Emeth Lee Bard aka The Matador

  In a world where beauty often steals the gaze, The Matador’s heart, in different ways, is ablaze. For him, the true allure lies not in curves or lines, But in the brilliance of a mind that shines. He worships not the light of stars or moon’s soft glow, But the radiance of intellect that women show. Those with thoughts deep as the ocean, wide and vast, Whose insights into mysteries are unsurpassed. Women who weave words like fabric, intricate and fine, Whose conversation is like sipping aged wine. Their wisdom, a beacon that guides him through the night, In their intelligence, he finds his greatest delight. Philosophers, poets, scientists, and sages, Women of letters, throughout the ages. Their minds, a labyrinth of endless intrigue, In their presence, he feels like a league. He dreams not of idle chatter or fleeting flirt, But of dialogues that challenge, heal, and hurt. A partner in debate, a comrade in search of truth, With a woman of wisdom, he reclaims his youth. For it’s in ...

  In the realm of asphalt kingdoms, under neon's glow,  There's a steed that races, through the night it flows.   A chariot of dreams, on roads less traveled by,   A BMW, my heart's desire, beneath the starlit sky.   She roars in whispers, a tempest dressed in steel,   A fusion of art and engineering, a masterpiece to feel.   With every turn and every gear, she dances with the breeze,   In her embrace, I find my freedom, my soul's unyielding ease.   Her headlights pierce the shadows, a lighthouse for my path,   Guiding me through life's crossroads, away from wrath.   In her, I see the journey, not just the destination,   A bond forged in velocity, a thrilling elation.   The hum of the engine, a symphony so sweet,   A pulse that races, in sync with my heartbeat.   The leather and chrome, under fingertips it thrives,   In this cockpit, I'm alive, this is where I thrive. ...

  Journal Entry: January 1st, 2022 Tulsa is asleep under a blanket of January's chill, and here I am, Emeth Lee Bard, at the stroke of midnight, turning another page of the calendar, another year older, yet feeling no closer to the dream that dances at the edges of my soul. The city's quiet, its dreams locked behind the frosty windows of homes and the dimmed lights of downtown, mirrors my own quiet desperation. The car wash hums its monotonous tune, a symphony of suds and sprays, a lucrative legacy from my family that's become both my prison and my sustenance. There's irony, I suppose, in the cleansing of others' journeys while mine remains muddied, stuck in the perpetual cycle of rinse and repeat. In my heart, there's a tumultuous sea, waves of verse crashing against the shores of my reality, yearning for the vastness of the poetic unknown. "The Matador," they call me, or rather, I call myself in the dim light of anonymity. A name born from the desire...