His Shame
Poem of consequences
No one could know the secrets that he holds.
Maybe it´s a story never to be told.
Was he an innocent man who just lost his constraint for just a moment?
Did his touch forever taint her innocence?
Maybe her smile lured him and made him crazy?
Can it be her fault?
Isn´t that what were taught?
Don´t dress this way, don’t act this way
and watch what you say!
Any little thing can make him go astray.
Damn the consequences!
Damn her for thinking she is to blame!
Its his name to defame!
Soon the world will know his name.
This no longer is his game!
About the Creator
Jack Wayne Arnett
I enjoy writing in many genres. My favorite is horror, but I also enjoy poetry, romance and military life. I love the challenge of writing outside my comfort zone as a challenge. I live in Riverside, California and have 5 daughters.
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The old Clock Maker
The old clock maker at his dusty old table stares at his masterpiece but finds no measure of joy. Twisted gnarled worked hands shake as he works in a deliberate fervor. Time to the old man is not for him to enjoy. All family, friends and acquaintances are not so permanent. A cold tool fumbles from his grip and crashes to the floor followed by yet another solemn tear. The passing of yet another year. All he ever loved is gone, no one will ever love the quiet clock master again. Foolishly he turns the hands of time backward with just a glimmer of hope that he will yet love again. He will run again and feel the warm sun upon his skin just one more time. But instead he feels the hardened wrench of reality. Time ticks on and the old man lowers his eyes to rest for just a moment. The broken clock begins to tick just as his heart quiets its tireless rhythms. Into memory he goes as the clock ticks away and no cause for all past glories. Left without surrender and no will left to fight. A fall to the ground, no salutes to the old man who would surrender. Now there is no one left to remember. Another passing ship in the darkest November.
By Jack Wayne Arnett4 years ago in Poets
A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli6 days ago in Poets
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
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