Being resourceful
Is discovering new things
when down in the dumps
~*~
sck071615
Being resourceful
Is discovering new things
when down in the dumps
~*~
sck071615
I have a theory; it’s my “Maybe” theory
There are no formulas for anyone to see
Maybe it’s right or maybe it’s wrong
I don’t really mind, didn’t ponder it long
~
This theory may work for any occasion
Maybe I’ll theorize the mass of the sun
Maybe I’ll write the world’s longest poem
Or maybe I’ll roam the old streets of Rome
~
Maybe this cloudy day ends in a starry night
Maybe there’s peace and no one to fight
Maybe the sun will rise, maybe it won’t
Though we’ll never know it if it don’t
~
Maybe maybe may be enough
Maybe not if you want more stuff
Maybe can be a word you don’t want to hear
As in “Maybe I love you, my darling dear”
~
Maybe my theory’s not such a great call
Maybe maybe’s just maybe after all
~
Sck022815
To graze parchment fields lush
Blossoming mature
~
sck031315
*
We’re off to the swap meet today.
Dad says its work, I say its play.
Mom thinks it’s all a bunch of junk.
Who needs an old cast iron skunk?
~
Every year since I was two.
Seen the toes of many a shoe.
In my wagon with squeaky wheel,
once pulled string from an old fly reel.
~
Saw a ship of wood, bone and hair.
Dad got nervous, said don’t go there!
Great memories of dad and me.
I wish that mom would come and see.
~
Up before dawn, first at the gate.
If you’re not first, well than you’re late.
I think that second’s also OK.
Don’t follow, go the other way.
~
A laugh a push a yawn and sneeze.
New spring pollen made someone wheeze.
We’re squashed on the fence right up front.
Soon we’ll start a new treasure hunt.
~
The gate opens, I think we won.
I don’t care; I’m here to have fun.
We see faces we’ve seen before.
But the new ones are a lot more.
~
Soon the sun will rise in the sky.
Down the rows with treasures stacked high.
A day of fun, ready to learn,
Something new at every turn.
~
We pass the women in her shawl.
Sits alone, sells nothing at all.
Walking past, I’d wave and say hi.
But never did I catch her eye.
~
But now I’m ten, no chaperon.
Maybe she smiled because I’m grown.
She waved me over to come right in.
Glad to see her never seen grin.
~
I gazed into lots of old stuff,
even the best looked kind of rough.
She told me stories of each thing,
corner chair and ancient nose ring.
~
“I rarely sell my things of old.
They can’t be enjoyed when they’re sold,
loan things to friends once in a while,
like you” she said with a big smile.
~
“I’ve watched you pass since you were small.
On your dads’ shoulders, eight feet tall.
I’ve seen you smile and watched you grow.
Each time passing you’d say hello.
~
Walking past, eyes open wide.
You never dared to come inside.
Talking to strangers is unwise.
If I scare you, I apologize.”
~
She gave me a book that’s quite small,
not too many pages at all.
The book kept dreams lost in your head,
while you were sleeping in your bed.
~
She opened the book to page three.
Then whispered some secrets to me.
“Dreams are wishes stuck in your head.
They only come out when in bed.
~
Sleeping soundly, eyes shut tight,
mind wondering all through the night.
When you wake to start a new day,
write down those dreams before you play.
~
Follow your heart wherever it goes.
Record your trip in lovely prose.
Don’t stop writing until you’re done.
It’s never work when it’s all fun.
~
First open the book carefully.
Than close your eyes and wait to see,
all your dreams will come back to you.
But it might take a week or two.
~
Just be patient, don’t ever fret.
All things good you never forget.
I need not tell you anymore,
complete instructions on page four.”
~
She found a box, it fit just right.
I couldn’t wait to sleep that night.
Tied it up with ribbon and bow.
She gave me hug, told me to go.
~
It’s been a long winter since then.
Yes I’ve used up many a pen.
I wake each morning at sunrise.
Wipe the night’s sleepy’s from my eyes
~
Mom saw me writing early one day.
She asked to see, what could I say?
Together we both read out loud.
We laughed and hugged, she said she’s proud.
~
Now up after dawn, we’re not late.
Family’s first, treasure can wait.
Another year, there’s much to see,
at the swap meet; mom dad and me.
~
I hope to see my new old friend,
I’ll share my news with happy end.
I tried hard and my wish came true.
Now mom comes to the swap meet too!
*
The End
~
sck100914
Available at: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/470879
I woke today in a fog.
But autumn’s now in view.
There’ll be more days of sky high temps,
though fortunately just a few.
~
My body’s burned with a patchwork tan,
the grass a patchwork of brown.
Smiles await bluer skies,
but for now I’ve still a frown.
~
Perhaps today I’ll write a poem,
better than those before.
I used to say that every day,
but now I’m not so sure.
~
Like the seasons, time does change,
creativity comes and goes.
Inspiration’s all around,
but negativity grows and grows.
~
I need a cool crisp morning,
with leaf of red and gold.
Though summers can be wonderful,
this one’s getting old.
~
Maybe it’s just a fantasy,
thinking words will find their way.
Maybe the fantasy’s over,
of being joyous every day.
~
Peering up from my lap,
I see the fog starting to clear.
Though my paper is still blank,
I know a story’s near.
~
My eyes now wide open,
my pencil’s sharp and new.
Optimistically I scribble a word,
the clouds now but few.
~
One word turns to another,
a third leads to a line.
Verses soon will follow,
and again the day is mine.
~
I’m glad this patchwork is over.
And I’m sure that you are too.
I’m thankful for your time today,
my inspiration being you.
~*~
SCK082920
~
We mold and sculpt every day,
we try to create a better way.
*
We pinch and pull, pluck and pound,
though never is the best form found.
~
Yet press on we must without a doubt
or eventually we’ll all dry out.
~*~
sck091015
Outside my window perched in a tree
Tis a winged demon that caws at me
At me it caws and caws all day
Till darkness consumes then caws go away
Tis then a candle lit, awaiting peace
Creative spark await release
The hourly chime hourly chides
This spark within creatively hides
Searching I pace in this tiny room
From shadow to shadow returning to gloom
Going in circles around in a square
Till wearily I slump back into my chair
Through random lacy limbs I spy the moon
With gentle breezes the patterns I swoon
Patterns swooning dance on dingy walls
The net surrounds and the demon calls
Consciousness concedes, silence relieves
In the dark the dark the mind believes
Rest and wait or rise and scream
Choices few at the edge of a dream
Wax drippings lapping pages bled
Of serpentine spine and heavy head
Blackness cloaks the demons night
Their quills aplenty shade the light
Demon, oh demon please let me be
Yet still they tap, tapping for me
Tap tap tapping on my foggy pane
Tap, tap tapping with no refrain
Without refrain demons tap in kind
Tapping demons tap, tapping my mind
Is this tapping, tapping to remind?
Or is it tapping to seek and find?
Oh demon cloaked with hidden face
To take from you is my disgrace
Your gifts adored left on my sill
Yet to rest on your back I am still
To be only still is reverse
Dive or fall, a lover’s curse
To soar or sink is to immerse
The spirit wishes to guide the verse
This spirit and I of common goal
Each to rise from the hole
One to fly, one to scratch and claw
Each may fall, one to caw, caw, caw
Our bond’s made to find a link
If to trade my soul I wish to think
I wish to think another’s ink
Of golden quills and wine to drink
In gilded glass I wish to wink
Then step away until I shrink
Till all is gone with a blink
But for the ink, I wish to think
I think I think, I think I see
I think I see light shines on me
Sight and sound now distortion free
The path’s clear toward tranquility
If to be a final rest, now’s to be the time
Drifting in an open mind is to be sublime
Or if to rise and most joyfully find
I’ve awakened as a different kind
To be warm of heart and cool of mind
Forward moving and never behind
Of filigree hands to align and chime
Tis then the taps return, tapping in time
Taps on the window from arms of the past
To embrace their grip the future’s cast
When cracks appear in my shield of glazing
The demon swoops for the dawns hazing
With inky beak and beating wings
Caw, caw, caw the demon sings
They dance upon the empty pages
Quills ablaze their fire rages
Then morning breaks the lidded seal
Illuminating all thought real
Am I to be taken or to consume?
Or wake to sunlight returning to gloom
Betwixt the shadows exposed by the light
Tis demons craft conjured last night
With nary a blotch nor stroke askew
Flawless leaf scribed by I know not who
I dare not share these words unknown
Through my window they have flown
The prize of demons cawing in a tree
Thus return I must this gift given me
Sck122315
~
I know not what of poetry.
If it sounds Latin it’s Greek to me.
Yet pages turned new words learned,
emotionally concerned more is yearned.
.
Emboldened by fantasy I ward off attacks.
Slivers of truth yet slip through the cracks.
In a masquerade of hither and yon,
a poet’s mask is what I write on.
.
Sadness lurks beyond a child’s grin.
The truth bleeds hidden within.
All parabolic permutations I can’t define,
calculating the depth of every line.
.
So I’ll jump up and down, rattle around,
feet in the air and ears to the ground.
I’ll hear the sounds I note before bed,
where arranged tomorrow, unless I’m dead.
~*~
sck052716
Are you the me that I can’t see?
Or I you, one half of two?
If but one, who then are you?
If you’re the one, what’s to do?
~
I’m confused, both conned and fused.
We share a body, everything’s used.
We’ve got hands and feet, both left and right.
We have two eyes that see the same light.
~
But our sides divided, never to agree.
Perhaps a split, each then free.
I think you should go and create a new life.
I feel it best you leave, be done with this strife.
~
The battle goes on, both being stuck.
Each barely manages without some luck.
I did have an end to make all laugh and shout.
But then the editor took the good stuff out.
~
The Middle
~*~
SCK080925
A poet writes literally in metaphor
Corridors long, many a door
Doors of a poet need no key
Minds always open to poetry
`
Times to lose finding ones right
Days painted dark, nights write bright
A knights shining armor shields sight
Whilst wings of steel soar in the light
`
I know not what I shall think
With heavy load, this pen and ink
Or, should not I think or care at all
Bowing beckoned to this writers call
`
Scribbling, scribing, screaming; I know not why
Tis the finest of line – fantasy and lie
Opinions of truths and relative fact
Explosive emotion, some just an act
`
Though as preposterous as it may appear
A writer’s world there’s literally no fear
We flaunt, flourish and spill our ink
Free from fear to write what we think
`
Thus poetry freedom, yet some never see
And that’s literally preposterous to me
~*~
Sck030615
~
On a canvas of life we paint every day.
Some burst with color, some dull and gray.
Each stroke has consequence, broad or precise,
all mediums large though most will suffice.
~
Hue’s all made one from another.
Texture’s built on a base we smother.
Shadows lurk in black and white.
Brilliant moons portray the night.
~
Love is felt on glowing skin
Hate pours from the blood within.
Seas of green churn, gallant ships tossed.
Crews-o-many flounder, all forever lost.
~
Happiness’s awash in the bright blue sky.
Sadness gives it time to dry.
Realism reflects an instant in mind.
Abstract’s more real when meaning you find.
~
Yet in two dimensions we do all conform.
Our edges and corners define the norm.
Then we sign, frame and place on a wall.
There hung with the others, all very small.
~*~
sck052216
Was a cold winter’s day and there’s nothing to do.
Same as yesterday, nothing’s new.
So I took a trip to the attic to look for words and a view.
The crisp winter color of sky and water, reflected in deep icy blue.
~
The cobwebs hang heavy, there’s nothing new to explore.
Cold and flustered I stumbled back to the steps and slammed the door.
I went back downstairs and took some time to reflect.
Those things worth finding shouldn’t be that hard to detect.
~
Unless of course what seems lost, was never really had.
Though loses always remembered, it’s the forgotten that make us sad.
~
I went back upstairs where memories go to rest.
Pushing through the spider’s webs, to that place I like best.
It’s just a seldom seen pane of glass that compares to no other.
It’s a picture perfect painting, painted in the seasons changing color.
~
I sat upon a shaky box hiding something long forgot.
Steamy breath fogged the glass creating what can’t be bought
I viewed the shifting shades of pinks and blues that end every day.
Then I shared the chill with the fading sun falling into the bay.
~
Turning from dusk to shades of infinite grays with shadows intertwined.
I lightly step, hands outstretched and leave my little pane behind.
*
Sck011815
~*~
I tried to force a poem today.
But poetry doesn’t work that way.
Seems all my words are kept at bay.
Thoughts simply sculpt what hearts convey.
With wheels unturned can’t play with clay.
That doesn’t mean my mood’s cold and gray.
Or that my feelings for you have gone astray.
Flourishes flounder, neigh to stay.
Gladly “I love you” I can always say.
~*~
SCK052518
Punch the clock, kiss time away
Let’s all have a common sensical day
We’ll strive to attain the white picket fence
From this thing called common sense
~
Though no more than society’s rigidity
Saying that everyone had better agree
And if you don’t than you must be lacking
But hey – screw them! You don’t need their backing
~
Give it your all, do your best then see who’s slacking
Now get off the fence it’s time to get cracking
And when someone says you lack common sense
Say thanks, I’d rather be uncommon than dense
~
Sck012015
Rings True
.
Mutually daring
Quintessentially caring
Lovingly sharing
~
.
Howling
.
Up before sunrise
Down by noon, dreading blue skies
Awaiting the moon
~
.
Dimensionally Stable
.
Having thought outside
The box for so long, I’ve now
Become Tripolar
~*~
.
Sck061515
A life spent digging
Both gravediggers and artists
Always in the hole
~
sck051215
We can’t see the future or read the mind.
But with eyes, ears and thinking gears,
there’s much that we can find.
Pages of our lives fanned out in real-time.
Voices of every color sing them out in rhyme.
~
What was is done, will be, just a guess.
Is, is now, lest we digress.
Paths past can follow to haunt and test.
Yet we need only step a little, time gives the rest.
~*~
Sck053015
Confusion Says
Confusion is life
Befuddlement is wonder
If not – try harder
*
Enter
Seek to entertain
And be entertained seeking
Seek not and be not
*
What?
Write of what’s known?
Than to write would be easy
When one knew nothing
~
Sck110314
No Down Side
Creativity’s
not about making things up,
it’s making things work.
~
Conundrum
If love made as much
as the time I spend writing,
I’d no time to write.
~
All Good
Love is beautiful,
when all else is not. Love is
all when from the heart.
~*~
SCK081918
I’m off to see a wizard, the wonderful wizard of odd
It flutters all about waving a feathered rod
But first I’ll take a nice long nap
Wake up then find my thinking cap
~
I’ll sharpen my quills like a warrior’s blade
And joust with parchment where magic’s made
Then dig into my helmet, always full of goo
Hopefully to yank out something that is new
~
I never know what or if it may be
Until the ink dries then I’ll get to see
What magic has this wizard left?
Something clever or something deft
~
Sometimes the words all disappear
Then time has passed, wasted here
Though journeys un-ventured, high or low
Are the adventures you will never know
~
So follow your wizard and you will find
Those magical wizards are mostly kind
Though often absent, never fret, I’ve a hunch
Some wizards are just out to lunch
~*~
Sck052615
~
To all the writers never known
To the few from which we’ve grown
From their words the future’s sown
Rearranged to call our own
~
To all of those that do it now
From palette pure to graven brow
Investing all we dare allow
Divesting that we can’t avow
~
Time records in poem and prose
Imagined journeys no one knows
From euphoric highs to deadly lows
The tide of emotion forever flows
~
Looking back at history
Or hypothesizing infinity
Sensations felt we can’t see
Ink bled sets us free
~
Where to start, that depends
Our time alone shared with friends
Yet all stories must have ends
Well submerged is where life blends
~
Write the dark to see the light
Time always wins the fight
And when you lay awake tonight
Rest assured our future’s bright
~*~
Sck112315
Rulablelesssness
Poetry is speech
From hearts not minds – unconfined
Grammar cast aside
*
Metaphoric Netalism
A net full of holes
Will always fill with something
Without there’s nothing
*
All’s Write
Hands write history
A mind writes philosophy
Hearts write poetry
~
Sck110514