The empty page, a writer’s stage, blank lines beckon verse.
Scenes are penned, the page my friend, as heart and mind traverse.
Category: poetry
The Cage I shed
I’m not the me of yesterday, nor do I wish be.
The me you see is fixed, yet free. A dreamer strung to dreams.
What fuels my fire is the desire to shed the cage prescribed
“Once broken” is my token. A badge I will not hide
City Takes my Town
Quaint becomes commercial when dollar signs are seen
Towns are turned to cities as business-men see green
Urban growth infects my home, a manufactured plague
Corner stores lose the war when chains begin to trade
Construction yields destruction through a subdivided soul
Local owned is overthrown as chains find their footholds
My Wretched Phone
You’re the one I gaze too, when mind is seeking light
You’re the glow beneath the covers, the company at night
Addicted to your charm, chiming when in need
Veinless with a pulse, you’re faced, yet never bleed
Your sheen detracts from mine, a foe that is a friend
Your soul holds no regard, yet your ear I seem to lend
Pocketed for safety, lonely yet not alone
Silenced, never muted, you are my wretched phone
My Eye’s Bleed with Bloodshed
I’m here, my heart’s yours
It’s silent, I hear sirens
Eye’s bleed for Paris
Weaponry in Words
Here I go, on this path to enlighten those who’ll listen
Keyed to unlock inequity from suppressions prison
I’m preaching for the little boy, who’s father beats his mother
“Daddy’s death” the torch lit wish, whispered under cover
I’m singing for the soldier who’s never left the war
Who lays awake in sweats dreaming death is at his door
I’m Humming for the tormented, plagued with their own mind
Questioning reality, distortions seen when blind
I’m vocal for the Muslim, seats vacant either side
Commuters opt to stand, over rubbing shoulders for the ride
I’m speaking for that little boy, asked to lick a lolly pop
The licking of a phallic, while pleading it to stop
For those eating feces to halt the destiny of death
Morsels numbered calculate a timeline for their breath
This is for injustice, inequity and truth
This is for the world in which were bringing up our youth
Equip your lips with tactfulness to unshackle what resides
What keeps us up at night, producing pain when lips confide
Assemble with me, armed with words, to pierce a callused skin
A revolution without weapons, let your penmanship begin
Social responsibility is embodied in art. I cry out for those who’s tears are shed in silent suffering. Words script change.
A single voice can cross the world if cherished by the right gust of wind…
My 3 Day Trip
All aboard the night bus calls…
My three day excursion to a frail mind. 72 hours of insight into the possibilities of mental decline. I’m suffering a woundless incision. Paralyzed by indecision. Debilitation of mind and body, blood soaked thoughts. My fingers bleed as I plead for the Renae of yesterday. Please…this is a reprimanded illness, the AIDS of mental suffering. I’m muted by fear of persecution. An unmentionable affliction.
My jacket, hat and shoes are the same ones adorned when sound, yet I am cloaked in a veneer of mental persecution. I’m knee deep in a grave that I didn’t dig. A mound of earth excavated by nameless daemons coercing death. How deep is deep enough? When will the pile of turned earth be returned to its home? Will every granule find its way home or will soil be eternally displaced by my body?
Who is writing?? This is not my tune. These are not my words. A soiled reality! Feelings that are foreign yet saturate my everything. Who stole my mind?
Who returned it? An overdue gift carded by Anonymous. The unwrapped package
lays open. Etchings regarding the 3 day mental voyage, a hallmark to my suffering. The pain a privileged insight. Feelings, a cherished commodity. My tomorrow is empowered by those living with an irrational reality. Empathy, respect, awe, marvel and compassion laces my art. How do people endure this eternal fight? My 72 hour excursion was the best and worst trip of my life.
I thank the jester who corralled this excursion. You have invigorated my next chapter, inscribing insight into the privilege of mental stability. An ever-teetering state, resting on the precipice of instability. For now, I write for those who are paralyzed by a mind. May you be free again. I write in hope that the earth underfoot is not grave. The ground is not a testament to your fight. It takes courage to arm yourself for the battle. It takes an army to win minds fight. Soldiers can be friends or strangers. Society….Enlist
My wired woes come and go
Demons scheming mental blows
I bleed in words, in pain I grow
This day’s ache is next month’s show
Living Stopped by Ticking Clock
Waiting room…. where life is bound. Heart beats mock the tocking sound.
Dr. Death… behind white doors! Attuned to solemn namely calls.
Waiting ….life’s clock chimes in tick and tocks. Sitting poised, Glock 40’s cocked. Chasing time while livings stopped. In comes Doc to set life’s clock.
Answer??? “No…not today.” Dr. says “Your fights not grave.” Arrrgh it’s breath not death! You live to wait another day.
Annoyed…Time grieving what was never lost.…”not today” you tell your clock.
Life spent waiting to live. Living spent reflecting on life. When do we start feeling alive?
Life isn’t Fair
Mind tinkers in verse and transforms into rhyme
My thinking coerced by two stanza lines
The rhythm of thoughts, a sullen progression
My metronomes ticking tunes of suppression
A blessing and curse is my mindful transverse
To live full of wonder, yet ponder the hearse
How death isn’t fair, so neither is life
Wealth finds the wicked as poor pays the price
She speaks to us when we drink
My ears pricked with nature’s melody.
Ocean licks Rock. A twice a day tasting. Algae has been growing suspicious of Ocean’s arrivals. Lately, it has been a toxic dance. Waltz now Jibes. I wonder if Ocean understands its tidal surge? See… Algae gifts Ocean’s drinkers with breathability. Inhabitants saturate in oxygen. Yet, Algae has an unrequited love in Ocean. Communalism turned parasitic. Ocean deposits a film of suffocation, cloaking Algae in humanities excretion. Ocean and Algae continue their dance of give and take. With each day, the takes forsake gifts a little more.
The Tree….Oh the Tree’s. Rooted in fickle permanence. Highway traffic’s expiration. Chainsaw massacre. Tree pleads in splintered fracture. Yet… waste is never wasteful when winter’s wrath can be warmed by Tree’s ringed girth. Right? The aged beauties find themselves scattered… in chips, logs, furniture. Chiseled to please. Inevitably, Tree’s final hour is heard in flickered gasps. The fireplace crypts crackles of self-cremation. The air of kindred souls fueling fire. Ravenous in deaths consumption. A blackened passing pitted in the homes they once shaded.
Must we forget the drips. The stream of Tundra’s tears, feeding an ocean distended by warmth. The global kind! The irreversible tide.
If we listen closely, we may find ourselves deafened with despair. Her tears drip into our laps. Her audible exhaustion carols melodies of humanities folly.
Listen closely. She speaks to us when we drink.
Please share your thoughts. I am experimenting with different writing styles and would love your feedback on what works and what chimes disinterest. I have words to say, I want society to be enthralled and then imprinted. I need your help in finding pitch!
Mind to Unbind 