All the stories are false
And all the stories are true
From happy children’s books
To the dark historic view.
What humans se versus
What humans write –
What humans believe
And why humans fight.
While not grateful for all
This messy world stew
I’m grateful to have one,
Whatever truth’s view.
Category Archives: Poetry
What a Ball
An agony of politeness holding you in thrall.
Is it too early to go right now?
If it gets too late, should I go at all?
Should I be first and hang out alone?
Or should I delay? Are these heels too tall?
The cycle starts and spins and falls –
Preparation for fun. Oh joy. What a ball.
No Longer Either Short Or Stout
No longer either short or stout –
The handle flails wildly.
The spout drowns you out.
No singing or bobbing
But cursing and tears,
Sarcasm and huffing –
Oh, teenage years.
Overwhelming Exhaustion
Initially, we try to
Negotiate the ins and outs,
Telling ourselves that the
Right skills will take away the
Overwhelming exhaustion so
Vexingly integrated with
Each and every social gathering. Then,
Racked with conflict at each invitation, we’re
Tormented by the question:
Share the fun or enjoy the quiet?
The Harried Tornado
The harried tornado
Stumbles to a stop,
However temporary,
And savors every second.
Until, that is,
The languid breeze
Decries its stressful schedule.
Or the heavy wind
That blows but once
Insults its time and tempo.
Hush and Heed
Hush, my child, or they will hear
Your petulant voice in the cold night air –
That shrill, hard pitch shreds their ears,
And those that get caught
Simply disappear.
Stay out of the woods!
That’s where they live, where they watch
And hunt for foolish kids
That show their parents’ words such scorn
And fade away
Like the fog at morn.
Steer clear of the waters,
Be they shallow or deep, they’ll pull you down
To their cold, dark depths
Where they like to sleep –
Where they steal your breath.
Hush and heed my warnings, my words,
Flee the woods and waters beyond.
Hush and head, my darling child,
If you wish to see tomorrow’s dawn.
Sneaking Silence
With sneaking silence
Small hands reach for the wooden edge,
Pulling up to unsteady feet
Until dark eyes can get a peek
At sugary gold in its crystalline cage.
The tiny hands then hold and wait,
Wait for the chance to set it free
When no adults can hear or see.
twytte 