Searching for a pulse
to elucidate events
unfolding today.
The charm of this noxious weed
is an opportunity.
Stamp it out,
if we were able;
is it hate,
or is it a wish
for greater control?
Fighting nature:
one hand pounding,
one hand reaping,
one hand clapping . . .
silence will fall
and weeds will thrive —
never perfect,
but running wild
with nature’s plan.
Love will survive.
Icy, irascible impetus
of this continued chronic cold;
wars with what we wish to will
into existence: a
rival — a return
to warmer wits
warranted
fresh, new . . .
spring
I’m not a fan of these day shift working weekends. Aside from working three days in a row, I log in to WordPress to find that I had three views yesterday, which means the seething masses of my adoring fans were looking for a Saturday Jams post that I am unable to post, which is why I’m shooting for one every other week.
Here in North Dakota, the weather seems to have a huge problem with changing its mind; in fact, March came in like a lion, and now it seems to be going out coughing up a hairball that looks suspiciously like a wet lamb. And here I am, talking about the weather again.
So on a day like this I’m lucky to be posted in the one spot where I can find time to write. I’m listening to surf music: The Gasolines, out of Brazil — A little wild with just a hint of world influence. And all in all, it’s not a bad end to a long weekend at work.
Not to mention, I just found their label’s website, which is selling digital albums for $5 USD, including a 63-track Brazilian surf compilation, each song by a different band. Not a bad deal at all at less than eight cents a track!
A vibrant landscape
smothered beneath arid dust
of fallen castles,
and our legions march, lockstep,
toward the next horizon —
crossing that dry bridge
between shrinking oases
as winter sets in.
Evaporate,
Justice the Ideal;
let us thirst,
left baking
under stars we invented
to honor Progress.
Twilight looms,
the only promise.
Follow the links in the poem’s text if you would like to scour the sources of my prompts: Fandango and the Ragtag Community. In their comments sections there is much more to discover!
Harried by the wind
and grasping for precious life,
persistent chaos
reigns last year’s leaf that shudders
to consider letting go . . .
Clutching, while near spring
Hastens the defrosting ground;
And facing that fall —
Open to options that lead
Somewhere other than earthward . . .
Inevitable
decomposability
inadmissible;
Unassailability
undisguisedly denied.
Follow the links in the poem’s text if you would like to scour the sources of my prompts: Fandango and the Ragtag Community. In their comments sections there is much more to discover!
Bring war, Sleep —
hanging crushing weight
on tired eyes,
dragging me
to some nowhere in-between
with my lame struggle,
not knowing
whether light survives
this journey . . .
dream, and hope
it will welcome my return
to the realm I left.
Follow the links in the story’s text if you would like to scour the sources of my prompts: Fandango and the Ragtag Community. In the comments section there is much more to discover!
That hard edgewhere the Earth and Skybrush soft —shooting beats of energyon both sides of that mirror.
Life is wrapped in my creation,though I float on the snippets I might dowhile I work though hesitation. Filling voids left by inflation,I conjure things new, bespoke, that ring true —life is rapt in my creation. But fixed to preserve my position,life recedes to a … Continue reading It’s my Creation — is it real?
There’s some change
riding on the wind.
Never fear!
Change is good —
without that, we might never
truly live.
The fragilesensibilityof wintercould onlyreticently relinquishits unyielding grip; this cold wavestill deepens fearthat the spring’simminentreturn is a matter ofopinion. Stretching ears:drops of melting ice!Those chilled tearsmight bring hope,or might lengthen these slenderpikes of winter’s fire. No false hopes.No wasted regrets.Our suns riseand return,vague practitioners passingin cryptic … Continue reading A Long for Sumarr
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Rob's Surf Report 