Alliterative Emotion

Emotion makes most men myopically meander more
I sojourned and soul-searched so, in silence, I’d seem sure.
While wintry wispy winds were whirling, I was walking West
Traveling and trying to transcend travails and tests.
I, However, had a heavy heaving hurting heart,
And I pondered problems pulling precious peace apart.
Thus I thought I’d think a thankful thought or three, and then,
Gratitude gave Gods grace; I got grounded once again.

Sometimes, Constrained is Better

In reading many poems written in the modern day,
One finds that this is not like those in, really, any way.
Tradition, to the men of now, remains in ancient times
When words of now-dead men were trapped in meter and in rhymes.

But I can write in free-verse too
My stream of consciousness delivering thoughts
To your eyes via the expressway of my pen
Revealing and advancing issues important to me,
Which I know should be important to you too.
So I cry out.
Using meter and rhyme when I deem it necessary.
At my choice.
With my voice.
And maybe lines like these will get me published
Or have people listen to me in coffee houses and at civic meetings.
And they will clap or snap and appreciate my work,
Seeing how much I care about others, yet
Never realizing that every line I wrote in this section was in the first person.
About me.

So while it seems these words indeed contain a tale to tell,
They stay imprisoned, captive in their rhythmic, rhyming cell.
Containing value still despite restrictions such as these,
Which does not come from what the poet says, but what he sees

Escapism

Like lovesick girls who read and live in tales
Of princes who will whisk them far away
Across the sea in ships with unfurled sails
To royal palaces where they will stay.

We all create these little Shangri-Las
But childish's whimsey's for a child's mind.
The danger is when adults fear a loss
And still create a dreamland we can find.

These fantasies may not be of a place
But of beliefs, and a reality.
Which, while comforting still bears no trace
Of what our finish line, in truth, should be.

Accepting truly where we need to be
May yet reveal a path we did not see.

A Sonnet of Coffee

The sun does not just shoot up to the sky

But wakes us slowly as it rises up

And so it is, my friend, with you and I

You bring more joy with each sip from the cup

It starts before you even pass my lips

Your perfume fills the air up as you brew

An aromatic Siren’s Song that drips

And lures me ‘cross the room again to you.

Its true, at first you’re bitter (that’s the norm)

But just a touch of sugar, and you’re nice

The perfect liquid way to keep me warm

And even in the summer, over ice.

I do not think that I, by any means

Could halt this love affair with magic beans

Ode to a Neighborhood Dive Bar

The Stained wooden door’s not as polished now
(though, in truth, it never quite was).
I drive by it still, remembering how,
It would open and lead to a buzz.

The regulars: how many of them are still there,
Their usual stools still in place.
You’d wonder, to look at them (That is, if you’d care)
What they would see in this space.

A screen to watch a game, race, or fight.
Which most would cheer as it ends.
A round of cheap beer (two bucks for Bud Light)
Friendly fellows, if not fellow friends …

Who were searching for something when they would share
Their stories, their sports and cold brew.
And is it their fault, or ours, that they found it there,
And not with me, or with you?