Writers Island ----------- Haunted Hearts

Full moon ushers Hallow’s Eve
Midnight hangs like silent death
A shallow grave now relieved
Exhales spirit through ghastly breath

Rotting patiently in hallow ground
Relished thought of settled scores
You hear the hell-sent frightful sounds
As she claws outside your door

The bullet riddled bride
Has come for better or worse
Enacting vows denied
Just as she’d rehearsed

Murdered by her hopeful groom
Blood now seeping from the floor
Crimson flow surrounds the room
Joining souls forevermore

Calculations quite amiss
She slowly pulls you down
Sealing union with a kiss
Tonight you’ll join her in the ground

Writers Island ------ Strangers

As I saw the post this week for Writer’s Island, I immediately decided that my comforted norm of poetry was not what I wished to do. I began to analyze the term “stranger” and what it means to me.
In the not so distance past I had a serious “priority dysfunction”, and make no mistake, I still struggle with it today although to a much lesser degree. There was a time when I was completely oblivious to how I’d arrived at such a place of self-absorption.
Back then I would have described “stranger” as some odd combination of “stray” and “danger”. Don’t ask me why. I’m still surprised, and to be honest, a little embarrassed, to ‘hear’ that kind of description leaking from my brain. Stray----an outcast; someone segregated from my acquaintance for unjustifiable reasons. Danger---something representing harm. Why would I perceive a person I don’t know as inherently dangerous? Perhaps I’d been programmed by the world to fear difference, change, and intrusive things that I did not allowed into my own tiny world. Ah hah, worldly influence had corrupted my impressionable mind. Yes-------that sounds good, just another victim of circumstances beyond my control; a common diagnosis these days. What a copout; conveniently pinning my personal shortcomings on an unsuspecting world.
The Samaritan in the Bible didn’t need such an excuse. Considering the times, no one would have thought less of him for simply passing by, but he didn’t. He wasn’t too busy to stoop down and help a wounded man, who was not at all part of his culture. At least for a small moment in time, the Samaritan swept aside the differences they may have had to help a brother in need.
Why did I believe that my schedule couldn’t allow for a few extra minutes to help someone stranded by the road, stuck in a snowy ditch, or a lonely elderly neighbor that longed for a tidbit of honest conversation? I can’t answer that fully or I would have never reached that point. I can only tell you about my new perspective.
Now “stranger” represents a friend I have yet to have the opportunity to share a cup of coffee with. Perhaps a culturally distant individual that I can now view, since I’ve broken down the walls I so carefully erected. It could be a long-lost friend whom I no longer recognize because of severed ties.
Looking back on it, the seemingly odd combination of “stray” and “danger” quite accurately describe me lingering in that broken state. I was straying from a lifestyle I knew to be right and in danger of loosing my compassion for fellow human beings.

Writers Island --- Message in a Bottle

Me sea-farin’ soul cries out
For a gallows bird am I
Viewing justice served askew
Through one discerning eye

Once captain of a pirate ship
Seeking fortune in foreign lands
Destined for a watery grave
Delivered by scurvy hands

Instead I’ll swings in arid breeze
Only dreamin’ of Davey Jones
While forsaken land-lovin’ birds
Pluck cured flesh from me bones

Alas, me soul met with dignity
Sailing free the frothy foam
If me glassy vessel runs ashore
Return her swiftly to me home

If you choose to ignore
This captains’ final request
May the curse of skull and crossbones
Ensure your painful death

Writers Island ------ A Brilliant Passing

Lush green leaves
Paint distant hills
With little remorse
Comes frost that kills
Resisting death
Hue by hue,
Brilliant moments
Remain but few
Undertakers, disguised as gusty breeze
Reveal again the barren trees

Writer's Island --- Corners

From cobweb covered corners
Whispering voices speak my name
Reminding derelict owner
They still languish there in chain
Exploring hollow recess
In the creases of my mind
Quietly shuttled to the corner
Replaced by those sublime
Misshapen and distorted
Fangs and claws sharp and willing
I imagine are these beasts
Bent on senseless killing

I find no gnarled creatures
Lurking in the crease
Merely ragged thoughts’ last gasp
Bemoaning their release
Resisting perfect mold
Their only petty crime
Perhaps conforming nicely
In another place and time
As for future days
I’ll gladly advocate
For even rogue ideas
Deserve a better fate

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.

So That We May See

No greater gift was given, precious eyes that provide sight.
How desperate it must be; a hostage in a world of all night.
Only those prisoners in the realm of darkness can explain
Their hearts weeping of dependence, isolation, and pain.

Unimaginable being deprived a rose garden so fair,
A bald eagle flying freely, wings slicing the air,
Fireworks bursting on the blanket of dark, oh what a treat,
Young children laughing, or simply a stranger we pass on the street.

They also witness visions of sorrow, death, and of tears.
We sometimes complain of horrible sights seen through the years.
Mind you, with them we see things we don’t care to recall,
But realize without them, we’d have seen nothing at all.

Confectioner's Dream

I’m quickly consumed by clouds of marshmallow cream;
Wandering blindly, wading a milk-chocolate stream.
I hear a small child laugh, she quickly takes my hand,
Begging for assistance in eating through marshmallow land.
Several joined us in lapping at mounds of sticky delight;
More than an hour of consuming before regaining my sight.

I watched as the children swirled down the peppermint slide;
Certain no one was looking, I snapped off a piece of the ride.
Finally appeasing my taste buds scream,
I dipped it in chocolate from the smooth flowing stream.

I followed the hard candy signs towards banana splitville.
Stepping carefully to avoid the recent hot fudge spill.
Along with two others I boarded the last banana split boat;
Briefly I considered the enchantment of a root-beer float.

I reluctantly left the land formed from a confectioners dream,
Only to hear dreadful sounds of the dentist drilling machine.
Soon he advised me I could now leave his chair;
His work finished; he'd made the necessary repair.
He warned of indulging the apparent sweet tooth I possess.
I keep my dream to myself; his diagnosis remaining only a guess

The Lamp

I had decided the night before,
in the line I would camp.
The genie would again be there
with his powerful lamp.
I watched as peasants became kings,
eagerly crowned with royal fame.
Instantly ruling over those,
from which they recently came.

Why did I resort to waiting in such a line?
I had been diagnosed with a disease
the doctors couldn’t completely define.
The only details provided were terribly grim,
unlikely I’d survive; the odds one in ten.

“Sir; do you believe these wishes,
are only for those physically here?”
I was afraid that the chaos of it all
had confused the poor dear.

He explained his worry was for his family;
bless the unfortunate tyke.
His eyes filled with tears,
as he told of their plight.
Mother deathly ill,
father neglecting the farm, to care for his mate.
The bank foreclosing too soon,
not accepting payments deemed late.

I consoled the young boy
the best that I could,
Reminding him how close to the genie,
he and I, now literally stood.

Suddenly the genie announced
that the lamp had unexpectedly run low.
It seems there was but one single wish,
left for him to bestow.

I knew the young boy’s, a much nobler deed,
I took a step back, and gave up the lead.
I turned from former position, there at the head of the line,
Considering my odds,
and what I might accomplish with limited time.

I heard the young boy shouting,
claiming he had wonderful news.
It seems that when wishes are for others,
genies granted them in two’s.

He invited me to his home,
leading me by my arm,
Explaining his family’s desire,
to know details regarding the farm.

When we arrived I expected to see
a castle in place of a shack.
But it appears the young boy
had only wished for what little he lacked.
His family was charming,
in a pleasant, peasant kind of a way.
Not only did I receive years, but friendships that day.

Placing the needs of others, ahead of own selfish aims,
Not only pays rich dividends in life,
but also in wishing games.

Wayward Lamb

O wayward lamb why must you stray?
Shadows begin to swallow the light of the day.
It’s time to come home and rest your sweet head;
Soon the herd will be safe and comfortably in bed.
One wonders what possesses his wandering wooly soul,
Unless separated from the flock is his eternal goal.

O wayward lamb why must you cause worry?
You meander over the hill and return in no hurry.
The wolves lurk in the shadows, waiting for the stray;
One leaving the group, intending to forge his own way.
Without your master watching, his trusty staff in hand,
You’d have no hope navigating the perilous world of man.

O wayward lamb why must you tarry?
A burdened soul your shepherd does carry.
You’re naive to the jeopardy of grazing alone;
Your shepherd’s hands deliver you safely back home.
He rescues you from evils you can’t comprehend,
His undying love for you has no perceivable end.


O wayward lamb your absence has caused such unrest,
But as promised, he liberated you from selfish distress.
All transgressions against sheep and your master forgiven,
Wandering tendencies from your mind have been driven.
Seeing you return to the flock, more precious than gold,
O wayward and weary lamb, it’s good to have you back in the fold.

Runaway Trains

Sufficiently imbibing addictions of choice;
smoothing the delivery of uninhibited voice.
Inebriated words birthed from distorted cells;
garbled communications obscuring their hells.

Overindulgence soon released in eruption;
painting thirsty walls with repulsive corruption.
Throbbing reminders of ill-advised consumption,
unlikely to prohibit further feasts of dysfunction.

Patterns repeated; routines thoroughly rehearsed
The filling of prescriptions not easily reversed.
Preferring to remain passengers on runaway trains,
embracing the steel of intensely familiar chains.

Running Shoes

I slip on my running shoes,
lace them up tight.
Running each evening for exercise,
but not so on this night.

I received a call
from his lovely wife.
Seems he was distraught,
and had suddenly taken his life.
She told of me of things, awful things,
things I refused to hear,
About how I’d adversely affected
my friend so dear.

Several years ago
something had sparked our awful rage;
Something about nothing,
as I recall.
Neither of us acting our age.
Like children refusing to talk
or even acknowledging the other.
It was terrible behavior,
especially towards my younger brother.
I contemplate words
that I shouldn’t have spoken,
and more that I should.
I’d take them all back now
in a second, if only I could.

Feelings of horrible guilt
and frustration nibble at my soul.
I curse them for such small bites
preferring they’d devour me whole.
Ashamed to talk to my mother
attempting to explain not being there.
When they laid my brother in the earth,
I couldn’t make myself care.
Often I think perhaps I should join him
in the cold, damp dirt.
But I know that would put an undeserved end
to my deserving to hurt.

Pacing for hours,
perhaps I made a mistake coming here.
Always the nobler of us,
I heard his voice;
instilling in me great fear.
“My brother, why have you waited so long,
and why do you roam?”
I couldn’t answer his questions
just sat there caressing the stone.
I listened as he expressed himself
something quite extraordinary for me.
That night, my lovely brother’s words
forgave, comforted, and healed me.

After we had finished our conversation
I reluctantly turned to go home.
I looked back one last time at him
and the gift I had placed on his stone.
No bouquet of flowers
that gesture completely slipped my mind.
It was my deceitful running shoes
that I was gladly leaving behind.

Spring Cleaning

Poetry frequently cleanses
the palette of my soul.
Gently transfer of words to paper
will again make me whole.
Clearing out the dark recesses;
allowing fresh ideas opportunity to sprout.
For its better they serve a useful purpose,
than to lie stagnant in doubt.

I’ve fostered them long enough,
confident they’ll find a new home.
Giving them freedom of choice;
ability to make a course of their own.
Like small saplings exposed to the elements;
they must fight to survive.
Some will wither and die from exposure,
but others will conquer and thrive.

I hope they’ll not hold it against me
if I was premature in setting them free.
Better to let them see light and breathe on their own,
than to stay imprisoned in me.
Someday they may come back,
thankful for the sanctuary I gave.
Or possibly others may curse me
for not allowing them to remain my slave.

But surely in the end they’ll see,
it was I who gave them life at the start.
They flooded and wandered my soul
and had been given birth in my heart.
I can only hope as with a child,
they visit often when I’ve grown old.
Intently I’ll listen as they speak proudly,
of their adventures and actions so bold.

Familiar Faces

Clocks dutifully mark the passage of time,
For this vital purpose explicitly designed.
Some hang on the wall, speak nothing at all.
Others when prompted; gleefully chime.

Oddly, we’ve doled out anatomical parts;
faces and hands, but no features.
Why not a pulse from the beat of a heart,
to assist such monotonous creatures.

Repetitive work for such tedious beast,
Rhythmically tracking our lives.
Staring at night, when I turn out the light,
And steadfastly there when I rise.

Where would we be devoid dependable ticks,
to synchronize all that they do?
I shudder to think, we’d be on the brink
of the last of our orderly days.

Brief Encounters

Wings flaunting their painted luminosity,
delicately flirting with breeze.
Energetic feats performed gracefully
lacking hesitation.
Curtain slowly descends,
introductions now complete
as she trustingly finds rest on my knee.
Certain the awe of her ballet has seduced me
sufficiently and will shield her from harm.
A brief moment in time, a small slice of tranquility.

Then she continues her aerial mission,
at bid of the whispering wind.
Silently I wish her farewell,
respecting our brief interlude;
reluctant to deprive others of such worthy performance.
Perhaps a field of lilies will welcome her home,
doubtful that they will appreciate her
as much as I.

She effortlessly floats over majestic oaks;
finish line clearly within reach.
Her youthful exuberance belies bitter truth;
or perhaps naively unaware.
Flightful days of summer yield to impending fall.
Laying somewhere breathless upon cold earth,
unwilling wings having deceived her trust;
frost covering them with silent deathly blanket.

I only hope she recalls, before death closes her eyes;
the peaceful time she rested with me.

The Boy Within

Oh, for the simple pleasure of boyhood days.
Toy soldiers, worn and tattered from the frays,
Painted expressions long since rubbed from view,
Vicious battles had whittled my troops to two.
The faceless duo still stands staunch in place,
Awaiting my command, and fierceness of my battle face.

Train cars lined the perimeter of a rickety old track,
The engine; white hot smoke pouring from her stack.
The multicolored cars swirling, merely now a blur,
My urgent need for speed, the engineer did not concur.
I backed the throttle down a bit, atop the track she’d stay;
The engineer tipped his hat, and flashed a smile my way.

I summoned outlaws and cattle thieves, oh so rough and tough.
My sheriff’s badge and lawman eyes always called their bluff.
Slick Sam had robbed the coach, left three passengers for dead;
He left a bloody trail to follow, two women full of lead.
In the street he made his fatal choice, deciding he should draw;
My .45 barked twice, reminding him you can’t outrun the law.

I quickly survey the area, making certain I’m alone;
Not a little boy on the floor, but a man who’s fully grown.
Even the blind soldiers without their painted eyes,
Have no trouble seeing through my manly-like disguise.
The engineer welcomes me with his wry and gnarly grin,
He also can see past the man I am, to the boy within.

Tainted Works of Art

Originating from infallible stock;
created in his image from inception.
Simply chips of an original rock,
yet brokenly influenced by deception.

Discontent with the works we become;
although etched with tools of our choice.
Artist unaccountable for outcome,
merely lending the language a voice.

Infected, selected, worldly tools,
yielding tainted works of art.
Never considering exterior rules,
leave lasting impressions on the heart.

Blindly discovering empty baskets
containing the harvest of our hearts.
Realizing choosing of caskets,
are where meaningful journeys start.

We easily point to the speck,
in a fellow brother’s eye.
Not willingly seeking to erect,
But instead, pulling down our ally.

Slivers of the original rock,
must be cohesively weaved in the end.
Collectively….true reflections of stock.
Individually……simply chaff, scattered by wind.

Hide and Seek

Smoothing, contouring, sculpting the surface layer.
Internal demons, we superficially attempt to repair.
Replacing living flesh with plastic and silicone;
Distorting bodies into something no longer our own.

Secular progression, untamed, spreading like fire;
Empty expressions displayed for the world to admire.
If anyone asks about your busy, but empty long day
“Living the American Dream”, you robotically say.

Difficult to determine what evil lurks behind the disguise;
Science provides fitting cover for deceit and the lies.
Perhaps if bodies were turned inside out from the start,
We’d see true intentions; in some cases, lack of a heart.

A grotesque display, typically visible after we’ve died,
See the venomous emotions that have festered inside.
Repressed feelings have slowly wrought their decay;
Surely all would shudder, at the enlightenment of such a day.

We must master and tame the beast under the tenuous skin;
Removing the security of cover, for the healing to begin.
No longer conforming to weak standards prescribed by mankind.
Embracing your inner-self, surprised at the beauty you’ll find.

Some insist society is responsible for the “great hiding game”.
Let us choose carefully and wisely, when delivering this blame.
We as individuals share in the debt, that will inevitably be paid,
Only the weak of mind and of character, are so easily swayed.

Heart of Rust

She wore a heart of rust,
Painfully visible on her sleeve.
Numb to violations of trust,
By a man she had once believed.

Offering an explosion of emotion,
Only craving a spark.
Years of one-way devotion,
Left her indulging the dark.

As she considered her losses,
Mind drifted to childhood things.
Although he had broken her heart;
He couldn’t weaken her wings.

Of losers, she’d seen scores,
Coercing women they date.
Breaking and entering locked doors;
Attempting to callously dominate.

Tiring of simple young boys,
Full of hormonal mistakes.
Leaving them to simpler joys,
Like puppy-dog-tails and snakes.

Gracefully lifting from her perch
She shook hands with the sky.
Beginning her onerous search,
For a kind and sensitive guy.

Nature's Mysteries

I quickly spy her graceful silhouette,
Why does the dove so mournfully cry?
I’d gladly lift her weight of regret,
If she would promise me then to fly.

How is it the many petals of a rose
Nestle themselves perfectly in line?
No sweeter fragrance graced my nose,
Nor palette, privy to finer wine.

Clouds float effortlessly in vast sea of blue,
Do they ever reach the end of the sky?
Stacked up neatly, folded too, a magnificent view,
And all the more reason to fly.

A star streaks past in a fiery farewell.
Who chooses which wish shall be granted?
Perhaps we could ask the one that fell,
If not in a grave, so violently planted.

Limbs arc to the earth, a green showery show,
For whom do the willows constantly weep?
I listen at night, the tears continually flow,
Rhythmically lulling themselves to sleep.

Questions beget questions, answers to nary a one
No more secrets revealed at the end of verse,
Then when I had first begun.
Mysteries of such proportion; surely divine
Fodder for restless minds; purely design

She Was

She’s a message in a bottle,
That’s never reached my shore.
She’s fully open throttle,
On the sports car I adore.

She’s a needed drop of rain
That quenches all my thirst.
She’s never caused me pain,
Though meeting is our first.

She’s a single ray of hope,
My guiding source of light.
She’s fading quickly now,
Nearly out of sight.

She was a vision in my mind,
Unlikely to return.
She was such a lovely find,
Now it’s some else’s turn.

Jagged Shards

Jagged shards, mistakes of past,
Hauntingly stalk us down.
Bitter times, meant to last.
Made to wear their thorny crown.

Misdemeanors, in mistaken view,
Halting progress, even now.
Mistakes of past, more than few,
We must answer to, even more so now.

Detours

Inconveniences, leading him slightly astray
Minutes burned, in an already too short day.
Destinations, inflexibly ingrained in singular mind;
Labeling sublime scenery as wastes of valuable time.

Blinders on tight, seeking the primary route
Consumed by the mission, ignoring my shout.
Exceeding the limit, dismissing the bend
Unable to negotiate, consumed by fiery end.

Certainly not the first, nor likely the last
I’ve witnessed expiring, in pursuit of the past.
I stand here along this secondary path
Hoping to impede their impetuous wrath.

Hidden Ally

A continuous battle rages within troubled mind,
Uncertain at times which hand victory might find.
Mortal enemies, fully engaged, maneuvering for control,
Mind over matter, when it concerns matters of the soul.
Each with vested interest, unwilling to bow before the other.
Unaware I pray for certain outcome, “Be vigilant my brother.”