Home»Tag: Contemplation
August 4, 2017 Will Rieger

Sunday Morning Run

Standard

The shadows are longer, and cooler the sun,

In the morning before a run.

The world is calm but not silent,

Still quieting from the eve and her violence.

 

No one around to hear it too.

Is it even too early for the dew?

I stretch the soreness from my joints like sinew,

Preparing to plunge feet first at my cue.

 

Jumping into my pace from a pace,

My breathing settles into cyclical sound,

A point of focus amid the sonorous waste:

The cacophony of chirps, bleats, and rustles around.

 

Breathing is now all I hear, cadenced with the beat of my feet.

My mind wanders as I drum, thoughts cascading into clarity,

Demanding my full focus, with rapacious full frontal temerity,

Yet they manage to slip away at tandem speed, as if bikers on the beat.

 

The half waymarker just passed on my right.

An about-face later and I’m on toward the line;

I keep my pace, calves beginning to bite,

Both lungs working and starting to whine.

 

Nearing the close, my mind becomes singular.

I break into a sprint against the past,

Thinking only of the now

Hearing only my labored, metered breathing

Feeling only the striking of my feet

Pushing me fast as I will to go

Toward the end of that final line.

August 9, 2015 Will Rieger

Forgettable Fun

Standard

I had forgotten how much I’d forgotten
About not knowing a thing at all.
And when you tend to not know a thing,
Then the world seems to sing and call.

To sing of the happiness and grandeur
That is this blissful world,
To hark on the jovial gay jollity
So seamless as a white pearl.

And when it is all said, over, and done,
And the chair’s let out for it’s already sung,

The world still holds its shining light,
For all who tend to not be so bright.

For after all, it’s not too bright,
And now at least you know my plight.

August 8, 2015 Will Rieger

The Cyclic Oppress

Standard

Oppression is a constant class
Akin to time and matter’s mass.

The wars may all be over,
But The War is never over.

Those who reign above all throw
Leavings to those far below

And the only alteration is a place, a time,
A different pace for a different clime.

Those trodden-on underdogs
Lift their heads ‘spite egregious wrongs

And gather in numbers to throw now off
Those shackles and to the oppressors doff.

Just as justice rings her bell,
And injustice gross has fell,

Like a symphony beautifully ringing
As all freedom’s flowers are springing,

The cycle begins anew like clocks,
Working around, so devoid of baulks.

August 6, 2015 Will Rieger

Maturity

Standard

Many muse over the mark of maturity,
A sign that one’s grown up good,
Some say it’s a symbol of utter conformity,
That society has been ingrained as it should.

And though this all may ring verily true,
With more candid acts and honest reactions,
And a taller height with ‘stache may ensue,
Maturity is using less violence, less action.

It is growing enough to know when to stop,
When to calm your head and think,
To use your words to effect change and drop
The malady in you heart – let it shrink

August 1, 2015 Will Rieger

Cost

Standard

What is the cost of something beautiful,
Something divine,
Something immutable?

Paid in hours of arduous toil,
Paid in ransom,
In midnight oil.

Is there tithing enough to see
Pulchritude manifest itself so free
As starlight glinting across the sea,

Or in the candor of unending verse,
Over the massive white flowering trees,
Those triumphs worth ever more than a purse.

July 31, 2015 Will Rieger

Sad Summer

Standard

The summer months filled with idleness of sorrow;
Oh how I wish for a better then, tomorrow,
One that will grant a brighter sky
And which has limitations all the less – high.

Squandered is the sun’s gay light
That flutters down its celestial flight,
To ensconce all men in ethereal bliss-
At least until the cold comes to hiss.

July 30, 2015 Will Rieger

Of Days

Standard

Late nights have coveted my mornings,
For how quickly does that saccharine dew fade
And leave me in a state of mourning
For the evaporated, decadent crystals who bade
A warm hello and happy day.

And in the late folds of the witching hour,
With most souls asunder in their dreams,
I sit awake with a serenity of dour
As the starless new-moon night not gleams;
Quite the opposite of a chirpy day.

A primordial expanse, the mind’s domain,
Oh how I wish the dreams would stay;
Alas, ethereal portals oft cease to remain
And they dissolve into warm nigh-afternoon rays
On this glorious, late-started day.

After the long, arduous, and raucous din
Of a hardly sonorous shift of clock clicks,
I wind down to the heavenly singing of a violin
And early retreat to the night’s fantasies without tricks,
Earnestly awaiting the forthcoming day.

‘Morrow’s morn is oh so sweet
As I rise early with the glorious sun
To greet him in his embrace ‘fore heat
Encloses the land and mars its brun;
This morning shall make a seraphic day.

1 2