Author: lbstowe

I’ve rounded thousands of periods…both punishments & joys.
I’ve scribbled a thousand turns of phrase…each word my voice employs.

There was a time when a blank page was one of two last resorts.
As the road stretched on, they cleaved close to me; ever my cohorts.

Every letter of every word that I have ever writ down…
Sticks to me in a million layers; my armor & my crown.

Even wisps of sound that made no sense are now my bright brocades.
The tinkle of medals on my chest…the words my action fades.

Thusly, I am all that I have ever said, or wrote, or sung.
My teeth have their own typeface & I’ve an ink pad for a tongue.

Our facets give us substance; even conflicting ones.
Laser born of prism great, burn histories of suns.

Little idiosyncrasies…flowered grassy knoll.
What sets us apart is what makes us one of the whole.

We have a blooming face for different occasions.
One per season & one for all life’s deviations.

Still, each bud we pop in view is pulled out of the green.
Petals bobbing brilliantly above a meadow scene.

Yet from above, seen as a whole; foliage is all.
Up close, a blossom’s singular; distance deadens thrall.

There’s something in everything; while everything’s not much at all.
There’s value in right here & now; too high removed & you’ll fall.

There’s magic in brevity; the fleeting nature of beauty.
There are answers to be found…lost in moments felt acutely.

There’s release in less bandwidth; untuned from every data set.
There instead, ignorant bliss from past & future’s looming threat.

There is space to be had away from the feed & stream & screen.
There’s meadows & creeks & copses of trees waiting to be seen.

There’s where it was, there’s where it is & there it will always be.
With an iota of wit I’ll plot thru there & straight to me.

In for a penny & in for a pound.
This commitment what makes the world go round.

Feet first, headlong & put cart before horse.
Maximum effort hoping luck lends force.

We leap without looking while fools rush in.
We count all our chickens; both cock & hen.

We’re coarse & we wear our britches too big.
We don’t give a fig for games with no rig.

We won’t accept either second or third.
We live in silos but look to be heard.

We’re ever robbing Peter to pay Paul.
Yet, some are content & need not at all.

The mask you wear has slipped.
The level structures dipped.

The spell, at once, was broke.
It loosened every yoke.

You paused in your ascent.
Looked back & all had went.

No patrons held in thrall.
Now was your time to fall.

I’d hoped that you could fly…
Propelled by your own lie.

Soy completamente nuevo.
Acabo de salir del huevo.

Primero aprendí mi inglés.
Entonces, español y francés.

Pero soy un bebé en ambos.
Aún así, aquí estamos.

La brevedad de los poemas…
Tanto simple como supremas.

Con un léxico de un bebé…
Un mundo de sentido llevé.

Just a tick or two north of this or that.
We’re not letting the world across our mat.

Best to sweep a bit past our garden gates.
Pinch the dirt out from under potentates.

Small acts ease the load of clean, snatch & jerk.
Staying match fit for the coming end’s work.

We’ve chosen low before…& it backfired.
We’d choose high; but even the sky is mired.

We could stay still: maintaining the bubble.
Though life hemmed that thin…double the trouble.

What thus follows is like an ode.
It is writ in digital code.

Yet, you won’t see zeros & ones.
For, magic maths make air weigh tonnes.

Cyber language invisible…
Into known text divisible.

We read the data we are shown.
Aware, beyond, more could be known.

Yes, we take our tech at its word.
Ignoring ghosts that we’ve all heard.

Here, they are found in our skincare.
Former darlings of germ warfare.

Look there; alert & lucidly.
For, we fuck things up deucedly.

Our minds’ eyes fertile & fecund.
Absorbing more than brains reckoned.

Tweak the weapon & heal instead.
Yet, overuse will kill you dead.

Miniaturized arms…bombs & drones.
The last field of battle…our bones.

Reading is a mood enhancer.
Escape is the common answer.

We’ll run from here with all our might.
We’ll search the dawns for signs of night.

Our childish eyes just want to play.
If open, display they survey.

Their only function is to see.
They record both horror & glee.

We choose the things that our eyes know.
Words lend balance to ebb & flow.

For P