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Bryon D. Howell  (email)

 

About the Poet:

Bryon is a poet currently residing in Connecticut. He has been writing for many decades. Over the course of time, his poetry has appeared in poeticdiversity and Lucid Moon.

 

 

A DAY AT THE SALON OF POETRY

Each poem is much like a head of hair
and each one has its special length and style.
Some need a little spray to hold them square.
Some need a bit of pomade and a smile.
Each word is like a strand in every way.
Sometimes we pull them when they won't comply.
Some have split ends, we find them every day.
So snip, snip, snip - and off to rinse and dry.
Each rhyme is like a precious little curl
upon the head of someone sweet and young.
It's simply loved by every boy and girl.
Once they grow up, to sides, it's merely flung.
Beware of too much literary breeze -
and free verse is a mohawk with some fleas.


WHAT BROKEN RULE?

The presentation doesn't mean too much
and sweet endearments only blow the smoke.
If we forget the SAE as such
the manuscript is trashed without a care.
The images we show account for points.
It's not enough to tell our stories straight.
We type so much it wears upon our joints -
its maintenance is high straight out the gate.
We can't submit the same to more than one.
Blacklisted, we shall surely sing the blues.
And typos? Phew! How quickly readers run.
I'd love to know who wrote these foolish rules!
These laws apply to poetry - and love.
If one thing isn't right, it's not true love.


NO WHITE FLAGS ALLOWED!

Today I woke up fighting with my brain.
He raised his voice, so I put up my hands.
If anybody saw, we looked insane.
In thoughts we dueled on shifting, golden sands.
With swords upraised, the sun upon our backs -
thought to myself, "Hey, Kimotherapy!"
The sun may slow him down and then perhaps -
I'll just give him a good phlebotomy!"
The sun stayed neutral, didn't get involved.
It all went on. It ended no time soon.
By sunset, the charade had just evolved -
swashbuckling fools fought fair beneath the moon.
A moonlit night, a duel upon the dock?
This poet needs some sun and writer's block.


THE UNFAIRNESS OF LIFE

Life isn't always fair, sometimes it's rough.
Sometimes the obstacles are all we see.
The winds of change can make a journey tough -
sometimes it's hard to get from A to B.
No matter what we're never free and clear
as long as we're alive we will know pain.
If we just do our best and persevere
the sun will shine and dry up all the rain.
The key is to enjoy a happy spot
without a fear of clouds about the town.
When we make situations what they're not
we're asking storms of live to hold us down.
Decisions to enjoy ourselves today
are what it takes to hold the rain at bay.


SEASONAL EXTREMES

And who will set my frozen heart ablaze?
And who will cause it to expand and beat?
Perhaps the summer's gentle, healing rays -
will guide me to forgiveness, love, and heat?
The winter chill has caused me to succumb
to every icy path I've stumbled on.
My hands are shaking and my lips are numb -
and I'll be glad when winter's wrath is gone!
I pray each night beneath the cloudy sky
on skeletons of leaves, those lovers past -
that someday soon true love will come to me -
I vow to do my best to make it last.
In nature's time, the summer will return.
In mine, I'll pray for winter as I burn!

 

 

Pennies For My Dreams

To be as free as freedom, what a dream!

A thought which I indulge in all the time.

A tricky treasure I cannot redeem,

I settle for the truth, not worth one dime.

The homeless and the hungry, babies dead;

the unpaid bill, the jobs no one can find!

Still "freedom" somehow echoes in my head.

Who knew that hope itself could be unkind?

Each blue day passes and I fear the next;

insurgency, the killings; thoughtless tripe;

I do believe this world Iím in is hexed,

and as for love I am nobodyís type.

I have a jar yet have no change to spare...

perhaps it stinks since I deny it air?

 

 

A Form of Indiscretion 

I never should have given you so much

so much attention each and every night.

I think she is addicted to my touch ...

likes fingers through her hair all nice and light.

She loves it when I kiss her soft soft neck ...

I rub her face and she goes right to sleep.

Sometimes she shocks and looks like, "What the heck?"

Yet she fogives me, she has fallen deep.

She makes the cutest sounds when she's content ...

she yawns sometimes and sneezes in my face.

Somewhere along the line the manners went ...

I've hooked her, now she's plum forgot her place.

She'll watch me write, make jealous sounds again ...

the cat's convinced I'm cheating with a pen.

 

 

I Remember Love 

I remember what it's like to be in love,

the last one ended badly months ago.

Back in September, all the stars above ...

they all came crashing down and just like so.

I remember pining for a love so true ...

then praying to get out once it was found.

I guess that's just what foolish lovers do ...

and hearts just simply change themselves around.

I can't forget the loneliness I felt ...

soon after that my eyes began to roam.

So now it is our turn to churn and melt ...

six months from now I'll pray you too go home.

Today, I know what love is all about ...

it's not something that I can live without.

 

 

The Right Mindís Gone Fishing 

I'm sitting here teed off at my TV.

In my right mind, I know who is to blame.

I do not know what you expect from me ...

I filled out applications, signed my name.

I have been out of work for many weeks ...

so what I'm watching afternoon desire?

Delight went out the window, so to speak ...

It's not my fault that no one wants to hire!

Tomorrow, I will start the search again;

I am disgusted, but I will go on ...

I plan on watching TV right 'til then ....

though I'm still teed my little friend is gone!

I still may not be ready, I'll denote ...

I think the TV hid its own remote!

 

 

Chickenheads

They're overfed until they just collapse,

their legs give out and break because they're weak.

Conveyor belts are moving, so perhaps ...

the men have some new quota they must meet?

Their mouths are broken so they cannot fight,

and now they can't defend themselves too well.

Although it's painful, is it wrong or right?

Fowl language is ignored in Eggshell Hell.

The chosen try to run and break away,

some of their friends are hanging upside down.

It's round and round they go. No eggs today?

Their severed heads fall thoughtless to the ground.

"Here come the Eggmen, time for breakfast, Folks!"

All eggs are golden, right down to their yolks.