Words from the unknown explained in Layman's terms

July 6, 1995

"Many are tired of the sad-singing, slow-walking, flower-carrying

and tear-dropping."

But it had to end sometime, my friends.

We won't even hear the shovel packing down the dirt.

You think lively life is a lonely lorn?

You feel torn?

It just seems we hear too soon the chimes.

You're taken swiftly, but justly.

It wasn't as if we weren't 'afore-warned'

about the coming of the hand that instills nothingness

out of man.

Was this blessed breathing really the rabid seething,

for all, resting on thorns, instead of the planetary

conveniences to which we were borne?"

© 1995 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Season Favorite

February 2, 1996

When life comes once again,

I taste the greatness only when

This particular season, my friend,

Shines through and then...

Roses, dandelions, orchids, wild flowers -

This beautiful season craving every year

to devour.

So swiftly it passes; a pleasure in every hour.

As caterpillars morph to butterflies,

Remembering when winter dies.

My soul can be limp and rest when it comes, so...

There is sadness that reigns when it must go.

Loving to share my thoughts of it.

Learning how to see fit.

Surrounding my being with the glorious nimbus, though.

Siphoning the sweetness. My strength will grow.

It is the season beginning

To become our prize we're winning.

It is the true gift amazingly sent

It is what sweet earth truly meant.

This time of a new year

When the harsh chills disappear,

When winged ones serenade

The old will fade.

You calm my palpitating heart

Just as it starts.

A lily to pick when I bend

Is to love this seductive, phenomenal trend.

To give to people - even a tot.

This one of four, and all it's got.

Pour forth this bit a datum

A heartfelt ultimatum:

When the air is crisp

Blowing the sound of lisp

Come again just for the world; never will I miss.

Discovering it, like a true first kiss.

© 1996 Jarrod C. Lacy

"Spots" and "The Burning Light" read by Jarrod Lacy

Spots

January 12, 2008

A wreak in sparse places or occassional, sneering faces that riddle

a walker and rider in the middle of perfection and performance.

They cannot be delayed or washed completely into extinction of

an acquittal of the walls on which all do write.

To bleed verily and wearily leaves the obvious drive to peddle

this problem toward minds, which either caters or withdraws

acceptance of the stuffening status whose steps are seconds

to return ritual ruin as a rightful habit.

© 2013 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

The Burning Light

To my niece, Memories Keith, who

loves hand games.

(For "Hand Games")

February 2, 2008

Room in the attic,

Looking out the dormer,

Scary fanatic,

Hide in the corner.

He comes, he comes,

The burning light comes.

Dive in the shadows,

Try to be a brave face,

Beware of those, beware of those

Warm lights, in any case.

He comes, he comes,

The burning light comes.



Back a little further

Darkness your safety.

Voices of him or her,

Fakery for you and me.

He comes, he comes,

The burning light comes.

Keep your faith strongly,

Make no sounds,

You won't feel lonely.

Light is out of bounds.

He comes, he comes,

The burning light comes.

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy

　

"The Study" and "Express Your Realness" read by Jarrod Lacy

The Study
6/6/03

I am circumambient of comtemplation,

I am a stall of stillness;

I am not a whisper.

While most properties are peopled,

I am peaceful and placed

apart from unlimited proportions.

Nothing is known to me outside

of where I'm poised; the world's relations

are not akin to me.

There is a natural neutrality of nothingness,

then cavalcades of blurs to form iridescent worlds

that swim smoothly into vivid magnificence imagined.

What continues is all soft and rich,

with strict gentleness that abides

only through the invention of the senses.

I cry by heart.

Never proof from my eyes.

Suffering though quiet certainly mortifies.

I am a world in a cave, a place in the woods,

a distant spot in a park;

the library.

It is necessary to be the subject

of solace; solitaire allows too many.

Tune out a crack stalling to crumble.

Dare to wish a longing to replenish,

visualize that dream permitted,

The deep space, never intricate.

I'm in the position to listen for spring winds.

Perhaps I am a cloud, perhaps Zen.

It's my golden autism.

© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy

****

Express Your Realness

January 5-6, 2008

It's a "b" now.

A "c" is just unacceptable.

Your road should be

crunched with pebbles,

An easier walk.

Do this for the greater rock.

It's your genesis, the baby

baubles before true gems.

Try to enjoy your struggle, and flub your view of brighter

spectacles that should cause you to rest later.

It's much too soon to stop and look.

Retain the hue of green on few experiences, not for a

quest for early visions, for those discoveries skew

hearts, impound spirits, in as much as those gifts

that aren't attained quickly, though you feel you

deserve them now to be impressive.

The greater your engine that stride marks your appreciation

of the ride.

An "a" has approached your knowledge.

With that, your place beyond any college,

but don't be foolish to submit a creed of completion.

This is not logic.

Sure, there are occassions when redundancy is plenty -

refuse all repeats - and moments when skids pile, with

adjustments planned all the while, where geniuses are

refused, some considered avant-garde; there is always

a speck of a sparkle that avails with the greeting of guides

guarding gates of all goals gathered, those grants

for gold.

Hinder raw force that clenches fear of choice.

Don't school in the blanks of inefficiency.

Love attaches to the law of your course.

Human, but with limits in deficiency.

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy

　

"Anansi" and "Waiting Room" recited 4/30/13 - 5/1/13.

Anansi

January 6, 1999

Clever the austere.

Luckily, for me, my sentiment

is arachnophobic.

Silent-clacky creature,

you lulled me at first

with elemental croonings, singing

in verses, spilled elixir.

How incredibly, secretly, blissful

was it to rest on your

self-made hammock; though

a bit adhesive;

Reciting your telltale stories,

folklores, advice: while your

babel is grandiloquence, bewitching

in neatness.

Largo, your song took its time,

though you were bold and determined

to make me a keeping

in your silky macrocosm.

Addicted, afflicted, your legs

gesticulate with a composer's

percision - I was weak to your

magic.

Nonetheless, you saw instantly

the untethered; blasting forth

hail-fellow-well-met repetoires to

settle me. I, drinking in your

reputed savor, was nearer to

your venom.

Mmm, the stock and stuff of dark

meat, but your tasty tenderloin was

no longer home.

You replusively spoke of your all-

possessing prisoner, wisdom.

Foolishly rescinded, you nearly

feasted on me, and for one abscent-

minded open sesame, you flanked

your ingenuity.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Waiting Room

February 26, 2001

An unnecessary balsam

with few, necessary

patrons;

And it's crowded, even

with available seating.

How could any person

with a cusp of endurance

allow the forward of this

quiet author of this agrivating

complacency?

Watch how they hobble for the

baked goods and bad coffee.

Sorrow for the television,

that unbiased attention-seeker.

Then there are those faces:

Incurable patience pretending a good outcome is pending,

while one is at least purple with portents, feeling life

is unfriendly.

Note: This piece was written while waiting patiently for the results

of my mother's surgery. I couldn't write any more than this.

Nervousness overpowered me.

© 2001 Jarrod C. Lacy