A Son of Jupiter (Higher Mind)
As a man, I’d rather use my own
dime to scratch my tickets,
better yet I’d rather just scratch the
itch of making it the harder way
I’m digging the nails from each
picket counting my progress in inches,
feeling the sweat course down the
lines on my hard chested domain
For there is no rhyme, but fairly all
reason Ioving me beyond my means,
seeking to reach the outer limits of my
inspiring mind if it follows me to rest
And may I be born again with the same
mindset of achieving it with esteem,
as there are no limits to a wise King
prompt to stay pinnacle on his quest
—JG |
Neptune
Most nights I couldn’t find peace,
I wondered if it was the PTSD, or if
this Neptune had just lost his dream.
Was it stuck in the cosmos unable
to reach the confines of a mind
too crowded of dismay and grief?
I almost believed, but my soul
only deepened to keep me whole
just as the shadow beside me.
Just as my soldiers in arm’s reach,
camouflaged, but never hiding
from chaos, or presumed defeat.
Like Jupiter once told me, “Keep your
head from your feet, and your head
above your heart, just be.”
Today it is received, not to mention
poetry increasing my spirituality
— a reverie to my muse.
How pleasant is she for keeping me
so heavenly attuned, my celestial
ooh, I can’t see you but I do feel... |
Mí Ethereal Ubiety
I am a holder of your mystery
like Olokun,
a diver into your emotional
conglomerates like a Pisces.
Do tell me your Zodiac ID.
For I am respectful, and gentle,
a deep connection to your
mental and physical utters,
bold like my ancestral mother,
gold that won’t always luster.
I am a hard lover, like sacrificing
my sights for the stars to still
remain vital where ever you are.
And no I’m not perfect, as I may be as
maimed as the moon, forever scared.
You are close but come closer;
my skin needs to feel your
celestial breath fall on me,
while I speak on in hopes that you
... |
Tattered Fruit (Free Style)
Tattered fruit,
black and blue,
abused,
rediculed
Tatter the fruit;
shame on you
for the same monsoon,
you’ve been a fool
You’ve been a bull,
un-beneficial,
pitiful,
and unequivocal,
to what she needs,
what she dreams,
you’re just a failure to see,
and an absence to lead.
Let her find her King
—JG |
Weather or Not
My mind is flacking,
thoughts heavy on my shoulder.
The weight is bearing,
and my posture is leaning over.
I'm bent on the meaning of this,
teetering trying to stay straight.
I haven't been right since you left,
and you weren't wrong not to stay.
You deserved better, not my cloud
hanging over your pleasant weather.
Not my angst that came with it,
taking the flight from your feather.
—JG
|
Menace to Society
Meet the eyes of a monster,
chained,
sponsored by the state
meant to be painted pretty.
Sitting colored like the sun,
days soon to be numbered
like his new ensemble,
guilty before proven innocent.
Meet the eyes of a monster,
unashamed, who pays homage
to being dishonest
because the devil is his truth.
Sitting colored like embers,
a blazing fire beneath the cold stare
with malice against the cleared air,
guilty of demeaning you too.
—JG
|
Faded Bouquet
Screams with no voice,
mousey,
hiding out inside of a dark space.
Skittish with no comfort,
kittenish, pupils wide
pulling her necklace.
Meanwhile he’s still reckless,
a bandit, coon eyed,
not welcomed in their place.
Flourishing with no grace,
withering, a faded bouquet
without a vow to replicate.
—JG
|
Decaying Reactions
News flash, but before reading it
I know it’s concerning a mother,
a father, or even a young kid.
Killer made famous, those living slow
make it to the finish line faster than
the rabbit ever did.
It’s ludicrous for any man born to be
King throw down his crown for a clown
hat; damn all of you jesters!
Damn all of them who make gestures
in front of evil thoughts, standing
behind reasons that only fester.
- G
|
Falling-Out
Doors slammed shut,
a voice raised in decibel,
“You hit me!”, she screamed,
and vanished over the threshold.
He watched lowly from the street
as her image lost all focus,
and pictured his world without her
in front of his camera’s lens.
Incoming calls rang,
but none he wanted to answer;
not adding up to the digits
equating the label he longed for.
He tried many times to reach out,
but he was blocked, forbidden,
like an evil New Orleans entity -
a disgrace after heartbreak.
Months went by in his loneliness,
eye’s swollen after fighting with tears,
wearing his own abuse, but still,
discounting the wrong he’d done.
Down to his last ounce of pride
he bellowed out, “I’m sorry!”, but,
was it an apology to himself, or,
was it that he’d wished she heard it? |
Tanka Poem - Locoemotion
Poetry in motion,
leaving the mind’s temporal
like a moving freight;
emotions riding aboard,
some delayed, others on time.
- Jg
|
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