Category: Penman Lounge

As the lord sees fit
With guiding hands
I make my way
Through treacherous lands

Of falling trees
And devouring sands
I stick to the word
Thy Heavenly plans

Protect me always
For I honor thy name
Make me a winner
In this life-long game

I walk the path
Of right direction
Dissecting my ways
In search of perfection

I am more of a poet
Than a writer
More of a diplomat
Than a fighter

I am more of a real
Than a faker
More of a giver
Than a taker

I am more of an intuition
Than an intellect
More of a kindness
Than a disrespect

I am more of a hybrid
Than a pure-breed
More of slow and st

I am going to meditate
On meditation as everything
Is calm around this night
As all are asleep. I am
In the stillness, but not of it.
As restless as the nonexistent wind,
I palpitate, regurgitate.
The purposeless as meaning
Does not cling to silence.
Hear outside. The total
Picture reaches this very
Paper and never stops or forgives
The forgetting forever.

I have gathered all the flocks.
That were left. The great beyond calls
The versifiers away from home.
Wolves call to the distressed with
Simple songs. Caterers mingle amongst
The vigilant observers waiting out the tryst.
Why dispose of the daily bread we cannot
Consume when jackals call out names
Of troubadours long gone to shallow graves
Unsatisfied in content, context or style?

We cast our nets out on the sea
Once more walking toward the weary fish
Unresponsive still in their routines,
Searching for the less impure.
What gallops across the waves this way
To smooth our brow, forgetting the tide
Follows and what is left is silt,
fodder that nourishes what remains.

its funny how time allows ink to dry,
after the storm of watered down colors one shade magnifies,
its funny how time allows a heart to mend,
after the chords are pulled someone assists in reattaching them,
its funny how time allows the worst to occur,
after the pain the black and blue seem as if they never were,
its funny how time ticks slow but tocks fast when in a dilemma,
after what seems to be an endless story, you live to reply to “and then what?”
its funny how time allows karma to unfold,
after the warmth returns to your body the hottest of hells seem cold.
In due time

a war of words & emotions erupts each night,
a war leaving one doomed to stress and the other doomed to repeat his steps to the next fight,
a war fought by two adults with no results besides more air to fill the gap,
a pool of thoughts pours into my brain, the weight causes my backbone to crack,
one equips herself with an arsenal of patience,
the other injects himself with sedations of intoxication,
pushed to the edge, she searches for an end to the story,
those who’ve skipped through the pages quickly amplify their endless opinions inventory,
elevating the molecules that linger below the surface,
dismissing his own faults, he curses with no clear purpose,
searching for an escape from this cycle of madness,
searching for a detour from an endless road of sadness.

Oh mighty men, how can you boast?
After the many ways we trampled your gross!
Oh, how can you even asked what we can boast?
For our ways was refined from other mighty men woes!
And its assured that we will trample again
Your wrong gross from the start to its times’ end.
Yet, We can’t say it is of our mighty nor our boast.
Yet feel assured we will tread ’til the end of this toll.
For a price that trifle our bigger boast!

This is our bargain with a clear defining toll!
Or your words present passages will be the host only boast.
It is our’s who have yet to stray from trampling the discerning most.
For it is in those high places where the mighty do boast.

Tempt the temperance?
By and with a difference?

Heavily weighted by men claiming mighty with a thought or a quote?
Remade our dues by these cares are why we chosen no boast.
And lest you didn’t hear our trample strike twice within this toast.

Loudness afar and silent near within our hearts of hosts.
Such gross you wantonly covet from our shared airs as we be
This is why we claim them and you our gross.
So, lest you failed to late our passing then tis you are these true gross.

Such a hindrance as yours as you are as a begotten woes’ claim,
Such snares for your apathic misappropiations and tortfuls to shame!
Yet for our trust it’s to your ends with an honorable tread while you boast!
And then yours will be a boast as you alone as the only gross.
While we timed dash and trample your astray gross again with no vain nor vain boast.

(Excerpts from A Magic, The Gathering Series, Draft I’m Composing Titled, Desperate Ploys. Written By Geo. E. Burks; Based On The Publication Series; Magic, The Gathering, Licensed by Wizards Of The Coast Publishing. VA. USA.)

Death is
Beautifully revealing
Tear drops of summer’s evening
The dawn of never ending nights
Strings played by matching pulses
The experience, dipped into moonlight
It is the texture of whispers in dreams
The shade of our calling
Love preoccupied by its own reflection
The necessity of the moment
It is the taste of lightning before you wake
The shadow of our yearnings
The rhythm of the love in misplaced words
A glimpse into everything
It is the sky’s place in reality
The next step
Death is the product of our blessings
The pause, to recall the essence

Problem with the
Self unfolding
Let it go.

Out looking for replacements of something not sure ever had
Remember it though
Feel like it would bring another dimension to the still life
But try to fit square pegs into yang holes
Write personality into neat phrases
That have no chance of housing contradictions that speak louder than all characteristics
Want someone to feel that, cause no one would believe it
Or should buy this
But auctioned anyway
The holding place placebo

Holding out
Hope
That was never forsaken
Maybe used as excuse to explain helplessness
Or the storm before
Reap the benefits of not having a place there
And guided till I found here
Consequence in the form of a choice
One, not ready to make
Hope someone informs of the correct timing.
But there’s the role of victim, again
Done so much to make that mask fit
So easy to sink into it
But would I rather drown in the memories or make it in a creation of my own?
May take tears or might take blood
But need something to float on
For practice?
If that’s what life is
That’s where the cold comes from
Nothing to do with viruses
Just sweating out what’s done with
Light headedness in forgetfulness of the extraness
Or just flu season
Either or

Take pride in all the outcomes
That could have been witnessed
And made it here anyway
If this is it, I’ll take all the blame for yesterday
He is, but I am not finished
Or done

What’s love?
When a person picks up the remains and starts putting a billion piece puzzle back together and your remnants begins to resemble your essence.
And paybacks aren’t needed because the understanding that they won’t regret it and they won’t hesitate to unhappily drop everything and try to make the cycle less repetitive