Tag: writerscreed

Televise

Gone are the days

Where groping in the dark

You’d find a dangling root

To pull yourself out

Of those churning waters.

You’ll find no part

Of me to cling to

You can choke and sputter

You can shriek and utter

Those desperate last gasps.

All the while arms crossed

Just waiting for that

Last bubble of life

To disturb the surface.

You were a natural predator

Already plucking the best parts of me

While I was yet lacing up my boots.

Things we’ll never agree on

What is good what is evil

What could bring me joy

What could leave me in ruins.

You brought the thinnest of smiles

To cover the broadest of lies,

The cataracts in my eyes

You put there I despise.

Knowing the power of words

I know yours mean nothing,

We once were close

And would walk towards disaster

Holding hands intertwined.

Now the hatred

The righteous rage

The resolution

To burn and cut your roots,

Now I’d televise my secrets

To get you just a little

Further away from me.

Though I have adorned 

Your treachery with poetry

Don’t mistake it for forgiveness.

– Vagabond Prophet

“What we’ll never agree on”, the wonderful prompt given me by @josy57. Thanks pal!

Open Maws

With the urgency of

A green light turning red

I steal away to this desk.

This pen a knife

Carves into my sleep,

A peculiar creature is me

That my ideal starting point is this.

All the classic tales

Of girls in cloaks

Of wolves in night gowns

Taught me nothing,

I had to learn for myself.

If I couldn’t write

I’d be plunged into night.

I have to sharpen my own claws

And cut my own teeth

It is the hour I face my wolf

And we both have open maws.

– Vagabond Prophet

Gasoline

The yawning chasm

The muscle spasm

The heavy eyelids

That cry for more unrest.

There aren’t enough hours

For me to complete towers

I began many moons ago

Though I work the mortar daily.

I’m a stardust child clean

Now laced with gasoline

Strike a match

Watch chemicals react

See me explode

This heart barely intact.

– Vagabond Prophet

By Rote

This is exhaustion

This is where my mind hibernates

And my arms and legs

By rote accomplish much.

No path less traveled

Was ever tread by rote

No trails blazed by bravery

Ever made half aware.

Shock me with lightning

Make my smile frightening

Scatter the bones of the strong

Into the soil of the weak,

Inferior they rise

With nobody paying any mind.

With banners high

And sharpened spears

Remembering the pain

Throughout all the years.

Though these thoughts may abate

My soul I prostrate

Riddle me with tumors

Spread vicious rumors

Leave me torn asunder

From every past blunder.

– Vagabond Prophet

Myopic Quest

Running on the pier looking down

The gaps between boards

Like a cartoon flip book

Of shells and tides,

Sand and hills

Of seaweed and salt,

I speed past with curious

And quick steps.

I want to be grown!

Where my long legs can close the distance

Between myself and my longing

What’s the ending of this book

That unravels with each stride?

Now in pitch black mornings

Only lights come from

The neighbours kitchen,

She’s too early getting ready

For a lonely commute

Thick with too many

Other lonely commuters.

And so am I.

Now I want to be a child again

To have the freedom

To speculate every step,

Instead of insuring my marching

Is in time with the others.

Though these scenes juxtapose

I spray both with a hose

For now I know best

In this myopic quest,

The answer is devotion

Love and intention

The grass is greenest

On the side it gets watered.

– Vagabond Prophet

Hey @josy57 ! Yeah you, thanks for the prompt ‘myopic quest,’ I enjoyed this.

Kernels

What good can come

From his habit of sleeplessness?

Is this your question,

Friend that ones easy.

It’s true summer is defeated

By the frozen blows of winter

Yet winter begets spring.

The ore scorched by fire

And beaten by the hammer

Turns into brilliant jewelry.

All my hobbies and interests

All of my leisure and yard work

Put on the bottom shelf

Just for a time.

This brief opportunity

To affect change in the lives

Of desperate children

With no place to rest their head,

Is worth every minute of rest

That I put to death on the altar

Of servitude.

Are you sure? Is it working?

Do your yawns create some virtue

Does your unrested mind

Really get any good work done?

You queried

Arms crossed

Smirk pulled up high

Like a flag on holiday.

In midwestern climate

Can you trust good weather

Long enough to shed

Your cynical husk?

The sunrise is majestic

Whether I’m waking

Or not yet found my bed.

It is brilliance like this

I was made to reflect

And my silver mind

Pounded into mirror

By this bludgeoning war

Of attrition will serve me well.

I care not for

The scathing mockery

For I know that through strife

I may find

The unpopped kernels

Of my genius.

– Vagabond Prophet

@josy57 Thank you for the prompt “On the bottom shelf” I enjoyed that.

Stealing Flowers


I heard tales of you

From woefully unreliable sources

Who poured their propaganda

Like concrete,

Hoping to build a foundation

For themselves.

Lips on the inside

Teeth on the outside

You’d always bite

Before you’d kiss.

This is what I was told.

Now I listened to my friends

But kept a spark of doubt,

Upon meeting you

I was made to breath heavy

And fan it into flame.

Since then the fire

Has taken many forms,

Like traversing the town on foot

To see you for thirty minutes.

Like stealing the cities

Entire supply of yellow flowers

To brighten your grey workplace.

Like shade

Saving in summer

Yet deadly in winter,

Your smile careened

Through my heart.

Leaving mailboxes tipped

And street signs turned around

Now unsure if I’m driving

Too fast or too slow

But it’s towards you

So I push my foot down.

– Vagabond Prophet

@delightfulharmonypoetry

Fiery Wake

Like a shooting star

Could my death inspire

The minds of those

Standing far enough away

To only see the beautiful

The luminous.

Having stood any closer

They may observe

I carry as much darkness as light

But in the night sky

It’s a fact I hope to hide.

Having come from

One of those voids

That we still bother naming,

That I may one day

Land on a tangled

And ropy shore and climb

My way to legend.

Crawl to higher ground

To see my own fiery wake

Burn the gaze of watchers

Take their thirst to slake.

– Vagabond Prophet