Coal-black, hardened, passionate eyes
Rimmed with raging, fiery red;
Thin lips trembling with despise,
Uncaging words that shock the dead;
Fists gripped tightly, balled to strike,
Bellies clenched — steel-walled hard;
Resolve etched deep as war-bound paint
Ignoring fate with disregard.
How came you to be cornered so –
With arch-ed backs and claws unfurled;
Dauntless in bravisimo,
Matchless in this angry world?
Once so cool and slow to burn,
Declaring reason — offering tact,
Those winds have blown to ne’er return
And, sadly, are rare artifact.
I stopped at knocking on your door,
a pair of shoes — quite new –
were on the floor
lined up next to yours.
The Spamalsaurus hears the ruckus somewhere close,
and sees the gathering throng –
like gulls collecting for a feast o’er lean and slick sardines;
He creeps forth silent as a breeze
and happens ‘pon the place
where readers click with frenzied fire
upon the newest post;
The Spamalsaurus reaches in — avoiding sharp beaks all around
and spins himself around and down
the vortex to the freshest poem.
And comments: I’ve never seen this greatest post before
and it has all I need and more
but have you thought of other ways
to bring in “likes” for days and days?
Then click below — I’ll help you out.
The Spamalsaurus withdraws his snout
and turns — his business’s all about
how many notes he can can leave behind.
There is no reason, and no rhyme
to the Spamalsaurus — at any time.
Fear the beast, I say to all,
lest to his trickery you fall.
The fallen can no longer sing
nor soar the heav’ns with spreaded wing;
nor ever nest in early spring
to bring their offspring forth.
The fallen can no longer dance;
Spin carelessly in light romance
or dare to take another chance
at enhancing their life’s worth.
The fallen can no longer share
Their sage advise to those who’ll care,
Point out the best directions where
their children will succeed.
No longer sing;
No longer dance;
No longer share –
The fallen shall be grieved.
the conversants come to the point
where the one who is
will say to the one who is not:
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
in a slightly condescending way,
and then go on to give advice as to
the wheres and not to wheres
and the whos and not to whos
and all the things to see and do,
the one who is clearly not,
will smile and listen,
while the one who is
goes on and on,
in that slightly condescending way
who then will say,
“Welcome! We’re glad you’re here!”
Yet you know — it’s perfectly clear –
the sentiment is strained
through clenched, but slightly smiling teeth,
as is your feign-ed gratitude
for this intolerable interlude.
And you turn away to meet someone new
most glad to the heart
that you are not yet part
and are not from around here — yet.
I sense there is no sense these days,
or what there is, is nonsense –
So I strike and light my incense,
and lay back my head as the pungent scent
slowly spirals up and out;
And I drift back through centuries when
better sense perhaps prevailed
though knowing since the veil of time
no purer reason, nor better rhyme
has ever reigned;
Return to my crass sense again:
There is no sense these days.
It was so very kind of you to bring that up
when you did
and in the manner you did.
You cannot imagine my surprise.
Or that of those sitting with us.
I was left speechless –
as were my friends.
And though you cannot see my face
nor measure the inflections of my voice
nor gauge the depth of my feeling
at your comment –
let me say this:
Thanks a lot.
Ne’er the intent
in midst of the dance –
romance rules the moment –
the moment is now . . .
when skin presses skin
and the will to resist
has stretched paper-thin –
The leaping and spinning
leaves senses heightened
but dull to the facts
courting can lead
lovers into the court
in more than one case.
Seems such a waste of
Where I work
we are ogres and trolls –
slogging and drooling our eight-hour chores,
rarely acknowledging anyone there –
perhaps a quick a grunt — not a lot more.
The vacuous caverns we toil in all day
are dark, uninviting;
created to keep us on task
till the last minute ticks at the end of our shift
when we robot-like march to our homes
and our wives,
to eat, drink and sleep –
avoiding examining much of our lives
beyond paying the rent and buying our food.
Little more really matters.
What’s exactly the good
of dreaming of possibly anything else?
We are ogres and trolls
and content with our selfs.