"miraculously" poems
You laugh
Angels weep out of jealousy
Devils have no single conspiracy
Demons dancing in harmony
Men hearts go broken with no remedy
Women eyes tearing continuously
Violins break out of envy terribly
Composers have no more creativity
Music plays with no melody
Silence starts listening joyfully
Happiness laughters left in agony
Beautiful words describe nothing but misery
Tulip flowers become colorless shamefully
Believers lose their faith immediately
Infidels drop their convictions instantly
Hearts start beating rapidly
Lungs oxygenating quickly
Living ones laying listening carefully
The dead come back miraculously
--Hisham Alshaikh
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
We were once kids.
We were once wild.
We were once soldiers.
In the dead of winter, you greeted death.
You fell from my grip and into the darkness,
and now a hundred years have rotted away and I have never felt so alone.
I ran from the winter because war was to attached to it.
I close my eyes and I see you there on the front line.
Young and drained, you were just a body rotting away.
Full of life so you hung on with everything you had.
bang
bang
It was such an awful sound.
Only if I had taken your place.
If only you would have run the other way.
Just how unfair is our luck.
Someday I'll teach myself to learn and live alone.
I'll teach myself that death was not the enemy.
But the winter storm rages on and I'm still having trouble breathing.
Don't be alarmed.
I march on.
Like the soldier I once was.
Don't be alarmed.
I've seen many winter storms
and I have miraculously survived them all.
Can't you see that I don't want to move on?
Don't bring tomorrow because I can't take another.
My eyes are too fogged to see the light.
My minds too cluttered to think right.
I've tasted my own tears
and faced all my fears.
So here I am.
Laying on the floor.
So here we are.
Together once more.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
The power of music
and friendship
heals dead connections;
a well-meaning member
of a jam session
offers me a guitar.
I politely decline,
embarrassed by my disability,
and they shrug. Your choice.
The familiar curves
beneath my arm
like a woman
from my past,
my amnesiac left hand
reaches for the
muscle memory
of fifty years' practice.
After an agonizing minute,
the G chord miraculously plays,
as I played it at five,
the three big fingers alone
strong enough to hold it.
The switch to C impossible;
so I play a variation.
Doesn't sound bad with the group.
My God, I might play a D7
by the next time it comes around
in the song.
The gang is playing old standards,
Ohio State music;
three chords and a cloud of dust,
which suits my present skill(?) well.
I almost cried when a few tunes later,
we sang A Horse With No Name
to my accompaniment.
Beethoven was deaf, yet heard the Ode To Joy.
Hawking is paralyzed, and travels the universe.
I have three good fingers,
and no good excuses.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
i hope you get into medical school
so all i have to do is eat an apple everyday
i hope you always have money to buy extra bread-sticks
but never the self control stop eating them
i hope your 15 seconds of fame falls on daylight savings
i hope you never avoid movie or tv spoilers
i hope your children are loved and cared for
but have their hearts broken by mine
i hope you always anticipate a surprise birthday party
i hope you always wake well rested
3 hours late for work
i hope you dance in the metaphoric rain
and catch metaphoric pneumonia
i hope your next thanksgiving is spent in an airport
i hope you are mildly inconvenienced every morning
i hope all your book pages stick together
i hope that you always will question if you left your oven on
i hope your future roommates always use all the hot water
i hope you always find the words to say
but never the right time to say them
i hope you never figure out how to pick a ripe avocado
i hope all your dinners are directly impacted
by the fickle nature of a toaster oven
i hope your curiosity gets the better of you
and you find out what cat food tastes like
i hope your favorite band breaks up
and you miss their kick *** reunion tour
i hope you watch an unhealthy amount of daytime tv
i hope you outlive me on the off chance that your paper boy will miraculously skip your house on the day my obituary is printed
because nothing would make my ghost happier to know
that you were forced to find out after literally everyone else that
i passed away in my sleep surrounded by people who loved me
while you sat in your house old grey never thinking of me until you
read some 50 words in a newspaper and even if its for a second i want you to wonder what kind of life i had because you will have had no part in it.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
imagine you're standing at the edge of a beach, looking into the water. it's a beautiful beach, the best you've ever been to.
the water is pure, the sand is soft.
and it's all yours, this wonderful beach. as you're standing there, you see a tsunami approaching.
you can't believe it, this tsunami is about to tear apart your
sacred beach, and you with it.
you yell, you scream, you think of everything possible to try and stop this tsunami from coming, but on it rages.
it reaches you and you're immediately knocked off your feet, drowning in the mad water.
it pushes and pulls you in a million different directions
and you choke on its waves.
do you fight?
of course you do. this is your beach.
the tsunami has no right to be here.
you'll be strong and fight until this tsunami goes away. and so you do. you kick and you swim and you keep your head above water and finally,
your feet reach the ground again.
miraculously, when you look around, your beach is still intact.
the sand is still soft at the touch,
and the water is the purest of blues again.
but you're barely able to catch your breath for a second before you see in the distance another tsunami headed towards you and your wonderful beach.
you can't believe it.
again its waves swallow you and you're not as strong as you were when the first tsunami hit.
do you fight?
of course you do.
..right?
it's harder to keep your head above water this time,
and the waves pull you under until you're at your breaking point.
you don't know which way is up or down,
and when you reach the ground again,
this time it's your knees that touch the soft sand,
not your feet.
you're shaken. a little weak, but otherwise okay.
you get to your feet, look out into the water, and your heart stops. another tsunami headed your way...
you're not sure you're going to make it as the 8th tsunami
takes its turn on you.
you've been underwater for minutes and you can feel the last of your oxygen being used up.
it's your instinct to fight, but how much more can you really give?
your body is weak and your mind isn't far behind.
do you fight?
do you fight for your beach?
you think of its perfection and it dawns on you that no one in their right mind would give up a beach like that.
so you should fight.
shouldn't you?
you don't know anymore.
is it worth it?
the beauty of the beach is matched by the terror of the tsunamis.
it's not possible for you to have one without the other.
you don't have to make your decision this time,
because as your still deciding,
you feel your back rest upon the warm, soft sand.
you're lying down and you don't even have the energy
to lift your head up.
but you hear it.
you hear the terrifying tsunami racing towards you.
i hear the terrifying tsunami racing towards me.
do i brace myself for the fight?
do i stand up and face this tsunami head on?
do i keep still and accept defeat?
will i let the water rush over me and stop fighting?
..what would you do if it were you?
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
In this space and time, that we call memories,
Eyes closed tight…we wince to recall special moments long gone.
Some, we merely exist to relive, and others are meant for painful lessons learned.
Strumming through the cobwebs, we coerce ourselves through this jaded door,
Only to find, this time, a feeling of sorrow followed by expressions of grief.
Like a bank account, we deposit memories daily,
Some are easily recalled and others are over and done.
It’s those memories that reside within our hearts that cause special remembrance,
And miraculously, we have the ability to morph these from anguish to memories of tranquil joy!
Sending a smile and all my love to you…….. I’ll be watching for you in the stars.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 4:50 PM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
We’d sit on the back porch
On the Fourth of July
Spitting watermelon seeds
Into the tall grass,
Which glimmered in the midday sun.
The competition of who could spit the farthest
Never really with a winner,
It was mostly about the feeling of the sun,
Glimmering on our pudgy cheeks,
And the opportunity to abandon our napkins,
Letting that cool watery juice spill
Down our white shirts, leaving pink stains
And permanent reminders of summer
Of course a tattoo is only as permanent
As the body that wears it:
I outgrew the shirts around the same time
As the world outgrew those little black seeds
This year on the Fourth of July
We sat inside making small talk
Because there weren’t any black seeds
In the watermelon we ate:
Just dehydrated flesh, the color a little
Farther from pink and closer
To the off-white color of those flakey little seeds,
Which were miraculously allowed to remain
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
Days passed without food.
Water was what we had for
Breakfast, lunch and supper.
Seeing a mother crying tears of lost hope
Seeing a child scratching each and every ***
As if he would miraculously find food.
Will it be forever that all we hear, see, eat and touch is Poverty??
Child of poverty, I am.
Dreaming with an empty stomach filled me up for a jiffy.
For a minute I tasted my dream.
For a second I hoped to live it.
I wanted to be in Poverty no more.
With a touch of hope, I dared.
I dared to chase my dreams.
With no mind-forged manacles.
I strived for my belief.
With a touch of God's grace:
Child of Poverty , I was.
Child of Poverty, no more.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
Come to the Psychopath's Junction
For a time you may never forget;
We've got mystery and ****** and mayhem,
For some hours that you'll never regret.
Come to the Psychopath's Junction
We have tours and stories to chill;
And we'll push you down steps to the basement,
And there we'll forcefeed you some swill.
Come to the Psychopath's Junction
Where we have all new torture devices,
And we'll tie you up, and then use them on you;
And won't have to think about it twice.
Come to the Psychopath's Junction
Where we'll do terrible things just to you;
And if you survive and miraculously escape-
You can invite your friends to come too!
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 4:36 PM UTC
*eking out the ultimate gasp in my last breath of impulsion
i collapse without a touch of grace at race's end
how i made it i will never know
dazed and in bewilderment
i reminisce upon my journey
an aggregation of barricades assailed me
with iniquitous decadent delight
seeming to writhe in triumph at my possible demise
capitulating as it devoured and spewed me out the other side
i humbly reassembled fragments of my near annihilation
temporarily rehabilitated
i recommenced the toilsome climb
to the treasured peak atop the mount
when in would come the tempest with its furor
and render me asunder
mere exhaustion is not the word
for death experienced recurrently
ground to mulch and back again
screaming, pleading, surrendering
proved futile as i newly met the same demise
near incapacitation i miraculously emerged
and scraping pulled myself with broken heart and bones
scratching my way through the darkness
toppling at the pinnacle
to victory's end
with exhilaration it dawns on me
the long dark night is over
i passed the test to realize
it is not the finish line
but only the beginning
©2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
I the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But ’twas no make-believe with you today,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clovers.
’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasking flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right
Of something interposed between their sight
And too much world at once—could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred
Stood up to us as to a mother-bird
Whose coming home has been too long deferred,
Made me ask would the mother-bird return
And care for them in such a change of scene
And might out meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good,
But dared not spare to do the best we could
Though harm should come of it; so built the screen
You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared. Why is there then
No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven’t any memory—have you?—
Of ever coming to the place again
To see if the birds lived the first night through,
And so at last to learn to use their wings.
5.4k
The Right Person At The Right Time.....
Love can only come at the right time
your heart knows, hearing the chime
almost by itself, suddenly on the whim
drawn close, wanting to be near him
Like something magical, and it's in the air
your whole life, now wanting to finally share
when in someone's arms, it just feels right
undeniable feelings, as he holds you tight
A passionate look into your eyes, you see delight
overcome with feelings of love, you don't fight
realizing the waiting, finally has come to an end
finding with whom to become, an eternal friend
Love you thought was lost, miraculously found
moving your heart to a new and wonderful sound
feelings of satisfaction and being a person complete
no longer to run the single scenes, nor to compete
Thank those lucky stars, and the patience you had
never again to suffer loneliness, no longer to be mad
love has brought the right person, and at the right time
undoubtedly heaven's fingerprints, certainly by design
Despite mistakes of the past, you can now know for sure
those were years lacking direction, you were immature
let the past stay in the past, into the future you happily go
your love, a place to dwell, in him alone forever to bestow
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
**On 2nd Dec 1984
Occurred
World’s worst industrial disaster,
“The Bhopal gas tragedy”
Leaving thousands dead,
Children orphaned and many people with disabilities for life.
Following day,
Cries of help were heard
Amongst the dead,
Lay few children alive
Shone bright, a ray of hope,
Miraculously the deadly effects
Of the gas they could cope.
Taken under the caring wings of an NGO,
With Medical aid administered
And the vital support to grow.
Amongst the children
There was a girl named Ganga
And a boy named Ravi,
together with other such children,
they grew up,
Finding solace in each other’s
Company.
When reached teenage,
the girls had to be moved in a women’s hostel.
Distanced made them closer to each other,
And, the love grew stronger.
Ganga always dreamt of riding pillion on a bike with Ravi .
Ravi, the crazy boy,
sold his house (compensation by govt.)
And fulfilled her desire,
Often they went for long rides.
In the following years,
The love bloomed,
And
With blessings and love,
their marriage was solemnised
By the NGO.
All the women from the hostel
Joined the wedding ceremony,
Bollywood songs were played loudly,
The Haldi, Sangeet and Mehendi
ceremony made it more lively
On the wedding day,
Ganga attired in traditional weaves
And bridal make up,
A beautiful bride she looked
The hostel warden and her spouse
did her “Kanyadan”.
Fortunate was I to bear
the testimony of the union,
As I stayed in the working women’s hostel then.
Ganga moved in to her house
with Ravi to welcome a life anew.**
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 12:28 AM UTC
emergence is an act of rebellion.
our eyelids peaking open like rusty curtains
as we steadily count backwards
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1
climbing from our morning covers in one swift movement
like the bold musketeer ready to pierce his opponent.
allowing the cold to wash over our body
towards the to do lists and outdoor morning mist.
legs miraculously sprung to life from our dreams
seconds ago resting in a field of sunlit streams.
allowing forced smiles to emerge in the mirror
if the natural ones forgot to attend our morning ritual.
those cowards.
allowing our own smiles to send butterflies down our spines
if our lovers forgot to play their part.
those ********
our routines steadying us on the road
outside the house
into the yard
outside the fence
into the deli
out of your mind
into the grind
all forming like some rapid fire kiss of motion
where emerging and departing
become inseparable lovers.
and we cherish this sort of alchemy
where our paints emerge as paintings,
where our words turn into poems
that string along
melodies
into song
for
the pulsing of life echoes within
calmly waiting
to emerge
from the gilded cage
we are meant to burst open
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
If I let my eyes glaze over just right, I get a nice film quality picture.
I hover out of my body- like a mad director, evaluating what we've got, I snip the film strips from my memory, franticaly re-piecing together the story.
I didn't get the shots I wanted.
I feel hollow and sick.
Playing and re-playing the scenes where it all went to the dregs.
Maybe if I were paying closer attention- I could have gotten it right.
I could've rearranged the shot list- so "major life accident" was at the end of the movie- not the beginning.
Sorting through what we're left with,
I hear no mellow music scoring my mothers choked sobs.
No soft glow to hide the harsh lines of grief described on her face.
The bottles of liquor weren't props.
And when the sound of silence rendered her breathless-
no one was there to yell "CUT"!
I grit my teeth and hold back my seething anger at such a **** writer.
This is not a sci-fi film.
No alien plummets to earth eager to turn back the sands of time because there was a fluke in the configubobulator.
Not a romantic comedy,
where his smashed body miraculously recovers and my mother, him, and all the kids pursue their dreams as a family of comics on the road- The jackson 5 of stand up!
No inspiring action film where the government tests a bionic exoskeleton, connects it to his brains nervous system, and after wild success he dedicates his life to intergalactic vigilante work, as well as a remaining a reliable family man.
There's no sending it back for re-writes.
There is no 1 hero to lean on.
No villain to hate.
Only us.
I hope one day, it's enough.
I hope one day we have a film we can be proud of.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
I wasn't always so easily discouraged.
I used to bristle with enthusiasm.
I glowed with it.
It didn't matter if the task was simple, or tedious, or daunting, or boring.
As though on rails, I slammed into each and every task with terrific force.
But I got older.
Things that used to come easily grew slippery.
What I used to do without thinking twice, I found myself over-thinking.
I threw the brake. I ground to a halt.
Finally, I became idle. A left-over husk of a kernel that's already been popped.
I drowned myself with doubts. Hypothetical situations that might never happen.
I lived in fear of what might go wrong.
So I began to watch everything go wrong, as though I was helpless.
I was no less able. I was no less compassionate.
But I had grown wary. Of what?
What was it that, out of nowhere, caused me to slow down?
I guess I looked down and realized that if I fell, I would not be getting back up.
When you're young, you have no worries, because nothing is relying on your success.
So you mess up a math problem. You'll get it eventually.
So you botch things with that cute girl who sits across from you. You're young, you'll get it.
Re-assurance, faithfully, unwaveringly. A safety line should I fall.
But I never really fell, did I? So why am I laying down like I have?
Get up.
Get up.
I worry about everything. I worry that I will fail.
I dread what comes, what I can't avoid. But time, and time, again, it comes, and I miraculously don't die when it hits, because I've been bracing for a train-wreck impact, a force that will really, truly, finally, definitely lay me flat for good.
I close my eyes, and brace. But the crash never comes. The silence that was continued to be.
I turn behind me, but there's no train there.
I'm starting to realize, with relief, (with horror), that maybe all I needed to do was step off the track.
I look down, and realize, with a first-creeping then-howling laughter that I was never on the track to begin with.
I look off where the track is. There's no train there, either. Maybe there never was.
Maybe there never will be.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
It starts as a miraculously
sugar-coated concoction
of deeply fried bliss
warmly entering
the mouth,
swirling
round
the
(well, you get the idea)
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Bombs are falling in Aleppo,
the evil failed man that rules,
killing his own people,
Innocent noncombatants,
sheltering in their homes,
Crushed and buried in the
falling rubble of a dictator's
vengeful hate.
None but the volunteer
White Helmets digging
with bare hands to save
and unbury them, most
victims, irrecoverable pieces.
Occasionally, miraculously
some are spared and saved.
Through these valiant selfless
efforts.
Oh Syria, you are bombed and burned,
while the world fiddles an obtuse tune
and turns its collective back on desperate
human cries for assistance.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
Night comes
r
o l l i
n g
down again
in painted coats
of thick onyx
clouding my vision
as if a brightly-striped
cuttlefish,
sister of squid
has enveloped me
in its
dark liquid
sea ink
an opaque vapor
for protection,
a shimmering
sheild against
disillusionment
pain of potential
loss
endless strands
of longing
knotting in my
hair like kelp
keeping me rooted
to the sea floor,
feet ensconced in
the soft squish
of muck and earth
Miraculously,
I breathe,
as if a sea nympth,
a mermaid
holding on to
the silvery scales
of her reality
indigo-dipped
in deepest iridescence
blending with fronds
of vibrant greens
and I am floating
within a vast membrane
of brine
somehow nuturing,
liquid cushion
of womb-water
letting it slake
the piquancy of thirst
that bursts my tongue
into succulence
Spiked in sea stars
like thorny crowns,
I reach out to
discover new textures
puncture the dark
with my fingers
enfold those waters
to me,
letting them
rock the soul
of my soul
the heart
of the seed
of my heart
and allow my
sonar, as powerful
as a whale's
encompassing call
to surge up
through nautical miles
of ocean depths,
buoyed through layers
of waves
up unto
the winds
that ride,
ever-tenderly,
the surface
of
the
dawn
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
so this is where it ends
still drunk, in a shabby room with half full bottles of liquor
last night stuck in your hair,
glitter like snowflakes of a single night out’s winter
this is where it ends
heart broken, shattered in two
hung up and longing two years after
his name a poison on your lips you refuse to stop tasting
this is where it ends
wallowing in dreadful self-loathing,
contemplating your idle blues, your black hole of sadness
the smile you wear is but a painful reminder
this is where it ends
with your small group of girls, fellow high heeled warriors
lip glossed and pretty, shiny hair and perfect skin
dressed to the nines, miraculously young and fearless
intelligent, outspoken and strong and far from empty
too broken to do anything but go on
more nights will be filled with hollow, tinkling laughter
more nights will be spent lying on floors than waiting in towers
all because you forgot them all
your forgot his harsh whisper
you made up you mind and decided
“i love me”
and laughed at the sheer terror,
the insanity, the undeniable ridiculousness
at the end there is just you
this is where it ends
this is where it ends
This is where it ends
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
aesthetic is etiquette
is:
what is & isn't
either:
yet is both: in that they
are the same:
disparaging meanings...
nouns: the source
of ultimate meaning,
crux words...
and the source of
the thesaurus...
i wasn't looking
for a mathematical
conflation of grammar
either...
but...
aesthetic ≠ etiquette...
but...
it does! to keep up
with the formality
of norm, of power,
then
(the)
aesthetic = (the) etiquette,
but there is no "the"
to begin with...
yet...
if the aesthetic ≠ the etiquette...
why, either?!
dumb questions usually
prescribe
a continued willing
to perpetuate:
unquestioned...
hence the dumb questions...
my dumb question
lacks any elaborate ploy
to topple the status quo
for the sole reason that...
my alternative
matches
no genius of the originator
basis...
wordings are not
simply chanced to
be worth debating
a miscarriage
of implementing
the averted coin-flip...
(funny, how the articles
prop up,
miraculously)...
etiquette?
a macabre variety
of aesthetic...
nothing more...
but... etiquette is
still subordinate of
aesthetic...
isn't it?
hardly:
etiquette is still
subordinate off
aesthetic...
is it?!
a month spent
in a monastery of a novel...
cradle these words
unto a course
of nullification...
if i'd utter them in
a clutter of sparrows:
i'd be a equivalent to a mute
stone...
if i'd utter them in
a lion's harem:
i'd be a cat's meow (if not less)...
if i'd utter them in
the crow's shamanism
of all shadows...
i'd still be less
the croaking hark
of a voice that
might dictate: obey...
so...
so...
ah...
was kommen:
was ist...
und alles was:
ich, ich sterben...
ich war geboren?
ich war
nie sein: geboren....
ich war sein: sterben!
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
Spending intangible dollars at the mercy of my ever growing appetite,
Instead of buying my ticket out of this perfectly advantageous country,
Which focuses solely on my beauty and money.
I neglect my inner advice telling me to drop it all and run,
To where I can breathe and focus on God,
Promoting a healthier way of living and improving humanity.
Momentary hope that unrealistically characterizes perfection
As a quality that I can mentally download and miraculously make the above, true,
Never seems to linger long enough to actually induce action,
Which leads to disappointment draining the motivation essential to recover my missing pieces,
Which pushes me to crave cash I don’t have, to pick up that dose,
That hushes the unwarranted guilt that seduces me into thinking that I’m not incredibly blessed,
And that I can’t handle what I’ve been dealt,
Blurs the doubts I have about my abilities, my self- worth,
Forcing me into a state of content that awakens my creativity,
While vaguely being able to make out memories of let down led by myself and my mother,
Who was a part of what was never good enough for my idea of a perfect family.
I’ve wrongly accepted that a mediocre life-performance is to be had while following the crowd,
While obsessing over flaws that are negligible to my true purpose in life,
And with that I’ve become stifled by the decision to remain effortlessly stuck.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
Through the miracle of meteorology, up high - little by little
parts of me was made, without form within a clouds middle,
and eventually, formed in unique designs, lighter than feathers,
temperature and water work together to produce, a period of weather.
When shapes, never repeated - but in approximation, begin to fall, as snow,
feasibly forecasted, sometimes not so, down on to the surface below.
And so as blanket laid, across town and countryside, fields and city mews,
changing the familiar, smoothing contours, into new landscape views.
The material soft, white glistening snow so miraculously delivered,
at earliest opportunity is introduced to excited shouts, laughter, and shivers.
Fittingly gathered by adult and children's hand, with the goal - to build a man.
midst joyful sounds, travellers moans and snowball fights, the creators plan,
By rolled ball pile and heaped snow I was born, created by many in several places,
some small and really, lovingly made. Others large with various, curious, hats and faces.
All - to stand appreciatively of of the makers time, to create me and proudly put on show.
Winter feeds our lifetime span with cold wind, colder nights and, temperatures low,
we stand as white statuary, where children play, soon - will come the expected day
a thaw, will take our sustainability of cool, and so little by little I, and others go away,
with saddened countenance creators watch as we bend, wither and slouch,
stoically accepting this is, as is. Snowy days will return, snowmen too, I can vouch.
It’s a happy sadness for snowman builders and snowmen too, who together
wait in anticipation for fun and creativity, the joyful side of snowy weather.
From a Snowman
Michael C Crowder 23rd January 2019
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 5:09 AM UTC
Preamble at the showdown the fighters eye to eye
Droning pulse of discourse from the referee is dry,
Bouncing back to my corner the butterflies take charge
For the other guy’s a monster, like a Doberman at large.
Bell resounds alarmingly, I shuffle forth to meet
A combination thrown with steel…it whacks me off my feet.
Seeing stars I resurrect to lurch about the ring
To try to keep some distance from the monster’s punching sting.
Roaring crowd are baying now they call to take me out
The Doberman is grinning for he reckons it’s a route,
The flashing light confusing, the noise a steady din
As the monster comes in quickly to achieve expected win.
Throwing jabs to keep him back, retreating to the rope
I cover up with everything to give myself some hope
He pounds with his salvos they hammer hard and fast
His breathing rasping in my ears I pray to God I last.
Saved by the bell and cold water, such disgrace
The crowd are loudly booing, I’ve not put leather on his face,
A wash of resolution hotly surges from within
So I **** the mouth guard back and rush on out to tackle him.
Defensive expectations had him open up his chin
So I feinted with a left and launched a mighty right with spin,
Boring in with fury and a combination score
I hit him with an uppercut which traversed from the floor.
Miraculously the eyeballs rolled and disappeared from sight
I threw another flurry…but had no one to fight
Flat out on the deck he lay, the Doberman was out
As I bounced around like Rocky to the punters frenzied shout.
Camera flashes blinded as the raving crowd went wild.
It defied all expectations, I was the sacrificial child.
Bets were laid that I would fall within a round or two
The screaming din reflected that all bets were in the poo.
The countdown took forever and I swear I watched each stroke
And kept one eye on the fallen, should he rise he’d go for broke,
My amazement with two wobbly knees and heaving lungs of fire
When my leaden glove was held aloft to victory entire.
Winners come and winners go but this I’ll not forget
When fortune favoured sweetly…and I collected on the bet!
Marshalg
My thanks to Shane Cameron…a real fighter.
14 April 2013 (Pukehana Paradise)
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC