gkpoetry

He unburdened himself in the dark of his room,
The mirror vaguely reflecting his gloom.
Never again a passionate love
To brighten his heart as if buoyed above
The albatross weight of his leaden ache.
Save that, no drink his thirst could slake.

He wondered if he’d staged it this way,
Angered coldness blocking her way.
Why had he shunned her in aftermath’s glow,
Vital this turn, what seeds did he sow?
Why did he turn from her away,
When warmth was ripe to salvage the play?

An author who’d never grasped his plot,
What matters and what matters not.

They crowd the tiki bar for drinks and beer
Entwined, the give and take of group voir dire.
Bikini clad women, the men less bold,
They cast about and crave what might unfold.

G ‘n Ts and colorful spritzers flowing,
Upbeat assertions coming easily,
Their reverie each passing minute growing
At first afar then nearing dreamily.

Their tongues are loosened in alcohol’s way,
Cavalier silliness arrives to stay.
Little else occurs in this spillway of hope,
And denizens drift to quietly mope.

The frescoed vices painted on wet plaster
Ooze from mural walls to easily tear
Asunder culture’s fabric. A loud claim
For civil servants withers as the worm
Of power plagues our politicians’ work,
And they profess that we enjoy control.

This fraudulent pretense of our control
Creates the shop for them to shrewdly plaster
A surface over pandered ugly work.
Owning a chutzpah, shedding not a tear,
Watching our apple succumb to the worm,
They judge we’ll never prosecute our claim.

Assertiveness to justly from them claim
Some fitter mores sanctions cloaked control
And threatening attacks designed to worm
Paralyzing fear as botched fragile plaster
Noisily crumbles amid many a tear,
Airing the feculence imbuing their work.

Their stuccoed face of guile proceeds to work
Its tentacles of rot choking our claim,
And vacuous, their chatter fails to tear
A vent for noxious gases. Icky control
With clueless minions’ frantic work to plaster
Across lies and deceit should mask the worm,

But the apples’ brown mush reveals the worm
Has infiltrated corridors of work,
While we stood awed with patriotic plaster.
Hunger for power laid siege to our claim
For good leaders, and we ceded control
To flippant magpies shedding not a tear.

Voted extinction should force them to tear
Their eyes from power halting this vile worm,
Which commandeers their souls with blind control
Of every thought. Transparency in work
Would resurrect from ash our vetoed claim
And clear the rot and muck beneath the plaster.

Fracturing their control perchance will tear
Away plagued plaster, stamp hard on the worm
And force the work petitioned by our claim.

By her entry gate,
She lingered in a white robe
And silk pajamas.
Across the lane, his arms splayed
In a tractor beam of light.

Spurious–mocking us,
Hillary–phony she,
Walking her dimeter,
Sidesteps to take.

Media foddering,
Video tapestry,
Four young lads missing now,
Birthdays–no cake.

Fronting the coffins sad,
Spinning the narrative,
Falsificationese,
Story to fake.

Facing the dais low,
Squirming so righteously,
Griping and whining so,
Truth to forsake.

Planning her monarchy,
Megalomania,
Difference difference
What does it make?

Zoos’ birdhouse chatter
Among chatterbox magpies;
Park pigeons pecking,
Bobbing for berries and seeds;
We breathe parasitized air.

Offbeat she felt around the age of ten.
The other girls were noticing boys,
But she was noticing them.

A recent funeral, perhaps relief,
A lovely woman, loving mother lost
The war against mutations long concealed
And spread beyond her amputated breast.

Daughter has lost the soul of prescient poise,
Who so assuredly informed her voice.
With her cherished nurture will she become
A spring of grace and hope? Already is.

Who will explain the son’s bewilderment
About love’s meaning, passion for another,
Or some other intricacy of life?
Moms’ gentle tips of intuition are

The stuff of memories most dearly held.
Perhaps a score of years immersed in lovely
And loving has prepared the ground enough.
And older sister might pinch hit at times.

I met their mother just one time, and Oh,
She seemed to glow with grace and holiness.
A tragedy, her children’s loss enormous,
Endowments, I’m certain just as profound.

After school play is done,
A game of football won,
Touch, four guys a side, run
Fast, go long, catch it, fun.

Back home again by dusk,
Shoes off, outside, back porch,
His mother often brusque.
The awning light a torch,

Yellow relief for slate.
Gazed, woods, a big old tree,
Wondered about his fate.
Someday, out he’ll go, free.

Headlong straight down the stairs he sailed,
Lightly brushing the padded rails,
Abruptly reached bottom and grazed
The prominent knob, slightly dazed.
The front door wide open, he gazed
And gazed awed by glistening swales
Of arum–dark pasture, abode
Of his sirens and future woes.