"bequest" poems
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference
through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings
my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems
funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission
I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice
my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse,
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which usèd, lives th’ executor to be.
2.9k
1587
He ate and drank the precious Words—
His Spirit grew robust—
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was Dust—
He danced along the dingy Days
And this Bequest of Wings
Was but a Book—What Liberty
A loosened spirit brings—
2.8k
A man who cannot dream
is a man without a woman,
like someone thinking of a tractor,
the loss of a limb, the bequest
of a brass bed, a rundown plantation,
a large white house with a black
dinner bell but no supper,
a wayfarer going nowhere,
a vanished explorer
sometimes lost in his own room.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
I opened my grandmother.
The Universal is independent.
To the vast expanse of this great world
I opened her way. Still, the stories that
I am telling you She is more likely to hear.
I am late She would have been full of trouble.
Cutting the grains of mango, worshiping the mule's ****
Looking closely at the sunset
She would have been silently painting for a long time.
The birds that had come near to to see,
The sono-rama was very shocking to me.
In the nights of the rainy season, rain and dew on our skin
When the sound is singing one and the same
She was shaky. but She liked poetry; My poems,
so I left them for her; my grandmother.
She grew her cooch's hair as if it was grandfather's beard.
Now her spread wings seek the eternity of the beginning
and I fly into her. Her dreams will be the grass beneath the rain.
In the waving wheat's hum; where Ants walk.
In the wrinkled cage that is open,
there was a rain of the deceased
only a feather is wet.
A gift for a bequest. Remember it !! Take it!
I opened up my paternal grandmother.
Despite knowing she may not be breathing,
She will not come.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:12 AM UTC
I know you cannot have it all in life
I know there will always be a void unfulfilled
But I want to follow the voice inside
I am constantly feeling this way
Constantly feeling the void
I have an insatiable desire to reach perfection
Perfection in my reflection
Has it make my flaws magnified?
Forcing me only to focus on my distortions
And not seeing my abilities
I want to listen to my heart
For it is my truest self
It is telling me something my mind cannot hear
I want to see my name on the bookshelf
Engraved with ice and fire for it will never disappear
I want to write, draw, color
Use my hand as my tool
Speak the words of my mind and my soul
Touch and bring the spirits to my whirlpool
I want something bigger than me
Although I am not small
My mind is wider than me
It is full with words and ideas coming and going at a rapid pace
Craving more and more of wisdom knowledge and inspiration
You know what my mind is telling me right now
Peace
From within and around
Lift
My spirit from aboveground
Rest
My body through meditation and prayers
These days I feel like I am living outside my body
Spying myself from afar fearing to be seen
Hiding behind the trees into the wildest parody
Watching myself while feeling a little spleen
I want everything to stop just so I can process
The world is running at a rhythm i cannot follow
I want to create a big-bang easy to digest
I want my work to resonate in the darkest shadow
And then the earth can spin again at her own pace
I'm allowing myself to enter into this new discovery
Bringing my heart and mind to recovery
Let them go to the places I dared not stay
Speak the words I ignored to say
Tell the truth of my quest
Give it to the world as my bequest
And then put myself at rest
"And when I'm done no matter where I've been
I'll yearn to do it all again" - from The Eternal Lament by 2Pac
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
It was only play and simply fun.
At the moment’s bequest, the deed was done.
In front of an audience, acting the parts,
lovers with all the words written for us.
Never your Juliet, never my prince,
a quick, cold, and business-like kiss.
The hidden truth you’ll never know?
I savored this moment that wasn’t my own.
I let myself go when I kissed you and sighed,
for I knew what love felt like, for the very first time.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
renegade memories
relentless effrontery
rogue fractured intruders
a formulable formidable aside inside
man is a modified monkey
a jackdaw in peacock's feathers
contradictions, the multiplicity that is a unity
a patchwork of odds and ends
snips and snails
dreams and delusions
hopes and fears
a mystifying knot of phantasmagoric disquietude
agape in a stupefied bewilderment
as an autistic child swept up in minutiae
inscrutable incongruities
melange of matters beyond explanations
maundering machinates
necessary inventions repeating and reforming
sheltering some aspect of the mind's deforming
'reaction formations' sotto voce instructs the analyst
defending emotions at the personalities bequest
merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream
psychotherapy is no mere scheme
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
O Madiba! Madiba your ship has finally come to rest
Rest now, now rest, for peace was your bequest.
Humiliated, disgraced, yet in captivity you chose
By embracing your enemy, you learnt and rose.
Insulted, assaulted, assaulting, at fault,
Lover, Soldier, for Justice, for God’s sake!
Stop work, break bread, water and salt
And follow in his wake.
O Madiba! Tata Madiba you who have overcome
A true mandala spun, a Nelson who has won
Overcoming loneliness, cowardice and fear.
Bravery but a blindness brought on by all held dear.
Shame, defeated, blame, defeated, fame -
Let all come, let all shake,
Same blood, same, all the same,
And follow in his wake.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
(from the libretto of Handel's Semele -
opera.stanford.edu/iu/libretti/semele.htm)
think of your ears as an
ever alert, high pitched,
sensory tuning fork,
an aural radar, searching for that
acute, oblique,
perforating and poking phrase,
that lost airplane of solace
buried and too well hid
in the vastness of
empty, characterless searchable seas
that rarely yield up their
comforting finery
when discovered, tripped upon,
instant recognition pleads
"write me down,
write me up,
delve me,
determine me,
make me more!"
t'is a thrumming vibrato
interfering with mind,
that phrase, that phrase, that phrase
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
content coursing through the eyes,
piercing veils of hum drum dumbing down,
a life spying drone eliciting excitedly
a high value target,
an unexpected mission,
camouflaged amidst the
chit chat droning of the
choking ordinary and commonplace
*murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own
tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life,
You
murmur me again to peace*
even the words
be prepared to sacrifice, surrender,
but promise me that
the Justice of
-just-
thy tone,
thy inflections,
will gentle
the infecting turbulence
of being a plain, tried and trialed human
let me not
catalogue the onerous,
the burdening barbell weights,
we carry for no purpose
Give us
our daily bread of a singular
phrase~prayer~poem,
our verbal bond, modest sequest,
honey oatmeal, cut up strawberried
jewel,
give it, me this day,
my daily soothing
"Oh, murmur, murmur me again to peace!"
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
~~~
*to whom do I address this?
to whom do I
forward fling, weep and sing,
this bequest~request,
prayer~cum~worship~cum~blessing~cum~
howling
to and upon?
where shall I commence?
for there is no beginning or end,
resurrection,
a continuum,
a progression permanent,
from inside out
to harmonize, coordinate,
what the outside has taken leave to
inject, insert,
to our selves query,
our life hood very,
impoverish our senses
and still, and yet,
to ever inspire and seed
relief
do you possess that requisite
belief?
that all
that is illogical,
beyond sensory comprehension,
that all
is a steady running creek
of fluid starting points,
none that can be deflected,
nor forever held
that all,
being demands unchosen but acquired,
that all,
demanding constant reflection,
and realization
that the acceptance mystery is but a
molten crucible
wherein wonderful and awful
must of necessity,
coexist
so you alone must construct,
what chance desires to destruct,
weld the joints of new iron works that
require the bonding of a special solder
of asking and acceptance,
to be the special soldier
of acceptance
overcoming that which we can never accept,
yet must
be purposed to build high the edifice,
to stand upon the crane,
to look down on what
has been lost as well as
not yet gained,
and that
requires saving
to see the far, observe the near,
merging both into a single point ring alloy,
manufactured in order
to never forget
to be forever certain,
it is within our assured power
to comprehend and apprehend
belief in blessed resurrection
where there is no birth nor death,
no start nor finish,
just the
munificent satisfaction
of lawful acceptance,
that all we build of any matter,
that which we create,
cannot be destroyed,
but will be recreated,
for that is the purposeful meaning
of resurrection now
and every day forward*
Atlanta, Georgia
Nov. 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
a scratching modest,
not demanding or shrill,
the need is not great
but persistent,
the urge asks politely
for satisfaction.
if you would be so kind sir,
perhaps my dear,
you could find it within you to,
accommodate a humble request.
write us a poem about nothing,
this bequest,
about this or that,
need not be rant nor praise,
observe, distinguish, or separate,
let It be about nothing much at all.
let a modest whimsy bring rhyming smiling
to many a lip, perhaps a tear or two
would not be out of place,
to keep the inner ear of the soul
straight on the line that demarcates
sanity and sobriety, from the madness of daily life.
couplets and stanzas, irregular, no matter,
iambic pentameter, overkill, too much bother,
perfect simple limericks for a kind hearted fella
would be most satisfactory
-----
Cute but pointless.
No, insufficient, a poem deserves its own import.
So here is the truth,
Here is a sanctified poem
About something!
~~~~
I got friends in this place who deserve better.
They deserve a poem that says:
We are all broken, demonized.
The edge is always near,
But never having laid eyes on you,
You have trusted me with thy struggle,
And I, with hints of mine.
So here is
The Poem,
a
Medal of Honor
I award to us.
A poem about the only four letter word that really matters,
A thousand times more powerful than mere love,
I award to us for bravery conspicuous,
For telling the truth, the hard way,
In words that reveal the persons we are when unmasked,
I award us the
**Medal of
Kind.**
And someday when our hands shake, hard hugs exchanged
And our smiles won't stop
Than I will say unashamedly,
****** I love you...
My men,
My women
My friends,
My comrades
You know who you are.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
It is only I that hear your voice
oh heavenly father, so divine
and to my end I have no choice
for through my death you shall refine.
Such weight I carry on my mind
will lift when I do breathe no more
for I am weak from such unkind,
my body scourged so red and raw.
Forgive them father for they know not
of what they do to your sweet son,
they shall reap what they besot
remember then, this day is done.
The gift I leave them in my wake,
a better world as thee bequest
you pass your son for their own sake
for all too know and all too zest.
For follow me, they will and must
when life does end their mortal toil.
For if in God they place all trust
then they shall walk that final mile.
To paradise you will commit,
untainted by the scourge of sin
and at your feet then they shall sit
inside thy glory they will win.
But should they turn away from thee,
take wrong direction as they choose,
for if the blind could only see,
then they would know of what they lose.
Eternity they will then embroil
in Satan's caverns down beneath,
where one encounters with the vile.
That place, where no-one gains relief.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!
Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night!
Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
Should e'er unhappy love my ***** pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country's honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed---
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!
Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!
And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head!
1.7k
Mr nasty nasty
Playground's hooded claw
All pervading presence
Impossible to ignore.
Easy target girl
Only child and sitting duck
Goldfish bowl kids on your side
You nasty little ****
Tireless decade quest
Bully extraordinnaire
Wicked witch Lookey likey
The Gardens were your laire.
Nasty bully *******
Playground to grave & beyond
Drop dead celebration
None stop sing along.
Skinny black toothed ******
One day you get a lickin
Returning the acid favour
Delighted you got a kickin.
Mr nasty nasty
Never be forgetting
Anxiety's dark beginnings
Teenage girl blood letting.
Grudge to another life
Curses to bequest
Burn in hell you *******
This one will never rest.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC
When my wife’s great Aunt ‘Dora died
We received a strange bequest.
Not land or Gold or Mallomars
Just an ornate box, covered in dust.
Her will strictly enjoined us
from opening the box.
The sides had cryptic puzzles
That served it as strong locks
The box was rather gaudy
Carved from finest sandalwood
Inlaid with golden letters
a Greek would have understood.
We both took very seriously
The task to guard this prize
To keep this family heirloom
preserved from prying eyes..
Ten years it stood there in our room
An enigmatic guest
And often I would ponder it
while I was getting dressed.
Until one dark December day
In the Millennial year
Curiosity overcame my wife
And she succumbed, I fear.
My Darling, being curious,
Solved the riddles on the side
She was just prying up the lid
As I ran inside..
A disembodied Banshee screamed
The air was thick and red.
I rushed to close the box back up
in existential dread.
Still, the world seemed little changed
As I sequestered hope.
The radio said by 5-4
George Bush had won the vote
I think on all that’s happened since
As things have gone to Hell
****** wars in foreign lands
Discord at home as well.
Since then twin towers crashed and burned
And Wall Street did the same
Do you think it could be possible
Aunt Pandora’s Box shares blame?
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
Its commensal, at best,
This house fly of a guest;
Who frequents your home,
Alits on a chair,
Rubbing its hands together.
It shows no regrets,
Feeding, slurping and buzzing,
With a self-made bequest.
I can tolerate a bar fly;
A barn fly, a sty fly;
But,
I've the bottle fly,
That plunders my fridge,
Swarms over my beer
Like a blood-thirsty midge.
He's a house fly,
And ignorant,
So fly paper won't do.
I need a SWAT team to shoo
This house fly adieu.
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 4:04 PM UTC
Beneath this stone there is a heart, it does not beat when we're apart, it does not move, to you I'd prove, my heart remove, its yours to take, but for my sake, to dull this ache, to fill this space that i did make, exchange me yours, there is no clause, there is no test, in me invest, you're heart bequest, our souls coalesce, our love confessed,
Forever blessed.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
Thursday to the shopping list did add my tremulous bequest,
Honey Nut Cheerios, great was the anticipation of a marriage with cold milk,
product of the oats and the cows that made this nation really, really great,
but in the Manahattan organic commisary seems this
so called food is strictly verboten,
so she brought me home on Friday some imposter named
Grain Berry?
this pseudo Cheerios tainted with Onyx Sorgum,
intended to give me heavy metal poisioning surely,
and rob life of joy by slowing down my sugar absorption rate,
and the plant fiber contained was purportedly natural,
as if there was another kind!
clearly a plot on my life by the Bannonian alt-right, for it,
this "whole grain toasted oat cereal,"
supplied more free radical protection
by sun activated antioxidants!
I am a real man,
I love my artificial flavors and colorings,
how better to preserve my pickling, briny brain
than in artifical perservatives!
From West Texas came this grain,
surely they will appreciate the insoluble fibered irony,
while I eat cold cereal for Friday dinner,
SHE is eating steak rare at Gallagher's Steakhouse!
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
YOU made men to lead the race,
Bequest him with pride and ace;
For him you made the trees and taught him to graze,
Then why O’ lord you put him to this disgrace,
To raze and blaze, the haze and the nature’s face
YOU made him sneak speak and smart,
Bequest him with amazing skills and magnanimous art;
For him you erected the forests and Oakwood’s mart,
Then why O’ lord you put him with that heart,
That preys and disobeys thy inimitable nature’s cart
Whilst razing and blazing, preying and disobeying,
He got bothered of his survival and living;
For him you then again made him to earn the dollar and the sterling,
To put it for the make-up and the filling
But O’ my lord, he, in tranquil kept himself fooling,
That he benefits thy nature with his meager darlings.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
Somethings last longer when kept in cool dry places
and I for one have found the perfect resting place,
surrounded by plenty of taken up shelf space
where I can store up my strength, and sit contented
in this inspired, quiet space, amongst the bookcases
where we are encouraged to slow our pace
in the long-lasting embrace of Carnegie’s generous bequest.
Yes, we’re blessed with quiet, at least for the most part,
apart from the softly voiced query and help at the desk,
apart from the dad reading aloud and reading time’s louder address
to cross legged, momentarily suppressed younger guests.
It’s quiet apart from the regular swish of the obliging doorway
swinging wide its welcome followed by
the vital wipe of wet feet on the new red mat,
punctuated by the unsnapping of buggy straps
and empathetic mum to mum picked-up-from-last-time chats.
It’s quiet apart from the regular slap of scrabble tiles,
clicking knitting needles
and the long considered placing of a jigsaw piece
accompanied by a contented creak
of a chair as someone adjusts a numbing *** cheek.
It’s quiet apart from the buzz of book clubs and poetry recitals
exchanging much treasured lines and long loved titles.
It’s quiet apart from the beep of books returned or issued out
under the arms of rested readers, no doubt
heading home to their own cool dry places,
reading lamps and carefully positioned comfy chairs.
It’s quiet apart from the spoken thankfulness of readers young and old,
each enjoying spending time within the fold
of this, our beloved Hanwell Community Library.
Apr 1, 2023
Apr 1, 2023 at 2:32 AM UTC
an instant coffee poem scribbled
on the back of an iPhone, and mailed
to the motley crew hanging in these
environs
my request, your bequest
<>
never had an article of clothes
that required a hem to be tailored,
but you my daredevil darlings,
bring me now
you & yours,
a hem of thy choicest choosing
that I may taste your dew,
this and thus
enlivened,
I will love you,
far more than forever,
beyond my overwhelming
incarcerated capacity
to absorb,
but to exist and seize
the dew of your souls,
each an adrenaline ephedrine
shot to our mutualized brain
~
our soul’s temporal abode
the meaning plain!
you too
will forever be
within
the unlimited scope of this script
on the universe of the internet,
far longer than any intimate moment
we could share ,
a sensory
beyond the physicall
I beg you
please!
9:19 am
Thurs Sept. 12
two thousand and twenty four
Sep 12, 2024
Sep 12, 2024 at 9:24 AM UTC
Turn out the lights
catch the night’s bequest
Train your eyes on the horizon
sunrise is approaching
Notice how blue is shading
from deep to pale
There are no shadows
Cast by the moon
Hiding behind the clouds
Sounds reverberate from
an airplane drifting
to a landing
Morning’s quiet
regains the stage
Until a Robin chirps
a wake-up call
Sunrise is approaching
advancing from east to west
lighting the sky
Rocks whiten to become obvious
against the pallid grass of winter
robbed of nutrition by the cold of January
No orb announces today
the sun is rising, although hidden
behind dense condensation
The orange orb of the sun
will not flood the skyline
The fever of night
has become the pale of the day
May 3, 2025
May 3, 2025 at 1:57 PM UTC
NEWTOWN (TRIBUTE)
from Tucson,AZ
E.J.Anderegg
In a haven of knowledge, structured for sharing,
an intruder descends with all absence of caring.
Unleashing his crucible’s conscienceless yield,
student’s bastion transformed to a killing field.
Grim reaper bedeviled with hell-bent depravation.
Safe haven for children suffers love’s reparation,
It’s not really surprising that death toll keeps rising,
While the lost moral compass despised compromising.
NRA’s pompous position truly appalls;
Corporate greed clenching sacs that once contained *****
Though psycho’s name fades, he’ll bequest mental anguish.
In Newtown hearts, where young memories languish.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC