Piece of the Puzzle

random musings on whatever…

Category: Poem (Page 1 of 6)

More poems! – Small Stone Hearts

I self-published a second booklet of my poems! “Small Stone Hearts” contains 26 of my more introspective poems, 8 of which have been previously posted on this blog. You can buy it now from Amazon. Other booksellers should also have the ability to order it. I hope you enjoy reading!

New book — Bruised Skies

I wanted a way to share a few of my poems in a more traditional way so I decided to undertake this small experiment in self-publishing, coming up with this chapbook length book featuring 17 of my poems (12 of which have been previously posted on this blog). If you’re interested, you can buy it from Amazon now. Other booksellers should also have the ability to order it – if not immediately then in the near future.

Bruised Skies: Poems in Response to A World Gone Mad

The 17 poems in this short collection express dismay and anxiety over the state of life in this second decade of the 21stcentury, from the rise of fascism to the way we treat the earth and each other as we go about our everyday routines. Yet, at the same time, they call us to resistance and change while offering a glimpse of hope for the resurrection of compassion and connection.

 

Ghazal for America, 2018

Ghazal for America, 2018

Tell another tale: build a wall high and thick, brick by brick.
Kill the sick, grab the chick. That’ll make us great again.

Parched of reason, we’re Jonesing for more Kool-Aid.
Guzzle it down, quick now. We’ll never be sated again.

Men with power suffer blood drain from the brain, get too
keen on their peen, can’t they just stay home and masturbate again?

Editors drop fly attracting dung bombs defining reality in six words
or less. Fire all the headline writers and tell it straight again.

Send Sherman to march on Congress, leave no regulation unturned,
un-spurned, burn it all down faster than dems can create again.

Elected hoods robbin’ from the poor muse: sure would be nice
to tax ‘em and leave ‘em, to the rich we can donate again.

Politicos drain from swamp, leave billionaire snakes,
racist rats and nationalist alligators to alienate again.

Jesus must have said love your guns and your money as yourself.
How else would the Christians fall for the bait again?

Sticks and stones might break our bones but AR-15’s are harmless –
just ignore the dead children – can we ever close the flood gate again?

Not my fault says the bitter twitter assault. So bad, so sad
our prez eloquently opines. Will the abhorrent torrent ever abate again?

Go grand with your claim, never accept the blame: surely it must be
the black guy or that nasty woman. See how easy it is to hate again?

From seeds of integrity we harvest trees of fake news,
putting truth beyond our ken – and so we obfuscate again.

©2018 Kenneth W. Arthur

Growing Up

A poem of mine, Growing Up, has been published over at the Skinny Poetry Journal.

They published the first of a set of three which I had written under that title. Here are parts 2 and 3 of the poem:


A youth disdainfully grasps
futility
within
soapy
spheres.
Futility
bursts
fragile
bubbles.
Futility
grasps a youth disdainfully.


A man respects the wildness,
watches
beautiful
rainbow
refractions,
watches
fleeting
delicate
orbs.
Watches.
The wildness respects a man.

©2017 Kenneth W. Arthur

Take As Long As You Need

Take As Long As You Need

Apparition of my dreams: forget your temptations of glory.
Give up on me! Do not entice me to ascend this mountain
when I cannot perceive the peak covered in cloud.
Courage melts under scrutiny of daylight, a dusting of snow,
while your seduction beckons and frightens, leaves
my soul cowering, that outstretched hand might strike.

Yet in my heart a numinous chime does strike,
sends me fishing for deep reds and lush yellows of glory
in proud display, a poem peacock of autumn leaves.
Stunning sunset, prismatic waterfall, majestic mountain –
fool’s gold, hopeful beginnings buried under the snow
of cliché. What radiance can break through this cloud?

Always, swells of inadequacy surge forth to cloud
the tango of words. Adjectives and adverbs threaten to strike,
afraid to blemish paper with ink as exhaust grimes fresh snow.
Take as long as you need to collect the implements of glory,
my vision. Endless is the gravel-strewn passage up the mountain.
Barefoot, we must tread warily lest a scar the trek leaves.

Expand the table for the coming feast: add leaves
of synonym and simile, metaphor and imagination, a word cloud
to rain down possibility before the looming mountain.
For a moment, words turn bold and strike
out in search of perfect pitch, promised glory.
Despite ill forecasts, uncertainty has not yet begun to snow.

When it does, shovel and fine brush shape a carapace of snow,
a fortress that protects heart, defends against the obtuse, leaves
room for artful breaks, gives words freedom to glory
in veiled meanings, crafts a holy sanctuary no umbrage may cloud.
To placate the poetry gods, oh muse, title thrusts from shell to strike
the beholder, provoking a private pilgrimage up the mountain.

Chilled as a winter eve, I huddle in the shadow of mountain,
appraise the guidance of my foot prints in snow,
secretly hope none attend my trail but instead strike
off on a new course, not to accept the inheritance my word leaves
but to amble into mystery, for the peak will ever be in cloud.
Only the strenuous slog toward justification grants a florid glory.

Is the face of God to be found on this mountain? Is there glory
in the gathering snow storm? In forming molecules into a poem cloud?
For hope of the odd elegant phrase, I strike this bargain: doubt never leaves.

©2017 Kenneth W. Arthur

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