Author: lbstowe

Trauma is as real as lying & love…
Crippling your mind when push comes to shove.

Always waiting for a surprising in…
Blindsiding your life with memory’s din.

Circling the drain; all cognizant thought.
Here again, time on the couch, life has bought.

As real as then; it all happens again…
Indelible trauma opposing zen.

It’s something to you & nothing to them…
But I’ll do owt to fight trauma’s mayhem.

Here we go uphill again…forgetting the easier times.
Focused on our hardship now; life sour as lemons & limes.

Sweat bleeding through like an open dam & looking soaked by rain.
Again, I push for my own sacrifice…opening a vein.

Heartbeat pounding it’s swish in my eardrums; fighting for my breath.
Fighting thru to reach the other side; still here, just shy of death.

Of course, I’m fine & flush with blood; endorphins making a round.
Euphoria comes & troubles melt-I’m high but still earthbound.

Then hardship’s pain evolves it’s form in trade for tired & sore.
After that, a heavy sleep & waking sure I’ll survive more.

Vigilance is the order of the day.
To newer horizons I plot my way.

The most we can do is to do our best.
But once you excel, put limits to test.

Check to see if boundaries are pliant.
Claim new land past your fence; be defiant!

Open up paths you’ve not trodden before.
If your record’s routine…record some more.

“Practice makes perfect”; but I disagree.
Perfect’s not real; just better by degree.

Aswarm with emotions at any given moment.
Anxiety, both my fear & my joy foment.

Feel it all as life engages me in badinage.
Varied in temperature like an ice & fire barrage.

I’m open to it all accepting life as it is.
Weary from heady days thinking I was master wiz.

Now, I keep a weather eye for currents that serve me.
Inside my concession lies the key to living free.

Knowing the chance of change & rain are reliable…
Makes surfing life’s pliancy a plan that’s viable.

Just providing alone does not a good parent make.
It only imparts that one’s gift entitles their take.

Shelter alone is not the definition of good.
It’s only a convenience of money & wood.

All children well fed cannot be assumed to be loved.
They very well may be fed by a servant white gloved.

Most children’s magic is that they reflect what they’re shown.
In their true words & kind deeds are good parents made known.

I could go on…insight making my history clear.
Yet…I’ve defied circumstance through each formative year.

I was never a mirror for unhappy adults.
I was fire upon my gene pool & that got results.

Fresh manure to feed the rose.
The opposites we juxtapose.

Two in love but open to more?
Still building homes on shaky shore?

Bandied freedoms while pruning rights.
Active mornings after late nights.

Own the future with squalor now!
World’s on fire; yet, wondering how.

Life’s for living until it slows?
The opposites we juxtapose.

These magic kids can heal anything.
At your service…my small Queen & King.

Mischievous, sweet, unencumbered things.
The joy a laugh from a child’s heart brings.

I hope their lives are unknotted strings…
Strung atop dreams with super strong wings.

Be vibrant in winters; as in springs.
Let play linger & swift be life’s stings.

Tears burn my eyes while happiness clings.
Their love I’ve felt. At which, my heart zings.

Time waits for no one; we’ve all heard it said.
But it changes shoes; some skate & some tread.

It marches in spite of dread & desires.
It doles low slung days & frightful high wires.

If you’ve got rhythm, & foresight, you surf…
Happily joining with time on its turf.

One can choose to rage & flail against time.
They’re song loud & short; no chorus…no rhyme.

Time’s dance spun for me a dearly fine thread.
And…
I keep weaving; choosing old over dead.

They tarmacked over my childhood today.
Black top suppressing its heat in the clay.

It smells of rubber & finality.
Steaming at dusk, as it cracks by degree.

Moonlit, I wait for the last crackling hiss.
My terrors buried & sealed without kiss.

My face red from heat, I knock on new ground.
My time capsule hardened as I danced ‘round.

Touching the tar, still warm in its cooling.
No more, my life, will bygones be ruling.

Stone cold by midnight; the past now compressed.
Asphalt bound secrets I’ve sometimes confessed.

Today I’m pulling my words right out of thin air.
Plucking the juicy ripe ones from here & then there.

I’m hoping against hope that a thread will appear.
Though, all it takes is some hope & faith stronger than fear.

Fear’s ever here that inspiration might vanish.
So, I test my mettle, with something outlandish.

Like plucking the words from the ether of my mind.
Thus, proving passion’s practice pays off in a bind.