"So fleeting,
the feelings that need to be written,
so we try,
lest we forget,
because we can end the story
right here.
But the writer didn't quit,
there's more than just words
to be conveyed,
painted.
So coast,
let the feelings become a little older,
bolder, embolden the taste
and let your mind
slip into space
where much will be needed,
actual space,
for too much had happened today,
looking for a place to be.
Matter of fact,
every little thing
had it's own story,
poetry to be painted for,
but the encompassing tone
is the gratuity of it all,
the gravity of thanks,
given time and again,
and how that can make
heartfelt words
turn empty.
A day
full of so many happenings
can dilute
the flavor of each herb;
the finite details
of a singular moment
crowded by
too many spices.
The palate becomes overwhelmed,
tastes come all sides,
pungent,
assaulted with bitter flavors,
or salty experiences.
Even the savory, slow
succumbing to sweet memories
can lead to sour smiles.
Too strong a concentration
on the subject of flavor,
and you lose the whole picture,
the entire day.
Exertion,
parading down the street,
or a humble pawn in the presence
of greatness,
balance is best
to appreciate the meal, if you will.
To appreciate every moment,
and the entire day they build."
they call me pregnant patti,
cause i'm always having a baby,
i spend my life in pregnancy,
no ifs, ands, buts, or maybes,
maternity clothes are all i've worn,
for twenty seven years,
i still can dance and even at times,
i'll drink quite a few beers,
i gave birth as of yesterday,
i'm waiting for a period
1:09 PM 6/22/2013 ©
We’ve been reading too many books
lately. Blatantly, not trying to create
recently. Evidently, we’ve been letting others
absurdly run the story of you and me
in trying to be, when we already are,
freely entrapped within our own systems,
circles, and propriety of competition amongst society.
You can blame society,
but it’s simply you and me
in relation.
You and me, and him and her and them and us.
We’re in this together, now.
Each infinitesimal drop of murky water,
forming, ostensibly, the flood. Not one splash feels
the responsibility,
consequently we blame, and
haughtily criticize, rationalizing it
in our minds.
Lazily, we evaluate others stories, finding frailties,
unaware of the intricately subtle reflection of our own
Imperfection.
-Ryan K. Fuller