Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Great Oak Tree

Sit beneath the Great Oak Tree.
Let it whisper near your ear,
nothingness of which to fear.
For the tree’s roots run deep
past the forest floors to creep,
ever onward, ever outward,
toward dour veins that weep.

There by the window bough,
misery’s company come to caw,
in feathered wing and blackened claw.
The grief of withered sight,
drawn furlong, mid dead-of-night.
Grating mind, grinding bone,
of hunts in past-light.

She stands alone.
‘pon a mantle piece.
Cloaked in satin.
Fine silk,
A lady.
No matter his ilk.
Problems be-lie her wounded men.
In her hands, they let her in.
She remolds them,
like clay,
piece by piece,
shows them to win.

Play upon play. Night upon night.
The dancing certainty of one who is right.
The play may uphold, as certain due right,
any liberties people try to fight.
For art is art, as any can tell,
and in rhyming couplets,
the legends foretell;

That when the stage is set,
she’ll roll down her sleeves,
begin to sweat,
strap on her greaves,
and fight with her feet wet.

Even a performance not quite up-to-snuff,
held in regard as rather quite rough,
All the same her people, the audience,
find hating it tough.

She takes her bow.
Exits stage-left.

Mind consumed
by minute failures,
but nowhere near
bound-up by terrors.
Instead she is thinking,
analyzing her errors,
her thoughts re-tracing,
running upgrades and repairors.

Internal monologues play.
Play again.
She’s adjusting,
choosing her moments.

Then it comes,
a repeat performance.
Never fail.
Never succeed.
as good as she needs.
Striving forever to be better,

If only we all,
could thus,

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Burdened Shoulders

The figure of an adult,
and the mind of a child:
what a pitiful waste.
What an unfortunate slight.

To have been born with a silver spoon,
tucked firmly beneath one’s tongue,
so that no matter one’s ignorance,
they might always carry on.

We’ve surpassed evolution.
Made obsolete natural selection.
All by virtue of intelligence,
and this is the price we pay.

What a burden!
To live the life of one,
whose whole world is fortune,
and opportunity.
And then for that one,
to besmirch themselves,
and choose mental mediocrity.

What is the definition of a fool?
The one graced with all,
yet still achieving nothing,
or the one whom allowed such?

The answer,
is as simple as it appears.

So take pride in your mind,
for it may rest above burdened shoulders,
but so long,
as it is put,
to good use,
it shall never be squandered.

That is more than can be said of some…

Poetry-Thing Thursday: A Feast of Life

Lead me not into darkness,
for I seek the light.
In times of trouble or sorrow,
it is that for which I fight.
For there is no heaven, nor hell,
only those meek and with might,
and good and evil,
is only a matter of sight.

Do not speak of atrocities,
for I intend to feast on life.
In the living there is to be found,
something of a double-edged knife,
two-sided– a duality,
of equal parts joy and strife.
Love is its queen, virtue its king,
loyalty and truth its husband and wife.

So open your mind, and heart, and eyes.
Listen with soul, fingers, and ears.
The world has much to tell.
There are greater things than one’s own fears,
and there is much more to see–
some older than even man’s years.
All of them, in the right moment,
can bring one to tears.

So open up and embrace,
that which is all around you,
life and love and happiness,
all the things you can do,
and live to feast on life,
for your death will come too,
and between here and there and then and now,
it is better to have lived anew.

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.