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.