thomas

I am not claiming to be a good poet.

Am average at best, but I have tried

to write and everything comes up

flat.

Perhaps I should walk away from it?

For years, I loved to read and write

poetry. I still want too write, but am

losing my will to pen a poem and

just say 'the hell with it.'

Thank you

Thomas

desperate

Catholic Girls

The Catholic girls are sweet and innocent

The darkest heart you'll ever know

Desire to burn a sin of mortal lust

To please the willing, wait, bestow

Sweet taste of purity shows their true heart

A warning sign she may be good

You screw them over, demons reappear

That once were dreams you understood

They rive your heart with holy rosary

Soul tears with torment, torturous

Exposit flesh that's wanting, still can't have

Betray, mistrust, portrays a sorceress

Repent of sins, one always should obey

Respect embody royalty

The lust for her expunged by self-control

A Catholic girl means loyalty

me - non existent

thanks

I think it will be great. For once, minorities will get an opportunity in this country, maybe even write some poetry.

Thanks

Thomas

The Roots

Our mind seems unmanageable

Thousands of limbs seeking their own path

Branches though send signals from its core;

A root system that resides in ones heart

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Author's Note: The pic prompt is of a blank

profile of a face, filled in more than half way

with the stem of a tree, its branches going in

numerous directions. The back of the face

profile was open and not bordered.

Introduction

I. The Reading

The same attorney that had served the family

so faithfully over the last 50 years, sat and

spoke with a calm but firm, distinguished voice

the past hour nigh, verily trusting each young

man justly as he read the document.

He stopped, looked down

the long oak table with its durable but latent

clear laminate of polyurethane, evincing the

rich character of wood grain that juxtaposed

the same with his current clients. They were

like family ! He would not let these boys down.

The aging professional concluded the

Last Will and Testament

to the six boys....well, now men, of their beloved

Mother.

This tall, admired attorney, a noble himself,

an hours past ensconced in his soft, leather cushioned

seat and arm rest chair, stood up gingerly;

the old joints crunching and snapping as he declared,

“Gentlemen,

we have

concluded your

Mothers wishes.”

II. The Satchel

Mattias, one of two middle sons, sat directly

opposite their family representative of the present

instruction. Mattias whispered “He's

not finished.” Overheard by the counselor, his

rejoinder;

“Yes I am son.”

Dragging the last word like a fish

nibbling on its bait, the elderly statesman, who never retired

and puts in 70 hour work weeks for his law firm, added,

“With your Mother.”

As the man stood stoically Mattias saw the left hand

gripping what looked like a leather satchel. Pulled up

now in full view, peaking out of the satchel was the corner

of a manila envelope with a plastic sheathing.

Types of Tears

The last time that I dropped a tear

So long a time ago

A tear of sadness shows its feel

She's gone that's all I know

Ten years expire gave up on love

Content in who I am

I changed the focus of my life;

The blood of Christ the lamb

Am on to concert at our church;

Believers of the Cross

My heart is pierced by limbate eyes

Tongue tied and at a loss

Go out to eat with friends that night

Large table, chairs were full

Except for one right next to her;

Excite me for the cull

I looked into blue bordered dreamy eyes

A tear of joy; no longer in disguise

Proem:

Message in a Bottle

Proem

After Sir Thomas recovered the Spear of Destiny and returned it to the Pope at the Vatican in Rome, he remained there for several months serving His Excellency, attending meetings, and recovering from several minor injuries sustained while recapturing the Spear that pierced the side of Jesus the Messiah. Sir Thomas could have stayed as a guest of the pope in one of their lush suites, but he chose the bare walls of a guest bedroom at the local Knights Templar castle. The pope then called upon him for his next assignment: Leave Rome immediately, by boat, again, back to Constantinople. “Head off a Scot by the name of Sir Robert Bruce, whom our intel indicates has a map and is currently on his way in search for the Holy Grail. Sir Robert is a stubborn ally. You will help Sir Robert, but convince him

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See poem under my account below. Is in Blank Verse, Iambic Pentameter with no rhyme

pattern.. However, the Postscript, a couple, is written Iambic Hexameter, 12 syllable lines

instead of 10 syllable lines.

Thanks

Thomas

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When Mattias was a boy, his Daddy

used to tell him he had:

Eleven fingers.

This amazed Mattias, because he would

clutch each individual finger

off both Daddy's mitts; huge, glove-like

Rugged hands of a carpenter

Soft touch of a surgeon

He slowly sounded off one by one

Left hand: Ten, nine, eight, seven, six

and

Five are eleven [11]

Daddy raised both limbs; flashed eleven

Hugged Mattias and said;

“I love you son”

Mattias felt that love, but

Was marveled that his Father had

Eleven fingers

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My Lord and my God

A pithy poem to TBO

A bubbly birthday so

It got the lightning rod

After many good answers

To a legitimate poem

The troller's a roam

Here comes his cancers

What a waste of time

To cherry pick deletions

Clean up his excretions

Make God your climb

Amen, and amen