"jul" poems
<>
"And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden
The olden summer breeze was blowin' on your face
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden
The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden"
In the Garden,
song by by Van Morrison
<>
***This touches me deep in the chest cavity,
the palpitations of its internalizing echoing cavitations,
a warning, go slow, choose your words wise and
accrue, the mood,
for the ache of creating, hurts, fevers me
for I am but steps away from the garden,
and its violet hues infused with fresh sunrising golden hazes,
with kindly warmth, with warming kindnesses,
touches,
caresses my shoulders, begs me to stop crying,
overcome, for I am overcome, eyes dropping wetting droplets,
for find myself at the intersection,
interlocking crossroads
where perfect perfection
begins and must
meet its natural endings
thoughts of capture, retentions, preservations,
all impossibilities, challenges,
see me, begging itinerant
muses
in the neighborhood
to guide my hand, teach me newsome words,
mine feel so old, so unworthy of this moment,
hearing me solicit their
Treasure of Summery
Words
but they won't,
excusing themselves,
that this in particular human has exercised, exorcised,
all the tools in his ever diminishing capacity,
time insufficient to learn a new calculus of
addition
and bid me calm my heaving chest,
seize my tears, just add them to the brackish salted waters steps
awaiting away
live in this moment
live within this poem,
revisit it frequent,
weep no more,
your stilling heart weakened,
take fast what is given now,
and be contented,
your treasury chest is full,
overflowing with this summary of
summery***
but I am not, cannot…
7:48:am
jul 22
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
how do you paint water, or clouds?
I could read poetry for the brief,
of my of remaining life, however brief,
and never be satiated, of love,
and streams of water,
never stilled, always running
in patterns that exist,
but for milliseconds,
admired by clouds born in, of,
a moment of re-formation that
is perpetuity long:
unending shape shifting,
like the freedom of flowing water
currents, forming, reforming and unthinkable, nay,
inconceivable that human eyes
or their spoken words
could capture their
shiny white foamy essence
But of love,
that we can do, paint, design, recreate its
endless loops of undulations, like the radiating circularity
of a pebble dropped gently
to its burial sight in a quiet pond.
Humans know, understand and excel at clasping and grasping
at the synapsing of human cells from differing bodies:
the exogenous erogenous of human touch that like the clouds
and the water,
who
could paint that,
who capable of capturing
said sensations that wrack
and enliven the body with invisible
interior chemical reactions. I
cannot.
Thankfully better men and women have treatised their entreaties to the powers of the universe and been rewarded with the skilled delicacy of weaving human tapestries, the milliseconds of connectivity, eclectic and electrifying of different currents and differing amperage’s forming and reforming like water moving, just like the clouds changing in response to the externalities of wind and gravity and all the forces of nature that encourage us to study
and stare at these flows,
hoping to entrance them into standing still for but a moment, and instead, mesmerizing us into standing motionless for hours in awe of their freedom.
Love’s undulations too mesmerizing, and freezing us into
place, or alternatively
caucus to run endlessly arms extending,
flying though not airborne,
rocketing us upwards while feet never budging,
but finding good wards, masterful metaphors to recreate and thus to share the fabulous mystery of this thing we know as love.
2:58AM
Friday
jul 22 (jewel 22) of the 23rd year of the 21st Century.
O.L.P.
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 3:05 AM UTC
Original English version: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/skyrim-3/
Zu'u lost ont jul zulot fein naan vorey jul,
Midrak zoklot zurun Zu'u stood, veyn pogaan ran.
Nii lost Zu'u wo fund krii sahrot dovah, ahrk zind uben vokul jun,
Ko svaan snol ahrk geikaal mund, nust fund heind dii for ahrk mirodah!
Zu'u lost ahst wah do lein, ahrk nid vust knock zey tum!
Fah dii sos nust came, nuz ko niist siifur nust drowned,
Zu'u lost hailed *** ko dii nor ahrk zoor ko suleyksejun!
Sahrot Lahvirn neben lot lokoltei, voth zey ahst niist zurgah,
Morokei lost golt mu tread voknau, lok bex ahrk stin!
Zu'u nuft wah kos undoriik med you…
But ruz Zu'u rem ronaaz wah krahsek.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Pickle Haiku
F J McCarthy on Jul 17, 2009
Green fresh cucumber
Drowning in spiced vinegar
Reborn a pickle
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 3:31 PM UTC
Original English version see http://hellopoetry.com/poem/942159/dragon/
Dovah
Gliding asamit ven,
Mirodah lovaas do kein.
su'um Dovah.
Coming wah feymah wah jusktii!
Viing do yolus hellsong,
Drun kun wah himdah.
Vrii ahrk hil adamant.
Wah oblaan lein do jul.
Unon do dovah,
Bo overhead.
Wraiths do volok.
Taazokaan los ko rut,
tiid ru maltiid.
Alduin los coming.
Wah oblaan lein do jul...
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~
having already deduced that:
“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^
the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem
I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral
no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next
has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
julemusikken går i ring på mc D
Julen er musik på en fastfood restaurant
Platte pop numre blusser glæden frem i mig
Og selvom jeg ikke vil, nynner jeg med i mit hoved
Hvad er jul uden plastik og dårlig samvittighed?
Hvad får bjælder til at ringe hvis ikke de blev spillet i radioen?
Jeg sidder her på det falske lædersæde og drikker cola
Og venter på sne
For for mig og alle andre på mc D
er sne det eneste der mangler
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
Empyrean Heaven (there is no promised land)
there is no promised land)
the promise is where you stand
at this exact moment, where you
stick the landing every morn best,
best you can, assess the window’s
first delivery of the status of where
you are, whom you are, bent or *****
empty or full, impoverished or worse,
sated, foolish or brave, (dis) believing
the top of world is planted beneath your
feet; but above, at this the fiery places of
Empyrean Heaven.
Empyrean Heaven, nearest to me, thy there~thee
will find, beyond the heaven of the air and the
heaven of the stars, no land, the incorporeal
existence, carefree, know this you-human,
an unpromised state is the causal residue,
of actions between human to human,
not thy god, irony delicious, earn it
with every thought, instinct, act
deserving of this, this
“unpromised place”
G.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was, declared Saint Basil, a certain condition, older than the birth of the world and proper to the supramundane powers, one beyond time, everlasting, without beginning or end. In it the Creator and Producer of all things perfect the works of His art, a spriritual light befitting the blessedness of those who love the Lord asks of you~human.
———————
Jul 3 7:59am
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
Mirrorball - “the fabrication of our performance”
a life long struggle to accept who I am,
of course, lose, and lose again, and
the fabrication of our performance now
inherent in every excuse and mirrorball
revolving asking, no, laughing, at our
vanity, as we endeavor, enabled by the
paucity of ego, the neediness of weakness’s
to catch, keep, hold each single flickering
light spot in our open, slick palms forever
we fabricate our performance of daily living,
modifying our measurements to match output,
only a human cannot wake only to fall within
each daily tabulation without thinking, once:
*I am a hero, worthy of acknowledgement, just
look at my hands! see how many spots of
light I can claim as mine! the mirrorball turns
and turns paying no mind to the worshipers
below, until some sorrowful fool confesses,
fools fail, fools fail, turning the dervish off,
the white flag of ego darkened, once more...*
we are all false poets, false prophets, occasionally confessing
7:34 AM
Sat Jul 18
The Year of the Virus, Corona
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 8:03 AM UTC
~for r a/k/a rrr a/k/a woody~
“I will always remember you”
raise you hand if honesty
yet lives inside your muscle
memory of brain, of heart,
there is no one here who hasn’t
uttered them fool lying words
with difficulty we struggle to up
raise faces and places, moments
and images no longer mirrored
within the frontmost places of
our recollection, that searing then,
itself scorched, lichen+moss covered,
our greatest pains, pleasures sworn
allegiances to these razored inflection
points, now scoured by rusty hazes,
and we wonder what has become
of us, what we valued so to savor
as forever memories, their names
gray lady shrouded, and there is
no internet site to aid in self-recovery,
for our selfish selves have been altered,
time, new loves, guilt and other stuff
intersect with mind’s eyes and no mas-
more synapses paths instant linkages
I know you will vociferously argue but
it is almost physical, our shame at losing
them and ourselves, in the morass that
time digs daily deeper for what grieves
us is that losing as the end rushes to close
our story, makes us pick up pen and finger
scratch as best we can inside the lines on
our faces that are/had proofs, witnesses,
that once, we were there at the places,
whose names are no longer mapped any
where, so deep, no archivist’s submersible dare
fathom those fathom’s darkest we would need
to explore without the possibility that we
might implode if we sunk so far to rip apart sea
forests we knowingly, secret-planted to coverup
her memory, the words spoken, the oaths
and promises, we swore, for instance, simply
by saying, “I will always remember you”
p.s. and my self-shaming so great, that my
asking for forgiveness is buried so fast, it
may, not ever been real, just another fiction
Jul 6th, 8:36 AM,
Jul 7, 2023
Jul 7, 2023 at 6:42 AM UTC
muse,
*she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”*
*write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.*
*a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?*
<>
wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.
eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.
this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.
this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.
<>
*the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*
7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
for jul
she asks a-rat-a-tat sensible
peppering of questions;
“why do I give away my poems so easy and so fast, why me”
the answer so readily apparent,
so easy peasy lemon squeezy,
my style is who you are!
every-oft and every-then,
a leader-reader believes my words
so profound so entire so joyful wonderful!
that title passes there and then
a poem without a dedication but a-dressed-up-lovely
without a ^hat,^ missing the zing of panache
that makes its DNA complete, then someone comes along
who loves it so more than enough, placing that rakish angled love with a bejeweled hat pin just so, and that hat makes
the poem so much more, the jewel whispering confirmation
vive la différence!
so a dedication to/is
purest dedication -
exactly!
and this one
a jewel for the poem
for jul
be a
just
be cause
5:47am
<•>
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
Jane was given a year to live
Febricity, nausea and cancer would assist her through that year
Marching headfirst into this battle
Apropos of nothing, she packed up and left
Maybe she broke down, maybe she got up
Junction of her heart and mind, she was preparing to die whilst simultaneously starting to live
Julian Alps, Tianzi Mountains, Santorini, Petra, Machu Picchu, she saw them all
Augmented her mind
Separated her ignorance
October fell and she was hospitalized, the hospital was now her personal party with constant visitors
Novice to cancer no more, now she was the leader
Decease couldn’t stop her, she was alive
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
those who created wind and water had many reasons,
but their first purpose was to constant enliven the human mind
with the softest message that true freedom is never bounded
nature’s song is refrained, “man, be unrestrained,”
nature’s majesty is then greatest, for men fool
themselves with lines, divisions and walls.
Earth’s best, humans too, best seen in its
unconstrained, searching character.
this is the one, only truth.
12:07am Sun Jul 12
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 12:08 AM UTC
A Simple Man
F J McCarthy on Jul 15, 2009
I am a simple man.
I have traveled near and far.
I have what I need and that’s not much.
For I am a simple man.
When I write a poem it comes from my heart.
Don’t check my grammar or tear it apart.
The meaning is given in plain sight you see.
A simple poet, That’s me.
The words that I use they are small.
But I understand them all.
I write of my life,
My kids and my wife.
For I am a simple man.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 12:44 PM UTC
नारी के स्म्मान मे
द्रोपदी के चिर हरण से
परिचित कौन नही होगा ?
जहाँ रणों के रणबाँकुर थे
शब्दहीन, थे मौन मौन !!
मान हरण की वही प्रथा
मानो UP दुहराती है !!
लखनऊ के चौराहे मानो
कुरुओं कि है राजमहल,
राहधानी के चौराहो पर
भीड जमाया जाता है
सरे आम यूँ नारी को
जंघे पे बुलाया जाता है,
क्षमा करें,
ईस कलम को तब बेशर्म
होजाना पडता है !!
राजनीती जब नारी को
सरेआम वैश्या कहता है !!
पर,
नारी को स्म्मान दिलाने
दुर्लभ योधा आये है,
12 साल की बची को भी
कामूक स्वर मे बुलाये है !!
इतने पर भी पूर्ण व्यवस्था
मौन दिखाई पडता है,
कई पितामह , कई कर्ण ,
कई द्रोण दिखाई पडता है !!
अर्जुन के गाँडिव भी लगता
चीर हरण मे सामील है
भृकोदर का बली गदा की
दुर्योदन से सन्धि है,
कलियुधिष्ठिर के धर्मो पर
सत्ता कि परछाई है !!
है लगता मानो चीर हरण में
सामील सारे भाई है ।
कितने वीरों की सूची –
तैयार करुँ बतलाने को ??
जो बात – बात पर आते थे,
अपना स्म्मान लौटाने को
कलम मेरी,
है पुछ रही ?
क्या वो अब भी जिन्दा है
थे बढी तमासा किये कभी
शायद उसपर शर्मीन्दा है ??
नारी हित की बातें अब
बस बातों मे ही जिन्दा है,
देख दुर्दशा नारी की,
कलम मेरी शर्मीन्दा है !!
बस है कवियों से पुछ रही,
क्या ? पत्रकारीता जिन्दा है ?
बस जिन्दा है ?
राजनीती की ईस नीती से
UP मेरी शर्मीन्दा है !!
अब भी ये सब थमा नहीं तो,
कलम मेरी मर जायेगी
पन्ने को कर अग्निकुंड
जौहर अपना कर जायेगी !!
- सूरज कुमर सिहँ
26th Jul 2016
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
Twilight Dreams in Retrospect (Along Oxford Street, 1980)
Feet walked a scornful pavement
no empathy there
where scores of mindless feet blindly trod
Monotonous sounds poisoned the evening air
terrace houses wedged in behind aging fences
TV’s, volume bellowing 7 channels and news at 5
spilled from windows
open to capture the feverish breeze
Voices in argument or play… sharp words slice through
frying onions and fetid odors
humanity’s debris over-flows bins …
such is life when **** sapiens, trapped
in the machinations of predetermined destiny
live in congested clusters
I turn a corner into Oxford Street…
in aching silence my mind screams -
- Do you not see that we are all shadows
of who we were meant to be?
For dreams can only live when freed
of the dying dreamer…
What Twist of fate brought me here
aimlessly wandering streets not my own?
Moth to candle flame
ghosts beckon with crooked claws…
… eerie calls
shivered on twilight’s quivering breath…
sunset, a mere flicker
through dappled trees
offers little light in its final moment
Thoughts trail in tangled streamers
inevitably following as feet
trace an invisible path
through inner city streets
Somewhere a dove weeps to witness
days demise, grey shades growing
dimmer, dimmer still
surely the dove knows
There can be no light without the dark
and In darkness, we have to light our own fire-
- feed our own dreams and desire
paint the night in cosmic lights and fear not
the silent shadows…
Three hours bled into street-glow and dark corners
as I walked, with aimless intent
time slipping into moments lost
in remembrance of forgotten dreams…
… once I thought heard… or dreamt I heard
an angel sing
and watched as halo’d stars
Surrendered to her call.
*
Art & Poetry Sharonlee©5-Jul-13
* In this poem the Oxford St I refer to is in the inner-city of Sydney, New South Wales, Australia.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
Why Do You Want To Have *** With Me?
Version One
Jul 7, 2013
Answer:
Because your poems please me.
And
I want to write one
too.
Version Two
Jan 11, 2014
Answer:
To perfect my poetry,
I need to learn
New words
frequently.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
You are My World
F J McCarthy on Jul 2, 2010
To my wife, Lisa.
When did the world begin?
When did the sun first shine?
I think I know when it might have been,
When your eyes first met mine.
When did my heart first beat?
When did I start to see?
The first time our lips did meet,
Your kiss gave true love to me.
Now time has passed and we are one.
Joined as man and wife.
When people ask, how long we’ve been together
I tell them for all of my life.
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 3:11 AM UTC
Aksis (Greek: ἁψίς; majority apsides, Greek: Enhancements, Improvements) is the highest point in the course [orbit] of one thing. 10000.001 1000 hours on the moon and the moon [2] ... 34C Horse and P4 / 4 (see Cicero / PH3 screen) 4P * 1000-1010 = 3-2 George. ... (July 73) Jul 42 in Italy, Poland, Picture of Hiroshima P2 Columbus, Georgia, Europe, Columbia 100 MTN Toonberg [People] About 1683 - P ***** 4/4, Chen Xin Shibiru. Cicero / P / [2] ... 1000 to 10,000,000. The King's King after many high speeds of 3-4p of Master Cranial Winter of Hiroshima HD HD-DA ... Mother's Scandic Faced Keira is a poor and unhealthy injury.) I've got a headline. Taurus is in charge of the drivers, IPA women's wives (BBC Taurus IPA), IPA women - Pastor BBC Taurus - after suffering, woman and bishops hit on the easiest arrow for the arch. Hunter, the commander of the powerful is new. Papa Andrew you Howl Yellow Chicken Mm Agbarus Bosma Test for Sinestro 1 / 3-1000. Smart 4P George Elvira, December II - Pilot 2 ... 73 [2] 3 Original Script file. 3 42-38000 Preparing People in Georgia, Georgia Paz Two Years - Shell HTS Hiroshima, Paul, George P. 2. 1683 ... English, French, Colombo, Nintendo, Canuck Black Rory, agree with national laws . .. [2], Greece, Italy, United States in sports groups ... demand for space [4] [5] [6] ATL one but we do not read, "I have heard the head twice" but this is the idea, good. When a leader dies ... buried in the Paris Labyrinth, Tess and Brie and the Kronogods Ready | A pleasant place of residence held August 1570 [11: 5] Clement Bach Bali - the world's largest Cicero sea. More than two years Hydroponics / L-2 George ovulation stream.d special at the end of four years, [4] Google has more pressure 5. [7] Using the backpacks of Dr. Clarke's four Gadgets and Sara. "The German Parliament says the House says 4/357 100 Evolve Mobile 4 R / 3 1000 MPS: 3-10000 years ago to Mali P4 2.3 2.1 (4) Investing 100 years ago", George Thomas (he less than 3).||
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC
All our senses concatenate, building on each other
<>
this interplay is truly interplanetary,
for each of us a unique solar system,
our brains,
intricacy literally personified,
and our five senses, working
in
concatenation
our long range sensors, busy bees compiling inputs
by the nanosecond second, distilling, integrating.
blending and then reconstructing…into a whole!
*a gentle breeze ruffles the hair,
the tree swing rises and flows
of its own accord, no passported
passenger required, and a neighbor’s
American Flag, moves majestically &
impressively, whipping, dancing, yes, prancing
to a tune only it can hear,
the syncopated air currents providing
a rhythmic awesome inspiring beat…*
and the brain takes this all in, a momentary
second of a vista that is constantly flexing,
yet remains unchanged, a muscular view
of a real world, living but yet immutable,
and I utter thanks to my motor functions,
that bless me with the eyes to perceive,
the nostrils to smell sea salt flavored air,
the hearing ears that the know the imperceptible
orchestrations of silences by their absence
and their intrusion, and I touch my fingertips
to my tongue, wetted, and hyper sensitized
to that gentle breeze that decorates the
landscapes external,
*and the combinatory
addition of the all of it, into a single momentary
poem of recall, what I “knew” yesterday, & will
greet again this coming day, as an old unfamiliar
friend, who grasps me entire, and proclaims:
this is living…and the greatest satisfaction that
a speck of mortal can achieve, retain and
through impoverished words…share*
4:14am
Mon Jul 22
2 0 2 4
Jul 22, 2024
Jul 22, 2024 at 4:25 AM UTC
Keith W Fletcher
Jul 1 2016
Be still my thumping heart
Before you burst straight through flesh and bone
Upon hearing words your life you never expected to ever hear
Bringing life back to a heart once solid as a Stone
Allowing blood to flow through your now coursing veins
That had all but ceased to circulate through
In this cold and barren atmosphere where I've always had a fear
Living was just wasted on those like me who have never had a clue
What love was like beyond
This barren land in which we've lived
Should living be any way to describe
That which we have been doing
Encased in a cocoon of solid misery
Intent upon the dead reckoning course so long in pursuing
So caution please when intending to send any hope
To those who have all but died inside while waiting for Redemption
Are often shriveled husks of once proud but misunderstood beings
Who have lost any and all
True image of themselves
Loveless lives lost
In animated suspension
So carefull now as you have started
Life
Coursing through my frame
No memory of what I should be
That I have never had
-Fear reaches out to grab the arm setting off the silent alarm
That screams a warning to self preserve Or you will go Stark raving mad
STARK RAVING MAD!!!
But death cannot be far removed from this' non - life refrain
So if my heart should burst this day to be shattered into dust
I should take the chance
Letting
circumstance
Guide my weary steps
Taking the hand of you
Who is now reaching out
I give my all.....all that I possess...
.... I give you my trust
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
new words for an old day that’s just begun
even I, author of the conundrum above,
confused but let us sort it out as we
descend into the elixir that is our combo
of noises, prejudices, limited vocabularies
time noted, not even the nine o’clock mark,
so the day qualifies as new, but it’s an aged
sun rising, skills displaying, historical precedent,
ancient practice, adjusted for atmosphericals
the lawn is speckled, mottled, as light ray guns
through the defending battalion branches and
platoons of leaves facing up, to a certain death
later than sooner, no killing fields till September
the oak tree generals, wisdomed experiential,
prepare plans, take light a prisoner in sufficient
quantity to nourish the troops, yet, not too much,
for the sun can be fickle, a flame thrower machina
all that vision leads me to this pronouncement:
*Oh Lord, bountiful be provided, beloved, inscribed,
this day, its mega-millennium predecessors and
successors gifted precision amounts needed, then,
**Cast me gently into morning,
For the night has been unkind,
Take me to a, a place so holy,
That I can wash this from my mind,
The memory of choosing not to fight.**
Sara Mclachlan “The Answer”
9:18am Thu Jul 9 ‘20
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 9:29 AM UTC