"blessedly" poems
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The Instigation:
Edmund Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”
I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“
<•>
*both of you shush!
there is no “better” in poetry
mine yours theirs, alive or not,
just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail
tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse
good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come
they get it
how we get there unimportant
get there
GET THERE
get there
that is the poetic
mission critical
no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace*
the common place
*where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,
a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive
call my poems,
blessedly common!
that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better*
for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered
8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
~~~
“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” Henri Bergson
well in that case,
I’m either the most immature teen here,
or Rip Van Winkle
the re-creation process is six, nearly seven,
decades long (you thot days, ha, no way),
can’t recall the last name
I called myself
the delving, the researching, the forgetting,
the fifty first dates of no short term memory,
the checkdown, throwback Thursday of
did I write that?
no recollect, the pretense of
prehensile strength to touch
you and me simultaneously
might, could be true,
if you claim I authored it,
ok with me and all that
life taught me this,
the one who oft hangs around
very young kids
learns a lot,
and soon recognizes
maturity indeed endless
but not senseless
just a poem-of-the-day process
indeed
every sense says the minute difference
between this morning and this approaching midnight,
an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter,
write down my failures one more time,
cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon
thyself, ourselves,
that is genuine maturity,
the courageous wisdom to start all over again
the clock has transgressed,
moving past
the 12:00am digits,
which for cause
makes me giddy,
it’s permission to write a new one,
of course,
maturely thinking I still got one within,
a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby,
a poem,
of course
god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up,
with wisdom to know I don’t got nada,
but own the immature youthful courage of maturity,
to keep on trying, endlessly,
being your obedient-servant
~~~
*p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings,
a love poem with no misgivings,
a thank you for the fragments of sharing -
hold so dear,
the best reason to mature,
the best reason to change,
the best reason to write
right now, here comes the mojo
my newest oldest friend,
reminding for the last and first time
that I’m all growed,
using the bigliest words I’ve known
to say baby, hey baby,
good night good morning
write us a poem,
a thank you note,
from one who blessedly forgets his name,
day in and year out*
For that guy,
you, that ancient kid,
That poet-in-retrograde
so rewrite the title, a refresh,
are you immature enough to write?
1:12am
~for the crew~
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
A fisherman is drifting, enjoying the spring mountains,
And the peach-trees on both banks lead him to an ancient source.
Watching the fresh-coloured trees, he never thinks of distance
Till he comes to the end of the blue stream and suddenly- strange men!
It's a cave-with a mouth so narrow that he has to crawl through;
But then it opens wide again on a broad and level path --
And far beyond he faces clouds crowning a reach of trees,
And thousands of houses shadowed round with flowers and bamboos....
Woodsmen tell him their names in the ancient speech of Han;
And clothes of the Qin Dynasty are worn by all these people
Living on the uplands, above the Wuling River,
On farms and in gardens that are like a world apart,
Their dwellings at peace under pines in the clear moon,
Until sunrise fills the low sky with crowing and barking.
...At news of a stranger the people all assemble,
And each of them invites him home and asks him where he was born.
Alleys and paths are cleared for him of petals in the morning,
And fishermen and farmers bring him their loads at dusk....
They had left the world long ago, they had come here seeking refuge;
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away,
No one in the cave knowing anything outside,
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds.
...The fisherman, unaware of his great good fortune,
Begins to think of country, of home, of worldly ties,
Finds his way out of the cave again, past mountains and past rivers,
Intending some time to return, when he has told his kin.
He studies every step he takes, fixes it well in mind,
And forgets that cliffs and peaks may vary their appearance.
...It is certain that to enter through the deepness of the mountain,
A green river leads you, into a misty wood.
But now, with spring-floods everywhere and floating peachpetals --
Which is the way to go, to find that hidden source?
4.6k
Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you;
Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams.
Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkness is holding you;
Starlight bespangles the way of your dreams.
Chorus the nightingales, wistfully amorous;
Blessedly quiet, the blare of the day.
All the sweet hours may your visions be glamorous--
Sleep, pretty lady, as long as you may.
Sleep, pretty lady, the night shall be still for you;
Silvered and silent, it watches you rest.
Each little breeze, in its eagerness, will for you
Murmur the melodies ancient and blest.
So in the midnight does happiness capture us;
Morning is dim with another day's tears.
Give yourself sweetly to images rapturous--
Sleep, pretty lady, a couple of years.
Sleep, pretty lady, the world awaits day with you;
Girlish and golden, the slender young moon.
Grant the fond darkness its mystical way with you;
Morning returns to us ever too soon.
Roses unfold, in their loveliness, all for you;
Blossom the lilies for hope of your glance.
When you're awake, all the men go and fall for you--
Sleep, pretty lady, and give me a chance.
2k
In God’s No~Fly Zone
blessedly, so many of you are
unaware of the full color spectra
that be can seen only when an
age of experience has been reached,
reached, not attained, for the no~fly
zone is no place to be, without any
redeeming colorations, it is dark hued
twilight that inhibits vision clarity,
a precursor warning of the *hungry
darkness* that offers to swallow one
into shades of sad remorse, and other
miseries
How came I to earn this distinction,
was not by acting out, rather by inaction,
the failure to pick the correct fork in a
life of sentence diagramming, sentence
in the prison sense, all my sentences,
broken down, no connection sensible
to the next phrase, next phase, so I
sit beneath my vine and fig tree, unable
to fly, unable to tear shed,
grounded, pounded in my head
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 10:43 AM UTC
the Wonder no longer…
I no longer wonder
the whose, or is it the who’s, the whys, and even
an occasional wherefore art thou, and what’s their real name,
are they alive or passed, from whence they came, or,
the origins of their names, the name of that movie where
what’s his name fell in love with blonde from that tv show,
with the detective and the raincoat who always smoked
a cigar though was never seen with match or tobacco,
these mysteries that nagged, burrs that came mid-sentence,
causing grown people to curse and smack their head, now,
blessedly put to bed in seconds depending on the goodness
of your internet connection…
but now I wonder if the world is better off with instantaneous
information much of which is hooliganism and mis and dis,
made-up-as-you-go-along but now recorded as gospel truth
well recall the happy, romantic nature of falling in love across
the library table, secret smooching in dusty stacks of tomes, or is it tombs, that were never read but contained the secrets of the universe…
but never for too long, for repair and restoration I do take
a triple dose of Prevagen,
when and if,
I remember
Jul 9, 2023
Jul 9, 2023 at 8:19 AM UTC
i’m dripping
sopping wet and loving it
i drip with adoration
i’m deep in it
dreams swirl again
lucidity is wandering back
my life’s swagger, my love’s sway
they are becoming blessedly tangled, once more
i’m blossoming again
like a midnight jasmine
every speck of pale moonlight,
that shines through those curtains
to reveal a piece of the puzzle that is your body,
nourishes me, excites me
and i cannot help but blossom in your midnight glow
i cannot help but to become beautiful with you.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
Some people give the gift
of peace and tranquility
to every life they touch.
They are always who they really are.
They are blessedly reliable,
dependably good,
predictably pleasant,
loved and treasured
by all who know them.
You are one of those people.
The best of them
You are a gift
of peace and tranquility
in my life.
In every life you touch
Happy Birthday, my love
And have many more
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
on a hillside facing north
into an infinite blue Jersey sky
Sarah was laid to rest
on a brilliant crisp
Monday morning
she was surrounded by
loved ones and friendly
Highland Peaks
gathered together this
Thanksgiving week
to praise, honor and
give thanks for the
the life of a beloved
transfigured soul
Sarah entered
the world with nothing
yet departs on wings
filled with an abundance
of riches garnered
from a well lived life
she nurtured generations
of family and fostered
a bounty of diverse friendships
all who count themselves
fortunate to have experienced
the grace of her love
Sarah was a
strong loving matron
of a vibrant clan
her home
filled with
laughter
and the chatter
of children
guests found
a hearty
welcome
and genuine
hospitality
her door, ear
hearth and heart
always open
to anyone
in need of
refuge,
understanding,
a good laugh or
a loving embrace
Sarah's legacy
bequeaths an
extended lineage
of flourishing children
blessedly assuring
her presence
remains a vital
life force in the
spirit of future
descendants
as Sarah was
committed to a
final earthly embrace
to rejoin her
beloved husband
George
white wisps
of gentle
cirrus clouds
gathered to
anoint the brow
of reverent
Highland crests
Well done
Aunt Sally
God bless you
and Godspeed
Fleetwood Mac:
Landslide
Sarah C. Lundberg
Born: August 01, 1933
Died: November 18, 2015
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
Bull Connor,
like the Dutch Boy from Haarlem,
put his finger in a hole
to plug a burgeoning leak.
But Bull Connor,
unlike the boy from Haarlem,
did not foresee
the raging torrents of history,
smashing against
the crumbling walls
of the porous ****
he sought to buttress.
His decadent heroism
held no moral authority
to sustain
his ungodly labors.
His savage dogs,
hungry for meat,
bent on aggression
for a twisted masters bidding
were devoured
by the teeth
of a movement
hungry for justice.
His water cannons,
tiny water pistols,
******
into the mighty squalls
of a raging hurricane
that blew the stinking *****
back onto his face.
The weight of history
moves with the just.
Untruth,
arch rival of justice,
is blown away,
like an expired candle
snuffed out,
blessedly extinguished
from the first breath
of a glorious new day.
Bull Connor
doesn’t rest in peace.
He stands on
the other side of the river.
He is the rich man
driven by
insane thirst
begging for water
from a comforted
Lazarus,
now secure
in the *****
of Abraham.
Bull Connor
looks across
the chasm of fire
he knows
he'll never bridge.
Medgar Evers
and MLK Jr.
stand as keepers,
collecting tolls
for a heavenly passage
from the wages he earned
for his earthly work.
A forlorn
Bull Connor
forever searches
deep empty pockets
for fare
as Martin
and Medgar
patiently wait
with outstretched palms.
Music Selection:
The Soul Stirrers,
Jesus Gave Me Water
MLK Jr. Day
1/20/86
NYC
jbm
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:55 AM UTC
This song is written on my heart.
Each note hangs in the air before turning to smoke
and we inhale it here in your little bed,
breathe it in as we have most nights since you were born.
Not so long ago
I was someone else
Who was not your mother.
You don’t know her,
the Me who spent months of her young life poring over the sheet music.
I still have it, teenage pencil scratch covering the entire first movement.
“Sticky top notes” and “written when he was going deaf!” and rows of chord forms,
glyphs,
a cipher.
(Did you know:
Beethoven was dead when Ludwig Rellstab compared the famous first movement of his Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor to moonlight shining on a lake?
The sonata previously entitled “Quasi una fantasia.” Almost a fantasy.
The sonata written in blood from a broken body and a broken heart.
Poor dead Beethoven. Our art is truly not our own).
It strikes me odd
that a song such as this one
has become what it has become.
Radiance in despair, I suppose,
is universal in its bright raw frankness.
We stare. It stares back.
Tonight, blessedly,
that chasm of grief alive still and forever in the delicate weaving vines of plaintive melody stemming darkly from it
is far from your door.
Your breaths are slow and even now.
The song closes,
as it always does,
trying and failing to claw out of the darkness.
But you don’t know that.
Tonight it’s just a beautiful song.
And I am no one else
but your mother.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 1:25 AM UTC
His spring was short, and he wore it
damp and dreary with query bulbs lightly
weaved in a soiled waistcoat. He will be
ready for summer.
His summer comes modest, not hot
enough for milking. Answers flower few,
so he dons a leaf-cushioned jacket
and waits for the fall.
His fall arrives late, too sweetly
burning assents of decay. Cracks branch thin,
and he slaps on a sappy topcoat,
with dread of winter.
His winter bustles with a bite,
but its nibbles and noms are blessedly
brief. He sighs, "It's a shame my seasons
can only be four."
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
and sitting in the corner of a blessedly quiet McDonalds that is so old they haven't changed their booths to be uncomfortable to sit in, yet and wearing a black dress suited for vamps,
tarnished serpentine earrings whispering in my ears
not yet not yet not yet
speaking also to the stolen ring in my bag
that I am not yet a bougie eccentric
made to burn money and carry cigarette wands
and travel to tangier and have a little exotic pet
until I become more educated, eloquent, work on
my elocution until I am someone, who's someone
that deserves and has the gall to take, and possess
the world's most most beautiful blue wolf fur coat
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
A lash fell on my cheek,
I stored it away for safe keeping,
In case of emergencies.
Then I could make a wish
In desperate need,
For you to appear before me.
Then I blew it away
Before I could think,
And there you were,
Blinking, blessedly
Who knew,
You,
Who knew,
You,
Could show me,
The ins & outs,
Ins & outs,
The ins & outs,
Of everything?
And I don't want your eyes to fade,
Like the warms winds in May.
But it's time for you to leave,
Leave me be,
Let me be,
Leave me be so ill-conceived,
Only left as a requiem for a dream.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
Dying the death
of a king
turned breathless pauper
thats recently watched
all the grains of sand
pass south
through orbs of glass
towards the grave.
Reaching to the heavens
from the floor
entwined in wails
and deep sunken moans
that labor in pangs
of anxious moments
which last for hours
and are only ever superseded
by short fits
of shaky sleep.
Hope and its former entitlements
simply derailed-
shattering each
of an un-numbered tomorrows
leaving them void
of how it was,
even though
that may have
been better
for sure.
However
when grand vistas
are moved by heavenly verse
or demonic desires
and the clouds are blown
east toward the sea,
its only done
so that the past-
has a chance
to dissipate.
Then appearing
far to blessedly late
is the painting
under the painting
of that holiday
when things seemed stronger
When sadly
it now clearly seems
we were silently
slipping away from one another:
one sliver of space at a time.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 8:05 AM UTC
Blessedly, funerals,
don't have to go to too many,
though went to one
just this day,
for our next door country neighbor,
the nicest dour-looking,
rascally dearest man
The Catholic church full,
the hymns lovely,
the priest spoke
simple and beautiful,
about the paschal lamb
and the
Judeo-Christian Heritage
and
Life Everlasting,
an interesting concept,
that I had long forgot about
Must have conjured up
three minimum ideas
for poems,
not even including
this reportage
maybe I will write some,
tho the normative jelly of
Manhattan bus shaking
mine own recipe for inspiration,
when combined with
my peanut buttered
sheltered island by the Great Peconic Bay,
both, will be my swirled
inspiration everlasting
Can't write about
moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies,
the way I write is
just the way I think
writ out loud
so to the essay at hand,
funeral of a man,
mine all planned,
the invites ready,
awaiting the correct postage stamp
of a future time and place
the date, more or less sketched,
the poems, selected, notated
for whoever shows,
pick a read,
win a free trip to the cemetery
and maybe one back to his "parlor"
where food, drink and bon mots are
vous parlez'd and his spirit,
now a parolee, will be watching
smiling, for funerals are camaraderie,
so longs and fare-thee-wells,
and the hands of friends embracing,
celebrations in their own way,
and a time to tell stories of what
treasures they have left you,
silver linings of a life well writ,
and tho someday,
they'll be time-tarnished,
even half forgot,
the stories and the love poems
are the seeds of life everlasting
Passover/Easter
March 2014
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
Divinity of the Day lets me think I’m in the sky
But that’s alright, like to go about this blind
Exiled darling wandering in the summer blessedly long
Divinity of the Day, my whispered prayer through the dark
God, that enthralled
you read in a raindrop
before it hits the ground
sunset boulevard torch,
is up one of these bends,
waved in night
West Hollywood Rimbaud,
feathers falling into my hair,
dressed in invention’s favorite mood
with my roadhouse sheet music
written of my life’s inspiration adorned walls, slightly cold
I was lost but playing it off, until
my racing heart reached time future and
said, soul adored believe what’s in store
dose to help you forget and live
Harp in hand, each step how it rings
scammed and scorched
no lying that all this running leads to
hardly breathing
There’s smoke around you
drifting into an image faithful to the vast,
wild west
bravely standing despite the emptiness
as if guided, divinely guided
with my diamond focus on the garden path
of the muse, open, aware
just walking through, even confused, you mean
my images of paradise were drawn in too
permanent as the myths, placards of legends
Beaming with a strange and frightening beauty
from chasing the lights that ascent into the heavens
dreamy, daring, absurdly hoping, all the read claiming
Lord knows, enamored with you, so take these pretty copper arrows
good for aiming up beyond, that remind me, been on my own so long
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
From Grassy Fields to Azure Blue
Albuquerque a special time soulful sojourners came to release aloft what others find easy to scoff oh
Thy heavenly breeze from earthen habitation all sounds are found in thee laughter and tears the
Sobbing Goes to throbbing depths clouds pewter gray they show your needs and how hard you pray
Some are blessedly light others are weighed and bowed there are streams of air but the spirit too has
The lift and fall some is shear others are tender they hold all that is dear love hopes and dreams in them
You see the atmosphere as if you were sky riding at fiesta time strings of silver red golden black ribbon
They represent light hearted feelings the gust of joy that blows across many a yard and home from this
Dispositions of those that live there are discerned and carried outward and upward into playful days
Bathed in sunlight recharged with all the embodied love that continues through mankind dark shadows
Also are known their gloom are forever fixed with heartbroken tomb but just from earth the higher it
Rises its burning tears begins to fall as tender rain that mixes with tears and it not to be explained
But from this mixture golden memories derive their uncommon essence the loss is then to celebrate
Tendrils that drift across the sky when they briefly touch the ground though it be tearful a smile is
Left and in it the loved one is blessed honored and assured the swirling wind holds so many promises
Of happy tomorrows where the word separation has been expunged it no longer is a part of reality
You crossed the night train trestle your voice was the mournful whistle that announced the dear passing
Of love that went higher you were given a gift wrapped in pain but within it explained far greater truth
Than the limitation of earth’s love alone you are now aboard these sky ships as you rise your burdens
Grow Lighter your vision is enabled to see grandeur and great vistas the pulsating earth winks from
Homes far below you appear as bubbles on the wind in the moonlight glow in it is you’re refreshing
Enjoy the ride
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
Lord grant me the audacity.
To again be a 23 year old marshmallow
Partying every night at the campfire with a bunch of skewers.
The audacity
To feel outstanding
With an underdeveloped frontal lobe
Floating around in cherry bombs and Stroh’s
To survive being invincible and brave and strong enough to make bold and terrible decisions
And blessedly wake to another sunrise
Never grateful to be alive.
******* *****
How does anyone survive their early 20s.
Sheer audacity.
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 11:15 PM UTC
Green grass along a cerulean sky
Sought I
To write:
The perfect prose.
Thoroughly I searched,
Yet my pad remained plain and pure
And quite unquenched.
I strolled stolidly and walked wearily
To the water’s unexpected whims.
Amusing as it were, well…
With its lacking of lapping—
just somewhat lazy:
For the wind blew blessedly refreshingly,
Yet the waves seemed scared to surface—
Somewhat suspiciously.
Then my ears caught quite a commotion
Coming from behind me:
Chuckling and chasing squirrels
Pounced past perched pigeons
As if to bother the birds
Because of blatant boredom.
Deafeningly distracted became I
When all of a sudden
A fickle photographer focused her
Large lens
Dangerously, daringly in my direction.
Vainly I ventured to assume,
Yet I assuaged,
And I moved
Maturely… (as anyone should).
Pointed and positioned to the person of peace
placed in the park,
She snapped, and she snipped a picture or two
Inevitably to post on a wasted wall space.
As the sun set,
To be clearly cliché,
I wrapped up my writings
On my once plain and pure pad.
Had it had eyes,
It would have gawked and glanced
For my gaze in return:
“You call that a creation? Corny it is,
Not at all concise.”
Carelessly content, I closed the cover
Leaving my pad
Quite unquenched.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 6:57 PM UTC
This magic hat, a crown of thorns sometimes
Hard pressed and poignant, we blessedly wear
Till death recumbent stills the joys the care
The strivings found in all sentient forms.
We walk upon this globe each day without
Wonder nor concernment for monolith
Thoughts arisen, seemingly threaded with
Threads still hidden though faithfully throughout
History named and imagined. The full
Ever-vescent multitude, a flash, the
Portion illumined, then grasped as all in all.
This cause repeats repeatedly, a breath
Of mind cognate and fleeting that does swell
Our conscious state to mortal width and breadth.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 3:10 AM UTC
A Field Guide to Awkward Silences
The Norton Field Guide to Writing with Readings
A Field Guide to Secure Wi-Fi
A Field Guide to Asset Forfeiture
A Field Guide to “Fake News”
A Field Guide to Lies
A Field Guide to Antibiotic Stewardship in Outpatient Settings
A Field Guide to the Italian New Right
A Field Guide to Getting Lost
A Field Guide to Ripple Effects Mapping
A Field Guide to ****** and Fly Fishing
A Field Guide to Jerks at Work
A Field Guide to Bad Faith Arguments
And so it field guides, and so it field guides
As dear old Kurt Vonnegut did not say
And what field is the writer talking about?
About the farmer outstanding in his field?
Alas there is no field guide to writing
A title blessedly free of field guide
Which would be a feel-good fieldless guideless
For which humanity would be grateful
About as original as Keep Calm
Keep Calm and Say Something Original
Let the last field guide be Keep Calm about
A Field Guide to Burying Tired Cliches’
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 1:38 PM UTC
Xanadu; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.
Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.
Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.
Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.
Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.
With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.
Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
God ties a ribbon;
upon my mother's womb.
As she waits for a tiny gift, (her only wish)
to arrive soon.
My presence comes,
but her patience goes.
The gift,
blessedly unraveling as time flows.
Always unwrapping,
beauty is slow.
My sweet mama,
what beauty could she know?
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 3:45 PM UTC