Hoi Polloi

The courtiers have exhausted me
I have no more strength for them
Their endless rules and discipline
Their ways to elevate men

I tire of the jesters’ many styled shows
Their songs and choreographed response
Their chants, their poetry, their simple art
Devoid of all the subtle nuance

The ladies in waiting have much to say
They crave the focus of all daily toil
And make much of every little stage
Their tongues have made much to spoil

The counselors come with many words
They desperately wish to define
They set the law of proper decorum
And cast aside the unrefined

The rabble too gives me much distress
They gather here unconcerned
Yet they claim their piece and then some more
Or else all peace can be upturned

And yet, I find that in this court
It is the King I truly love
And in his suite of hoi polloi
I find I must be one.

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Thursday Poetry Rally Award

When the words flow forth
Do they land on pleasant ears
Like a bee in the flower
Or a wasp to the the thistle?

When my words flow forth
Do they echo in time
Or remain silent; unheard
Like the lonely tree felled in the forest?

And the report returns
Cheerful echos
Gracious pleasantries
Smiles that bring forth more words.


I humbly accept this award for my poem, Broken.

In return, I nominate Isabel Bush.

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186 Miles

One hundred and eighty six miles
Close enough to identify
Far enough to be at peace
Willow

Grove

Springfield

Carthage

Far enough to not be bothered
Close enough to be in fashion
Life goes on in the midst of tragedy
Separated by minutes and miles
One hundred and eighty six
To Joplin

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Broken

The stranded girl in a strange small town
No one knows her name
The weeping husband who has confessed
But hangs his head in shame.

They are broken

A woman sucked a cancer stick
And glared across the lot
Her daughter shares this hateful scorn
Others have what she thinks she ought

They are broken

The cashier who fights the newsman
Because the drivers spoke in rage
The man who says that all is well
He thinks himself a sage

They are broken

The pastor who tries to fix them all
With a good study or timely phrase
The poet who’d rather watch the masses
For his own faults are too difficult to face

I am broken

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Displaced River

Displaced river flows
from pleasure to heartache
Jubilation ends on the corps’s dry ground
As charges ignite

There are no winners
Those who had, have not
Those who had not
Are left with nothing

Summoned memories
Teaching what was worth having
Sounds of mocking scorn
To the ones who controlled

The ones who held water to its form
manageable for a use
Are left with no purpose
They grasp at the wind

No form remains
Only that which hovers
In the darkness over the void
And all hidden within

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Filed under Despair, Hope, Judgment

(Re)sound

The jester works in echoes past
He has no voice today
Surely did he breathe his last
For this gig, he earned his pay

But still his voice, it lingers on
Carried again by air and wire
Resounding through this day’s dawn
Sparking action like a fire

And laughter too accompanies it
The crowd lifts him on its wings
The proper response for each bit
As music they continue to sing

And as a tree falls, the dead man speaks
But I wonder if he’s there
For now he’s found the truth we seek
All that’s left is moving air

What wisdom comes from the voice of fools
Though by the court acclaimed
Are these lessons the finest school
Having met the standard of fame?

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Sober Reflections on Mother’s Day

It is the selfish one
Who says, “My children are my world”
Her narcissism exposed by her declaration
Every parental labor measured
According to reciprocated praise
When such adoration is found lacking
She wraps herself in the mantle
Of the forsaken martyr
And thus she gorges herself
On the exaltation of this day
Her motherhood will no doubt be remembered
Her legacy carved in the tablets of time
She bore Ashteroth and raised Baal
Yes, she will fight for her children
They are her very image

There sits another woman
A daughter of Eve
Though well acquainted with Sophia
Her young life exchanged for sowing seeds
Her middle years spent pruning back wild thorns
Like Hannah before her
The fruit of her toil did not return praise
But turned their affections to Another
For they are His image
Her pleasure is found in His glory
Joy and love too great
To ever be contained in a mere word or holiday

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The End Will Not Be Like The Middle

The end will not be
Like the middle
The birth was full
Of well directed glory
Soon ravaged
By self-conceit
The pursuit of dreams
Less glorifying
Narcissistic rebellion
Devoured hope
With only a pinprick
In the dark cloud gate
Through which the light
Cast a thin ray through time
And in the darkest hour
The end will come at last
As everything
Submerges in shadows
Only light
Remains

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Kings

Following in faulty footsteps
Forsaking glory for fame
Fulfilling the prophecies of certain failure
The legacy of fallen kings

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Barnes and Noble

There is no poetry
There are romance novels and Cliff Notes
Graphic novels and cookbooks
Classics in sets of display quality
Literature consisting of Grisham and King
And an aisle marked “Paranormal Teen Romance”
There is no poetry

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