~
Tonight underneath debris
Family foreclosure
...
Heaven's legs dawn through window
Offer artificial hope
...
Employee to love
Dressed for escape
...
Pleasure town angel
A multi-colored pretty thing
...
Mom questions way
Daughter drives to parties
...
Empty lips talk
**** reflection patterns
...
Death inside mom and dad
Beautifully cold skin
...
War god kiss
Midnight blue people (at dinner table)
...
Young shadows flower
Final stars fire
...
Money born cloud
Raining on remnants of family
...
Is there nothing
Left to mortgage?
~

In A babbling Brook words, flow free
Too early to know
too early to see
what will be
Pen to paper a poem is born,  
Loose in content shape and form

TickTock the clock good and not.
Not the best concept I had
The spark, a word, a phrase, a line,
A moment in time,,
A Premise a plot

Quickly scribbling a rough draft down
Words, flow free quickness can be found
Then I find myself still looking around
Second-guessing the words flow meter sound
procrastination drives the poem
into draft mode until I see the light

Truth be told it’s procrastination
My infatuation it’s not complete
Elusive time passes
  revising in days weeks months
Sometimes it sits in exile
Out of the blue once in a while
The poem will come together
I smile

Revisions glow
It perplexes me to know
I struggle with this fight
at the end of the day,
when I read it
In my head, then out loud
I’m saying yes yes yes
it’s  done

Still I sit on it a day
just for fun
I Read it in the new day
of the dawning sun
Procrastination has gone?
Out of excitement or boredom,
I post the poem

It always surprises me when the poem
Is met with celebration
this painstaking collaboration
While other times, I’m sure
I’ve knocked it out of the park
Yet the poem remains in the dark,
not read
Silenced
a voice unsaid

There’s something to say for procrastination
It can be a healthy determination
Other times words, thoughts  
flows so freely
I don’t take the time to pre-read
as much as I should
.3:00am I post a poem.
Never advisable nor good

Honestly, the poem is
really still a draft
Celebrated, with errors
never mentioned
I have to laugh

I wonder do they not see them?
Or are they just being kind?
I would appreciate negativity
In a private message
Not on the World  stage of opinion
You get further with honey
Then with vinegar
I’m not interested in sinister


BlT Webster’s word of the day challenge
July 7, 2025 procrastination
To procrastinate is to be slow or late about doing something that should be done, or about doing or attending to things in general

The mirror never
saw me cry.
All my tears are hidden
deep within
the vaults of my heart.

Only happy tears
rest in my eyes
and fall down
when my lips smile.

In July 2023 I posted a poem entitled For Hours of Time.
Little did I know at the time that it would be taken by a composer and turned into a piece of music (with my permission!) this year.
The composition is for a solo violin and choir.
Below is a link to the video:

https://youtu.be/mpGcrWHwb7g?si=5loGIGzfUcGVN7VN

I hope you enjoy Sy Anderson and Pagan Pauls collaboration.
I'm really proud of it!

I tried to follow the map,
It was a trap.
It soon vanished,
I have a clue.

If it’s who I think it is.
They’re coming back soon.  

Each winding turn,
Every breath burned.
Each demon,

The blood,
Visions.
All flooding.
My brain.

Each turn.
A major mistake.
I wish I could fix,
My head.
I can’t even go to bed.

The hallucinations,
Each time.
My brain is tricking me,
I know it’s true.

How long can I last?
Before I collapse?

There after me,
All day,
Every day,
Im never free.

Struggling-
They silence me,
With words.
Claiming Im trouble,
Claiming I’ll never be enough,
Claiming Im not tough enough.

They stole me map,
A bit ago,
Like a had suspected before.
Im losing my way,
The path,
No longer paved.
The road signs,
Lost in mist.
They programmed,
In place.
Like they ceased to exist.

For now— to stay alive,
I obey.
If I don’t,
They’ll surely come back,
Another day,  
To make sure I decay.

Day turns to night
The faint yellow glow
of the streetlamp
Illuminates the-now deserted
Roadway

A quiet hum of birds
Are the only thing filling
The silenced city

The sun now sinks low
Dusk to midnight
All goes mute
The flicker of
house lights
Are only visible
In the soft mist

all goes to sleep
In bed- without a peep

Day to night
Dusk to midnight
Midnight to day
The cycle continues
Waiting to repeat
Another day