An Oxymoron making sense.
A criminal with no offense.
A slamming door shutting soft.
A hatless man, politely doffed.
A heart that's pieces stayed together.
A sad somebody's moment of blither.
Even at the darkest dawn.
Something in us carries on.
Life the way it truly is.
Not to pretend its full of bliss.
Little moments come and go.
Reminding what we already know.
Life is short sometimes sweet.
In the little happy, joyful moments,
Life is the treat.

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat *****;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and *****-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

First in bombastic burst of a scent,
Colours from these winds heaven had sent.
A lift in my head with these winds in your hair;

Our old magic (trickless) springs a hatless hare,
Faultless as firmament spins a perfect rose.
Colours that can thin any illusion, in our music rose-

Whirling where euphony may curse thorns and pains.
Worst is how these colours stain clear window panes,
Where darkness had deftly set how fire rules awe!

Cycling past buisness girls on his way through Camden town
between towering grey buildings and tourists that frown

The lights turns to red and like a one legged man at the curb
he drifts off to a land that to some, seems absurb

Where honey-eyed tales of piglet and Pooh
are driven  by toads tooting, ****- ****- poo

Peddling along the reeling, rolling,rambeling road some drunkard guy made
on famiular BBC air waves his voice often played

Through rich green ridings, wild moor and dales
2-50 stands the church clock that so sweetly never fails

Hatless on Ilkley, bathed and bathed in York
tea-time fancies at Harrogate, whilst watching like some Kes pearched hawk

Nodding and humming to  sounds of the Brighouse and Rastric bands
and still finding time to paddle a little,
                                                                                 on sun drenched Gigglewick sands

Red turns to green as he wobbles and peddles away down Boris's yellow brick road
To Settel, for supper with
                                                       Raty
                                                            ­         Mole
                                                            ­                         Badger
                                                                ­                                           and Toad

I cast my hat, into the ring
so full of fearful doubt
expecting you, to pick it up
and simply toss it out
But unbeknown to me
hidden there behind your eyes
was a secret hope and longing
that it might just be your size
So casually you picked it up
and looked it up and down
I was expecting any minute
'pon your face to see a frown
You brushed it off so thoroughly
cleaned every little bit
closed your eyes then put it on
and smiled as it fit
Almost instinctively you opened them
and were looking right at me
My surprise and expectation
must have been plain for all to see
You casually walked over
and whispered in my ear
"but its always been you silly,
now lets get out of here"
And so my friends thats how it was
that I came to lose my hat
and why you see me grinning now
like a hatless Cheshire cat.

Bittersweet and lemon treats
Tanking troubled hatless heaps  
Salty horizon flogs sweet beach
Sandy skin, too soft a peach
Your thumb brushing my left cheek
Can you still smell the apple’s reek
Skewed hearts remain in heat  
Devine reminds a heart to beat
Kept up in the saddles seat
King of every bit of hate, wash
These battered palms disgrace
Love has sunk the ship of face
Tulips lack the need for space
Whips of stars appear in plight
Have you only fight or flight?
Good wills only break the bank
And I’ve only left myself to thank

The hustle and bustle
of people everywhere
rushing by
in suits and skirts

and some in bowler hats
some in trilbys
and some hatless
running for a train

the steam engine
letting out steam
with a sudden gush
and me and Lydia

standing back a bit
to allow it all to happen
I kept her near me
protectively

the porters
pushing trolleys
with bags and suitcases
the smell

yes the smell
of the trains
and the crowds
the sun shining shyly

through the gaps
in walls and rooftop
and sky
we both looked there

watching the steam rise
the smoke ooze out
and Lydia said
so loud

can hardly hear
and I couldn't
for a moment
then the engine stopped

and it went quieter
for a moment
and I had just begun
to say

makes you feel DEAF
the last word echoed
around the nearby
part of the station

and she laughed
and people stared at us  
and one man
with a bowler hat

stared at us
and walked on with
brolley and case
and some woman

looked down
her nose at us
standing there
by the gates

waiting to get on
the platform
with our platform tickets
and the smell of the trains

seeping into our noses
and I loving it
wanting it more
the bite of it

and then
once the crowd
had gone in
the ticket collector

let us in
with a wave of his hand
and clipped our tickets
wish we could go

somewhere nice
on one of these trains
Lydia said
somewhere where

there's sunshine
and beaches and sand
and ice creams
and donkey rides

maybe one day
I said as we walked
along the platform
one day we will

you and I
and we followed
the big people
along the platform

and watched
as they got on
the train and closed
the carriage doors

and we sat on a seat
and waited
and watched
the steam rising upward

from the engine
the power
of the black engine
the driver looking out

at us
the stoker black faced
smiling
the guard waved

his green flag
and the train
huffed and puffed loudly
and he got on

and closed his door
and opened his window
on the train
and it moved

it chugged loudly
like some giant awaking
and we sat
and stared

and cheered it
on its way
that morning
that bright

sun
giving off
heat
day.

poems, poetry, words
are but mirages, today
wavering,
on a distant horizon
nebulous, yet so enticing

and i,
the thirsty traveller,
caught out,
hatless,
in the sandy dessert...

Just cruising through the endless sunny days
Along a rainforest river lingering
Hatless, shirtless, catching some serious rays
Listening to the national radio

A practical internship in cultural studies
Interacting with the authentic locals
And sampling their authentic cuisines
And learning so much from authentic them

The authentic locals had much to teach us,
And they did -  during our gap year in Viet-Nam

I don’t know if I love you or not,
Not even sure if I actually really like you.
What kind of difference have you brought?
The first time I saw you,
I was hatless and you had a hat.
But I skipped right over that moment
And never thought twice about you,
It took months, in fact, for me to completely notice you.
But now I’m here,

I don’t know if I like you or not,
But I’m almost sure I love you,
But as a friend.
Sometimes I think more than a friend,
But I just wanna kick it with you for a little while.
In not a friend way.

I don’t know if you like me or not,
But I just wanna hang out
For a very long time,
If that’s okay?

Hail hits hardest
when not anticipated
and head is hatless

Tuesday, April 29, 2025
2:50 AM

Eyes burning green reflecting patterns
yawns feel tied to FTA, so these lines un
fold from feeling real enough to think may
be
why, be, ah, woken to guard the gate, say
who goes there, what is the word, say it,

-- allegorical experience parable
literal transfer of call and response, say it…

              sibbolet slogan shibboleth battle cry,
slay all whose dialect makes no sense by
shushing discomfited infants,…
ah, poet, weeping

might becomes can as we agree, touching

any thing whatsoever, in fact or fixed faith,

saying our concern for another's demise is praying
merciful transference of sovreign authority, in death.

We, say the news criers on television, are praying
for the fan we all may have seen fall from the stands,
or we may, today, in case we were not paying attention,
at the crack of the bat,
to the shirtless supplicant
offering himself, beer baptized,
reacting to divine luck dispensation
hoh-ee trying
to umph the jinx
on the fly,
that went by driving
in the eventual win,
made sacred, truly special, for the show,
of life-long efforting  honed Team Spirit,
this is what worshippers expect, eh,
good national tickets cheap seats…

the battle of chosen hitter-catchers
paying
to baseball's Tychicus spirits
ecstatic over a two run double
in the bottom of the seventh…
lethargic faith, relaxed reasonable reaction…

pray according to pattern,
signal all watching, see how we do, real athletes pray.
America relies on prayer signals to the athletic supporters.


Players from both teams, including Andrew McCutchen, took a knee and prayed for the fan.
Wholey reality, grant
redemption based on dedication to mere display reaction…
to the winning RBI… last act of mystical absorption,
made sacred…

as far as all the time in the world is worth,
whole days dosed at max, world's worths,
worshipped in spirit and truth, fleeting…

rise up in the middle of the night, worthship,

yawns and torrents of sneezes, these are those
vigils required of the loyal slave mind, serving pollen,

time Tyche tachometer I
might say I got out of bed to breathe,
but I had wanted to ask LBAIQ, Leo, Brave Answering
Informal Quest… iron sharpens iron… notion notes

The Red Spot, also known as the Great Red Spot,
is a persistent anticyclonic storm
on Jupiter.
It is a giant storm that has been raging
for centuries, and it is indeed a permanent feature
on the planet.

Initially, it was thought that the Red Spot rotated
with the planet, but observations have shown that it actually rotates
in the opposite direction
to Jupiter's rotation.

This is known as a "retrograde" rotation.

The Red Spot's rotation period is
about 4 days, which is faster than Jupiter's 10-hour rotation period.
This means that the storm's winds are moving
in the opposite direction to the planet's rotation, creating a fascinating and complex weather pattern.

oops, factcheck friendly, just asking, no need to prove the lie told there,
just ius lucky us friendly sky united

dokimazó: to test, by impl. to approve

From <https://biblehub.com/greek/1381a.htm>

okeh. Many years pass, with us all granting authorized intercessory,
extra tis bits years
past so fast, years

nights and days, beautiful mysteries, that AI legally is not accountable,
for hoo-mon stop. See, let me ask another way

A rotation period of 4 days is actually much slower than a 10-hour rotation period.
To clarify, the Red Spot's rotation period is about 4 days,
which means it takes the storm approximately 4 days
to complete one rotation
on its own axis. Meanwhile, Jupiter's rotation period is about 10 hours,
which is much shorter.
So, the Red Spot's rotation is actually slower than Jupiter's rotation, not faster.

It can be perceived, that gas giant, seen as we may, these days,
using science consciously slicing sense of usefulness from cost,

Dabar, the sword in the mouth of 'Zekial,
sitting by the Chebar  freight canal,
working for a living, counting kegs,
swinging amphora tight round pegs.
fitting snug below the rowers, squares in tiers of three,

got the picture, Ben Hur,
amuse a politically minded hoo-mon to tell a story of the Christ,

many such were told, used to tame the savage, who could not read.

I've never finished anything permanent, no regrets.

I learned insomnia is me fretting about losing my religion, oh, no\

we've said too much, we've made the means of making reason, oh,
ratio, heft to use, too

heavy on the break break, brake, slow BLAPlapblapblap Jake engaged/


Middle of the night, 04:02. Worth your time, I hopeso/

Confluent opinions swirl
the opposing superstitions's stormfronts
roiling common sensed

selfishness, into team spirit, companion
same bread by which our flesh derives umph

wherewith to try, for the joy we all may win,
for merely surviving, living past all war's reasons.

Casus jus belligerence, train up a child, a boy,
at the basic foundational division of command
authority,

Momma said Poppa said

time passed and son's disagreed,
before daughter's I'd imagine, mostly,

though, now that I insert the possible variable,
we, the partially Disneyified, having lived during
the era of television for children and the whole

family of loyal customers, gratefully entertained,
using industrial scale magic, science not false, oh no.

Well, now, pilgrim,
here's a fine

how do you do…
being you, hatless in space.

_ this is an excerpt ADVERTISING LONGFORM
_ this is a wild idea befriended long ago

we… who finish this thought agree, ever
before time to right this instant, then ever

some more. Peace is easier to sell,
happy people make happiness work,
whatsoever
we agree,
we may

can you dig it. ai jumer, wordswirleration

Trust the river through the rapids, run
knowing there is always where we
step into the Jello…

and conjugalmentalbliss.

Confluent course through
out and in, conscience consensus as we

slow no just if I agreed with your missed
conceptual precept made Isaiah essential
gnosis, discipline come, let us reason, why

of course you comprehend original sin, eh,
ask any trusted source, at base, this idea,

is culturally, in our species, according
to science in context of us, me thinking,

your patience, or your acquired taste,
ends when either has become convinced,

won over to believing slow thinking allows,

reasoning, adjustments, to just mentalize
realization words augment, intend to stretch,

pretend we sold our three bags of wool, long
novel rides in past and present allegorical dust
I used to say, iusagree, in spirit if not truth
agree, at minimum, we agree, the state
of actual participation
in peace making,
is a far better state
mind expanding knowledge…

accounting

for each idle word, measured
by how long one thinks any word lives
after
meaning anything
in particular for your peace.

It's a book, your life is.
A book, not a poem,
not a short stack of lines rising
from the top,
stalactite-like sclerosis forming course
drip trailing evidence, pillars
top to tip, dripping sweet
persuasion, water call
falling drip of what we thought,

as we build a chaotic pillar of crystal reflection,
convincing any ever yet
looking back, learning then, when first believed,

the darkness, lightlessness, when the why is told,
the deathly hallowedness, truth enforces as told.

-------------------------
Grand Canyon Caverns, mile mark 115.

Stores of stuff few ever learn, few
at global scale we circa 2025, few

mental utilizers know the experience,
more than a million most expectedly less
than a billion, of which we now are nearer ten,
than eight billions of us, our kind capable affects,

efforts expressing sense of us, our kind thinking

we may or may not plan any given day, yet we
think we may lay plans for the course
of human events,
wherein we find
ourselves paying mind, and heed, drips

indeed, of course, we must, we were mustered,
as punishers, the right thinkers, core-orthogonal,
as mustard faith leads eventually to cauliflower

upright mind hat tipt, in passing fancy, wonder if…

what if we agree to enjoy an after life, no worries.

---- the wish words be having
reader behaviour… be thinking

In science you must not talk before you know.
In art you must not talk before you do.
In literature you must not talk before you think.
--
In order that people may be happy
in their work, these three things are needed:
they must be fit for it;
they must not do too much of it;
and they must have a sense of success in it.

[ both maxims of Ruskin's, "The Eagle's Nest," 1872]

Done, that's not all, but the esoteric efforting, back when,
the mind, Psyche, was about to be plumbed, leading thinkers,

lacked the precepts upon which precepts approaching perpetual

emotion, haps all working together for good, finally, finished,

as when the work assigned is done, and looked upon, we think.

That's good. Functionable ratio of push and pull, life

breathing with us, in chorus.

You may need to find a solitary place and listen daily,
for fifty years, I know a guy who did, he says,
to this day, after fifty years on this way,

this pilgrim journey children cannot walk, this last mile,
when we walk contented to think, in truth, I can do this  forever.