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