Poetry-Thing Thursday: Fertile Mind, Poor Design

A fertile mind,
in poor design,
is an ancient puzzle,
a riddle, divine,
called forth from,
the annals of time.

What greatness hath,
madness wrought,
when disguised as sanity,
a need, less fraught?
If only pain and trauma
were retroactively fought.

Were history’s madness,
to be erased,
we’d know of man’s impotence,
his potential for grace,
whether in the midst of Earth,
or the boundlessness of Space.

Flee not from madness,
nor take it with fear.
Examine it closely.
Examine it here;
on pages of ink and paper,
on the faces of those standing near.

The Logbook Archives Volume 2: Coming September 4th, 2017!

Incoming transmission from The Wordsmith of Sol:

It returns! The Logbook Archives Volume 2 is headed your way via the internet’s wondrous assortment of hidden tubes. On Sept 4th, 2017, the second edition of The Logbook Archives will release. For only 2.99 on Kindle, (or as part of the 5.00/mo reward on Patreon) you can own the second year’s short-stories and poems in Ebook format, headed by a special foreword from yours truly.

As always, thank you for everything this past year, and don’t forget to mark your calendar! Or, if you just can’t wait, pick up a copy of The Omega Device  or Volume 1 to hold you over!

Transmission ends.

Bonus Poem: About the Future…

When in space,
do not do as we humans do.
We fire men and women up,
to sit alone,
watching Earth from orbit,
and convince ourselves,
that we’re fighting the good fight.

Meanwhile,
half a world away,
a corporation is making greater strides,
than the whole world,
during the Cold War.
Is this how we want,
to leave the earth?
Our legacy, built on dollar signs,
corporate lines, extorted fines?

Imagine,
a whole planet,
owned by a corporation;
charging for food,
water, land, air.
No regulation. No oversight.
No-one arguing for civil rights,
nor human decency or pollution laws.

Think carefully about the future,
no matter how far ahead.
We’ve begin laying a foundation,
on unstable ground,
one that might topple,
the very future,
we seek to build atop it.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Duty and Honor’s Calls

The words of saints,
are written on the walls,
of political prisons,
and private jail halls.

We rose as one,
against tyranny’s fist,
200 years ago,
but now we hesitate to list,

those we know oppress us,
because their money and greed rule.
Man.
Woman.
Child.
Society their collective fool.

When will it break,
for the willfully ignorant?
For I attempt to change it,
with words that are not arrogant.

Many do not see its worth,
to that I have no argument,
because I know the truth,
and I hear the oppressed lament.

Do not mistake my words,
for the ravings of the belligerent,
they are rather pleas,
that with hope I’ve sent,

so that in time,
we may act as one,
and come together,
for sake of Earth and Sun.

Unite and rebel,
against those whom wish you ill,
but do it cleverly with words
and others shall join–
or at least I will.

For the words of saints,
are written on political-prison walls,
but they belong in our hearts,
along with duty and honor’s calls.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Of That Which I Speak

Teeth gnawing bone to marrow.
Blood red spatters along a predator’s mouth.
Death taints the air with sickening sorrow.
But is it beast or man,
of that which I speak?

Cold and harsh with icy wind.
Needles stinging lungs with each breath.
Nipping frost along dew-moist eyes.
But is it love or hate,
of that which I speak?

Perspective.
Infective.
Detective.
Corrective.

Flowing outward in diverging currents.
Sounds both entrancing and distracting.
While in the middle of it all drifts dead-wood.
But is it a river or a crowd,
of that which I speak?

A million more ways it could be put.
Perhaps infinite more than that.
Going round and round in circles.
But is it life or death,
of that which I speak?

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Illusions, Delusions

Illusions. Delusions.
Superstar collusions.
What mad profusions,
have granted such allusions,
as those formed by occlusions?

We stand for fraternity,
and to procure eternity,
for all whom modernity,
garners uncertainty,
from opportunity.

With salutations,
society’s ovulations
warrant congratulations,
in hopes of greater gradations,
‘stead of capitulations.

But the painful suicide,
of the truth we do hide,
can no more deride,
than a wave at high-tide,
one hoisted port-side.

With it we contend,
but I do not depend,
on your lunatic bend,
for realities mend,
and you can be penned.

Until your reality,
meets the Wisdom Tree
We’ve no need of thee,
so you may go free,
as we pause to take knee.

Life is no game.
You should feel shame,
for the way that you maim,
the world you find tame.
Ignorance your claim.

I hereby remove,
you from the groove,
until I see that you’ve,
found life to improve,
and have wisdom behoove.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Hope-Fueled Treason

Hope-fueled treason.
A country in turmoil.
We lost our reason,
sense and logic our foil.

We voted away,
our rights to applause.
What man could say,
he took pause?

Fluorescent pride,
glowed on our trees and cars,
as those we trusted, lied,
and we instead watched stars.

Patriots died,
for oil and gold–
and now you sigh,
this story long told.

So are we lost?
Or is there hope?
What was the cost?
How do we cope?

I guess we’ll see,
in time, then act,
or perhaps flee,
the puppets intact.