Memorial Cliché

~

 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.

~*~

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Testimonia Miscellanea

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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.

 

 

~*~

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Duplicity

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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?

~*~

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