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The Underdog’s Grindstone
and other poems
by Nick Zegarac

The Underdog’s Grindstone

I cannot compete,
in this world of finite possibility,
where one spurned velvet tongue
infects the throat of my neighbor
with wrongful speculation.

I cannot compete,
unjustly, to trespass
or fondle gossip
between crooked fingers,
hoarding my thoughts
in miserly greed.

I cannot compete
if the winner takes all,
though entitled to nothing,
accepting the mastery of deception
that basks in a limelight,
bilious and thick as my envy.

So here I remain,
a prisoner to loneliness,
one utter and complete failure
of my own displaced convictions.
Forgotten and careworn,
the uncertainty of a lost future,
weighted millstone about my neck,
a pillaged reminder
to that barrier reef of unfettered playtime,
embattled last bastion
of hopeless innocence bound
to a world thieving over
baron crusts of maggot-filled bread.

There Are No Clouds

Deluge of my heart
tatters all thought,
into weeping bowers,
of sensuous confetti.
The mingled chill
of a world dreary puddle,
plagues sopping reminders
as the curdled dew,
lain crisp upon frosted mud.

Stained Calico rags
are trodden beneath idle feet.
Dead splashes collect
the pools into shallow graves,
spraying carriage wheels,
rotting windmills
with their limpid droplets of time.
They burst, then scatter
a feathery spray
upon my sullen, bitter heart,
daring, if only to break
the impending gloom apart.

Age Before Wisdom

Oh, to be science-fiction young.
What is this thing?
- of beauty?
- a joy, no more?
Wooden death then,
in a mannequin’s stare.
The ageless taunting from its slits
Rolled back as cold smiling pupils
devouring reality
for the sake of a handbag,
stretched and patent,
taunt-skinny spokes-model
for the consumer age,
or dough in a timeless strudel.

Shadowlands

Shadows trace looming contours
of a winding journey
through the glistening meadows of my heart.
Sweep the dance of darkness about,
in, then out and upward spark,
the broad drooping leaves
in short bands of dotted light.
Out, then in, they begin,
their song a swirl,
teased round jagged thrusts
of balding silhouette.
A sudden quaver,
from stiffness too,
for suppler charms encircled about,
caught momentarily,
then torn apart,
in the thickening meadows
of my heart.

Nick Zegarac is from Canada. Here's some more poetry by him, found through Google