Poetry-Thing Thursday: Made “For You”

You play a good game.
Most would surely miss it.
But there’s no denying,
the heat on the air,
or slight stutter of breath;
that quiet calling,
the closer we get.

You can try to deny it,
fool even yourself,
but I know the truth.
Know it as you do too;
that heat and that lust,
that animal want,
that searching for pleasure,
that you and I share.

It is passion confined,
compressed to singularity,
and no matter our senses,
it will always endure.

We can fight it forever,
die with it alight.
Stay separate to douse it,
but it’s stronger than might.

Last of all,
we could feed it.
Unleash its full force,
on one another,
hope to survive–
to hell with our senses
and the consequences.

No matter our choice,
little may change,
whether we like it or not,
our “I,”
is made,
“for you.”

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Poetry-Thing Thursday: Distraction

Yellow. Orange. Black. White.
A rubber ducky in my sight.
I promise to speak of only right.
But I’m sure you’d like to fight.
Sorry, I don’t. Go fly a kite.
And while you’re at it, don’t be so uptight.

Smoke. Mirrors. Lights. Action.
You only go where you can gain traction.
With those whom form but a minuscule fraction,
of that which we call the “sub-human” faction.
The same kinds of folks that would caption.
Michelangelo’s David “distraction.”

What. Why. Who. Where.
That. ‘Cause. Them. There.
A fat man. A small man. An Au-paire.
A bald man. A shaved man. A man with long hair.
If only. If only. A blind-man could stare,
more men would take a lover, not a brood mare.

But tick. But Tock. But money. But mock.
I jest with the best whom can take a knock.
As meant to be, for even thee, must sometimes feel stock,
and believe in life as naught but a clock,
that’s ticking and flicking for a lone moment of shock,
but you know what I think– it’s all a crock.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Infinite Shore

On and on,
the song is long,
and it’s clear to my ears,
that the tune is all wrong.

The notes don’t quite fit,
and the rhythm is off,
the melody’s rigid,
and the percussions all cough.

But in the end,
its better than nothing,
for silence is golden,
but music platinum.

Page after page,
the book fails and stumbles,
and its obvious to my mind,
that the author’s voice rumbles.

The pace is too jagged,
with words too verbose,
like a dammed river not flowing,
and characters too close.

But in the end it’s better,
than no imagination,
for silence is gold,
but the mind is soothed by libation.

Scene after scene,
the play must go on,
but even to my uncultured eyes,
the director’s a moron.

The stagehands aren’t ready,
and no-one’s on cue,
and the sound guys are sleeping–
the lighting team too.

But it’s better than nothing,
I’ll say it once more,
for silence is golden,
but art an infinite shore.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Keep On My Way

Keys clack tales,
over the smell of black coffee.
Hands off the rails,
and mind rich like fresh toffee.

Worlds and cities.
Men and women.
All written as ditties,
from others once given.

The only time the keys ever stop,
are to light a smoke, swish coffee, or punch the clock.
Leaving me most days at the top,
but some others, weighted, beneath the dock.

Though I want no sympathy,
I must admit,
that when without empathy,
I often think to quit.

For life is short,
and death far too long,
to waste in the court,
of a lost lover’s song.

But something keeps me calling,
back on my muse,
and whether flying or falling,
I’m paying my dues.

Whether bound to in blood,
or by some sense of duty,
pages and pages I’ll flood,
whether with horror or beauty.

But I must reiterate,
that I’ve come close to starving,
hoping to instill,
mental or emotional carvings.

Without readers and others near me,
to keep me afloat,
I would drown in the sea,
of a success-surrounding moat.

For now I’ll just say,
that no matter the biting,
I’ll keep on my way,
and continue writing.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Stardust

Pen my eulogy on a blank sheet of papyrus,
in Indian ink with a feather quill,
then when it is spoken and over,
set me afire on a funeral pyre.

For life is short,
and death long,
and I’d rather be remembered in song.

Etch my face into Marble,
as Michelangelo did for David,
then recall my words as I have writ them,
and heed my warnings spawned from history’s archives.

For reality is thin,
but hindsight thick as steel,
and I’d rather be heard than made to feel.

Turn my body into dust,
and let it drift evermore on the breeze,
so that when I am gone,
I may return to the void where I belong.

For entropy is building,
as the universe begins to fade,
and I’d rather be stardust than human-made.

And when the time has come and gone,
don’t linger too long,
for I am moved on,
Back in the endless void of nothingness,
from which I have spawned.

For life is short,
but love eternal,
and I’d rather be part of the nothing and loved,
than part of a lonely revival.