"mobius" poems
Picnic
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My friends laugh elsewhere on the beach
while I sit here, alone, counting the waves,
writing and rewriting your name in the sand ...
Confession
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your image overwhelmed my vision.
As the long nights passed, I became obsessed with your visage.
Then came the moment when I quietly placed my lips to your picture ...
Rain
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why shiver alone in the rain, maiden?
Embrace the one in whose warming love your body and mind would be drenched!
There are no rains higher than the rains of Love,
after which the bright rainbows of separation will glow with the mysteries of hues.
My Body's Moods
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I long for the day when you'll be obsessed with me,
when, forgetting the world, you'll miss me with a passion
and stop complaining about my reticence!
Then I may forget all other transactions and liabilities
to realize my world in your arms,
letting my body's moods guide me.
In that moment beyond boundaries and limitations
as we defy the conventions of veil and turban,
let's try our luck and steal a taste of the forbidden fruit!
Moon
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All of us passengers,
we share the same fate.
And yet I'm alone here on earth,
and she alone there in the sky!
Vanity
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
His world is so simple, so very different from mine.
So distinct—his dreams and desires.
He speaks rarely.
This morning he wrote: "I saw some lovely flowers and thought of you."
Ha! I know my aging face is no orchid ...
but how I wish I could believe whatever he says, however momentarily!
Keywords/Tags: Perveen Shakir, Urdu, translation, Pakistan, love, passion, picnic, beach, vision, confession, rain, rainbow, hues, forbidden fruit, body, *** orchid, mrburdu
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 11:29 PM UTC
Run rotten, for things have gotten out of hand.
Turn coat ducking, torture got him singing and eating outta my hand.
Getting scraped by the beater like youse a percussion instrument;
maybe that’s why a group of people are called a band?
For we all play our part to either be an influence or to be influenced.
Yet we won’t know anything if you never venture into the forest and meet the temptress.
When one experiences all six senses, when in present tenses, which then puts the body through stresses.
That makes the mind flood with guesses that clouds up our lenses.
But that’s just what war is like for one is always in the trenches.
Whilst other’s sit on benches, but each choice brings rewards and consequences.
Which bears questions on what your quest is?
To run free or to be held back by white picket fences?
For being hard pressed brings out either killers or medics.
To choose to be real or synthetic.
To become abstract or symmetric.
However, things aren’t always so metric.
So be wary of being a critique for just like branches of mathematics in arithmetic,
We have many great qualities but when in a group we can become manipulated.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
I am curled upon myself in eleven
hidden dimensions predicted by Superstring Theory,
confident revealing my whereabouts
precludes guessing my velocity.
Paradox of uncertainty handed down by
Heisenberg, mental Mobius of mind,
tethers my strong nuclear force,
I am King of Quantum.
I vibrate in energetic strings
octaves below scale of Stradivarius,
seeking a unified framework
for the duality of space and time.
Like a black-hole event horizon,
where no thought escapes
this gravity of mind,
I ponder blinking out of existence.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
I'm writing a love letter to all the stars I've never seen. Blowing sweet nothings into your windmill hearts. A sickness in the bones with the way some of you make me work for it. Rustic Blues in my toes. I want to be a list of further crossroads, because we're all chasing something glorious.You're no glowsticks or fireflies but the headlights of a speeding train and all I know is I am nothing without you.
I'll stand on the edge of the platform, and call you starlight.
The writer's paradox: We only exist when we are read and I think I've found my mobius strip. Twinkle me stupid, New Year feels like I could do this all over again.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 11:58 AM UTC
What you don’t know is
that I don’t know either.
What makes you stay inside on sunny days
has pestered me as well my whole life.
Shadows of things that would never happen
grew ominous, loomed over my cowering heart
so being a defensive, obsessive ruminator
my hope to make the leaves in my yard
stand still against gusts of wind –
become a psychotherapist
a posturing senex
trailing his wounded child behind
all made OK
with a license to insult you
pretending I know something
you don’t.
Will global warming disappear (?)
just because I know thousands of facts
about worms after rain
about how so many weeds pop up
in freshly-rained soil
underneath even dominating magnolias
and you pay me
to wizen you.
You stare like a mesmerized gazelle
counting the lions
a whole dozen of them
drawing a circle around your life in tall grass.
I want to tell you
run from the need for a resting place
from the pointless mobius strip
of therapy’s semantic banter.
I wish you would tell me
to just be quiet for once
invite me to hike a trail
protected by angels
with just so much sun
enough rain to nurture
and the lions yes
the lions like Fu Dogs
guard the entry to the hills.
I always forget
it isn’t my frustrated reverie
my angst about knowing
how important it is
not to need to know anything
this constant inability
not to daydream
that brought you here
to a leather throne
with an Olympus digital recorder
so you can capture every
single
word.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
Because the galaxy was blue
Because the universe was me and you
Because of our hunger for a world not ours
Because of the deficiency within our stars
The consistent lack of artless voids
And shifting second nature grins
Such bliss in connection- rift to avoid
But they have come and crawled within
Because of the absence in pure communication
Because of the split between two fleeting creations
Because the skies have all gone down
Because the spirits put us under the ground
The psychedelic tides became too strong
Her little voice lost in waves far past
Ouija spirits sacredly summoned and
Sinister laughter cracking her glass
Because the earth twisted her bones into a mobius strip
Because the pure boy had begun to slip
Because of the way we couldn't make sense of it all
Because of the subconscious swaying to falls
Alone now in tear drowned terror, the manipulative beast
The little girl whimpering in soiled sheets
He orchestrated the world into ****** gatherings
Our souls succumbed to iniquitous happenings
Because they craved for more than they had
Because they had no choice but to become mad
Because they hadn't set their imprinted place
Because they allowed the demons to show their face
I called his name in lulling tones
As I laid still upon the bed
And wondered what would become of my bones
If they could not get the voices out of my head
Because of free will, he came to me for peace
Because of the misleading thrill and rapid retinas decrease
Because the voice quells to his sweet earth
Because the reason for death had been rebirth
What it was to be consciously dying--
Afraid for eyelids shut; inducing eternal sleep
Lullabies hummed so softly lying
To be so far, to be in too deep
Because we were finally safe when all unfolded
Because we made sure nothing was left untold and
Because we had brought each other back to shore
Because of the desire to stay once more
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
The time for brooding is over
Let them say I invented the stars
when they were born
That I weaved the fabric of the universe
while I remained awake at night
Let them see that I'm no longer suffering
For tears are no more than mist
And my irises are the color of laughter
Laughter which I crafted from sunlight
So they can say that I breathe tempests
And spring's flower petals float in my bloodstream
Let them see I'm more than what I was
For the sky is the face of unraveled smiles
Where masks are shattered shards
And truth is blatant on heaven's eye
Now they can say I am true
That I am in every blade of grass
And every pebble on the riverbed
So now let them say what they want
For they can see
I have been my own nightmares
Just as now I am my own dreams.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
*imagine, as I do,
the clutch of tensed pale fingers
on stain-spotted porcelain
tendons stretch like telephone wires
under perfect, loving skin.*
her slop spills over loose lips,
drains itself through antique piping systems,
leaves her skull a musty cave,
slowly panting for revival flames.
he stretches.
the fingertip connects to the handbone
connects to the wrist
connects to the arm/chest/neck/face
each surveyed in turn, slowly,
the irises staggering over cloth and hair.
*his smile is a sunrise through fog,
the song of angels into a bathroom wall,
heartbreak from a distance.*
there was no night,
only daybreak over two bodies
locked in a mobius strip.
one twist of mind, a sleight of fate
and they lay disheveled.
*quiet, the breeze
snakes through curtain
exit stage left.*
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
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a r e a
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e o r e
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Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
What horrible emotion will I feel?
Anger--I'm being accused of doing something
I'm not doing, never intended to do.
was trying to do the exact opposite of,
and have been identified as a saboteur...
inspiring students to take hard classes
my students wanted to strive but were
turned back...I had committed a crime
Jealousy, my X boss, now at last
walking with the new English department diva
a woman, as spicy as white bread
as electrifying as a jello mold and they walk
along so contentedly, old friends down a tree lined path
through the quad and the blistering sun
and I've been raged at for making a joke about meetings,
a reference to a "Annie Hall" where Hollywood types have meetings for the sake
of more meetings and there is an end note: he gives good meeting
which is the goal...a mobius strip of meetings...around and around we go
treading the meeting notes like water filled with little packing crate styrofoam
making the noise of important work, the movement of it,
but in the end, creating nothing
and...now it's over and what will life be like without this dread
I feel like I can read five books in a day, run twenty miles and
cook a three course vegan meal for five and it would be less stress than
what I've just emerged from.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
Desire expressed
manifests in moments
Genesis to geneticist
alpha to omega, Eden Armageddon
and a particular flat stone
I'm flinging at that pile of H2O
It skips, predictably, causing surface ripples
under a line of predefined arcs
each described by gravity and water molecules
neatly arranged in surface tension that
reflects this day ... blue as the clear sky
and a peaceful wavelength
we know as
harmony
I'm wondering who desired such perfection...
Enabled energy, proclaimed pebbles
Caused a lake to feel at home right here
Read Darwin some respond
you're only here because
a primal pond appeared
somehow someway backwhen
and that famous fertile germ
opted for a brave new world
with homo-sapiens
conveniently mapped to its single cell
Dadadadaaa! Dumdeedee dumb!
Dvorak wonders too
Backwards, on slow-motion rewind
lofty intellects scratch and munch in flaky wonderland
ever plotting the self-indulgent, Lemming way 'ahead'
Independence day drags drearily on
Take fifty! ... A more human-friendly God
created in our image ... lest we forget the beast
I, me, first-person-one, Oh you're lookin' good!
Lets put that that triple 6 trinity to work
Replete, till death us do part, we do things My Way
ala Frank (and certain gorillas with cigars)
Thus is the compliment returned
Man attains an ever lower High place
Pass my slice of cake please
Myopic, entropic moments
loop their mobius strips
ever further down the food chain
Highways congeal and earth chokes
desperation
Small wonder Wisdom opposes pride
Shows His face to humble folk
Invites shepherds to witness
Jupiter in Virgo's womb
Rouses them with a shofar blast
come Kingdom come.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
what is this thing
that resides in our silences
threatening to reveal all
in that brief fearful moment
before the curtain falls?
a monstrous beast be it
like the one that the Grimms described
gentle in its grotesquness
it leaves its trace behind.
this paradoxical distance
becomes longer with each word spoken
like a mobius strip
twisted within itself
it leaves me craving for closure
Schrödinger’s cat I am
neither built nor broken
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
14.12.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
What exactly am I supossed to write now?
I actually decided on the title before figuring out what to say.
just seen a youtube video on the subject
it completely changed my life... again
metaphors about closed curves or loops don't come to mind
but maybe I shouldn't stress too much about the title
what if I simply forget about it, push it away?
but it's right there...
at the back of my head
after every line I write my eyes pop back to that title
I just did it again.
I can't decide if I should include a 'the'.
'a mobius strip' also doesn't satisfy me.
Mobius strips never satisfy me.
It's easy to give up, isn't it?
another fix. then they keep trying to drag me out
telling me I'm addicted to it,
that I should join a Mobius strip rehab center
but I can quit
whenever I want
I promise
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
Torn away from his two loving parents,
And put on display in a zoo,.
Gus suffered from chronic depression
A white bear with black moods, sad but true.
He’d swim figure eight’s by the hour,
as if stuck in a Mobius strip.
Zoo officials called it a neurosis
But were worried their bear just might flip.
A consultant said Gus had depression
And collect a munificent fee.
Gus would be treated with Prozac
And be as happy a bear as can be.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Reflections on the Loss of Vision
by Michael R. Burch
The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels
that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls,
remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,
that it seems if I tried
and just closed my eyes,
I could once again be nine or ten.
The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall,
hunch there, I know, in the concealing snow, yet now I can't see them at all.
For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,
some things that I saw
when I was a boy,
are lost to me now in my advancing years.
The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese now preparing to leave
are there as they were, and yet they are not; and though it seems childish to grieve,
who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?
Well, in a small way,
through the passage of days,
I have learned some of his loss.
For, as a young boy I endeavored to see things most adults could not—
the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite spots.
But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,
and it seems such a waste
of those far-sighted days,
to end up near blind in this wood.
Keywords/Tags: reflections, loss, vision, childhood, eyesight, perceptiveness, acuity, age, aging, cataracts, blindness, days, years, decades, near-sighted, far-sighted
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 12:59 AM UTC
To watch the brute force
that takes the place of reason and communication
Wars have titles, but they are the worst things on Earth
How is it that violence comes to us over and over
like an alcoholic, thinks, this one last drink
then, I will never have another
This will be the war to end all war
some really thought it
I have lived in the Holy Land
I have felt the sun of history on my face
The sands that so many have sought out have been in my path
And with all that wisdom collected
through the human ages--isn't it there
in a place of such value?
I remember, an Israeli soldier or two
killed, bodies dragged around
brutal ugly deaths celebrated by the mob
and out of the sky came a power that
destroyed the building where the murders took place
And people celebrated, as if this
would end the bloodshed
This power, this explosion would
bring peace
Thousands of bombs later, gallons of blood spilled
even some I saw with my own eyes
body meat on the street and we still
don't know that the most powerful force
we have is our brains and the ability to communicate
and come to the table to talk and fight the battle as a debate
and search for answers in our voices
and why do we give up this power over and over
and return to brutality that is just a mobius strip to more?
If we are really so brave, why can't we come to the table
two opposing forces, and wage a battle of words
to work these things out
Why is this never the priority?
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:29 PM UTC
Half Life
by Ryan P. Kinney
Welcome to the digital age.
Where man’s best friend is Internet ****
And a woman’s only friend is her ********
We’ve traded a heartbeat for an electronic pulse.
Blips and bleeps in an imagined humanity.
Forgetting that living means leaving the house.
And that sandals and boxer shorts are not formal wear.
We live in the information age
Full disclosure is no longer optional
We are sharing information.
We are contributing to the death of the self.
Or are we finally mastering intelligence?
There is an epidemic of inaction
Entropied Progress
The mobius sloth slides down into its own gluttony
And I just want to have *** with someone who is still alive
Have you seen the latest episode of Walking Dead or Breaking Bad?
Have you looked in the mirror?
Reality shows?
Who’s reality?
We are social creatures
And social control is how you keep the pigs in their pen
Until it’s time to offer us up as sacrifice at the altar of decadence
We willingly give them our intelligence
Our spirit
For another video game
Another TV show
That promises a better reality
See it all in HD
While we dubstep to our doom
Up Jacob’s Ladder
Built out of the 15 minute prophets
Sell me another artificially derived addiction
Masquerading as sustenance
Trading them like baseball cards
Tell me how much I need it
Need you
Preach it with the fear of the unorthodox on Fox News
While everyone’s getting high on your life
Televangelist CEOs
Sell us the next salvation
The anarchists are screaming,
“Legalize it.”
And the stoners aren’t helping
The half-life of modernization guarantees that if enough of our individuality decays
There ceases to be anything worth calling human
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
I haven’t found, or fallen, for her yet;
but then again, maybe I’d walked a block too far.
Maybe I’d crossed clay.
Maybe I’d sunk like a madman atop thin ice.
Maybe I’d forgotten as easily as I’d found,
when the treasure’s a fickle little smear of red-lipstick
and digits atop my mirror;
Mobius just a’gazin’ come mornin’
to the tune of tequila slipping lip
a mere moment and conundrum’s later,
always remembered,
always encountered and eternal,
pursued atop the medium as fragile as I.
And speaking of pass or impasse,
I still crawl from a tether towards tomorrow,
approaching a promise,
oh so fragile and soon to be broken like mother’s cookie jar
amidst thievery;
A tall tale and titled,
“one more enigma,”
when she’s passed and parallel,
“the,” way or beyond away,
in the car that’s to the left and now left behind,
or an image I’d once recalled –
Now masticated,
the years,
alone atop a mammoth pile and like an elephant’s carcass,
ivory and soon to be rust.
So yearns the watering hole of youth and never to visit again;
An offered solution and her parting wave,
a sincerity long gone over horizon.
I mull and move come this bravest venture,
sooner to be,
asp,
dung,
and maggot.
Futile when you call me,
“Oblivion.”
I guess I’ve got a lot to explain.
I guess I’ve grown to use to the noose,
aged,
forgotten,
and so very senile,
the foolish.
And I guess, ******
I guess, oh hell!
And guess I’m sorry for leaving when I had,
where I had,
how I had and more importantly who I had.
I guess,
fleeing from forever atop epoch.
I guess,
I guess,
I guess I’m breaking far more than I’d ever been broken.
And I'd guess, never knowing.
I guess and I’d become the hammer I’d ‘ever agonized –
She guessed –
And the house yawped,
“VICTORY!”
Again,
as I rest twisted metal and in a state of parched,
becoming the elephant seeking his first watering hole;
My dearest hope,
you'd still be there.
When the thirst of one kind destroys the thirst of another kind.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
Fear the Mobius
strip mind: one continuous
loop severely kinked.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 8:51 AM UTC
He said those words
I can't
and my heart fell out of its pocket
like there was a hole in my
chest and
that very last stitch
heard him speak
Our mobius strip
lay suddenly flattened
- I on one side and
he on the reverse
like destiny and distance
were the same bridge to gap
Now I want life to end
as I lean down to hold
what's left in my lungs
- my final breath leaving as
I fall beyond the edge where
by some miracle
this leap of faith might save me
and I am captured by the arms
that wait beneath
- my fate finally showing its purpose
until the only strip that remains
is the one where
we remove each other's clothing
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 1:49 PM UTC
Deep answers to deep.
As I answer my self who pays the mort-gage
theoretical spin off ona mobius strip
from who uses war
on reality as art, thus artificial, officially
authorized use for brainless mortal minds
projecting
re- ah, rhea, lovely
-- in the future, to the reader
-- use these mentally any where these signal
¿:-,? something more is needed --
-- answers must follow preceding quest ions
not sparked piezo wise
Brakes. Sparks, , more than enough.
ok
Flint to steel, steel to towers, to antennae to now.
Kapow. we have always imagined radio and TV.
We think in ways Issac Newton never did imagine.
Jiggle the prism dangling from my partner's ear.
Rhea bhering all the gods, and there, errors
began, gin being spiritually essential
to geth to gather sense
signals sortive
suggestive
-yes, whatifery, we have that, how much do you wush?
One more breath.
Why?
Why do you ask?
We have a rule.
No wasted breath. Make every signal clear.
The next idle word we speak won't wo not
be spoken as once is wont for any unrefined term.
Time out. Selah. Take a thought.
- we have no angst, thus no anxious thoughts
- should you be shopping for such,
- those are outlawed here,
- theives honor, liars pledged allegiance-con carne
-
- aye, ai, no-- we as words in warring times make
- peace, no concarne mind heresy, see your self
-
do a little out of body experience imagining
you can do it,
melt into your chair, that
is the easiest position to begin
facing forward and falling with no fear,
until
something unnamed as yet no words may be
in the beginning of beginning your
agreement to be mindful of me,
in your secret you stash, your hidden power
valued in talents, specie solid real esse state being
omygoooooooooo
djasay I may break into song, as I see
where this is headed headed up to see
from below what an *** hat I am, at times
out of body low
low as a JD Sumner solo.
A drunken god declared there is, as in
so be it
wine that makes glad.
so be it
wine that makes glad the core of man-made
in my image, goodness of happiness in any time
One more breath,
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 4:39 PM UTC
As I girl, I thought heartbreak was only reserved for love
What does a child know? Only that desperate need for warmth and reassurance
Earning my way in the world, I work, passion leading my way
I learn how work, that holistic toil, with full body and mind
will make you dependent, on the trust, the goodwill of others
those others with power, who supervise your toil, looking down at you, arms crossed, in judgement
You ask your silent soul: am I building something for myself?
Or, am I digging a large hole, piling dirt up on one side
Sweating, my palms earning blisters, that form pop and bleed and form again,
and then am I to fill the hole back up again?
with the same dirt? leading nowhere, a futile mobius strip?
A hamster running at amazing speed on a wheel? Around and around.
Attachment comes to the outcome
What they told you--the bosses, the people with power
How this would help you with your work
How this would improve your world, your hours, your seconds
And when success comes, despite the popped blisters
and the ache in the back, and the dirt lodged underneath your nails,
dirt and sweat rubbed into your very being
When that promise is taken away by those same bosses
who only see you as a number, not a human being
A unit who works, like an electric drill
doing a job here, and easily moved to bore the next hole
when this happens, there is no other choice
but to let go
Let the Gods take your life somewhere else
Be lifted up by the wind of change and enjoy the dizzy ride
You have lost control, so lose it again, give yourself up to the world
And you will land in a new direction, with only the pain of disorientation
Eyes wide, ears alert, only the struggle into the frightening unknown,
A clean break with the past, made by your decision as you regain control and choose
to let go
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
Fear the Mobius
strip mind: one-sided, closed-off
and severely kinked.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
I woke up this morning hitting the snooze button at least ten times and not wanting to wake up. But then I finally dragged myself out of bed and as soon as I walked upstairs I could hardly open my eyes because the sun was shining so bright.
I got ready for work, and left the house. As soon as I started walking I put on “Hey man" by Nelly Furtado and immediately started crying. Not because I’m sad, but because it occurred to me that everyday is another chance. Another chance to live, to grow, to feel the sunshine, to try and make our lives and our world a better place.
I was crying because this time last year I was not waking up thankful, I was waking up and dreading every waking moment. I was waking up and wishing I were dead.
I just can’t explain how amazing it is to wake up and feel LUCKY just to be alive. I have SO much love in my life and it is actually a miracle. This feeling of complete peace and gratefulness is so pure and beautiful and I’m writing this down so I can always remember that I felt it once. And if I felt it once, I can feel it again. Because miracles work that way. They happen a few times and then things get bad but you always remember that they will happen again. Things will be good again. And they are.
Life is good. And if it’s not good, it will get better. I am living proof.
"Hey, man, don’t look so scared
You know I’m only testing you out
Hey man, don’t look so angry
You’re real close to figuring me out
We are a part of a circle
It’s like a Mobius strip
And it goes round and round
Until it loses a link.
There’s a shadow in the sky
And it looks like rain
And **** is gonna fly once again
And I don’t want ambivalence
No more."
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
(cuz ma life iz such a drag...
this **** kin “FAKE” hemp
pyre aye roll out to you dear reader).
As a double jointed mathematical abbot
and amateur chemist
specializing in cannabinoids
my favorite delta-9-tetra
hydrocannabinol (THC),
isolated and synthesized in 1964
weeding thru bathroom rag
while athwart the *****
i.e. measuring adequate perforated
square roto root er, sans
regular toilet tissue paper
prior to completing important
private business matter
on the sacred porcelain chamber ***
Mary Jane made a token appearance,
and boy she looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry (Jane) her attired
in drag at a joint where Billy Bong
banged on by the hands of
a phenomenal drummer
taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
while blowing fractal rings – holy Scott
the immediate utterance,
and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still like stone wall Jackson,
who unfortunately got deprived a hit,
nonetheless got shot
unwittingly by his own (confederate troops),
whose demise an awful blot
per southern cause during
the Civil War and if anachronism
to receive medicinal aide available
instead of primitive treatment he got
(as well other wounded soldiers
of misfortune on the battlefield),
whose faith the any almighty power
could do little to save their roach invested lot
yet availing my imagination
to twist time like that Mobius strip
mortally wounded rebels and Yankees
free from facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp
entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip cotton
as king as export to trot
orange you glad I avoided
the analogy with a kumquat?
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC