Posts tagged ‘relatives’

October 3, 2014

Seasonable Clock

Even the morning seems acutely somber
Broad clouded skies hold steady longer
Green leaves thick ripped from their place
Void departed relatives we save nigh space
Juxtapose this deep cutting- chilled contrast
Waiting for summer’s waning neb to fast pass
Vexed by cruel and unrelenting, stiff nature
Fool-heartedly with their lives they wager
On a single day we wish to stay the same
On forcible winds we wish to have changed
Man can live amongst this time and watch,
As he winds the seasonable swift ticking clock.

Advertisements
June 25, 2014

Poetry for Profit

Poetry for Profit;
The dilettante says.

It just doesn’t happen,
It’s an illusion in the sick minded head.

Corporate sponsors,
Ads which have mislead.

They have a job to do:
They have to pose and fit for trends.

If you do it for monetary reasons,
You won’t genuinely achieve success.

Real artists have bled,
They don’t concern themselves with worrying about the point-spread.

People live fantasy lives all the time
Where they are famous
They are sought-after
They are “the greatest”, labeled by their closest friends.

Where they try their best to be noticed,
But no one cares in the end.

If you write to proclaim “I’m a poet”,
To get paid cash and attain lavish threads,
To fulfill a lifestyle image that’s been played-out,
In order to satiate big dreaming ego-ed heads.

I have news for you:

You could write non-stop for the rest of your life,
But writing won’t always be the hot ticket trend.
So many others have paved the way before you,
While you merely lazed lying in your comfy bed.

***

Try doing your passion for years and years to free your mind, to share thought, to pass the time, unnoticed.

Could you?

Don’t do it for profit, never do art for profit; take a look at the masters, they lived in destitute, some unrecognized in their lifetimes for what they had accomplished.

-Doubtful.

***

Go, go, go-
I know people who have done more with less, they are called my relatives.

July 19, 2012

Innate Love

Lifestyles of the like are seldom centerpieces.

Mother still has hope.

Even though we reside so far from home.

 

We sit, we eat, we work, we cope.

We walk the black streets alone, insane.

She missed the prom as well.

 

Poorly lit lights and the physical descriptors never tell.

Gun shots in the distance moving near until we exit to a clear.

 

Where we exist, where we survive.

Closer to a described hell but far off from where we started.

Nightly news won’t tell the truth.

 

Lost facts of the bruised fruit.

They try to sell more as they gather a new and plentiful supply.

 

On my own.

On the phone.

 

These calls make me smile.

Father still has hope, but he doesn’t dial.

 

Seize the day.

 

Family a solid rock; not forgot.

Forget everyone else and remember self.

To wisdom and to health.

 

Such a child, all smiles.

 

No small town small time blues in these shoes.

 

All there is in the end.

All there is in the end.

 

A couple screws loose.

Just a drop in the bucket.

Tears to dust with no witness.

 

Subtly secluded.

Still rooted, a fixture, this mission.

A gifted life, but so ruthless.

 

Some walk toothless and stupid.

 

To keep real friends and real situations.

Understanding the pupils and process of dilation.

Palpable investigation to find, feel, and move.

 

A momentary aphasia.

Too nice to be rude.

 

Too ubiquitous to be stewed.

We can’t quite place it.

 

Our grandparents won’t speak.

Interrogating haunts for tangible clues.

 

We then get enthusiastic.

Remembering the details of the deceased.

 

Coming unglued.

 

With good intentions love, lovely familiarity.

Constantly with us (thankfully) until the end.

***

Too gifted with relative relations not to care, so there.