"improvised" poems
Whirlpool of whirling quaint
Inequality brewing in the
Winepress of smithereens
Fragile polity.
Voices of weariness cried
Out from the wasteyard of
Waste for succour,
Pointing fingers of
Recrimination towards
The abyss of drouth ,
Entangled in conflicts
Of interest.
Winds of improvised emblem
Bearing hunchback of
Woes,
Raising hands from the
Drowning deep sea
For rescue like
A dejected beautiful
Vigaro in a
Turbulent ocean of quarrel
With her spouse.
Whereas reddish fluids of life
Runs across the same veins
And arteries of haves
And haves-not but
Cottage of interests
Hoisting avalanche of
Rainbow-coloured flags
Standing aloof on the
Pole of misrule,
Demarcating their interests.
No accommodation for wants
In the corridor of affluence.
Wants on a trade mission
With wealthy but caged in
The confinement of wealth.
Winds of inequality blew
Whirler of wants into
The marrow of the
Haves-not.
Rains of inequality passing
Through a lockage of lack
Into the improvised,
Doling-out poverty to
Gain the control of
Wealth.
Alas! Blindness sees inner
Vision of darkness from
The households of political
lamia.
Alas! Deafness hears
Discordant vague voices
Of failure from the forest
of frustration.
Alas! Dumbness speaks
Language of gnomes out
Of the vale of forgotten
treasures.
Alas! A four year tenancy
turning into decades
of challenges.
But we shall revive our hope
and raise our voices
tomorrow.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 8:19 AM UTC
Who draws strength
from watching the passage of time
after dark
blur against the windows
of a moving train bound
for ends uncertain.
Who walks most balanced
on the beams of empty tracks.
In the shuffle of strangers
at a crosswalk, who finds
direction.
Who sees
clearer through rain.
Who finds their place
in the limbo of airport terminals,
on delayed flights
between chapters,
over open roads that branch
into tales of cities unseen,
in the turn of pages unwritten.
Who can keep track of time
during the improvised chaos of jazz,
catching notes scattered
in the winds of horns.
Who understands
that wind moves
fastest through dark places like tunnels,
during storms in late August.
Who finds their center
hurled in flight,
always coming and going.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
A quite brief and improvised guitar concerto, if you will, in the key of Cm:
3 acoustic guitars
2 electric guitars
and a piano
https://soundcloud.com/apexparadigm/spirit
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
Technology:
how I love you and loathe you
in the same breath
your phonic ears
listening out for
a babble of distress
from a childs vest
sleeping soundly
in the next room
your ten tentacle arms
purge my words
and shelter emotions
across vast distances
for long lost friends
to find comfort
in 140 characters
your innovations
are the respirator
the breathing lungs
the beating heart
the bionic limbs
that help without want
to walk again
if only you could
just once
guess my words
correctly
just once
is all I ask
I invited that girl
for a pint
not a riot
and the black berry
ripens in the east
is now an improvised
IED
Technology:
will you ever be perfect?
or will you always
be evolving
how will you know
that you have not
stepped back
to be overshadowed
by an ape
punching numbers
searching for Shots
and finding Pints
in the middle of
a dusty Riot
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
***Ensnared in
the crystallization
of web's
intimidating deception,
superficial spider
met its
duplicitous match,
whence the improvised
contortionist morphed
forth from its chrysalis,
spun midst grandeur
in triumphant
survival of flight's
sheer inception***
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
I've never seen someone like you,
Who are you, an aborigine from perfect land...
You crush me down,
You tear me apart,
You break my confidence,
The more I try, the ruder you get.
The stronger you tear me down.
To err is human, but not so for you.
You think your perfect, well I'm sorry to prove you wrong.
Believe in perfection, try your hand at it first,
Then, and only then try your hand at others.
* Personalised and Improvised *
* Evolves to ones likeness *
* Reflects who you are *
* Father of practice *
* Efficient when a true friend *
* Creative and rewarding *
* Time consuming *
* Institution of creative minds *
* Openness to change and *
* Never devastating. *
Faith is mine, and uncertainty is yours.
Trust is from humans, disbelief for aborigines.
Love for the heart, hatred for the mind.
Completeness in all its goodness is mine,
Perfection with all its imperfection is for none but you.
We try and you wreck us down,
You try and we break apart.
Let nature take its own time and heal the wounds,
Caused by the imperfect perfectionist.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Pythagoras taught that reality was
but one among an infinite number
now u've got the quantum multiverse;
& Pythagoras thought of it first, saying
all it amounted to was a line leading to
& through a point, like a thread through
a needle; & so the Universe was
stitched together like a multi-directional
dream catcher; excluding no area
in space & miracles taking place
when the strings
are manipulated according to preset
patterns or improvised designs;
what else did the ancient ancients
do that make ur high-tech gadgets
look like the simple-minded toys
that they in truth are; the ancients
told time by the movement of the
sun & shadows & communicated
w/ unseen higher spirits, conferred
w/ still higher spirits, higher than
those both above & below; spirits
taking the form of sacred prostitutes
& poets, geniuses every one of them
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
Come, come, come
I’m only a young boy
I just came to pluck an azalea
on this fine, lovely day
and you - Oh, you came
shouting at me
and you threatened to call
for the men and the servants
to give me a beating
Come, come, come
I’m only a young boy
I just came to pluck an azalea
and you started beating me
and you struck me on the chest
with your soft left hand
and then you let it slide down
And then you pounded me on my shoulders
with your gentle fists
and then you let them slide down
And now we are in this azalea dance
O this impromptu Dance of Azalea
between you and me
Your hand in mind
You in mock-aggression
and I now in complete realization
O this improvised Dance of the Azalea
just you and me, as we go round
and round
And what the end in your eyes?
I see, I see, I see it in your eyes –
a quiet corner below the rocks
a gentle spot, softened by grass and flowers
Oh you teach me this Dance of Azalea
Come, come, come
I’m only a young boy
I just came to pluck an azalea
and you teach me the art of love
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 6:47 AM UTC
Spurred on by scarecrow's
chemical coercions
convicts and sick souls
spill out into the streets
To slice dice
cook and eat
An orange jumpsuit army,
a crushing orange wave consumes
The neighborhoods and avenues
Chaos is constant
Carnage is complete
No single hero can quell a wave of madmen
well acquainted with violence
Like an avalanche of razors, and ambulance sirens
Wielding improvised blood letters
And bone snappers
Citizens scream and flee
Consumed by the visions
Contained in the cloud of fear
It is clear
it is going to be a wild time
in old Gotham tonight.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
They kept her in the attic with the rest of the nonsense
An improvised pen and paper of fingernails and floorboards.
Cracked windows rusted shut from years of disuse
Chapped lips pinched shut from years of neglect.
Broken mirrors on the floor from outbursts no one heard
Shattered eyes blinking hollowly because no one was listening.
Patterns traced on dust covered windows letting bars of light shine through
Therapeutic
Sunlight outlining shadows that shouldn't be there, dust mites that should.
Daisy; the name she gave herself after forgetting her original.
Daisy; what she'd call herself should she ever get out.
Withered; what she became.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
I would much rather think of my style of writing as "Philosomancy" than as "Poetry",
I would much rather think of my Music as "Phonomancy" than as "Music".
I think of myself as a Philosomancer rather than a Writer; perhaps a Writist.
Language is simply a mutual Medium for concepts; a means.
I think of myself as a Phonomancer rather than a Musician; perhaps a Musist.
Music is the name we call ordered sound; a means.
There is deeper Mythic significance to these things
than the mere words "Write" and "Music" lead on;
The Suffix of "-mancy" indicates a style of Divination;
a sort-of improvised Oracle.
Take, for instance,
Geomancy: Divination of Earth
Pyromancy: Divination of/by Fire
Astromancy: Divination by the Stars
Aquamancy: Divination of/by Water
By this pattern, it logically follows that:
Philosomancy: Divination of/through Ideas
Phonomancy: Divination of/by Sounds
-
Mythic Overtones are ubiquitous and implicit,
yet perception of them is more rare
due to cultural dissonance
'twixt Mythic and Logic.
Plus, Philosomancy and Phonomancy
sound so much more badass
than mere Writing and Music,
if I am to openly opine!
(It really helps to have a sense of Humour, as well!)
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
1.
I feel
fractured splintered defeated
entirely insular
and spread to thin
all at the same time
covered with insecurities
like a cheap suit
or hollow exoskeleton
nothing more than a lie. I grow tired.
I'm bluffing my way through this life
a brutal honesty
I lack the courage to accept
hiding my face
from every mirrored surface
a halfhearted attempt
to prolong this detrimental denial.
I can't ******** my way
through self-reflection
and trying to improve my image
feels positively improvised.
I lack sincerity and authenticity
an individual breathing without zeal
I need a break.
2.
Here I am again a lonely itinerant migrating
to the proverbial and often visited crossroads
rather than contemplating
a direction worth navigating
be it following in the worn footprints of others
or a path long overgrown with neglect.
I'd rather lie down on the gravel road
and nap in the open air
just to wake up confused and temperamental.
The destination remains unknown
my indecision remains intact.
I give impetuous a bad name
by reputation and repetition alike
conjoined twins that speaks to
fate and circumstance.
Like Houdini
I'm secured in a long sleeve shirt
dangling upside down from a burning rope
placing blame on the flame.
I need a break.
3.
I'm not as intelligent
or insightful as I once thought
my wasted youth is a testament.
A modern ruin
like so many a Blockbuster
I've outlasted my usefulness.
I imagine what could have been
clueless as to what lies ahead.
A jovial repentance
seems as likely as
success, or stability, **** simplicity.
Is it all too much to ask?
I've been on break too long.
4.
reboot jumpstart
Alleviate my stagnant, vacant lot in life
and cast off these first world problems.
Consider not the flat champagne
or the distance that separates
today from death.
Speak positively to the people
that would not otherwise attract minimal attention.
Set goals both grand and plausible
with no worry of dividends
and release cynicism
and determine a trajectory
that I may see through to completion.
If for no other reason
but to say that I tried.
It's not so bad this imagined and dire circumstance.
Relax and go on break.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
I'd like to trace your fault lines
Further than the bruises that grace under your eyes
And to trace the epicenter to our star signs
Take my hand, let's run away, 'cos baby you were born to fly
And when you choke back the words you don't wanna admit
All I can think is maybe this is finally my time
To take my chances and ease my palms around your heart
And let it rest easy with an improvised lullaby
My timing is flawed, I have no sense of time
My words are so useless when distance cuts our ties
And when I see how the autumn moon is held by the sky
I can't help but hope that someday that's you and I
Should I move forward or hang back and play it cool?
And watch to see if your silhoutte comes over the horizon
Either way, I'm gonna play the fool
Either way, you've already won
So take my hand, let's run away, 'cos baby you were born to fly
I've never had wings, but I'll try to keep up if you don't mind
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 12:52 PM UTC
In order to be succesful you must be a fool…
Thats the worse advise you can get ever..
I am so hurt after i got an advise like that…
Maybe i dont get the message right, help.
Being stupid means letting other people oppress you to get succesful,
I stil dont get it…
Steve Biko ” THEY HAVE TAKEN A BRIEF LOOK AT WHAT IS, AND HAVE DIAGNOSED THE PROBLEM INCORRECTLY. THEY HAVE ALMOST COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE SIDE EFFECTS AND HAVE NOT EVEN CONSIDERED THE ROOT CAUSE. HENCE WHATEVER IS IMPROVISED AS A REMEDY WILL HARDLY CURE THE CONDITION.” From I write what i like the chapter We blacks…
The sad part is even after 19years of democratic freedom in South Africa, some people wont change the State of mind about racial oppression it stil exist especially more in work plaće enviroment…
For someone who grew up Free, born Free generation stil put the whites superior and continue worshiping them to be superior than the other fellow nlack brothers grow up…
I am a fighter, i refuse to sell my soul to please fellow White brothers for favours of better treatment because of my dark Colored skin…
Its a sign, with the more knowledge i am equiping My self with for better and my space of democratic freedom and rights, i will succed in life…
For all the previously disadvantaged people they went through some tough time and cruel struggle…
For instance the “72 Hour Clause. A clause in apartheid regulations which controlled the movement of African from one district to another.”
Those people struggled but they fought dor equality. Now that we have equality you stil wanna plaese a fellow White brother with all the previllages you have.
I my self i know that through struggle that i encounter in life i learn more on survival and live to tell a story…
Im dissapointed already about some of the side effect of the past but im not ackwoledging racial discrimination nor even allow it to happen infront of me with a mute sense…
Can’t you see the light!
Its sign…
For all the unprevillaged people the is no succes without a struggle…
From the struggle you learn how to survive and live to tell a story…
Don’t water a thorn tree and expect an apple…
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
At weekends in mid-August if the weather sunny
A girl dresses in bright fluorescent pink socks
The sort sold three in a pack at the local market
Puts on her best T- bar white shoes and is ready.
A family outing which included a younger brother;
And a bundle of toys, cricket bat and picnic bags
The train went from Tooting Bec to Mordon station
And from there a tiring walk was undertaken.
Delightful it was with the cow- parsley and crickets
Red Admiral butterflies and leaf blossom on the trees
The siblings, only eighteen months apart, thought
They could barely wait to arrive at their special spot.
And so they did, well before one o’clock, in high spirits
Racing the river as it flowed hidden behind iron railings
Nettles in the tall grass and air scented meadow- sweet
To the trunk improvised seat by The Wandle .
Love Mary x
'
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
I didn't expect such an eloquent piece of work to slip from your mouth,
An amazing set of words put together as intricate an atom bomb,
Or as an improvised explosive device, so i see,
Thus I must be careful where i tread my glass slippered feet,
and be aware of what breath of words expels from my lips.
I never expected such a skill set of destruction and warfare,
From a beautiful mouth, so deceptive, that it almost seems,
you are an undercover lover,
both beneath the sheets, and between distinguished conversations,
regarding such tentative ideals of love and the ambiguity of trust.
A terrorist it seems amongst the ranks with a finger on the trigger,
with a finger on my lips, and a whisper hush in my ear.
It seems i was blind to your type of sweet deception;
There are codes i didn't understand, and my mind was melting,
from the heat of your touch and the sublime twist of your hips.
I can see your eyes ready to deploy a subterfuge of promises,
as they look into the distance calculating the logistics,
of this moonlight illicit flit of passion;
Never did i expect such an eloquent transpose of intentions,
Even remarkably as this feels like the Romeo and Juliette of modern times.
I am the 'x marks the spot' in no-mans-land it seems,
I am the calm after the storm in the aftermath of your expostulation,
You, my love, are a sublime soldier in this battlefield we call 'togetherness'.
No-one asked you to go to this infernal devastating war;
Yet i long for your return from the eternal, internal battle,
you fight between your heart and your head.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC
in Indonesia and Malaysia
they call her Pontianak:
she’s the cool hantu, spirit -
she lives in the banana trees;
she died in childbirth
and as she did she saw the joy
in her husband’s eyes
and so she hangs out in the nights:
she wants to eat every unfaithful man’s heart
1
the poor woman died
giving birth to a child
and still the woman lives
a ghost, undead –
to seek her revenge on men
for they showed no care, no love
2
so do not hang your clothes
outside to dry
for Pontianak will sniff you out
and will not rest
till she eats you inside out
3
she loves men -
well, it’s hate
and so she loves to eat men;
and so men, when you are alone
and you see this beautiful woman
alone in the dark somewhere in the deserted streets
and there’s the scent
don’t give in to the charm
for that’s Pontianak
and she’ll smell horrid after
but you’ll be severed body parts by then
4
push a needle with string
into the banana tree
and wait at the other end
with the string ending in a cup -
and you’ll hear Pontianak laugh and screech
in your improvised phone
in the middle of the night
5
and you never know -
your neighbor’s gorgeous wife
may be a Pontianak;
a hantu tamed with
a nail in her neck;
a gorgeous babe
till the iron nail is pulled out
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 12:16 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a little straight slip of a thing,
red, a quartier inch wide,
red, a quartier inch thin,
suggestive, inquisitive,
a political and philosophical,
lovely provocation to conjecture
as if it were a colored arrow,
pointing strangely down,
instead of up,
to the next handhold
on a rock climbing wall,
in this case,
handholds on a
woman's body
this way,
follow me,
to the barricades!
a tourist mapped-path to follow,
visit the glories of the republic,^
and the charming Quartier Latin!
entrap and entice,
the eyes willful blinded,
taken away to thoughtful solitary,
on-one-side-only,
does the
bra strap
conveniently,
consciously,
haphazardly,
(yes, that's it,
a hazard,)
invitingly, speaks to,
looks to me,
inquiring will you vote,
RSVP to red?
as if a line of lipstick on the body drawn,
the directive points,
this way, perhaps,
always, just perhaps,
this way tourist,
to the dome of the pantheon,
where the statutes
are the course,
or perhaps
disguised, well-placed, statuesque, (ha!),
improvised explosive devices,
purposely presented,
needy for a desired
psychological high impact detonation
If
that is its purpose
under heaven,
under sweater,
under halter,
under cutoff gym top,
under liberty,
to tempt and remove
the blindfold from the womanly scales of
under justice
to tilt him favorably one way
If
it, is theater,
I, the audience
then whatever is on stage,
(Ibsen's Doll House, ironie délicieuse)
is a failed distraction, naught to naughty,
to no avail,
his eyes fastened, stapled wide
to the quarter inch thin
red path
from her slender shoulder,
leading, stepping him ****** down to
his I-magination,
for which unknowingly,
he, ticket purchased,
months ago for
two hours and one intermission
He must go again,
the show was
superbly acted,
for so the reviews said,
Ibsen's play,
"an unremitting portrayal of the suffering of a women"
^republic ~ a state in which the power rests in the body,
of those entitled to vote, exercised by their representatives, their eyes, chosen directly by and for them.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.
One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
Wisława Szymborska (translated from polish by Stanisław Barańczak)
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
the brother was my age, not a looker. my parents were nervous and slicked his hair back lovingly. their hands touched. I had other presents but I was thinking about the blood in my body and about Stephen. Stephen was an across the street foster I for a summer could not separate from. his nose was constantly chapped because his parents found out he had no manners at the table and would have his older sister sneak up behind him and hood him with an empty feed bag. I went in with Stephen once saying his sister had called him a ******* and his parents liked me enough that they soaped her mouth in front of me then tied a string to her seemingly always loose front tooth and then tied the escaping end of the string to the **** of an open door and slammed it. because of this honesty Stephen and I were allowed to watch a movie where a white man and a savage pressed their wrists together after cutting them. the movie looked away from the cutting so we improvised. it didn’t make us any closer. the night Stephen ran away I didn’t wake up without having to piss. it was my dad found him days within the week making boxes a mile gone at a pizza shop because he said his name was Billy and would work for free.
I looked at the brother and couldn’t see it being so without my blood. but the brother pulled me to him anyway and I could feel in the heat of his elbows all the time he’d spent mourning the loss of Stephen.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
I’m the space between light and shadow
The dimness just beyond the headlights
I’m the silver lining of a storm cloud
The pause after crescendo
The top of the rollercoaster, just before the drop
I’m the hum between beat and rhythm
The echo in the valley
And the wake of the ship
The air that moves between hummingbirds’ wings
The scent of gardenias on the night air
The wet sand that makes castles but clings to your feet and never leaves the lining of your swimsuit so you never forget that day at the beach.
Someday you may spot me in the background
Shield your eyes against the floodlights and peer into the urgent quiet at stage left
You’ll hear the scribbling of last minute changes;
And know that:
I’m that improvised line
on everyone’s mind
at the end of the night.
The essence of a memory
You can’t quite place
Christmas mornings
Summer jobs
The undertones of that familiar perfume
The elusive je ne sais quoi
That sends you back to the food stall
With no name
On the corner of that park
We used to love
to cut through
On the way back from grandma’s.
You’ll recognize me
In the dying applause
Bonfire smoke on the morning air
The late afternoon breeze that reminds you to pick your kid up from school
The coolness of a glass of water after the first rain of the season
The third chew of an intensely flavourful bite of food
Music at a wake
Bourbon at a graduation
Coffee in a hospital waiting room
I am the crease of your forehead between tears and laughter
The glowing ember of a discarded matchstick
I am the space
Between footsteps
And words
And silent chants
Between your hands
When you fold them
And hold them
And raise them up
To touch the sky
And lower them down
To return to earth
I am the space between Light and Shadow
Between earth and sky
When you need me, I’ll be there.
Even if you don’t know it.
Oct 13, 2022
Oct 13, 2022 at 9:18 PM UTC
I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70
I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both
I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands
I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses
I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction
I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship
I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist
I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree
I want to be like Jeff Lebowski
I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties
I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path
I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies
I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral
I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, **** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’
And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be,
I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now,
I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke
I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow
I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11!
I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be
But right now, I am the me, that I want to be
And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
d r u m m e r
he's alive and i don't know what to do he's trying to beat life out of me using percussion to give me a concussion tuning me like a timpani and striking me like a snare dying in a rhythm improvised in a split second the mallets drew blood from somewhere i cant understand and i cant see anymore where am i am i dead yet
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
In the confines of the house's backyard
there are no marked graves at all to see
but an attempt will be made by this bard
to relate according to personal memory
of some creatures buried therein to be.
Over the course of many years gone by
various creatures have been laid to rest
in the soil of the yard's ground to comply
with an improvised simple funeral blest
by a short little prayer to end their quest.
There were a couple of cats it is recalled
one of them was within the property born
though with the other memory has stalled
which is not surprising and hardly forlorn
to blame or point at with a finger of scorn.
Then there were also a few local birds
mainly sparrows that were regularly fed
which flew all around and dropped turds
being a little distressing to find any dead
some due to after eating crumbs of bread.
They were preyed upon by neighbors' cats
and left for dead when they were disturbed
in their instinctual appetite that included rats
when by humankind were scared and curbed
due to their wild nature's feast so perturbed.
Then on occasion also mice would run free
which were seen coming through the fence
and when at times chased scurried up a tree
where they would hurry to get away thence
a similar burial applied if found dead hence.
It'd be so incomplete here not to mention
all those spiders and insects that had died
in some way or other due to a pretension
that their annoying habitual nature implied
to be poisoned or squashed in their stride.
They have all been buried in the backyard
in various places there that are not marked
laid to rest in the ground either soft or hard
under where others had roamed and barked
in the distant past after they were all carked.
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Mar 19, 2022
Mar 19, 2022 at 6:57 AM UTC