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Poetry

Where my imagination runs wild!


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The Name of Beauty

By Donald D. Dienst (10-5-92)


Dare I ask the name of beauty

Risking egos fragile form

Is it part of my lives duty

To find out what's behind the norm


Stretching out a lend of friendship

And blinded by beams of blue

Time as short as tempus fugit

I barely caught the name of you


So what then is the name of beauty

The answer so vexes me

Can it be the name of beauty

Is simply just the letter B

 

My Poetry and Me

By Donald D. Dienst (11-16-92)

 

My poetry is simple, and my style is the same.

My futures a cold gray winter

Yet my past is memory aflame


I see myself a debonair

a search for mysteries to enter.

To sail around where no one dares

Or become a mad inventor.


Though who I am I can't deny

full of doubt and self restriction.

Just an average software guy

with no cure for this affliction.


Yes, my poetry is simple, and my style is the same.

I end up somewhere in the middle

while striving toward my aim.

 

Indolence

A sort of  Villanelle by

Donald D. Dienst

Not all prisons have walls and bars.
Indolence chains and binds us tight.
Not all cells have visible guards.

Our fears are formed from many scars.
From which we loose the need to fight.
Not all prisons have walls and bars.

In Comfort we find that our will retards.
Until our dreams have left our sight.
Not all cells have visible guards.

By pride were consumed in what is ours.
Which binds our souls in sticky blight.
Not all prisons have walls and bars.

With age and time our life regards
Our cage as home and life with spite
Not all cells have visible guards.

Not all prisons have walls and bars.
Indolence chains and binds us tight.
Not all cells have visible guards.
It’s our comfort we must fight.

Poison

A Villanelle by

Donald D. Dienst

 

There is a poison within the soul.

A spot that makes us all so cold.

Straight from the pit of  ole sheol.


It reaches in and takes control.

We choose in sin to be sold.

There is a poison within my soul.


To purge it clean is pure my goal.

But yet again it’s pleasures extolled.

Straight from the pit of ole sheol.


There is but a moment before it takes hold.

We chose in sin to be sold.

There is a poison within your soul.


To purge it clean is pure my goal.

In time it always takes its toll.

Straight from the pit of ole sheol.


To purge it clean is pure my goal.

We chose in sin to be sold.

There is a poison within our soul.

Straight from the pit of ole sheol.

 

To Clothe a Lamb

 

An abstract poem by Donald D. Dienst

 

In a ham with Sam and we’ve eaten the Spam to clothe a lamb to kill a man.

To learn of buttered blowguns blowing the branches of our ways.

Breaking boiled blunders like boulders through bacon.

We have taken our maken and with held our stake in this world we fake in.

This place we quake in like queer cakes of closed  cupboards  with  cloth covers and embroidered clovers.

Over and over we sit but not rover  we cut but not mower.

We live but not lower than the shower of our sower can. We push up like an orange American.

We push out like our lower intestines can, and all because I am in a ham with Sam and we’ve eaten the Spam to clothe a lamb to kill a man.

 

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