Sugar and Smiles

A liberal sprinkling of sugar

over a sour, profane person

may turn the quarrelsome ogre

into sweet soul filled with reason.

A wrathful or tart rejoinder,

on the other hand, causes conflict.

The cliché about catching flies

proves true; it’s hard to contradict.

So, be kind to one another.

Let’s make the world a gentler place.

Your smile could change a heart or two

and put a smile on someone else’s face.

My Secret

I have a secret to divulge.

No one is really godless.

No matter how much they protest,

everyone worships something.

It may be insignificant,

as the small circle of self,

that lets no one else enter,

and adores the god of ego.

Perhaps the idol is nature.

Some ignore the Creator,

while praising the created,

and its cyclical rhythms.

Many adulate mere people,

humans enshrined in only flesh.

Flesh will suffer, age, and die,

then decay or burn to ashes.

Science becomes the god to some,

those who will choose to ever learn,

but never get to the truth.

Their god is in the seeking.

A few bow their knee to money.

Lives are consumed with consuming,

or hording for a faint future,

that may or may not arrive.

I am simple; I worship God,

the omnipotent, omniscient,

and omnipresent ruler.

I bow the knee to none other.

Nations, rulers, and earth itself,

shall pass away, but He remains.

I trust him; He knows what is best,

for the likes of one like me. 

Every Bird that Falls

In jeopardy from an early age,

and from a risky environment,

the young girl was hard to read.

We tried to get her to open up,

thinking it would be cathartic.

Nothing that we did seemed to work.

She holed up in her room for days

and stared at the robin’s egg blue walls.

No amount of coaxing lured her

from her shell. She showed no interest

whatsoever in anything.

The more we cajoled, the worse she was,

until one fateful afternoon.

She heard a thump at her window,

and raced to see what had happened.

A Goldfinch was laying on the ground.

She couldn't tell whether it was dead,

or only momentarily stunned,

so she made her way to the kitchen,

and brushed by me and out the door.

I watched through the window in the door,

as she gently picked up the small bird.

I could hear her talking to it,

but I couldn't make out what she said.

Then I saw her hold the bird up,

in a trembling hand and look skyward,

as though invoking the Almighty,

on the tiny Goldfinch’s behalf.

It was the first time I’d seen her cry.

The lovely Goldfinch stirred in her hand.

She released it and it flew away.

Something came to life in the sad girl.

She began to smile through the tears,

and thank God for sparing the bird.

She was a different child after that.

Once she saw beyond her own problems,

and learned to care for something else,

she was as free as that small bird.

The emotional wounds were healed.
The Goldfinch visited her often.

Pipe Smoke and Secrets

Expert in the art of intrigue,

We must lurk in darkened rooms,

Filled with pipe smoke and secrets,

Meeting to connive, to hatch up,

To cobble together a new plan,

One that our man can present,

Flawlessly to the great unwashed.

This man must be kept shrouded,

Until precisely the perfect time.

It may take a single stroke of genius,

One well-orchestrated incident,

Something to cause a sense of chaos,

Something that will shock and horrify,

To bring it about; then he will enter.

The masses will be no match for him.

His charisma will disarm opposition.

He is born for this perilous hour.

This we know with complete certainty,

For he is a being of our creation,

Not quite human, but something better.

His words and solutions will astound.

His vehement speeches will impress,

As much as his miracles amaze.

The ignorant, the gullible,

the vast majority trained not to think,

will look to him; he alone holds answers,

he alone will bring peace to the earth,

in exchange for one small thing,

their souls; a fair trade, don’t you think?

The Bottom Line

The stall was narrow, too narrow.

It’s a crisis in the making.

The high-strung filly kicked the walls,

And broke two boards with the raking.

It did no good to gripe about it.

The handlers paid it no heed.

The bottom line mattered much more,

Than meeting the horse’s need.

A big race was set for next week.

The three year old bay was ready.

With fleet feet she ran like the wind.

The jockey just held her steady.

She was ablaze on the circuit.

The races she won were mounting.

The problems were still overlooked,

But the money they kept counting.

One day she thrashed and broke a leg.

That ended the days of glory.

If the handlers made one small change,

It would be a different story.

The Grumbler

Mumble, mumble, gripe and grumble.

What a great way to spend the day.

It seems painless, but it’s brainless,

To while away the time this way.

Mumble, mumble, gripe and grumble.

It won’t be long and I’ll be gone.

I need to hear some words of cheer,

Or our bond will break like a bone.

Mumble, mumble, gripe and grumble.

Please just resist, cease and desist.

If you don’t stop, I’ll blow my top.

Your kiss and I won’t coexist.

Mumble, mumble, gripe and grumble.

I can’t take more; I’m out the door.

Cut me some slack; I won’t be back.

The place is yours; moan to the floors.

  

 

A Writer's Nightmare

The strain of it will bring him to ruin.

The load is too massive to bear alone.

He hesitates to ask for help, a weakness.

Help is not far away; pick up the phone.

He won’t allow it; his pride is too great,

So he struggles on with it; the load shifts,

Still he won’t relent; he’ll do it or die.

Stacks of white papers fall in snowy drifts.

His manuscript with unnumbered pages,

Scatters in all directions on the floor.

He looks down in shock and utter dismay,

At his work of three months; runs out the door.

He admits it at last; he’s pigheaded.

Would it have been all that humbling to ask?

He should’ve gotten his friend to edit.

Now it is a near impossible task.

Strong as Steel

This week the words for Three Word Wednesday are:

Absurd

Groan

Weak

I've decided to craft these words into a poetry form that is 

new to me. It is called: Bref Double. It's a French form and 

similar to a sonnet. It's made up of three quatrains and a 

couplet. It doesn't have to be done in iambic pentameter. 

Any meter the poet chooses is fine. The rhyming pattern is

as follows:

a/x/b/c

x/a/x/c

a/x/a/b

a/b

The x means it doesn't rhyme with anything.

Please don’t think me weak, if I cry.

I am a lot stronger than you think.

Don’t use a dowsing rod to find,

a deep vein of tears; that’s absurd.

My weeping is not long lasting.

It sometimes happens; I don’t know why.

A sad song may be the trigger,

whether sung by human or bird.

When the cold wind whips at my eyes,

it makes rivulets of tears flow.

That doesn’t mean I’ll groan and die,

over words said that are unkind.

No, I am steel and I shall fly,

in all matters of heart and mind. 

Burned at the Stake

“It is not moral, not at all.

Look at those eyes; they are wrong hue,

And there’s a half moon on one iris.

The young ones are under her spell.

They are being drawn to her like moths,

To a flickering candle flame.

Soon they will become tainted,

Ruined by the evil influence.

We’ve heard she dances nude in circles,

With other demon possessed crones,

Deep within the forest at night,

Where they ritually feast on infants.

Surely you understand this must stop.

Wiesensteig mustn’t permit this.

It goes against all of our rules.

We have a code to adhere to.

If we burn the source of infection,

It will cleanse the whole countryside,

And serve as a warning to others.

We must make a public example.

We must take extraordinary measures,

No matter how repugnant it seems,

If not, the contamination spreads,

Until our fair land is consumed.

The Christian faith hangs in the balance.

Thank you, brethren,” the voice of reason said.

“Bring her forth; bind her to the stake;

Build the fire and build it up high.

The witch must burn; the witch must burn.”

A small figure is bound and dragged forward,

As she defiantly curses them.

The blaze envelopes her; screams arise.

They watch in silent satisfaction,

As the first witch of Wiesensteig burns.

The exterminations have begun.

The Consumptive

He was an acrid man, mean, volatile,

With a flair for the dramatic, too,

So his actions should come as no surprise,

For he was rotten through and through.

At first, there was no way of knowing.

It was in the latency stage back then,

But time and coughing made it evident.

Active tuberculosis raged within.

A moral man submits to quarantine,

But he vowed to himself to have none of that.

The doctors started antibiotics.

The disease resisted; he coughed and spat.

Infected, he longed to infect others.

He called on enemies to make amends.

It was all a ruse, but they let him in,

And when they parted it was as friends.

None knew of his illness then, at the time.

When he died, all thought it a swift demise,

Until they read his obituary,

And learned too late he was evil, but wise.

Each nemesis contracted the disease.

No one was exempt; no one was cured.

One by one they gave way to its ravages,

And not a life among them endured.

Most chose to walk a more honorable path,

And kept apart from friends, family, and foes.

Only one vile man of them sought vengeance,

But as of yet the victim doesn’t know.

Pie Eating Contest

The pie eating contest was today,

and eight entrants adept at eating,

formed two lines around a long table,

and chomped to begin competing.

Big Bob looked tough; he had a huge gut,

and he’d eat anything edible.

All bets were on him to claim the prize.

As a choice, he was the most credible.

Slim Jim was considered the dark horse.

He looked like a starving refugee.

Everyone knew he’d come in dead last.

Jim would lose; it was plain to see.

The rest were a mediocre bunch.

There wasn’t a quick eater in the lot.

The pies were all French vanilla cream,

and looked like viscous, yellow snot.

When the whistle blew they all dove in,

with their faces driven into their pies.

Their hands were tied behind their backs,

as French vanilla blinded their eyes.

Big Bob jumped into the lead at first,

but was quickly disqualified.

The judge saw him cheating; Bob used his hands.

It was clear that they never were tied.

After that it became a tense race.

It was neck in neck all the way,

but Slim Jim pulled ahead by a nose

full of French vanilla cream that day.

Slim Jim won the Golden Pie Trophy,

for that was the coveted prize.

Those folks that bet big money on Bob,

got a double whammy surprise.

The moral of this little saga,

should be evident to you all:

Don’t bet on what looks like a winner,

or you might be in for a fall.

Gallows Tree

The old pervert gives an impassioned speech,

as he stands before the hangman’s noose.

The gallows tree waits with amazing patience.

It’s heard stories before; no need to rush.

The crowd is not nearly as long-suffering,

for justice must be served in this man’s case.

If anyone deserves to hang by the neck,

suspended between heaven and earth,

to do an animated leg twitchy dance,

it’s the guy giving the lame excuses.

He was convicted of the most heinous crimes,

those against innocents, the very ones,

that should’ve been protected, he savaged.

Several small graves in the woods prove it.

The hood is finally placed over his head.

The executioner pulls the lever.

It’s show time; the crowd gasps; some even cheer,

as he dances the death jig; it’s over now.

That scene played out a long time ago,

before the advent of modern forensic

know-how; the wrong man hung that day.

The real killer watched as part of the crowd,

in fascination and cheered louder than anyone,

because crime paid, but justice was served.

It was served with someone else on the menu.

Thanks for the Lemonade

On a hot August day when heat waves dance

making everything look out-of –focus

and the scalding sun works to bake the land

and makes the black-top a frying pan,

it’s easy to become lazy and listless.

With not so much as a ghost of a breeze

to bring relief, even light cotton shirts

tend to begin sticking to sweaty backs

and people get moody, irritable.

It doesn’t take much to set them off,

so do nothing to ignite a firestorm.

Be cool, soothing in all you say and do.

It’s horrible enough in this kind of heat,

without creating more of the same

through your own incendiary outlook,

 and please, for goodness sake don’t chide saying,

“Don’t whine, months ago you raved about the cold

and then after that, it was the spring rains.”

Just pull your own shirt from your sticky back,

and buy ice cold lemonades all around.

Thanks; don’t mind if I do; I’d love one.
See, that solved it.

Ghostly Revenge

The house was vile both inside and out.

It’s said a gaunt spirit hovered about,

seeking revenge for deeds done long ago,

unspeakable acts that no one should know.

A curse still hangs on the place; that’s certain.

An old man was hung there from a curtain,

and his body was left to decompose.

Suicide or murder? Nobody knows.

The coroner was called in to the scene,

But by then the corpse was rotting and green.

It suffered abuse from gnawing vermin,

so the cause of death was never determined.

Suicide was the theory, an easy out.

The detectives leaned toward foul play no doubt,

but the truth was lost and shrouded from view.

Only the old man’s ghost really knew.

Years later a séance was held on the spot.

The medium was a fraud like as not,

but the lights did flicker and then dim,

so the medium said she’d heard from him.

She said that his soul would never be free.

He’d haunt the place for all eternity,

unless and until his killer was found,

and brought to justice with hands and feet bound.

The séance wasn’t looked on as valid,

but one face in the circle went oddly pallid,

as a pair of hands appeared in thin air

and choked him to death as he sat in the chair.

The others ran away in a hurry

and made up a story to cover their worry.

They said he died from the guilt and the fright,

but that old man’s ghost got even that night.