THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART

MAJOR DETATCHMENT

A packed bag and a broken tin can left circling space
turning toward the sun, a face;
mirrored shield covering a mouth agape,
a hidden cave devoid of screams
and chants that mimic the drone
of a broken capsule pitching.
Switching from the crooked course offers little hope.
Major Tom sever your binding and shake your fist.
Floating, you vow, “my circuit’s dead, I can’t hear you
Planet Earth is blue; nothing I can do”.

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #108

Published in:

on 13 May 2013 at 9:36 AM Comments (25)

POLYCYTHEMIA

The high red blood cell count
tipped them off as it was detected
pulsing through his veins;
a thunderous fibrillation.
Like a thousand messages dispatched
to his outer extremities, all the charm
and amenities of life seem wasted
like a dish of soup tasted and left uneaten.
Spirit beaten and spitting blood,
the front dressing, crimson soaked,
spoke of his sadly grave condition.

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #107

Published in:

on 6 May 2013 at 10:13 AM Comments (19)

OBLITERATING THE LIGHT OF DAY

Evening falls from the heights of darkness,
the starkness and contrast fast becoming apparent.
A day left languishing in the warmth of the sun,
the one thing I’ll miss when the transformation
is complete. My feet feel the dew, grass between
my toes and I know the stars will stretch infinity.
In the vicinity of midnight and morning,
storm warnings announced as the clouds pounce
obliterating the light of day!

Taken from my poem: UNDER THE VALANCE OF NIGHT

Prompted by POETIC ASIDES – Day 29 – A line from your poem…

Published in:

on 30 April 2013 at 4:13 PM Leave a Comment

UNEARTHING NERDS

Protected pockets and momma’s
kiss goodbye on a freshly washed cheek.
Meek to mild, this internal child dreams
of rockets and exploration and all
the sex his nocturnal suspicion
can muster. Buster browns and eyeglasses,
round and magnified to hide his
insecurities and foibles. A boy in hiding
and chiding his lack of confidence
inhibitions exhibited and held close
well past high school. A fool who
could have had all he could handle
if he would expand his horizon. Despising
everything he had become. Solace in the words
he used and abused; a poet lost,
suspenders holding his muse.

For MIZ QUICKLY’S IMPROMPTU POETRY Day 30 – Stereotypes

Published in:

on 30 April 2013 at 3:03 PM Comments (5)

OLD POETS NEVER DIE

Expired expressions fester
and pester a weary poet’s soul,
needing to control the conversation.
And it is with elation that the wordsmith
strings words together like the pearls
of wisdom he imagines. Between neuron
spasms and fired synapses, the trap
has been bated. It is our fate to write
to the last, rhyme if there’s time,
And know each chosen word has meaning,
gleaning the exact definition from your words.
All other pursuits are for the birds.
May your words live on. You’re never done.

Prompted by POETIC ASIDES – Day 30 – Finished/Unfinished

Published in:

on 30 April 2013 at 2:28 PM Leave a Comment

DONE WITH IT

No reason to purge onward,
the urge to continue died
with each last breath buried
in the words written to please
others. Their quest for inner peace
came at a cost too great for me,
and it does not sate me to succeed.
So, I give up the ghost and seek a host
of other adventures before my chest
falls still. I will think of these things fondly,
but in all future endeavors, I’m done.

Suggested by POETIC ASIDES – Day 30 – Finished/Unfinished

Published in:

on 30 April 2013 at 2:19 PM Leave a Comment

VIBRANT HUES

I sat in a field one autumn night,
the moon, dark like the devil’s heart.
All the foliage remains high; a spectrum
painted with brush strokes vibrant and crisp.

Unseen and unnoticed
oblivious to the future’s conundrum.
Silently minds tossed ideas falling flat
the big winner unloved; unsavory.

Blank expressions offered hope and life,
yet weak to the looks you proffer; alive
from your passing, yet sad in how sweetly
you tucked in your wings and fell.

Every day now, the truths of solitude have dulled,
cutting and shredding like an un-sharpened blade; sculpting.
This dale, grass taller and moist, tears from eyes
gray, where living colors play, one autumn night.

With polar similarity to Neutral Tones by Thomas Hardy

Written for NaPoWriMo 2013 – Day 30 – Opposite Words

Published in:

on 30 April 2013 at 1:51 PM Comments (5)

THE BEAT GOES ONWARD

Like worms and grubs we suck
the marrow out of life to borrow
an existence thin and transparent.
If you never saw harrowing horrors,
you could guess such rare occurrences
are either fantasy or well-scripted.
We swear an oath to march to
our own drummer. That becomes our snare.