Poetry-Thing Thursday: You ask, Yet I Answer

You ask me what love is,
yet I do not know.

I know that I have loved and lost:
the feelings of life and entertainment,
all at mercy of soul’s cost.

You ask me what love is,
but I do not know.

I know only warmth and vibration:
delivered through aetheric space-time,
from the source of cosmic machination.

In the end,
what do my meanings matter?
Do you not,
know them yourself?
Then look toward the lingering,
of the inner soul-health.

It is what’s needed
‘tween the dwindlings of time,
and if gone unheeded,
the Mariner’s last rime.

You ask me what love is,
yet I haven’t a clue.

But I have a deep-down feeling,
that you know,
really,
you do,
yet still,
you go on reeling.

You ask me what love is,
I haven’t the faintest,
for all I know,
is when it is true.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Honor’s Task

Do you know happiness?
Can you feel love’s caress?
Have you braved happenstance?
Could you learn to ballroom dance?

Is there immaturity,
in any of what you breathe or see?
Or is the wool pulled perfectly,
over your eyes with certainty?

Have you smelled the burning wood,
of a pyre set, if not you should.
Could you think of a time you’d stand,
give the down-trodden a helping hand?

Will you ever be much more
than what you’ve already been before?
If not would you open the door, walk out,
so another might enter for a bout?

Enclosed are these questions I am forced to ask,
not at gunpoint or in conceit, but as honor’s task.
If more explanation you require,
put your feet to the fire–

We all have a responsibility,
to life and world, man and country.
For it is we whom made them,
and are the only hope to save them.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: What Happened to Stories

In the ages of old,
when stories were told,
rather than mold,
and neither quill nor ink were sold,
we knew of imagination,
whose masters could scold.

With a simple inflection,
their only direction,
spurred listeners’ affection,
while inside did correction,
of innermost damnation
became fluid insurrection.

Such is the abstract,
of the heart still intact,
when deep in contract,
with masters of contact,
and relentless dissension,
that readies to retract.

But today we have links,
verbal wars that leave kinks,
in bottomless sinks,
and unhealthy drinks,
from electric derision,
and arm-chair shrinks.

What happened to stories,
both bold and of glories,
where seldom did quarries,
disappear ‘long with lorries,
and hectic decision
or lone allegories?

When did the paper,
along with the caper,
turn from the shaper,
dissolve into vapor,
and delightful incisions,
became keys that did taper?

Whatever the answer,
I’m sure the pen-dancer,
has grown weary of cancer,
from the weakened freelancer,
whose electric visions,
thought himself an enhancer.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Madness

Madness

 

Sixes and Sevens,

I cry from the heavens!

No more of these set-ins,

My poor mind it maddens!

 

Hope’s a cyanide,

for a tearful abide.

I’ve known the wild ride,

Alice and madness, and badness aside.

 

Righteous indignation?

My capitulation.

What’s your situation?

I’ve no destination.

 

Madness ‘n numbers, mathematical formul-i

Tones ‘n notes ‘n out of tune, I die.

Seeking the seeker, whom seeks the sky?

I rhyme, and I rhyme– or at least try.

 

Oh King and Oh Queen,

Your relation’s obscene!

Incest is best when done in a dream,

stark raving mad or naked and clean,

Oh King and Oh Queen of soiled latrine!

 

The sheets! The sheets! What more repeats,

Of all those that preach, and little altar-boys eat?

Bloody madness, and bleached-cotton in heat,

woe to you, delectable treat!

 

War mines, star shines,

the Moon climes

all in desperate time,

to a beat, a tempo, a forgone sign.

 

Oh the madness we touch,

atop the hutch,

of reality’s crutch,

That’s silent? No such.

 

Thing in the dream, of a queen made a scene.

Appalling, appealing, and reeling in ‘tween,

Is it us or our madness that which I’ve seen,

Recall the fall of the madness and ream,

But who is the whom with untruly lean?

 

Is it you or the madness that you’ve desired?

The thunder of cannons yet to be fired?

Perhaps in the middle, something yet to be sired?

 

My final questions are these which I’ve asked,

of the moral majority and madness unmasked.

In the sun’s warm glow now shall we’ve basked,

with madness and numbers and Alice, up-classed.