Abandon Hope

I wear the colors
Of Autumn’s formal morning,
But please remember
Between here and there I must
Pass most suddenly away.
This time of comfort
Is an illusion I made
To help me forget
The excessive pain of past
Times which hurt me with passion.
The price I think paid,
Enough to satisfy all,
But the hungry ghouls
May forever haunt me with
Fervor because I escaped.
Living jealously,
Obsessively, with vicious
Tongues, who forsook lives
To chase every negative,
Devour violence’s flavors;
Still multi-splendored
They dream of feasting upon
The precious rare fruit
Of those loving most fully
Not abandoning real joy.
Embedded in me
Are love, creativity,
Freedom and I will not yield
To hungry ghouls who would
Though wholly discarded, unwanted,
Endeavor to capture, enslave me
To those desires reprehensible to me,
I adjure these wretched pests
To abandon their goals,
For securing my enchantment
Is unbreachable, beyond any
Ghoul’s innate capability,
An absolute impossibility.

Mixed Results

This two steps forward,
A dip and lurch to the side,
Is messing around
When we could begin the dance
Entire, but maybe our shoes
Are somewhat too tight:
Pinching ankles, cramping toes,
Drowning the music
In signals of pain, distress.
Might going barefoot answer
Our need, creativity?
We can break free, do our best,
Leaving dissatisfaction, all, sidelined,
Join hands, come close, be the dance.

Racing Deadlines

Precious seconds mine
With you close beside, only
Moments out of time.
Going home a must, leaving,
No hurry, no rush, but still,
I have a deadline.
I must rock it, so speeding,
The curves sneaking up,
At ninety, slightly leaning,
Not that I should be trying
Such, I am not fit,
But ah, the years fall away.
I remember when
Driving like a racer was
Routine daily, so again.
The typing it goes
Slower, I never was good,
And poems are hard
With the making scattered words
Come together on the field.
Since it is before
The midnight hour, I am done,
Count it victory,
I beat the cruel beast time –
Oohrah, I remain alive.

Plying Forms

The broken bottle
Lying in an amber spill,
The stools toppled like
Memories of a cherished past;
Who were we, thinking love lasts?

The music was such,
Bright magic in which we could play,
Until we forgot
We were only mortal too,
Disassociating us.

I said, “I love you,”
Because I have, always will.
You answered, “I know,”
And that is the reason, dear,
We were never together.

In the eaves lie leaves
Scattered, plastered like these dreams
Only echoing;
Waste to be driven away
Discarded on barren ground.

Sometimes I write us like a new thing as if we shine diamond bright. In reality, we were the stolen pleasure of a season, a forever consisting of only a few love drunk nights. The dust, rust, tarnish gather as the moments further recede into the emptiness of history.

I have hidden all
There remains of my power
But more battles come;
I will not whimper, beaten,
I shall don my armor, sword.

Walking toward what
Defines this deviant hour,
Ready to exclaim,
“The past fades into distance,
Our present embraces a change.”

Your touch sends ripples,
Sensation through my body,
After so long, much.

Bubble Over

Sometimes there is nothing,
But if you hold on, keep going,
You may discover everything.
Life keeps right on giving
Amidst times both good and bad,
Love shows up unexpected
Bringing joy you never had.
Look for the happiness
Make it if you must, you have
Within you the wonder, the purpose,
To become whatever you wish.
Believe, never give up, you are
Strong enough to gather
All you need to change
Any situation, dare to capture
The courage residing in you
Make your dreams come true
Change the world that holds you.
Be bold, be brave, do not allow
Others to tell you who you are;
For only you, yourself has
The right and power to define you.
Your creativity, passion, love
Are what is needed now and always,
To lift lives and let others see
We, everyone, can be free.

Today it seems the words are most insistent. I cannot escape them; they keep coming strong. I have my doubts about them because they seem no audience to find, but I keep trying. Poets writing poems, it could be a thing. I make it mine anyway. I hope maybe with the post of this; I can pull away. I get tired of inciting no interest, and I have an abundance of other things; I should do. Usually, though, when the muse takes over, I lay everything aside and let what words come, that bubble up, from inside.