Poem-A-Day: Day 214

Johnny Mnemonic

I denote thee,
Roynart Glengary Bivouac,
except for when the sea
shows its horrid FACE:
wrecks die delight
and sail, or free flight,
but wrecks die are mourning,
and sail, or fate warming
when founding the day,
as in dates or today.
Every great Bivouac warrants
some form that makes memories,
so please enthuse might,
and get ants allied,
and think of their HOMES!
Think
of
their
HOMES!
I denote thee,
Roynart Glengary Bivouac.
Your subservience to King Phillip
culls over flying great soars,
and mind values earning more
than justice salutations
under never thinking about palpitations,
not ever again.
So haute,
Roynart Glengary Bivouac,
callous haute
to allegations
searching for the angles.
I, Jonathan, denote thee.

Poem-A-Day: Day 213

Roadkilled

Dead squirrel flattened
By crushing realities
That I face daily

Poem-A-Day: Day 212

The Glass is All Full

I've seen horrible things,
reflections in the mirror
that look stunningly lifelike
and make me want to punch the glass,
punch it repeatedly
until my fists are red and bloody,
red with rage,
all the rage awkwardly apparent
in every single molecule,
every rage filled molecule.
I hate the mirror,
and its horrible reflections,
I want to puke when I see it,
I want to punch myself,
my whole wretched face
staring back at me.
I have seen my horrible self
in the deformed reflections I portray.

Poem-A-Day: Day 211

Natural Wealth

Somewhere where the willows weep,
the cats tell tall tales,
and Queen Anne dons her finest lace linens
to hear their herald howls
among the oak and pine walled rooms
leaning in, and listening
as the walls often do.
The storied past is read aloud
for the denizens of the glen,
and much like the fabled framework,
the morels seem to bud from the dirt
in their own strange and truffling way.

I walked in on this queer spectacle,
stunned, and piss drunk,
but it was some natural beauty
I have never witnessed since;
the world working harmoniously
to tell me some story that more than likely
I forgot until this point.

Poem-A-Day: Day 210

Sonnet #50 (Golden Anniversary)

Years spent doing the needed things in life,
and nothing spent on the remaining parts,
yields little more than an existence rife
with no appreciation of the arts.
Yet, somewhere lost within there something starts
to boil over, to seize the momentum
and from the moment willfully departs
a roar that leaves the moment pleasantly numb,
awaiting flashing ardor that should come;
instead releases quiet to the sky
leaving not more than sour tastes succumbed
by the searing rage to give up and die.
  The years are nothing more than what is made
  with skillful hands of those that cease to fade.

Poem-A-Day: Day 209

Sonnet #49 (Pet Shackles)

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
and scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye?
Though to itself, it only live and die;
nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
and beauty's waste hath in the world an end.
The basest weed outbraves his dignity,
shall reasons find of settled gravity:
look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
for having traffic with thy self alone
that thou consum'st thy self in single life.
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
then how when nature calls thee to be gone?
  To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
  Since why to love I can allege no cause.

Lines taken from Shakespeare's Sonnets: 4, 9, 49, and 94

Poem-A-Day: Day 208

Sonnet #48 (Punching Bag)

Where, and what happened to the smelling salts?
I’m here, fumbling around the blood-soaked rags,
trying to pick the pieces of  my faults
off the ground, and place them into bags
that have been meticulously labeled
with two and twenty more than what I know
has been left for naught, but less disabled
than I, that has contracted final blow;
scribed with the pen that writes in bloodied ink
a fist clenched fingers daring what’s not said,
and hearing nothing more before the blink
that missed the moments gone before my dread.
  And crippled, wrought with nothing more but pain,
  I lay, a wreck, diminished in my brain.