Transitions have me weighed down
anchoring me to what’s next.
The “pull” has the internal velocity of a curve-ball,

yet, is as subtle as an insincere glimmer
having trouble appearing from a falsly executed smile.

I guess, they're sort of like an army of horizertical, gravitational entities
that pull down on my very being, and simultaneously hurl me towards the future,
to a place where all we know is, anything can happen!

I’m a downtrodden wife
his trouble and strife
Is this my life?

He doesn’t help with chores
in between snores
says “ask her indoors”

The kids avoid him
I fulfil their whims
no point in asking him

I don’t know why he married me?
I could never be
what he wanted me to be

I’m never good enough
he says I look rough
so no more sex stuff

I wanted to work
but the chauvinistic jerk
wouldn’t allow this perk

Withering grass of this season
with your abundance of green,
take advantage of Today -
Contribute to this Earthly scene.

Enjoy your present strength;
ignore worries of the past.
Let the distant failures fade
and let sweeter memories last.

Be true to yourself always,
standing tall and strong.
Focus on your own meadows and...
Learn to hum to Life's song.

Author Note:

a tone of joy
even in mundane
but your words give life to a living being
a soul to enjoy

sweet words always ring

above all the world is
and should be,
if not ought to be
made by strings of human
as human as you
and friend of all Neopoets
yes so true ..
its been long since we spoke

moon light walks the floor
this haze walking
the fog of light beneath the door

this flight we live
our life like wings
draped against the perfumed
slumber skin
the warmth of sheets
a skein against us

folded in its corners like secret ideals

I hear between the tics and tocs,
in bed within the depth of night,
from both the hall and mantle clocks
the sound of running feet so slight
so quiet that they must wear socks.

To hear them one must listen fast
they follow on time's tics so swift
each step there...and then it's passed
flashed into some sort of rift
as present moves into the past.

a long cold season of gray
suddenly
a sunbeam pierces the clouds

why did I not expect it?

maybe predisposition
continually succumbing
to disillusion

but then, THWACK!
smacked blindside

once again,
ambushed by
eureka, joy,
and a boisterous
hallelujah

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

to enjoy your poetry
I had to take some time off

to visit Google helper
to help improve my vocabulary
though I through cerebral powers
understood the import
but confirmation of the insider’s views had to be sought
ere I commented with an iced intelligence

I must say a poet must ensure
that dwarfed minds like mine
need not borrow
greater ones' ..
in order to relish the wee moments
as they burst in ecstasy
the desire of any muse

Wicked woman
a clothes slogan in my shirt
designed to catch the eye
of those who wish to be wicked women, why.

We grab at things that give us patina, style,
we clothe our bodies, minds
with themes that we admire.

We boast of knowledge
we haven't yet acquired,
and hope to make effect;
get admiration for our power of intellect.

When deep inside
we know we lack the insight to be wise,
have not learnt the basics of a theme
that needs intelligence.