Poetry 365

I had a good poem in store for tonight,  But writing in bed caused a quick loss of might,  My pen streaking sideways and trailing away, As my eyes grow quite heavy, begging sleep to allay  This serves a poor substitute, written with haste,  But to miss a poem so early would be a disgrace, This serves as good practice, a challenge of sorts,  Of rhythm and meter and rhyming discourse

Monday starts the week anew,  ‘Refreshed’ from the weekend, A clear delineation,  Before things start to blend Tuesday a bit more wide awake, And balancing it all, It’s always Wednesday evening, I seem to hit a wall Thursday feels like Friday, As the dishes pile high,  The laundry is neglected, Mind preoccupied I tell myself this weekend, Will be a chore-sy time, But I think that then it seems that, It’s Sunday night— bedtime.  The end— the cycle starts again, And I’m never quite caught up, That is, until next weekend, When I can dig out of this rut.

A satisfying sight to see, The dark ink trail the page with ease,  Filling the void of empty space, The writer seeks the words to chase For just as beauty lies in fresh fall’n snow,  And the quiet peace it does bestow, There’s a magic in the tale to be found, In prints that mar the unmarked ground With each new stroke, a chapter added, The page becomes a tad less static, A story unfurls in that trail of ink, Though the meaning is often blurred- indistinct 

Drops against the sun soaked pavement  Rise again, a puff of smoke, Yearning for a liquid rest Dancing on the autumn cover,  Rustling leaves crunch underfoot, Yellowed grass that lies beneath  Desert skies stretched clear and blue  Roaming ‘cross the golden sands Yelling to the wide expanse Dragging pen across the page Rasping as the ink runs thin Yielding product nonetheless

Eight grey rows, stretched end to end, Hours spent, that blur and blend, Sea of faces, string of words, Always a test, marching towards  Navigate the narrow aisles, Line the lockers, turn the dials, Another day on brick red floors Wheeling out then in the freezer doors To return home, weak and weary, To pour over longer some new-learned theory, For just a brief time, until bed calls, Tomorrow walking the very same halls And through the tears and through the sweat,  It’s so easy to forget This all is a part of the grandest dream, So hold yourself in high esteem.

It’s said the grass is greener On the other side  But one who is a gleaner Can see that speaker lied  So apt we are to see,  The luxuries of others, And so apt we are to see, That which makes us suffer  But we only show our best,  Careful to hide the rest,  And through this reinforce,  This greener grass discourse  And so take heed, remember,  You always know your worst, And all of other’s splendor, May simply be rehearsed