I won't refuse it, this living of mine.
Frustration glares at me like a sign:
My era is ending; I'm losing my way.
That's been true, but why decay
When once I bloomed upon this vine?
You know, once I would decline
Handshakes out of terror. How fine
it is now! Kenny drops by and says hey;
I won't refuse it.
I thought I had to change my line.
I thought I had to leave behind
This chapter. Before I never ate,
Now I do with laughter. Why say
That now this humble life's supine;
I won't refuse it.
Category: Rondeau
Whatever
Whatever can be a beautiful term,
Not just a juvenile linguistic squirm.
The word exists in many forms.
Despite it earning my partner's scorn,
Sometimes the word helps me stand firm.
On occasions when rage in traffic worms
Its way inside, extinguish the burn.
Even if they honk the horn,
Whatever.
When my lover fears I'd spurn
Him for something shallow as a derm;
When he asks me so forlorn
What I'd do to help but a thorn
Of his dreams come true; I reaffirm:
Whatever.
That’s How it Goes
That's how it goes when you're not like the rest:
They lay down the rules that suit them the best,
But some of us play from a different book.
I don't think I'm above it, I'm no crook;
An addict perhaps, if I have transgressed.
Those of our kind, our static's possessed
By demons of sickness set to divest
Us of joie de vivre by their seething hooks.
That's how it goes.
How can one live at the system's behest?
None can be civil with spirits oppressed
By an inner void which hurts just to look
At, let alone have the courage to brook.
I have nothing to add nor to contest,
That's how it goes.
The Superstar
The superstar of a single block
Is irrelevant on another's clock.
He's made his crowd scream and shout,
But anywhere else he has no clout.
If he's a headcase he's in for a shock.
Once he leaves he's a line of chalk.
Who'll care if someone should hock
Any blasphemy about
The superstar?
At first it'll all seem inside-out,
But is there ever really a doubt
That after he's gone life continues to walk
Ahead, away from yesterday's talk?
That corner will still exist without
The superstar.
I am the corpse no one expects
I am the corpse no one expects,
One of those whose demeanor affects
The pleasantries of happiness;
But underneath there snaps duress,
Whip-like in vicious dialects.
A melancholy which vivisects
The soul. Simple becomes complex
For the wretch whom no one would guess
I am.
Misery in stasis directs
Toward a grave; emotion collects
In a gutter where I compress
From our dimension down one less.
As one of secret derelicts,
I am.
Rondeau; DJ
Ask someone, "hi, how are you?" Although I know it can be hard to; Some believe small talk is worthless, But sometimes that could be the furthest Thing from the truth I could argue. It could be a minor remark you Absentmindedly impart to A person right when their rebirth is; Ask someone, "hi, how are you?" An earnest care may loose a dart through Deep, demonic crises or scars you Never guessed to be the verges Of anguish they keep beneath the surface; Besides, kindness will recharge you. Ask someone, "hi, how are you?"
Strike the bell again
Strike the bell again! Invoke the winds, and when That highest soaring note Pierces the most remote There'll be no need to pretend. When every word of pen With its song ascends To life from writing's rote, Strike the bell again! Gods of music, cleanse Our worried brows with zen, Make the bags we tote Light enough to float. Laugh once more my friend; Strike the bell again!
The color of fire in this creature’s lungs
The color of fire in this creature's lungs
Is the token of truth that escapes his tongue,
The deepest majesty of existence;
All good flows from this source, for instance
His energy on the ladder's rungs.
For quite some time the fact has stung,
Despite his best attempts he's wrung
The smallest bit of the richness's semblance,
The color of fire in this creature's lungs.
Burning still in torches hung
Within his innard halls, far-flung
His sorrows are cast by the persistence
Of love enveloping like incense;
Envision how it shines when swung,
The color of fire in this creature's lungs.
My lover the sculptor in weary creation
My lover the sculptor in weary creation, Abstracting the postures of stones and their stations, Designing oft bodies unsuited in nature, Chimeric constructions in future danger That hearken toward an internal cessation. He toils in his labors of ceaseless duration Dismayed and unnoticed, without a relation Or patron whose willing to bargain his wager; His vision remaining opaque in persuasion. More monsters metallic that mime the purgation Of every ideal he aspired to, mutation In nightmares of decades that twisted the picture With nothing to focus on but his denatured, Lamented career of peregrination, His vision remaining opaque in persuasion.
The withered shoot will desiccate
The withered shoot will desiccate, The sickly sapling coruscates Luxuriant and loved a while With tender fondness, as a child Who loves its greenness but abates. It's not enough to briefly sate The wandering eye's need with spates Of evanescent, dying smiles; Grow up, for love won't reach the dead. The sturdy tree we designate As worthy, and determinate Not on those weeds without the guile Or otherwise tenacious style To grow from their own lands their fate. Grow up, for love won't reach the dead.
A place for my poems 