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.