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Veera 3d
Bric-a-brac high on a shelf, it might fall
On a floor with no carpet, might break and be gone.
It may slither, get lost, or be taken away;
Nevertheless, it just can't walk away.
It may gather dust, be moved, kept in hands, or removed
Somewhere else when the owner does not want to look.
Bric-a-brac is sometimes boring; it stands there so still,
Does not change by the hour its colors or kin.
It stays in one place with ease and a smile,
Happy to be someone's honor and pride.
It exists with no thoughts or dreams to become—
It is what it is, no less and no more.
After sunset, it is all the owner could want,
But by sunrise, sometimes they are gone all day long.
Bric-a-brac is still there; it's excited to be,
Unaware that the world might be cruel to it.
One day they could get used to it and throw it away,
Or resell for a penny, yet it's priceless, per se.
As for now, they admire its thinnest white skin:
It looks shiny afar, but too dull from within.
Bric-a-brac's just a vessel; it's hollow inside.
It contains what is gifted, spills back multiplied.
There are rainbows and lights if it's given some love,
Yet it is moved by an inch only once in a while.
It took ages to get in possession and own;
More time, too, has passed to trust in return.
Expected to be now a quiet trinket on a wall
Instead of a purpose: to be someone's all.
29.01.25
Sometimes I tend to be a catalyst,
Carrying things to light,
Rooting them deep where they belong.

Nothing bad,
It's what I do,
I'm proud to ferry,
The things they carry.
pilgrims Jun 11
Creating majesty with the maggots.
Creatures crawling in the filth
will always have a feast.
Grabbing the greatest and the least
decay persists.
Get comfortable with chaos.
Create
Somethings are just golden,
Even if gold doesn't stay,
Somethings don't fade away.

I am golden,
An idea that refuses to fade,
I am brave.
Writing prompt idea;
What is most important to you?
Nat Lipstadt May 30
~for George Harrison~

Very

soon George, I am bound for
a stilled shaded land, a tiny isle,
which knows the
all encompassing fog,
hurricanes wrath that days linger,
and though memorable,
never the first image recalled,

but a mind's eye video of
a perpetual sunset,
agonizing silenced colored fantasies of farewells,
each unique and alike though all things must pass,
a benign benefit comfort suckled this old man's
never fully at rest visions,

for the sunset is perfect perpetual,
always setting, never settling,
ever bound to surprise,
our farewell is another's welcoming,
and each of our days an
A-1 slicked continuum,
a sliding circularity
and
we sigh, ooh & aah
at it miracality,
its genteel reawakening
we admit with pleasured honesty,
yes, sunsets are a corridor edged,

somewhere it is always sunset,
nevereverending,
and its farewells
are truly truthful welcomings


<*>

Shelter Island
May 2025
a returning to rebirthing
<>
All Things Must Pass
Song by George Harrison

Overview
Lyrics
Sunrise doesn't last all morning
A cloudburst doesn't last all day
Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning
It's not always gonna be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
Sunset doesn't last all evening
A mind can blow those clouds away
After all this, my love is up and must be leaving
It's not always gonna be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
None of life's strings can last
So I must be on my way
And face another day
Now the darkness only stays the night-time
In the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time
It's not always gonna be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
None of life's strings can last
So I must be on my way
Face another day
Now the darkness only stays the night-time
In the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time
It's not always gonna be this gray
All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
All things must pass away
Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: George Harrison
All Things Must Pass lyrics © Westminster Music, Harrisongs Ltd
MuseumofMax May 30
I wear a paper crown and a blanket as a robe

I bare my big front teeth with a grin

My voice echoes when I roar

My feet stomp carelessly, shaking the floor


I am not a king, possibly a prince?

I am wild and unruly and untamed

I am loud and rude and mean

Yet my fur is soft and my heart is clean


I am Max - or Maxine

King - or prince

of the Wild Things
Nat Lipstadt May 30
~for George Harrison~

Very

soon George, I am bound for
a stilled shaded land, a tiny isle,
which knows the
all encompassing fog,
hurricanes wrath that days linger,
and
though memorable,
never the first image recalled,

but a mind's eye video of
a perpetual sunset,
agonizing silenced colored fantasies of farewells,
each unique and alike though all things must pass,
a benign benefit comfort suckled this old man's
never fully at rest visions,

for the sunset is perfect perpetual,
always setting, never settling,
ever bound to surprise,
our farewell is another's welcoming,
and each of our days an
A-1 slicked continuum,
a sliding circularity
and
we sigh, ooh & aah
at it miracality,
its genteel reawakening
we admit with pleasured honesty,
yes, sunsets are a corridor edged,

somewhere it is always sunset,
nevereverending,
and its farewells
are truly truthful welcomings


<*>

Shelter Island
May 2025
a returning to rebirthing
jewel May 5
the cold bites back, and the wind does not exist in
sunny california. difference? between
cloudy and gloomy. it's wet and there's ice,
and i'm dressed in nothing but jeans, blue wool, crocs,
admiring a closed loan shop, no street tacos yet,
but a pizza shop firing up their stoves, ovens,
the yeast and olive oil pressed into bowls of
dough, to form nothing but endless
platters and platters of margaritas, pepperoni,
a side of breadsticks.

a man curls up like a kitten seeking warmth on a
bus bench, waiting for the great big fireball to
embrace everything again.
but it is winter, creeping into the shadows,
into my blankets, into nighttime when the rain begins
to clean up when no one else is awake

the moon smiles fondly, and the insomniacs
find solace in the peace of night, when their time
is in no one else's hands but their own,
not in the hands of their mother, warm by
observing the rest of the world
from their perch like a ****** of crows
waiting for the next fallen fry or crumb that
falls in their line of sight

there’s a woman walking, in her mid thirties
and holding a bag of tomatoes, i think
it's not coincidence; she looks like an aunt or
grandma i've seen at church, and there’s a
man probably in his twenties who trails after her
not far like a son
copyrighted, poemsbyjewel (2025).
Zywa Apr 25
All things are still lives

in themselves, unpretentious --


what they are there for.
Novel "Het Bureau - Meneer Beerta" ("The Office - Mister Beerta", 1996, Han Voskuil), 1957 (page 33)

Collection "Not too bad"
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