You broke my heart, as brothers sometimes do,
and look at you, you're pathetic. A simpering,
whimpering Don Juan-a-be. Bimbos and markers,
donkey shows and Johnny Ola have taken their toll.
I had control of the five families and there
our similarities took a decided turn. If you'd only learn,
"Never take sides with anyone against the family again!"
You're nothing to me now. You're not a brother, not a friend.
If anything in this life is certain, if history has taught us anything,
it is that you can kill anyone. Pray for the fishes,
you'll be sleeping with them now!
© JPW - 2013
dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics Italian-Style
Poets United - Poetry Pantry #171
Shifting moods and a flood of light,
bringing him into singularity; all focus
belongs to the handsome Lothario.
Musical mates fade bringing him upstage.
Head hung; chin to chest - at best he
meditates. A sigh and a raised eye brow
show his depth. A last breath and a note;
long and drawn, his song begins. At times
he is lost in the moment; others, he chuckles
and grins, catching the glances of the
enraptured nymph lost in his gaze.
Ballads were made for such seduction.
They are alone now in a sea of hushed gasps
and fawned stares. The words become clear
and he has this innate fear his voice will
go away, leaving him merely a face with no traces
of ability. He has this fight every evening.
But gilded looks are deceiving. Pretty boys can be
refaced; front men can be replaced.
© JPW 2013
Poetic Asides by Robert Lee Brewer - Prompt # 235 - "Front" poem
Might as well be cold as hell,
this mission was a hard sell.
Blasting off and out of here,
it's been a long time since it was clear,
a long, long time. I packed my bags
but this feeling only serves to drag
me back to earth. Star-gazers
and out of this world trail blazers
are best served in solitary pursuits
not rocketing around in space suits,
Yet still, I'm luckier than some.
I could have wound up Major Tom!
© JPW 2013
Inside, a rotting, lurking in shadows
of darkened thought. Confidence
takes a powder and all that remains
are the knock-kneed jitters of
these failing nerves. Seldom brought
out to play; never wandering past
nose’s end. The journey of a thousand miles
ceases before that first step lands.
Needing a leap of faith
to allow flight to commence.
Waiting for fear to subside.
And yet, inside, a rotting.
© JPW 2013
