After the Fireworks

July 6, 2002

I am it that

is always present.

Unyielding in thought,

on purpose by merit.

The thing that drags

all things in universal luggage,

and when speed doesn't supercede,

I can be sluggish.

I can be sore.

And the Lord or the Boom can

bang on the door.

© 2002 Jarrod C. Lacy

A Decision

October 9, 2002

Let my table be lonesome,

so that my salutations will be

aquired through quietness and

mindful of gleaming silence,

and away goes the acute, barren

neurosis of meaningless talk.

To be there in full solidity,

as one, admiring, eases respect

for the other. Attention will

never veer from the place I

continue to sit, but other realities

will rise too clean and be well-kept.

© 2002 Jarrod C. Lacy

You Make Me Proud

7/19/03

I whine because I have no money, or I'm

a little low in my stash.

Then I see your face which states the case to flush

out the need for cash.

When I feel my life isn't stunning or lacks a proper shine,

I think of you and erase the blue and say,

"This little light is mine."

If my sleep is often stolen, or something

unknown keeps me awake,

There you are again, the reminder, that my

rest should barely break.

A frown distills my substance and the

world is rough with a rind,

So I'll settle for you the little teacher who is a

hero in my heart and mind.

© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy

At Work

7/21/11

This is just a token of friendly

acknowledgement that commends

your helpful hand.

You're thinking, "This is my job

and it's what I do," but your diligence

of it is a better brand.

Seeing you assisting others prompts

our habits to season our

duties to quickly move.

You strike at our virtue, make

us rise from our chairs and

advocate, "To help is to improve."

© 2011 Jarrod C. Lacy

To Give Out

March 14-19, 2002

It's tired, fatigued, weak,

no longer linked, physically sawed-off

from strength, wickedly

drained, a slab far from

the field that feeds.

Those eyes, well, feel as

if they're brick-laid, swelling

from finished consciousness,

Awaiting their right to wane.

The arms? Dangle. Old rubberbands

untangled, limp masters that strangle

the will to remain tame; all loose

but now there's a familiar constraint.

Knees depict mud, sludge nearly

sliding down from the bones

to the floor, to settle,

to be a lump, to sputter.

Back slightly bent, tilting

over; daily energy is empty

of relevance; it's evident that

being isn't immune to weltering.

Fortification for the face.

Drawn inwardly, ahh, for the

relaxation station is calling

it into place, and because of

the droop, there are loops in the root.

Where there is a "sit-down,"

there is a "lie-down," where there

is a comfort; there is a pleasure worth

something, or a chance of reclining better.

And all hands - look at them -

like arms, how complete they

are, will lag and trail

and track the ground.

The force and will of staying afloat will

nuture an arid world

that cracks a throat, and even the afflicted,

then, dies the bolt.

(All of this for a righteous non-response)

Lay, lie, either positioned;

downwardly, flatly, usually at night -

Nap time; all unconscious time.

The soles of all feet bear

it all; near-to-be-dead

weight purposely compensates

a reserve, if "keep on keeping on" stirs.

The mind melts,

time is ignored.

It's difficult for the insomniac

or the frame-faced down

and the appropriately bored.

Yawn and yawn some more, while

leaning over, tilting, half-talking

half awake to reality's portal,

away from formality's order.

Snore and snore some more.

Slumped finally, or neatly, like

A fetus balled; Surrender

to the need to fall.

© 2002 Jarrod C. Lacy

Mama Bear


March 3, 2008

In the middle, being as such, I cannot dare to

hope for an acquittal because they are loved

so much:

My baby-boo has the most comfort of all of

us. He must.

It's difficult coming up in the forest.

My husband and I can never rely on the closeness

of populace.

We'd be too tempted to have them over for

dinner.

What would they think of us?

Though our supplies are three of each, there

isn't much.

Of course, we'd manage on little crusts, and

there would still be the three of us.

Granted, our home appears open to the public,

but we are also peaceful and private.

Despite a visit from a silly, ridiculous, little girl

with bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, blonde curls.

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy

Festival

1/11-12/03

There were too many balloons and not enough confetti,

but the people smiled and loomed unaware of the

inequality.

The need for screams and the need for excitement

proudly pains in line for the ready of food and drinks,

and ilks of entertainment.

Loud but fun, the children seem to be the adapted

party, knowing all in the vicinity were neatly inherited.

The hand-and-hand experience crossed them easily, like

germs would, but never something so unsightly; crash-dive

into slushes of sequences.

© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy

Had Nonfiction

March 22, 1996

Beautiful the imagination,

and so it would seem,

Once you lie your head down to dream

So many ideas, pictures and color schemes.

(Cloud nine is an everyday thing for friends)

Where your true love and you will always await.

The adventure is owned by one's determined fate;

Where open eyes can really see

The world to be the star-wonderful.

The place where children play continuously.

Save this one-day-it-will-be-a-treasure.

Once your eyes open, cry demeanor has seen.

It would be so fair had nonfiction not intervened.

© 1996 Jarrod C. Lacy

"Lonely Violin - A poem by Jarrod Lacy

Lonely Violin

for Tyler Clementi (1991-2010)

12-31-10

　

Another continuous moment of incredible

cloud-forming soon to disperse.

Pain softens to sadness,

And often it is by this

definition that a votive

stance takes strength

to surpass permission and

stress momentum, in aiding

any broken man.

His instrument, that tool and

trade of his art, now, ponders

over a new owner as another

ghost walks.

At this time, a passage is chosen to be

diminutive in size, and his bow can't captivate

the strings, so we only laud his love for what would

have been songs, and wait for what arrival brings.

© 2010 Jarrod C. Lacy

Walk Along
May 21, 1999

Let us take a sip from here, from
the little quarters of water
flowing near.
Residing in some clear-cut forest,
filled with countless green,
that unify in a silent chorus.
Let us take in the sun
and shade and observe nature
all day.
When we sip, let us gather the
water with our deepened palms.
It's the purest, simplest way.
Let us leave our tracks on the forest
floor, our soles giving sound to
what has fallen, twig and leaf.
And if any happen on this in brief,
repeat all past actions and dispel
distraction with discretion.
Or take it, to later recall, with
a perminent pen, while waiting
for all leaves to rustle in the wind.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy

I Plunked a Ladybug

May 29, 1997

I plucked an innocent ladybug one ill-tempered, sun-dried day.

An innocent, beautiful ladybug caught in a swirling disarray.

Though I'm a lover of pure nature and its wonders from least to greatest.

I was measured by lower mentalities when I so simply became sadist.

Yes, surely to be, my day was horridly, terribly, awfully wrought.

For some solace I sought with a heart piping hot, but a sinkhole made distraught.

I plucked an elegant ladybug in a lurid, erractic way.

An elegant, adorable ladybug who strolled by one memorable May.

Though there are species that click and clack, calling with their nightly song.

It doesn't recall the disadvantage caused by my terrible wrong.

The thought of that precious thing being careened into humiliation.

I prayed the offense wouldn't doom her because of my brash communication.

I plucked a sweet ladybug by accident, some would say.

A sweet, susceptible ladybug who was ruled by a delay.

My reaction was unintended, but unmindful of the strain.

Perhaps that super bomb above impaired my focus from your riveting pain.

Little one, there is a deserving debit. You decide what should be paid.

Since you struggled on your ruby-red back without the thought of viable aid.

I plucked a resilient ladybug, it now seems to say.

A resilient and recuperative ladybug no longer committed to lay.

Relief waded as antidote that healed my half divide.

Of course, the beast is hidden; I brace for the face of Hyde.

I think on the repercussions, priorities I drew with shameful chagrin,

But permittable is the prick to prompt humanity to seep again.

I plucked an excellent creation who should be quartered from a nay.

We are co-existence, so we marvel with a yea.

I plucked an innocent ladybug too tender for a fray,

So I extended my hand and arm to invite her to play and play.

© 1997 Jarrod C. Lacy

Choosing To Leave Her

August 2-6, 2004

The soup smelt sinfully sensational,

but I walked on by, man.

The steam from it formed hands,

though they were feints to my wavering

strands.

The way it boiled there on the white stove,

in that glass pot, seemed cautious but

doable.

To refuse to stir, while waiting are other

lain ingredients; nonetheless, was rueful.

Standard, while in place, to feed a face, to

serve in a bowl, but all there is is a plate.

Some of us held the circling ends that

constantly concerned all to turn and wait.

Hushed by the sob of someone's supper,

I recanted the ususal hog that twinge a rebuttal.

The big swine craves the hewer of a juicy stick,

but the user dabs in being sutble.

Future climatic turns are a risk,

even as one prepares a dish.

(There is some freelancing to be missed)

Injustice in this decreeds meanness of my

opposing wish.

Knowledgeable of my other instant

creates an early attempt at an either fate,

that meditates hope to a higher place.

Questionably, soup without bread is a man

without his mate.

There is a star filled with promises.

I know there will always be trouble

at the gate.

The clusters in the evening grant the

lower world a dream sake.

Like the time clusters in this wake,

I, sometimes fallacy to a fault, arrive

a bit late.

© 2004 Jarrod C. Lacy

Hulls


June 19, 2007

Rotating the feel of a sunflower seed between my index finger

and thumb, I linger toward thoughts of the strength of the minuscule.

That's it. There's the reason for this experiment.

To idly stand under the sun, to examine something of the smallest sums.

(Secretly, we all believe to be better as giants, holding and somewhat

protecting our little resident grams)
To say, daily accounts of might predetermines our forthright belief of

superamcy, but mistakes are happenstances for friends lower than

what stands more grand.

How high are we measured by feet, really, than those at which we

can glare above our palms? And, the inside of us all?

The treasures and tools within calibrates our stay; some as weight,

some as food, some as mechanisms, or all as one rule.

That sunflower seed, again, is a human almost, a host inside, not a soul

but a nutrient that abides us to continue our hold on ourselves as we

formulate elongation and limited lengths of our place here.

© 2007 Jarrod C. Lacy