Everything depends on what I do with this blade. I could sink it into the skin and let it all end, here and now. But a tiger is always replaced by a lion. Or should I let a murderer live? I can’t just let him walk away with what he has done, but then again, I am just a barber, doing my job. I am not a murderer.

My hand passes over his chin. It is clean, soft and healthy. I plunge the sharp blade into the basin on the shelf. The warm soap, foaming at my wrist. He gets up and walks over to the counter.

“How much do I owe you”, he asks.

“No charge, Sir”, I reply. I will not take money, gained through service to butchery from this man. My pockets shall remain clean. I shall not shake his hand nor smile at my work. My duty is done.

He smiles and walks towards the door. Opening it, he lets a clawing, musty breeze into the shop. Warm saliva bubbles up my throat and I feel my breath catch deep within. He was so close and I let him go. The door swings shut and I am alone.

So many wonderful words we write,

When we dream of a seed and sow it.

A novel or sonnet may come to light

If we take the time to grow it.

And many are they but plenty are we

Who would yearn to be the poet.

Lovers embrace on the moon tonight

Should our pens' pretenses show it,

And an angel's wing will want for flight

Should the villain reveal what's below it

For limitless bliss or the fury of those

Who would yearn to be the poet.

From the dawn of man at the start of time

One would pick up a verse and bestow it

Upon thirsty mind set afire by a rhyme

A fine lyricist would overflow it

And words were like wine dripping down upon those

Who would dare to be the poet,

Or might care to undergo it

Remember the past or ignore the day

Come the troubadour, minstrel, and bard

Leaving doubt behind, keeping woe at bay

And distresses, disregard

When the words of a beautiful, dutiful voice

bring a healing to the scarred.

Very few children understand

And many who do outgrow it

The Raven, Silence, Fairy-Land

And his name, you surely know it

For it was Edgar Allan's hand

Which put the Poe in poet

And as a child, remarkable he

Was a poet and didn't even acknowledge the fact.

This side of my skin only layers

It shows the story of my kin

A story that can't be shown by numbers on paper

It shows my family history, in virtue and in sin

This side of my skin is gold

Youthful and hard to hold

First soft like grains turned to flour

Then calloused in an hour

But even as my skin frays

This story on the side of my skin will stay

It starts with Supergirl

Flying to get us when we are sick

She slays the villainous cold with ice cream and kisses.

As time goes on, she becomes Wonder Woman

Carrying all the school books and bags

The shopping hanging from the tips of her fingers.

Wonder Woman transforms into Cruella De Vil

Stopping us from seeing friends because we "have" to study

Nothing can halt her rampage.

Cruella De Vil turns into Batwoman

The one you call in tears after a tough exam

The one you look forward to seeing when going home

The one whose cooking you miss.

Then comes Black Widow

Both good and evil

The one you know will understand

when you become Supergirl.

A like without a read is a box without the chocolates. It's the froth on a milkshake. A kiss blown from the other side of the street. Am I guilty of such false love? Of ticking boxes without bothering to read more than the first few lines? Of course. The little heart looks so much nicer when coloured in, don't you think? A like is my smiley face stamp on the back of your hand for fitting at least one of your yellow plastic pieces through the correct and corresponding shaped hole. It might be considered as damning with faint praise, but then...

how many of you have actually bothered to read this?

I have lots of favorites but if I had to pick just one it would be Allen Ginsberg. Here goes…

oh feminine beauty

oh curves and muscle

breasts and perked nipples

curve of ass

lick of soft hair

eyes with long lashes

sutra vagina

light of sun and day

clitoris the window to ecstasy

you are the only true poetry

the only true song

the only music

you are the infinite

the enlightenment

the blip in the mind of Buddha

the only true bodhisattva

you are dreams and consciousness

you are life and death

you are the reason, the meaning

the only truth

you are that which turns the world

(Robert Frost was arguably the finest classical style poet of the 20th century. I would never put myself at his level, but this one does capture a little of the feel of his work.)

To greet the dawn, I crossed a meadow green,

still blanketed in jewels of morning dew.

I sat upon a rock, still and serene,

and watched the sky transform from black to blue.

Even before the silhouettes of trees

defined the border of the unborn sky,

I heard the morning song of chickadees

and listened as a loon bid night goodbye.

The entrance of the sun brought colors forth

in hues that brightened slow from dark to light;

'twas not for me to judge this beauty's worth,

but merely to record the glorious sight,

and then to make my way from whence I'd come,

with miles to walk to find my way back home.

-------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

You stood tall on the hill

Branches swaying in the wind

Watching me as I turned from a seed into a sprout

From a sprout to a seedling

From a seedling into a sapling.

As a sapling I was tall and lanky

Stealing your sunlight

And yet you stood there and watched

Let me be

You did not complain.

Then I turned into a tree

And your branches tipped to me.

You stood by my side

Even as the pine bug took you.

You did not get to watch

As a seed took flight from my branches

As it landed and rooted

And started sprouting.

Your roots are still there and will forever remain.

Thank you.

Dear Earth,

How much are you worth?

A rabbit is shot,

but stew is put in a pot.

A lion is maimed,

but that lion is tamed.

Your heart is fading,

and people keep trading.

Metal for machines,

New submarines.

An explosion to rattle an army.

You suffer me.

You suffer us.

When is this enough?

When will the cogs turn?

How many forests need to burn?

We are a bruise

causing all the blues.

We are leaving you behind.

Going off to find

another place to harm

to make another farm.

But you still fight back,

making an attack

that will keep the good

and i have understood.

We need to stop.

We need to make a new crop.

We need to change

and We need to behave.

You have nurtured our hive

and because of that, We are alive.

But now let us give,

and hopefully, you will forgive.