Hold Your Thieving Tongue

Cynicism is an unbecoming trait,
Like a gnarled wart upon the heart.
Expressed in tongues of bitterness, hate
It is not new, and has torn eras apart.
If provided definition, it would stand as this:
A foolish skepticism defiling the pure.
Mutually destructive. Robber of bliss,
Denying the cynic and his prey of hope’s cure.
Hold your thieving tongue’s tart critique;
Taunt me less. I have been saturated
By implants of Doubt, though it is weak.
I am infused, but I shall not wait
To begin my exorcism of your diction.
The paradox of Hope: A ghost of a dream,
Without substance but that of conviction
Yet warrior enough. Unyielding at the seam.
I shall not ask you to carry the banner
Of a romantic, a dreamer… of Hope and Love.
But restrict your tongue’s poisoned manners
Lest your own heart rots, carcass of a dove.


Pitter Patter

Rain makes laughter echo.
How? I won’t pretend to know
But that chuckle of his so freely found
Seems to ring, savored and round 
On each drop, splashing gaily and in full mirth
When at last rain is acquainted with earth.
Rain, it has so often beguiled – 
and, how this charmed soul smiled! – 
With the ease and lift and vibrance
To be found in a thundercloud’s dance. 
Such is laughter, or at least, such is his. 
So that all that was and all that is:
Gone, only delight. Not just gladness but Joy
Fill the dewdrops and raindrops both. 
Do stormclouds pause? To marvel at we
Undeterred. Two laughers beneath, 
A pitter patter of rain, an echo found in hearts.
Is that your beat, he says, standing apart? 
No, not mine. Nor yours. Nor the rain’s. 
Tis Ours.


Jazz

I give ghosts their nimbleness.
Age seeps grey where I, so tireless,
Had been infused. Lifeblood of an age,
I was the lockpick to an antiqued cage 
Of norms and chilled decorum.
I established a long-lost quorum 
Between youth and the wire
That bonds them when the mire
Of the New began. I was, in name,
Forevermore, to blame. 
For out of man, a sly romancer
From his partner a fleet dancer,
Disassembly. I conquered rhyme
And scrambled time
In every second an hour raced
At a pounding heartbeat’s pace.
I would have them worry less
Toils shed, my smooth caress 
Would fill them, and the overflow
Would then be theirs to know.
I the parent of daughters jealous
Men solicitous.
To me they came for charm, singing
My praises and from the ringing
Of my melodies and intoxication 
Came a sultry exultation
Languish. In I, who tainted grace
With the painted, smirking face
Of the Jazz I am. Do smile, 
For I give ghosts their nimbleness
And marionette heartstrings with finesse. 
Mine is a tongue the grey still speak
And so Time, who is ever weak,
Is mine by the day. 
Claim me. Sway.


Boulders and Turf

A mountainous challenge.
An undertaking. I would avenge
The hunger that once growled
As time, too slowly, prowled. 
Reminiscing, I become aware 
Of how all must have stopped and stared 
As I devoured the impasse,
that robust yet supple mass
Of boulders blue and suntanned turf,
Producer of unbridled mirth. 
Between me and my unblocked gaze
Rose, with an aromatic haze
Both my friend and my prey,
To be conquered that day.
It which brings flavor
and a contest to be savored
to life. Oh, I rose to the call!
And, my teeth sunk into the haul,
Carried on and met my match
In the form of this unlikely catch.
You, my reader, as you gobble
My words at a thirsty throttle
Must pause. Recognize that this,
An adventure, blessed with intrigue’s kiss?
Is in fact the slow, deliberate relishing
Of a muffin, with (perhaps) embellishing.