Word Karate

 Poetry is my empty hand

That grasps at the handle.

The world lacks that!

It’s hot, it’s cold

Or slippery like a criminals handshake

This eel annoited with thieves oil

Is in my empty hand

But then my image escapes

From where I was with

Handles afixed, tipped over-side

Maybe left beside

Or in the right place with the wrong meter stick

To beat said criminal with

And so I pull out simile to affix my stick

For the handle, that doesn’t matter,

For living things are real, and only have two eyes

Maybe a hand of my mind, perhaps to grasp

My intention to surprise and alight upon my sight

What likeness I’ve handled to pass onto

To table, or floor, for something amore.

My Poetry, my parabolic spirituality focused...

Grasps, handles, fixes, places, and picks up

My Emptiness fills my hand and replaces

The hot, the sweet and sour, the salty, or bad sting

I fill my cup, with sweeter words to sustain

I browbeat it, but it’s said, shouted, and I saddened I’ve had to say

“I Love you Dad,” three times,

Maybe there wasn’t enough poetry in his world...

He knew how to put into his empty head.