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Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I am a soldier and a soldier's son.
Glory is held in the form of my gun.
A cross of predestination
my only hope for salvation.

Our battle is righteous
or so we are told.
Trained deadly prowess
paid with holy, black gold.


And now...
dying in this hole...
one final irony I behold.


My spirit soars home to see
a thousand tombstones,
draped with my nation's colors.
On each rest a single white flower.

Glory and Salvation?
Ain't that the way it goes?
Paid with final completion;
just one wiltin' rose.  


©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Love perches upon the narrowest
branch of the tallest willow,
whispering an alluring dream.
Swaying away from longing arms
in a dance intended to sear forever,
visions within a teased mind.

Reality strikes ruthlessly
I stand here on impotent earth,
as the dream hides -- rooted in hard dirt.
But with reality comes a strange peace of mind.
No longer fearing love’s mocking truth,
I am freed to embrace its callous cynicism.

Making truth whatever I will it to be.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Strange, that of all  my posted writing this is the poem that trends. Strange because most of my writing takes social commentary as its basis. Love poetry is such a worn topic, I generally stay  away from it since it is so difficult to find a unique or new perspective. This piece was whipped out literally as a first draft in 5 minutes at a time of extreme anguish, and when I was ****** way beyond even my normal limits. I have always viewed it as one of my more mundane pieces. But thanks for the interest.
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
The keyboard stares silently.
Fingers rest motionless
awaiting the profound revelation
worthy of their grand coordination.

My mind's eye searches-
comes up empty and lacking.
"The Poet's Curse."
Worthless mundane thoughts,
nothing to touch the soul
to shed a single tear,
nor lift a tattered heart to glory.

A scene from, "Naked Lunch"...
A beaten, decrepit, typewriter
that talks, sharing its dark secrets.
Exuding a white slimy paste,
opening doorways to psychedelic journeys.
Freeing thought to drift without direction
through otherwise closed portals,
attaining free forms yet undreamed...

Could I be so lucky?

Alas...this is reality.
Frustration ends this session in failure,
blame is easy to place.
This cursed typewriter stares back,
not a blessed sound.

Perhaps I should have kept my day job.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Pomegranate seeds
inhaled deeply
into brainy matter
sprouting intrepid visions.


Apathy...
Viridity...
Perfidity...
Profundity...


Possibilities surround
my awaiting gaze.
Weaving, dancing, enhancing;
pen falls from astonished grasp.

Inspiration so easily gained
assures revelation's similar loss.
Dammed drug cursed memory,
it fades with return to reality.  


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Roots grip weary stone.
Precipice calls, thundering.
Life's dogmatic strife.  

©  S.Loeding
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I know your name,
see your face,
feel your bane,
ravenous beast.

Putrid teeth invade my flesh
my beauty ripped away,
forever I am left ugly.

****!  


©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
****...**

Slice of indelicate prose...
a vile, and ****** rose...
so crude, even rude.

Tis better to say....

Passions fiery release
sacrificed to Aphrodite's priests.
Lust's bouquet blooms,
scent of rapture's perfume.

I enjoy enticing you
with such flowery words.

But just this one time
might I end without rhyme?
Nor ****** airs
concealed with witty flare.

Tonight...
Maybe...
Possibly...

Can we just ****?


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
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