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David R 15h
everyone is the writer
of a masterpiece
written not with typewriter,
pen or quill of geese
rather this work is scribed
with kindness and good deeds
the goodness that's been imbibed
by fufilling others' needs,
its pages are the minutes 'n hours
that've been wisely spent
a garden full of rare flowers
emitting perfumed scent
this is their magnum opus,
not some dusty tome,
recording a person's true focus
whilst this world was home
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
David R 1d
there was an old lady from York
who used to screech and squawk
when asked the why
of this heinous cry
she answered because i'm a stork

now, this strange old lady from York
who believed that she was a stork
decided one day
to start eating hay
on a plate with a knife and a fork

when friends offered her some fish
she pushed firmly away the dish
i'm vegetarian
not a barbarian
but i'll eat some eggs if you wish

now i'd like to continue this rhyme
about this bird maritime
or rather this lady
of intelligence shady
but i'm afraid it's reached my bedtime

so, kind reader, as you're still reading
and curious to know where this is leading
feel free to write
something to delight
to give this story the end that it's needing
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
David R 2d
there is a breed, let's call them x,
that i often fail to understand,
for some strange reason i make them vex
whatever i do or had planned

it's as if they're different wired
from all others that i know
i can never do what's required
for me my love to show

why can't they be reasonable
is not a question i may ask
for reason is not teachable
to them an impossible task

there's no reason for the spurn
for the yearn for control-stick
so i think i will never learn
what truly makes them tick
David R 2d
the blackbird does as blackbird should
he sings the morn in view
and at dusk, as sun dons hood,
farewell's the day's deep blue

and though the sloth seems lazy,
a-snoozing in the tree,
a sleep that might seem crazy
to you and to me

a sloth does as sloth is,
he cannot other be,
much as the black moth is
nocturnal frequentee

during the day, he lies under
leaf of vegetation,
it's all a part of the wonder
of G-d's machination

it's just man that has a say
in how he spends his hour,
he may choose to be gay
blithesome as a flower

or saturnine and severe
without a hint of cheer,
though DNA may play a part
man is ruler of his heart
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
David R 4d
the cackle of the cattle
fed with lies and hey
as they rally for the battle
though they know they'll rue the day

as they charge with bloodshot eyes
fill the skies with bloodthirst cries
pound the earth with their thunder
as they take to roads to plunder

blind to reason, cries of treason
fill the air with every season
burning fires o' midday summer
winter's cold, deathly slumber

autumn's crimson as blood spilt
flaming hail in spring rainfall
as the sword unleashed from hilt
as the tiger crouched to maul

unified as one body
unified with one intent
unified with colours gaudy
following unnatural bent

eyes fixated, baited breath
saturated with venom'd death
hell-bent on genocide
heedless to fratricide

as an instrument o' ******
hypnotised by call of herder
exhilaration when they hear
'nother corpse added to bier
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
’Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit’s cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.

                                        These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man’s life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

                                                    If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro’ the woods,
      How often has my spirit turned to thee!

  And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, not any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.—And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

                                         Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary ******* of daily life,
Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
David R 4d
i write with faltering pen, no wisdom,
dip my nib in tears and blood
write in anguish and despair
as floundering ship not knowing where

it's headed in waters turbulent 'n rough
frothing, a storm unseen foretold
gnashing teeth of sharks rebuff
surrounding, grinning, as friends of old

blinded youth with no insight
stumble aimless in the dark
mistaking mirage for real light
shark's teeth for lighthouse spark

the ship has lost its rudder
there's no wheel at the helm
at the slightest shudder
the sea'll overwhelm

the sailors with the people
who've forgotten how to swim
paid no thought to the ripple
now the outlook's grim

i'm not so concerned of their survival,
they'll weather out this storm,
it's just that soon may come a tidal
wave, bubble bursting, losing form

in a moment, all is lost,
with no vision, ship is tossed
as a match, save Grace's Hand
lead them back to soul and land.
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