Game Day {Gamer Geek Haiku}

Today is game day

controller in hand;  X A

AA …..  bad guy dead.

 

{{to the gamer geek within}}  🙂

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Pursuit of Truth (haiku)

Life is contentious

the struggle for truth always

stalks us like lions

To my hero

To [insert your hero] – read it till the words sink in

You are
ears listening upwards
heart embracing unwants
hands creating symphonies
feet running
towards desperate calls
You are
lips kissing sadness
soul encouraging wings
legs standing bitter falls
words lifting up
beyond walls
You are
fall down get up
climb on without rope
search sand for stars
and
reach down to get go
You are
regular waiting blue
average laughing brown
short tall magic blonde
bean story telling
You are
Cloud kingdoms making
Rock castle mending
tree salvaging leaf
treasures in
golds, reds and yellows
so hands may raise up
and smile in rainbows
you are
his song unsong
her reason unrealized
their bright eyes
dreaming on stars
yet unshining on too bright days
you are
took the time to be
who you are
so someone else
could be
who they are
so when you ask
who are you to
make a difference
I say
you are….

::read again::

Ruby Red

She sits

lingering in the front of the mirror

with every intention of painting

smiles upon her lips

nails slightly chipped linger gently over

silver and gold flaked appliances

of her trade, she waits

for.  the….

right moment

when the song on the radio

evades sound and

transcendent bound – aries

then. she…

wades into life

painting away 5 o’clock

and men-tal

notes of doubt

with a pale concoction,    #7.

Leaning into reflections

the soft color of her skin

radiates bright with each

brush of perfection

with. each… brush

of.

there just right

she sits back and admires.

her – technique is flawless

her – skill untouched by fear

first the base of life

a touch of charcoal here and

here  .

a splash of smokey gray

a sparkle to accentuate play- fullness

delight – a butterfly in flight

and as the melody

rhapsodies to climax

she finalizes her transformation

with the stroke of midnight and

haiku

leaving behind any trace of

the who

is worn every day

from dread a.m. to just an hour ago;

and lives;

ruby red.

We will Stand

{{this is for the girls in Texas and every other person who has faced hatred- some have lost some have survived.  My heart is heavy but so are my words}}

We will Stand

They will come at you with fire and steel

with sharp edged teeth and claw

with suffocating hate filled smoke

broken glass taped words

to lash out in every manner of fear

they will come

they will come at you with stone and rod

breathing fire and brimstone words

with fingers twisted fist in fall

batter seeking lacerating law

filled with devastation

deviation of truths

stifle, riffle, ruffle and loot

every notion of dream

they will come pitchforked words

in halls of laws and carry their

continence of gods in and effort

to bend our knees

kiss our heads to the ground

BUT

we will stand

WE WILL STAND!

we will meet them with held hands

words edged with pride for who

we are and backs backed

a hundred fold of spirited

heart and girded souls

we will NOT go quietly

we will NOT perish without

our voices being heard

without one more

one more

another more

going down

We will stand

and when one more

is going down

we will step forward

we WILL step forward

and should all of we

turn in to me

I will meet them

all the same.

Font and Longing

I should write a word for you

with brilliant font and calligraphic meaning

Tantalize you with the think and thin of curvature

lead you on adventure with a trill

one word, one drop

one syllable to rest between your lips

and tease with the implications of my

wanderings.

If there was such a word it would be orange

with shades of red

edged in light and shadow

casting doubt o’r scandalous truth

a word to soar across oceans

pick grapes of favor and fill

senses with wine

intoxicating flow

drunk on flavor and

neglecting time.

I cannot breathe

for the lack of it

I cannot live for the

loss of it

and to paint it still would

be less of it

so I sit

here

for want of a word

and finding

only timid brine

meets my vision

a thousand miles

from the moonstone tresses

of your skin.

Sunday

Hours

paint a picture of movement.

Yet, I sit still

watching paws tumble

over yarn and clammor after

stray bug bold enough to venture here

Page and cover linger near

begging to sate my appitite

Playing cards remain in boxes

Bills remain unopened

and unpaid – demandingly

set on the top of a pile;

papers unwritten, unread.

un un un

…  We all sit here

still

contemplating the pigment of time

as it meanders forward unaware of the

last brushstroke

content to just

breathe

Sunday.