Rock Star Poet

I'm the rock star of poetry
Screaming fans galore
Many millions come to read me
Few who know the score.

Penning verses controversial
Spanning space and time
Fanfare of alliteration,
Meter, rhythm, rhyme.

Watch them all line up to read my
Righteous rock and roll
Fame and fortune long decreed by
Sursurrating soul.

Accompanied by entourage
(Coleridge and Keats)
I deal in morals camoflage,
Alternating beats.

So tune in to my poesy
Make no bones about it--
I am the rock star poet, see?
Don't you ever doubt it.

Off the cuff and just plain silly. :)

Butterfly

Once

Before my chrysalis
I was an ugly thing full of venom
Bound to the earth

And a pale soul

Air that spoke without meaning,
Without breath
Simply devoid.

Wrapped within myself
My spirit slumbered
Troubled

Grew

Transformed.

Now

I fly unencumbered, unalone.

Beautiful, I have surpassed my prior self.

Join us up here, where we fly and do magic.

Conflicting Schedules

I wait on tenterhooks

A candid appraisal
Of erstwhile wishes
Leaves me breathless,
Expecting the inevitable synchronicity

The vigor of a forgotten afternoon
Rushes in, basking in memory
And the warm flush
Caused by your whispers
Betrays my anticipation . . .

Ah, glorious happenstance!
What singular satisfaction I gather from
“Remember when we. . .”
Cannot compare
To times we’ve had
Or could have had

And will, my love.

Just say the word.

As always, I wait for you.

The Witch

Hidden from the realm of men
The witch remembers deep
The time before, the time of when
She marshalled men from sleep

She made them do her bidding
With whispers in their dreams
Sent warriors for fitting
In steel and armored seams

Brazen witch, immortal hag,
She kept the Nightmare King
Together playing horror tag
With every sleeping thing.

Riches more than these she sought
While whispers winnowed will
'Til with enough souls, hers was bought
From Darker Power still.

King of Nightmares sensed her plan
And banished her from sight,
Coveting his power o'er
The visions in the night.

Now the witch waits lost in time;
She's plotting her return.
Careful where your visions climb,
The witch's whispers burn.

Poor Substitute

Many empty things I see
Bathe in their enormity
Like wounded words falling on a helpless page

Maker, I, composer, writer
Lover, friend, and sometime fighter
Parchment knows not how to staunch expressive rage

Open, heart; pour as never
Have before, twice as clever
All fluid emotion moves to solid state

Yet not love nor hate nor yen
Speaks as earnest from the pen--
Poor substitute for love; that’s a wordsmith’s fate.

This was my first entry for the Open-Mic at TPS, where you just step up and let it flow, no drafting, no editing.