I know I'll miss these times once they're sung
The days are busy when they're so young
Little ones that pull on skirts,
Teeny ones held in your shirt

Selflessness we must meet, in order to be built
Recline in the sun's heat, spring flowers bloom and wilt

Everything in its time, these moments will pass
Change another bedsheet, sacrifice and submit
Slow and let your eyes meet, let these sweet moments sit
Everything in its time, these moments will pass

A love so natural, it will not be ignored
It flurries us to higher places and with the air it swings
A love so natural, it demands to be poured
So deep it actually aches, singing sweetly while it stings

Offenses laughable, their silly peccadillos I secretly smile at
Yet they are teachable, I'll raise them to face the world and evil to combat

Innocent little transgressions
My dearest little possessions
I rebuke, I correct, the love goes on, I'll cherish our time while here
Time feels ensconced, but with the dawn, our time will have disappeared

There is a fragrance
Remembered in its bloom time
Lilac yet made whole

The evidence reviewed, this  a half time later.
"a man can
make up his"
own mind, my, me mine
myme mine mymemine nine iterations,

expand the basic concepts of topological
space time, in the neighbourhood
south of all three bridges into Saigon, on the roof

Make it up, make it all up, and wait fifty years.
Whiteface.
And the mime in the street keeps the beat
silently reciting Kerouakoan streams.
'Tryna get to sunny Californy' -
Boom.

Canned Heat, sterno still, sip it,  get back
Beatles became something akin
to a window left open now
fifty years, since January 1969, Radioman
and Tom Green on the Panasonic
music from the other side… the joke
'Look Fred, that man by the road'
Some *** fiend got in print in 1968

Get back, Jack. And that

started the whole world crying,
from the commonwealth to common woe,

-- Interesting times upon us, oh yeh

A hook, in a song,
Forty Million Frenchmen Can't be Wrong
- ah, allusion, get back, prophecy
- right, fifty years ago today, soon
- Ringo says Forty Million Churchills, back then
or late, lately as the topo-logical-ournearity
gets back to optimum
later there, we were, on the roof
of that old fishnet factory
dangled there before, me,
the deal, if you want it, come and get it
better hurry cause it's goin fast,
ping
ricochet -
Highschool History, 1963,
Forty Million Frenchmen can't be wrong?

What does that mean? I asked
Miss Dinas, who was plump, and cheery,
and she lived with Miss Some-name
I forgot
to notice, due to, the clue
in the way Miss Dinas winked, that one time,
not
at me, when she said
Forty Million Frenchmen Can't be Wrong.
-- look away
Some squared away artist cries, stop the lies!
Gray-ace, go fish
Wordsworth,
happy soldier character- no, Fernando- a bull
ABBA , not winking - snorting
at me, when she said
feed your head,
autistic community, com-unionize AI
timeandspace
re-
alize the musical, a means of saying things,
silly, silent
hints of splendor in the grass,
and weeds, and black-eyed suzannes,
growing in the road,
Tobacco Road,
down at the end of town, where
skid row hits the river,
long and wide,

milk and Hohner on t'othaside
sharp hone mama
Sioux wee, Sioux e- baby, be my baba now,
Humbaba, guard
my forest
sein, mein, wine and rosy days being wise
in thine own eyes,

as we warned, eh/ wahrrmmmnned edu
mcate edumacation, the deal was…
I was to learn to
become a maker of papermoney clips
from plastic straws on a trus'line, about to rupture
and spill guts
on gumption swallowed whole.
-------------------
Koans and Cohen and all
-- If it had been my will
I'd a been so dead, so long ago, I'd be
as if I'd never been,
-- If it had been my will

True rest, needs a weary mind,
to weigh its worth,
hangdown yo' head, Tom Green, duely done
do tie yer Jimmie Lee Jackson
Bronc Rider Trophy Buckle to m'line
let it out
come think a mile with me, let's
see what come to mind.

--whistle break
-- heads abobbin, we rock on, Sisyphus
the first,
agreed we got the message in the medium
evolved by will worship alone,
rock on, roll on un
aided, no doubt by the spirit advisor
to old Abraham Lincoln's jot on the margin
"a man can
make up his"… hmmm, his own mind, hmmm

wouldjaremind me, what was I thinkin'
"a man can
make up his mind to be as happy as he is…"

Free to be. I think free to be alive, maybe,
Lincoln was athinkin'
as a we, the people agree we do have title right
to life, awe
ja,
and liberty, I suppose, we must define, to refine,
down to the gilt around the frame,
on the back side, wasted glitter, thin film of actual gold
well
I'll be, did you ever see the like, a
con-
jurer or a presti-digital simulacrum truckin' on and on
sayin' come on
sing old songs, ones we ever
learned again
today
what you never thought possible, just a minute
ago,
as we ponder the effect of a silly millimeter longer
rising in a ribbon
past lips of an apple green shade,

Do you want to smell the Flowers

Be in the moments of each day

Receive beauty life offers

And experience your own bouquet



Where do you draw in such fragrance

In a World of many concerns

Simply search your heart My Friend

Look beyond the twists of fern



As the hedge that surrounds Your Sanctuary

Grows a little out of control

Then prune it back carefully

Your Flower needs to be on show



To other beautiful Flowers

That bloom all around

Grateful for Inspiration

In fertile ground!



(c) Debra Lea Ryan, 1st Draft:19/11/06

Edit- 05/03/09 & 05/04/09

to be the kind of person
who will glimpse
the cherry blossom tree
beautifully delicate
in its early bloom
fluttering the palest pink
against a fragile white
desperate against even
the gentlest of breeze
but only observe
the black and the white
of what the premature
might mean for later
commenting how soon
these branches will lose
their graceful lustre
no longer to inspire
those hopeful wanderers
only to appear barren
and lifeless once again

This and my next two posts are in reverse creation order,
this is the last panel in a tryptic of three novel scenes.
------------ this was Feb, 22, 2024

Used to be, as we were
used to become, repeatedly,

time sensitives using time
as using any used concept, used
by users
to bring use to usefullness, in time.

As we are used, our complexities
crease our faces with wrinkles
we use to make smiles.

------------------

Thousands, now millions,
then billions and trillions, too much,
unhoned use, dull use, dishonest use

-busy work to earn right to life
-breathe,
-hard parts's over, let it roll....

so we stop counting hours per dollar
and marvel at the cost of being
obligated to share the debt,
owed gravity,
giving minutes where seconds are plenty,
about a dollar each…
converted on the exchange
in  second thoughts.

------------------

Right use,
righteous, right.

The ideal right. Never wrong.

Like sunshine, or stars…

and gravity, and contravening winds,
laws of temperature
and pressure, pre judged within tolerance
too minute to contemplate, indeed,

as with the inner working of everything,
once done, duration makes no sense,

to mortal sensibilities, our assisting intell
sources leak inside information, gut level

response to provocation, my vocation
manifests, yes, blurts

stop.
This is insanity, and I smile to myself,
aware,
I aimed at totally insane, and hit it,

on the spot, nailed it where up and down
cross left and right, there it was,

or is, more precisely, insanity. Stopped.

My self imposed duty done. I stopped it.

I am the monkey wrench. For a second.
Must mean...
-------------------
...
my tools include
sentient wrenches,
sentient plumber tools,
used artistically as the
monkey wrench
in the works
with an Iberian,
artist at café, in tiny
John Lennon glasses,
callouses on his *******...
real deal, pre Adobe Illustrator
whose pen and inks I think I saw,

but in another course through time,

historicity, in fact, is a material invention,
a feminine fullfilled mind's inspiration,

we exist in no time at all, from historical
perspectives exalted to points of view,

from which opinions as to how worth is
weight of something, relative to another.
Balance life in time on instants
in prayer, faith, step taken
instants thanking nexting
step by step, expecting next time….

Worth of a minute spent thinking second
thoughts used as tools, slight smile, soft aha,

leverage our speculation,
ask who has nothing
to do for days on end, but the wealthy good

among the commoner sorts and types and classes.

Weal and woe, both, we believe lack

recipes to fix broken promises to child prayers.

Blessedness declared, nationally.
Given in the ritual,
alright alrise, alrecite, I pledge…
--we did
yes, to ****, at the will of my commander,
and I understand my link to the chain,
--we
brains hardwired from childhood
to handle a pen,
experience ambidexterity while qwerty keying,
left and right,
order and beauty click, feel
minds combined.

We am I, and I am alone,
then I think of you, and now, and this device,

this magic pen, silly me,
anachronisms are my weakness.

We are the monkey wrench.

Beneath the blossoms of Sakura's grace,
Where petals dance in a delicate embrace,
I found myself under nature's sweet spree,
A moment that sparked a love so free.

Amidst the cherry blossoms, pink and white,
Our hearts entwined in the soft twilight,
Whispers of love, like a gentle breeze,
Caressed our souls under blooming trees.

In the garden of dreams, where passion sowed,
Love flourished, a tender seedling that glowed,
Underneath the petals, where dreams took flight,
Illuminated by the soft, ethereal light.

You, my dear, were the essence of spring,
A melody that made my heart sing,
Blossoms fell around us like confetti,
As we embraced the beauty of love's decree.

Through the open window, love wafted in,
Like the fragrance of flowers on the wind,
Inside my house, a garden of emotion,
Blossoming love, a sweet devotion.

Your laughter echoed like a songbird's call,
In the sanctuary of our love-filled hall,
As Sakura's magic touched our abode,
The walls whispered tales of a love bestowed.

So, under the Sakura, our love did bloom,
A vibrant tapestry in nature's grand room,
I ask you now, with a heart sincere,
Will you be my spring, year after year?

For as the blossoms fade and seasons turn,
Our love, like Sakura, will forever burn,
A timeless dance in the garden of fate,
Where our hearts entwine, in love's estate.

Her heart could heal
the heather,
Even in the colder weather's grip -
snapping the bony, brittle twigs
And sparkling sharply on abandoned leaves -
She could find her ease
On the downy carpet of the diseased,
Gather their lost limbs
Like a forgiveness-
That warm welcome of forget.
She could rest her head,
And bloom,
Bright blossom gazing up at the moon
More often than the sun,
Her fire blazing on -
A little hearth, among the heather
Warming roots in the
Colder months.

Every day with you, a tale unfolds,
Awakening hearts like buds at dawn,
Blooming brightly through the noon,
Evoking smiles before first yawn,
Surprising us with night's full bloom.

Each day a fresh blossom unfurls its grace,
Each week a new *** of love to tend,
Each month, a fertile bed where dreams embrace,
A year with you, our colorful garden blend

Together, let's nurture this love so true,
As we watch the world around us bloom.