Wooden faces

Hide all expression

Showing no emotion

But you cannot fool me

With your false impressions

Your decorated masks

Aren’t clever inventions

 

Crooked smiles

Only visible every

So once and a while

Broken frowns

Reflect a broken heart

Strolling lonely

Thru this old town

A wooden face tells all

Too much pain

Too much to show

That should not

Ever be shown

Emotional overflow

No stitches can be sown

To tie these wounds

 

Wooden faces

Hide the expression

But not the emotion

You cannot fool me

With false attempts

Your silly masks

Are unoriginal inventions



Copyright (C) Richard Rowell 2005

11-26-14

I wonder
If I write
A poem
In this way
Will it be
Something new
Original 
And creative
Or will 
The exercise
Itself be
A poem 
All its own


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2014

Should I wait and stare
Ponder your image for awhile
Is it simply impolite or
Are you art to be admired?

You have the ingredients
That make a perfect woman
But is that really possible
Without a perfect man?

Is there such a thing
As perfection as we'd like
Not in this reality, no
It is more than unlikely

Some would be bored
With the thought of perfection
Each day too alike
But believe me, there is 
Always more to wonder

You are the proof that there's
Depth that doesn't meet the eye
To know you is to love you
You fill me up with such
Happiness that I cry

There are thoughts up here
In my mind that words are 
Inadequate to relay, it's true
In my mind, your beauty so
Infinite beyond the skin
In my mind’s eye so consistently appears

The verse seems out of rhythm
Sometimes, but you can blend the tune
Just when everything seems out of place
You walk in and liven up the room

The eye is so stupid and dumb
There is so much more to see
Just an outer shell is so admired
But for the whole, most don't see
This beauty infinite inside I most desire

This is a fire you've lit inside of me
Once upon a time, I thought one like you
Could only exist as my own fantasy
But it's true, it is, that you are true

You are here, among us,
And I will seem to do any thing
To make you notice me

As awkward and clumsy
As I come off to be
I hope that there is something
That you can love in me


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2003-2004

(2004)

Am I to be a writer of brilliant prose?

Enthralling the senses as would

A honey-scented rose?

Rather than trying to figure out

Why the water flows

We should look at our own soul,

And how it grows!


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2004

(11-9-2014)

I built a world
But it crumbled
Beneath my feet
As my heroes rose
And fell so quickly
My villains triumphed
Enjoyed their victories
Celebrating wildly

The words didn't come
Did not ebb and flow
The way they were
Meant to, at first
But perhaps
The heroes were
Meant to fall
The way they did

Why is it
That my villains
Rule the day
They are, of course
Writer's block
And creative
Dissonance

My ideas
Seldom agree
With each other
Constantly arguing
Superiority
Priority
Confusion ensues
No one takes a stand
Except for chaos
Who rules the day

This world builder
Tired and frustrated
Will take a little break
To rest and refuel
On some sweet iced tea
And healthy snack food

The heroes
Persistence 
And Dedication
Will one day
Rise again
To prevail


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2014

(February 2005)


I am a wandering soul,

continuing to slowly patrol

this world ever changing.

 

Looking to the sky,

seeing patterns in the stars,

to explain Life by.

 

Every day I find

I have such serendipity,

finding such beauty

 

always boggling my mind

in such random places.

I feel overwhelming duty

 

to offer my pity

to those

who can’t find peace.




Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

(6-4-2005)

Pity is wasted on the unworthy

Far too often, disadvantage of empathy

Then you find someone especially

Most certainly deserving sympathy

Becoming so attached emotionally

And getting involved so intimately

Pouring out unmitigated sympathy

 

So it is when you’ve felt so much…

Wasted pity… emotions overwhelm

You use the weak spirited as a crutch

But who is really at the helm

Of this life you despise so much

Who is handling the clutch?

Who’s director of your life’s film?




Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005