Emeth Lee Bard aka The Matador

On a day when winter whispered of spring's embrace, February's tail, a soft and gentle grace, The world was gifted with a soul so bright, Emeth Lee Bard, born into the morning light. February 25th, in the year of '89, A day marked by destiny, by design. The skies above Tulsa, clear and fair, Announced his arrival, a breath of fresh air. In a hospital room, where dreams converge, Life's melody composed, a newborn's urge. His first cry, a symphony of hope and fears, A sound so sweet, it brought the world to tears. His parents' hearts, overflowing with love, A precious gift, sent from above. Their eyes beheld, with joy and wonder, This miracle, their spell to be under. The car wash kingdom, still years away, On this bright and auspicious day. For now, just whispers of what might be, In the cooing and laughing of baby Emeth Lee. So here marks the start, of a journey so vast, A life of dreams, of shadows cast. February 25th, under that winter sky, The day Emeth Lee B...

  A Matador’s Lament for Annie - January 2023 In the cold embrace of January’s night, I pen this verse, a soul’s quiet plight. The Matador, once bold, now veiled in sorrow, Faces a dawn devoid of promised morrow. Annie, oh Annie, a name like a hymn, Your absence leaves the world so grim. We dreamt of love, not bound by time, A poetic dance, a rhyme sublime. Yet here I stand, a lone bullfighter, Without my love, the world seems slighter. An engagement broken, not by deceit, But by dreams that refused to meet. The car wash hums, a mocking tone, A reminder that I am truly alone. The foam and spray, once solace found, Now echo Annie’s absence, profound. I sought a world beyond the suds and water, A life of verse, passion’s true harbinger. But love, it seems, demands its own dream, A shared path, a single stream. Annie, with eyes like the Tulsa dusk, Saw not in poetry, but in us, a trust. Yet I, in pursuit of distant lands, Let slip through my fingers, love’s sands. The Matador writes, ...

  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...