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abecedarian Jan 2015
Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend

tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...


I can do better.

Why?

not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors kindness,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize

"there for the grace of God
go you and I"

have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me
<human>
  Jan 2015 abecedarian
Left Foot Poet
is for:

*private, personal...
never public,
even if public displayed

oft, urgent,
burners on high,
committed
from body to paper
a battlefield commission,
*** boiling over,
passenger driver in the pace car

oft, hazy,
slow cooking stew
multi-flavored, spice twice
splendid blended,
meat for some,
potatoes for others,

always purposed,
sometimes even,
purposeful

pleasure two-folded,
twice arrived,
at birth,
given
mixed with hearty
birthing pains

given again,
when later reread,
stumbled on,
at a later time

you think,
albeit, quietly,
"****, ****,
prideful just enough I am,
claim me a title,
poet in the tradition!"

but the little voice whispers
poet!
poetry pride,
a deadly bromide!

satisfaction best when
the P is just
private, personal,
and the inner ear
smiles when you read your
words to yourself,
words you wrote,
to the cadence of thy heartbeats,
leaving you
smiling inward
and your harshest critic,
your biggest fan,
clap you on the back,
with the same hand
  Nov 2014 abecedarian
Stephen E Yocum
I see them still,
From time to time,
Their goofy smiles,
Their laughing eyes.
Still hear their *******,
Their growled complaints,
Their farts in the night,
from five bunks down.
The relentless joke telling,
The brotherly jabs.
Still see their sad empty eyes
When no mail from home arrives.

Oh and the lists of things
That they would do,
When back they'd go,
Into the World,
Added to daily, always growing.
Get that new Camaro,
"Set them tires on fire!",
Cruse the strip back home
and pick up chicks.
Put on their Class A,
And strut down the block.
Find that foxy girl from English class,
And make her his wife.
Tell his old man,
to actually "*******!"
We were but boys,
Too eager and green,
Posturing and playing at being men.
What I wonder, would they have become,
Given the chance to grow to a man?

Young lives cut short by ballistic pain.
So now still they linger, boys they remain,
Night visions left in the mud and the rain.
For All Vets the living and the dead,
On Veterans Day 2014
  Oct 2014 abecedarian
betterdays
be still,
           be the small silent
                                        calm

be quiet,
       be the small watching
                                        mouse

be pliant,
               be the seed
                         spinning on
                     the wind

be memory
                  be the glint in
                             the wise old
                elephant's eye

be wisdom,
                 be the paradox of
                             the monkeys
                      three

be kind,
            for kindness needs,
                               to never be
             lost or neglected

be strong,
                 be passionate,
                for the world needs
                                strength
              and compassion
in order to grow.
                

but above all,
                      be love.....
            and allow love to be...

in all it's ....
        wonderful,
          guises and capacity's

and these my son,
                are just some
    of the steps

       in being a better man.....
written for my son Tod,
and now gifted to my friend
Ernesto, as he starts a new chapter....
  Aug 2014 abecedarian
Nat Lipstadt
lachrymose: suggestive of or tending to cause tears; mournful....given to shedding tears readily; tearful.**

make no dithering,
wily excusing or explaining,
among this band,
I count myself
a brother and a man

eons ago shed the
reptilian skin masculine,
my six-shooter now a manly
cheap Bic ballpoint blue-eyed pen,
used to fell forests of egos,
mine, first foremost and ever last

every write that sore tries my heart,
lives hard by a stream replenished,
by freshly born, yet stale, recirculated
salt-mine tears, salt, mine, tears,
that include those storing and storied,
some preceding and some succeeding,
and some spilling
even as
this story told,
here and now,
is in the hearth,
forming and fulfilling

if man enough that you can cry openly,
then man enough to write good poetry,
this then, this be the simple and finest
line I ever wrote,
line I ever cried

5:20pm April 20th,
The Year of the Tear
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