Tag Archives: truth

Hope – NaPoWriMo #20

Story peddler, word merchant,
everywhere I turn there’s a tale to be told, all urgent:
There’s an old man urchin with the same duct tape shoes
that rode the bus with me earlier today –
I guess we all must pay our dues.

Every clue, every missile,
every residual epistle,
every mountain we yet conquer,
every stone we over-turn
earns us scars and earns us badges,
every dart and all our baggage,
it is not too much to manage if we only listen true:

There is hope yet in the world still
and love when others have not e’en a morsel,
how to be so self-ensorceled and only see what’s brute,
if you’d see yourself astutely, and not think yourself minutely,
which is your sacred duty, and the only thing that’s true:

“Love your neighbor as you love yourself,”
gives you the dharma to love yourself!
And whatever’s on your shelf there is always this to think –
“I love myself.”

T’is neither selfish nor narcissitic,
because if you cannot stand yourself
why should others think your company distinguished?

And for all the damage that I’ve done, beating up this heart of mine,
With just a brief self-assurance I find I’m fine,
Sublime, in the love that is Self-Given,
a spark set within Myself pinpointed through a prism.

Protected: Public Transit – NaPoWriMo #16

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Art

Art bleeding out the pores,
The pains and joys that it’s expressing, flowing from out the core,
The wholly stock and store of a soul shaking itself from slumber,
Seeking in it a lesson to offer umbrage instead of lumber.

A stage set in its components, wood and screws and paint to sway perceptions of what would otherwise be malaise and restraints,
Seeking to stake a claim in saints and statesmen, a sinner or a psychopath sincerely, to make a statement:

Continue reading

Take to Find

I want to tell you everything I know about myself and so expose when the moon hangs low,
Growing nearer as the stars glow gallantly in comparison to the brightness in your eyes when I have you in my orisons.

Core untrimmed, contents revealed:
I’ve known loves that dropped like out of the sky,
Didn’t pull my chute out of fright and plummeted instead to the ground,
Ended it with the clack that resounded extra loud.

Clack! Rounds rebounded, stored and stacked,
Some might say he’s slack in the stack stored upon his back,
Boasts a knack at knocking words together,
To turn them toward some poetry,
When the fact he’s writing poetry should yet fill her with some worry, see?

Continue reading

Hissing Pen

Which came first, the ova or the hen?
Where’s the leak?
Coming out this hissing pen that often gauges straight until put upon the page.

What’s its wage?
What week’s pay might you part with,
Straight dismiss, without profit seen for loftiness,
Baudy bliss in a crimson kiss that twisted past all reason and supplanted ethereality in the mist that hangs this season?

Continue reading