Author: lbstowe

Here we go now! I am on hiatus.
Time to recalibrate my afflatus.

I’m now taking space for my sanity.
A month or two off to enjoy some free.

Not one missed day since inauguration…
I hope I’ve scathed this administration.

Aired my laundry & done the talking cure.
While not out of gas; I need rest for sure.

Soon, I will be back with much more to say.
So…come one, come all; after New Year’s Day.

Make peace with change; or else, it runs you over.
Progress rides on clouds of metallic odor.

Sparks, shavings, filaments, plastic & wires.
Grinding obstacles; unless we are drivers.

Drivers, clearers, or fuel; consumption’s growth pains.
Futures shake off the rust of our tearful rains.

No amount of fight, or whining, or outcry…
Can stop growth’s wheels, when determined to drive by.

So, max out fashionable technology…
Or be footnotes in old archaeology.

Never trust the barkers or beaters.
Nor, those who seethe silent like heaters.

Yes, it’s always the quiet ones…
Men making women come undone.

Cool outside & inside lava.
Dicks masked in calm’s balaclava.

Broken boys taught to hide their hearts.
Steered to sports & away from arts.

Fuzed fear & anger entwined.
Young men discouraged to be kind.

What of boys raised in black & white?
Men in the wrong so sure they’re right.

Stop bearing that cross; you’re gonna need the wood.
 She rued the sacrifices of motherhood.

She thrived on everyone’s “poor & pitiful you.”
Everybody’s escaping; leaving her blue.
 
Yeah…that’s a spun story. For, she dug her pit.
She was a crocodile & her tears were shit.

Only electric when her kids were hurting.
With their lives & disaster she was flirting.

Kept it up & her shoulders froze from the cold.
That cross may be handy, for warmth, when she’s old. 

The holiday of thanks now overlooked.
It don’t make money; so no longer booked.

Capitalism’s a god who won’t bow.
Won’t tolerate gratitude anyhow.

The one thankful gathering of the year…
Is overshadowed by the pending cheer.

So many children expect to receive.
Taught to want everything; with no reprieve.

The lesson’s consumption: our point to live.
No more true incentive for them to give.

No holiday observed where there’s only food…
Or lucky stars counted with gratitude.

What does forgiveness look like when blame’s not owned?
What is its shape when offense isn’t atoned?

Does it rot the heart or diminish the souls?
Does it take the last bite from emptier bowls?

Can acceptance & release be one-sided?
Can unilateral grace be confided?

Would forgetting crimes committed serve our growth.
Can either side, again, believe any oath?

I ask all these things in search of an answer.
Let’s move forward…without harboring cancer.

Breaks in the weather & breaks in the day…
Boredom’s a luxury, for which, I’ll pay.

Rarely idle hands in an idle tic.
My hands are so hyperactive it’s sick.

Making this; all while navigating that.
Both in collusion to get tit for tat.

Busied with art, with words & with feeding.
Neither, their freedom, will they be ceding.

Instead, let them head for each angry inch.
Each roused from their tiny deaths in a pinch.

Mystery pain in unseasonable cold.
I am a temperamental classic…not old.

True, I say all this with a wink & a smile.
Character alone is worth my gas per mile.

I may be testy & I make loud concern.
Yet, rarely is my inner warmth overturned.

Hard to start & even harder to finish.
Though my ride & style are tough to diminish.

So, my hinges creak & complain in sharp cold.
One exquisite antique…not just old; but bold.

Innocence & danger housed in one flesh.
Wide eyed, awkward & inside a hell fresh.

Charged with voltage & external ego.
Fear of fire & want of love; its credo.

Mesmerized by the newness of it all.
An up-cycled corpse thru eons must crawl.

When love’s unrequited, vengeance is sought.
The death of its maker, this forced life’s bought.

Painful existence sharpens mind & pride.
Forever’s searched for an eternal bride.

Born from charnel; yet, not allowed return.
Cursed immortal in Death’s flames’ icy burn.

More than a monster of man’s ambition…
Shorn from time to drift against volition.

Love & resentment aren’t mutually exclusive.
Like children with gifts that their mother found elusive.

The love is still present; though it bears filmy tarnish.
Her love is still free; even when it’s green is garnished.

A gifted child should be encouraged to hone their gifts…
Not exposed to or corralled by petty adult rifts.

Steering them to be the lowest denominator…
May not immediately show; but will do later.

Loving them means wanting them to be better than you.
Resentment’s a blinder…limiting all you could do.