Mental Ramblings

Another year
where will the words
come from
One hundred of them
no less than ninety
Imagery fails me
sunsets, pastel skies,
thunderstorms, music
free form, haiku
three years down
a major way to practice
My brain cannot function
not one more
poem can be written
notebook full of scribblings,
beginnings, mental ramblings
an exciting time of year
this marathon is
Creativity ebbs and wanes
like an ocean wave
twelve straight hours
of creating
like a drain clogged with hair
I’m stopped up
Nothing seeps out and
nothing creeps in
this is the last
I am done
the end

Irish Pub

Full moon
Golden light streams onto the dampened streets
Swallowtail Jig plays
foamy beer mugs and loud drunken cheers
Men dancing in circles
bickering loudly over the happy song
jigging happily on the night wind

Hour 10

flashing lights, blue into red into purple
swirl, eerily bathing the darkened street in brilliant color
bullet riddled car
driver side door ajar
a leg, frozen in death
a piercing scream
mutterings of conversation
police with notepads, pens behind ears
white shirts, underarm sweat rings
A hot night
of murder

Spider

My silky creations
grace doorframes and corners
are seen between tree limbs
intricately woven designs
brilliantly created
for prey

Hour 8

From A Book 1 by Emily Dickinson

Chastened, he
sat silently and ate
slowly, and drank
savoring each drop of the
water, making sure the precious
liquid didn’t spill like jumbled words

Hour 7

Brute force winds
rip leaves from branches
trees bow and sway
and she stands, stoic
strong-faced
proudly, she walks through
the storm
her head held high,
does not bow against the wind

Her bones quake with each thunderclap
her heartbeat jumps with each lightening strike
a war waged within, against herself
hidden beneath the facade
of strength

Lies

Lies
pacifiers, fooling infants, soothing
Lies
masterful creations for deceit

Lies
used to blind the truth
Lies
fingers crossed behind my back

Lies
Don’t look at what I’m doing
Lies
Listen to what I’m saying

Lies
That’s not what I meant
Lies
I’m sorry that wasn’t my intent

Lies are
Decorative, artistic craftings of the unworthy
used to blot out the light, the knowing of others

The ‘Hood

Bullies, stray dogs, our pets
Bandit, Sparkle, Elmo, Jasper, Happy
our pets names from years past
so many buried in the backyard of the old house
Ghosts in the Graveyard, Devil and the Pitchfork
“Buttermilk, Sweet Milk.” “Buttermilk!!”
children playing, tag, laughing, voices from a long lost past
block parties, rollerskates, bike rides
singing with my older sister on endless summer nights
“I swore I’d never get involved, swore I’d never, ever fall in love.”
children grow become teens
gangs, drugs, guns, sex, stolen cars
fun, fun, fun
weed smoking, gun toting, in depth “high” conversations
“Good Enough Diploma” a voice from the past, snuffed out too soon.
Blakc G, Tweety Byrd, the first to die
Poo Deuce, so many more, too many
no not here, not my beloved ‘hood
so hard to let go, the people, the chaos,
the dysfunction, can’t let go
must visit from time to time, see what’s happening,
see what I missed
listening to music, making raps, going on missions
things have changed
but I can’t let go, still gotta see what’s happening
until
a warm day in may
the sound of an AK
death in my face, i left for good
my beloved ‘hood
never to return,
now I just sit back and reminisce
on what was, what could have been and what will never be.

Four Stanza Poem Hour 4

A romantic, she was
In love with thunderstorms,
spring rains, music, trees and
pastel sunsets

Pastel sunsets
colored the sky as she
walked slowly, listening
as the trees’ leaves sing to the wind

Walked slowly, listening
as the spring rain
pelted the leaves
whispering in the breeze

Whispering in the breeze
her lips mouthed silently
words of love and romance
no one but the trees could hear

Fireflies

As she dances to the music of the setting sun,
her shadow plays with fireflies

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