blackened dahlias bloom
among shadows and ashes,
laying waste to ruin.
“Thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.” He said,
Filled with milk and honey but overwhelming his expectations - he feared,
Finding peace and solace in its feel of evermore candor-not for-yet made for-in plentiful, he cheered,
Until I sought no more in its unparalleled enchare.
Out the door she gushed and out his heart she made deport,
Staring across the open door, across the hallway with his heart implode,
Laying waste to the mask which clots his eyes afore.
I implore to thee, whose eyes are that of a doe,
Sing into my ears once more and ward off my fiery foes,
Dance with me once more, oh how I MISS YOU so.
Cyber poets seeking buried treasure
filled with rushed rapture A.I’s hurried;
Robotic words never ringing no soul,
outraged console steady lagging;
Pop goes the weasel suddenly alive;
Bourgeois contrive it’s meant to be;
Left a jack in the box out of control
technology stole all the word docs;
Infinite is always within arm’s reach,
victims of a breach much too often;
Criminals that dip into a writer’s mind,
the destructive kind with quite a quip;
Murderous impersonation DM’s,
virtuous victim’s dark liaison;
Laying waste to the pen’s process it falls,
there’s nothing that calls or will impress;
Desperately seeking any sparkle,
you are not mortal and you’re stealing;
Cyber poets they cannot look within,
weak source of jargon without a hook.
Passion
Passion's born a wormy moon
Laying waste our good intent...
As desire brings forth a foolery
Where we rile in love's torment.
As novelty stokes our zeal
And the impetus seems well-meant...
It quickly dies a pauper's death
As familiarity breeds contempt.
If familiarity brings the winter...
Driving passion to its knees.
The fault is ours... and ours alone
As we forget what's soon to be.
Affairs of Men
The affairs of men dim evermore...
Morose they seem to be.
Buffeted by the winds of fate
And mediocrity.
Man. This situation's claustrophobic
I just can't deal with it right now;
I've got no patience to even think,
there's no outlet for what I'm feeling;
If I were a bomb I'd be nuclear
laying waste to everything inside me;
I'm uncomfortable,
get me out of my own skin;
Guts and glory are going to escape
I won't ever really settle down;
Time doesn't matter it just slows
into a desire to run with scissors,
pointy edge directed at myself;
Temper tantrum cuts into fleeting
a change ends all that pain;
I stab myself in all my vitals;
I'm uncomfortable,
get me out of my own skin;
'Go through it maybe learn from it.'
It takes so long to gain those years;
Impulsive as hell now you can't go back.
You're more than that current emotional state;
Inner peace is something that grows,
at times we will always be overwhelmed.
I'm uncomfortable,
get me out of my own skin.
Voices no longer talk but yell.
Angry legions, carrying banners
along burning streets,
have infiltrated the Temple quiet
with the unholy noise of hell.
Rage has been elevated
to the status of virtue,
division into a hymn.
Soon, fiery eyed militia,
banging their drums,
will be knocking on your door
to present a warrant
to enter your head.
Find a hatch somewhere
into the still
of an inner space
and escape, safe
from the marauding mob
tearing silence apart,
laying waste the State
in the name
of their rowdy god.
I derive no pleasure in hurting a fly,
Preferring to let spiders do that for me,
Or just to shoo them away.
Bug spray is only used as a last resort,
And sticky fly papers are banned at our house.
But when it comes to weeds,
I show no mercy,
Not even for the little ones,
And derive great satisfaction,
From laying waste to their domain,
Letting all that pleases the eye,
And my taste buds have free reign in their place.
My day is not complete unless I have undone the hard work of creepers,
That come out after dark,
Intent on strangling anything they can get to grips with.
With weeds I have no empathy,
With weeds I show no mercy,
With weeds I show no restraint,
And my pleasure in their demise,
Only increases when I see a daffodil,
Where once there was only weeds,
Or watch my grandson pick a strawberry,
Instead of a weed.
From an abandoned sky comes images from on high
tossing away the things that make us sane
Subliminally casting all away to an abandoned sky
from nothing to form or nothing to no were
flying through clear abandoned skies
I have nothing to lose and knowledge to gain
no cares or concerns
watch and waiting
in an abandoned sky
I rise to meet the great new day
I stare into the face of a perfect god
all alone in an abandoned sky lost and forgotten
on a distant plane where skeletons lie in repose
As they deny the twilight cast from an abandoned sky
fragments of my mind's eye lay in disarray
in demise under an abandoned sky riding
in rusted machines or reapers' dreams
teeth of gears gnash and grind memories
from bright eyes reflecting the soul
an abandoned sky full of possibilities
I lie in the cool shade of the skeleton trees on Halloweens eve
I watch snow collecting, covering the carcass of my vanity
under a black abandoned sky in the depths of a winters storms
laying waste to inner landscapes
I dream of future days and tomorrow's nights
as stars of distant worlds swirl n play...
I dance in an abandoned sky
Do not count me a sorceress, Lord,
or a diviner interpreting the moon,
do not count me among the harlots of Babylon,
laying waste amid the ruins.
Do not count me a stranger, Lord,
unrelated by distance alone,
count me, Lord, a child of the King,
whose sins have been atoned.
Do not count me as complaining
facing trials that made me strong,
count me as one in humble reverence
and count the praises in my song.
Do not count me as proud of haughty
or unobedient to thy will,
count me as one ever listening
for your voice,
for your call.
Father...
Father,
count on me.
Flies
buzz inside
laying waste within;
If I had sewed their mouth shut?
Clean;
A soapy bar would be safe
never touching teeth;
Falsehoods breed
dirt.
Who's is that sweet female face?
A beauty like that does not exist in my world.
There, women are less perfect, yet more comely,
they spellbind with their imperfections.
Yet, if I were a painter I would attempt to capture
that ideal. Something to strive for,
without which, we are towers of conceit,
laying waste to ourselves.
The sculptor prays to his hands
that he might translate her from his mind,
but try as he might
something crumbles between his reach
and the clay he touches.
The same for the female sculptor
who tries to capture her inner vision.
What is that sweet face?
Only God knows, and She only tells you
when you fail and fail yet again.
Those who stand their ground...
Their sacred ground...
With their backs against the wall.
Making bold their full intentions
While the slings and arrows fall.
Laying waste an air of happenstance
Permeating sick and feeble minds...
Caring not the monstrous odds
The powers of darkness have aligned.
I fear not this mass of troubled souls
Who demand their pound of flesh.
I contest every foot of treasured Earth.
I contest every loathsome wretch.
I give not an inch to those who dare
Make dark the light of day
To preserve such sacred wanderings
Where the meek would have their say.
I will lift my voice in praise and song
To evince the veracity of my cause
Displaying a knightly measure of gallantry
To give the hapless minions pause.
But sweet victory demands some sacrifice
As a judicious Death may set me free.
Knowing this... would you be at my side?
Would you rise and stand with me?
The End
In the midst of myself I see all a named through a blame of crystal ball garbage self imposed heaps of anarchic monumental fever itches slowly coalescing compost inflaming frolicking one step beyond destitute drowned drained primal ascents like muted strands of character counts contents--a sugary benign bene-violence renewed every 4th year by death trite trickery, bumming freedoms long necked, sticky fingered bullet borrowed Bogart abandoners like cool coup indifferentials-----hangless gyrations coordinated catastrophizes counter culture aberrations seeming short changed a dimes worth of democracy voices foot and mouth disease we move through dead brain catheters dreaming of cellular open ranges of slack composures minus politico contractual ill tongued bilateral lobotomy laden binormals laying waste to unsecured raptures---dicey yet decidedly temporary but elipticaliplapsing any Gods forgiving truth and moral divergence by appetite arbitration. Hence a gamely time of fecal folly foot loose and fancy toe tag free---------all's well that entrails well.
STILL TRUDGING…..
TRUDGE….TRUDGE….TRUDGE….
DAY……AFTER…… DAY
fueling the fires of experience
laying waste the fears of failure
laying stone upon stone of truth’s foundation.
STILL TRUDGING…..
through shifting nuances of doubt
itinerant thoughts mindlessly meandering
through the embers of experience
ego fire walking on smoky memory.
STILL TRUDGING….
over the peaks of euphoria’s joy
into the valleys of serenity’s silent calm
wading through the cold truths of mountain streams
laughing at the voices of canyon-less echoes
STILL TRUDGING
through the vagaries of life’s uncertainties
looking to the future
wary of the past
living in the present
leaving footprints on hourglass sands.
©9/16/2019
100 words Poetry contest
count verified on word
Now it has become hazy
Cutting off the light
Just to merge with the darkness
Slicing off today
Just to end off tomorrow
It bellowed ferociously
Dancing eerily
As it swoops on fate
Manifesting without a date
Wandering with a sure purpose
Stirring away all calm unopposed
Stalking all our inward deeds
sweeping out everyone dreams
Laying waste to vast vanities
Encircling this wanton emptiness
Mounting piles of sorrows
Trading tales of pains and horrors
amidst this madden rush
Heralding this troubling tussle
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