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 Mar 22
Steve
Deep custard coloured daffodils
True harbingers of spring
Tall mustard painted trumpets
A joyous star-like thing.
Bright gold encrusted promises
Carried on the wing
A portent of emergent life
That a daffodil will bring

22.3.25
SE
A little rework of an older one.
 Nov 2024
Steve
I’m not addicted
I’m just conflicted
This phone’s my friend
Till batteries end.

Fingers prone
I jab this phone
My face lit up
Like a buttercup.

If you’re on your phone
You’re never alone
The world is there
With room to spare.

You’re with your friends
Till the rainbow ends
I’m telling you
This phone’s brand new.
People tell me all the time.
 Aug 2021
Steve
Oh God
If there is a God
Oh God if there isn't.

Oh God if my heart was to brake
Oh God if it didn’t.

Oh God when the weather is cold
Oh God if it’s hot.

Oh God
If you're listening to me
Oh God if you’re not.
 Apr 2021
Terry O'Leary
Like God amassing gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
vain potentates, possessed by pride that riches will confer,
depleted pillaged villages in pagan days of old…
With ******* privileges, their fortunes were foretold.

In feudal times, chaste clerics, cloaked, wrapped rings around the mind
with hymns of magic, mystic myths and figurines enshrined,
while blessing bayonet-like blades that mutilate and maim…
With ******* privileges, believers bore no blame.

In search of caramel colonies, some sailors set their sails
to conquer puppet provinces, for sovereignty prevails,
purloining wicked treasure troves which others claimed their own…
With ******* privileges, such sins sustained the throne.

Well, nowadays the quest proceeds, this time for ebon oil,
so peoples once again are caught within the serpent’s coil
and, pierced by fangs of greed and lust, death yields benign escape…
With ******* privileges, you’re free to rip and ****.

We wave the flags and beat the drums and often kneel to pray
to glorify our victories, bold, that happen far away;
but none salute the severed souls impaled upon a pike…
With ******* privileges, the riffraff look alike.

One day the moguls won’t agree on how to slice the pie;
they’ll spit and spat and, ***-for-tat, atomic barbs will fly -
but when the button’s finally pressed, they too will grace the heap…
With ******* privileges, the hole that’s hewn is deep.
Just a few lines for my mate M.'s amusement and diversion  
; - )
 Nov 2018
Traveler
When this madness first set in
It only made sense
To search out a good diagnostician
Trustingly sharing my story
With strangers with degrees
Quickly realizing no clinician  
Could fix what's alien me

I search for someone wise and trained
Instead I found myself slowly drowning
In a system of judgmental rain  
My very heart and soul an open subject
Sharing my uncommon delusions
Over and over explaining
My poetic conclusions

Yet those who have never ever lived a rhyme
Are prone to leave the unexplained behind
Who simply label you from a book
Quickly stop reading and give you that look
A book of broken soul’s
They write ya a prescription and send ya home
............................................................­...................
Traveler Tim
(Honestly don't remember writing this)
 Aug 2018
Wk kortas
There is, one supposes, a certain nobility
In simply carrying on with the whole **** thing,
Though that assumes some epiphany,
Some clawing toward grace, or at least common decency.
He had, in some once upon a time,
Cast his lot with a better class of people, so to speak;
It had not ended well, though,
In line with how such things are resolved,
His fall not a spectacular, tempestuous thing,
But a gradual, veiled affair, not a fiery spectacle
With metaphorical medals cut away, epaulets stripped,
But a shaded silence, a shrouded yet palpable shunning.

And so he is here, in this fading little city
Perched forlornly on the banks of a nondescript little river,
Having taken an apartment above a pair of offices
(One occupied by a seemingly ancient and disinterested lawyer,
The other by an ostensible private investigator)
Which is sufficiently large and reasonably warm
Come the seemingly perpetual winter.
He lives, if not in such a manner
As he was once accustomed to, comfortably enough:
He has his practice, and an adjunct position
At the little cow college down the road in Alfred,
And there are the occasional women,
Sad divorcees marooned in this hill country,
Dewy-eyed undergraduates unable to discern
Suit coats that are a bit shabby and somewhat passe
(There is a haberdasher in Buffalo whose garments
Are in the neighborhood of up-to-*****,
And he could certainly manage a trip
Down to New York for better tailoring,
Though he would be traveling in places and circles
Where he is not remembered fondly.)
Stepping outside, he encounter snowflakes,
Light and unprepossessing,
But he studies the sky anxiously, apprehensively
(One learns that he must pay Nature its due fealty in these climes,
And give into the primal, the instinctual)
For he knows what can transpire
When the wind blows off the big lake out west just so,
Turning innocuous flurries into a malevolent blankness,
Making the landscape inscrutable, alien, utterly terrifying.
**** Diver was the male protagonist in Fitzgerald's final completed novel, Tender Is The Night.  Not unlike his progenitor, his landing was not a particularly soft one
 Jul 2018
Mike Adam
Shattered the
Glassy
Intellect

And conjoined

Once more

Universal flow

Of rain
+stars
+snow

+the strange
Movement of
Moons

And nebulae

+

God?
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