Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Rustle McBride Jan 2017

High above the world of Man
in the realm of Gods and Muses
Love exists just like a creature
in the spirit form it chooses.

One day it gallops gallantly,
spreading goodwill through the sky.
The next, it stomps so stubbornly,
refusing even just to try.

----------------------------- ( Enter the Hero ) ----------------------

Hero: "You who are the Poet
I pray, tell me now of Love.
You, the Guardian of the Good Heart,
I am one deserving of."

"I come searching here for answers.
For some way to understand.
Why has the greatest test of Manhood
left me so unmanned?"

"My soul lies broke and beaten.
My heart is all but dead
from bedogging dark desires,
and forceful feelings in my head"

"I seek the fiery affection
of a Good Heart girl of gold
Sir, your sonnets speak of pale perfection.
And, its of this magic I've been told!"

Poet: "Yes, you've come to the right man.
The lonely look to me for Love,
and my poetic plays of passions.
For words are putty in my glove."

"You see, the heart is of the body;
but Love comes from beyond.
Through Muses I make contact
and with my words you'll make the bond."

"All you need is look to language
the realm of rhapsody and song.
It is in here you'll find your answers.
It is here your Lover's heart belongs."

Hero: "But how can your words speak of wisdom
that I do not know myself?
Poet, your Love is but illusion.
Please put your pen upon the shelf."

"Words can be deceiving,
with meaning high above my ear.
In such ways I'm made a cuckold.
It is such ways of love I fear."

"It is too late that I awaken.
Misfortune mocks me in my heart.
My Lover sets an Eastern course
and soon she will depart!"

Poet: "Do not doubt the Poet's power.
Your tongue will testify with ease.
My words will work their magic
and your Lover will be pleased."

"Let me tell you of the Ancients.
Rooted, uncomplicated men.
For he it was his family,
and Love bounded him to them"

"Words today are the decedents
of the Ancient's mother tongue.
Over time their words were altered
as they got passed from old to young"

"Each letter, was once a picture
with a meaning of its own.
And, as they join with other letters
a brand new meaning can be shown"
A poem in progress -
Rustle McBride Nov 2016
Oh magic Maiden
                      of the meadow,
get to the Garden
                      with your gifts.

The Sun is sailing
                      cloudless Kingdoms
and every shadow
                      shall be kissed!

Your beauty bares
                      itself in blossoms,
that none ill-natured
                      must behold.

So, swiftly now
                      sweet Maiden.
For every savage
                       seeks your gold!
its natural
Rustle McBride Oct 2016

Where are you? Can you hear me?
Can we communicate right now?
It's your son, and I've grown older,
but still so much I don't know how.

It's just a few years since you've left us,
though for many you were ready.
I saw you fade  but to a whisper,
from a voice so strong and steady.

And though you may have thought
I couldn't wait for you to die;
Today, I stand bewildered.
I beg for one more chance to try.

To try to ask you how you did it;
be a husband and a dad?
Things I never thought to ask you,
or did not know how since I was mad.

But, they throw food across the table.
Constantly fight and misbehave,
and then my wife feels so defeated.
(You must be turning in your grave.)

I worry so I've failed my boys.
As I remember, so once did you.
Though my brothers and I, we made it.
Just exactly how, **I never knew

The things I never saw you do,
yet, you must've done somehow.
Solving all the world's dismays.
Never failing in your vow.

You made it look so easy.
So calm and  yet concerned.
No question left unanswered.
No compliment unearned.

You always looked undaunted.
Did you ever want to run?
Where did you find the answers
on exactly how to raise a son?

I sat smugly as a young man
dismissing all you said to me.
But, sadly now I sit here
wishing for one more chance to see.
raising my own boys, wishing my Dad was still around. I miss you Dad
Rustle McBride Oct 2016
When did the fires ignite?
When did the patterns first reveal?
Was it when we first stood UPRIGHT,
or used a rock to **** our meal?

When did Man first emerge from prehuman?
When did we first begin to have a care?
Was it when we drew our hand upon the wall
That we first announced we're self-aware?
searching for the dawn of Time
(at least one more verse coming)
Rustle McBride Oct 2016
Swollen  clouds of passion
crashed* across my face
and Fires flared from friction
everywhere your lips did trace

our Chilly fingers sought their shelter
deep in the spaces inbetween
But these spaces,        now            so              spacious
have wicked the warmth from what I mean

And I,
the only audience to your absence,
unable to exist
For you stole from me my *reason
the anticipation of your kiss.
My body remembers
Rustle McBride Sep 2016
½* a love is not a ¼th as rewarding,
though its heartache lasts twice as long.
One day you're believing in soul mates,
the next its like every sad song.

Don't believe her
when she says she'll leave him,
if you could *just
... be there...  for her...  right now...
It's not just that she can't.
It's not just that she won't.
It's that she doesn't even want to know how.
about a lost love that should never have been.
Rustle McBride Sep 2016
Mister Blister, there he goes!
His shoes, they open for his toes.
His jacket has no sleeves at all.
His trousers, well, they just might fall.

He is a coarse and hairy sight.
He limps and dares not stand upright.
He has a shopping cart to push.
His bathroom is the nearest bush.

People yell and call him names,
and talk about the way he shames,
the neighborhood, and those who "care"
about the world they say we share.

But, Mister Blister is my friend.
He always has some time to spend.
He cares about what I say,
and remembers this from day to day.

He knows about my cares and fears
and what I try to say he hears.
Perhaps the others are too old
to see without life's blindfold.

I wish that he could freely live
and that the town, he could forgive.
They just don't know you like I do.
Mister Blister, I'm glad I do.
A poem I wrote as a child for my neighborhood friend,
Next page