Incomplete Thought and Others

Understandably, many people believe that good poetry rhymes.  It is something we hear from the time we begin listening to stories and reading them for ourselves.  A cadence, a rhythm, a beat that speaks to the very center of us.  I like rhyming poetry, and it can be very difficult to do well.  Robert Frost, a master poet of rhyme and rhyme scheme commented to the effect that poets who had true talent had the ability to create meaningful, profound rhyming poetry.  Free form poetry can be about almost anything and almost any word will suit.  To rhyme well, and to capture the cadence properly in a poem, comprises a truly difficult task.  I like to stay fresh by using rhyme schemes as well as internal rhyme.  Poems such as this challenge me to think and use my vocabulary to the very best of my ablity.  Here are a few of my rhyming poems.  I hope you like them.


incomplete thought

my life is an incomplete thought
a half-finished sentence with one-half forgot
a question mark in the middle way
stuck at noon on a rainy day
my words half-said, half-done, half-meant
destiny's straight line crooked and bent
fortune's left hanging still in the air
and I am too tire to even care
about this half-finished, half-completed me
who chooses not to decide, to let it all be
where is the end? in sight? not yet...
I can't figure out which way to get
all that I need to finish this thought
I can't make my mind work, oh damn! I cannot
it's as if it is on the tip of my tongue
hope climbing a ladder, rung by rung
only to dangle halfway there
part up, part down but mostly
NOWHERE

Dimestore Indian

He stares from reflected glass
watching all the white men pass.
They do not see him standing there
remembering every blade of grass.

He sees the street of houses bare,
envisions teepees made with care.
The wives and children are forlorn,
not knowing how the years will wear.

If only his wooden mouth could warn
and shout to outrun what can't be borne.
If only his oaken heart didn't ache
for all the memories broken and torn.

All the land they came to take
soaked in the bloodlust they had to slake.
They murdered till his world did shake.
They murdered till his world did shake.

Edge of a Season

The shadows are long, so I must run.
Be quick like the traffic,
melting, moving, blending
into shimmery non-existence
in the late summer city sun.

Grooving to the heartbeat of the concrete walls,
I'm lost in a place
at the edge of a season.
Losing all reason, I run.
Crossing shadows, not looking back
not chilled by an attack of potent shade.

I must hurry all around
for on the ground, fallen leaves
grant me no reprieves for
such wasted time.

Blackberry Summer

The dirt road
hitched a ride in my flip flops
scarred by thorns and rocks
and I kicked at kudzu and trumpet vines
clinging to the sides of trees.

Dancing cicadias and bees
bathed in humid sunlight
scattered to my left and right
as I picked, then kissed the blackberries
dripping purple in my palms.

Moving though live oak stands
Spanish moss hung lank and long
swaying to my South Carolina song
and I lived so in the moment
that my youthful summer glowed.

Plastic Faith

If Christ had died on plastic,
a cross man-made and strong,
we could prilgrimage to Golgotha
to stare all day long.

There would be a shrine like Graceland,
picture-perfect, without decay.
I'd buy postcards at the gift shop
of our Saviour's final day.

Next door would be a theme park
with Christian-inspired rides,
and an artificial beach with waves
Galilee's Magic Tides.

We'd eat cotton candy and ice cream
and play until it closed,
never thinking of religion
or commandments God imposed.

But the cross was made of wood
the earth's first building tool
and like God's finest handiwork,
back to dust is the rule.

Nature's cycles keep us pure
creating pathways, framing goals
but plastic dreams have taken our spirit
and given us plastic souls.

It's a Plan


It's a plan, man.
Can't you understand?
Or are your shaking knees
saying, "Please....
don't make me do this.