NO JUSTICE
I am the Law and I care not
For what is wrong or right.
I answer only to myself.
Care not for oversight,
No justice here, for justice is
A subtle, fickle thing.
The Law cares not for subtlety
Morality is king.
And i don’t care whose Morals are
Enshrined in every line.
The Law’s the Law, so says the Law,
And all the power’s mine.
So if you ever stand before
My lofty bench and seek,
For justice know the Law is strong,
But juries may be weak,
Cheers, Winston
A NEW DAY
Come greet the dawn
Of blessed morn
From sacred night
This day is born.
At start of day
With promise bright
All basking in
This golden light.
Come lift your head
And share your smile
Chat with someone
And stay a while.
Just know this day
Is yours to take
And good or bad,
It’s what you make.
Cheers, Winston
The Poet
I sit and stare at unmarked page
My lack of thoughts some sign of age?
Or other blight upon my brain?
But I will carry on and on
Until what words I have are gone.
Despite words driving me insane.
I cannot help this urge I feel
To bring rebellious verse to heel.
Ah! There’s that cursed rhyme again!
So write I must and write I will
This verse of such diminished skill.
So sad to watch my wordcraft wane.
I sit and stare at words I wrote
Brain still intact I gladly note.
“Until the morrow!” My refrain.
Cheers, Winston
So it’s April and that means NaPoWriMo is once more upon us. I wrote this yesterday, but didn’t take the time to post it.
A REQUEST
Hello again, my foe, my friend.
That time of year, I hope, I fear.
A time for dreamers, and for fighters and for those who wish to heal.
This dreadful fate I love I hate.
With pen in hand, again I stand.
Shape words for dreamers, and for fighters and for things so much more real.
But I demur, postpone, defer.
Try to avoid, obsessed, annoyed.
I write for dreamers, and for fighters and all those who fear to feel.
I write each word, ignored, or heard.
Be read or not, recalled, forgot.
I am the dreamers, and the fighters and all those whose souls I steal.
Now read each line, if not, that’s fine.
Each word by me, enslaved, now free.
Give to the dreamers and the fighters and to poets this appeal.
Come write your verse, or prose, or curse.
To free your heart, or mind, some part.
Art for the dreamers, and the fighters and to all your soul reveal.
Cheers, Winston
Just take a step,
One single step,
Each one leads to one more.
And with each step,
Each single step,
You’re farther than you were.
So take a chance,
Take just one chance,
You thought you’d never take.
Then find your life,
And seize that life,
Go live the life you make.
It’s harder far,
More work by far,
Than what these words imply.
But take that step,
Please take the step,
Lest regrets make you cry.
Cheers, Winston
Working as a security guard late at night gives the brain time to wander.
<u>The Nightguards’ Lament </u>
A wind through empty windows shifts
Some hanging plastic sheets.
As rhythmic as the crashing surf.
Sounds almost like heartbeats.
It’s late so very late at night
In truth more early morn.
I walk alone through cold stone halls
So empty and forlorn.
If ever was a place to haunt
This place is surely it.
Where specters stalk and spirits roam
And through the shadows flit.
And as I walk may glimpse them from
The corner of my eye.
May feel their breath upon my neck
Or hear their mournful sigh.
It’s late so very late at night
And all is deathly still.
Even the wind has ceased to blow
So why this sudden chill?
What is this shape where none should be?
In shadow darker yet.
It cannot move I saw it move!
A sudden clammy sweat.
There’s nothing there it’s just a trick
That my eyes play on me.
I tell myself this lie again
Deny the things I see.
I do my rounds and tell myself
It’s just an empty hall.
Some beers and sleep will prove that it
Was nothing after all.
Cheers Winston.
I think I mentioned last time that things get a little strange once the creativity starts flowing. Well, hopefully I can finish on a slightly more normal note.
A Note To My Therapist
A dream perhaps and yet more real,
than I have known before.
How can I know the truth of it,
what’s dream and what is more.
In dreams I often tell myself,
“You’re dreaming never fear.”
But what if I am wrong and this,
is false, the dream is here.
What if rules and common sense,
are only in my head.
And all the chaos I call dreams,
is really real instead.
There’s no answer that I can find,
no way to truly know.
So I’ll just choose the one I like,
and that’s where I will go.
So if you come and I have gone,
it’s true I’ve only woke.
It’s you who’s trapped within a dream,
the punchline to my joke.
Cheers, Winston
Sometimes when I wrench open the creative valve, the weirdest things get washed out.
On Ghosthunters
A figure faintly seen at night,
there in the empty place.
If you could gain a closer view,
would you gaze on it’s face?
It walks there every night alone,
even when it’s not seen.
Would you it’s solitude invade,
are you in truth that keen?
Perhaps its solitude it craves,
just wants its well earned peace.
Not closure for its life on earth,
not waiting on release.
Perhaps that place it haunts is home,
where hangs its phantom hat.
And you are mere trespassers there,
Have you considered that?
So take your tools and pack your bags,
go back where you came from.
This haunt is ours and here it stays,
it’s you who’s not welcome.
Cheers, Winston
Okay… so it should have been day 21. I’ve got a lot going on right now, so it’s not feasible to write every day. I figure I’ll settle for writing thirty poems in thirty days just not necessarily one a day.
A Writers’ Sin
These words these words and more words still,
how sick of words I feel.
They are but weak and empty things,
mere shadows of the real.
I write and write and write more still,
give thanks to those who read.
Give thanks for those who understand,
and my poor ego feed.
I do not write to save the whales,
nor homelessness to end.
But only for the sounds words make,
no greater good my friend.
So all these words and still more words,
are nothing more than pride.
My voices searching for the light,
escape the void inside.
I pour my soul, pour my poor soul,
into these words I write.
And see it there upon the page,
so small and vain and trite.
Cheers, Winston
So yes, I’m running behind. Life hasn’t been terribly cooperative with the NaPoWriMo deal this year, but I’m still hanging in there.
Desperate Words
The ghosts of verses from the past,
go moaning through my head.
The do not let me write new lines,
my skill with words seems dead.
I start a verse and watch it die,
no place for it to go.
It seems I’ve lost my words this time
and now I’m struggling so.
I wish that I could find some way,
recapture what I’ve lost.
There’s not much that I wouldn’t do,
would pay most any cost.
I know this looks like verse I write,
but really all it says.
Is that I’m losing my wee mind,
It’s just one of those days.
Cheers, Winston
Brain Bits To Go 