poetry
-
“The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices… a thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own.” — Rod Serling I swing the hammer against the anvil of the day,each strike a clang of bone and
-
When someone asks, “What animal are you?” my brain instantly fires off a zoo’s worth of options. Cheetah? Fast and flashy—tempting. Owl? Wise and mysterious—sure, I’ll take it. Elephant? Big, strong, and unforgettable—why not? Even a hippo crossed my mind (don’t judge, those chompers are no joke). But then I paused mid-thought—hold up, my diet’s
-
Do you dream, my love,in hues of wheat and gold,a harvest ripe and radiant,glowing beneath storm-blue skies—their vastness flecked with gray,a tempest’s tender prelude? I see you,rain-rose petals, nude and pink,scattered soft against the ivory silkof your skin—smooth as clay,unmarred, awaiting the artist’s hand.A canvas alive,you beckon my brush,strokes bold and delicate—oil pastels in saffron
-
I tally my days,a quiet inventory—wins and lossesetched upon a fragile card.Today, a single Woutshines the L,and tomorrow dawns,a tender promise,small at times,yet woven with hope nonetheless. I sought You today,in the shadow of my helplessness,in the fleeting breath of praise.I called to Youwhen strength faltered,when weakness bowed me low,in humility’s soft cradle,in honor’s fleeting
-
Another morning creeps in,rain flirting with cold,teasing snow,not to clean the messbut to blanket sin—a frail shroud over oil slicks,debris,black heartsstill slinking beneath,white or wet be damned. At least the tears—that noisy splatter on metal roofs—hush under the drift.You can fake it now,pretend the sobbing’s done,that clouds—those fat, fluffy angora tufts—spin gray to white,weaving a
-
The Road Swallowed Most of Him Eighteen wheelsgrind even the best down—red-raw streakson black asphalt,a lonelinessthat claws for homewhen home’sjust a ghost in the rearview. Michael Smith,ordinary as rust,dreamed of morethan this rig could haul.Kept the dragoncaged between the lines,huffing, puffing,no spark left—his magic carpetragged, grounded,ride over. He whispered goodbye,couldn’t face another mile.An empty house,bills
-
I embarked on ritualistic quests—reading Russian short novels in the twilight,playing timed chess as minutes slipped like sand,fasting to one humble meal a day,drinking bitter espresso to puncture the haze,smoking in the quiet solitude of dusk,and pickling myself in vodka’s icy embrace,laboring until every morning,my limbs begged gentle guidancejust to stir into motion. In that
-
It’s too cold to climb out from underUnder the weight of this weighted blanket. A blanket of snow, too cold to runRun barefoot through frozen memories. Memories drift as I retrieveRetrieve the Sunday paper, unread. Unread cartoons make me smile—Smile as I sketch the last frame. A frame smudged with black ink,Ink staining everything clean
-
Through the Potter’s Hands I have been poor, I have been rich,I have held love, and I have watched it slip.I have known life, and I have met loss,Children close, then distant—a breath, a reach, a fading echo. These are the moments that have shaped me,some I recall with clarity,others still whisper their lessons in
BB Grey--musings 