Author: lbstowe

I love being underestimated; it gifts me broader chances.
And, when I have the lesser hand, I’d not augment my circumstances.

Going stealth & near invisible, most bestow the barest glances.
When I am among the throngs…my anonymity it enhances.

Some say leaning into false perception is the weakest of stances.
Yet, who attacks civilians when there’s no shortage of foes with lances?

Then, there are the times when the day’s orders are preening brags & prances.
Those foolish means to draw a pool of fools into stupefied trances.

Underreckoning’s effective in dodging violent advances.
Though, the shields of false assumptions do not result in dates & dances.

Where to run under cover of dark.
Skirting neighborhoods, townships & parks.

Mass escape to all ports north & south.
Secret plans whispered & word of mouth.

Watching camps thrown up in bright of day.
Staying well hidden to get away.

Open season on progress’s march.
Powerful people becoming arch.

The marginalized under attack.
We may never get our homeland back.

Put my mind in a particle collider.
I want my consciousness wider & wilder.

Put my heart in a smelter for high speed rail.
I long to feel their loud & purposeful wail.

My innards on a spindle knit into thread.
I wanna house the support springs in your bed.

Take all my tendons & lace them in a bow.
I can secure you, wherever you may go.

Last…take my skin & fashion yourself luggage.
Carry me with you & let me be haulage. 

There was a girl whose tears were jeweled beetles.
Their carapaces tough & sharp like needles.

She cried no more or no less than any child.
But when she did, the scene people made was wild.

Full grown adults were shrieking in shocking fear.
They ran from the child who only needed comfort near.

For, she had no idea that her tears were strange.
They fell off of her cheeks & then they would change.

She had no friends, because they all ran away.
Like the grownups they’d been taught to be afraid.

Their overreaction, to her, was barmy.
If they hurt her, she’d cry herself an army.

If you’ve got a smile on, you really can’t complain.
I know where to find them, wither sun or rain…

In the valued minutiae of quantity.
Perspective imbues these mean things quality.

Quality exists in what’s precious to you.
Who’s to say, if you’re wise, that good things are few?

Ritual exists to slow us down to now.
Each thing in your day can have a dance of how.

So logic dictates, where logic still applies…
Busy is a breeze, upon which good time flies.

Whose, without time, does not edges soften?
Whose life, without dreams, is happy often?

Whose eyes, without light, have ever known tears?
Whose life, well lived, does not endure the years?

Whose poor heart, while beating, has love not touched?
Who truly, without shame, has pearls not clutched?

Whose life, with no strife, is not much stronger?
Who, without laughs, has not felt well longer?

All of these may be employed as evidence…
To define a good life’s basic elements.

I lived life in front of a mirror for quite a hike.
Now, I don’t quite know that I’m sure of what I look like.

I spent so much time ignoring my own reflection.
Whilst I focused on the mirror’s other projection.

They were there, center stage, forcing my irrelevance.
I shrunk by the minute under all that deference.

You were the flower in need & I was your gardener.
Beauty was my charge…but I wasn’t your pardoner.

I’m “Popping tongues”, “frying eggs” & “kissing teeth”.
I make silent breathy curses underneath.

My barely hid seething makes jaw tendons flash.
I rush ragged breathing & rising red rash.

My ears feel afire…say, do you smell smoke?!
My composure fragile; like the film on yolk.

My hands are trembling & my heart’s exhausted.
I’ve “done unto others” & Brother, it’s costed.

I’m not angry or injured…just sick & tired.
I’ve employed “Golden Rule”. Now, enough! It’s fired.

Gail force leaves signatures across the dunes of deserts.
Even choppy seas are signed in whipped up foam & spurts.

The breeze is ever on show; all we need do is look.
Read outside most days; it’ll turn pages in your book.

If you can but stretch, look up, treetops argue with wind.
Their debates knock tree crowns off; but mostly they just bend.

The vents of blowhard storms are known to take out power.
Yet, if the time is right, night blows a bloom to flower.

Drafts are coming for your hair & whip your clothes around.
Trash twists in spouts & often leaves money on the ground.

Every second counts, when you are feeding souls.
Whether with kindness, laughter or food in bowls.

They’re innumerable…the ways we nurture.
It’s each ounce we spend mitigating torture.

Yes, even the softest of touches still counts.
Wither shielding or leading life’s marching bounce.

Each new rise & fall offers chances to soothe.
For the course of love nor life ne’er did run smooth.

If you miss one, don’t fret, the next is coming.
Serve your attention & avoid all numbing.