Not all upgrades are welcome,
Many don't do much to improve;
But one's status quo would
Have been bettered when
You are now deemed "a waste of talent,"
More than previous reckoning:
A waste of space and breathe and time.

As I sit and ponder the last hours of this year,
I realise that each of us present still possesses
The inner capacity to be leaf turners:
Whatever may come, whichever direction we choose,
We have been, all of us given, a new leaf to turn.
It may as well turn out more than a mere leaf of a calendar.

At the door, random severance:
Like a telemarketer on steroids,
This quasi-divine contrivance
Not any substance or fleeing could quell:
Here we dance, zomboid grievance,
Mere mortals could not work around.

scowling as a threatening storm cloud
somber as a brooding sky
my errant thoughts stumble
and leaving my tear ducts dry:
exhuming an abundant cascade
of strained expressions that reflect
a stained and bedraggled soul
whose fond recollections failed to connect.

A barely audible creak greeted me
As I entered a still unfamiliar home.
Then his figure approached, step by step;
Aged and wizened, unsteady at a walker.

Where it not for his gait and slouch,
He could have been any other.
Now he seemed so much smaller,
Not the monstrous terror of long ago.

There I stood, a deer in the spotlight,
Shaking off a child's phantom fright;
In the haze of ill-served remembrance
Realising that I loved him all along.

Gone underground
So that is the score;
In view of which
I can't say much more.

Take that bold step up to my words
and don't walk away until they have had their fill;
each party imbuing the other,
brimming over with the permeate of life.
Read to your satisfaction; but read!
Free your mind upon these winged lines.

Further on, always together;
no moss shall we gather.
Our voices echo in the distant sky;
high above, our words shall fly.

Here, my fins have shown,
My gills have sprouted lungs.
I've muddled through

Each and every circumstance.

So now you see;
I am one such fish
that climbed a tree.

it has been said that poetry
is the straight and narrow road
to a woman's heart;
for me, alas, it has been the escape pod
from that woman who once
but no longer has regard for me

it's when you looked my way
and first took notice of me...
that is how I came to be.

So, I see that you can't outrun your shadow;
I on the other hand, cannot outfly my thoughts.

There are far more people
that struggle in life, like me

than there are successful,
made and together, like you:

so please, uninvite me, yet again,
but let me be;
         without that dangling carrot,*    I   A M    F R E E .



○●
•

The reason for my articulation
is simple and utilitarian-
I seek not perfection,
But I seek ablution.

Perfection is reserved for those
with time to spend and money to burn.
My soul requires release,
its ransom necessitates recompense:

Expiated expeditiously, in a flurry
of words that scathe my every thought.

~ from hundred and one sibilant regrets at Le Mont Parnasse

Pity this block of timber -
though statuesque; mourns -

whose lines and curves are stately,
whose manner refined symmetry:

its shavings receive a swift send off;
kindling, on this frigid winter morn...