Beneath the surface hides
a host of pain and pure
Exhaustion that's relentless.
A skin that's sensitive
to the touch, or a multitude
of phantom driving
Unendurable itching
and burning sensations.

My poetry is like a fine mist
The verses caress like a tender kiss
But when I drop ink with a twist of my wrist
I spit mad bars because I get pissed

Here’s the gist of it
I slip the quip in there
It’s whatever comes up to the surface whenever the spirit moves me
If there’s a lisp in it
It’s my speech impediment
I breathe fire because aside from the ire writing also behooves me

(on a rainy May thirteenth
two thousand and twenty five)
as a balm against ennui
becoming engrossed, immersed,
and lost in space of orrery
regarding the universe created courtesy
Nora Roberts well crafted novel Montana Sky
perusing said realistic fiction
as if inebriated
with one hundred proof liquor
experiencing drunken stupor
merely from evocatively written story
and subsequently
envying such craftsmanship
incorporating her gushing wellspring
plentifully populated

The tides still reach though hands grow thin,
Oars lie quiet where once they'd been.
From spade to sail, from heart to shore,
A song remains, but boats no more.

Beneath the hearth where old tongues weave,
A tale is born in ember’s sleeve.
The voices rise, the echoes call,
In fireside lore and shadowed hall.

A bard’s bright words, a poet’s strain,
Still whisper through the lashing rain.
Let not their song fade, nor their rhyme-
For stories guard the soul of time.

My poet friends, I’m ailing.
some sickness, stern and silent
has found me, and I’m failing
to still this storm so violent
in my soul.

My goddesses – the Muses.
(I’d met while waves were weeping)
My rhymes, if one peruses,
will shout: “these girls are sleeping
in your soul!”

My life’s a solemn sonnet,
a desert bleak and barren.
No flower grows upon it,
no royal rose of Sharon
like of old.

The rider rides
With rage and passion in his heart
Over golden hills and across the plains
Across the great breath of land
Through realms and domains
Ready
     To capture the sun

His untamed spirit and will
Has no time for menial things
There is a flame to catch and a force wield
As he gallops into the distance
Willing to conquer the day
Ready
     To seize the sun

The finality of yesterday
began early yesterday morning.
The serenity and peace I feel today
is based on
the consecration of Shaya's tombstone.
It seemed like a long time to me,
but now that it has happened,
it happened at the right time,
and in the right way.

It's May

Marigolds pop up
to swing and sway and
hopefully
stay.

Then,
they may,
oh how I wish,
that they'd pop up
again,

Mayhap
next May?

Stars burn, but wounds of light remain,
While hands grasp for what won’t sustain.
The night calls sharp, to where visions ran,
Unraveled dreams nascent truth began

I bring some news to the lone coyote
out on the prairie seeking kith and kin,
I tilt at windmills like old Don Quixote
but my royal command sets those sails to spin.

When in my fall's Autumn lusty breezes
I shall strew my royal carpet with gold,
and lift some skirts to gain due curtsies
and strip heads bare to show, don't be bold.

Here in my realm of brisk April showers,
the weathervanes point but all point in vain,
from all directions I shall make you cower
and bow your head down, low, as I rain.