we leave the crumbs of our breakfast
on the windowsill, where we can watch
the ants arrive, and carry them away,
to their hills at the base of the maple trees.
they can't talk to us, but we can sense
their tiny gratitudes.
skin against skin, and tongues against
tongues, the glow from our faces is just
enough for the moths to recognize, for
them to want to dance around our heads.
they bask in the light of our love, and we
know they feel it too.
i live to see you smile, the kind of smile
that shines so brightly, like the way a leaf
beetle's shell does, when the sun decides
to hit it in a way that's exactly right.
they don't notice their iridescence, or how
perfect they are.

i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

Thank you for showing and giving much concern
even though we are not in the same world anymore.
though we have changed for the better and the good,
We have passed the test and walked pass the woods.

I saw your mystic spirits and it's very mutual.
An old friend who's always there until my funeral.
the aura have been felt, shooting beams on heavy clouds.
still the light have stayed inspite of our bounds.

Yesterday's always in my heart and will be treasured,
despite of the distance and the gates closed.
Despite of the major changes in the scenario and happenings,
Rest assured I'm always here, memories' for keeping.

Mother, you are my White Rose
A rose embraced by  cotton petals, emanating  a sweet intoxicating aroma of jazmin and pearls
A fragrance so delightful that it engulfs the spirit with inexplicable  sweetness of love
You are as exquisite as a good wine
Delicate as a newborn
Warm and cozy as a cashmere blanket
Thus, mother, you are my White Rose!
I will forever remember  the day you said to me " Oh, daughter of mine, thank you for being such a beautiful and caring daughter"
My response was " Oh, mom, you don't have to thank me, for it is my obligation, my duty to take care of you, besides, I do it with delight, because, it comes from my heart"
I am so glad that we thanked each other, because our gratitudes came from the deepest part of our souls
Although, I thanked you for being my mother, I forgot to thank you for being my White Rose!

BY

Mayra Castillo

Written as a tribute to my beloved mother, who, now resides in the Lord's garden. I love you mom. You will always be my White Rose. My mother's name is Regina. Born 1934   Died 2010

His brow spreads large and placid, and his eye
Is deep and bright, with steady looks that still.
Soft lines of tranquil thought his face fulfill--
His face at once benign and proud and shy.
If envy scout, if ignorance deny,
His faultless patience, his unyielding will,
Beautiful gentleness and splendid skill,
Innumerable gratitudes reply.
His wise, rare smile is sweet with certainties,
And seems in all his patients to compel
Such love and faith as failure cannot quell.
We hold him for another Herakles,
Battling with custom, prejudice, disease,
As once the son of Zeus with Death and Hell.

I have twenty one years made and done
‘til now, and maybe a few more,
then I can shed and stop.

The day when I need not feel
clumsy on a good lecture.
I need not get stumped on other’s pranks.
I need not be glad on silly compliments.
I need not sigh on departures after
a daylong fretting.
I need not cry on random sympathy notes.
I need not crave on any satin sandals.
I need not try on impressing fellow earthlings.
I need not fall on my knees for prayers.
I need not smile on dainty mute creatures.
I need not feel shattered on my love being ridiculed.
I need not hide on some pretence of modesty.
I need not rage on abuses, for hell’s sake.
I need not share on the hope of gratitudes.
I need not stay on alive for
I’ll be dead for dreams, by then.

’m not here
To judge the world
I’m not here
To make pretend that
I have all the answers
All I know is that
What I feel is real
I’m not here to gain your attention
For my reward solely comes
From above
And It does not come
To  fill my ego
It does not come
to make me famous
Or win the race
It comes
Solely to filled my heart
By setting free
All the pains inside
The gratitudes
The hopes
The darkness
And the light
All that was meant to be free.

Behold! Kneel before the Empire raised
From your Foundry placed Kingdoms on your Dive
Of Knights, Regents, Bishops and Orbs so Braised
As Sultans by Carriage offer does Live
So this Life you Wish coat with such Affairs
Expect your Honest Gratitudes approve
Yet the Nose - High to Un-Reachable Songs - spares
Merely Tiny Tidbits of your own Love
Not Ring, nor Dance, nor any Bed Post-Date
Would these Petitions their Good Voices own
Which - by Reason - your Happiness debate
Lift their Forked Lives re-phrased on your Bestow.
Including I - the Heretic in Full
Prostrate before this Emperor in Soul.

my insides reel, as typical as could stay. only in slow coils, though. only in long sighs. still breathing, twinge of sad, but i saw your light in the sun. found peacefulness in moments between. gratitudes, to a world that somehow strung us up& out to turn to dust. and here i stand, slowly coiling into little little little happy dust. is that so strange. can't tell. don't mind.

Black women you're so assorted, makes us wonder how can we afford it? We see you doing yo thang, and how can we support it? If we on ah mission, no longer will we abort it. You have many attitudes and soar to so high of gratitudes, why would we destroy it? I see we gotta get on our job, so we're seeking for future employment. But first you gotta understand we're in love with your body already, you don't have to exploit it. The more you spill it out; you drain it, I well rather you to sustain it. I hate to be complaining, but I'm witnessing your giftedness become tainted. How can I explain this? I love your mind so I will hate to deranged it. With that said "what's so sweet if consumed in the start, have a after taste of reality that comes to the senses as being ****". That's not even the crazy part, which is... We cannot go without seeing your art.......

I finished up with my Gratitudes,
and ran into a better Idea of Living, along the way!
Its called a White Flag.

Its the ONE I've carried Inside of Myself
for my own Looking Up…Surrender
So close, that the trajectory is straight Up into the Shine of a GREATER LIGHT.

No One else around to make me do it, be it, or Live It.
The Kind of Choice that looks so beautiful
that you actually do say “Please", and "Thank You”
just like you were going to Thanksgiving with a relative.

Cause after all, isn’t that whats beautiful about Life?
that it can be about Please and Thank You??
that its that simple,.. everybody gets it

The Prayer of Gratitude…
That theres actually Nothing to do...
That its all Already Perfect.

Does that mean I would give Up my Freedom for a cookie?
that its THAT kind of NOTHING to do?
No. Its the Kind that says, Its worth it… Get back Up
This Life of Freedom, of Goodness, Of Love, of Sharing.. IS worth It!
God’s call Within.  Heaven..!!!!
PEACE, with eternal FREEDOM as Its Mate.
Real Heaven..
That’s a Love Affair worth Living For..
The Kind that Songs were written about..

Freedom, Holy Freedom,
Rested in PEACE
That might just be…
Can You SEE the Light?
...A World That Works for Everyone
Miracle!!!
And so It Is.

Two penguins meet on a day,
under sun so bright.
Flapping wings and singing song,
to make them feel so right.

They sang with hope and sent it far,
to all for change to be,
integrated in humans,
love songs would set them free.

They carried songs of sweet love.  
It rang to world so fine.
Their music was a grand gift.
The two were so divine.

And when they met the stars watched on,
from deep inside days sky.
They knew inside love shifts yes come.
In poem I tell no lie.

So send out inside of your prayers
gratitudes sweet toast
to those dressed in black and white,
who live near island coast.



StarBG © 2017

Those waving the banner of Democracy
Are those most duped
By the true shot callers
Whining about their trivial matters
Their minor inconveniences
Swallowing the lastest distractions
Shoved down their throats
By the powers that be
Regurgitations of that same old shtick
They were told to say
Like. . "Fighting for our freedom"
Or. . " If you don't vote you can't complain"
A ballot pull for an elected leader
Is as effective as thoughts and prayers
for some senseless tragedy
They wouldn't otherwise
lift a finger
to do anything about.
Both are just
Self-serving gratitudes
To stroke your delusions
One big circus circle ****
I have no interest in participating
I don't pick the clowns
I don't buy their stories
But I can still watch them dance
As the empire crumbles.

Bonjourno, paisanos!
Didn’t think I could say actual words,
right?
Most of us virtual protagonists
like Pac Man and Crash Bandicoot
don’t talk much since we are
systematically required to listen
to enemy plans and damsel-in-distress gratitudes,
to actively work to stay alive,
making it hard to breathe
and cough up a sentence or two.

Now that I momentarily have the freedom
of [legitimate] speech,
I’ll let you in on my thoughts
about comrades, enemies, and my abilities…

Most days I can’t stand
how a princess like Toadstool
keeps falling into the wrong hands.
Even us characters have a life
when gaming systems power off.
Most days I’m not the only hero
but the co-hero.
Though most times my friend Toad and brother Luigi
are scared of warding off intrusions,
they’re my only reinforcements.

My archnemesis Bowser and his army of koopa-turtles and armless goombas
aren’t too bright.
When Bowser acquires power-ups beyond
my virtual abilities as an inner-city plumber,
I scurry to find others who know
Bowser’s vulnerable spots
and who help me gain acrobatic abilities.

The food I eat
Provides strength and focus--
like mushrooms that make me grow taller, smaller, and lengthen
my lifespan.

I’m sure some of you wish
you could hop across wide crevices
or defeat troublesome figures.

Thanks to gamers and patrons
who adventure through space and evolving scenery
with me.
I hope in the midst of Rockwell-style art in motion,
you all take away real-life lessons.
Wahoo!

I celebrate the New Year on the Winter Solstice.
It’s a slower onramp, a quieter welcome than
the cheers and kisses. This day is for a private conversation.

Where is this going?
How did we do?
And a prayer: Let me not forget the wisdom I’ve earned.  

On the solstice I curate my memories of the year into a poem,
By sifting through a cabinet of curiosities with twelve drawers,
brimmed with flattened, folded, and stored decisions.

Soon it will be time to start a new year,
Which will hold new mistakes, new realizations, new gratitudes,
New missteps and miscalculations, new joys and sadness, new
Discipline, old indulgences, heirloomed fears, and consecrated hope.

In this ghostly light,
I look at what was, hold it to my
Heart, and fold around it like a closing flower.

I
Bless us Oh Lord,
for these thy gifts
Which we are about to receive
from thy bounty through
Christ, our Lord Amen

II
Thou whose hand
hath brought us
onto this joyful day,
Accept our glad
Thanksgiving
and listen to us pray

III
Thank you Lord,
for all that grows
Thank you Lord
For the rainbows
Thank you Lord
For the sky and
stars that shine
Thank you Lord for
the moon and the sun.
Thank you Lord for
all you have done.

I will never forget the Thanksgiving prayer. My father offered when I was a child. He took the letters of “Thanksgiving”
And he gave them value

IV
Thanksgiving
T is for thankfulness
H is for everyone Here
A is for amen
N is for Never giving up on God
K is for kindness we show each other
S is for the Sunshine and Stars

G is for God our Lord Jesus Christ
I is for the Individuals at our table
V is for Variety of bounty the Lord gave
I is for Initiating forgiveness and love
N is for Noticing the gifts God gave us
G is for Grace and Gratitudes

It wasn’t until years later, we found out that father had cut that prayer out of the paper and he put it in the palm of his hand, and he read the poem so seamlessly we all thought he was making it up off the top of his head.

Feel free to make your personalized version
For your Thanksgiving Blessings prayer
and fill it with everything that would
be of your family’s gifts and blessings

Happy Thanksgiving
May God bless you and your family

I encourage you to write your Thanksgiving prayer
traditions in the comments

Mrs. Parr made us write letters
to the hammering man that lived
in the radiators of those cold
Beechfield elementary rooms.

He got a lot of mail that winter - '70 to '71,
and we scratched our gratitudes
on the four line papers, certain
to keep our ascenders and descenders
in time and in tune with the peals
of iron and steam.

It wasn't until '77 that I got a grip
on thermodynamics and realized
there was no man in the heat
of those cold Beechfield rooms,

No giving hand with a maul
to pound away the nails of frost
and loose the stiff knuckles
of a chattering hand.

But back in '71, when mercury
pressed against iron, too young
to formulate disbelief,
we gave our penciled thanks
to the hammering man
that once had wrought relief.

Since you left me all I see come to blur
How many trips went we, my memories stirred
Present me your melodies silently
You're the ivory out of ebony perfectly

Nineteen winters, for me you're a great boy
Swinging personas as many LEGO toys
All kind of pains you're free now dear my son
Showed me how? courage to carry on, fear none

The right rhymes, you've helped me to find the words
Lyrics from Eminem, Weenkn's, a must
Gave me Odyssey and Iliad, a good read
Knowing I'm the prodigy guy indeed

Your gratitudes until now I can't forget
I'll meet you again to pay for all debts
Promise me you'll wait for me on your odyssey
Believing our fates are the Dead Sea Scrolls' prophecy

You've given me full of hope but when hope was gone
I left nothing but have to ***** my way to journey on

They say,
when you're destined to be a poet
chances likely you won't really know it.

They say,
choose the write words to make your voice known
don't be the antisocial type to avoid being alone

They say,
the future is what you dream it up to be
the only obstacle having  to face is only me.

They say,
The greatest writers suffer from the highest depression
Acting upon this active passive aggression.

They say,
You could speak a million words of positive
but they'll only remember the ones of  negative.

They say,
To be the greatest poet you'll need be  suffering through some hurt
maybe then your stories could leave the world with a mark and some worth.

Poet I am
But not strong in my securities of being such a man.
All my words scream out, hoping to be heard
Saying to be a Christian, sometimes yet failing to follow The Word.

Seeking to be heard and broadly known
When the whole world speaks of you highly
and all your works are widely shown.

Spare a few gratitudes to a lesser known poet
Why not share his wise words so people around at least know it
If I wrote a changing idea in the instant
would you at least show it
If someone plagiarized my quotes
would you at least call it.

Just please do me the simple favour
For this lesser known poet
As you excuse his childish behavior
And let him be a poet as he knows it.

The sixties were the days of the liberal ways.
Be you, be free to seek social change.

The fifties were the way of the conservative rules.
Follow guidelines placed upon you.
Fight no cause, fight nothing at all.

The seventies were the days of liberal views.
Accept changes that go against restriction.
Where ladies wasn't dictated to always wear dresses.
Many, now by choice could wear britches or pants in the workforce.

The Forties were the time when working women shined.
Many built the armors, the planes during the war times.
Just to be placed back into an assigned role when many soldiers returned.

In life, many earned this respect.

Ladies, never get their total dues.
But in truth, we owe them many gratitudes.