Curse my mortality, shame is it upon me. I can not bear the grief that my own desires bring upon me. Temptation and the delight of pleasure, if even for a brief while. These things make me at odds with the celestial powers. What is man, but a bundle of emotions? Desires that rule our reason. If we are hungry then we seek to eat. If we are lonely, then we seek company. Not in the sense of spiritual comfort, but in the worldly things that give such as this. Alas all of this is temporary, for again we have a mortal self. That which gets in our way and causes us to stumble. If not for divine dispensation, we would die of our own lustful ways long before fate had dictated our end.

A  pheasant  is  strutting
around  my  garden  today.

He's  a  very  beautiful  bird
and  he  knows  it.

Strutting  around  as  if
he's  the  king.

Calling  out  now  and  again
disregarding  all  the  other  birds.

I  must  be  close  to  nature
with  him  in  the  garden.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Silent Tears
                     Secret Fears
                                          No one Hears
                                                           ­        Downing Beers
                                                           ­                                    Filling Years
Needing Cheers
                             Judgemental Peers
                                                           ­    Emotional Weirs
                                                           ­                                   Prying Ears*

                            Depression is not a phase or a project,
                            It's a cancer to be beaten, step by step.

                                       © Cinco Espiritus Creation
                                                             2016

Can a blind man
Become a poet
How can one write
about the things
they have never seen

Could a deaf man
Write poetry
How could he express
the sounds of things
He has never heard

Would a dolt even think
About writing poetry
and if he COULD put down
on paper what he feels
Who on Earth would ever listen

There's a professor at Harvard
Who teaches poetry
left, write, upside down, and sideways
but, she was never
Write for me

Hate what’s mediocre and banal too.
Despise them both and take the two to task.
Their infection consumes flight of fancy,
Hidden behind a bland and facile mask.

Please write your tale to help disarm the pair.
Together we can speed up their demise.
Although there are greater forces at work,
Much more than most, the same do they despise.

It is still so, but the hatred makes way,
For the flight of our thoughts, thus creating,
Works of beauty; wondrous to minds of men.
What’s hated, in truth is sublimating.

The platitude “Thinking outside the box”,
A phrase by those whom ignorantly use,
Lead astray by these bland meaningless masks,
Fall short of honing tools with which to prove.

To begin with, there is a strong feeling,
An analogy in a nutshell which,
Is presented to aid understanding,
Curtailing a cerebral glitch.

Then a comparison to the flip side,
Passionately pervading all angles,
Adding anticipation and power to,
The carroty denouement that dangles.

I used to wear it
Like a badge of honor
It was my shield
A physical reminder
Of my commitment
And I was proud to wear it
It was a circle of protection
A magical artifact
To ward off evil intentions
Then came the day
The commitment was over
Nullified by her words
By her actions
By her request
I took it off
All that is left now
Is a slowly fading scar
Where a wedding ring
Used to be

Tell me what you will do with those scars of pulls and pushes
from the infantry of madness
who marched towards
your collar bones and thighs altogether at once.