I work in a factory. I have a wife, a couple of kids and a love of metered rhyme.
--------------------------------

I am simply a man.
Nothing more
or less,
much like the rest.

I share pieces of myself,
on occasion,
when mood and muse align.

Some find the same shape within.
Others would,
or could,
if I let them.
If I called attention to the lines and curves,
if I spoke the words they heard.
If I cared to search the shapes they show,
if I matched them to my own.

- excerpt from "A Gentle Rebuke".
I work in a factory. I have a wife, a couple of kids and a love of metered rhyme.
--------------------------------

I am simply a man.
Nothing more
or less,
much like the rest.

I share pieces of myself,
on occasion,
when mood and muse align.

Some find the same shape within.
Others would,
or could,
if I let them.
If I called attention to the lines and curves,
if I spoke the words they heard.
If I cared to search the shapes they show,
if I matched them to my own.

- excerpt from "A Gentle Rebuke".

I can't get up out of my bed,
there's bombs going off in my head.
Drank a boatload of rum,
which it turns out was dumb,
and now I just wish I was dead.

#rhyme   #limerick   #booze  

Vivid and vibrant against the somber sky,
crimson heart aflame
as the edges darken
to deep violet embers,
an irrevocable token finds freedom
from it's tremulous prison ...

falling

... a final link between two souls;
the last, tangible connection
in this life.
An incomplete span of
memories shared
and dreams lost
hold the blazing bloom
against the stony silence
of the clouds,
scarlet screaming wordlessly
against the slate grey backdrop ...

falling

... emerald leaves rustle
while passing mottled earth,
whispering secrets
as lovers once did,
alone in the darkness.
The delicate rasp of edges,
played by the subtle wind of gravity
as jade travels,
so briefly,
within this russet world ...

falling

... coming roughly to rest
upon the polished, wooden field.
Dark and shadowed thorns,
nearly lost in the mahogany,
wait patiently
while the hues
of life and death
stand starkly at attention,
frozen in this moment.

To stand upon the rocky shore
and gaze out o'er the dark expanse.
Lost deep within, still seeking more;
locked in this brooding, silent trance.

The booming surf, the frigid spray,
allowed no purchase on the mind.
Internal hunter seeks the way,
perhaps a tragedy to find.

For in the quiet of ourselves;
the untold, hidden secrets lay
and what awaits the one that delves
the blackened deeps beyond the grey?

What horrors lurk below our sight,
awaiting only slightest chance,
to unleash deadly spirit's blight;
unchecked, sinister advance.

The unseen battle rages on
upon that solitary beach,
a triumph gained or vict'ry gone,
the answer ever out of reach.

#rhyme  

Scurry and posture in the noxious flock, desperately seek assurance of your size and relevance. Hide behind the emblem on your car or the label on your bag. Your fears will wait patiently for the sober moments in the dark.

dogwood in the snow
busy cardinals
flit and flutter

Rally to the banners of charity and empathy, place the halo of enlightenment upon your brow. Shroud your fluttering heart in a cloak of social justice if you must. Your fears will find you at the ebb of conversation and stalk you beyond the bounds of tenuous fellowship.

steam rises
from the fence top
tangerine sun

Place your faith in mythic symbols, learn the steps of the comforting dance. Sing and shout against the silence, raise your voice and palms to ward the void. Your fears will whisper in the wake of tragedy.

a lone crow
on the power line
thunderstorm

Spare me your illusions, we walk from death to blindness. Each heartbeat is a victory, the only we're likely to win. Exist between each breath, embrace the space you fill. Fear the absence of now, dropped from willful fingers.

first cry echoes
the final rattle
I hear only air
waves and molecules
in chaotic disarray

A haibun
#haibun  

every king
stands in solidarity
poker face

#haiku  

There was a flower
I often passed,
a small thing of
frail stalk and
delicate color.

Precious to me
for reasons left
unsaid.

Words are often useless ...
like flowers to the
milling masses.
Blinded by loud vulgarities,
deaf to the simplest beauty.

I used to guard my words,
as I would a small bloom
of unfortunate placement,
care taken to shift
the lumbering beasts
only when necessity required.

Prudence failed me in the
sharpest manner,
though I paid the price
indirectly.
I was absent at need once,
only once,
but that's all it takes.

Speak, my friends,
lay down your
words to ward against
the mundane travesties
that haunt every sidewalk
and bar stool.
Place them where they might
trip the common callousness
of the shallow into the
depth of awareness.

Pressed petals,
scentless now,
provide my reminder.

What is yours?

Seeking each small imperfection,
so unafraid to criticize.
Baffled by my own reflection,
impossible to recognize.
Who is this man in front of me,
so unafraid to criticize?
What triggered this catastrophe?
What shallow choice has brought me here?
Who is this man in front of me?
Where lies the self I hold so dear?
Investing so much thought and care,
what shallow choice has brought me here?
Which broken vow should I repair?
How lost am I within my soul,
investing so much thought and care.
The hopeless search to be made whole,
how lost am I within my soul.
Seeking each small imperfection,
baffled by my own reflection.

A Terzanelle.
 
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