prose

One – size fits all

“Merry Christmas,

Good bless you, ”

the bell – ringer said.

I nodded, and continued on,

taking his blessing with me,

like a shawl

to wear against the worst

the world may offer.

I had no change

for the kettle,

but I wore the blessing

nevertheless.

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One – size fits all

“Merry Christmas,

Good bless you, ”

the bell – ringer said.

I nodded, and continued on,

taking his blessing with me,

like a shawl

to wear against the worst

the world may offer.

I had no change

for the kettle,

but I wore the blessing

nevertheless.

Revealed in frost

I’d let my mind wander

to the times that were

but I’d be afraid

of what’s in my mind.

I’d discover

all the flaws,

and the frauds,

that I have become

in the ruins

that I would find.

I’d rather wander

in the dark

always unaware,

unashamed

in the naivete

of the here-and-now

(buried like some pained

expression pulled from my face).

Now every winter

melancholy,

like leaves left on the tree

stands out, in stark contrast,

like all the things

I promised I would be.

I’ll say it doesn’t matter,

that out on the horizon

is some solution,

but I know it’s not of my making

and that there’s simply

no truth in it.

Later, with winter settled-in,

and used to this malaise

I’ll cast my thoughts forward

once again

to the promise of Future Days.

I’ll let this placate me,

take me somewhere soft

and nice

and I’ll pretend I’ve set

a plan in place…

wouldn’t that be nice?

We rotten beggar-scribes

All these voices,

talking into emptiness.

And I

shouting with them,

adding my desperate plea

to the general cacophony.

I criticize

and minimize

their efforts,

but, really,

who am I,

(shouting to be heard

as well,)

to judge?

I pine for acknowledgment

every bit as much

as the most strident

of supplicant does.

It is a desperation

that reeks so strongly

that it escapes the digital void

that spawns it.

I reek of it

too.

The rhymers

I have a problem with the rhymers, it

is something in their prose;

it’s a thing to which they won’t admit,

but I think it’s on the nose.


The metric of the meter provides

a rigid cage for them

to push and shove and fit inside

the words to match their whim.


These rules once set and locked

lay out the path ahead

but I see it as creatively blocked

as the rhyme by the nose they are led.


So free verse truly appeals to me,

my own path I must cut and make,

the rhymers say it lacks discipline, see

I think more discipline it takes.