Shall I Try Another Time?

As a bird of prey with keen honing eye

                                              All seeing

confidently commits to the kill

                                              knowing after all

He can fail.

Grasping and gasping for air, falling-

Still-                                       soaring in circles,

subdued in submission.

Resigned to a risk,

                                               not for Nothing. 

Tenacious talons will tell

                                               He keeps hunting around,

as a matter of life and death

                                               never quitting...

An intricate, symmetric web design,

a netting of nightly nuisance,

the magical machination of the arachnid,

                      in sinewy fracturable strands-

in an encrypted complex pattern.

So the spider must re-do, re-sew

                                                His yarn anew with each moon,

re-fabricating a miracle, laying his labyrinths,

never quitting…

Beyond prepositional propositions:

To fish is not to catch-To want is not to need-

To have does not necessitate-The gravitation pull of greed-

As a means to an end-Let us pretend-

We could not fail- in Our personal tale-

needing revising, strategizing, 

                                                 Meaning, 

intention,                                  Willful suspension...

Tick-tock the clock, the pendulum of idleness

pity us cursed humans

we sway so easily, steady she goes,

                                                  resigned in rhetorical routine.

A regular beat, monotonous, sonorous,

                                                 the triangle rings in our ears,

resounding all hollows, our bell may toll,

                                                 heavy in our burdens of want.

Reverberating need-pangs of truth

To strive or quit-To stay or split

persist and exist, to opt out-to prefer never

to quit again                              or die

trying

another time?

Feature image used by Dave Menke [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, US Fish & Wildlife

A Wild Hair

Once

I grew a hair

upon my

chin

& remembered

& recognized

& recoiled

seeing a mere mammal

Both of us-We know

how these things grow

Us the inconsequential mortal

& all its wild tortious things

That come and grow

Not that

You

or I

should care

about an unruly heir.

Image by By Detroit Publishing Co., publisher. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Growing Old While Waiting In Line

Growing Old While Waiting In Line

I find myself shrinking with fear,

trembling a touch making contact-in the eyes,

peering through the windows,

beyond the fragile glassy panes.

Shuddering at the cataract reflection-

noticing my naked youth

while waiting in line...

Patience reminds

Your turn will come

when this wait is done

my eyes avoid noticing

further running to a spot

liver on the empty face

of my spotted analog watch

hands fidget childishly

feet shuffle deliberately

I don't have much time

My heart thumps wildly,

Primate pounding fists-

I am Alive!

Discontented rumblings remind

of a scent, a smell, a pale zest,

for Life in this free Time

a penny for my thoughts

with inflation of receding interest

-I ponder-

What's is it worth?Is this the cost-

Of time well spent?

Tic-toc goes the clock...

Perpetual seconds elapse

When we are born do we know?

The time of our death?

Slipping glasses on bridges

rose colored reflections

of what used to be

fitted with sagging drapes

can't hold on to it all-no Time

to hold back- the time Now

replaced Impatience for Pabulum

to do, to have to do

and why not do?

Yet I see through porcelain

dentistry, the hollowed

gum smile, a knowing wink

(flinching blink) I smile back

knowing I'll make it

(on Time)

while waiting in line…

Painting by Karl Aegerter "Waiting in Line". Image from Wikimedia By Taxidermized (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Which Type Are You?

Clickety-clack! The sound harkens back

memories of mechanical metal keys

first machine to employ QWERTY

key striking, punching, and forget erase

manually pushing a rubber rod to that place.

Ding, Grind, Return!

(O how white paper makes ones stomach churn)

Ribbons tangled knotting little girls hair

happy letter circles post erect- sans care.

Will children tomorrow ever learn

of this odd thing called “carriage return”.

An olden device from yesteryear

( used by Lord Shakespeare-

 to the youth it would appear)

“A typewriter dinosaur?!

I think I’ve heard of that before...”

A dying art-

or relic part,

a Remington treasure

Underwood of heavy measure.

Oh-to bear the cursed weight

of a writers' heavy fate...

Ashes are just spent pages

From the notes of thin typing sages

Poets words have been lost

their precious pages tossed

aside as irrelevant tools

written by poor ancient fools…

But if the Poet is dead,

if  what may be written should no longer be read

will his secrets die too?

Although you cannot buy a typewriter brand new-

they are still used in funeral homes, like bodies stored,

and gainfully employed in the maternity ward

A picture can be repainted, but new layers don’t erase,

all that existed in the first place.

Out of ink, there was a problem loading,

use pencil or pen, technology not so foreboding.

A writers' day is done

if he can inspire no one

by tools of any kind

if a reader he cannot find

To type, text, jot and scratch-

Inspiration, words, ideas to catch,

"Thou art privy to irrelevant tones"

with these archaic words, one moans.

Stretching keys and word count is not prophetic

instead singing off tune, a non-meaning lyric.

Compose, Post, Draft, Send, Share-

How you write I don't really care...

This divine write, to right

to say, to mean, to express, and share the light

Is a beautiful mysterious thing

I can still hear the typewriter sing

Ding.

Image By Bain News Service, publisher [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Virtuoso Reality

Image by Scheffer, Victor B. US Fish & Wildlife Service via Wikimedia Commons 

Virtuoso Reality

A poet is a painter
who uses only black
and white and
in-between
the lines
where
form is placed
and lost
delicately staining
the inaccuracy
of vision through the haze
wandering a minds maze
where
wonton thoughts
race mazes
blazing trails
on a quest for truth
seeking a map
of the mind
only to find
where
truths treasure
seeks shelter
waiting to be seen
a picture painted
an image waiting
for the objective observer
you
to exact, form
design and blur
where
muted meanings
twisted tones
hereditary hues
the artistic amalgamation
of a pigmented portrayal
is expressed and etched
a reflection
in windows and mirrors
upon your accessible canvas
where
a picture becomes a poem.

Composed 9/20/14

Happily Never After

Image By GlenAFord at en.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons

One of the hardest things to see
is when to accept that it may never be.
Both of our hearts bleed,
not able to give what each other may need.
Romance I think we have honestly tried-
and your effort cannot be denied...
But when you move to touch me anymore
my skin stings and my body feels bruised and sore.
I said I felt abandoned and neglected
And you say you always feel rejected.
How can we see eye to eye
when it feels like we are living in the safety of a lie?
Waiting for the good parts to come
meanwhile our hearts grow cold and numb.
The problem isn't whose to blame
No matter what we try it stays the same...
I am a thorn in your side,
making you feel obligated and tied
Safe and secure, tried and true
always a work in progress, relationships take two
Ten years is a long time to wait
only to find you've lost your soul mate.
When two people are in love
whatever appears difficult they're able to rise above
stronger together
unlike stormy weather
Circles of speech, a vortex of energy
even simple conversations have lost the synergy
Focused on whose right and whose wrong
I haven't been wanted, cherished, devoured in so long...
I keep waiting, searching for a sign
that you want to be just mine
"Its not important to me" was your excuse,
telling you how I feel is of no use.
Moving on, getting over it, forgive and forget, it's all okay
since nothing really matters that I say,
'I'm sorry's' galore, 'I didn't think of you'
is any of this your fault too?
Can this ever be fixed
without broken promises- left hanging or nixed?
Perhaps my heart is just to scarred
I don't think it should be this hard...
Even now when there's nothing to lose-
but after this long it's plain to see
that it's not me
you choose.

Suffering in Silence

By Antonio da Fabriano II (Italian, active 1451-1489) (Walters Art Museum:  Home page  Info about artwork) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Shhh! I'm straining to hear

(I must admit, to you

this is my greatest fear)

thundering, rolling silence

boulders unwedged

cracking from a dry spell

not able to find the words to tell

nor a drop in the hollow inkwell

a writers ramblings

that chokingly clutter

floods of thoughts, ideas,

those clever lines I mutter

all taken for granted!

Perhaps there's just nothing

more needing to be said,

(it never before

felt like such a chore)

It used to come

like a heartbeats drum

Absent, broken, chaotic ideas

now dam

and make me look dumb!

A river of words flows by,

a waterfall of passion spills out,

taken by the current inspiration

that usually carries me

Dry and jammed

lodged with self-immolated Styx,

a busy beavers idle work,

where idleness eddies may lurk

I am told not to worry

it will be back and come in torrent

Can you hear the watery voice?

Comprehend its murky messages?

Now, I should confess

I am responsible for this lazy mess

(it's not as though I haven't tried

"I wrote a little today," I lied.)

Instead sterile white paper mirroring thoughts

Letters, symbols, pixels,

words that don’t go anywhere

stuck in virtuous silence

waiting for the stream to come...

Composed 8/22/14.