"lie still and let it wash over you, the was and is and soon to be.
How frightening yet effervescent the next 24 hours. The lust, and musts of future days revert to the ancient past..."
patty m.
><
the irony!
when I am stilled,
the effervescence of me
unbounded, unleashed, and the torrential rain
of words fulfilling and departing from my interior

I am
a Grand Central Station
of trains labelled
"the was and is and soon to be''

all moving in an unscheduled mayhem,
but never crashing. never accidenting,
only accenting my racing against time,
my oldest and fiercest Super Villian,
and one just knows, never can you beat time,
time, that old rascally up his sleeve card magician,
who when shuffling the deck,
he knows
what was,
what is,
and here his red eyes gleam with satisfaction,
soon to be...

He and I,
old familiar adversaries
addicted to living.
never leave the table,
never leave a *** or
a poem on the felt,
and having always felt,
firm believed,
there will always be one more,
one more gamble, another day,
to write another poem
and turning my cards over
to reveal, to revel,
in my Royal Flush of creativity,
when time, smiling face,
with his
wild card,
**** time,
who trumps me for
it,
in possess of a Five-of-a-Kind(1)

~'
and the new players,
the young poets,
slap me on the back,
saying I had a great run,
but they don't know 'bout my
secret stash,
preprogrammed to appear,
long after these fingers
cease their tangled tango of tap dancing,
my dust,
my lusts and musts
will unstilled yet be
blowing, floating in the
soon to be
so ha!
                         nml
6:30am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five

In the hush between raindrops and stone, the hills lean inward, as if listening for a voice that never returned.

Low clouds drag their grief across the shoulders of the land, a soft lament in vapor, layered like old letters, unsent.

The trees don't speak— but their silence is fluent, a language of absence etched in shadow and bark.

The sorrow here doesn't weep, it settles in the terrain like ash from a fire no one recalls lighting.

A tragedy, perhaps, of the forgotten— the slow erosion of faces from stone, the fading of footsteps into deep green moss.

And still, the wind carries a lament— a breath, a whisper, a suggestion that the past is not past, it merely sleeps beneath the skeins of brooding, hung cloud.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

The nightmare of a father, to outlive his daughter.
The dread of a mother, to bury her son.

When the ****** war comes, and heroes wear holes.
When the plague comes, and babies don't cry.
When the reaper comes, and the young ones rust.
That's when we declare war on the army of bugs.



I heard a father, he screamed in pain.
But it was not flesh's agony.
He swore, his heart was dying.
And he grabbed onto me

"I've done it, I've won, I've outlasted my son.
I'm not a father, I'm just a winner.
I have no son, he was my only one.
Tell the devil I've won, and I'm nothing without my son."

So what happened dear father?
Why did he meet the reaper?
What happened poor winner?
What did he eat for dinner?


"First it was flies, then he survived.
Then it was a hornet, and he fought past it.
But he swallowed a wasp, and now his body rots.”

It stung, and it stung, and it stung.



I saw a father, he cried next to me.
But it was not heart's agony.
He swore, it was time for dying.
And he grabbed onto me,

"I've done it, I've won, I've outlasted my son.
I'm not a father, I'm just a winner.
I have no son, he was my only one.
Tell the devil I've won, And I'm nothing without my son."

Father, what do you plan to do?
You know this is cruel of you.
I know what it stole from you.
But you shouldn't do it too.

"Trust me, I wouldn't break the law.
But you can't arrest a wasp.
It's an insect's life or mine.”

It stung, and it stung, and it stung.



Whether they are flies, Drowning weak cries.
Whether they are beetles, shooting from rifles.
They can be a wasp, and never get caught.
They can even be a butterfly, accidentally children die.


A winner cried in my arms.
I felt a father falling apart.
He couldn't ****, not even the wasp.
But still, the reaper appeared.

"Come and take me, drag me away.
Tell my son, he needn't wait.
I won't join him in heaven.
But tell my boy, that I do love him."

The reaper took the winner's hand.
My arms held the empty shell of a man.
With a knife in his hands, the winner became a wasp.

He stung, and he stung, and he stung.