Versify, Diversify

I write these lines, and seek some sort of rhythm;
There’s clarity in peering through the blur —
For all I’ve ever sought is love and wisdom,
Although I am not sure which I prefer

I look for the connections in our madness,
And seek to plant and reap the fertile ground —
To water it with what I know of sadness,
And share whatever crop I may have found

But life has ways of making us a liar:
Our inconsistency’s an exposĂ© —
And weakness comes, as we grow sick or tire:
But still, we have to say
What we
Can say

The Cheerless Road of Winter

The saddest day I’ve ever had
Lies shrouded there, in time;
The nights I spent among the mad,
These are not yet in rhyme

The cheerless road of winter, where
Despair was born of doubt –
Just like the greatest loss I’ve known
That I don’t write about

Yet, I hope what I do not say’s
Relatable, somehow –
There’s madness in the very air,
It’s all around us now

Still there, within the frozen past,
The branches bare I see;
A lonely road in winter, where
I lost the best
Of me

Spent Manic Blossoms

The few, short hours that we get
To sit upon the dying grass,
The days of sunlight soon to fade,
As they, like we, are born to pass –

Habitual endearing of
Those close enough to plunder —
And this, we’ve come to glorify;
It sort of makes you wonder

A song this morning played, a song
Of love that just went wrong;
It had a beat, we danced to it,
It didn’t last that long

Then guided by our appetites
We craved the beat unceasing –
And bought what wasn’t anyone’s
For having or for leasing

It’s only life. It’s only art.
It’s only six A.M. —
The sun is shaking off its sleep,
It’s soon to rise again –

I think the sun’s benign, another
Elementary blunder;
In days that butcher who they can –
It sort of makes you wonder

The girl that’s looking straight at me
Is only eight years old;
She knows no trepidation, she
Is wild as she is bold

How can the aging father say
The young should wary be?
I turn to go about my day,
And trust posterity

Will lead her to a world of light
The world she sees before her;
I won’t pour water on her soul,
Not badger, nor ignore her

Perhaps, she is a healer, not
One made to mar or plunder —
What she could be, we should have been,
It sort of makes you wonder

Behold, the living narrative
Is spun before our eyes;
It’s there to tell us how to live,
What we should hate, or prize –

But every kind of shadow blocks
Some other kind of light;
And wear whatever mask you will
It’s coming off tonight

Insanity and vanity,
They’re our one legacy;
As we will follow slavishly
Our prized un-parity –

It kind of makes you wonder;
Then again, it just may not —
The few, short hours that we get
To sit until
We rot

Near Miss

Years ago
I knew this girl
With a beautiful face and
A beautiful heart

And I didn’t fall in love with her
Nor did I date her

Just in case readers of this blog
Might have started to think
That never happened to me

As a matter of fact, she is now around 50
Like I am
And she’s still beautiful
And we’re still friends

Truthfully, I am still friends with
Virtually all of my
Ex-girlfriends
Mis-dates
Even my ex-wife

Possibly because
None of them know about this blog

I would hope, however, they would approve
Of the models I choose to represent them
In the stock photos I use on these pieces

Anyway, this girl
Looked like the model in the picture above
And she was always cold
Even during Florida summers

And last year, online
As we exchanged pleasantries
She told me that
She had a cat years ago
That she named after me

Because he was so bizarre

And I kind of liked that

United

Strikes me this world is united by loneliness

Longing for love and acceptance and touch;

Everywhere, barriers: back, side and front of us

Even though most of us don’t ask that much

 

So we reach out through the arm of the Internet

Hoping to make some connection that’s real —

Striving with words to rein in all our demons and

Hoping there’s someone who knows how we feel

 

Yet, though alike, we can be at cross purposes

Needing to take what we don’t have to give:

It seems this world is united by loneliness

Distant point near

We will die thus

And live

On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer

He let imagination play
And spill across each fevered page;
Of life spent at a breakneck pace,
Of love and hate and
Sex and rage

And peaceful moments that would touch
The hearts of any who might see;
But wonders now, and over-much,
If all of it’s
Not vanity

He wanted what he wrote to shine,
The brilliance of a million suns;
But now, he simply wants to write
Some thoughts that you’d read
More than once


 

(“On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer” – 7-11-2015)