#thumbs
Where is Voltaire now that we need him?
The Age of Enlightenment, also know as the Age of Reason, was a full-blown burgeoning of reason in Europe in the 17th and 18th centurys.
By 2020, we have just begun what I call The Age Of Unenlightenment, or Worse, an immmoral retrograde not seen since the days of Corligula, a dystopian era ushered into our global society by a sodden driver named **** Trump who crashes through his pretentious entrance of **** Trump Tower on 5th Avenue. Now that myrmydon Cohen has just been released from prison because of the pandemic threat, let him clean up the mess in the morning.
In the meantime, the November elections loom. Costa Rica or New Zeland? With the Russians contriving and the Repuplications suppressing, **** Trump could get illegallally re-elected. If that were to happen, I would not wish to spend another nanosecond in this corrupt, criminal country. New Zealand or Costa Rica?
The Worse, you ask? Take your pick. Catastrophic climate change or nuclear holocaust. At least the results of either will not be rigged.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 1:58 PM UTC
In our family, we have green thumbs,
We've grown our share of oxygen,
Now if every pleb had a green thumb,
They could grow gardens of oxygen!
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 3:35 AM UTC
Poetic Advice
Don't stab yourself
If you don't want to bleed
Don't focus on what you want
If what you want isn't what you need
If you take care of the seeds you planted
Your plants won't be taken for granted
So never plague yourself,
If you don't know how to heal yourself
Don't hate yourself,
If you don't understand
what you feel in yourself
When you can't take a stand
And your foundation feels like sand
Reach for the outstretched hand
that is waiting for you to make a plan
It's like inspiration on demand
Your time is your life
To clean the ***** knife
That stabs you and leaves you rusted
And Infects all things once trusted
Treat your wounds
Don't allow them to grow
Don't regret the scars
You reap what you sow
If you are unable to find your place
And unable to recognize your face..
Give a gaze into a mirror
And bring forth all that you fear
Write it on the glass
Then give it a smear
Nothing is too far
if you work to keep it near
Your inner fight
Creates the light
Light that cuts ties
Opening closed eyes
That'll give you a new view
And show you what to do
See the world in the light
Give yourself an open line of sight
Sometimes when you travel you just gotta calm down and smile
Because you have the ability to give an effort to every mile...
:)
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
The flower's beauty
gains strength only from the ****
that it overcomes
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
When I tried to bring my thumbs to type to you
They trembled and ******
Because even my own hands knew better than to try to reach you again.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
He weeps his heart, and hangs his head,
He doubles back, and follows her back to bed,
She says, " Some homes are towns and lives, while others wear their homes inside." And he keeps up though he's kept out, the volatile, the sudden frown.
She makes up the cupcakes but they're never vegan are they? No they're never vegan are they?
He makes a gift, and wrings his thumbs, the bubble bath, the tepid tub,
Outside where the rains have gone long, something gives him something strong,
And he picks up where he had left off, the trouble is he doesn't know when to back off, and the cupcakes aren't vegan, sweet and such spectacular, but they really aren't eaten, now that they've been made with eggs. No the cupcakes aren't vegan, though they are quite delicious. And he loves her forever, though he never eats again. No he never eats again. No he never eats again.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
I didn't know you were a piano player.
This fact only came up while my palms burned
with anticipation as I reached out into the stillness,
searching for your hands. I found them beneath sheets
and cold promises, where the fingers were dancing
and the nails were scratching and you were looking to have a good time.
You're good at playing the blues.
A man by the name of Skye told me you knew all about snatching secrets
from the moon, and as I felt the scars and scratches along your callous, quick fingers, I knew this was true.
Your eyes never looked down at what you played, which is probably how they ended up this way: scarred and burned and stained a dark red. I
never found out why you liked to play music so dark that it did
nothing but leave bruises, ones you tried to wash away with
old wash cloths and chardonnay. Or why your nickname was *****
even though your mother named you Vivian. Or why you sold me those
tickets to that band you dreamed of seeing. Or why your hands started
shaking whenever you were near me. Or why I'm in love with your fingers,
and all the notes they've played and touched and stole.
I don't mind the fact that their skin is burdened with slices of depressed,
quiet peace, or the way your eyes turn blue even though they're supposed
to be green.
I can only hope in the wake of all these sad revelations, that your fingers will remain on those black and white keys, and tomorrow you'll still be playing.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC