Author: David Wright

Leaden Skies

ENNUI, dull note droning all this season,
SPRIGs of hope withering before they green.
LATER days? Is this winter? Or a year of cooling, ash-cloud circulating planet?
SLUNK from me animal spirits, esprit, expectancy.
ARBOReal metaphor to ponder, the dropping of leaves followed by spring
MEDALLing in joy’s event. Or a tree, at whose root the axe is laid, for, say,
TRIBAL longhouse’s lodgepole, thus treasured, yet not standing, or–
WOOZY thought–tree engulfed in wildfire, among tens of thousands, gone.
LINGO might be found to name these story branches, but what word for the not knowing?
HOWDY to all the doubts, the unseen future, to the leaden skies that seem here to stay.
GRASP a slender thread–or sturdy anchor cable?–I am not my own.
THIRD of life left, perhaps. A third of a gift, followed by greater gifts.

Note: I borrowed from Mike and did three days at once.

Bravo for Grace

SKIMP stones across the pond and bridge will fall,
GLEAN skulls from graveyard and heads will grin,
PAYEE on life’s checks will be forgotten, checks will moulder,
BRAVO for any grace that counters entropy.

Oy, Such Words

HARRY me with words for DQP such as
COLON? Tis like Delilah’s
SHEARs: My imagination’s strength fails me, not even
LARVAL now, no longer dreaming of a future of flight.

Adult Life

ULCER, from too much stress.
APNEA, from pounds put on by too much
CANDY, from too much craving.
ADULT life is not simple–the weight of all our choices drags us down.

Tractati

TRACT: in black and white, beliefs simplified to black and white.
PREEN, proclaim a perspicacity possessed by none.
BUDGE? Never. The self is the self’s proclamation, a self heedless of
SNARE posed by opinion bent into worship.

Dunce

CRYPTic visions as he stands in corner,
DUNCE capped, and held of no account:
WHEEL will turn. One day. He will be known as
NOBLE. Except in this town, to these classmates.