Rob Rutledge

Rob Rutledge Sep 2019

Visage

The rage is real, I think.
Bruised lip, clenched fists.
A Portrait of a *******.
Ink slipped and left to fade,
A visage that only we create.
Born from all we know,
All we feel, All that pains,
Every manifested sorrow.

We would do well not to dwell
Upon that which we can't control.
But as the years age and grow
The certain turns into the unknown.
Curtains close yet start the show
As the actor dies off stage,
Alone.

Rob Rutledge Sep 2019

Rains

The rains were late this year
Land sparse,
Vast
Plains barren and parched.
Starved with an awful thirst.
Mouthfuls of sand,
Handfuls of dirt.
Months of hardship
Sow seasons of hurt.
As worship converts to clouds
The Sun bows out,
Proud but yet usurped.
Vulture circles bold and undeterred.
Gaze beholden to a crack torn earth.

Rob Rutledge Sep 2019

Faith

I will never believe in your God
But I will always have faith in You.
I care not for what you preach.
I care only for what you do.

Rob Rutledge Jul 2019

What have we become?

What have we become?
When poetry resides
In two lines, then we're done?
Have you nothing more to say?

Pretending to be profound,
Applause all around.
Nothing more than a passing thought.
If thought was required at all?

You call this poetry?
I don't.

Perhaps I'm just old fashioned,
Believing in meaning
And the power of words.
Yet on occasion i have heard
Voices of angels and demons
Faint but undeterred,
Laughing in the face of mediocrity.

A virus fed by popularity,
So what have we learned?
From your instagram friendly
Twitter assembly,
We realise you have said
Absolutely nothing at all.

This is directed more at me than anyone else.

Rob Rutledge Jun 2019

Leaves Led Astray

The storm has much to say,
Ranting through rain
Drops,
Morse code on window pane.
Triple dots dash to convey,
Stop.
Glass lashed words
Traced light upon the day.
The wind will have its way,
Whistling through canopies
Leading leaves astray.
Melodies of catastrophe
And cacophonics on display.

Rob Rutledge May 2019

A Forest's Mournful Tune

He thought he may have caught
Among the snares and creeping vines,
A whisper of a thought
From the leaves and air entwined.
On the savage jungle floor,
The corpse of those that come before,
Testament to an ancient war
Lay bloodied and forlorn.
A trap that's set a hundred times or more.

The words were always just!
The words were just in his mind,
A caricature of conscience
What he wished for he would find.
Yet in the echoes of the moon,
He stood before the snare
And knew it to be bare.
Why then does the forest sing this mournful tune?

A girl knelt shy by shaded riverside
Asking the shadows what they knew.
They told tales of light once spoken by the moon,
A prophecy come true of a girl named Blue
Whose eyes would tame the wild.

Rob Rutledge Apr 2019

Worry

Don't worry mum.
I'm worse than you think
But no way near as bad as you fear.