~
My shadow only follows half the day,
when I turn to smile it looks the other way.
It forever lurks, even in the night;
they are after all merely shades of light.
~
As are the demons that haunt the mind,
there depths unseen they seek to find.
Casting shadows to lead my way,
an image in the dark, half the day.
~*~
sck061116
~
All have stories, few ever tell,
journeys ventured and desires to quell.
Desires quenched and misgivings had,
good tales abound, few ever bad.
~
Temperatures rise and emotions swell,
tightly bound the poet does dwell.
Here words cascade to drown the sad,
ink flows freely I think I’m glad.
~
For if to spiral back into my hollow shell,
where the sea’s only heard is my living hell.
There verses echo of another passing fad,
when only time notes the page we add.
~*~
sck061016
~
Can a poet be a poet with nothing to say?
Can my words be precise when all is gray?
Does the sun ever shine on a gloomy day?
Why don’t lips and hands work the same way?
For to speak what I feel I would dearly pay.
If only to say “I love you” each and every day.
~*~
sck060916
~
Coming to grips with
and embracing aren’t the same
But better than not
~*~
Sck060716
~
In reverse forward is time.
Today’s feelings, tomorrows rhyme.
Yesterday’s drive neutralized.
Days hide in nights disguised.
To see at last a final verse.
When parked forever in rolling hearse.
~*~
sck060516
~
Words dissolve in heart’s resolve,
minds paint shades of gray.
Souls see blue, yellow shines through,
greens brighten our day.
~
The sun sets the sky ablaze,
stars permit our view.
Into space we achingly gaze,
seeking salve for a world with no clue.
~*~
Sck060416
~
Language is sound fills all around with highs and lows of note.
The art of the word’s felt not heard, not seen, thought or wrote.
Birds speak in song words we get wrong, the music we think our own.
Thunder claps, lights bolts traps and the silence forever unknown.
~*~
sck060316
sck060316
~
What is a haiku?
A seventeen syllable,
three line, one act play.
~*~
sck060316
~
A mean and petty old boss I once had,
made threats to all when he was mad.
“My pen’s mightier than the sword!” he’d say
“Bad recommendations will affect your pay.”
He was always looking to pick a fight.
So with my pen I poked him – to find he’s right.
~*~
sck053116
~
Nature needs man like a hole needs a head.
Man needs nature as butter needs bread.
Needs fulfill, it’s how we’re fed.
Yet when needs consume nature’s dead.
~*~
sck053016
~
Steven rhymes with Heaven and Kittell rhymes with hell.
Now as a poet who likes to rhyme I know not where I’ll go in time.
But if a choice there is to be – I’ll surely go where the quill floats free.
~*~
sck052916
*
I wait each year for the dandelion bloom
I sit by the window of my cold little room
Awaiting the blossom of sunny yellow delight
Escaping again from this long winter’s night
I ache for the sunshine and fluffy tops to blow
Grown up from the sidewalk where people don’t go
~*~
sck052716
~
I don’t like writing sad poetry.
It’s not a place I choose to see.
In my world of goodness, all are free,
where faces of children are full of glee.
Hope and happiness is how it should be.
~
Yet pencils ever dull in reality,
so I hone my points, turn’s the key.
Returning I do to the safety of fantasy.
I think that’s best, don’t you agree?
Or is everything escape in poetry?
~*~
Sck052516
~
My writing’s waning
Want’s waxing, this writer’s block
I’m finding taxing
~*~
Sck052016
~
If Jesus went to
a gun show would he be in
a heavenly state?
~*~
sck051816
~
Stories are written every day.
Lips move, people say.
Eyes still seen when shut tight.
Ears and nose always alight.
.
The mind knows how to think.
Hands made to push the ink.
Yet words of late are not my friend.
Perhaps today this to will end.
~*~
sck051516
~
Forever to dream
violets in bloom, purple’s
now red with the blues
~*~
sck042216
~
The millionaire poets, no dollars just sense
Their estates so large too big for a fence
With endless pens to harness the needs
Gardens abound grown from their seeds
~
Though time not made with gold on wrist
Dawn awakes when morning kissed
Wealth’s not held it’s how you see
When life’s embrace forever free
~*~
sck042116
~
I work doggedly
But poetry’s doggerel
Doggone these dog days
~*~
sck041716
~
Writing for me is a chapter in a story I’ll see not done.
The beginning a bit sketchy, the middle’s been mostly fun.
A sequel’s now in the works, I can see the volumes begun.
Genre’s chosen comedy drawn, opera unspoken and drama shun.
Yet the covers close on all someday. I hope at the end we won.
~*~
sck041416
~
My pens compression
Unfortunately suited
For stress and tension
~*~
sck040816
~
The well hanged and hung
Share not knotty trysts with twists
Yet each flop when done
~*~
sck040316
rhymesalot 