Author: lbstowe

A little magick from a fairy.
Stories told in confectionary.

Jewelry making everybody sing.
Spells cast & broken inside a ring.

Pointed nods from someone in the know.
Be wary of temperamental glow.

An imperceptible beck of hand.
Just as deftly striking-up the band.

Eyes flash a wisp of disappointment.
Plebs scurry in downcast deployment.

In aide of twisted ceremony…
Chattel for sale: stallion & pony.

This diamond studded fabled pairing…
Of antique codependence glaring.

Commitment is a choice made each day…
Rendering weddings a pressure play.

If it’s real, you won’t be left alone.
So, why do we still desire to own?

We won’t waste even a second or two.
Years were wasted & group effort is thru.

We arrived at impasse by other’s lead.
Help & advice were not things they would heed.

Circumstance requires our presence adjoined…
Courteous silence of what you purloined.

Hopes for growth go unplanted & fallow.
We can’t speak deep; they insist on shallow.

There’s just nowt they’d say that I’d ever trust.
We’ll coexist silently; for, needs must.

I can guess all the spin they would deploy.
Yet, twixt us, quiet’s what we should employ.

Best you can do is steer her away from you.
It’s in her best interest; though, it makes you blue.

Inventory every one of your worst faults.
Admit them openly; then, lock them in vaults.

Never miss a chance to reinforce the change.
Opportunities will drift by of each range.

You should not be the limit of her reach.
Make them better than your bubble; ensure breach.

For, none will thank you for making a double.
Do the right thing; save her some of your trouble.

Loving every minute of it.
Watching folks desperately covet.

Seeing scandal fall each second.
It’s circumstance: fertile fecund.

We barely wait for new bombshells.
Too few correlations with Hell.

At the ready: revelations.
Faith, politics & relations.

Rare, that ends are like beginnings.
Life cycles broke into innings.

We’d like to think we’re above it.
Still, each second is beloved.

Ugly sees & ugly does.
Ugly acts are all abuzz.

Even right & even wrong.
Be right & wrong all day long.

Pressure on & pressure off.
Pressure hid in suppressed cough.

Progress forward & regress back.
Egress from all old attacks.

Way upstream & down river.
Recycling all aquiver.

At the end as at the start.
Big bangs blowing all apart.

This bright & fecund springy smell.
The vibe of flowery vale & dell.

Dawn’s open eyes & open doors… 
Open armed seasons: three of four.

Cool morns & afternoons balmy.
Light intrudes on twilight calmly.

The day’s temp swings make humid more…
The tranquil scent of petrichor.

Cold still happens at one or two…
Then fades away; as seasons do.

Long felt warmth: Spring, Summer & Fall…
Makes up for Winter’s pain & all.

All we can do is ask for help & try.
He said to himself while reaching for sky.

He can’t make sense of doing it alone.
But, a shark attack cannot be postponed.

He asked for help at the top of his lungs.
Floating on a door that, recently, hung.

Blubbering water between desperate breaths.
He treads water guessing a thousand deaths.

As the flames die out & the wreckage drifts…
He patiently waits for his luck to shift.

Darkness falls heavy on a lonely tide.
Blinding lights pierce night & castaway’s  spied.

Brought ashore & stabilized by first light.
He alone survived the watery night.

Senility lurching thru hallowed halls.
Careens at danger in lucky close calls.

We now bet on everything, even this…
On whether we fall into an abyss.

Fights for clout; instead of constituents.
Right & wrong now fully ambiguous.

Like sharks, each wicked tooth pulled is replaced.
As shown by department heads switched in haste.

Seems like a race to the bottom this fall.
When, I hope, evil slinks off with blue balls.

Nationalism, Gestapo, KGB…
Scary current recurrent philosophies.

Patriots, Job Creators & Aliens…
Dyed by conspiracy & immortal spin.

Right wing nuts, Billionaires, “The Truth is Out There.”
Broad daylight’s revealing what we should forswear.

Orthodoxy, Dogma, Karma, Religions.
We’re great at trapping ourselves in divisions.

The list of worries grows longer with each day.
Soon enough, we people, will have final say.

Another sour cow from the same sour herd…
Whose milk is overripe & thick with curd.

Birthed by druids under a bad moon’s rise.
Then raised on the rot in the brood sow’s eyes.

Emerging from suckling bile-giving teats.
Poisoned in the head that females repeat.

Generation trumps iteration’s guise.
Heifers don’t know they’ve wings; so, not one flies.

Thus, even after seeing pigs take flight…
These cows cannot conceive of flying’s height.

Sour at the whole farm ‘cause they missed out.
Resigning to a life of pout & doubt.