Oct 18 Carmen Sutherland

Life, in its essence is made of poetry.

If you are be able
To paint the picture
On the canvas,
anything can be poetry.

Therefore, put less emphasis on
being poetically correct,
but instead more effort on
Just being poetic.

@jobiranyc (10/12/2017)

Seize the day
I thank the Lord
For making it that way

I wake ready to start my day
A clean slate listening to Gods will
Clear minded with much to say

I walk the dogs each day
They are ready to explore
Sitting by the door in their special way

I praise God for giving me today
30 shades of green a tranquil walk
Visiting the neighbors, dog do talk

The return home is the same each day
The dogs walk slower wanting to run and play
Fresh air, wind in my ,hair without a care

Creative juices flowing, I walk and pray
Rejuvenated and ready
To start my day


This came to me while walking the dog. I live at the base of a mountain quiet tranquil spiritual I am blessed to start my days with such splendor

Do we think we know more then God
Many no longer believe there is a God

So Why are we afraid
And we are all afraid of something

We have no reason to be frighten
the comfort is in the Lord

IF you truly believe
there's nothing to be frightened of

"How is it you have no faith" Jesus asks
(Holy Bible)

Humanity is falling apart
Many have hardened their heart
They no longer believe

How can we justify the murder of more then  
58 million unborn babies since 1973
That is more deaths
Then all the wars put together

We must stop now

We ask for mercy killing of the elderly
Dr. Kavorian the killer of the old

We must stop now

When German parents have been imprisoned and fined for withholding their children from sex education class that teaches 9 year olds how to have sex (including homosexual sex)

We must stop now

When medical staff in Sweden and Portland have been fired for refusing to perform abortions because of their faith

We must stop now

Around the world pastors and clergy
are feeling the heat by refusing  to perform same-sex marriages

We must stop now

Look around the world human trafficking ,: terrorists senseless killings
the war is in our shopping malls, at concerts

We must stop now

Lack of belief leads our society down a round where morals are no longer present

The line between right and wrong
is no longer blurred it's completely gone

We must stop now

Wide is the path of many
that leads to distraction
narrow is the path of few
that lead to righteousness

We must stop now

The Christians who walking the path of righteousness are ridiculed as prejudice, close minded,  attacked for their beliefs
Christians are to be tolorent to the sinners

What is happening in the world when right is wrong and wrong is right

We must stop now

These facts come from a the book of Revelation decoded and the holy Bible

If I can imagine it I can make it

Just as poetry flows freely

So does my need to create something

To take random objects
a doll dress made  Made out of
paper mache lace  lots of embellishments
Always the small imbellishments the small
Details that take it over the top

Crocheting a blanket from several different patterns creating an one of a kind original

A  fairy made of wire, a wooden ball embroidery thread and a silk flower

Victorian Dresden Christmas
ornaments from 1890 those are my favorite
In the olden days things were made by hand
They didn't have store bought ornaments they were keepsakes, memories of years gone By

I can see a picture then bring it to life
Or make it from an idea in my head

I have made something for all to see
it was within me and will always be

It's such a rush to have that Finnish project
Knowing I made that

It's strange to know so much creativity lives
Within me yet others can't do the same

They see a thing as it is  I see all the  possibilities
Of what it can become
Perhaps I'm making my own keepsake

I'm working on three different projects right now forget all the things I need to get done at the end of the day I get a chance to create something new after all isn't that what poets do?

A theory at birth the human min is a blank slate
We teach our child to; love, live, hurt, and hate

  Prejudice judgments, we make them
often every day
Yet, we are embarrassed when our children repeat what we say

We blame others when our children regurgitate
Children are sponges they listen,learn, reverberate    

To say your child didn't here or understand You
Its' irresponsible to have that point of view

Music, TV , friends, inappropriate behavior is all around
Truth be told Christian values are hard to be found

Your child was a gift entrusted  to your care
We live in a time when evil is everywhere

We are molding young minds into who they will be
We need to be diligent good against evil only time can foresee

Years ago I was taking like two-year-old daughter to daycare and she was singing along Song on the radio  
"I love a good beer buzz early in the morning All I want to do is have some fun  I get a feeling I'm not the only one "
She was attending a Christian daycare that was  a wake up call

We pour out our hearts in our work
We ask for crocetive critic
No a boastful jerk

We give so much information about who we are
Sometimes the subjects are sensitive by far

The writer may have a hard time being objective
yet we want the reader to be subjected

Do you see through the poet Eyes
the reason for the vivid imagery wise

I benefit from knowing your age
it assists my thought proces, as a gauge

Every ten years a person changes 100%

Birth to ten, it is easy to see
Ten to twenty, the mindset invincibility

I am six years into my fifth life
lived, loved, a mother and wife, happiness, anger, and Strife

The more we know about the poet
Helps us understands the poem as we know it

As we get older we realize how little we know
understanding there's so much more room to grow

So please fill out your bio age
and all the information you want to share
so we can review your poem with competent care

I would not give the same at information to 16-year-olds as I would a 30-year-old it does matter as a point of reference where you are in life
I'm not trying to be intrusive So if you get out so if you're not comfortable on an exact age perhaps a range say in the 20s , or your teens
that still gives a point of reference

does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~

while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a

oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection

False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.

^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
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