This
This moment passes /
as does the next. Each a leaf /
supple, then brittle.
.
.
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Category Archives: Random acts of poetry
Poem and photo: “Into the Earth”
Into the Earth
The stream of color /
the leaves of sound /
the grounding of light /
into the Earth we are bound.
062017
Random Acts of Poetry: “O’ Motivation”
O’ Motivation, /
You lost gyration /
Of agitation /
And sometimes vituperation, /
Why can’t I overcome /
This constipation, /
This consternation /
And subjugation of mental triangulation /
That I feel /
Keeping me from my goals? /
O’ this usurpation /
Of my concentration /
Is no vacation /
But abdication /
Surreal. /
Must I face with total resignation /
The certain and declining titration /
Of the limpid constellation /
That is my soul?
–David E. Booker
Filed under 2017, poetry by author, Random acts of poetry
Random Acts of Poetry: “White feathers”
White feathers and flat tires: /
Lost dreams to which we aspire /
Ride the wild wind and rocky road /
As we struggle through life’s occluded code. /
We plug in experience and face neglect. /
We bet on love with a gambler’s regret. /
We dare to be bold, but run a timid race, /
Girding our loins, defending our space. /
The night is young, but the day is old. /
The young seek mercy; the old only scold. /
Wisdom is a feather forgotten by the roadside. /
We leave nothing to chance, not even the rock slide. /
We bury our tomorrows in things we bought /
And deal with the past as if it were a bill best forgot.
by David E. Booker
Filed under 2016, poetry by author, Random acts of poetry
Random act of poetry: “The ramparts”
I stand on the ramparts of tautology
Forever eschewing any hint of scatology.
But don’t ask me this fine day
To bind my obfuscations away.
For where o’ where would I be
If I could not in confidence convolute thee?
Oh, where o’ where, pray tell
Would my alliterations have place to dwell?
I am but a humble servant of words
Trundling through this world of the absurd.
A land of regret full of monsters who fete
On a mind that will now be quite quiet.
Filed under 2015, poetry by author, Random acts of poetry
Random acts of poetry: “Mad thing”
My heart is a mad thing
A wild, racing mad thing
Touched by suns, a hundred abandoned suns,
Roiling, a caldron from hell,
Fueled by a heat no man can hold.
My heart is a mad thing
A thousand horses mad thing.
Queen Anne’s Lace trampled in its wake.
Flaring nostrils, wild eyes, driven by an Image
Of the passion that lies within.
My heart is a mad thing
A million scented mad thing.
Honey and cinnamon, skin and nectar.
Overwhelmed and overjoyed,
Drowning in a riot of aromas.
My heart is a mad thing
An eternity filled with mad things
Forgotten and unknown
Hidden there, just beneath the bone
This is how it was, how it all began.
How it should end, how I want it all to end.
My hand in yours, my lips on your skin.
And my heart on your soul
A mad thing, a wild racing mad thing.
–by David E. Booker
Filed under 2015, poetry by author, Random acts of poetry
Random Act of Poetry: “White Wing Road”
White Wing Road
The road sometimes traveled.
I’ve been told
is a hard, hard road
to travel.
Take route 95,
it’s right before your eyes,
if you strive
and don’t prattle.
If you miss your turn —
cross the river of concern —
you might just learn
how to paddle.
When things go wrong,
ask for Wing O. Wang,
who will help you along
your channel.
O’ White Wing Road
I’ve been told
is a hard, hard road
to travel.
Take route 95,
it’s right before your eyes,
if you strive
and skedaddle.
–by David E. Booker
[Editor’s note: there is a road near where I live that is called White Wing Road. It is also known as route 95. It is a curvy road and it does cross a body of water.]
Be gentle upon him
Be gentle upon him, whatever you do
For killing him outright, could leave you in a stew.
Then what will you do for the rest of the cruise?
Hide the body aboard and leave misleading clues?
Will you tell his friends, “Wait, he’s over there.”
Or strolling down the promenade without a care.
You’ll have to make up stories of where he might be
Which may keep you awake to a quarter past three.
And as you tell these stories of his life aboard the boat
Will you see his body out the window afloat?
Will he be smiling at you, his arm high in the air
waving you to join him, to promenade without a care?
And then oh then tell me what will you do
When he gives you the evil eye and thinks you’re a cutie too?
by David E. Booker
Filed under 2015, poetry by author, Random acts of poetry
Random act of poetry: “Knitted beard”
The knitted beard.
O’ knitted beard
you feel so weird
strapped up against my face.
My neighbors point,
get their noses out of joint,
and say I’m out-of-place.
I’m a circus freak
but cold air can’t leak
up onto my chin.
When warm weather hits
I’ll remove this mitt
and be clean-shaven again.
Filed under 2015, poetry by author, Random acts of poetry
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