Will

What is this
lack of motivation
that I feel?
Nothing is missing here.
Nothing.
I wish I were further along..
Is that the cause of my void?
My missing inspiration.
I wish I could think
from somewhere else
in time and space.
I apologize
for this
discontentment of my heart.
I am
happy.
What then?
I should be better
I should be patient
I should be..
And I will be.

Unceasing Obscurity

The hum drones on.
Cars pass,
People talk,
the clock ticks,
and trees walk.
Bricks fall,
Lamps bust,
the sidewalks jump,
and man is dust.
Papers fly,
Sirens call,
the chairs sit,
and bugs crawl.
The hum continues.

Passed

Mean something more, you sand on the shore, and we'll soon declare you fit. Fit to parlay, on your own crochet, from the loom that lover's knit. A knit that resembles a baller's mitt with a ball inside to cast. To cast, at last, one's heart to the mast till the toll of a whistles blast. A blast, so aghast, yet meant to alarm of an event that's long been past.

The Tear

I discovered the sun
as an eruption through the crusted air.
With delicacy of touch
a hand lays it within the seam of my coat pocket.
This world is in ruin
and my mind plummets.
Amidst this chaos,
can there be clarity, some relief?
I've lived in this
this destruction, obstruction, a disjunction.
Wind in my lungs,
stale from the cresting oceans of garbage.
Stench of my hands,
reeked of waste, work and sweat.
Can relief be so simple
as to be found in this lining pressed to my chest?
And, if so,
shall I share it?
Temptation beckons;
“Happiness cannot be compromised.
Once found,
the fleetingly fond public turns fickle.
They turn to greed,
asking for more, more, and more.
It is best to confine it
to your own use and practice.
Your neighbors
need not know.”
My right hand
reaches toward my breast.
Supposing the form of my find
I, instead, discover the cloth bare.
The palm stays put
pacing the increasing thud of my heart.

Fall

Rustling
leaves sing,
as the strong breeze
tears through
the autumn
stricken tree,
casting a smile
upon
my
face.

Lost

Take 435 South
Merge to I-70 East
Exit to 635 South
Which becomes Metcalf
Take a left at 83rd
These are the words of roadway direction
Formulated by endless correction
Realized with misinterpreted inflection
Resulting in words censored out for your protection
All in the wake of a missed intersection

Psalm 49

A bee scrawls across the sun-beaten pavement.
He stumbles and he falls.
This once proud insect, brought low
before my eyes,
tries to redeem the respect he once held.
Futile the fight.
When,
before,
he may cause crowds to account his presence.
The fragility of this bug now rests in the fate of heels and tires crashing
before him.
Futile the flight.
His wings shudder,
folding in the prayer
of lift.
To escape the threshes
of this brutal end.
Before long,
his dilemma shall find a resolute.
Fleeting; his existence, and the inevitability of his end.

Invisible ( )

Disregarded
by those
imparted
with wisdom beyond what they had when they
started.
Unbarded.
Outsmarted.
I retreat to where I know I'll feel
guarded.
(I'm trapped in this mind,
and that's where I'll remain,
till someone, outside,
discovers something sane)

Death

A decrepit moth stretches dry wings in the white window pane while shadow draws out 'neath it.

The blackness beneath aged feet trails easily to the side opposite the rising rays of morning.

In his flutter, this moth turns to face the fleeting glory, slightly abject to it's intensity.

Finish Line

I'm still running--
ground is hard, steps are heavy
fists pumping fast to the pace the feet levy
You say I've been relieved.
I reply, “you are deceived.”
The soreness in my calves,
once properly grieved,
shall prove themselves resilient,
though, my energy's been thieved.
Give me a moment
to consider my health.
I’ll collect my belongings
and my dwindling wealth.
Should I, then,
conserve my pace,
or damn the strategy
of this race?
--I'm still running

The Lord's Prayer

Our Father,
who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Thy Kingdom come,
thy will be done,
on earth
as it is
in heaven
Give us this day
our daily bread.
And forgive us
our trespasses,
as we forgive
those who trespass
against us.
And lead us
not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
For thine is
the kingdom,
the power
the glory,
for ever and ever.

Amen
Matthew 6:9-14

Beyond Me

A fortress of sticks blockades my way.

Mud engulfs my sinking boots.

Sand as a storm succumbs my sight.

Ravaged. I am trailed by brutes.

Spite. I am happy now.

I've uncovered my space.

Though beasts surround.

Not a tear wets my face.

Something has happened.

I do not understand.

Tolerance for pain.

A heavy hand.

My foe has been shifted.

To one I know well.

Though abased on this rock.

I am prone to the fell.

The enemies eye's pervade mine. Own.

I am at a loss.

Judgment in a glance.

Preceding the decided stone toss.

Babeling Zion

the end lingers i
have no questions only
curiosities even
that is rare for
me where is our state
of being headed what
is our course there
are two directions
apparent yet both
appear equal yes
and no so much power
is a danger but it
is a danger with
purpose either
path leads inevitably
to rebirth reorder
reconstruction a
revolution the
answer is God’s no
question is asked but
His answer will
come a mountain is
to be built we are
to recognize it
Immanuel

Why We Are Broken.

You are talking
at me.
I am trying to listen.
When you speak
around me
I do not hear.
You do not care.
I know this;
I know
that though
you may not
necessarily
delight in my understanding
You take full pleasure
in my ears giving credence
to the excrement of your lips.
Your eyes do not see
that though
my face suggests
an attentive disposition
it is a ploy.
This is the dilemma
of the speaker and the spoken
and that is why.

Ecclesiastes

Worn corners on beaten page.

Twisting wires of a hardened cage.

Fading letters show their age.

Countless sheets of driveling mettle.

Conjunction of words. A hissing kettle.

Desperation of a destitute's peddle.

“Heed,” is what scratches.

A potential book of matches.

Lost verse; the snag that catches.

A sickened victim of wonder.

Dug in a pit of wearied blunder.

Tossing a lot for the convict's plunder.

A white-washed pun.

A tired shun.

Nothing new belies this sun.

The Annoying Wink

Get ahold of yourself
Your strategic pull for anarchy
is nauseating
Jump in
leave the bad taste in
your mouth
to mints
Do what you do
and everyone else
will too
People won't talk like you think
they will.
People won't laugh like you thought
you would.
This is the life
we live.
Hop on the conga line
you won't.
regret it.

Rooted

within (taking a shortcut,
i spot a tree.
a tree whose sways and creaks are free.
inspiring me to flee.
to run to a place where i can just be.
the first step is to learn to see.
and therein lies the key.
upon inspection,
or upon the “see” i did decree,
i noticed the tree had roots,
this we can all agree.
and yet,
despite it's limited physical movement,
it's liberty has been greatly moving) me.

Green

By J.R.


I look out
All I see is green
Treetop canopies
As far as the eyes can reach.

I look out
All I see is green
The cloud cover blocks the red rays of sunlight
Leaving me
In rich blues and greens
Mostly green.

God's cool breath blows sweetly across the fields
And all I see
Green

To Whom It May Concern,

It rules over this world that we all blindly see.
Causing my mind the desperate urge to pee.
That is to say,
“I want to purge my conscience of the pressures that they wish me to be.

It started our war,
now it wants us to flee.
It gave us our rights,
but it says we're still not free.

It hires faces to promote the cause at hand,
it's gotta look good to take a stand.
Relief for slavery is in demand,
you've heard it from Oprah or that famous band.

Traffiking is running rampant,
you've heard it from the press.
A kid's getting beat across your own street,
but I digress.

We live with
...cell phones
...iPods
...HDTVs
...internet
Somewhere a teenage girl feeds her digipet.
...Facebook
...Hulu
...DVR
...Blueray disc
Technology waits for no one, damn whatever risk.

As urine collects in my bladder,
so
the messages
in
my brain.
And as the discomfort swells to my urethra,
so the plotting
of the agenda
for my own
selfish
gain.

I perform the “pee dance”,
to the toilet I do race
The plan for my life
now a shell of which it was based.
Whether beverage turned to piss,
or success that I had chased,
One thing is for certain,
both have turned to waste.

Mine Own Psalm

By J.R.


Will this confusion ever name itself?
Will it ever be given a face?
No. I think not.
Stumbling blindly through fields of broken glass
Would be a fate more generous than this.
An invisible hand lashes blows across my brow
As I raise my arms in surrender
Preparing to give up the ghost
I cry out
My head hurts
My heart aches
My stomach churns around and around
A boiling cauldron of doubt and fear
Why must this be so hard?
Will it ever go away?
Leave.
Yet still.
Still I know
Through these trials and tribulations
Your good works and words are never erased
Ever.

...Ever After.

A fortunate end to an unfortunate beginning.
Can you be found in wanting?

Walking in the apathy of an undesired situation.
Void of expectation.
While enacting the mind-numbing practice of repetition,
you're surprised to discover...
The possession of one and only love.

Your presumptions exceeded.
Conscious-self impeded.
Priorities crumbled, defeated.

Plans ruined, but you've never been happier.
You speak only truth, yet you've never been sappier.

Your desire is simple, still your mind is a maze.
Everything is backwards, just like this next phrase:

An unfortunate end to a fortunate beginning.
...Here is a thought which may keep you from grinning.

Everything up, must then fall.
With no memory of whether you were happy at'all.

Riding into the sunset is not an end,
it's merely a start to something new.
You'll find,
in pursuit,
the magic
once beheld
curt as morning dew.
And the good times you remember,
a west facing balcony

with an ever


receding



view.

Heaven for Anne- An Imitation Poem of Mark Doty's, Heaven for Helen

Anne says heaven, for her,

would be total awareness

of relational hardships,

with the pursuance of rudiment compassion-

to be the tenderness of an embrace,

or the soft succor of a 'kerchief

before the swelling of tears,

warmth in an otherwise desolate world.

Images of sufficiency,

and of unrelenting support.

But if we're to trample social enmity

won't our vision also entail

the possession of, say,

suspicion, the paranoia of a pain

that isn't really there,

conspiracy of abuse

which tears relationships apart?

We'll be a shadow of doubt,

a condolence accusing the innocent

of shameful wrongdoings:

a hell we've conjured from overindulgence

of our heaven: we will critique

our simple arguments,

proportion them beyond their merit.

But that's my cynicism. Anne

would stress understanding

in each and every case,

an order to properly amend.

Perhaps that's why she'll be a lawyer,

eventually: to methodically dissect

the evidence of misconduct,

a practice which translates easily

to the outside perspective.

Anne I think will perfect it, myself probably not.

She has spent her whole life on empathy.

I have practiced contentment,

while I should have been looking around.

A Photo

I need a picture
of this place
I now stand.
A reminder
of the hardships
that this life
demands.
I need that image
to explain to me.
That this isn't how
we
will always
be.
The path can look brighter
if only we show
keen regard
to the things
that we all,
soon,
will know.
Countless inevitables
march through this street
With a greedy shake
that our hands
rush
to meet.
T'were we better in knowledge
or best off in bliss.
'Tis a question
we can only afford
to dismiss.
To look back
is death,
but forward

God's breath...

Will Power

The alarm sounds,
Shrieking,
And obnoxious.
It takes me
From my sleeping comfort.
I rip the covers back
To reveal the cold
That rushes over
My body in haste.
As I recover,
I know
It is time.
I need to wake up.

The Pig-Latin Speaker

As the good Lord asks him to, he lives for every day.

But, because of his vocation, he is know as “Azy-cray”.

His views on our society, his theology in general,

Speak volumes of our worlds wrongs. He declares it, “quite ephemeral”.

His mind is bright with credible notion and reasonable speculation

To no avail, his position has merely led to degradation.

If he were, say, a doctor, or an honest politician,

His thoughts would earn their heed with a prosperous petition

He could spark a revolution or shepherd an uprising

He could disclose the wrongful things our leaders have been disguising

If he were more than what he is, there'd be consequence for crime

And with stout support, he'd take office. A hero in no time.

He'd be something special, there's no disbelieving that

The status of a legend long before he's rich and fat

But, alas, he's a simple Pig-Latin Speaker, living for today

A man who is content with merely being, “Appy-hay”

Undecidedly Untitled

When you write a poem
without a title
It's similar to a friendly smile
You share a laugh
and a conversation
But remain unsure of the invitation
She's pretty,
should you ask her name?
She seems to delight in this flirtatious game.

You twiddle your thumbs in hope of inspiration
The drink that you sip ages past fermentation

Your mind has been racing,
“Isn't this dull?”
“How does she remain through this endless lull?”

Yet you press on for the answer you've sought.
And you pray,
by the end,
it won't all be for naught.
You crack a few jokes
to work up your courage
Victoriously throwing your doubt into storage.
You ask her her name,
and she does the same

Your nerves are in a rile.

Your heart jumps a mile.

Her name could not be a more perfect sound
You cannot comprehend this simple joy that you've found

...Now,
maybe,
after this,
you'll feel that you have won.

The battle may be over, but the war has just begun.

Cranberry

By J.R.

If ‘twere the only thing summer brought

Sipping
An ice-cold glass of cranberry juice
Sitting
Upon a porch constructed of
Weather-beaten boards
Abused by all other seasons
Only to find itself once more
In the warm embrace of the early June sun

Then indeed would I be content
To welcome summer again
With my own arms’ embrace
Forsaking
The cold, winter winds
Welcoming
The simmering heat

O, such a small thing
Yet more
Make summer
A season worth living for

Man of Steal

Running around with that big red sheet around my neck.
Pushing my father's glasses up the bridge of my nose to become Clark Kent.
Fighting “bad guys” with nothing but fists and imagination.
This is what I remember from my superhero days.

The sheet, once huge, is found to be the size of a pillow case.
Those glasses, replaced by new disguises.
Bad guys, obsolete to new difficulties.
Oh, to go back to those superhero days.

Highway Memorial

For no other motive than to make a painful memory live on,
The sleeveless man mows what equates to a miniature lawn.

Careful around the cross and jar,
the flower inside appears to have been dead
for some time.
Sweating out the distress,
each pass on his machine is an attempt
to make amends
for the apparent crime.

What is on this man's mind
as he toils through the overpowering smell
of gas?
Does he reflect
on his own life
as he watches each car
pass?

He is now finished with the job, as he replenishes the vase,
And he wipes a green bandanna across his wet face.

I will now be posting weekly as opposed to bi-weekly.

Check in every Saturday. I'll have a new poem for you to peruse.

The Fiscally-Conscious Model

I glance at him,
the uncomfortable man with the awkward
stare.
He gropes the back of his neck,
while a glob of grease holds back his swooping
hair.
Why is he staring?
What
is
his
thought?
Perhaps he is amazed
at all the crap
you
just
bought.

These Are Words

This is a distraction,
an escape,
if you will,
from nagging temptations
and my unsuspected pitfalls
nothing more
nothing less
these are words
not a cure
not a saving grace
a preoccupation from self loathing
words

Stubborn

I took a dried chrysanthemum
and dropped it in my shoe.
From that moment on,
dusk
and dawn,
I lost the luck I knew.

I could have removed it,
that would have been wise.
The fortune it promised
was nothing but lies.
But instead,
I continued to suckle it's tit.
And why?

I like chrysanthemums.

Psalm 77: though your footprints were not seen

I woke up with hard, warm tears grabbing the corners of my sight

To be honest, I cannot say that I slept at all

If I had, it resembled only what I find myself in now; a stupor of worry and suspicion pervading my every thought

Dreams of insecurities, regretful actions, stinging voices and false sentiments

Were I dreaming?

My heart thumped firmly in my chest; unsteady, yet precise in its attitude

Where are You, now?

This had been building. I grew in paranoia with every eye that met mine, every word which begged my address

I'm trying to see in this

Rising from bed, the room a deep, dark, black. I stumbled to my feet and I stretched out my hands

for anything

Those hands, shaking, were my soul

I grasped a table, too short to levy my weight. I reached for the wall, there was nothing to hold

Picture frames downed to the floor. Memories of then stole me away, but not in comfort

Dropped, I stare back into the eyes of the immortalized

It was a long moment, and silent, in which I contemplated

Inquiries injured me

once more

I asked:

Am I rejected

forever?

Will I,

never again,

find favor?

Has love,

once thought unfailing,

vanished

indefinitely?

Is the promise failed

for all time?

Mercy,

is it forgotten?

Did anger

displace

compassion?

Not until now had I heard the pounding,

as though, a powerful knocking at my door

What had changed?

With those hands I pressed the ground. I settled the weight to my feet

and arose, walking to the window pane

My crusty eyelids looked beyond themselves to the storm which raged before me

Slow rumble of thunder and a patter of rain from the clouds.

I felt for the wall, previously the cause of my fall

It led me to the table, which before I found unstable

I lay in bed, now. Outside, the whirl of breeze awakens the creaks of my house

All is calm inside

and I am asleep.