pieces of life; bundles of joy and shards of pain.

I’d spoken to his mother, both feeling he was old enough to share;
The story of his father, and the reasons he couldn’t be there.
“I used to know a friend; he looked exactly like you.
He worked the fields with his father, just as you and I do.

But the boy’s heart was heavy, working soil never his dream.
He explained his true calling, was weaved with patriotic theme.
How could a loving father deny loyal dreams so grand?
He gave him his blessing, as he quietly left for foreign land.

It seemed he made a fine leader, commanding his men.
He received medals of honor, much to his chagrin.
Eventually the war bird carried his weary soul home;
He selflessly surrendered his life, shielding one of his own.

After the war, a young man came; the one shielded from harm.
He wanted to see for himself, the beauty and solitude of the farm;
Bringing with him a box and a note, from the soldier of past.
The letter composed, the night preceding his last.”

The old man’s hands trembled, as he read what he wrote.
Barely able to speak, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“If this terrible war, keeps from me from making it home,
I wish my medals to be displayed, by one of my own.”

He pinned the medals proudly, atop the boy’s chest,
Letting him know, his father had wished him the best.
“When this soldier died, you surely lost your dad,
But I also lost my son; the only one that I had.”

Regret

Found on wings of flightless birds.
In trusting hearts that remain broken.
On lips of unspoken words.
In mouths of words harshly spoken.

On frost covered wings of butterflies.
In hands not seeking the company of another.
In potential, stifled and unrealized.
In deeds undone, relating to others.

In hesitant feet, afraid to reach the dance floor.
In unchallenged minds not seeking a cause.
In journeys not ventured, lost for evermore.
In lives perpetually stuck on pause.

Gardens of Worry

Distant hills burst with color, in a blinding array;
The chasm too great, to clearly hear what they say.
Orchids and tiger lilies sway in sweet mountain breeze,
Vibrantly dancing before the sky and the trees.

I was warned such gardens existed only in foolish mind.
I set out with intentions of returning proof of my find.
I’m drawn closer, wishing to observe the language they speak,
Eavesdropping on floral stories; that they secretly keep.

I came to this place, partly to escape fellow man,
But I spied in the distance a figure with shears in his hand.
He whistled a long forgotten song, pruning while he hovered;
I knew it wouldn’t be long, before I was discovered.

Instead of being scolded for trespass on finely manicured land,
He offered me a rose, from his withered yet friendly old hand.
He invited me to sit on a bench, I swore not previously there
And advised me he had a story; that he wanted to share.

It seems in years prior; he made a trip to this land,
His mind burdened with worry, nearly more than he could stand.
Making a furrow, he placed each care with deliberate purpose,
Burying them deeply, in hopes they would never resurface.

At first the garden quite small, barely a row
But evolved quickly, into a tremendous flowery show.
Each morning he rose, and knelt on one knee.
Saying a short prayer; that his mind remain free.

He asked me to kneel with him, in front of his bench.
The words flowed from his mouth like the song of a finch.
“Lord I pray, you’ll free the mind of my friend
From cumbersome thoughts, and the turmoil within.

You’ve granted me peace, for a right many years.
It is with great joy, I now turn over my shears.
My gardening tools willed into capable hands,
Allowing him opportunity, to cultivate his lands.”

My original intent, to return with proof of my find,
No longer seemed paramount, in my trouble-free mind.
I’m only grateful, to have liberated my hardening heart.
I pray that all will decide; it’s time for the planting to start.
‘Gardens of worry’, we all desperately need to sow,
In order our minds remain free, and flowers continue to grow.