The Grifter Speaks

Life’s rigors,

angry blisters,

sting and leak

like a caught

Grifter.

The Long Con,

the goal beyond,

The Grifter speaks

lies, each tossed,

littered.

Life. Drifter.

Night-thief, Her

blushing cheeks

belie cruelty.

Resist Her.


© CGT, 2017.

The Winter Bell Tolls

The Winter Bell tolls,

lonely and solemn,

as gusting leaves roll,

blown by the Old One.

He had cursed Old Sun,

to roam the Black Reach,

while the Wheel still turned

and the Winter creeped.

Our bones grow so cold,

hearts all beating black.

The Old One foretold

of Winter’s Attack.


© CGT, 2017.

Pass the While

He reached the End,

and resolved to find

the Light within,

its glare, its shine.

The glinting Fate,

to shimmer, blind.

Feather fall-weight?

That weight, behind.

A toast, Old Friend,

mischievous smile,

brought forth, within,

to pass the while.


© CGT, 2017.

Flannel Sleeves

The Autumn breeze

flees Winter’s wheezing

the leaves rustling

before falling free.

My flannel sleeves,

stored for keeping,

Will soon be needed

to fight the freeze.


© CGT, 2017.

The Dryad Cried

The willow whipped

against the wind

shallow roots ripped

a rending din.

The willow wept

her taproot snapped

her dryad crept

to oak and napped.

The willow died

while the wind whipped

the dryad cried

into oak she slipped.


© CGT, 2017.

The Warrior Heart

Warrior-Poet was Old,

he’d waged wars within,

and he’d warred on foreign soil.

Muse of Youth, found again.

An Imbalanced Art and Sword,

words flowed, riposte weak,

his body became soft, sore,

words burned, transferred heat.

The Art burned inside, kindled,

the Warrior Heart,

a red glow, coals and embers,

reforge his sword – sharp.


© CGT, 2017.

The Dosing Poet

The Bane and the Blessing,

of chemicals coursing,

stabilizing mood-things,

often kills my Musing.

This thing, the great trading,

serotonin plating,

depth of armored koting,

sleep, Poet is dosing.


© CGT, 2017.

I Must Not Fear

Frank Herbert, perhaps my favorite author, once wrote:

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

If you’re not familiar with the Dune Saga, this

passage is called the Litany Against Fear.


I’ve said this litany to myself for decades. It helps. These days, I do not fear the physical threats of our world, but the other. I fear letting go and just living in whatever way the breeze takes me.

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Only I remain.

 

Billowed Sails

I want waves to wash away

the sand between my toes

and the salt on my skin,

the signature on my sin,

that contract of woe.

I want the breezy wind

to part clouds, moonlit

seas, and seize what ails me.

Billowed sails, I’m failing,

can’t hear over the wails.


© CGT, 2017.

This was in my drafts, but I barely remember it. I must have been half-asleep.

Autumn in Georgia

Summer just had her last spat

with Autumn,

who’d called her a brat,

both desperate to hang on

and overstay her welcome.

They fought in the clouds

and the thunder was strange,

but Autumn has the power

and Summer won’t stay.

“Go away, Summer!”

We all say.

“We like Autumn better,

anyway.”

(Summer plots her revenge.)


© CGT, 2017.

On the Outside

I’m the Man in a Bubble,

but I’ve started to enjoy it.

On The Outside is trouble

and I completely forego it.

Except today, when I bought

a shovel and some pea gravel.

My lunch was good, too, I thought,

but I was surrounded by people.

There’s the catch, you know,

I can blissfully wile away

the days alone or with my

dogs, at home, but if I stray

too far into On The Outside,

I burn and peel from anxiety.

It turns to resentment inside

and just thickens the Bubble wall.


© CGT, 2017.

Lesser to You

You, old salacious Sun,

“We are all made of stars…”

A hearty laugh, good fun.

We’ve been immolated,

Floating pyre, out of reach,

Burn, unmitigated.

But, if we’re made of Stars,

You ate us like Saturn,

stopped us before the start.

What are we a part of?

We? Stars? Lesser to you,

but we do eat our young.


© CGT, 2017.

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