Wise (an acrostic poem)

person holding gray twist pen and white printer paper on brown wooden table

Words tumbled from his fingers and pooled upon the page

Irrigating the fertile ground allowing new thoughts to take root

Slowly those ideas grow tall and strong, awaiting harvest

Examining his crop, he began harvesting those who’s time had come and pruning the rest

Sprint (an acrostic poem)

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Scurrying thoughts running crazy inside his head

Put him on his mental treadmill, trying to exercise them away

Reaching an exhaustion level that would allow him to fall unconscious

It sometimes worked, but tonight the ideas and thoughts were too fast

Not that he gave up dashing after them, but waking hours passed slowly

That’s what made the alarm the next morning such a rude starting pistol for the new day

Wheel (an acrostic poem)

 

Well, she felt like she was just spinning in place

Her mind dizzy with the constant whirling of thoughts

Emanating from a Tasmanian Devil like cyclone

Every time she thought she had figured it out, doubt would roll over her again

Leaving her coasting along on thin tread

 

 

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Penny (an acrostic poem)

Perhaps it is beneath your attention

Every cent counts in the long run, though

Now you might not think too much of your copper buddy

Never picking him up when he’s on the ground

Yet imagine the number of thoughts you didn’t buy because of it

 

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Plus (an acrostic poem)

Putting things together helped her organize her thoughts

Lithe fingers deftly added masterful touches to her creation

Until her masterpiece was born

Smiling, she knew what she had to do next

 

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Science! Bah Humbug! ( a 100 word babble)

I am synthesizing information in an attempt to immolate my brain cells, allowing me to warm my frozen thoughts about the subject, yet the thaw has yet to come.  I huddle in obscurity, surrounded by obscenities used, but not forgotten, built up to keep me from seeing my failure from the outside.

Still hope tries to grow inside though it hasn’t seen the light of inspiration or the nourishing rain of success in so long it might as well be on the dark side of the moon.  Should I just collapse this rhetoric into a black hole of consciousness?

Probably.

 

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Blessed (an acrostic poem)

Being all alone was hard on Mary

Losing Rachel at such a young age left a scar

Even after four years, Mary would return weekly to the grave site

Sharing her thoughts and dreams, troubles and victories

So much of her life was under that dirt

Everything just seemed so much harder

Daily though she thanked God for the chance to keep Rachel alive in her heart

 

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