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J Penpla Mar 2013
Nothing calls for morals, like lovers’ quarrels
Though all is fair in love and war
I have one law, for all clenched jaws
Don’t fight in metaphor

“You’re always the martyr” one may brand the other
In passive aggressive verse
Mere iteration, through metaphorical filtration
That truly reveals the reverse

Here’s one I despise, that utters love’s demise
“Honey, the door swings both ways”
It’s an image projected, of love infected
Spat in pseudo poetic haze

It’s a double edged blade that ought to be stayed
Though a wonderful figure of speech
It does not pay, to duel this way
Nay it is to love, but a leech
J Penpla Mar 2013
A trickle drips down and spins me ‘round
To swindle my withering will
Promise of rapture to be found
A trickle drips down and spins me ‘round
I don’t want to hear a sound
A sliver of silence, then a shriek so shrill
A trickle drips down and spins me ‘round
To swindle my withering will
Inspired by Hello Poets, I decided to turn a poem (fated for a random rhyming scheme) into my first triolet
J Penpla Mar 2013
My belly’s got this radiant reel - A projection through its button - Awed eyes make the connection real
It’s iridescent luster - Splashes on the wall - Causing quite a clatter - I stumble and I fall
Gazing at its glow - Transfixed a chagrin’less grin - Bemused, though I do not know
Whence came this beam of brilliance - Bursting through my belly
The bees-knees of recipes - To the royal'est of jelly
Put forth in panoramic views - Ephemeral equations, yet eternal patience
To whatever riddles I so choose
When I can I stand, and stumble to the door - Framed now in gleaming seems
That were not there before
It’s **** a burning bulb - That shatters when I turn it
Has me tear away my hand -To be sure I have not burned it
Still, the door opens on its own - Thus I continue on my way
Into the plush and overgrown
Kaleidoscope's array
Inspired by a short film about a dreary robot on an assembly line, who finds a light-bulb inside, but looses its glow after marketing it. Wish I could find it again so I could cite it!
J Penpla Feb 2013
Oh the weary wanderings
of that silly son
Who can’t reconcile his retreat
but continues on the run
That crafty, that capricious conscience
On who’s whimsical watch
finds no time for penance
A transitory fellow
seeking only care-free condition
Disposing without a care
or notion of contrition
His God-given gifts
and unmade choices
And thus made, though not
by ignoring those voices
That appeal to his younger
more righteous reason
Heeding instead the voices
that better suit the season
Leaving vocation to thirst
unquenched and dry
Impervious to it all
because the end is never nigh
All his truths and convictions
ephemeral in nature
This wandering son
this prodigal creature
These biblical proportions are a bit of a stretch but strangely, whenever I go broke, I feel a little like a prodigal *****
J Penpla Feb 2013
Wake up tense,
Then enmity has commenced
His agonizing screech,
Her pleading moan.
Back and forth,
A pitiful drone.
Hostile, but to each it’s home.
Both together, both alone.
One reviles the other’s lament.
Another breakfast’s
Brazen treatment
She needs a companion.
He, who knows.
Of this, be certain,
In this house,
no love grows
J Penpla Feb 2013
-Quell your qualm with a quill
Ease your uneasiness with ink
Ponder with a pen, if you will
That’s what I do to think
-Think, think again and think it over
And still some thought will be missed
So then, put pen to paper
And think as thoroughly as you make a list
-You’ll agree I’m sure; nothing’s as trusty
As the black on white of a sheet and quality pen
Even the stickiest of mental ‘post-it’s
Fall away again, again and again
-Case and petty point here
This thought would have been left for dead
If it weren’t for this puny pencil
And what little was left of its lead.
-When your mind is bogged, ‘cause your thoughts are clogged
Know you have an outlet in your hand
Find your pace, it’s not a race
Just trust your flow and know your brand
-Someone coined it, not sure who
Idle hands are the devil’s play thing
So let them dance, in a cursive trance
Spelling a song you’re proud to sing
I often pick up a pen just to unwind- Writing this was such a case with a little purpose. Couldn't help it from getting a little cheesy, but I didn't want to scrap it.
J Penpla Feb 2013
Some say your greatest enemy is yourself
That lesser you inside, that little puppet, that elf
Strings to your fingers, strings to your toes
One to your spine and one to your nose
   You can tumble and crash and he’ll be unbroke
Witty and gritty, as elusive as smoke
Post tumble’s when he’s most likely to speak
His strings are strung tightest, whenever you’re weak
   Not to wait then, until you are broken
Give him the stage and he’ll have already spoken
He feeds best on virtue, this gritty little elf
So feed him his share, as you would your belly’s self
   Virtues is the sort, that means then not vices
His tastes may seem bland so be weary of spices
Heed not this advice, and we’ve a puppet…
Left to his own devices
   Not worth getting clever, don’t saw at those strings
You’ll soon find out they’re sinewy things
Introduce yourselves; it could help if you’ve met
The you inside you,
                                  that mischievous marionette
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