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 Jul 2023 Seranaea Jones
Traveler
I don't get along
with my own rage
mostly I disassociate
rather then engage

Still my rage is in here
looking for a breach
of all my multi intelligence
rage is the hardest to teach!

Let me take a moment
to navigate this maze
there's so much more to living
than some festering heated rage

No one need reminding
rage can be quite blinding
but I am not a complete slave
I will keep my rage
caged!
(and off your page)
Traveler Tim
 Jul 2023 Seranaea Jones
Traveler
My children got into a hateful fight, they tried to hurt eachother with all their might.
My heart was breaking as I broke them up.
Fist were flying in a loss of love..
Oh god I know now just how you feel and why going to war is against your will.
Traveler šŸ§³ Tim
I'm waterproof positive:
This may be John Hawkins's ship
But I've no idea why that matters.

This is disease infested waters,
And piracy is highly contagious,
I should know.

I grew up on the same street as money,
But he migrated to Los Angeles,
Where there was greater curb appeal.

This life is a house of stairs,
And no one walks
The plank better than me.

But all too soon
This old vessel is firewood
And tread board.

It might be the new world,
But the pilgrims are covered
In Spanish moss,
Mixed warning signs on their hats.

We pirates are forgetful escapists,
Doing high wire acts at sea,
To harbor regret is to mutiny
In thy heart,
I should know.
But I don't.

Seems my mind has gone
And given me the slip,
Meet me for a pint
At the Crooked Wig
And we'll talk shop...

Maybe.
Been sitting in my drafts for 2 years. Thought I would free it...
I just ate
The last
Of the
Rocky Road
Out of the carton
Eating
My feelings away...
There wasn't much left
For me
Inadvertantly Contributed
he wanted hisĀ Ā masterpieces
to hang in churches
throughout the world,
the clarity,
the emotions,
the details.
ah, Raphael

the symphonic poems of Franz List
his strophes and antistropes
linger in the ears
for centuries

the depraved bukowski
collecting numerous rejection slips
hated the rules
created his own rules

and 64,000 years ago
in caves,
the vibrant colors,
the fearsome predators,
the herds racing,
the sense of motion
that still moves us,
and deep in that cave
the stenciled human hands
a woman's hands

and i'm every dog
that ****** on every mailbox and tree
to let the other dogs know I've been here
Dads are people sons never
forget, for good or bad and
when the son is gone there
is no one to remember the
father. Say for some fading
black and white photos in a
scrap book: "That was your
great grandfather. He fought
in the war. People called him
Bud, but his real name was
Wyett with an E. He taught
me to cast a fly in a mountain
stream and tune the engine
in my first car, and not to lie."

My grandsons almost grown
are good and loving chaps, but
never ask me about their Great
Grandfather. Out of sight, out of
mind, I guess. Maybe I am the last
to remember or care. Our touchstones
to the past are frail at best.
Yes, on this day and everyday
I remember my Father with the
same love he bestowed upon me.
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