Foresight

There is an undeniable 

disturbance in the moment,

the very second

made known.

Clinging word on the tip

of intuition’s tongue,

hanging just out of reach

of those who seek it,

pivotal.

It’s a shadow that overtakes,

a towering, soundless giant,

that conquers any lasting joy,

and leaves hope fleeting.

I did not heed

the moment where I sought

an answer to a question that

I had not asked.

Is this real?

Individual perception in an 

abstract operator, that questions 

every waking moment

as if surreal.

Perhaps it is as

one suggested:

I am a dream,

but not the dreamer.

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You

I’m impartial to lukewarm,

and annoyingly cautious, so

I understand that you would test

to try and gauge how I react,

but then I wondered if it was a game,

and wanted desperately to trust.

So, when we climbed the cliff’s tall face,

standing at the edge, I stole a glance,

and envied your decided jumping.

I rebalanced, tried again, but could not

commit.

Stuck on the edge of this earth, caught,

wishing just to be reckless enough to

plummet for my own reasons,

but I keep looking for you,

and I can’t let go.

Words Previously Unsaid to the Mountains

I miss the verdant overgrowth that took apart the roads and houses,

where simple flowers, vines, and trees, would take back from usurping man.

Water rushed in great expanse, though from the peaks it trickled down

as sun would heat the sleeping earth to streams, and brooks, and rivers,

finally cascading down, roaring as the waterfall, mightier than any manufactured fountain.

The muggy morning never failed to raise the plumes of blue;

the smoky fog of water lazily escaping dampened dirt.

I was allowed there as a visitor, and offered place to slumber,

but for all the richest greenery, I missed my yellowed fields.

I missed the great flat grassy plains, but more so missed my sisters,

my mother, father, aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandmother.

I could not commit to mountains, fresh air, winding trails,

and yet with my mind made, my choice I still consider.

Could I have been happier in Cade’s Cove than my Hill Country?

Could I give up my prized Panhandle for Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge?

And could all the tempted black bears, who came to sample candy apples,

persuade my indecisive heart to leave the armadillos?

I have often thought my butterfly to be solely the Monarch,

but Swallowtail has given me much thought, lately.

The fireflies that swarmed the summer lit our night anew

twinkling there in the midst of us, tiny stars just within our reach.

As I rethink my hasty departure from the Smokey Mountains,

I question if they’d let me back, if only to steep in wonder.

I Hate Velveeta

(I don’t know how to talk about this poem. I’m kind of ranty today. So, a ranty poem seemed fun to do. ^_^)

Every Christmas somebody makes it,

and while most are more catious

by loathsome vegetable pizza or fruitcake,

there is only one thing that I fear:

someone will call out that queso is out

I hurry to check, and find it’s not.

Putting Rotel in it doesn’t help it.

No amount of seasoned meat will disguise,

the flavor is anything but delicious

and calling it cheese is offensive.

I lose my appetite when I see it

I imagine the long term effects on my stomach.

It’s plastic. It tastes nothing like what it pretends to be.

An assault on your nose and mouth

like burned rubber tasting

worse than soured milk,

and people call it “liquid gold”

I just turn my nose up and sneer.

You can’t pour it into a bowlful of chips

call it nachos and present it to me.

I will feel sick, and go to bed,

don’t try to force me to “Just try it.”

I won’t change my mind in “one bite”.

You can’t fool me! This isn’t cheese!

Go eat your weird plastic food with the others.

You can pretend that it’s cheese among them.