Morning comes soon as
you dangle at the end of
a thread hung from the tip
of a blue crescent moon.
Head buried in sand
the mystic declares
“I’ve struck gold,
will never grow old.”
Send in the clowns,
invite Robespierre,
Napoleon as well,
just to be fair.
Euphoric the ride
along a brain wave,
particularly when
grand visions arrive.
Castles will scatter
in the course of time
although hewn blocks
maintain their shapes.
Once around the ring
of discovery enough
to make a de facto
God of any being.
As Jonathan Edwards
profoundly proclaimed
the flames of wrath
are headed your way.
Leaves fall
and heroes fail,
the dog swims
in a vapor trail.
Suns that fauns
explore are fun
once day is done,
gone for good.
Gypsies skip
stagnant cities
where homeless camps
pose such a blight.
Trigonometry boggles
a toad wearing goggles,
his alimony payment
long overdue.
Much glory garnered
as you sun yourself
on a granite outcrop,
eyeing the Cyclops.
Contrary thinking
considered taboo
by popular scribes
with souls on fire.
Pleasures gleaned
instantaneously
often get caught
in thorny cactus.
Platinum beetles
bore holes in stone
where they lay eggs
that generate dragons.
Way out in space
human spirits seem
an oddball species,
constantly flailing.
An aardvark sheds,
a rhino bleeds,
the mind is fed
what it reads.
Above all be certain
the fit’s right before
spending your life
as metaphor.
About the Author
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of publications, including Modern Literature, Poetry Salzburg, Creation Magazine, The Museum of Americana, South African Literary Journal, Home Planet News, and California Poets Anthology. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, Aurora California, and Opus Borealis.
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