A crooked tiara
Perched over tear stains
Smudged makeup drying
Only the pain now remains
But the sunshine emerges
Hope rises after the ashes
Don’t give up on me, for I’m
Here to kiss wet eyelashes
A Crooked Tiara
tiara
I Don’t Have Pretty Eyes To Attract
I don’t have pretty eyes to attract
Nor a beautiful body to distract
A middle aged, middle class white dude
with no street cred
With charm & gentlemanly conduct
instead
I’ll have to choose the proper words
To prevent from being misheard
Where did our youthful exuberance go
Closed off from a litany of feelings of truth
But I don’t want to be like them
Not worried about a bent halo or tarnished tiara
Angst of foregone conclusions
I want something of substance
Never tamed by society’s expectations
A slow, smoldering strangeness
Embracing the stature of being a little weird
Impervious to judgements of being bland
For through and through, I can only be me
Never standing for someone else’s brand
I hope to always be wild enough to be free
Sitting At The Windowsill
Sitting at the windowsill
Fingers stained by my ink
Face red & tranquilly humbled
Cold & tumbled; too frozen to think
The nights are dropping temps
I’ll need to do everything to keep warm
Though I’m unwrapping each layer
Eagerly embracing your gracious form
Life is a fine chance to love you
Trading kisses as I adjust your weary crown
Telling stories of our younger days
& the magic that happened in a little Arizona town
Image by Lou Blazquez from Pixabay
By Day, You’re Out Fighting Wars
By day, you’re out fighting wars
Wherever politicians decide you need to roam
Diplomacy by air, land & sea
& the lucky ones get to return home
But your training doesn’t include this
Unsure how exactly to be a regular guy
Babies & tiaras & unicorns bebopping around
How to explain a child’s smile can make you cry
Image by Sally Wynn from Pixabay
Captain Q 