Not Your Trophy Anymore.

A poem that’s a little different than most of the others here. But, it is what I was feeling when these words were penned. I hope you find it interesting

Not Your Trophy Anymore

I’m not your trophy anymore.

Not merely an object to feed your ego

nor an instrument to boost damaged esteem.

No longer am I nothing more than your possession,

an amusement to serve your whim.

Now, the tables have turned.

Oh, and you can’t stand it.

I’m not your slave

anymore.

To you, the years are beginning

to not be quite so kind.

And me,

I’m walking away alive and well and still in my prime.

Drawn

I wrote this poem yesterday and posted it elsewhere but it fits better and belongs here.

Drawn

It moves through me,

like the ocean water’s undercurrent

as Poseidon thrusts his trident from the deepest sea waters.

I feel the warmth

like the first flash of dawn’s rays erupting over the horizon as day break

banishes night’s lonely chill.

I sense the curious lure,

like the draw of an eye,

to a distant, flickering of a pale candle’s light in a remote twilight forest.

I feel it sweeping over me,

Sleekly, smoothly, softly,

like a brush of satin, sheathing a lover’s body as she slips closer.

A stolen dream

Alive with nature’s own strife and wrath.

Charioted in with a tarnished silver flare,

Slashing and gashing like a knife on it’s path

a lightning bolt blast slicing the night and shredding a prayer.

.

~(<<|>>)~

.

Awakened uncomfortably out of a dull and restless sleep.

Lifelessly still and sultry as the storm begins brewing and churning,

A tattering, and splattering breaks the lull, the thundering skies pour and weep.

A dream interrupted, lost forever, a stolen yearning.

A fiery soul

From amber to ash,

flaring and singed.

Glowing embers soon flash,

a fiery soul cleansed.

Fanning a smoldering flame,

a spark to a blaze.

Burning free and untame,

a soul tempered and glazed

A sense of summer

It is the heavy sweet scent that fills the air.

It is the damp and soothingly cool breath that lingers in the hollows.

It is the sound of crickets singing their calls through the night.

It is the touch of fog that grows with the falling light.

It is the feel of warmth and wash of sun that tans the skin.

It is the green and lively hills rolling along the country side.

It is the courting of birds as they dance from limb to limb.

It is the enchanting glimmer of a late May moon, glowing dim.

Dreaming

It comes in dreams,

sleeping away.

Blown in winds of fantasy hopes,

sweeping astray.

A secret and magical place,

a reality altered.

Fated fortunes of favor,

never faltered.

Summer’s lie

It is time again,

to begin the journey again.

It is wet and the air is chilled right now,

but soon we will be lounging below the soothing warm rays of the sun.

Let go of your cares,

let go of it all,

soon you will have only the summer sun to worry about.

Come, enjoy the pleasures and treasures of Bacchus.

Come, set your inhibitions free and let us bake together in the scorching summer sun.

A wet and gloomy night.

Tonight, the sky is dirty gray and dull.

An uneasy silence creeping,

carried with a swelling lull.

A tattering rainfall gathers then subsides.

Spattering and splatting the sidewalk with

filth and mud and sludge and grime.

Sudden lightning flash burst tearing the storm front’s bowels.

A heartbeat skips and shutters,

as the thunder roars and growls.

Chairman Meow

Very swift and very slippery, for someone so short and so fat.

Zipping all over his claimed domain, this particularly spry little tomcat.

Seemingly pudging the pounds away, his belly quite full and rounded.

Little did I know little Chairman Meow would leave me so dumbfounded.

One day my workplace pal seemed sluggish and off of his prowl,

I saw him only once and when I did, was greeted with a terrible growl.

As he drudged away, slow and lumbering, I noticed he had titties.

Didn’t see him for several days, until he had his kitties.

The little chairman I thought was a tom turn out to be with kitten.

The rest of the story is still unknown, so I’ll leave it all unwritten.

The killing hesitation

Tick, tick, ticking away,

the hesitation that bleeds,

that can kill.

Is it the killing silence,

or the killing words that are more potent,

more fatal to the spirit.

Passion’s flame burns wild , undeniable.

subtle recognition fans the flames.

Yet there is deadly risk in hesitation after the connection is made.

With passion and desire,

the beating heart can thrive to heights rarely reached.

With that same passion and desire,

the beating heart can bleed out,

Bleeding out by choice, cold and clammy skin grayed and lifeless,

lifelessly pale seeming palely bleached.