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