Words Come And Go

[Ropey]

I have no inspiration, only perspiration,
oh so heavily now, on my deepening brow.
A muse, I muse is necessary for my verse,
else my prose will enter the hearse.

Some inspiration from desperate times,
worldly emotions expressed in rhymes.
Others by reading an author's fine work,
can then joggle loose a linguistic quirk.

Some by love and occasion are moved,
and find their works vastly improved.
Others want attention to brag or to boast,
inscribing each verse like an extended toast.

Some for love of the word are drawn in,
ardent scholars that live by the pen.
Now I don't know if it's a gift or a curse,
to easily compose ideas in verse.

But it's certainly made me some dough,
and I never expected to find a cash flow.
Now if in German I could write like Rilke,
Then for donations I'm sure I could milk ya.

But now the phrases and mazes are old pathways to familiar places.

 

[Ropey]

What do you find when you kneel,
Down by the wishing well.
Knowing your mind -- still you feel,
That only time will tell.

Is it yourself -- or some other,
who captivates your gaze?
A vision to help as a mother,
who loves your many ways.

With such immutable fodder,
coming from childhood eyes.
The sight should be broader
yet still the water sighs.

 

[Ropey]

What happens when ink stops light
though sinuous script paper surrounds it?
Photons! Ubi Sunt? Still absorbed
by black metered scribes; the iridescent
ink like a raven's plume slivering oily water
and gliding through night...lending power
on an evening prose to extinguish stars--light
born through ageless night ends now
on this sight-scripted page--a gleam
of soot-black serifs subside into meaning.
Mind's eye transmutes absences to utterances
while the thread speaks though my mouth; the words
an umbilical call of imagination extending onward;
yet held back by quirks of light
from time's jaw.

 

[Ropey]

Noe Nunca nein not
ties my shorts into a knot
for like an exclamation dot
it looks like water but it's snot

Fee Fie Fiddler Foe
my quirky light is high on grow
riding lines like a rodeo
anywhere I want to go

Boards may suck and boards excel
some threads have a burny smell
Melting down or carousing it swell
Boo Boo's still conning hogs - oh well

I primed my bet in 30 or less
Wondering who will have success
And which only I can profess
While @Toro can hardly guess

 

[Ropey]

Good Morning

The hours and days spill into years,
slithering time as oil 'tween gears.
Wax the floors and wind the clocks,
and click the keys into the locks.
The dishes stowed away from sight,
while settling into the starry night.

A cherry wood fire plays out the story,
of days gone by in ancient glory.
The coldness seeps under the door,
we never got to sealing the floor.
Still, what is left is a bright feeling,
like a brass bell so clearly appealing.

A drowsy certainty that the purple horizon,
will be pink again when the sun's a rising.
Pulsing vibes that roll away the dew,
and my brand new day is looking at you.

 

[Ropey]

Who

Who writes the script and directs the production?
Is the house in the sky still under construction?
A fiery wheel beyond our control--
or an excited gambler on a lucky roll--
who will help the judge who waits,
just inside of glory's gates?

It

What streams through this tunnel of light
is stars on fire in a funnel of night.
These heavenly fires to which I aspire,
are they beacons to glory?
Or another tall story?
For a story without telling,
is a rose without smelling...

Calls

It's made of mind,
and it's all ours.
For it'll do fine,
as long as it's pure...
So, in the mire,
set your roots.
Call a heavenly fire,
to extend your shoots:
Then the mundane is recanted,
when you blossom where you're planted.

 

[Impenitent]

Starry Night

Nobody writes poetry anymore
I've searched this morass of free verse
No, it can't be found i'm quite sure
Here meter and rhyme do not intersperse

Call that poetry? You shouldn't dare it
With your Dickinson Maya Angelou
Your soul's so shallow you shouldn't bare it
But it's shaken, I suppose you must spew

Whitman was the father of your tongue
Though with tradition he had some quarrels
From his ivory tower he preached and sung
Which was he - Walt or Slim or Charles?

Your sword of wit wants wetted
Take heed or little longer will I tarry
The inmates here nearly all vetted
And sonnet's note they can't carry

Vincent VanGoh Starry Starry Night by Don McLean


Note! This was written as my farewell to poetry.com about 6 months ago (I was a bit po'ed) and doesn't relate to you at all, other than I thought you'd like the "Starry Night" reference.

 

[Ropey]

May my regret only be penultimate,
to his fomented concern you generate.
May all your attempts end in the ultimate,
degree of endurable pain that was his fate.

^Read like Will Shatner