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.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Keep It Well-Versed

Pumping Red blood,
like a rushing geyser,
that’s ever-present,
sans accompaniment.

The heart of matters.
The muscle of love.
It beats for you,
believe it’s true.

Inside and within,
your love has been,
well-worn and ridden,
if even unbidden.

Though it is never forgiven,
it breeds love where livin’,
in the hands of another,
the eyes of a lover.

So never fear,
it is always near,
beating and pounding,
reddened and coursing.

Its blood is your life,
no matter your strife,
and it treats you well,
so treat it the same.

And even if, by freak chance
it be only your first,
always in love,
keep it well-versed.