Disorder

 

Disorder, Disorder, my newly-found friend,
when Order finds me, our reign will end.

Judging and thinking I have not a base,
Order will swoop in and stifle my pace.

So please, Disorder, help me remember
that when freezing to death, you are my ember

and when trekking through these rigid lands
I can still create fire with my frozen hands.

That fire can roar and burn into the night
and signal old Order that we’ll be alright.

The Listener

in a cool, dark room
quiet, tinted blue
a song was click-played
obscure and new.

the listener
anxious to be impressed
did not fully
in the ordeal invest;

with critical ears
and hands of decree
the song stopped too soon
unfortunately.

another song
was then given go
as the listener
checked the window,

this one was beautiful
and uplifting of soul
for impatient hands
had left the control.

Loom

When I read a stranger’s poetry,
I often do prepare
for too much sentimentality
and more clichés than I care bare.

Rhyming words are thrown abound;
archaic words are too much seen.
The poets merely like the sound,
with little care for what they mean.

But sometimes, I’m forced to stand,
and I pace around the room,
for the poet has put heart to hand,
and deep within me their words loom.

Peace

A budding peace
that I don’t know
surrounds my mind.

Thinking will cease
if I move slow
and act resigned.

If I move soon,
and think a lot,
I can evade

and be immune
to the onslaught
of peace’s aid.

And if I stay
who will I be?
And what is being?

I’ll find out today,
quite possibly;
I won’t be feeling.

Snow

My thoughts are flakes of snow
and I am buried deep.
There’s nowhere I could go,
so once again, I will just sleep.

I heard a blizzard’s closing in
and I’m fully prepared;
I felt the frost upon my skin;
Emergency’s been long declared.

Maybe this time, I will die,
but I don’t care much for fate.
Perhaps the snow’ll pile high,
or maybe I’ll just actuate.

I Will

I’ll turn the table upside down.
I’ll face the couch towards the wall.
I’ll yank a pen out of my heart
and draw myself a path to crawl;

A path away from the abode
that is too lifeless and too dull,
and that’s held me in too long
like thoughts locked in a prison-skull.

I will emerge in timeless land
and explore the melodies I find.
I’ll climb the trees, and swim the lakes,
and forget the dead place left behind.

I Forget Things


I forget things
way too much,
and my dream-wings
curl out of sight,
and out of touch.

I have forgotten
choices I’ve made;
the fruits are rotten,
but they were ripe when
I picked and played.

I’m shocked to see
where I once stood;
high up, atop a tree.
I remember now,
oh, that was good!

I’m here again,
but forget I may…
Wait, where’ve I been?
Oh, I remember
this form of day!

My dream-wings shine
and I feel them stretch.
Fresh fruit is mine;
The seeds are for
the ground to catch.