"annually" poems
The Sunflower is awfully bigheaded
For being so tall & gangly
With fiery blooms, rough around the edges
He’s quite a sight to see annually
He looks down upon all the other flowers
With his head so high in the sky
This makes the other flowers jealous
But they fail to realize the sunflower lives a lie
Because the problem with the sunflower
Is that he turns his back on the sun
Creating the misconception
That he does not need anyone
But through the circadian rhythm
His leaves continuously change
Eluding the very revelation
That the sunflower causes his own pain
So as the sun begins to set
The sunflower realizes what he’s done
He faces the darkness with much regret
Realizing he cannot live without the sun
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
I want to be your abacus baby,Oh you can count on me.
I wont say that i love you, or i heart you, I less than 3 you.
Your molecules must be moving fast,girl. Cause your really hot.
Are you igneous sedimentary or metamorphic? All i know is baby you rock.
And if god existed I'd thank him for you, but I'm rational and read a lot of Sam Harris.
Your beautiful like the font garamad,but i want to see you sandarac, take your pants off.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,
And i observe your quirks oscillating, and I'm formulating, a g-string theory..
Like an archeologist,I'm gonna try and compute your age. cause i really want to date you.
You make me feel like a male giraffe. I want to nudge your **** and make you urinate,and mate you.
Scientific fact,thats what they do.
The value of my love for you cannot be expressed exactly. More rational then Pi.
Hey **** is a legitimate word in scrabble, just FYI
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
You can **** me into your super massive black hole, the center of your galaxy. Im talkin ******
I may not be the strongest or the prettiest, but my knowledge of grammar shines.
I know how to use the words further and farther..correctly. Every fricken time.
Example:farther indicates physical distance
and further a depth or degree
example: the moon is getting farther from the earth
about 4 centimeters annually. Fun factoid,take it home with ya.
You just keep getting further into my heart.
You just keep getting farther into my heart.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,and if the situation is ambiguous, further and farther can be used interchangeably. Just a fun factoid.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
Baby i less than 3 you.
So please take off your pants.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
The heart works for the hard work,
beating constantly as targets are acquired.
Shots fired, money wired and payments aplenty.
Contacts signed, terms and conditions defined,
it could take time, but the ***** rolling.
Touch base as we reach for the stars,
customers in charge, their business is ours.
We roll monthly, comfortably in our own domains,
renew them annually again as the pattern remains the same.
Some days, it's a struggle to get out of the pit,
feeling burnout, lack energy for my daily workout.
The wage ain't great but the dividends could add up to millions.
Some are cynical but I won't listen to those opinions.
I treat my staff as people not minions.
No need for incidents were a team of individuals.
Passionate and driven creatures,
hidden features and secret keepers.
Let's get money and lets get paid,
Theres a million ways we can earn more than the minimum wage.
Let's raise the bar, the city is ours and the worlds not too far away...
Dream tomorrow and live today.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
China charges 1 million annually
For each panda in our zoos
If we won't pay in full
Then the pandas we will lose
Nasty Panda's the exception
No one wants him here or there
He was paid 1 million dollars
To abscond and disappear!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
I smelled him 'fore I seen 'em
That black and white pariah
Slippin' slidin' in my kitchen
On smooshy mushy pulp papaya
I yelled for him to stop
And I told him where to go
Wink and laugh was all he did
With a Homer Simpson "D'oh!"
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
He hasn't bathed in ages
Masked by quarts of cheap cologne
His furry skin sweat-sticky
From the surface to the bone
Smelly cigar and ***** breath
Plus an air of upper-crust
Please keep your kids away
Cuz that nasty bear can cuss!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
If you meet up with Nasty Panda
Better turn around and run
You're bound to lose your money
And your wits before he's done
Don't shed tears for Nasty Panda
Cuz he likes the way things are
Don't forget to hide your keys
Else he'll drive off in your car!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's a scoundrel and a ***
He's such a nasty panda
~He's as nasty as they come
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He's gonna raise a stink
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He's much nastier than you think
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 6:58 PM UTC
Algeria a rich land poor people,
Angola seems to have kings,
Benin is blessed with voodoo,
Botswana blood bulls diamonds,
Burkina Faso can't cope coups,
Burundi twelve years a slave,
Cape Verde has half a million,
Cameroon got cocoa,
Chad's lake is shrinking,
Comoros has under a million,
DRC is third largest,
Congo is it's neighbour with capitals facing,
Côte d'Ivoire has few elephants,
Djibouti's on the horn,
Egypt has mummy's,
Equatorial guinea struck oil in 95 but didn't loose change,
Eritrea has 5000 running annually,
Ethiopia's great rift is pretty ******
Gabon is subject to black gold,
Gambia got a peace of it after 65,
Great Ghana oasis of peace,
Guinea is diverse,
Bissau too,
Kenyans have beautiful smiles,
Lesotho is SA's baby,
Liberia oldest republic,
Libya needs liberty,
Madagascar where are the penguins!
Malawi has warm hearts,
Mali is 8th,
Mauritania is 11th,
Mauritius marvel,
Morocco fine leather,
Mozambique keeps the dugongs,
Namibia Windhoek ah,
Niger after a river,
Nigeria makes zuma rock,
Rwanda listen,
Sao tome and principe 2nd smallest,
Senegoals,
She sells Seychelles,
Sierra Leone free?
Somalia loose,
S. Africa reign,
South Sudan independent?
Sudan - black,
Swaziland more than solo men,
Tanzania trade,
Togo up down,
Two knees yeah,
Uganda teacher come simeon,
Zambia's peace?
Zimbabwe got rid of Mugabe.
Always thought zed was co.za but we're actually co.zm,
so what's zim?
One way we'll loose change is when the overseers begin to acknowledge the under looked.
-nyanta
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.
Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.
But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.
For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.
Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same
You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral ************
But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.
The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.
And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
I buried my father:
In the St. Augustine Cemetery
I visit at the old gravesite of the deceased annually
I saw the quiet grave keeper still standing there looking dazed and confused
By the looks of things:
My father resting place
still soaks up all the tears
My mother and other siblings said to me
That to visit any one grave site wasn’t their kind of thing
I buried my father underground: It have been so long
Since then, the birds would come to the house of my father
Looking for breadcrumbs from days old bread
The dead will not be forgotten, his name will lives on
When I was a toddler, he fed me white rice with butter
Sprinkled with black pepper and grated cheese:
With my weak voice I was say “thank you: he was so please
I buried my father in the St. Augustine cemetery
It’s one of the saddest places to visit,
Unlike seasonal passes tickets
So adjacent, those graves: so annoying those wild crickets
He might be far away from his home,
but not from our hearts
Everything on his grave seem so square and flat,
But the most outstanding piece was the letters that read
R.I.P: what I saw was (Rescue Innocent Perry)
Sometimes, I wondered about the dead
About their done deals: their final feast
I buried my father there, but not his memories
I saw the old mahogany tree still standing tall
the pieces of kindling wood, he made for grilling,
I will always remember him, and I know he might be
Thinking of me, his poetic daughter especially on that day
when I accompany him to cut the branches from the
old Mahogany tree, just to make backyard wood fire
For the family breakfast, lunch and supper
I buried my father: the naïve share cropper:
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
takin the load down the dirt road,
thinkin about the reggae girl me once loved,
boy did i like the way she rubbed,
i notice me rasta themed pants had a little bump,
me third leg was feelin a little stiff,
i decided to light me a little splif,
me started to rub thee bumb in me pant,
no way i was bout to stop, no way, no chance,
i feel a sensation, me son is Croatian,
me lost control of me rig and next ting ya kno,
me in the ditch wit at sticky hand,
me **** leg cost me 1900.00 annually in
insurance. me learned dat me dont
have much indurance. da lesson to be
learned is if your feeling an itch on ya
**** leg, pullover because if ya dont
you be broke as a reggae boy lost at sea
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
my mother always
used to stress
the importance
of opening my
mirrored closet
doors at night,
so they wouldn't
reflect my night-
mares back at
me;
"it's too much
sadness for
sleeping."
but i never listened,
feng shui being
another silly
pastime or
science fit for
housewives --
how wrong i
was with the
stars, perhaps
i am again
mistaken.
maybe if i had
just kept those
**** doors
open annually,
these putrid
thoughts of
mine would
escape into
the ethers and
fade into non-
existence instead
of polluting my
mind and dying
themselves.
listen to your
mothers.
nothing good
can come of
doing otherwise.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
Sometimes,
I think my conversations with You
pick up
when I put down the pen.
Other times,
I think You only communicate
through spitballs and passed notes.
I squiggle tick boxes
on college ruled lines to check
“yes” or “no,”
but You always end up eating the answer
when the Teacher is in ear shot because
sound carries faster than my sideway glances.
You say Your notes
are too loud for me to copy off of,
but I still can’t hear Your message
when we’re playing telephone at recess.
You avoided me on
the playground in grade school,
the hallways in junior high and
the cafeteria in high school,
so You can imagine my shock
when You asked to move into a one bedroom
with me in a concrete jungle gym
several miles away after graduation.
I have a four-year lease for this new place of mine
and You used to have a tendency to not stick around
when I needed You there the most,
but here You are now,
waiting patiently on the couch
holding two cups of coffee every morning
and two cups of wine every night.
You have left me with questions
that my tuition can’t cover and
that rent can’t afford,
so please understand that when I kick You out,
it’s not because You ate my groceries
or didn’t clean the bathroom;
it’s because the mess You made
for my parents to clean up
was too big to incorporate
in the chore list I left behind
when I used to live in blanket forts.
This is all hindsight,
but my vision gets checked annually
and optometrists say I’m going to be blind by thirty
if I keep wearing my contacts
during Marco Polo.
I keep telling them it’s impossible
to match where the sound
of Your voice is coming from,
so I keep my eyes shut
and my arms stretched out wide before me
to feel for Your presence.
They say that
keeping my eyes closed for too long isn’t safe
and that I should invest in glasses,
but my insurance doesn’t cover
another lens between Us
and I can’t afford to be separated
from You any longer.
Maybe someday,
You will gargle up all those
chewed up love notes
and questions
and I’ll find them below my tax returns.
Maybe someday,
You will pay me back
with more
than just a book fine.
Maybe someday,
I won’t need your change
to feel like
I’m worth something.
But, for now, I wait patiently,
writing with a pen
that ran out of ink
since the day You gave me hope
with a hushed
“maybe.”
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 10:43 PM UTC
The Gaelic uisce beatha.
The water of life.
The welcoming sting dances patterns on your reluctant pallet.
Trickles drops down drowning your fear and narrow mind.
The angels tax 4% to the barrel annually.
And we've stolen the devil's cut.
Heavy flow down my throat beseech me to ask for more.
Makes a monster out of me.
Forms my skin to tempered steel.
Turn me on once more.
My love, old no. 7.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
I’m going to Republican heaven,
Going to meet Republican Jesus
After I pay off my school loans
Whenever my banker pleases
To let me out of the contract
With its usurious interest fees
And I am sure I will get there
When I am down on my knees.
I’ll have my Republican Bible
With its verses edited wisely
To exempt all the white folk
From behaving quite nicely
And making sure welfare
Is only for rich white neighbors
The rest are not allowed in
Our society except as laborers.
I am sure that Republican Jesus
Will welcome me quite warmly
For supporting the death toll
Of our Christian Soldier army.
He will be so delighted that
We vilified ungodly abortions
And how we treated those awful
Poor mothers and their orphans.
He will have to be delighted
That we held back the riches
We gained from our warfare
Ignoring our soldiers in ditches
Or maimed in those battles
We know you wanted us to wage
In the name of Republican Jesus
Out of our holy sense of rage.
Republican Jesus surely will
See how cleverly we diverted
The money to the richest people
Not the soldiers we deserted.
And, how only the people who
Did not need help financially
Got all the extra wealth we had
And we made sure of it annually.
I’m going to Republican heaven,
Going to meet Republican Jesus
And I’m sure greed and bigotry
Will just tickle him to pieces
Because it says in the Bible
The only people who will get in
Are the people that look like me
And vote for all the same men.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
I’m going to Republican heaven,
Going to meet Republican Jesus
After I pay off my school loans
Whenever my banker pleases
To let me out of the contract
With its usurious interest fees
And I am sure I will get there
When I am down on my knees.
I’ll have my Republican Bible
With its verses edited wisely
To exempt all the white folk
From behaving quite nicely
And making sure welfare
Is only for rich white neighbors
The rest are not allowed in
Our society except as laborers.
I am sure that Republican Jesus
Will welcome me quite warmly
For supporting the death toll
Of our Christian Soldier army.
He will be so delighted that
We vilified ungodly abortions
And how we treated those awful
Poor mothers and their orphans.
He will have to be delighted
That we held back the riches
We gained from our warfare
Ignoring our soldiers in ditches
Or maimed in those battles
We know you wanted us to wage
In the name of Republican Jesus
Out of our holy sense of rage.
Republican Jesus surely will
See how cleverly we diverted
The money to the richest people
Not the soldiers we deserted.
And, how only the people who
Did not need help financially
Got all the extra wealth we had
And we made sure of it annually.
I’m going to Republican heaven,
Going to meet Republican Jesus
And I’m sure greed and bigotry
Will just tickle him to pieces
Because it says in the Bible
The only people who will get in
Are the people that look like me
And vote for all the same men.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 9:09 PM UTC
I have a store full
of old things, it is difficult
to ensure
that they are not sold
to snobs with no idea
of their real value
without the slightest idea
that it cannot be expressed
in their money
only in tax money, annually
to be collected for maintenance
and everything that comes with it
to have the works viewed
by those who are interested
and that can be anyone
which is hard to accept
for barbarians who get rich
from constant replacement
Sep 17, 2022
Sep 17, 2022 at 3:39 AM UTC
here’s the thing
nothing’s going to change
because the stars
are aligned some certain
way
or
that he’s or she’s
different
or
that a new year has
started
times are still the same
people are still the same old
fiddly ******** that they were
five minutes ago
and you,
above all
else,
are still the incompetent,
useless ******
you were
when the big apple hits the ground
it just means another day has started
if you wake up each day and do jack-shit
your not going to start being an astronaut
just cause the last number on the calendar
changed
and going back to what I started with
that horoscope isn’t going to bring you any luck,
that “perfect” person you just met is probably a
*** offender or just a plain loser,
and as we’ve already discussed,
nothing happens when the calendar
runs out
so you want to know what I think?
**** it.
don’t wait for some special opportunity
to change who you are
don’t make promises or resolutions,
you know you can’t keep
wake up each morning and say
****
I’m going to do better
than the **** job
I did yesterday”
do it
and see what
happens
or don’t
go **** off in bed
thinking that “the one”
will come to you
tomorrow
***** around at work
or at school and be oh-so-
confident that you’re going
to make 200k annually in
ten years
read those star logs
and get your palm read
and continue on knowing
that you’re going to be
the hottest **** since
Al Pacino
go on.
do it.
do it and see what happens.
you worthless piece of ****
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
A companion through the seasons you welcomes our every phase, From the bittersweet triumphs to the deafening cries,
You stood alongside us through the mayhem.
Whilst mortality is fickle and forevers aren't certain,
You were the constant that prevailed,
Alas at summer's end you submerged with the currents,
Washing away any potential of tomorrow's sunlight,
Basking in infinite radiance you rejoin the promised,
Memories strike annually of your departure,
A forever friend.
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 3:42 PM UTC
365Nectar #49 Clean Out Your Basement
Mon. November 11, 2013 10:25 P.M.
Half-crazed like a naked savage...
stillness speaks
clamoring for attention in startling fresh expression
conjuring false memories of purity...
Cheering unsuccessful progress
in an attempt to preserve non-existent dominance...
Cosigned on civilized barbarity at an interest rate of 36% compounded annually...
The survival of a naked castaway
Perfectly unbalanced symmetry, that's slightly consistent, in a feeble attempt to compensate for weak genetic inheritance
Bathing **** in a ****** religion of bewildering complexity...
Relatively fluent in ungoverned profanities...
intentional involvement in ******** and lies
Aggressive mental exploits inflate illusion
disabling direction...
Gullible digestion of prescribed placebo
claiming cure of a Curiosity Coma...
STOP hoarding evidence of stupidity...
911 radical refinement...
...CLEAN OUT YOUR BASEMENT.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
Were you born in '98?
so was I.
let's do the maths.
that makes you fifteen,
even sweet sixteen.
Methuselah, not my name.
not even my middle fame, unclaimed.
Course meaning clear!
Lived a long time coming,
Picked up yesterday my three year old boy,
Third of a third of a third of a third
Of a half of me,
Who I only see once a year,
And we fell in love once again,
all over as is our style,
Annually, annuellement.
Went to the cemetery
Go once a year,
Where they have buried
The lineage.
On the first,
From near two millennium ago,
And upon the each of and the
every one of his descendants,
Psalm 37:37.
They wrote
upon their markers
David's words
לז שְׁמָר-תָּם, וּרְאֵה יָשָׁר: כִּי-אַחֲרִית לְאִישׁ שָׁלוֹם. 37
Mark the man of integrity,
and behold the upright;
for there is a future for
the man of peace.
An enticing blessing, and curse,
A passed down warning goal.
What's this got to do me,
I got love, poetry, and
French, geometry, and history,
And cute boys on Facebook to study!
Plenty.
You were once three.
You will be someday
Not just fifteen, sixteen, but
Three hundred and fifteen
Just like me.
Your cells will be embedded in
Others,
So take care mr and miss 1998,
On that banner, wrapped
across your chest,
If you win the contest
Of a good life,
Better write down something smart
That is worth living for,
On the palm of you hand.
Tattoo it where you will see it
Everyday, and in your mind
Inescapable.
Then press it upon the skin
Of that three year baby boy,
For that is what this has to do with
You.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
Orange sun shining—
pastel petals drip
weeping for warmth
beaming ebulliently after a pour
breathing the scent of petrichor
blushing sweetly, like after a kiss
Absorbing all the moisture I can
blooming when I'm nurtured
and fertilized just right
Detoxify my root,
Oxidize my bliss
Spreading seeds
semi-annually
and flowering for you
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
So likewise ye,
when ye shall have done
all those things which are commanded you,
say,
We are unprofitable servants:
we have done that which was our duty to do.
You, lazy little 'twerdnerd. Easy. Live. Take my truth,
let this mind be in you, it does the hard part for you.
Ai ai ai this guy, I tol' you, extol the road,
ride on, cowboy.
Let go. Re
laxation,
enemystic, plop. Plot to end
with a thousand swings
gnosis-not-burger 'n' fries
swung wide and low. Sweet cherry '63.
Once belonged to the gayest geometry teacher
ever, eh, in Kingman, Arizona.
Mr. Zubek, annual faculty advisor to Optimist Club,
Annual (also)Highschool Boys Speech Contest,
bi- annually, he traded in his Chevrolet.
-- voice of experience,
That triggered this then, not now
I saw a ****** lowrider, brand new, showroom floor,
yep, a certain mind set, kept with odd links,
missed opportunities to go the other way,
kicks the BTDT system of old ahas,
and ahs,
as once imagined…
not possible, pre dementia.
Wait for it, should you live so long,
it all runs together beautifully, to match
the beauty of the messenger's feet,
in your cultural awareness
of total unknowing- to eternity,
and beyond.
The Bill and Ted Trilogy, vs Left Behind.
So, crates of lemons have no thorns. See,
Lemon trees have big ol' thorns, but
lemon wreaths, all on a bough snipped,
thorns and all, to show those who never
picked a lemon, and won life's sweetest point.
Such wreaths are December treasures,
if you know where they grow 'em.
You can sell them, or give them away,
the beauty in the whole fruiting sprig goes along.
May 8, 2023
May 8, 2023 at 1:27 AM UTC
As one year end gets closer and a new one set to start
Why are we always looking backwards not forwards with our heart
We always think of things we lost not of things we gain
We just cannot find the sunshine for the rain
We talk of what might have been and what almost came to pass
We never speak in positives just negatives and sass
We look at what we do not have and what we didn't do
I know I do it annually, I'm sure that you do too
This year I gained experience and friends I've yet to meet
And I know that every one of them have made my year a special treat
But as I look back on this past year I think of what I've lost
Just in case I need reminding and I need to know the cost
It's just our way to do this so our goals don't get set too high
It's difficult to start anew than it is to say goodbye
As we move into our future we will learn from our mistakes
And we're sure to shed enough new tears to fill up the great lakes
But, moving on into the wide expanse of the unkown
Is something that scares most of us, It's the dice that we have thrown
That leads into challenges and friendships not yet found
To start the path to next year, you must hold the grass down to the ground
Next year is the grail for sports fans whose teams fail
There'll always be a next year but what of this year's tale
It's one we look at fondly and we always think they're bums
But it's written in a song somewhere that next year never comes
I've tried to learn a lesson from each year that I've been here
But because I'm always looking backwards there are lessons tinged with fear
Of doing the same thing once again and of not doing what I should
But if I look back at it rightly, I did all that I could
With next year soon approaching I will put this year behind
And I will think of the adventures next year I will find
I will make new friends and spend time with the people I hold dear
And I hope that you can do it too in this coming great New Year.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
She sat up, drenched in sweat, panting. A cursory glance out of her window presented nothing but darkness beyond the fluttering white curtains, the cool night air seeping into her bedroom. She shivered and pressed herself further into the blankets, wrapping layers of warmth around her like a fluffy cocoon.
With a forlorn sigh, she tried to coax herself back to sleep, trying her best to ignore the bright red numbers of her alarm clock that flashed a disappointing 4:00 AM. She knew this would be pointless. She could never sleep on this night- this night where she was annually plagued by a steady onslaught of nightmares on the anniversary of that grim event. To fall into the foreboding arms of sleep meant to curl up in a flurry of gaunt eyes and hollowed skin among other things- terrible things that slowly slunk back into the light, try as she might to push them into the back of her mind and deprive them of memory or existence.
The worst thing she dreamt about, though, was his face. It rushed into her consciousness like an angry dark secret with blinding clarity and startling vividness. She counted several prominent wrinkles on the yellowing, sickly skin. His hair was thinning, falling out in wispy clumps. Perhaps what bothered her most was her recollection of the eyes. She had looked into those eyes much like one would peer down into a chasm: knowing that there was a place down there deprived of light or joy or laughter, simply an empty void. It had been painful to look into those eyes and realize that there wasn’t any hope left for him. And so she had held the withered hand connected to the emaciated excuse for a body, and the eyes looked towards her one last time, remorseful and hopeless. Then they had closed and he was gone.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Santa Claus is in deep financial trouble-verily-
He had spent too much on kids in the past
To save himself from bankruptcy
He has set up Santa Claus (Universal )Trust.
Every kid shall contribute $1 annually
(Before Christmas Eve) to this 'most worthy charity'
His email to the kids ends with these words: 'Trust me-
I am a person of the utmost integrity'.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC