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
on the hope that is before me,
imploring to new heights,
inciting to new sights
My heart overflows
into the still of the night,
as seeping anguish overtakes the calm.
Weeping eyes worn of gnawing pains,
as wretched days grow harder to sustain.
Yet hope is fierce knowing no boundary,
her tenacious wings guide into the light.
Everyone joins the merry go round at some point.
Feeling safe and secure, as the next turn whips
around the carousel cutting against chilled breezes.
The years spin astray, night and day telling their own story.
Seems like a good deal, but it doesn’t come with its own bread and butter.
At best, we try to connect with one another; building sentence upon sentence, spelling out our own history.
Written for the Sunday Whirl: Wordle 231
Her countenance was sweet
and her lure was pure magic.
Unflickering eyes of pearl held steady,
streaming love in steady gaze,
spread wild like rolling spring blossom.
Its leaves giddily unfurled, elegantly creased
thoroughly unbound and happily released.
Then fear viciously flooded
chambers in the heart,
draining down to the veins.
The lines were drawn, but the facts still remained.
All vicious schemes were irrelevant
for the attraction was extreme.
All barriers disintegrated
in the reality of their dream.
Written for the Sunday Whirl