Category: Poetry

That’s two hundred & fifty; I’m done for the year.
One annum’s weekdays; plus two weeks vacation, Dears.

One thousand in four years & the same on the way.
For now, though, it is decidedly time to play.

My heart & mind, messes that must be reordered.
I’ll see you again, when Janus faces forward.

This is not a goodbye; it is so long for now.
Right now, it is just time for some self-care know how.

I may drop in & drop out occasionally.
But, the rest of my year’s a hundred percent free.

Think thoughts of items tactical.
Extraction seems impractical.

Inside the churn you don’t see froth.
Swim sun-warmed ocean’s salty broth.

Changes will come & go as tides.
Tiptoe thru March, avoiding ides.

Pendulums swinging fore & aft.
Missing what’s coming back is daft.

Planning, readying; be prepared.
All three of these show that you cared.

Core, big picture, contingencies.
Can’t be over-prepared, you see?

Engaging effort’s the main goal.
Lickety-split & you’re on a roll.

Always pushing to an end.
Always projects that we tend.

Deadlines now & deadlines soon.
Due dates loom like heavy goons.

Push the limits; push the dates.
Push on all the boundary gates.

Patient waiting for a break.
Patient waits for goodness’ sake.

Expectant eyeballs watch clocks.
Expectant mothers hate cocks.

Whilst finishing tasks at hand;
New chores fall to your remand.

Constant flowing shuffled needs…
Who’s key’s finding harmony.

Many have tried to take away my voice.
Even still, speaking truth would be my choice.

Even facing hate in response to art…
Only add’s more depth & substantive heart.

It’s desensitization that I fear.
Walking embodiment of dullest tier.

All of our senses populate what’s real.
But, haters would have them no longer feel.

Life shakes & breaks us with earthquakes & death.
It double taps us when we’re out of breath.

This wreck washed up & faced a true siren.
Eldritch & couched in bloody environ.

I survived; because I am no tick’s feast.
She thought me the least…so, I was released. 

Still, we escape just to suffer the more.
But; not the same twice…if you learned before.

Ouroboros cycle we can’t leave…
Perception changes what is perceived.

Trusting eyes is sufficient on face.
But a deeper bond shows just a trace.

In eye corners & livid shadows…
Whispers proof of more than is appose.

We are crucial to reality.
It doesn’t exist if left unseen.

Still, something real resides in these cracks…
Unbeheld, without eyes in our backs.

Failing mechanisms gone unseen.
Ignorant bliss…then, I need morphine.

Unguents, salves, ointments, patches & creams.
Routinely coating all creaky seams.

Whatever solution’s quick to don.
Whatever dull’s enough to press on.

But, this ain’t space & pushing hits walls.
Pain arrests…like a knee to the balls.

Like the plague, I avoid bed helming.
Forcing nerves to their overwhelming.

Effort & injury oft convene.
Ignorant bliss…then, give me morphine!

The moon lights silver fog in dark forests.
Owls & wolves join their cries in dark chorus.

Wafts of brume curl on the wind spelling “go”.
Almost staged, it seems, this spooky tableau.

Unseasonal cold grips brisk & burly.
This moonless night’s pitch fell far too early.

It’s all feeling real…including this pinch.
Sudden & shrill sounds like a cackling witch.

Spin to throw my eyesight all around.
Still, nothing but nighttime’s creatures are found.

White hot pinch pain in my neck & shoulder.
I’d bolt but I’m pinned by weights like boulders.

Two slender rocks with hands carved from marble.
Pain subsides as I stupidly marvel.

A cold sweat clears eyes to see living lore.
Not mineral; but man…plus something more.

A vampire, really, to save me from death?!
Shot from my nightmare; in bed catching breath.

Little relieved & a little let down;
My chuckle breaks my disappointed frown.

We, all of us, commit suicide.
Slowly worn out; our healthy young hides.

Some with fire, some smoke, some drink.
Some, into consciousness’s depth do sink.

Some wait to fall from their own decay.
Alone, at Christmas; Lovers in May.

With leaden bullets & hearts bereaved.
With bitterly borne small tragedies.

Inside our hearts & inside our minds.
We’ll self-snuff with whatever we find.

Even choosing life’s choosing to die.
We, all of us, commit suicide.

Left to only imagination…
I slowly conceive my damnation.

With only a heart & a head armed…
A little of myself oblivion charmed.

In the pewter halls of solitude…
Ice gathers on humor’s altitude.

Without input’s bereft engagement…
Only my faults can grant assuagement.

Again, convinced that I’m the worst…
Then, tech chimes “love” & conviction bursts.

Can’t call anyone broken down in tears.
They’ve watched me survive nearly fifty years.

For these fans, I weather without proxy;
These devotees of Comeback Kid Moxie.

These longest subscribers to my issues;
Are rarely at the ready with tissues.

Not apathetic, they love & aren’t crude.
They love fortitude: whose flip-side’s solitude.

I’ve been self-possesed since Sunday cartoons.
I’ll clear any hurdle’s what they assume.

Enough it happens, buried by choices;
I turn to kin’s validating voices.

They cheer I can do it; which, I did know.
Boomeranging me right back to my show.

They’ve no clue I want commiseration.
Ever encouraging animation.

More than enough love there & plenty wit.
All that I long for’s a little more get.