Before I Can’t

The present has reduced its activities

I am to take care of; curious the sliding

scale of responsibility.  Somewhat self-

imposed – divorced, retired, live in the

sticks – somewhat naturally imposed 

by desiring less, by knowing time is

no commodity, that interest and ability

are to be honed to that edge where they

become the Sword of Solomon cutting

truth from lie without a single blow.

The exploration more intense, less 

outward conquering, more inner 

revelation being seen as the thing itself,

caught in an afterglow.

Not all my age are like this; -- no judgment,

I do not proclaim it is the way for all

only as an autobiographical fact 

do I praise what I have come to know 

because it’s mine to know – so glad 

I’ve learned this before I can’t.

-Byron Hoot

http://www.hootnhowlpoetry.com

THE DIG

I unearth your very small & such delicate head,

Now releasing you, from your deep earthen bed,

I peer into gone eyes, of worm devoured sockets,

Seeking past answers, from sightless vacant pockets.

Are you really she, who once walked upon this earth?

She who loved, laughed & long ago, once gave birth,

She who once smiled & with your flesh well rounded,

She who was once so vital & with life, so abounded.

I touch your delicate & now nameless small bones,

With a blessing & a prayer, I return you back home,

Beneath soil´s clay loam, within cemetery’s dark hole,

All your being interred, except your perfect small soul.

POETRY BY - SUE LOBO ©: /|\

Broken People

I'm broken,

so we're broken,

but there's a

piece of you broken,

and that existed

long before me,

before us,

before we.

So what comes of

broken people

that

depend on

broken people

to heal?

Crippled emotions,

confused in

what it is that

they actually feel,

and

the feelings that

should be embraced

become what

broken people fear.

Saturated in sadness,

overtaken by

self loathing

and madness,

it's a

tough climb

to escape from

up out of this hell,

it seems

as a broken man

whom lives in pattern

I'm forever destined

to be broken with you here

in this

place of

highs and lows

on the tilting scales

of emotional

and mental inbalance

©rebeljones777

THE TONGUE

The tongue can cause life of death

It can give you another breath

It's a powerful tool

But yet it can make you a fool

The tongue can say things that hurt

Even use to flirt

It can get you in lots of trouble

Maybe even in double

The tongue can make someone's day

It can show them the way

Make someone sad

Make others mad

The tongue can make you or break you

Let others see what you do

It can get you in a fight

Prove that you are right

The tongue can get you killed

Get someone thrilled

Make someone smile

Give you a good style

The tongue can help heal

Help with an idea

It can help inspire

Help to require

So watch how you use the tongue

Or you may get you stung

Silas Jackson

May 6 2021

As the Plaster Sets Up

A wall to fabricated wall

existence is not an

existence at all,

especially as it chugs

down a wonky

calibration of unnecessary

death designed to

free the wealthy

of unwanted weight

in a failed effort

to sterilise the surface

of their collective

perversions.

Globbed on layers

of fear will never prevail

in the pasty inorganic

smile they try to smear

on our face.

©cmd 2021 [aka o.monger]