Chutes and Ladders

Grasping the grout of brick
Walls,
The ascension of adverse
Waterfalls:
With an uphill journey, therin
Lies
The epitomy of the ostracized.

I'd devour time faster to
Satisfy a climax
If the denoument, in turn,
Satisfied a relapse

Tragedy: gone with the wind,
In a perfect world
Where there is no sin.
Doves: cloud-clearing,
God-fearing,
Searching for their pulse
In the wake of orthodox
Autonomy,
Wishing to revolt

I see a star pass overhead
And dream about the sky;
I dream a star falls in my hands
And see about the tides

Black and blue are but colors
Stricken with a curse,
Forcing patient, quiet men
To live life in reverse.

Divorce

Rain-forced reservations
Have dampened disposition
Into nonchalant indignation
And solemn resignition

Not a wave on the water,
Nor a splash on the mouth:
There is a fight for a father
And a war in the south

A turn for the slope
Can break the bind on dry,
While the young guns elope
And we say goodbye

In Decay

I

For a fleeting moment almost gone
And a yearning for a sing along,
I swallowed fright
And acted right,
In my attempt to thwart the wrong.

II

After years of life, your nonchalance
Is half-hearted wisdom, lacking wants;
No sound, no fury,
Apprehension to hurry,
And reason to blame the oens who taunt.

III

In fear of words that you might say
Being listened to the wrong way,
Silence prevailed,
From clouds came hail,
And Ravens watched us in decay.

Reverence

Bent branches draping stringent moss
Over the barren nest of the Albatross,
Housing a lonely shell
That, when Time tells,
Should struggle to get a point across.

In a plastic land,
The shift of sand
Never falls through the slender neck,
While the opposite age,
The previous page,
They read and then soon forget.

Prescibed on scrolls and tablets,
There lies ancient cures to modern woes,
Denied by "revolutionaries"
As archaic meanings set in stone.

With the intent of hearing echoes
That ring in octaves slightly higher,
They fail in being audible
Over the skillful picking of the lyre.

Ode to a Redwood

Redwood trees - let's make believe - wear rings and
Hum the songs birds sing; yet, without wet tongues
And able lungs, silent choirs lose their
Leaves.  On stagnant soil, logs lie, wishing
For an alibi, hoping for solemn
Dismissalls, or a chance at what was cast
Aside: playful inquiries of what is
Beyond the trees - the green of other past-
ures, the sky under the sea; but said rings
Mean nothing to primary objectives;
The pressure of time to be carefully
Selective: the songs not sung, the bells not
Rung, the Redwood rings that bear no voice, all
For idle trees that wished they had a choice.

White-Knuckled

I decided to try my hand at iambic pentameter. :)

 

Empty spaces filling plastic chairs: the

Epitomy of loneliness washing

Out your hair only to dry your blank scalp.

Scampered about, one sleepless night, scaling

Bridges and losing fights, only to gain

What you have lost, hiding under the snow,

Under the frost. Piled in white, ivory

Maybe. One last dance with your fair lady.

Call you a king; a prince won't suffice, or

Account for the prison created by

Ice, or when we dare give a name to white

Quicksand, it's snow; kings prize crowns, and learn to

Let go. They sink in snow, growing somber,

God, can heaven wait a moment longer?

Dreams Are People, Too

Emaciated dreams,
I'd love to take you out for dinner,
But I cannot afford it.
Four years and 40,000 dollars
Will only get me a piece of paper, a robe, and a hat.
What will I do with all of that?
Scenery. Decoration. Pizzazz.
All viable options,
None satisfying.
So what shall I feed you?
I gave you my childhood.
Eighteen conscious, cognizant years you spent
Feeding on me until this point. My peak.
How awkward:
No empathy is rewarded to those scaling mountains
By those who have scaled mountains.
Mistakes are hereditary. . . like blood.
Please pass the steak, if you can spare some.
Cook it rare.
I'm hungry, too.
I'd like to eat at the round table of stability, but
First I'd have to pass the dimly-lit trenches of uncertainty.
I'll take my dream with me; she hates to be left alone.
So do I.
Any and all noises, large or small, pierce the air
In dark rooms with pointy objects
Invisible to untrained eyes.
I've walked into them a hundred times.
I would do it a hundred more. . .
For you, my dream.