A DANCE WITH THE DAWN
The soul of the oppressed can rest against the dawning
of the new day. For as sure is the rising of the sun amidst
the celestial crowds, the pains of the former day dissipate
into distant shadow.
Hope is set upon the steady train of her golden rays,
as they dress and display those famished of her
A golden touch penetrates deep beyond the former
ephemeral skins of superficiality. Her touch is warmth;
dazzling the coldest of heart, adamant glacial minds,
and illest of will.
Dance in the buoyant embrace of her comforting wings
and pleasure in the majestic breadth of her expanse, as she lends
transcendent song against belligerent earthly pangs.
“My beloved responds and says to me, Rise up, my love, My beauty, and come away; For now the winter is past; The rain is over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; The time of singing has come, And the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.” – Song of Songs 2:10-12
What is within a tear?
And from whence does it truly flow?
It hails from hidden abodes of heart,
sprung apart from embattled depths below.
What is within a tear?
And how significant is its worth?
How heavy the burden escapes unweighed;
in dimensions of pain, unknown girth.
What is within a tear, you say?
Only the bearer truly knows.
Hearken that tune when it’s wrought.
As pain grows wings, let them flow.
bare my soul
to the page.
to bear my soul
to its reader;
Betwixt and between
the lines we meet,
bound in spine
to the eater.
Don’t catch that urban sprawl
free-for-all, where every tom dick and harry in town is lookin to lay his eggs in the hive. That busy Queen bee is meant to be in the concrete jungle, but not this here joe. Ain’t no pleasure of mine neither, but a recipe for disaster if you ask me. I’d much rather fly the coop; set my boots in manure, tend to the cows and saddle ma’tractor. A real man, at least, tills the land he treads on and eats the fruit of his own labor. Not herded about like sheep in the endless streets without a shepherd. But I reckon all that pollutin’ is a turnin’ their minds to some kinda mush. Kinda like them zombie folk–the walking dead. Er, somethin’ rather. Road rage, shootin’n robbin’and a hoopin’n hollerin’ at one another. Killin’ one another. Quite the crooked circus don’t ya think? Don’t be goin’ around catchin’that urbanitis you hear? Cause its a gettin’ around pretty good.
Writers Digest April poem a day challenge day 7
Shall I share my demons with another?
With stranger, friend, lover or brother?
Permissbly plunge into dark canyons of despair? Cut asunder as targeted prey in the open wild? As food for the fowl and mockery of the enemy? Shall I bear them in flawed strength and weakness? There is no weakness in the vitality amongst companions. Let them bear me on fortitude of eagles wings; laying hold of the breath of vigorous winds, ascending to the height. For two are better than one.
Writers Digest Aril poem a day challenge day 6
I hate the pained breath that is my life
worn on wearied shoulders.
The weighty grief residing in my chest,
like a pair of ten ton boulders.
Should I entertain shades of dreadful thought? Once interwoven fabric sours, stains, a twisted mind? Reflect a stolen image wrongly wrought, then refuse the true and greater kind?
His eyes uttered ardent desires
Her countenance replied in like kind
His heart fluttered in boiled frenzy
Her thoughts happily screamed he’s mine
His lips quivered a weighty “I do”
Her ring glimmered wet with shine
His hands were faithful and steady too
Her affection kept him in line
In time their love played a different tune
His eyes betrayed him for her friend
She sang a broken wretched dirge
with unknown words stark and grim
Her squelched love well spent sang
What the hell is wrong with men?
Take me as a wordplayer.
Although some would say
that it’s a fools gold; scoffing at its mere mention, abhorring its labor and luxuriant form. Stating that’s it’s simply not the norm to lust for the written word. Counting it absurd to fancy it’s storied origins, unreservedly relish the unrivaled beauty of its captivating expression.
As they say, one man’s rubbish is another’s man’s treasure; and one man’s treasure is another’s man’s rubbish. So is it justified to measure another’s treasure by way of one’s own rubbish? Or size up another’s rubbish by means of their own treasure? It seems to be a pointless endeavor and a hapless game of fools.
Writers Digest, Poetic Asides
2016 April PAD poem-a-day challenge
The very fabric
Of the mind