Tag: Rhyme Royal

Spelling Bee Pointless

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems6 Comments

At nine years old, I won the spelling bee,
And it has all been downhill ever since.
You’d never know it now from reading me,
So error-filled, the editors all wince
At those few language skills that I evince.
So if I could, I might go back in time
And stay a spell, instead of work in rhyme.

But no: I now recall I was abjured
For winning weeks on end without a pause.
The first time I misspelled some stupid word
My fourth grade class burst into wild applause
For I was widely hated – with some cause.
I learned my lesson, though, and learned it well:
And ne’er again in school did I excel.

For athletes and musicians, it’s all fine
To be, or strive to be, the very best:
To push your way up to the front of line
And stand out from the mass, the crowd, the rest –
Just do not do it on an IQ test.
For as they say in Tokyo, I’ve found
The nail that lifts its head gets hammered down

Love Selflessly

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems10 Comments

Love selflessly and you will pay the price
  of what it is to give and not receive –
  the heart of flame, returned with touch of ice;
  a soul encumbered, longing to believe;
  the joy that is, at once, a call to grieve
  within the emptiness of letting go —
    but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

Love selflessly, and time will halt its course
  and lay upon your mind the universe;
  at every turn to press with so much force
  that feels a maledictive sort of curse –
  a swirling mist the heart cannot disperse
  that magnifies what we’d least like to show —
    but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

There’ll be an ebb, of course, with every flow:
  but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

a windward flock

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

she goes into the wind, the way she lived.
the flock of all who struggle, day by day;
and yet, that bracing feeling was a gift —
the purposeful: windblown, who never stray,
majestic and heroic in the way
they move on, through the hardest what, or why,
and still take others with them as they fly.

It Isn’t Me

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

When lies get messy, truth is pure and clear:
I know it isn’t me you’re looking for.
No matter who “you” are out there – or here –
I’m not the wings or wind that makes you soar.
You gaze out, wistfully, and wanting more —
While I, this lifeless thing exist, that you
Can pass a million times, and just look through

A New Day’s Year

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems2 Comments

There comes a time the frost must fall away;
Sometimes the thaw is difficult and slow.
Though night be cold, and bitter be the day,
With snow and rain, and cutting winds that blow,
The sun will work its magic, even so.
Remember when the ice your feeling numbs:
The heat will come. It will. It always comes.

I stood out in a field of many stones.
The trees were frozen white on every side;
Familiar family names, and some unknowns,
Through tears that froze before they ever dried.
So little life the words there could provide:
Of what and where and who all these had been,
These unknown women and forgotten men.

I looked for one, and found him on a hill.
A handshake firm, a strong and steady gaze,
A tender heart withal an iron will,
And ready with encouragement and praise
For fighters of the family fight, always.
The long winds blow, they blew him to this place;
Asleep now in this high and frigid space.

To know of life, we have to know of death.
It seems so cruel, but that is how things are:
The careless, one day, struggling for breath,
The poor unfortunate, the superstar,
Alike in this. We all end up at par.
And it can all seem vanity, and smoke —
A tragedy, or maybe one big joke.

There comes a time the frost must fall away;
Always the thaw is difficult and slow.
Nights will be cold, and bitter yet the day,
With snow and rain, and cutting winds that blow.
The sun will work its magic, even so —
Though tears may freeze before they ever spill,
The heat will come one day.
I’m sure
It will

 

 

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The Moon Is Not A Terrorist

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

The moon is not a terrorist; in fact,
She often visits both the poor and sick.
Although she has a schedule that is packed,
And often deals with clouds that can be thick,
She’s regular. And knowing that’s the trick:
The moon is true, not subject to caprice,
And that should bring no fear, but only peace.

The moon is not a soldier or a spy;
She does not aim to kill, or try to steal.
The moon’s a corporeal lullaby,
A friend, though far away, who’s very real,
Who gives your very goodnight a words her seal.
As children know, once sung their fav’rite tune,
It’s time to sleep when they hear “Goodnight, Moon”

the day goes past

On By Sibelius RussellIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

the day goes past my sight and turns to gray
as distant, floating things become unseen;
so much i’ve known has gone, or dimmed away —-
the brightly colored world of seventeen
has faded like an aging magazine,
and falls within the shadow of the storm,
to lose all hue, and barely keep its form.

the rains must come, they must, i know it’s so,
the sailor find his way back into port —-
the pilot, too, must let her wand’ring go,
and head back home to file her report,
for nature does, at last, our time cut short.
the day goes past, and fades in grays and blues:
we had our time, and what we have, we lose

A Song In Silence

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

… And when the west is red
    With the sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings
    And the maid remembers.

– Robert Louis Stevenson, “Songs of Travel”

From dusty shelves, she ‘trieves an ancient book.
She reads a song in silence, taking in
The words and pictures with a loving look;
A world of music, long before the din
Of what must be, and what all might have been.
For what she’s lost — it never goes away,
As yielding night gives rise to feigning day.

The sorrows that we carry bury us,
Although we cover artfully each one;
But memories, like songs, are various
In all the ways they help us come undone,
So we can leave the dark, reclaim the sun,
The way she’s doing now, inside a brain
And heart that have known way too much of rain.

So Much The Power

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

The power that you need to have is yours,
But like so many things, it must be claimed;
It’s in your choices, in and out of doors,
And in a flat refusal to be tamed,
Or to accept unfairly being blamed.
  So guard your conscience, and to it be true:
  So much the power that you need, is you.

The afterwards is easy to arrange;
It’s in the midst of battle things get hard.
But this you’ve seen, and so don’t find it strange
So many keep away when ways are barred,
But you won’t fall for that worn out canard:
  “She shouldn’t go there: it’s to much, too soon -”
  So much the power’s ignoring that old tune

A semblance of an image of a life
Is not enough for you, who’ve known the stars;
The winds will blow: of error, and of strife,
But you are more than clicks and avatars,
Or being trapped within, or behind, bars —
  Believe, then, in the dreams that you’ve held long,
  So much the power’s in starting,
  Staying

  Strong