stained glass with sunlight streaming,
a single rivulet, a single tear,
slips silently down the bridge of a nose
to fall silently to the tip of another.
eyes meet while hands continue to cradle
the face of the accused, the prosecuted, the expatriate of vagrants:
three words, blooming like delicate flowers from deep emerald vines that grow freely and climb the trunks of trees with more nimbleness than the lost boys themselves,
three words, gliding like the lone droplet from the lips of the holder,
descending to the ears of the held,
and they rang out as much as a whisper could, among dancing dust and gentle breath,
"you
are
forgiven."

My voice's fine motor skills are poor.
I've developed this fumbling tic over the buttons of the spaces between my words,
unable to fasten them to meaning and sincerity
when in front of a crowd.
My grandmother would be so disappointed in the drops in my blanket of words.

dropping the stitches and the lopsided lines I weave
Unable to make a pattern and fix the holes I've made.
The nimbleness of my syllables have dwindled down to self-concious pauses with filler words.

I think I could use some practice.

distances which speak,
of minds which never met,
posing for the world,
customary and yet

we seal the fate of hearts
in molded nimbleness,
amidst world's curious eyes,
exploring restlessness

and as torrents of time,
shall wash upon our being,
we sail a wayward tide,
but into stranger seas

to dream a poet's day,
and wake a lover's night,
breathe in a halo pale,
perhaps a transient sign

hinting a life of dreams,
bestowed upon our souls,
we walk eternity,
all so unexplored.

Oh How I loveth thee
A quite quaint angel in my own eyes.
With dark and white broken wings.
Und'r ****** falls.

I shall waiteth, and comf'rt thee.
Liekth thee loveth thy beareth.
Until the endeth of p'riod.
A hoarse voice with angelic tone.
Haer like the colours of my chameleon.

The tend tender lips of loveth.
A smileth and mind of ambivalence.
I shall loveth with nay judgment.
A halo as bright as the mistress
Possesseth in humans death's-head.

The lukewarm blue chopt lips.
The sleep chamber the lady did lie upon.
H'r ilness, but I accepteth death.
I can kisseth with green valor breath.
The strength of a giant.
The nimbleness of a lilliputian fairy.
Thee can doth aught.

Yon can crustheth and slipeth.
Through the cracks of timeth.
Thee can beest fell'r joyous.
Liketh the visage of a monst'r
I loveth thee f'r who is't thou art.

Thee can beest the wild animal with scars.
mine own canine ears ope to hark.
Thee can has't warts liketh a toad.
A belly as big as the univ'rse.
I shalt beest a fath'r.
thee can has't barb'd wire on thy corse.
My chivalrous armour does not mind thy pain.

Thee believeth chivalry is gone.
Somewh're on the planet, 'r in the heavens above.
Sickl'd by the grim reap'rs ploy.
The apparition 'r man you love.
I'm the pap'r thee loveth at which hour thy depress'd
The smileth thee misseth.
I am thy sir'r knave at heart.
I'm the knight thee wanteth me to best.
The lasteth sir standing at the edge of the w'rld with thee.
Thy the only ***** I protecteth, and loveth f'rev'r.
I give you can seeth how I loveth thee.





This poem was written by Shane Michael Cleary at 12:42 2017 on June 30th.

Th’ blackassboo smile comes easily off this way-out hardened jazznik, and with it a color palette collage of a cool cat stretching out when percolating his musician’s lips.

There’s nimbleness with a dash of a braggarts swagger…
Something that artists of the beat generation popularized.
Craving for some wall breaking, door busting,
And genre shaping daddy-o jazz poems of jocularity,
Titillation with wistful windblown musical notes for an ear massage.

Sounds come in colors between the chants of encore in the flickering space between these fantastical moments with me, Exhilaration urges adventure from the magic that follows.

Bop-soul imagery and a romantic assemblage of what is hip...
An impassioned audacity distinguishes itself in the rousing unapologetic antiestablishment zeal of me; reciting off -
Some cool verse.

Finger snapping with both crackle n pop madness for the new hot. (I need to) go, Go, GO, and explore this incarnation and birth of boplcity -The jazz man's skills aren’t influenced by vagaries of faith…

Dear JAZZ ANGELS on uploaded clouds of notes floating and changing shape. PERFECT. Unbelievable

Resonate the heavily infused bop MUSIC n POETRY molecule with a Lend Me Your Ear skin in the game, Arise relaxed tempos and lighter tones, a total higher consciousness where countless hours of the best jazz music 'round derives a perceived feeling from this **** mindfuck content. A blessing fer sure.

I’m not religious but this is god speaking through music.
There’s a thumbs up, with multiple stars flying out the tips.
Smiling, playing, simply slammin'
an intensity of full attention…

And with it comes a common pulse with a common purpose
what we have is a peeling off of flawlessness, carefree yet with a deep reverence for the musicality’s soul.

I communicate with the laid-back higher forces in this universe; I like the snap on it.

Dazzling intelligence and a force that transcends –
To deliver such a great sound full of love, emotion, and beyond.
Sounds crest into jammin’ hard driving improv,
which shapes th’ musical poetic on intertwined waves of the highest fidelity...

O bloated jazz blues and decibels dance t'ballyhoo'd be-bop flung,
While lighting up a music note, on th’ purest candle, & 'morrow's serendipity will help us see that heavenly ladders rung.

This quenches the thirsty, cleaning my atmosphere;
(A) Beautiful losers timelessness, coupled with an “I hear ya” manifesto sound trip o' crazy kewl elegance!

Music is the best!


by "ooznozz"

We read that all functionaries in the Moscow Kremlin use typewriters and messengers for in-house communications.

Typewriters cannot be hacked.  The cleverest listening devices aboard lurking submarines and in space spy craft can pick up the tap-tap-tap of a typewriter, but cannot interpret an e-tap from a g-tap.

Better still, typewriters break down only every twenty years or so.  No typewriter sends you a message that the Microsoft Word lifetime package you bought has no existence, and that you must buy it again, nor does it give you a blue screen because it has no screen at all. A typewriter tells you nothing; you tell the typewriter with the nimbleness of your mind and fingers, and it obeys.

Beyond that, one does not imagine Vladimir Putin passing idle evenings playing Candy Crush. Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia crush, maybe.

A computer, any computer, unlike the manly typewriter, often suffers the Aunt Pittypat vapors and falls into a faint, calling weakly for smelling salts.

Thus the brevity of this column.

Y'r 'umble scrivener has spent much of a beautiful spring day attempting to coax Aunt Pittypat into waking up and doing a little work:

But all Microsoft's horses (I was thinking of another quadruped, but the name is not appropriate for a family newspaper)

And all Microsoft's persons

Could not make Aunt Pittypat anything but worsens. (That's not a real word)

A personal computer is outdated before you get it home from the Godzilla Box Store, and this moribund machine is some four years old. In dog years that is...something; I forget what.

Tomorrow morning I am off to buy the cheapest machine I can find, for personal computers are as disposable as toilet paper.

I will pass another beautiful spring day re-installing programs and apps (because I am good about backing up all my files) and addresses and all the tiny little dragons that speed along its circuits, and by next week should have a brilliant and well-crafted story to tell you.

May your electrons never fail.

-30-

I dreamed that I was old: in stale declension  
Fallen from my prime, when company
Was mine, cat-nimbleness, and green invention,  
Before time took my leafy hours away.

My wisdom, ripe with body’s ruin, found  
Itself **** recompense for what was lost
In false exchange: since wisdom in the ground  
Has no apocalypse or pentecost.

I wept for my youth, sweet passionate young thought,
And cozy women dead that by my side  
Once lay: I wept with bitter longing, not  
Remembering how in my youth I cried.

Fire doesn't scare me anymore..
The matchstick hardly burns the tender hands to tears.
The profusely bleeding wrists give me a kind of strength;
Of an empowered Me!
Walking on embers no where feels like a once terrorising nightmare,
When mumma left me to sleep alone, away from her embraces.
The nimbleness has evanesce into thin air.
The inner kid glowing with innocence has perished to the tragedy of life.
Perhaps, my once learned lesson about time and experience as the best teacher has come out true.

I would wonder who I would date
if span of years did not aggravate
and my relations did reset
revealing the paths my heart could take
these are all fantasy
have no fear of my liberties
when these thoughts cross space and time
imaginations of a curious mind.

Those I’d court are exceptional
above the norm, none are fools
engaging minds as well as eyes
I’ll state the base that they defy
beauty comes easy to my eyes
appreciation of the forms God made
those blessed by curves, hard or soft
present a fraction of my hearty’s desire.

Add this to the fruits of the mind
intellect leaping from fact to joke
nimbleness both high and low
awaits that prize that so few share
a sympathy for my plight
likewise shared, with another one
common ground few will own
acknowledge grace for a fallen one.

Against this backdrop I draw my list
still imagining, I’ll not deny
so few people meet these marks
on one hand I’d count them all
now here I sit with my roster
with the names I’ll never state
the mighty mountains beyond my reach
the paragons I’d like to date.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170515.

Rest as a remedy,
forced to stay put,
instead of filling my head and feet with
a million next steps
and very necessary jobs and concerns,
I have to sit

the normal distractions
I covet in the pell-mell of things,
box sets, deep cuts, long reads, levelling up,
lose lustre fast
I glaze-stare at the fictional tree line
ticks trickling to tocks

From deep below I hear the slow plod
thudded footfalls of ‘those’ thoughts,
sensing a weakness in the barricades,
heaving down the drawbridge
usually bound firm by chains of daily grind,
LED light show and the world’s digital caterwaul

My busted foot has robbed my nimbleness,
unable to glance, sidestep or dance aside,
our eyes catch and fix,
like the titans of the twilight
their inexorable, gargantuan tread reaches me

I put up a pathetic wrestle
before I am pinned by the weight
long past the three count
frantically tapping on the mat
my morse SOS growing weak

Please Doc,
just give me a dose of elixir so they’ll retreat
and my broken *** will ride
a frivolous winged horse
back to safe and anxious ground

Analogous to Möbius strip -
measured passage of existence
seems to defy any beginning or end
(unless Artificial Intelligence
supersedes developers smarts
of computer technology
evincing brain power
designing sophisticated machines
that enslave their creators)
incorporating figurative

uber plug n play
genetic material imperceptibly
becoming modified to offer
advantageous lyft to maneuver
weathering adverse circumstances
which series of unfortunate events
proffered entry point
for Lemony Snicket
an underappreciated character
only took precedence

with **** sapiens ascendent
bursting forth upon
the figurative pedestal
presiding over domain,
sans Earthly covenant
a bajillion ago,
where fits and starts
pitted proto humans
at no immediate advantage,
yet merely, thru

dint of accidental
happenstance ever so
imperceptibly amassed dominion
over every other species
cue **** erectus
an extinct species
of archaic human
from the Pleistocene,
with its earliest occurrence
about two million years ago,

specimens among the first
recognizable members
of the genus ****
as became evident
throughout the vast sweep of
anthropological
evolutionary incidental
plucky perturbations, provocations,
and/or pullulations arisen by
spontaneous circumstantial grant

ting quasi consciously
coalescing into nasty,
short and brutish bipedal hominids
deliberated focused intent,
where forethought
coopted indiscriminate
chance facilitating kent -
state manifested rubber
baby buggy bumpers
activated, aggrandized, and

allotted destiny meant
to lurch incrementally
i.e. hierarchical designation
present day primate
predecessors practiced negligible
fletched, notched, and
worsted nimbleness orchestrated
(equal parts gall and genetic
giftedness), whatsapp operant
adaptation toward

survival rippled quiescent lyft
minutely nudging overt salient
traits ineluctably
manifesting, outflanking,
and proffering
quintessential urgent
biological scrimmage quietly testing,
and wrestling, whence yen
(to secure rootedness
favoring survival of the fittest)

zeroing what didst warrant
winning formula
to adapt adroit edge
pitted by dictates of nature
grappling iron
grip, viz literal hedge
fund and kickstarting toehold
upon tenuous ledge
(oft times succumbing to danger)
falling into abyss

of anonymity pledge
kindled acquired innovative tool
such as a primitive sledge
hammer instinctively
resigning animal instinct
death be not proud not
before inculcating
survivalist tactical wedge.

Hats and meadows
Dandelion fluff and treacles
You ever see the thread spinning?
Winding, winding,
But they are falling.

One by one,
Strike, six, seven
Four hundred and twenty three.
They count for ages longer than that they
Reap from.

These spindles know no fingers,
No nimbleness, no treachery
For they see time and soil
Dearth and toil.

The same.

15.12.2020