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honored at freedom fête
of course in my dreams
where Tony the Tiger
roars Matthew Scott Harris
ranks as one hip cat gr-r-eat
showcasing adroitness
with ability to turn a phrase
evident if we could arrange a tête-à-tête
where immortality doth wait.
I hate that I love you
I hope, one day, I won't
Until then,
I'll cling to every word you say
I'll let you tear out my heart
And say that you're sorry
And that you love me
The scratch in my throat
Begging me
To say "I love you too,"
Instead,
I say,
Goodbye
With shaking hands
And a cracking voice...
My love,
Goodbye.
The world outside,
so far beyond
my cup of tea.
This one last yawn
before I rise
to live this day,
accepting all
the hours unfold,
grasping the minutes
I might hold
while traveling, bodaciously,
as I grow old.
The tea leaves
in my gentle cup
lie quietly,
as dawn shifts
softly in the air -
I am this day.
Like ants insignificant,
In a landscape of fern,
And fauna all consuming.
Yet deathly silent,
In a time freeze way.
Oh perfect vision,
That you display.
With air so thin,
That breath gets sucked.
And the heart feels giddy,
In wondrous awe.
At this expanse,
Like an eagle's soar.
A view that spans,
More than eye can see.
Untainted by humanity.
Yet this perfection,
Gets disrupted.
When darkness cloud,
Comes rolling in.
To spoil the beauty,
Of that far off land.
History does not pause for breath,
it moves like morning,
inevitable yet unnoticed.
We carve decisions into it,
rough edges and second guesses,
but no moment stands untouched by the past.
Some call for restoration—
others dismantle, brick by brick,
rebuilding from what remains.
The voices collide,
wary of each retort.
If only
I can dig
For spring,
And find a way
To the coin of hope
For a few thousand
Tied souls to ring
But alas!
Death has the
Loudest voice
To sing across
My home land
The brook ripples
as it meanders along.
The fish fight
against the current
and the fishermen
while a girl on the
banks picks a daisy
…He loves me not…
He loves me!
After proper manager
distributed the latest bulletin
to all the residents at Highland Manor,
plus wrinkled her nose at noxious odor
(explained at length below)
purportedly emanating from unit B44,
we (myself and the missus)
felt in our lovely bones,
an imminent inspection in the offing,
certain as Santa Ana winds blow
strong, dry, and warm
from inland desert regions
towards coastal Southern California
and northern Baja California.
They tell us to hold steady,
keep the ground firm,
but the ground itself shifts—
silent adjustments beneath
the weight of old decisions.
Change rolls in like the tide,
deliberate, insistent;
some brace against the swell, while
others dive into its forward pull.
Neither stillness nor
movement alone can hold us—
we are in the in-between,
where each choice sends
ripples across the surface
and every hesitation
writes itself into tomorrow.
Soft dawns here, up on the hill,
overlook the valley low.
The river's blue and cold just yet,
down where the damp winds blow.
No sign of buds on majestic trees,
more rain, the squirrels still huddle.
I search the sky for a little sun,
watch out for that freezing puddle.
I wonder if Mother Nature knows,
all this snow and ice is here,
she might be a bit distracted,
because that young man, Spring is near.