I dare not listen to the news.
I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse.

Torrential cries and senseless violence
I look past to hold my silence.

Is this so wrong?
It's not as if
My worrying the world will shift.

I do not know if it is right,
But I will skip the news tonight.

a second chance is b'yond compare
to silver or gold in worth
unlike the simple, gay affairs
it's forgiveness, undeserved

for every race a prize is earned
and the grueling toil, a wage
but when the jury has adjourned
retribution must be paid

though critics rush to state a case
where criminals still walk free
while evil runs it's crooked ways
death claims both the strong and meek

so before you go your separate ways
offer them another chance
it's not like you have never had
a bit of fire on your pants

and when you get another try
do not let it fail in vain
you never know when you will come by
another "try try again"

Do you see me? I think I am right here.
My thoughts don't reach you; they are just shadows.
Casting on to fear. I hear you. Loudly.
Clearly, I am gone. You are gone. Savaged.

Damaged yet perfect. A grandfather clock
Stuck in '15. Foreboding. Relentless.
Silently screaming my regrets with its
face. I love you. But do you see me now?

You don't hear me. Although I burn alive
like space debris until I dismantle
into pieces. Scattered places I can't
see. I guess that's why you don't see me now.

I often find myself thinking out loud:
Do I even see myself? No, I don't.

My blindness killed my youth;

I am not made of you.

If you would see the truth,

Then you could know it too.

The curtains in a hospice room
Are nicely pressed and clean,
There’s not a hint or trace of doom,
Nor speck of hope to gleam.

A wedding dress, she will not wear,
Instead, a patient gown,
While waiting in intensive care
For her doctor’s next round.

You will not find her sitting there,
At least not as of late,
She must have left to go somewhere;
Forever thirty-eight.

Another day, another shot
To use your ammunition
Giving everything you’ve got
To friendly premonition

It won’t be Independence Day
For eyes that graze the ground
And every step along the way
Will only feet be found

Look out for the birds
Whenever life’s lows get you down
Cause looking up’s the quickest way
To rectify a frown

This write, has me looking for more topics,
I feel the box, stuck in, inside wrong lines,
Wrong lines, right lines, why must I try to fit,
It is not fine, I am all out of time...

Words and words to make me feel so crazy,
I keep on the grind to get an idea,
Do I not get this or am I lazy?
Building this dumb poem, is this ikea?

Poems have some meter but this is top,
keys to the board, pen to this **** paper,
Trying to write just makes me want to stop,
but soon I will need an undertaker,

For if truly I must, prevail I will,
This dumb poem pattern has now been filled.

The Iambic well is a writer’s Hell
It has captured many a poet
And often those not on their toes
Fall in before they know it

Through forty years of smiles and tears
I’ve struggled to avoid it
I’ve danced around that killing ground
Which only just annoyed it

So it sent out a water spout
That grabbed me by the ankle
I fought it off and lived to scoff
Which caused that well to rankle

I got away but to this day
I find my lines Iambic
It’s such a shame my verse is lame
I’d hoped it would be tantric.
ljm