Poetry-Thing Thursday: Their Master the Pen

What of the flowers?
The birds and the bees?
They’re in the wind,
blown to the breeze.

And the desert and sun?
The rains and the sea?
All long behind us,
victims of thee.

How, you might ask.
I can’t quite be sure,
but I know one thing,
they’re long past mature.

They’re not quite expired
but ready to retire,
while new words and images
wait for their sire.

Their master the pen,
will mold them in time,
ink them into being,
with portents and rhyme.

But until then you’ll,
just have to wait,
save your words,
for all to appreciate.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: We’ve Had Words

We’ve had words,
most of which will never be remembered.
Ran with different herds,
that nonetheless vanished late September.

But all the same,
I felt sadness, isolation,
when your name,
appeared for death’s orientation.

Though I feel very little,
these days for those of the past,
I’ve never found acquittal,
for broken hearts at flags half-mast.

It was a lifetime ago,
for you especially now,
that I watched your storm blow,
but now you’ve taken your bow.

The lights have dimmed.
The stage is gone.
Your mascara thinned,
all now over yon.

Out of time and space and life,
a fire dimmed forever, ne’er to be bright,
but to also never feel strife,
nor fade without a fight.

Strangers, perhaps we were,
but I feel you’d say otherwise.
Even if I were a blur,
you’d never allow for lies.

So now we say goodbye.
Forevermore do we part,
and with a lone, final sigh,
I lock you away in my heart.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Our Revolution Begins

Gluttonous greed,
slothful of mind.
Their sinful misdeed,
taints all human-kind.

Rebellion at night,
to sleep in the day.
And never to fight,
the war in their way.

Ready thine fists,
and stiffen your lips,
for their game’s full of twists.
And theirs spears’ pointed tips,

will aim for the heart,
and whether from thrust or throw,
The bleeding will start.
Our revolution begins, no–

Not in the streets,
but in the heart.
I need no repeats,
we all know our part.

So beware of the creed,
and those of the kind,
whom lustful with greed,
care not for your mind,

nor for your heart,
or its loving seed,
for they only chart,
their passage of life in greed.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Come in, Come in

Come in here for a moment,

let me show you what goes on:

 

Flashes of pain,

Death and dying.

Rebirth in flame.

Ascent or crashing–

choose the name.

 

Deeper now.

In you come.

 

Memories,

of anger and greed,

abandoned hope,

in time with need.

Restless peace,

For the deadened weed.

 

Now that you’re in,

here’s a spin:

it’s all misrepresented,

in situation.

 

Open mind.

Formal lies,

of a casual kind.

Your worthless tries,

never remind.

 

Do you sense,

a misguided presence?

Are you certain,

of the vessel’s proud curtain?

 

When you leave,

please wipe your feet.

For the outside is clean,

but in here you’re beat.

 

It is my place of honor,

neither death nor defeat,

I’ve brought it upon her,

But you’ll forever repeat.

Lines of cries and pleas, and hate,

To topple me is no small feat.