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