#0139 - A Story of Seeking Warmth...

{Written as part of Sextravaganza 2018, hosted by a number of poetic/literary enthusiasts on Tumblr}

The frozen Arctic wastes were cold and white.
That endless nothing streched from near to far—
a vapid vastness reaching past our sight.
...For friends, we only had the nightly stars.

A night spent hiding from the howling wind
gave birth to new ideas for warmth...and fun.
At first just hesitation: winks, a hint.
And then our hands were hunting pleasure und-

-er walls of cloth. And four together found
desire: reckless lust behind a blush.
The night then found salacious sounds, and dark-
-ness hid the scene of flesh exploring flesh.

Thus, miles apart from any sight: we found
new comfort, joy in something warm and white.

#0126 - Suppertime Evasions

Meat and grains and vegetables:
Grandpa's cooking on the table.
From the lawn, the kids arrive
and, seated, scheme and duly try
to eat as little as they can.
They try to reach the frying pan
to get their food back off their plate—
return it to its rightful place;
they wait for Pa to leave the space—
to Grandma they will plead their case!
Success! Success! They quickly leave,
for they have fin'lly found their peace.
     They come back to their sleeping racks,
     where they have hidden candied snacks.

#0111 - 30 Days

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 30}

These varied rhymes
'cross 30 days
have found their way
through different styles.
The month has gone,
but coming times
should soon bring on
new written lines
continuing
to sing like songs
or strum like strings.
Rights and wrongs
     will always ling-
     -er 'mongst these things.

#0085 - Rhetoric of Numbers

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 4}

These numbers and dry formulæ may be,
By blasted inexplicability,
A better piece of poetry to read
Than any word or phrase written by me.
If words in poems are indeed to veil
A meaning that by pond'ring eyes' assailed,
Then digits can be easily availed
To cause these ardent ponderers to fail:
Replace a thought with π or e or 4
Or any of a frankly endless score
Of varied symbols rarely used yet more
Elucidating than one's lingual lore.
     But, rather than with maths be so enraged,
     I'd like to just read poems off a page.

#0077 - On Undue Extravagance

I feel as if it isn't hard to write
A poem that can tempt the genius mind.
Weave stories of a turtle with a kite,
And soon in such a mind you'll likely find:
The turtle is a slovenly reject
And, as such, lumbers like an ugly slug
Presenting sloth as something to reject
Else one's life passes like that of a bug.
The kite is brilliant opportunity
Forsaken by a lazy, useless beast
That though we easily can view and see
Flies off into the vastly empty east.
     Though, truthfully, I only wanted to
     Write something for a child in preschool.

#0052 - "My mind is often thinking of an end"

My mind is often thinking of an end
To all I hate and, more so, all I love.
I think of how I could somehow append
More time to life: I fear both goat and dove.
Yet flowers never wish they could live on
Once seeds of theirs have spread across the land:
As soon as offspring are assured 'pon yon-
-der hills, they quick succumb to time's bleak hand.
Old canines, felines, insects and the Jay,
Once coming near their end, they simply lie:
They do not dramatize their deaths, and they
Don't mope 'pon knowing that their time is nigh.
     It's strange to know that death I always fear
     When everything its end must one day near.

#0027 - "Mine pen hath fell from hand to wooden floor"

Mine pen hath fell from hand to wooden floor;
A cacophonous noise: calamity.
Its piercing clattering turns mine ears sore;
A failure vast of mine dexterity.
A wetness in mine eyes I feel hath stirr'd -
'Tis quickly seen that I am thus contrite,
For saltine tears have been with speed incurr'd;
They redden eyes and blur mine once-keen sight.
They make my failure to the world be known -
'Tis thus to others quickly realiz'd.
My failure resonates through flesh and bone:
A wronging worse than could have been surmis'd.
     A mourning time, but I myself console:
     A fallen pen should not my life control.

#0026 - "Costs are naught when time is set aside"

With time, the nightly hours spent alone
Gave eager way to conscious, lawless trysts.
Returning nightly to my dreams' abode,
Following moonlit hug, embrace and kiss.
Dust gathers, slowly coats leather-bound books
Sitting neglected on my wooden shelves -
For them my thoughts no longer long or ache,
But rather seek to with my other dwell.
Strings pegged on a guitar, strung tight as coils,
Are tense, but not as are my longing whims.
Like snapping strings my mind fast bursts with joy
When they I near, and hold as close as gems.
     But costs are naught when time is set aside
     For those who dearly in your heart reside.