I-m A SonnetI’m a sonnet of odd tuneless music,
Playing fast and slow to the ears many,
Puzzling and wonderfully tonic,
Minds that need to have others of any.
Cruel to others that knows little of me,
But here am I to around others too,
Wanting little in return to that degree,
In others way of calling me a loo . . .
Far from that my kinship of spoken word,
Listen clear and wild to what’s been thought,
In eyes of theater of the absurd,
For that is far more often than not brought!
I am a sonnet of creative care,
Far close to that of fine reads of Time Square!
ForgivenToday is very much,
As seen as a tough day for me,
But I am taking it in strong strides.
For today is known to speak happily to another,
Of this day of birth to them,
Making them feel like a shining star.
But I can’t,
I just can’t . . .
Not for him.
I’m even shock to even being talking about him,
In such a matter,
As this in shortness of bluntness,
To a fellow human,
But I have to,
If I want to let go,
And now I think it is time,
To do just that!
You weren’t the best kind of man out there,
Thinking only just passes your nose.
Loving a woman,
Who wanted nothing to do with you?
Telling you over and over,
To go to another,
That needed you.
Mother is still bitter about it,
But she’s getting by,
Even without you.
And as I,
Going up without you,
I have learned that I hardly took notice,
That even when other kids who spoke highly of two . . .
Parents . . .
I only had the one.
When I was tiny and remember so little,
Adult matter flew over me,
M.U.S.I.C.M is for that sweet and soft Melody, playing in the ears to drown out all the bad.
U is how United the words, strums, and others can be when it starts to play.
S goes for how Simple is can be, to be lost in the abstract of land of it.
I just have to be the Incongruous of how many there is of it, for any listener to take in.
C may stand for Condition is has to the body, because soon you just to follow to the beat.
Paint a Picture No. 16The winds were gentle, flaky and fluffy clouds covered the pale pastel blue skies. Thin weavers of forest floated through air, hinted the fully emptiness with pine, oak, and bamboo.
With the mixture of spring waters that flow through the rivers, as a faint shadows of white chested owls take flight. Guiding and following, a larger shadow that flew with them, and coming in only signs of peace.
As the odd shape of a wide long, stretched out square, cotton fibbers rippling with the winds; that was glimmering with lovely stones of the mother earth, but somehow touching the heavily skies. But if any on looker saw, it would be a lone figure of human, a man, skin coated lightly dark from the time spend in the sun.
Cloaked in wears that a warrior of a time, none land walker has ever seen before, for if saw right, a sword with a menacing beast could not be missed, as the tinted sun reflected off the golden handled.
With a oasis glow that could calm anyone from the first sight of it. As it glowed
The Manic TalesIn sudden travels,
Many would use their minds,
And think ahead.
As some would do so,
Without batting an eye,
And just go for it.
In world of the technical-color wires,
Weaving around another,
As a spider’s web,
Ready to catch anything in its path or making home!
On what any wire,
The story is different of home or death.
Yet in the land of the internet,
You get many retires,
But the friends that are made come just as few,
And far between,
That is to say, as when traveling a new web,
Seeing what kind of beast could within it,
The body battered to a slow heals,
With; twitching and painful memoires of . . .
And many who split the difference of those just want to . . .
Make something of them-selves,
But in a cyber-world,
A place to be oneself,
Is a harder deal problem; all on its own.
And it is.
Even for one wander to handle and understand.
With it becoming so hard for the mind to take,
That golden wall,
Becomes misguided and one to just walk into,
RANT: PoetsNow in the search of fellow beings,
That form works,
Just as I,
The results can be awarding and heartbreaking.
Take note of this,
That through the many years,
A small total of 1,980 poets have in some way,
Made a mark in life,
Through rounding of the earth’s spins,
In passing years!
Only 500 are notice of their work.
Leaving 1,480 in the dark,
Left to be forgotten,
Never to be seen ever again . . .
That is just rightfully,
Even more unfair,
That there are more than them,
That can’t even be found farther than their given name!
1,480 is just a small clacker of those who got befit moments in history,
But thanks to them,
Even those whom are only known by given name,
Made parts of history!
Dating far back as 7th century BC and 94 BC,
Ancient Greek and Roman times!
And they are toss aside for those,
Who have barely made more than 6 poems to their name . . .
But they can be found,
On the list of the oh-so greats!
I could gladly name a few poets,
Of the works I