Category: Poetry

It’s a few quiet weeks; so drop the cross.
I’m carefully grieving what I have lost.

I have lost the illusion of a friend.
I have to rethink my trust…once again.

It’s fixable; but broken glass takes time.
Avoid cuts; pick up shards with fabric rhyme.

Shake everything loose so what sticks is meant.
Strip down & then piece by piece heal what’s rent.

New style is born from what’s still in good nick.
Be hard targets for the cruel & the slick.

Always, in hindsight, I find gratitude.
True clarity grants me new altitude.

We’ve the Crone, the Mother & a Stone Maiden.
Each to their function with eldritch gifts laden.

The Crone knows the sum of life & secret things.
The Mother threads new souls thru her needle’s ring.

Then there’s the Maiden’s chaos & potential.
This one will never grow past that credential.

He won’t have any children, but he will dote.
New talents won’t bloom out of his graying coat.

Both chaos & potential tend towards shifts.
Wisdom & experience enhance these gifts.

As our satellite moon is forever full;
His face may change…but he will always have pull.

He’ll see the hidden until his time is spun.
In dark crowded rooms, he sees most everyone.

Housing boundless hope decade out, decade in.
This rare lonely path for our own stone maiden.

Faith is Optimism in shackles.
Caged in temples & tabernacles.

No beef with faithfuls; just the fervants.
Thinking they’re god’s militant servants?

You know the ones, I know that you do.
Believing their kings should be yours too?

Happiness by rule is never fun.
Pale & flaccid joy knows not the sun.

Hope is allowed to visit its cell…
Bearing heaven’s badge; or fear of hell.

Good tidings had; for certain beliefs.
Trinity’s & Mary’s lone relief.

No freedom left; even in its mind…
The silver lining: at least faith’s blind.

Secular good will raise the hackles…
Of Optimism chained & shackled.

Whether it’s hope, change or antidepressants;
There’s a break in these gloomy clouds incessant.

It’s been pouring bitchy cats & ditsy dogs.
It’s been gravely gray & joy’s been waterlogged.

I went to sleep in a world careening dark.
Opened my eyes today & the dawn was stark.

Stepped outside & it felt like inside’s air-con.
A spring in my step as I passed every lawn.

Tuned news & I heard the victors’ momentum.
Balance ensured, when we lose some, then win some.

Inspired while reviewing is all of this.
Mindful review; then, my  forehead is kissed.

A peck from her & I’m off to the races.
Reciting last thought; the work’s first paces.

Hurrying to get it down on the page.
Its successful recording sets the stage.

A trance of both know-how & whit descends.
Pushing each stanza to an unknown end.

The finish suddenly coming up fast.
Spell breaks as the muse releases her grasp.

Most would be shaken by this interlude.
I look at my page & just…gratitude.

Some days this crazy feels turned all the way up.
Sloshing over the lip of sanity’s cup.

Energy bubbling under deceptive calm.
Forcing our mindfulness is a middling balm.

Not quite in the range to define as manic.
Yet, greater than baseline; this managed panic.

As all things forever do, this too shall pass.
The ride’s still no fun; thru life’s bottlenecked glass.

The stayed center, the calm, the core & the chi…
These mapped data points to bring me back to me.

There have always been good folk doing right.
The past is always dark…though, some shined light.

A moral center is a human thing.
Grey Areas must from our North Stars swing.

We each have margins on our rights & wrongs.
Across unseen lines we’ve never stayed long.

We feel magnetic pull towards the light.
We’ve gone too far when it’s a distant sight.

We’ve skies, compasses, maps & memory.
Best tool we’ve got…our silent reverie.

Each day closer, as I exorcise ghosts.
Turning my hurt into art & then posts.

Lancing & draining each ugly abscess…
Finding, with each one, my laughter’s access.

Airing out wounds & giving them sunlight…
My own lovely way of setting things right.

Art is a mirror; I face it each day.
You’re on your own with what you take away.

Purging ugly before it sinks to heart.
I’m the only real subject of my art.

If you see yourself in something I write;
Art is a mirror…so heal your own sight.

I filter it all thru my looking glass.
Blaming art for what it shows you is crass.

Death passed over us; a comet on return.
Inevitable as fire met wood does burn.

A little flame & ice lives in each of us.
Dancing in their battle throughout all life’s fuss.

Who sees his traveling star that’s granted reprieve…
Knows to make merry whilst it turns to retrieve.

For, lucky is the cuss that death’s scythe does miss.
Baffled at survival by a hair’s thin hiss.

Don’t dilly dally in survival’s account.
You’ve precious little time & blessings to count.

Something otherworldly has gifted some time.
Bounced off death’s dimension…life turns on a dime.

There are more good poor than are good rich: fact.
It must keep aristocrats up nights; wracked.

We seem poised for one last revolution.
Who will survive to see its conclusion?

That it is coming, feels a foregone thing.
Revolution, now, is bearing truth’s ring.

Yet, surely, revelation is better?
From this division, might we unfetter?

Can’t we realize we made gods & money?
Dying for falsehoods?…So sick it’s funny.