"mused" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’
Said Sleepy-head;
‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow;
‘Put on the pan,’
Said Greedy Nan;
‘We'll sup before we go.’
(from Mother Goose)
They sat at the kitchen table as
The candle flickered low,
And Greedy Nan put on the pan
To indulge her sister, Slow,
While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle
Blotted her book with tears,
And thought of her Beau from long ago
Who she hadn’t seen for years.
‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me,
Why doesn’t Alan Dell?
I’m wearing the dress cut low for me
And I’ve hitched my skirt as well.
I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so
You’d think it would drive them wild.’
‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow,
‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’
While over the pan stood Greedy Nan,
Was cracking a turkey’s egg,
A lump of yeast and a slice of beast
And a single spider’s leg.
With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat
And a toe of frog for the spell,
She needed to turn her sister off
From her crush on Alan Dell.
For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl
And would have to marry first,
The other two would wait in the queue
Or their fortunes be reversed,
The omelette sizzled, and in the pan
She added before they saw,
A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant
For the mating game meant war.
She sliced the omelette into half
And she served them up a piece,
‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle
But Slow enjoyed the feast.
‘I’m not that terribly hungry now
I’ve cooked it up in the pan,
I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’
Said the scheming Greedy Nan.
They finished up and they sat awhile,
And they mused about their fate,
‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon,
For us it will be too late.’
‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’
Said Nan, without a blink,
Lured them away from her secret fire
To confuse what they might think.
‘The room is woozy, spinning around,
I’d better get me to bed,’
Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown
Saw Dwarves dancing in her head.
But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan
To clear all signs of the spell,
Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned
For the sake of Alan Dell.
And when he came in the morning
Greedy Nan was sat by the door,
While Annabelle and her sister Slow
Were lying dead on the floor,
‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al,
It was only a simple spell,’
But as he cuffed and led her away
He frowned, did Alan Dell.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
The thing, he said, would come in the night at three
From the old churchyard on the hill below;
But crouching by an oak fire's wholesome glow,
I tried to tell myself it could not be.
Surely, I mused, it was pleasantry
Devised by one who did not truly know
The Elder Sign, bequeathed from long ago,
That sets the fumbling forms of darkness free.
He had not meant it - no - but still I lit
Another lamp as starry Leo climbed
Out of the Seekonk, and a steeple chimed
Three - and the firelight faded, bit by bit.
Then at the door that cautious rattling came -
And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!
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They, you and I.
Are?
Interpretations, opinions,
Fears and convictions,
Likes-dislikes,
History and anticipations,
Of life.
All, save the living of it, maybe?
A song heard months back in time
You mused over the major & minor,
I'd pondered over the rhyme.
Each of us
As convinced about its presence.
Winter tastes different in my memory.
Epilogue:
You must choose between
His bespectacled vision
And my retrospective conclusion
But you must know
Which you chose
And why.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Albert Camus
Kept an Emu
Tied to a potted,
Portable wisteria
To keep him company
Whilst he kept goal
For the University of Algeria.
As Albert was fishing
The ball out
From the back of the net
The Emu mused
On the conversations they'd had
About The Oprah Winfrey Show,
The significance of suffragettes,
Adam Smith's Wealth Of Nations
And the ****** orientation
Of Sir Galahad.
Whilst discussing the plots of
The Plague and The Outsider
Warm feelings would suddenly
Well up inside her.
Why should such intellect
Elicit so much love
And even more pain?
My thoughts for this man
Aren't getting any vaguer.
Then Utrecht University
Scored again.
There are no happy endings
With Albert Camus -
Decades later he dies
In his publisher's Facel Vega.
When she heard of Albert's demise
Her initial reaction
Was hysteria
And it comes as no surprise
That a few weeks later
She died of diphtheria
Which is so much easier to do
When you're an existential emu.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Christina was standing
by the school gym
her satchel over
her shoulder
her hand gripping
the strap
her hair windswept
when she saw you coming
she smiled nervously
and said
I wondered
if you’d come this way
why?
you asked
she took your arm
and pulled you
into the gym
and let the door
close behind you
the gym was empty
there were voices
and the sound
of people passing
along the passageway
need to see you
she whispered
why?
you asked
I don’t see you
unless I stop you
in the school somewhere
or on the playing field
if the weather’s nice
you gazed
around the gym
at the apparatus
the ropes
the mats
she continued talking
her voice whispering
you looked at her
her eyes dark
and staring
why here?
you asked
we can be alone
for a while
she said
she took hold
of one of your hands
and looked at it
and rubbed her thumb
over the skin
you’re only 13
you said
you’re only 14
she replied
she placed your hand
to her cheek
we’re going to be late
for our next lessons
you said
so?
she replied
you sensed her lips
on your hand
her body moving
closer to you
then she kissed your cheek
then stood there
her mouth slightly open
thank you
you whispered
she smiled
and went out
the gym door
and along
the passageway
you stood gaping
at the ropes
and mats
and the high windows
and a blue sky
and heard voices
calling from the playground
from kids at play
just another moment
you mused
just another day.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 3:41 AM UTC
I walked into the cocktail party
room and found three or four queers
talking together in queertalk.
I tried to be friendly but heard
myself talking to one in hiptalk.
"I'm glad to see you," he said, and
looked away. "Hmn," I mused. The room
was small and had a double-decker
bed in it, and cooking apparatus:
icebox, cabinet, toasters, stove;
the hosts seemed to live with room
enough only for cooking and sleeping.
My remark on this score was under-
stood but not appreciated. I was
offered refreshments, which I accepted.
I ate a sandwich of pure meat; an
enormous sandwich of human flesh,
I noticed, while I was chewing on it,
it also included a ***** *******
More company came, including a
fluffy female who looked like
a princess. She glared at me and
said immediately: "I don't like you,"
turned her head away, and refused
to be introduced. I said, "What!"
in outrage. "Why you ********* fool!"
This got everybody's attention.
"Why you narcissistic ***** How
can you decide when you don't even
know me," I continued in a violent
and messianic voice, inspired at
last, dominating the whole room.
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Beneath,
I amused fear,
drowning immersed in faith.
Near my final breath I mused Latin,
the etymology of 'entertain'.
*Tormented;
by mistake.
Entertaining fear,
over entertaining faith.*
In the quiet silence of revelation,
I took stock,
&
looked up,
180° degrees,
poised
&
compassed
my flesh,
to
unbolt
the chains
of misdirection
bound to the recess of my soul.
Unleashed!
Now to hike the proverbial mountain,
cobbled
in the boots of Wisdom.
Contemplative.
Afloat,
aloft its height,
coiffured
safe
by the proverb,
transfigured,
by wisdom of consciousness.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
The sun is over the yardarm;
My mused Goddess of poesy
Sitting like patience on a monument
Of Iris; Chrysaor yielding
Whilst I throw ones lot
Twisting in the wind of the
Rostrum of technology
Cutting my teeth on rainbow dreams of you.
Peace, hope, sincerity
In the twinkling of an eye
You have the edge on
As with serene conscience of you
I set fire to terracotta tears
A rough-hewn diamond
Needing an earfull
Lo! harkened death
Herald of the last supper.
Eleete j Muir.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.
Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?
There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?
The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!
Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.
A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;
A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.
Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, ******* care.
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Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.
Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.
Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?
Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.
What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
We are told that
Nothing trumps Trump's
Misogyny but truth will out
When his sexist shtick is a
Gift that keeps giving for
His Republican rivals,
Whose
Lips are sealed, but by
Their deeds their hands are unclean.
We know that Bush did not beat about the bush
When he said of women on welfare that “They should
Be able to get their life Together and find a husband"
We know that Walker repealed Wisconsin's only
Equal pay law and supported anti-choice
Invasive intrusion of a woman's right
To choose. We know that Mike H
Has mused that he thinks women
Who cannot control their “Libido"
Should not “curse” and Jay Z is really
A **** seems to be exploiting Beyoncé.
We know that Rubio opposed re-authorizing the
Violence against Women Act, even though he knew
What it meant when he opposed the Paycheck Fairness
Act. We know Rand P was rightly Republican in similarly
Voting against the Paycheck Act, and in his college secret
Society promoted Anita B's views that oral *** was a sin.
Perhaps they all need to look in the mirror and adhere to
The Biblical adage that "He who is without sin should
Cast the first stone" But what is sin anyway?
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
*A kiss from the night
Drunk from all that pain
Struggles to breath
Can't remember her name
Lost his eyes
Love made him blind
Hate made him see
Scars remind
A story that'll fade away
Pages eaten by time
Memories don't go away
Weather is not kind
Storms bash the home
Walls ripped of from the bones
All his secrets in the open
Strangers are gone
Who will love him now
Caress and hold him now
Wipe away all the blood stained tears
Who will bring him down
From the skies he wanders at nights
Searching for a lost cause
A moon that glows in anger
A sun that's faux
A wolf howls at a distance
A dog barks nearby
Night shows resistance
Ghosts never pass-by
A bleak view from a window
And a madness from outside
A letter of hatred
Enough to hurt his pride
He cannot see but whisper
There's a tale hidden in the stones
He warns once again
About the rage hidden in his bones
No one listens
World won't skip a beat
It Dosent matter
Even if with blood he repeats
They'll only see red
Not what's in his head
They look right through him
Like staring at something dead
He's afraid of the demons
That guide him to scars
Gently takes his hand
Makes him draw on his arms
Death , he mused
Life had refused
Where to walk now
He is so confused
And lies that destroyed lust
Ashened black lies in dirt
Forgiven but not forgotten
In dark prisons they lurk
Prisoners of darkness
They weep solitude
Embracing their fate
Another sunrise they refute
And to feed them love
A mistake of the holy
Wise seeks hurt
Impervious of the story
But a mother does worry
If her child lives or not
Thirteen cents
For which he was bought
She loved him and fed him hate
Watched silently and smiled
While he ate
His mouth blood stained
From the flesh of the saints
Imploding the verses he preached
Every rule he ever bleached
Hands of god from heaven
All hell broke loose when they reached
And strangled his very neck
Coldness in his eyes
Staring at the mirrors that don't reflect*
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
‘Twas just around the corner
in the other street
I went there to see someone
and them warmly greet.
But after I arrived there
no one could be seen
my hopes were nearly shattered
as they were so keen.
I looked around and waited
for a little while
my expectations increased
and caused me to smile;
when in the road up ahead
I could surely see
a person coming my way
who seemed full of glee.
As they got closer to where
I was standing still
we recognized each other
which gave me a thrill.
How fortunate it was there
when we both did meet
it being such a long time
since we last did greet.
When looking at each other
we could really see
both of us were quite happy
and together be.
We hugged and mused on the road
where we both then stood
and laughed and talked of those things
we each thought was good.
We also remembered times
from our memory
when people were happier
and a lot more free.
Oh how life has bound us all
in its tangled web
though we hardly realize
that it does now ebb.
With everything that has past
in our lives to date
can we all now truly say
we were never late
in doing all those things that
we each had to do
and done them in such a way
that we knew was true.
We looked at each other and
said a few more words
of what we still had to do
just like two old nerds.
The time passed quickly by and
after saying much
we decided to part ways
with a final touch.
We hugged each other once more
and firmly shook hands
with thoughts of meeting again
in some other lands.
So looking straight ahead there
both our eyes could see
the feelings shared between us
then would always be.
We both turned to go back to
where we had come from
and started walking towards
that place with a song
which we sang in our hearts then
of what used to be
a feeling of love for all
knowing we were free.
________________________
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.
The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy's haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight
To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.
As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.
And I thought of the wasps' nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.
The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.
I'll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.
Maybe Mary might call round...
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.
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( this poem can be read like its feather shape or horizontally to and fro )
I
go
to fly so that I believe
so light above
with treads its plumes
as wispy as the so unruly shed
feathers I collect along an angel feathered
path cloven with grass and mused mayhaps
autumn starts early for those angels
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 8:55 PM UTC
I am so lonely and alone this night.
I hold a conversation
with my old friend the moon.
I whisper to him.
I feet so incomplete
how can all these years pass by
and leave me such a partial being.
My supportive wise old friend answered me
I am seldom complete
sometimes waxing sometimes waning.
Sometimes hardly a flicker of a smile
Sometimes a ghost of a sad mouth.
Remember my human friend
You don't have to be
complete or full to shine.
He always makes sense
I guess he is wiser than humans
after all how many
millions of years old is he.?
Then he gave me
the answer I needed
he mused softly.
His voice so magical.
So deep and philosophical
I love him in this mood.
But when you are
feeling full, or whole.
That is the best time to shine.
To light up the world in the power
of your reflected completeness.
That is when you
will have the power inside you.
The power to effect
every person on earth.
And call the oceans to you.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
"She smells raw mangoes
and chrysanthemums,
what a combination!
how exotic"
enamored city boy mused aloud,
kissing his newfound lover
a village belle,
under the shade
of a chattering peepal*
a rendezvous, so elating
he could never imagine.
"They didn't pay me much
to pick the mangoes, still not ripe;
had to pluck flowers in the afternoon,
for decent wages"
she candidly told.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
The Little Boy child, Sitting in the Dust on the edge of the Porch that protruded from the Leaning shack of a Building. Extended forward his arm, Opened His Hand, Palm UP and Begged for "Just a CRUMB of Bread, Kind Sir? " The Pleading Eyes, Tearing from fear and Frustration, Peered deeply into the Crowds of People as they passed by. Waiting, Just waiting, for ONE to come forward and Place a small Morsel of BREAD or some other Fine Delicacy that would provide the Ultimate delight of Lasting Taste!! " Just a CRUMB of Bread, Kind Lady ? " Still, the crowds as they passed by, would only Stare in Dismay and continue on their way. BUT not without great Pangs of Compassion STARTING to tug on them ! ! The Smirks and Unsavory comments, such as, " Don't go near Him, He might have a Disease", "Make sure it's not a trap", "Don't even look at Him", "Such a disgrace, that child should be put in an Orphanage", " I,can't believe that's Permitted". . . . The SOBBING child only raised His head a Little Higher and Silently Muttered to Himself as the Many crowds of people continued to PASS BY. Perhaps a Hundred people have Passed by today, the Child thought, and not ONE offered even a helpful Smile or provided a Small CRUMB of Nourishing delight ! ! Where were they all going? The Child Mused,,,,,ALL I simply wanted was "Just a CRUMB of Bread" ! Unable to understand His Dilemma, the Child folded His arms across his chest, Hung his head and began to SOB Deeply.,,, SITTING in the DUST, Just waiting for a CRUMB of Bread! " IS there not ONE out there who would but share ONE Portion of their Plenty?" ___ The Sobbing Suddenly stopped! __ A Great feeling of Joy, Peace , Serenity and Comfort Enveloped over the Child's BODY ! AS the LORD took the Child unto HIS ***** and Breathed the Everlasting LIFE INTO him ! From Now on, the child would NEVER again ask______"JUST A CRUMB OF BREAD , KIND SIR ! "_______...
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 3:06 AM UTC
In this wicker rocking chair I mused
What was I thinking?
Gaze looked away towards the hills on mountain high
The cold wind pierced my skin into my bones though blanket cover me all over
In this wicker rocking chair I sat being not able to think
Only a blank stare of view of silence soul
I sat on the rattan rocking chair
behind my house terrace
Accompany my solitude
Accompany my sighing stored as long as I live.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
CHEERFUL voices by the sea-side
Echoed through the summer air,
Happy children, fresh and rosy,
Sang and sported freely there,
Often turning friendly glances,
Where, neglectful of them all,
On his bed among the gray rocks,
Mused the pale child, little Paul.
For he never joined their pastimes,
Never danced upon the sand,
Only smiled upon them kindly,
Only waved his wasted hand.
Many a treasured gift they bore him,
Best beloved among them all.
Many a childish heart grieved sadly,
Thinking of poor little Paul.
But while Florence was beside him,
While her face above him bent,
While her dear voice sounded near him,
He was happy and content;
Watching ever the great billows,
Listening to their ceaseless fall,
For they brought a pleasant music
To the ear of little Paul.
'Sister Floy,' the pale child whispered,
'What is that the blue waves say?
What strange message are they bringing
From that shore so far away?
Who is dwelling in that country
Whence a low voice seems to call
Softly, through the dash of waters,
'Come away, my little Paul'?'
But sad Florence could not answer,
Though her dim eyes tenderly
Watched the wistful face, that ever
Gazed across the restless sea,
While the sunshine like a blessing
On his bright hair seemed to fall,
And the winds grew more caressing,
As they kissed frail little Paul.
Ere long, paler and more wasted,
On another bed he lay,
Where the city's din and discord
Echoed round him day by day;
While the voice that to his spirit
By the sea-side seemed to call,
Sounded with its tender music
Very near to little Paul.
As the deep tones of the ocean
Linger in the frailest shell,
So the lonely sea-side musings
In his memory seemed to dwell.
And he talked of golden waters
Rippling on his chamber wall,
While their melody in fancy
Cheered the heart of little Paul.
Clinging fast to faithful Florence,
Murmuring faintly night and day,
Of the swift and darksome river
Bearing him so far away,
Toward a shore whose blessed sunshine
Seemed most radiantly to fall
On a beautiful mild spirit,
Waiting there for little Paul.
So the tide of life ebbed slowly,
Till the last wave died away,
And nothing but the fragile wreck
On the sister's ***** lay.
And from out death's solemn waters,
Lifted high above them all,
In her arms the spirit mother
Bore the soul of little Paul.
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"I suffered, so, I learned, so, I changed"
*her pale white arm,
back and forth,
flashes before my eyes face,
cutting my few blonde many grays,
she tumbles pieces of
now dead me,
to the floor,
in cut wet clumps
there, across her underarm,
placed there to be but
half-hid,
my Bostonian via Albania haircutter,
(I am a human explorer)
reveals a tattoo uttering
in Arabic
that cuts me
deeper
then any scissored blade
she metal possessed*
I suffered, so, I learned, so, I changed
*revelations daily granted me,
this one,
incomprehensible,
as she cuts,
I imagine,
my mused blood superheated,
clotting this poem
oh the words are readily understood,
but unknown is
the inspiration,
the event
so formative
it was deserving of being
transcribed, inked,
permanence earned by,
recording pon human flesh,
exposed
yet hidden
and I dare not inquire...even I...
who among us dare say
that they have not
suffered?
yet, you,
say the word slow
suf-fer,
hiss it
in two parts,
then ask yourself again,
have you experienced
the unimaginable
as real?
and needy to record it upon thy own
human flesh?
I have walked
empty mirrored hallways unending,
stood by rivers imploring,
begging me to join their current,
sleepwalked for days without count,
punishing penance for
acts of commission,
acts of fearful cowardice
I learned
I changed
better
for the betterment
of my united untied
bodied bloodied soul
*where?
my tattoo?
readily visible!*
in every word I ever wrote
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
They sought me at night when Sirius rose
like a prince on his canine steed.
Tugging my sleeve they led me outside
like a child in parental need.
Out in the garden, the grass wet with dew
still warm beneath my feet.
They pointed at the Moon and whispered:
"He thinks it's time you meet"
The Moon turned away from the sunset and mused
at little barefoot me:
Pyjamas on with stars and suns
rubbing my eyes to see.
"You've caught my eye trough the window at night
gazing at me and my stars.
No one else knows it yet, for you are too young,
but I know who you are"
The fairies let go of my sleeve and fled,
knowing their work was done.
The Lake of Tranquility suggested a smile
upon the face of the Moon.
"Son, let me tell you, I know it seems strange
but your life is about to begin.
A life down there on little Tellus,
with a universe to win.
"I will lend you an astral helping hand
on your road so winding and long
I'll give you fascination keen and searching
and a clever mind so strong.
For a life of difficult struggles is yours,
of endless rights and wrongs,
of painful challenges unknown to most,
yet of secrets, dreams and songs
"Why must my life contain all this pain,
why can't I just dance and sing?"
The Moon let go of it's tranquil smile
"There'll be little singing and dancing.
But you will stand in the Light of Knowledge
as undisputed king.
So be brave and clever and always remember:
You're a king, -a King, little Stephen Hawking.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Shadowy showdown,
So slithery, slippery, snake stand.
Eyes yield eight years of restlessness,
While baggy eyes droop like mind stuck in senselessness.
Truly traumatic tales told tons of taints,
and trucking thoroughly through the thorns turn to turn.
Thus the mind shall riddle more maze like a mused upon mused,
for nothing shall keep a mind stagnant but the thoughts unamused.
Proclaim profound process profusely,
While prance protruding proponent proud processes.
Stand straight, so sight searing senses sought,
And stir strength seeping souls.
For truest of devotion must be expressed from the inner self,
even if slithery, slippery, snake, stand for a showdown!
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Once Upon a Time
as most stories go,
there was a prince
with an mule in tow
And what really made
a lot of folks balk,
was the weird fact that
the mule could talk
Now this grumpy prince
was not too amused
so he sat right down
and for a day, mused
What ever could he do,
with some old, talking mule?
He was a royal prince!
Not a babbling fool!
He took the mule to town
And put him up for sale
With an old bale of hay
and a watering pail
And so the mule was sold
to a very old man
and his very old wife
of the Coconut Clan
The family was nuts
but they gave the mule hay
and let him run amok
in the pastures all day
And at night the farmer
would talk to the mule
and when the mule talked back
all the neighbors would drool
No one would believe
that the mule could speak
and to all of them
the future was bleak
Until one day, the old man died
The man's wife and the mule cried
Then the woman went to sleep
Never made another peep
And the mule was sad
he ran far away
to a far off castle
all night and all day
He crossed the deep, dark moat
And went to the throne room
when the King saw the mule
he knew he'd met his doom
"Hello old prince" said the mule
"Hello" the prince replied
and ran for his life
despite all his pride
The mule sat on the throne
and let out a defeated drone
He didn't have a clue
for there was nothing else to do
"I guess I'm king now" he said
And placed the royal crown on his head
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC