The Big B-Day

That big day is here
The day some dread
And the young rejoice.

24 years ago
I came screaming into the world
A reason to wake up
For the one who was bored.
(Love ya, mom!)

Happiness became fear
Once the fragility of life was revealed-
A hidden monster tried to snuff out this young life.

All those years ran away
When innocence turned into maturity.
Present moments, flashes in time
Memories cherished regardless
Of circumstantial results.

This day begins the next year
Of a life long past expiration-
May it be a decent as the last!

A Dog’s Compass

With a strong urge

to enjoy the heat

on her bare skin for a compass,

the dog wistfully begged to go out.

 

A Night Drive Awareness

The moon,
a mirror for the mind,
clouded over.

Trees reflect
the pale glow
of the moon’s beauty.

Headlights light up
the familiar darkness around,
chasing the shadows for only moments.

An Evening Filled

The whine of a needy puppy
Faintly sounds from across the house.

Insistent drip, drip, dripping;
A reminder of jobs left unfinished.

Nails frantically hitting metal:
The ringing bell of a dog wanting out.

Wooden creaks and groans,
Constant shifting weight as pen meets page.

Mechanical drone pervades the silence:
A wordless announcement of, “We are still here.”

This is an evening filled with waiting
For the disturbance to break this stillness.

Anger’s Black Rose

A black rose
with a stem
full of thorns
bloomed rapidly as Anger’s seed rose from
the Mind’s Field.

Memories act as the catalyst, burning the green field,
laying waste to happiness
and setting the stage
for the thorn bush to
propagate.

After some deliberation,
a spark
of recognition
halts the continual
watering from within.

A foreseeable urge
to pick the blackened rose;
a bow
in acceptance
and acknowledgment:
the plant withers away,
content with the response.

Inspiration’s Springboard

Boredom used as a springboard
To find inspiration
In everyday
Domestic settings
Keeps the cogs oiled, spinning.

A Thanksgiving Poem Failure

A poem collapsed
Into
Meaningless garble
On a page–
Used only
To keep
The
Gears ever turning.

Something on history
Warped
To satisfy
An idealistic reality
Which never happened.

Surrounded
By family,
That garble used
To reboot the system
Was forgotten
On the page
Where it’ll
Stay.