Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Shall we converse until my end?
I like to think I know your ways,
Though, we play hide-and-seek most days.
I search each crevice, bump, and crack,
And fear to find you looking back.
I swear, because you’re such a fright,
I hear you laughing in the night.
I look behind me on the stair,
To catch you following me there;
And though you’re never there, I swear
I sense your presence ev’rywhere.
Oft we have fought, and battled hard --
Old dogs who share a broken yard;
Though we will take no other lives,
Neither can win while one survives.
Yet, my facade remains serene;
Our vicious battles rage unseen.
Shadow companion, hear my voice:
Conflict with you was not my choice,
Though I am happiest, it seems,
When I defeat you in my dreams.
But, nonetheless, whilst morning dawns,
When dew bedecks the sleeping lawns
And birds and bugs fill warming air.
You, cold companion, always there.
When I stare into the abyss,
When I consider all I’ll miss,
Because you siphon strength away,
Because you take your toll each day,
Because your fingers, bloody, red,
Sate appetite that must be fed:
I wonder, do you feel remorse,
As you begin each baleful course?
I talk to you, but do you care?
Are you impossibly aware?
Do any words, when I complain,
Mean aught to thoughts on other plane?
Do silent tears shed in the night,
Mean anything to living blight?
Know this, dark pestilence obscene,
If you can garner what I mean,
Because your silence, no reply,
Mocks both my courage and my cry,
My fierce resolve will amplify,
Until the day I feel you die.
When I your savagery outlive,
There will be nothing to forgive.
As promised vengeance draws e’er near,
It’s time for you to feel the fear!
Diplomacy doesn’t always work.
Posted by Mick at 1:54 PM
Friday, April 12, 2019
Icy incisors slicing through the flow.
And once again my world is cold and white,
Fortunately, I have nowhere to go.
This turn of Spring to face old Winter’s ire,
Foul aggravation to us passers-by,
Is fear of facing Summer’s coming fire --
Embracing shadows rather than the sky.
With halting steps the sun resumes her reign,
Overcoming vast, chill proclivities.
Green voices soar in warmer songs again,
And bring the long, white season to its knees.
Vast choruses of Summer sing to me,
Overwhelming Spring’s rare velleity.
An April snowstorm is common here, and yet it always feels wrong.
Posted by Mick at 12:35 PM
Monday, March 18, 2019
And visible in light,
Than in the evening shadows,
Or in the dark of night.
Silence shared for all to see,
Courage and fortitude,
Make a stout and strong redoubt,
When all are brash and rude.
To rail against the clamour,
When all are fast asleep,
Is casting sacred arrows,
In vast unmeasured deep.
To rise with watchfires blazing,
Flames silent, leaping high;
Morning minds awaking see,
Mute fire streaking the sky!
Sometimes a whisper, or the stoicism of silence, is louder than the cacophony of the crowd.
Posted by Mick at 9:32 PM
Saturday, March 16, 2019
Mounting up to the ceiling when I move
Over there -- from just about anywhere.
And yet, I do not feel my fairy shove.
I sense that I stir the air, a blithe spoon
To agitate the broth we fair inhale,
Then fouled and filtered, we share again soon,
To ripen and age, like an oft-told tale,
Released to drift and sail on currents soft,
And swiftly airborne artifacts collect.
Whilst fair suspended, they journey aloft,
Till laden all on distant shores are wrecked.
Flotsam, jetsam scattered to fade and rust,
And fain become the bane I know as dust.
With my lung problems, a bother has become a bane.
Posted by Mick at 7:33 PM
Sunday, March 10, 2019
Is a welcome friend, to hug
Close to me;
To absorb its heat, I think
Leaves an apathetic drink:
Through a window rimed with frost,
I reflect on what is lost,
And consider what it takes,
To relieve my body's aches,
It may seem so very strange,
That a sudden weather change,
Still I don't think it's hormones,
If I feel it in my bones,
When it rains.
Wicked ravages of time.
Make me sensitive to clime,
As it wafts
Where I used to have my hair.
There's a bald patch, sitting there,
As I hear the nightwind's cry,
Seek the moon's face in the sky,
And its glow;
It grows harder to be old,
In the deepest winter's cold,
And the snow.
As I get older, winter grows colder...
Posted by Mick at 10:59 PM
Saturday, March 02, 2019
That softly caresses, that cuts to bone,
That seals sudden breaches, that drives a wedge;
Whetted berm of a blade that poets hone.
To whittle at life until myths emerge,
To carve fantasy from biography,
Releases a deep-seated need to purge
The dust of turmoil, the fog of ennui.
But the prideful poet, a prince of verse,
(At least, in his fevered and frenzied mind,)
Can cut too deeply, too quickly, or worse
Disfigure life's story, abrupt, unkind --
Declaiming his truth as though from God's grace,
Spreading his dogma all over the place.
Reminder: Pretty words may be dangerous weapons as well as powerful tools.
Posted by Mick at 4:39 PM
Friday, March 01, 2019
As Winter's west wind mutters,
And toothless, bites my hand;
As frozen silence stutters,
Snow stings like wind-blown sand.
My feet mired in a snow drift,
I seek to touch your face.
My empty hand bears no gift,
Perhaps, a simple grace.
The gesture that I proffer,
One artless, pleading art;
In wrinkled hand I offer,
My silent, shuttered heart.
My gift remains extended,
And when taken from me,
A gift of life, unended --
Becomes a legacy.
Life sparks thought. Thoughts become feelings, images, and words. Shared they become a gift. The gift becomes life and perhaps a legacy.
Posted by Mick at 3:40 PM