"inquiring" poems
Why do you love the one you do?
Arrogant as he lives
Intriguing minds have not a clue.
He cheats, he lies and receives your endless forgives
Security he cannot propose
Financially, spiritually, emotional or otherwise.
Love unfaithfully he bestows
Disguised as Christian he justifies.
Smothered in the cocoon of his limited sphere,
Hinders flight for the beautiful butterfly,
Egotistically the coward oozes insincere.
Sadly pondering, inquiring minds ask Why?
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Her pale porcelain skin scorched my mind
its imprint was all I could see
Such innocent hidden behind a jaded mind
Such beauty underneath
Her immaculate body longing to be smeared by my finger tips
Holding her close, keeping her safe, in suspended bliss
SAFETY it was found that night, right between her legs
Like trees aching for light, stretched to the sky, she begs
Inquiring on journeys before embark
her imprint was left on me
seeing beauty in every cut and every mark
Such artistry to be seen
I could deal with near pitch black, as long as there was enough light to dance, and glisten off her angelic eyes
SAFETY it was found that night, right between her thighs
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 5:55 AM UTC
a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...
<>><<>
the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?
the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?
instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from
morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies
words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia
means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed
and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the
first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just
yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
**descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past*^
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
My black hole theory is not profound
I just want what is lost to someday be found
I have a theory there are many series of black holes
somehow linked to the big one
They all have there own gravitational pull
They seem to have an innate hunger for whatever is shiny or new
They seem to **** it in like of vacuum taking it away from me maybe even from you
There used to be some sort of portal through my couch , to try to stop it I removed the couch from my house
A strange thing happened it is all true, stuff started disappearing from my purse especially anything shiny or new
That can be very problematic if you are at the store and reach in your purse to pay the teller and all your change is gone, no more to be seen
It made me feel like crying, or maybe scream
The logical person that I try to be thought their must be an explanation, so I emptied out the contents of my purse in the stores bathroom, I carefully checked the purse lining for any holes
I found no holes and none of my change too, I just had picked up a new roll of quarters from the bank and that was gone too
I pondered the situation later that day and thought of my little black hole theory , the little black holes somehow linked to The Big Black Hole and ******* my stuff in, I know I am no scientist, but if someday The Black Hole lost it's gravitational pull, and my stuff and maybe someone else's stuff too started raining down, perhaps my theory will take hold in the scientific community and hold some ground, or maybe Inquiring Minds will want to know of my theory, but most of all what matters to me theory or no theory, I just want my lost stuff to be found
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
So many curious faces I see.
Inquiring eyes fixed on me.
As if trying hard to guess.
why always I speak so less?
In the office and in bazaar.
They wonder who my friends are?
Every time they spot me alone.
Doubt if I am kind of stone.
With them no ebullience, no zeal.
In their company so lonely I feel.
Whether sitting or on a walk.
Always worldly and shallow talk.
But all who think I am lonely stone.
Let me inform I am never alone.
Loneliness is my best friend.
With him quality time I spend.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.
Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.
You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
Why do I feel
Like many of the people
Who are successful
Are
Snakes
...
Okay,
Snakes is way more
Negative a word than
I’d like to use
Many of my friends fit
The description I’m about to give
And I like to think
I sometimes
Do
Too
When I say snakes
I’m referring to those
Who will advocate
Push
Shove
Even when their obstacle
Is a person
To get what they want
They’re the person
Who plays two sports every day
In the spring
To keep up with their fall sport
They use their free period
For another class
Just because they
truly
Want to take
The class
They stalk
The teacher
When they don’t
Get something
Or they read external
Information
Related to the subject
Online
They can be annoying
Rude
Can have ulterior motives
Inquiring about grades
To secretly
Rejoice
Or,
Clench a fist
In frustration
My dad says,
I don’t have that
Burning desire yet
I’m not a snake quite yet
But,
From what I’ve
Observed
To really have success
One
Has to
Be
A
Snake
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
I skip, across a streaming, upon random~laid
flat and comfortable flat flagstone stepping stones,
from poet to poet, color to color, poem to poem,
Auden to Whitman, Schuyler to
myself, a dingaling notion, an errant word,
the here to there, all randoms, yet,
oval chain linked all,
a question posed, an answer unknown,
a reference to an old Italian myth,
and there, and here, a body,
comes to rest,
& also,
comes to rest…
<>
led not by the nose, but the single fingered
tip that guides across a landscape patterned
painting, lost but never a loser, each implants,
each imbibes, and the H&H^ alternatively
rumbles, pounds, vibrato burns erratically,
and the difference between a life in love,
and a life in poetry,
is not a line dividing,
but a path combining,
and the only sign
upon the road,
is never a reddened "stop!"
always just a soft lavender, so tender, inquiring,
requiring, deep thoughts and reckless abandonment,
the only guide inspired when ecstatic adrift in
a season, a sea, any one of nature's designed
unlimited
schemata's of vista creations,
is this, simply stated:
What?
<>
postscript
6:27 Sabbath Sep 27
nyc
after a sunrise glorious, where
the windows eastern facing
make an irresistible irrational
pattern of golden yellow reflecting,
mirrors, and
after reading much,
and so I too, reflect, vista, vista,
what do you see, I see…What?
after reading a poem by James Schuyler,
entitled (yes, we are)
"What"^^
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:47 AM UTC
Prelude
"Let's go" his soft whisper
the mantra, in his voice she hears
the esoteric voyage through
the cryptic high seas of self,
fathomless, unmapped,
uncharted and reachable
only by the most fearless
ready to unbind and make
the self free for it's adventure,
begins thus for the peaceful pair
complementing the absolute
for a life time, til they reach there
and find themselves one with
pure consciousness.
"Let's let's, but only together"
she chants in unison,with him.
1.
Bidding good bye to ego, clad in red and black
a beast, not easy to bring to it's knees, submit,
the high horse proud,raring to go,having sharp horns
sticking out, fierce, that goes berserk,on seeing white.
Altogether a curious construct, that dictates terms-
they set about, invoking the blessing of the flame of light.
2
They stood together, eyes widely shut, bringing
both palms together,in front of their chests
creating a lotus bud, symbolizing hearts,bowing
each other in "Namaste",-bows the divinity in thyself-
chanting the mantras of peace, thrice, each time, repeatedly.
3
"Lets go back to the begining of every begining.."
the primordial hum, transcending quagmires of time
in the path of our ancestors,who did see the" unseeable",
without eyes, knew the "unknowable",diving in to the
ocean depth of self,going inwards chanting"Neti, Neti"
Not this, Not this, inquiring each till the essence did reveal.
4
They did this, focusing the eye of the mind, on the eye
beyond all, that watches every small thing in universe.
Mind, sharpened like the blade of a sword,efficient to cut
the Gordian knots,of paradox, duality and illusion,
encountering the silence that thickens at last, speaks
the words of wisdom,patient they are, to know the ultimate,
right there at the source of light that is the true essence of all,
5
Celebrate the pure consciousness, that pervades in every thing,
the thought that begets all thoughts,that moves on to be karma,
that becomes purer, through the cycles of lives, one after another.
"Let's be humble, utmost, sans the ornamental clothes of pride.
May the thought reigning cosmos, the spirit of peace,chanted aloud,
take us to it's sanctum sanctorum and melt us in to it's divine embrace.
Only one there is, all are it's integrals,the divine cosmic hum 'Aum'
that enliven the universe within each cell, remember , is eternal"
#@@#
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
put all the words
in the world
in my two hands,
each a microscopic dot
of near invisible,
teeming, heaping,
ricochet intersecting
colliding,
cell splendid splitting
leaping,
until they,
wordlessly forming
a sign inquiring,
in neon flashing:
“What did I demand of them?”
”New combinations,” my reply.
how we
laughed together...
as they procreated
My Happy Request*
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
Smooth, like
Top-shelf drinks,
Fresh churned butter, and
A con man’s tricks.
Sharp, like
Well-aged cheese,
Finely honed steel, and
Sarcastic words.
Quick, like
Just-launched rockets,
A jester’s wit, and
Those not yet dead.
Slow, like
Just-woken sloths,
Chilled molasses, and
A Southern drawl.
Stuffed, like
Just-mounted deer,
A child’s bear, and
Stomachs after feasts.
Hungry, like
Late-winter bears,
Inquiring minds, and
Black holes in space.
Adjectives.
Well-spent words,
Crafted with care, and
Filled with meaning.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:16 PM UTC
Yesterday she was nowhere to be found
In the earth or under the earth.
Suddenly she is all here - a bright soon
Of a tomorrow in earnest and potluck joy, embers and pyres, iris and the merriment of ochre.
A star groomed by outer space - spilling wet ash
And fissured out by the tailored saw of the wood.
Now something is stirring in the smolder.
We call it a girl.
Still wowed.
She has no idea where she is.
Her eyes, chalcedony stones, explore ripening doomsday and an ivory moon rock.
Is this the world?
It confuses her. It is a great numbness.
She pulls herself together, rousing to the new weight of things
And to that maternal figure nuzzling her, and to her down burrow.
She rests
From the first infinite shock of light, the empty laze
Of the curious and their curious questions -
What has happened? What am I?
Her ears keep on inquiring, blissfully.
But her legs are impatient,
Mending from so long nothingnesses
Her tiny hands are restless with ideas, they start to try a few out,
Swaying this way and that,
Grasping for balance, learning fast -
And she's suddenly upright
And stretching - a giant hand
Strokes her from top to toe
Perfecting her outline, as she tightens
The knot of herself.
Now she comes to -
Bold, beautiful - Argentina
Over the weird world. Her nose
crimson and magnetic, draws her, consciously sounding,
A petite yaff, aimed towards her mother. And the world is warm
And gentle and softens her daze. Touch by touch
Everything fits her together.
Soon she'll almost be a woman.
She wants to be a Woman,
Pretending each day more and more Woman
Till she's the perfect Woman. The immortal Woman
Will surge through her, weightless, unbound, a twirling flame
Beneath silver gusts,
It will coil her eyeballs and her heels
In a single outlaw fright - like the awe
Between mortar and firework.
And curve her neck, like a crocodile emerging from the placid pond
Among lilies,
And fling the new moons over her shimmery banner,
All the full moons and the dark moons.
Booming, ineffable delight.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now;
Depart in peace, thy little life is safe,
For I have scanned thy form with curious eye,
Noted the silver line that streaks thy back,
The azure and the orange that divide
Thy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer,
My garment has enfolded, and my arm
Felt the light pressure of thy hairy feet;
Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip,
Precipitous descent! with stretched out neck,
Bending thy head in airy vacancy,
This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemed
To ask protection; now, I cannot **** thee.
Yet I have sworn perdition to thy race,
And recent from the slaughter am I come
Of tribes and embryo nations: I have sought
With sharpened eye and persecuting zeal,
Where, folded in their silken webs they lay
Thriving and happy; swept them from the tree
And crushed whole families beneath my foot;
Or, sudden, poured on their devoted heads
The vials of destruction.--This I've done
Nor felt the touch of pity: but when thou,--
A single wretch, escaped the general doom,
Making me feel and clearly recognise
Thine individual existence, life,
And fellowship of sense with all that breathes,--
Present'st thyself before me, I relent,
And cannot hurt thy weakness.--So the storm
Of horrid war, o'erwhelming cities, fields,
And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on:
The victor shouts triumphant; he enjoys
The roar of cannon and the clang of arms,
And urges, by no soft relentings stopped,
The work of death and carnage. Yet should one,
A single sufferer from the field escaped,
Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet,
Lift his imploring eyes,-- the hero weeps;
He is grown human, and capricious Pity,
Which would not stir for thousands, melts for one
With sympathy spontaneous:-- 'Tis not Virtue,
Yet 'tis the weakness of a virtuous mind.
2.3k
<3 <3 <3
She enjoys her morning espresso
while he savors his mug of cappuccino
she shapes his dimpled face
in her newly wakened mind
he imagines her big brown eyes
gazing like a buck...inquiring, yet dreamy
she hums a lover's lullaby, for him,
each morning, before leaving,
he lets his charcoal pencil play
on his ever ready sketch pads
draws her face with pixie haircut
they think of each other day and night
always......at the very same time
yet...not a word is said when their eyes
meet...not an effort done, to break the ice
they'd rather keep things within,
their coffee mugs...witnesses,
to their similar daily practices
what a shame...what a waste!
their elbows, their arms touch in haste
as they hurry....towards the quay,
the ferryboat takes long, they both wait
leaving their untold love go by
along with their unsung lullaby...
it happens daily...without fail
their feelings, bubbling as they sail
but...neither has the guts to bare
how could they let life go on this way?
content with just a secret love affair...
<3 <3 <3
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 5, 2018
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
Dear willow tree
How you enchant me
You provide a place to hide
From all inquiring eyes
You are my secret place
My great escape
Wrap me in your leafy arms
Keep me safe from harm
My mother's tree
You were thee
With all your meloncholy beauty
You mean so much to me
Your leaves hang off your limbs like vines
A perfect place to hide
I wonder if they admire hour beauty like I
Oh the things you must have seen
To make you seem so meloncholy
I want you to know with all your sorrow
You're still beautiful to me
You stand tall and proud
Away from the crowd
You are a cherished sight
Eminating might
You're so graceful as you sway
the wind begins to play
You always beg it to stay
But one day all things go away
But I want you to know
You will always be sacred to me
My dear willow tree
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
It has come into question
My love for the Croc
Whether it be in bare twinkle toes
Or with knee high socks
Rubber on rubber
From top end to sole
Soft spongy comfort
To take on the road
Yes they're here for the comfort
Not here for the speed
Certainly not for the fashion
If that's what you seek
You might have already guessed
That left long ago
Trying hard to impress
Those in the know
The older you get
The less that you care
Hence my love for the Croc
And fur underwear
But back to my Crocs
Like it or not
It's all that I wear
They're all that I've got
Ask me which style
That I mostly own
(Inquiring minds want to know)
I'd have to say
Why, "The Original"
It's streamlined to date
With the perfect number of holes
I even wear them on dates
These Crocs got it going on
So let me be the first
To let you all in on this
My love for Crocs
Is just what it is
Be it in the bare feet
Or with paisley socks
You need to get over it
Cause I love my Crocs
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
It has often been said to expand
But with the theory in being your plan
Now you might have multi-talents and only concentrating on one
Even though it is one that is not your finale in being done
It is the fact, you were probably doing one talent, and then later discover you were also doing another talent and didn’t realize you had another talent
Everyone has more than one craft
It may seem unimportant to you, but think of yourself as value
There is value in everything that we do with a purpose
One must connect the talent with an opportunity
Let’s say talent being an alphabetic letter, but when you add other alphabetic letters, the letters become a word
The same principle applies to multi-talented as you add one skill and inquiring with more
Think of multi-talented being numerous sentences
So multi-talented have many avenues and offer many opportunities
Think of it, you have acquired talents beyond measure
The value being a treasure
Expand your talent in being the show and tell
Market your talent in being a sell
Before you know it, you will have a clientele that will pass the word and continuing in your talent tell
Opportunities that will be just swell.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
My black hole theory is not profound
I just want what is lost to someday be found
I have a theory there are many series of black holes
somehow linked to the big one
They all have their own gravitational pull
They seem to have an innate hunger for whatever is shiny or new
They seem to **** it all in like of vacuum taking it away from me maybe even from you
There used to be some sort of portal through my couch , to try to stop it I removed the couch from my house
A strange thing happened it is all true, stuff started disappearing from my purse especially anything shiny or new
That can be very problematic if you are at the store and reach in your purse to pay the teller and all your change is gone, no more to be seen
It made me feel like crying, or maybe scream
The logical person that I try to be thought there must be an explanation, so I emptied out the contents of my purse in the store's bathroom, I carefully checked the purse lining for any holes
I found no holes and none of my change too, I just had picked up a new roll of quarters from the bank and that was gone too.
Henceforth, I was quite perplexed when I pondered upon what happened next. I washed clothes and then dried them and took them out to fold them and put them away just like any day. I just can’t understand why I end up with so many mismatched pairs of socks. Then I had a possible revelation many there is a black hole, or perhaps even a vortex that one of each pair of socks gets ****** through. I still feel a bit blue about my socks missing their perfect mate. I confess I also did not like to lose one of the socks of my favorite pair with a picture of an M&M; along with the saying “Who’s Your Candy”, maybe it seemed too irresistible to resist. If it happened in a science fiction movie maybe some guy would exclaim “Beam me up the M&M; socks”.( I seem to lose one of them each time I dry them). The curious thing is the holes left in the mismatched socks that were left behind.
I pondered the situation later that day and thought of my little black hole theory , the little black holes somehow linked to The Big Black Hole and ******* my stuff in, I know I am no scientist, but if someday The Black Hole lost its gravitational pull, and my stuff and maybe other people's else's stuff to started raining down, perhaps my theory would take hold in the scientific community and hold some ground, or maybe Inquiring Minds, will want to know of my theory. That is not what matters most of all to me ,theory or no theory, I just want all my lost stuff to be found.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
You would love me more
if you knew
the things I don't say
love me more
for the tears repressed/unseen
the thoughts that rise
yet fast sequestered,
virus quarantined,
lest infection spread
occasional
moan groan
an Ebola moon June
escapes,
inquiring ears overhear
and ask...
but quick deflected
with a
** hum,
nothing luv,
pushed back into
the hidey hole of opprobrium
and acid reflux
why why
suppress
if loving you better
the net net of it?
this is not the candy coated,
but the coal glow strife
that cannot be
quenched nor
solved with
anti-pain
meds
so put away, aside,
push back inside
you would
love me better
for the sharing,
but love me enough
for the be I be,
let my roughened edged pains,
be buried with my remains
a love unfettered
will place no obstacle
before you
from within me
love me for the man I am,
just the average man iam,
knowing that not knowing all,
not a deceit,
but a reprieve,
what I share,
strained and sleeved,
tho unrelieved,
it is relief
that burdens but,
only me
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
Crystal threads of flowing assurance, delight a thirsty soul
A sustenance of radiant light for the weary
A calming balm of delightful heaven to nourish and console
Healing respite from a world so dark and dreary
Plunge your essence underneath the flow and breathe
Inhale the sweetest solace there awaiting
As you finally find the answers to the questions deep
Your inquiring heart has been contemplating
Embrace the flow as you drink from the crystal cup
Of a comforting assurance so divine
Now serene in the knowledge that you have found
To sustain your ever seeking mind
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 7:35 AM UTC
A fool sits alone.
Not dumb but naïve
drinking ideals that were both sweet
and biting on the uvula of his thoughts-
thoughts that once resonated
from truth no longer ring true.
This terminus of sentiments that started veritable journeys
in the muck of questionable sources
housed his hopes
while he dared to dream of a day these hopes may be fulfilled.
But over hills and plains filled with grating winds
of inquiring eyes looking for lies so intently
while false truth slips through their gates,
these hopes gained grit.
Grit built in truth,
and to hazier eyes,
grit grained with wisdom.
So our fool finds himself at a
beginning wrought from this inverted journey,
He’s discovered his truths to be soggy
with the living mire of human deception.
No longer does he sit
with starry eyes
hoping for truth,
he has found it by traveling backwards
through experience until he stands upright
amongst the crawling with lies filling his head.
It is in this moment when all he sees is deceit,
that he knows he has found the truth.
No longer does he believe in it,
he understands how ill-fitting that word has come to be.
In the grand cacophony of the human experience,
the sterling ring of truth deafens.
It takes a qualified lie to reach our hearts.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:38 PM 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
Umbrellas, umbrellas, holding off the rain.
Sheltering all from the sky’s falling tears.
A common bareheaded woman with a basket,
Becomes the object of one man's inquiring gaze.
What protects her from his illicit intentions?
His wealth from exploiting her poverty?
She possesses no umbrella against the rain.
No shield against his shower of false affections.
And oblivious; a little girl with toy hoop looks on.
A questioning sadness in her dark, innocent, eyes.
Unconcerned curiosity, observing the world’s corruption.
And yet, and yet: unaware of her own, future vulnerability.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
An old black crow sitting on my tree
Squawks "Hello" each morning to me
Inquiring if I had a good night
Did I rest well? Did I sleep tight?
**Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Ain't it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me**
And oooooh isn't it magick, how that old Mister crow seems to notice whenever I'm blue
And oooooh isn't it tragick, how I let myself fall for a cold hearted lover like you.
Well that old black crow, he cares more than you
You know it's true. I never hear from you
I know he'd buy me a ring
And slip it on my finger, with his shiny black wing
**Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Aint it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me**
That old black crow sittin' on my tree
Squawks "Hey baby, won't you marry me?
Your old man don't know what he had
Cause I'm telling you baby, you ain't half bad!"
**Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Aint it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me**
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
what lies in the vast frontiers of space
scientists have pondered on this very thing
they've boarded rockets to check out the place
is there only little green men a gleaming
at the far reaches of the celestial plain
scientists have pondered this very thing
inquiring earth minds taking the interplanetary train
so many worlds yet to be well investigated
at the far reaches of the celestial plain
can this orb support life and can it be populated
a glimpse of what is out there seen on Mars
so many worlds yet to be investigated
they reckon man might dwell upon a galaxy of stars
an upbeat community of scientists filled with joy
a glimpse of what is out there seen on Mars
Earthlings with state of the art technology to employ
an upbeat community of scientists filled with joy
what lies in the vast frontiers of space
they've boarded rockets to check out the place
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC