"reformed" poems
eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...
not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.
the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
Can anyone tell me why I let myself live in this?
Am I stuck in a room with no windows or doors?
I used to bang on the walls with bruises on fists
over tattooed wrists and faded scars
that led to a hole in my chest
that I filled with love for myself.
“Love for myself”:
You probably think that sounds conceited,
right?
But in all truth, it is the bitter opposite.
I didn’t need any of you to save me.
I figured it out on my own,
like I always do.
The fight in my gut emerged beyond skin,
but I was never good enough here.
I will never be good enough here.
I spend my weeks on a seesaw
between the highest praise and the lowest blows.
Every word that takes off from my lips
must turn and tumble in flight before reaching your ears.
You hear me. You don’t listen.
You twist me. You don’t illuminate.
No, I am not like a daughter to you,
and if you were my mother,
I would have disowned you long ago.
In fact, you really don’t know **** about me,
because I don’t want you to.
Too many people try to tell me how to live,
as though I haven’t come to learn what is best for myself.
I think,
as someone who used to fantasize about her own death
but has overcome that obstacle
and must continue to work to keep that fight alive in herself
every
****
minute
of her existence,
I have the right to write you off as an imbecile to my life.
You don’t own me.
You don’t know me.
You don’t even see me.
I ripped away the heart sewn tightly to my sleeve a while ago
and placed it in a treasure chest
kept in a safe haven to which few hold the key.
I hold the key.
But I don’t go there often.
You see, I never really get the chance.
I just want the chance,
just a little bit of time
to hear the quiet hum of a life reformed,
to stop and feel the breath in my chest,
to feel each lung fill to the brim,
and picture it nourishing every inch of my body
as I press the “release” button.
Can I press the “release” button?
Can I close my eyes and be…
just be, not do.
Can I whisper my desires to the wind that moves around me?
Can we tell secrets of our confusion,
our struggles,
our victories?
Can I reside to the treasure chest,
simply to fill back up?
“E” is for empty.
I was designed differently than you.
I wasn’t made for this.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
I HATE THE IDEA OF SUFFERING, BUT WITH ME THE WAY
I AM, I MUST SUFFER, BUT I SUFFER THOUGH BEING TREATED LIKE A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE
CAUSE I WORRY ABOUT GETTING TREATED LIKE THE ONLY ONE IN MY FAMILY
THAT WILL GET THREATENED AND KILLED, YOU SEE I BECAME A BUDDHIST
BECAUSE I WANT TO BE SAVED IN MY BELIEFS, EVEN THOUGH ALL RELIGIONS
ARE TRYING TO KEEP THE PEACE, YOU SEE I LIKE BUDDHISM, CAUSE, I CAN EXPLAIN
MY PREVIOUS LIVES, LIKE GREAME THORNE AND PATRICK DUNBAR, 2 8 YEAR OLD BOYS
THAT WERE KILLED, BUT I AM STILL SUFFERING BY THE CROWD UP IN THE HEAVENS
GETTING GHOSTS OF ED GEIN AND STEVEN BRADLEY AND TED BUNDY, COMES OUT
AND FORCES ME TO THROW MYSELF IN GARGAGE HOPPERS AND TIE MYSELF UP WITH
VINNIES ROPE IN MITCHELL, SAYING KIDNAP ME TO AN ADULT, YA SEE, I AM A MAN
WHO FOLLOWS THE PATH OF BUDDHISM, WHERE, I AM WILLING TO UNDERSTAND OTHER PEOPLE’S
VIEWS, I AM SUFFERING THROUGH PATRICKS COOL KID, BECAUSE I COMMITTED A CRIME
BACK IN 1990, HE CAN’T SEEM TO EXCEPT, TO LEAVE ME IN, WE ARE NOT AT SCHOOL ANYMORE
AND I DON’T DO WHAT I USED TO DO, I LIKE LEARNING HOW TO BE AT PEACE
UMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE
UMMMMMMMM FIND ME INNER HAPPINESS
UMMMMMMMM TAKE MY MATES OUT OF MY HEAD
UMMMMMMM ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY SAY, MY BROTHER’S NOT AROUND ANYMORE
UMMMMMMMM I WANT TO LIVE IN ADELAIDE SOME DAY
UMMMMMMMM CAUSE IT’S A VERY FESTIVE CITY FOR ME
UM,MMMMMMM TAKE DAD OUT OF MY HEAD, I AM NOT LIKE A YOUNG DUDE TO A ****
UMMMMMMMMM LET ME BE REFORMED
UMMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE, UMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE UMMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE
I DON’T WANT TO TRY AND BE THE ONLY ADULT OUT OF MY OLD MATES
I DON’T WANT THAT VOICE WHEN ALL MY PREVIOUS LIVES MY FAMILY PATRICK AND DANIEL AND THE KIDS OF THE PAST
ARE FLYING AROUND MY HEAD
I HATE PEOPLE TEASING ME IN MY HEAD, UMMMMMMMMM I WANT TO BE A PEACEFUL BUDDHIST MAN
I AM NO LONGER A KID OR A LADY, AND I AM NO LONGER A MAN TO A FIGHT
I DON’T WANT TO BE A LITTLE YEAH MATE YEAH KID, UNLESS IT’S SHOWING OFF MY STORIES AND ****
I AM A BUDDHIST, ARTIST WRITER YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER AND COOL PERSON COMING TO THE MALL WITH HIS COKE
UMMMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE UMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE UMMMMMMMM BRING ME PEACE
ONLY YEAH MATE YEAH KIDS OR NERDS CONCENTRATE ON BUDDHISM , I KNOW I AIN’T A NERD
I BELIEVE BUDDHISTS MEND EVERY BLADE OF GRASS AND LIKE ME THEY BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 4:57 AM UTC
I'm a reformed man
my habit has been cast out
a good woman
showed me how to bring it about
with her understanding ways
she helped me give up the grog
and life is so much better
now that I'm no longer in a grog fog
on the path back to sobriety
her hand guided me
with its never ending
patience and solidity
she is a redemptive angel
in my eyes
she gave me reason
to see a clean sunrise
the grog couldn't stay
in my addled life
cause it had imparted
much too much strife
for the rest of my days
I'll be a reborn man
for a wonderful woman
took hold of my hand
her love and care
showed me how to kick the grog
and she has lead me
out of it's fog
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
Consisting of grown, persisting as shown and unknown. Insisting entities, rivalries and sworn enemies! Deformed, forewarned, formed, informed, mourned, performed, reformed and scorned. Dates of great storms! Family tree of hate, horns and thorns. My family tree of gore, horror, more, poor and sore. Perhaps of mishaps galore. Briefly sit
back! I’ll roughly take you back… Heck! Back to a time of attack,
blacks, slacks and whacks. My family tree of practical, tactical, methodical Aztec. Some beckon and reckon in seconds. A family tree of crime, grime and rhyme. A nation of communication, dedication,
dissemination, motivation and procrastination. The splendor of sin
of my corruptive, disruptive kin. They rely more on the color of one’s
skin. My family tree of abuse and misuse that misuses and seduces! Family tree of warfare and welfare legalities, moralities and family-prodigies. Picture this scriptural twist! Some assist on a kiss. I insist
some are idealities in social technicalities. Alcoholics, diabetics,
****** exotic, fantastic, Catholics, eccentric, horrific and poetic. I persist… some gnomes, some roam, some in poems, some with no homes. My family tree of adventuresome, awesome, handsome and troublesome. My family tree of beautiful and bountiful! Some are a
handful some handicap some locally and vocally-rap. Some slap,
gift-wrap and yap! Some are snuggly, pretty, witty or ugly. In my family tree, some crippled, some with pimples, some with freckles
and some that heckle. Some belittle and little, some wrinkled and old. Some are bold and pray to the lord! Some are Frio, meaning cold we
were told. Some I say, are poor with no Amor. Some are here no more, in my family tree of Amor.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
“Pick up
the pen son, and
put her at ease.” Get-well
cards for my healthy and reformed
Mother.
Hospital gowns will cloak scarred wrists,
but wedding rings shine, now
more than ever.
“Our love
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 7:13 AM UTC
<•>
For A:
The Pleasure of Infection
10:53 pm
our all about
is to be the whittler of our personage,
to both hold the knife with care,
but with risky, reckless artistry,
as we shape of what raw materials we are possessed,
into our own reshaped, reformed
most prized bejeweled possession
never mind the shavings and cutaways fallen,
they are fast away, castaway choices made and cannot be retrieved,
for when we whittle, whether our shape desired
which may be prior envisioned or a vision
from the discovery of performing,
they matter no more,
let them go, in their absence too,
they are part and a whit of you,
but not of you, no longer
our commonality in this: everything,
in everything else, so little
but your honesty and crafted, almost dishonesty both ring true,
and infect us with pleasure of recalling
when we
being cut designed and preparing our statue for
an unveiling, but with no date yet set,
and the loveliness of our mistakes,
were precious do-over opportunities
seek out the infection, the infection of discovery,
the risk of pleasure exposed and
your poetry may be either
the antibiotics
when the result is red and unpleasant,
or a celebration,
an invitation to us to be a
semi-silent beholder of your artistry
infections heal after pain and discoloration
but new skin always forms,
but at a different pace for each of us
I see the faces in my carpet nodding agreement,
"always new skin"
oh boy. time to go to bed
go seek out the pleasure of infection,
sadly, happily, it is the only way
good night
from an old man who dreams and schemes of
new skin nightly
but never mind me,
my piece long ago writ
and in need of just a tweak here and there,
call it one too many close shavings,
his poem's treasure trove,
a list
of life's minor irritations
and major lifts
<•>
11:16pm
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
This was my sand yesterday,
Hot and gritty,
Yet comforting, embracing
Under my towel.
Troves of precious shards of shell
Mapped into mind
With the jellyfish abandoned
By the tide
Just out of reach of cool waters
And a pool carved
With ramparts and towers,
An ambitious child's construction
Proudly pronounced eternal.
But we took pictures
To remember,
Anyway.
Now, after breakfast,
Into blue too perfect
This morning's sun rose
To a sky spilled
Cloudless and clear
Over new land
Reformed by night swells
Gulls and terns blown on,
Friends' footprints cleared,
The castle lost
By waves or wind's gusts.
It seems alien now.
My toes dig ever deeper
To discover if warmth
Is still here, hiding below
The surface of what I can see.
Morning's winds fling
Biting bits chipped
From far-off mountains
Cheek and legs sting
In force of anger born
Far offshore,
While the children nestle
My jacket for shelter
It can't give them today.
The tourists left - the sand is ours
To reshape, imprint with feet again.
And plan for tomorrow -
Umbrella, blanket, pails,
Embrace sea's eternal rhythm.
We'll stay.
Sep 19, 2009
Sep 19, 2009 at 3:36 PM UTC
they hit you everywhere,
bruises, slow faders,
pretty much all over,
spaced out, body and time
some, they come back,
months, years later,
enticing, devising,
with revelations perfect,
you melt with helpfulness
some claim they are born
with only questions and an
insatiable quest for knowing,
but line in the soil tween rows
is there for you not to cross
some proffer their pain,
asking for ablution and absolution,
from demons they wish to share,
but refusing the smoke of my offering,
that could cleanse both our inhalations
like highway men of yore,
they hit everyone, below the belt,
stave breaking into the heart,
slow bleeding, with answers
received in absentia and silence
until the till needs refilling, and they
renewed, reappear, reformed, with
perfect words, even better questions:
my portfolio of replies mostly go/grow
old, noting the obvious, we are socially
distance by age and geography and
degree, I free and clear to provide while
they just free to hit and run, one more time
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 9:11 PM UTC
You’re your own idea
written in blood and electricity.
You’re Pulcinella. You’re judy.
You’re someone else’s description
of light
imagined alive.
You’re temporary.
You’re the dream in a Jivaro head.
There’s the ceiling of a skull
just above your clouds
and even further out
there's another.
You’re pock-marked, wood-wormed
with thoughts,
words,
that you’ve been taught
on you, like tattoos
and shared birthmarks.
You’re picture-framed
in my eye sockets
flipped and made
understandable
and only some of you
oozes
through
like the sun
below the surface of the sea.
You’re me
and i’m you
swirling in each other’s boundaries
like the Tao and oily water
and the point between the colours in rainbows.
You’re infinite to mayflies.
You’re an explosion’s leftovers.
You died last time I saw you
and reformed in the doorframe
when I came around again.
You’re the world’s re-used love letter
from ****** to organised organism
incubated in original sin
the kiln
making Russian dolls from living things.
You’re the seed of a ghost.
You only existed since this morning
and yesterday’s you woke up
and is now out haunting.
You’re both here, and there, and here
a string vibrating
a seismograph
a tree ring
Earth’s music
playing
and playing
and playing.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
You couldn't possibly
accept
my intuition of
you.
Intricately weaved into my
benevolence.
To me you seemed sincere and
candy-coated.
Your eyes gleamed too prominently of an untouched type of
innocence.
As a huntress, with one agile
manipulation
of the gale beneath my
wings
I could have forever reformed your
fate
I respect who you are too
much
too much to value your
attractive
but-not-so-much intriguing chemical
attributes
Your underlying hopes and
dreams
through feats of meaningless
lust
and future out-of-spite
clashing
I saved you the soul mind and body
ache
of being broken and tossed
beyond
my most selfless
act
is something
you
couldn't possibly
accept.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
I WANT TO TEASE YOU, TEASE YOU I SHALL, YOU ARE SPASTIC, DUDE I HATE YA
HANG ON, YOUR NOT LIKE YOUR NANNA, LET’S TEASE THIS SHYPERSON, BUDDY
HE IS FALLING ASLEEP, TEASE THIS SHY PERSON
I SAID, I WILL FALL ASLEEP, YA SEE, I WILL FALL ASLEEP, AND ALLOW YOU TO TEASE ME WITH THE COSMOS
YOU SEE, LET’S TIE THE SHYPERSON UP, AND THROW HIM TO THE ALIENS’
YEAH, I AM HAVING FUN TEASING BRIAN ALLAN DEAR CHILD
YOU SEE, I CAN SEE THE MEDICATION MAKING YA TIRED
YOU SEE, ATHENA CAME UP AND PUT METHANE IN MY MOUTH AND TOLD THIS DWEEB THAT
YOU REALLY CAN FIX YA TEETH IN THE COSMOS, IF YA TAKE THE RIGHT MEDICATION
I SAID, I AM WATCHING SOME SNACK OFF COOKING SHOW, IT’S PRETTY RADICAL
IT’S ABOUT THE LATE NIGHT SNACKS PEOPLE HAVE, AND WHO CAN MAKE THE BEST MEAL
THE TEASER SAID, TRY AND BE LIKE YOUR NANNA, CAUSE YOUR NOT LIKE YA NANNA
YA LIKE US, CAUSE YA HOUSE IS MESSY, I AM SURE OF IT
BRIAN ALLAN SAID, CAN YOU LET ME GO, AS HE WAS TIED UP IN THE NEPTUNE PUB
BY OSAMA BIN LADEN AND THE GUY WHO NICKED HIS LINCH IN THE 1970S
IT’S THE ONLY WAY TO GET HIM, REALLY, WELL, IT’S NOT, BUT NOBODY WANTS TO, YA KNOW DO HARM
YA SEE BRIAN JUMPED UP AND SAID, **** OFF, YA NOT GETTING ME, YA ****
AND THEN THE GUY WHO NICKED MY LUNCH SAID, NO BUDDY, YOU ARE WITH ME FOREVER
WE’LL MAKE YOU TIRED, AND THEN SEND YOU TO HELL, WHICH IS THE SUN
BUT EVERYONE SLEEPS THEIR WAY TO FIGHT THE PERSON WHO IS KILLING BRIAN WHERE THEY WANT HIM
YOU SEE THEN SLIM DUSTY SAID I GUESS IT’S LONESOME AWAY FROM YOUR KINDRED AND ALL
FROM THE DUSTY OUTBACK TO THE GREAT CONCERT HALL,THERE IS NOTHING QUITE LIKE A DRINK WHICH
IS MORBID OR DREAR, IT’S SITTING PLAYING POOL IN A PUB WITH NO BEER
I AM GOING BACK AGAIN TO NEPTUNE PUB, YEAH, NEPTUNE PUB, YEAH WHERE WE HAVE FUN, YEAH
WE’RE GOING BACK AGAIN TO NEPTUNE PUB, THE PLACE WITH THE MOST METHANE SMOOTHIES, YEAH
I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH BRIAN, I WOULD LOVE TO DRINK BEER WITH HIM
WE DRINK IN MODERATION, DUDES, AND NEVER, NO NEVER, GET ROLLING DRUNK
WE DRINK ALL OVER THE COSMOS, WHERE THE ATMOSPHERE IS SUPERB
I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH BRIAN, CAUSE THAT’S FAR FROM ABSURD
AND THEN BARRY ALLAN CAME UP AND SANG 1 2 3 4 YOU SCHITZOPHRENIC, FROM YA FIRST DIAGNOSIS TO YA CURRENT SITUATION
WITH MEDICATION, YOU CAN GET REFORMED, OH YEAH MATE YEAH YOUR SCHITZOPHRENIC
DAD SAID, I AM NOT GOING YOUR LIKE ME AND MUMMY, ANYMORE, DON’T BE SHY BRIAN, TEASE MY NEXT LIFE’S NAME
I CAN UNDERSTAND WHY YOU TEASE, ME, BUT DON’T FORGET THAT GIRLS AND BOYS ARE EQUAL, OK
THEN THE GUY THAT NICKED MY LUNCH SAID, OK, WE’LL LEAVE YA ALONE, YA NOT LIKE US, BUDDY, OK
JUST REMEMBER, ME, IF YA EVER TRY TO BE LIKE US, YOU WHEN YA LIVED IN WOODBERRY, I’LL TEASE YA AGAIN, OK
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
A LATE 1962-ISH PUDDLE
It was a late 1962-ish
puddle.
A Curragh puddle
to be exact
but you
...wouldn't know that.
A moon had fallen
asleep in it
with scattered silver stars
nailing it to the ground.
I was 6-ish
by then &
had encountered more
puddles than you
could ever splash
about in.
But, this was
the first puddle
I ever
remember.
An Ur-puddle.
To the rest of the world
it was as if
it had never been &
existed only for me.
A robin stood
at my side.
Us both...staring at the puddle.
Suddenly the robin
made up its mind &
stepped defiantly
into this miniature ocean.
The robin stood on the moon
which shattered &
reformed itself about
its tiny feet.
It was the first robin
I'd seen
walking on the moon.
The puddle lived
inside my head
for many many
years until
these words came along
and took it away.
It was like the hand
of a man
long long before
history was invented
pressed against
the flickering cave wall
leaving a sooty hand print
in celebration of himself.
"This mark means
me!"
My late 1962-ish
Curragh puddle
and that robin walking
on a watery moon
is my handprint
on the cave wall
of my mind
in the long long ago.
I laugh at
the me-ness of me!
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
He writes as if he invented the word 'yearn'
Wistfulness and want in every line.
It's as though he's been starved of words his entire life
And now he's drowning in the dictionary,
Gorging on adjectives and language
A reformed wordarexic
Flooding the pages with need
And everything I want to read.
I hope he writes forever
For I, too, love to feed.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
I am a man ya see
Better than everyone else
I am a real real man who enjoys
His life in every way that he can
I watch the footy and I have a kick and I watch a concert
And enjoy every bit
People say I ain't a man
Because I sit on my own
And watch tv or YouTube
And enjoy life you see
I am a real man who loves fine music just as long as it is heavy metal
I will go to poetry slams and
Slam out a poem which is liked by the men who drink and smoke
I used to do that but now I am reformed just like a real man is
I drank my beer and smoked my ciggys and that is what made me happy
You see I am a real man and when I see someone doing it tough I throw some money his way
I am a real man who loves his life watching the afl and nrl
And in summer I watch the baseball and big bash cricket
And mate I feel like a real man
I am just a reformed character of a man I am radically awesome dudes
I am a real man
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 8:53 AM UTC
some 4.5 billion years ago
the atoms that would coalesce
to ***** your evanescent features
detoured to a lonely chunk of
rock aimlessly adrift in the
Milky Way Galaxy
you stayed alive by pure instinct
fight or flight
you could not thrive
yet you survived nature's
attempts to crush you in
her fearsome jaws
bits of you walked with dinosaurs
bone fragments ground to dust and
reformed over eons of evolution until
you stood upright and found a
tongue to describe planet Earth
remnants of those dead languages
live on to this very day
they inhabit the ink stains i
leave upon this yellowed page
while folk tunes croon over
my shoulder and Dallas Green
breathes a city in multicolor
a map of the universe is etched
across your face and i cannot escape
the smirk that spread with mirth
nor erase the memory of eyes
like interstellar space staring
back at me
unblinking
for 4 minutes that felt
simultaneously like a lifetime
and the space between
2 fractions of a millisecond
you came from the Big Bang
when the cells that would form
our bodies were forged in the
cores of supernovas exploding
across the cosmos and we've
been on a collision course ever since
an unstoppable force and
an immovable object
for matter
can neither be created
nor destroyed
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
Squall comes in due to differences of pressure
Evolved by temperature,
But when it appears everything reformed to neutral
Calmness creates new ground for creation.
So they always tell that squall is required for creation
Because new creation evolved after destruction.
Let’s pray for squall
To wipe out the felony and annoyance
To prepare the ground for creation!
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
Angels melt like candlewax upon their pedestals
And I stand here to find with you this heaven of mine has flown
Though some may find me ignorant of more than apparent facts
I still find myself in the man who carried out such acts
You helped me though you broke me and I must thank you for this
My body is somewhat stronger from the virus in your kiss
And these angels made of candlewax can be reformed with just a flame
Though, in sorrow, something was lost which will never make it the same
So who am I to get down on bended knees when tears come to my eye
Pray tell me soon if tears will help my journey to the sky
For though your intent may have been to break me, in survival lies my will
And I may not be flying soon, but I'm not standing still
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
"Papa. Read my the four little pigs and the BIG BAD POUF." With emphasis on the big bad "POUF", we begin the fascinating journey of the pigs and the rehabilitation of the "Pouf".
My granddaughter (age 2) loves the story and when ever we come to the Big Bad she says the "POUF" part. It rather sounds like a French pastry.
The fourth pig, as everyone knows, is Momma pig, she sent the defenseless little pigs out the door with a warning, "the BIG BAD "POUF" likes to eat little pigs." Seems to be a common malady of "Poufs" and Humans.
The BIG BAD "POUF", we are told, watched from the top of the hill where he lived. He was a considerate "Pouf"... letting the little pigs build their straw, sticks and bricks houses before offering to be a building inspector to test the strength of straw and sticks. The "Pouf" condemned the first two houses... huffing and puffing and all of that. All the hair on the little pigs chin could not stop the tinsel strength test performed by the Big Bad "Pouf".
Everyone knows that brick is stronger than straw and sticks but we have a Big Bad "POUF" that begs to differ. Consequently, he ends up in hot water, much like Humans who make bad decisions. Not the brightest and smartest choices made in Pig/"Pouf" Land. At least this pig did not put the lid on the *** and have "POUF" for lunch.
The "POUF" became a reformed "Pouf" staying on his hill top. No more Big Bad for him. Kind and gentle. A NEW "POUF"!
Now 60 years ago the Building Inspector in this story got into hot water and became the lunch of the brick house pig. The other two pigs became lunch of the "POUF" but I suppose I will not be telling that to my two year old any time soon.
There are many versions of the story. Things have changed over the years. The Three Little Pigs live happily ever after and the "Pouf" now stays up on the hill and is a GOOD BOY. Getting into hot water can be a life changing moment... provided the lid is NOT put on the kettle. Moral to this story... stay away from pigs who carry hammers, trowels and squares. Or. Don't be a blow hard.
(c) 02/14/2012 by John Stevens
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
Dawn will soon be embraced
for treasures beyond the curve
of the earth now brought to hand
wanton actions then expressed
the mold is broken and then reformed
sensuous defined by each one
far-flung stars gazed in sleep
Scorpio waiting for a chance
when emotions churn within
private dreams foretold the way
those secret urges beyond the veil
brought to waking in the light
morning risen to exclaim
what the night hid away
the slumbering to be roused
or should arousal be the term
for dispassion put aside
in response to nature’s urge
vocal ***** and stirring hens
or reversed and transposed
now awoken from their sleep
ask for strokes to greet the day
more than enough to awake
achieve release not found in sleep.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180930.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
Dirt
Figment
Breeding flies
Sweet charity
Hot, stagnant breeze
Doves in a stale autumn wind
An entity so dense
Holding such little weight
Topicality
Technicality
Revelation and rendition
Something so malleable
Yet so rigid
Reformed
Thick like honey
but smoldering
Grey paste
Emotions breeding anxiety
Still getting by
Not saying, but just saying
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
She was
fascinated by the way the beard floated across his face and disappeared without a trace into his ears and thought it was a camera trick.
The camera doesn't lie is a lie, though we still believe what we can see,no longer polaroid the humanoid is now devoid of all reality,
the photoshopper shops and crops,lops the tops and bottoms of his pics,sticks in bits that don't belong,digitised, giving verbal to the lies in view and finding few who disagree with the elements,reformed and shaped, the new caped crusader,tints,tone raider,
I saw Douglas Bader with two legs but peg a negative and hold your tongue,I like to watch the colours run on the drip dry line,processing time.
I don't like the fact that numbers attacked this art in forms of decimals it makes us vegetables
relying on the cut and crop of photoshop must stop.
I told her that it was no trick,he had the beard but the camera was sick,she listened to me in disbelief and from her briefcase took out a camera and snapped a picture of his face,
and now I'm fascinated in a way as to whether we can photoshop a rainy day and turn it into something good
I wonder if we could or not,must
take a look at
photoshop.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
there is a broken thing
reformed in amber
disarranging the spectrum
of sensical causal motion
nail biting following
migration patterns of neural
activity and we bless the few
who cut clean and learn early
those bespectacled masses
cannot intuit the limited scope
of aversion to blurry pink clouds
gussied up in peripheral vision the
pineal gland controls circadian
rhythms gushes dmt when
we die i wonder i
wonder what that (vestigial)
little pinecone knows
that we don’t
cased in spongy
grey matter and i don’t think
much of time as metaphor but
my watch strap broke
yesterday i hope
that is
important i do
nothing so simple or complex
as love but(i carry it in my heart)
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC