Leaves me confused, to the core of my brain

The same thing said, repeating a refrain

I try to expel it, but all to vain

It results in stress, puts me under strain

Oh, stop this dripping of thoughts, like slow rain

Remind me rather of things of some gain

Like times spent in the fields of gold, of grain

Running beside the huffing, puffing train

Lying still, thinking of fiends to be slain

But, no, don't remind me of all the pain

Promise me you’ll stay, never go away

if from me you stray, my sky will be gray

not one single ray, will brighten my day;

my fears, please, allay, my tears don’t downplay

my love, don’t betray, lest my heart decay,

and crumble like clay, your loss would me slay;

goodbye never say, these words, please obey

tomorrow, today, forever, say yea

to this game we play, with me only lay,

for always, your prey, let none your love sway.

A syllable used in every fine line,

makes the sentence seem without repentance.

We write to write words

that fall on a page,

hoping the story

will be all the rage.

Verbs and nouns,

a strong use for the inked quill,

Pronouns and adverbs

create your own thrill

At day’s end with inked quill hidden away,

all the words written read how you would say;

now you go about other things to do,

tomorrow, the inked quill will wait on you.

I do not know how to feel

Crippling contrast

Goes so fast

Time

It escapes me

It liberates me

Who am I now

but a hermit

Earn it

A love for solitude and peace

Release

Leave me here alone now

I don't know how

To explain the things I feel

Is it real?

Always questioning

something festering

I feel confused, yet free

a joy in me

I will follow the call

protecting all

that I find sacred

I cannot shake it

Another day home, undisturbed and still,

a tug-o-war of idleness and will,

to seize and create, or simply waste time,

to achieve or fall short, to sink or climb,

but what is to seize when every next day

is sheltered-in-place, and duty’s to stay

home more time still, akin to a squatter

sitting stagnant in tepid bath water.

Quarantine for wellbeing shall prevail,

as many lives endure buoyant yet stale.

© J.A. Flintsmith 2020

#challenge #poetry #newpoetry #amwriting #COVID #pleasestayhome #pleasewearamask

What to do with these syllables you say?

Create a storm, a view, a swanky play.

Folks will love you for it, or hate the day.

They chose to spend the time rather than pray.

Sometimes it’s not what you meant to convey.

But what they read between the lines today.

That lead their hollow hearts to such dismay.

Your wish not granted, their will yet to sway.

Nature or reason the battle betray.

Win, lose or draw the thoughts will all be grey.

There's something about structure that makes things

easier, and harder. So will you spring

a trap for me, or let me fall off this

bridge? And what's underneath? Will you not miss

my spiraling descent to long-winded

madness of words uncurling; rescinded

fantasies will linger on. But worry

not, I'll take this bait and let the flurry

falling faster be the next paradox

flight; until then, here's a beautiful box.

“Do you know,” I say, “that this is your one-hundredth birthday?”

“My what?” Stella crows, her white eyebrows furrowed, the translucent blue-green-pearl colored skin of her forehead puckered into wrinkles.

“You’re one hundred today,” I friendly-shout.

“I can’t hear you,” Stella says, nose wrinkled, its drooping tip unhappy with me, “do you know, though,” her thin lips turn upward, lifting the white hairs on her upper lip, “it’s my birthday today.”

I considered going round on my trikes,

But decided on riding on my bikes.

I rode along on many busy pikes.

I saw a kid with thumbs in dual dikes.

I tell Prose people to go take the hikes

When they say I must garner 'the most likes'.

(That gives me a swift kick in all my psychs.

I want their bikes to ride over some spikes.)

I contemplate hollering o’er the mikes

‘Likes’ are unfair, so we'll all go on strikes.

I staggered through a fractured dream, and in

The depths were, angelic and glistening,

A dozen mothers; each one free from sin.

Said I, to the women I found within

This dream my imagination did spin,

’I love you all, of that there is no doubt,

This from the rooftops I would gladly shout.

You should not fret, neither worry nor pout,

For those who would condemn thee, I will rout.

In reply, they said: absolutely nowt.