"skirting" poems
Against the thick black curtain on horizon
of still, gigantic cumulus cloud formation
three flitting army helicopters deftly display
a shadow play on jolly life of dragonflies,
I am compelled to think, as I drive past this
along the road skirting Bangalore garrison
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
I remember marble that wanted heels,
clip-clop echo of women who belonged.
I wore slip-ons with socks,
easier for those of us who come to scrub
other people’s lives.
The elevator was a box of mirrors,
infinite versions of me-
I bent my head to escape them.
His office door ajar,
his voice stretched thin across a phone.
The girlfriend cooks,
spicy food,
_place a ******** he said.
I had seen much worse-
houses where mold clung to the ceiling,
where grief leaked through the wallpaper.
The vacuum hummed its G-note spiritual.
I worked the nozzle into the skirting boards,
let my mind braid song and ritual,
a drop of lavender for closets,
labels straightened like soldiers on parade.
No one asked for these offerings-
I gave them anyway.
But he winked at me
while telling her _love you, babe,_
mouth syrupy with lies.
A twenty left on the hall table-
a tip that branded my palm.
Later, the bin bag tore,
Madras red bleeding into cream carpet,
pears bruised soft in their sweating wrap.
The stain spread like a hand
that gripped too long,
that would not release.
I cursed the ceiling,
the word **** echoing like prayer.
was only twenty,
scrubbing strangers’ luxury
to keep myself alive.
That day I left more than lavender-
a fragment of myself,
pressed into the carpet,
silent as the stain.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
The grass flickers, as the
Wind pushes it down, in
A gentle but determined
Motion, sweeping upwards to
Swirl the blue-grey clouds
Around the radio tower, before
Dissipating into the milky
Sky, which at this moment
Is the lightest shade of
Blue, an open innocent shade
Of blue, like an angelic birthday
Cake, the pinker clouds, whose
Graceful tendrils embrace the
Air, and dancing twirl across the
Peaceful summer skyscape
Down below them, the
Emerald stalks of corn stand,
Silent sentinels, awaiting the
Coming of the dawn, they too
Feel the pushing of the wind, but
Brush it off, over their shoulders,
And continue their silent watching
On the sloping sides of the hill, the
Growling pines, resplendent in their
Glimmering needles, reflect the fading
Light, off the clouds, as the sun sinks,
Beneath the horizon, and I watch them
Silently on my bike, the only thing
I can hear, is the swish of the wind,
And the hum and whirring of the
Pedals, as my bike and I, we glide up
The hill, and down the hill, and
Around the posts that are meant
To keep the cars from disturbing, this
Peaceful walking path
A while later, we crest a hill, now
Having past the town, I see the work
Of the persistent wind, the clouds
Now whipped into a curling wave,
Of pink and blue-black, spilling
Over the horizon, behind the red-roofed
Country houses, which are strangely
Reminiscent of those old, red, barns
Which would sit abandoned in
Fields of perpetual wheat, and,
Through the turning of the seasons,
Would rot away into timbers, with
No one left to remember, what
They were, or why they remain
Now we have ridden in a loop, my
Bike clicks as I change gears, to
Crest a hill and coast down, at high
Speed, between the guard rails and
The road, with the wind kicking
Up behind me and whisking an
Upcoming tree in to a fluttery
Flurry of leaves and branches, while
Below a stream cuts a field, and,
Skirting a pen, passes by a pinto
Pony, I think it was, that was just
Standing there, as we rode past,
Onto the cobblestones and around
A bend, the group splits, some going
A different route, but I want to come
Back the way I came, and I ride
Beside the highway, listening to
The chirp of the crickets and the
Hum of the wheels against the
Cold, pavement, while up the hill
The verdant pines bob their bows,
Up and down, waving, waving,
The crashing blue-black wave has
Rolled, on past the tower now, it
Is crashing down over the silent
Sentinels, and I watch quietly as
The wind rolls down the hill, and
Whirls some leaves, making the
Grass flicker in the setting sun.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
Accidents and misfortunes crowding my life
choking out pleasures reserved for a lucky few.
Not realizing that they were there for me too, just to look for
passed by as I chose to look back, blinded to what could have been.
Running in circles skirting the truth
looking for lost moments, ticking into eternity.
My hope is in this new life that I’ve found
awakening the child I’d lost, now born again in you.
You’ve taught me to live, to look now for the simple and pure;
a glass of ***** Cana or a flock of cranes grazing on a hill.
Moving together in the rhythm of jazz
in the early morning sounds and light reflecting on you.
Your beautiful face, angelic in the morning light.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
buffalo head cloud
rawhide drums
saline rollers at tantalus cross
ominous light
forms a short mile away
head lice
and peckers
tap the metal track
shovel train pings
the night quiet
moonlight
shines in
geometric form
arches and skiddles
and skirting reflections
(a vast connection of
grand design)
7 horns
at the passing
(oh that cold metal joy!)
stirring the blades
and ground cover
you better not turn old friend
just nod,
and cut what you need
it’s a bitter run
on the winter line
(with the finest
of wheels
and runners)
hold tight
on the pulley
the canyon wires
are clipping
there’s a gateway
to the copper town
*with a key held
by coveted few*
you can spot the
riders in their
box cars
watching closely
at the chunnel’s
dark turn
we’d walk
the lines often
(and put an ear to the ground)
the mine town still
and barren
hidden treasures
and pocket *******
settled deep
in a tranquil, stolid place
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
My Sunglasses
I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Women of the ROK [South Korea]
unite to protest the rash of digital camera
up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing
room holes by an avant-garde subculture
whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from
the bottom up; tearing down the old order
of mere very pretty faces for the surprise
the unseen; online ******* poets who wax
romantically; over South Korean women
who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized
Asian country; therefore, where the average woman
is expected to be above average, what could be
better than a possible *** or period stain; [ ],
Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments
stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully
of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove,
streams of crystalline blood threading through
the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping
Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy]
doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde;
this new school of poets celebrating female underwear
& bottoms & beyond; what could future generations
make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements
all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven
by the embarrassment & shame of its female members
& their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on
her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings,
odes on her mother's droppings & leavings,
& her grandmothers' mothers leavings;
South Korean women are the original race,
their intestine driven by pure lust
[a South Korean woman's soul is in her belly]
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
I'm not quite lying when I say who I am
I'm skirting around the truth
And dropping hints within the sand
I'm not quite sure I have ever met myself
For with each passing moment
It seems I have become someone else
I'm not quite sure I can call myself a girl
For there's a rock within my stomach
That sometimes surfaces with the word
Dec 20, 2021
Dec 20, 2021 at 10:01 PM UTC
Every day after school I ran through it,
Skirting around the trunks,
Ducking under the leaves,
My laughter echoing through the trees.
My cherry orchard.
My friends used to walk through it,
And when they got to my house,
They would always have red stains
On the bottoms of their shoes from
My cherry orchard.
Every year when the blossoms came out
In early May, I would take pictures for
Hours, enjoying the peace,
Playing with the symmetry when you looked down a row in
My cherry orchard.
And even though the trees were
Stripped from the ground and burned
I still visit it,
My friends still walk through it,
And every year I will look back at
My pictures and remember
My cherry orchard.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
’Till o’er the river pois’d, the twain yet one, a moment’s lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
2.8k
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, when love is like a dream---we live not exist:>
love
when a skirting golden light sinks the morning room
when a chocolate's mist takes away the gloom
when a song blasts the ear you make a scream
when a coffee's first sip lightens the mind with steam
when a sea races the waves alone dived
when a rainbow kisses a mere the rain skied
when a heart makes a dance
when a landscape stills the stance
when a painted hand dirties the whites
when a moon never fails to shine in sight
when a run feels like the embrace of the winds mint
when a line flows a ray of a poem in every tint
and we live not exist
------ravenfeels
Jun 28, 2021
Jun 28, 2021 at 12:22 PM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
and now here i am
writing poetry about you
in tim hortons
i've sunk this low
may as well keep going
extend the metaphor
except
we are not symbolic
we are real
or at least my mind thinks we were
and i'm usually right
so
who are you to say i'm wrong?
except you didn't
you just didn't say anything
and that's what makes me think
i should be somewhere else
somewhere other than this table
growing green with moss and envy
bending over time and time again
to pick up that lucky penny
polishing it off and adding it to my pocket
saving up for another drink
so i can buy more time
waiting around
for another chance encounter with you
that i know won't amount to anything
but hey
i can try can't i?
i have that right and i use it
abuse it
and all for what?
here i am sitting at a table for two
and you?
you're somewhere else
like you've always been
never there in front of me
except when passing me by
giving me the eye
or
did i just imagine it?
i think i know what i'm talking about
but my predictions all put me in the same place
sitting here with a cup in front of me
slowly emptying
but never all the way
because i still say i've got time to wait
my watch is wrong
some excuse
to go along with my own stupid games
playing the lottery and losing
but each small compensation lifts me up
i'm so hopeful one day it's gonna **** me
and i'll die here
in tim hortons
with my cold coffee sitting in front of me
saying
i told you so
you should've finished me when you had the time!
and i'll know
i should've finished us when i had the time
maybe then we never would have been like this
skirting around each other
all awkward smiles
cold coffee
warmed up
is never the same as when it's fresh
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
Religion is cascading the hill
Of reason into a reptilian dale:
**** by the dark Jidhadists' acts--
Souls demented beyond the pale.
From Iraq to Egypt--there, thanks
To Heaven for el-Sisi; from Syria
To Yemen to Somalia, and a place
Like the lands and shores of Nigeria,
Where Boko Haram breathes hell
In slaying and off skirting dames,
Destroying to the smirk of the devil--
Knowing terrorists are no Muslims.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
As the air thins you are called to memory
I am as yet
Unsure of what relationship exists
Between the flitting nimbus and velocity
And me
Perhaps the times I fell away from the earth
Skirting through layers of atmosphere
Between the curvature of horizons
And a past sunset far behind me
I left traces of longing In contrails
I left vapour trails of emotion in the sky
Understandably you are filtered from my gravity restricted musings
With feet on Terra Firma; no contrail exists
Only here with vermillion slashing the clouds
Carving a wake through air so fast sounds can’t catch me
Do I remember how I howled
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
I walked along the wire of Madison Ave
Wanting to be just like the movie
When I saw a girl reading poetry to a tin can
Strangers fed her one dollar bills
The ones with white sneakers just stared
I walked over puddles
Filled up with oily tears
Thinking of how I scream
So loud
And no one is ever around to hear it
This girl kept the rhythm
Skirting the cat calls and grime
I wanted to wrap around her
And grab hold of her mind
But I walked on
Too scared to hear the end
The rain doesn't stop
When we go inside
The rust just builds
On tin cans
And all of us search
For another tomorrow
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
*step this side..
no, you.. that side!
in a line, in a line.. quiet now – get ready for fire.. no miss!
please line up the children in neat rows, get them ready…………………..*
1.
eyes are misted over – something happened in the gap
hooking-up strangely with estranged sons lost in custodial-wrangles
alienated values;
family-core defunct like a super-shiny apple with putrescent-flesh
long-beard wants a son after so many daughters, sits unwashed in the smoke
gender-penalty – sorry, sister.. you chose the wrong straw
you remain in that cage till we say come out
2.
bread-basket filled with stealth-grenades
rights and benefits squirm in slick-oil of rules
peasant skirting the limits of the city; even rats fare better
cloak of goat-skin, the shield hides serpents beneath
the hunter will aim for the head, land in the centre..
yet an inch or two too high
sentry, close the gates and bar the window-frames!
3.
inadvertent greed and control; aggressive power
news-man dies for feed that’s untrue, anyway
picture-man twists an image to suit the viewer
all kinds of lines disappear so quick – ****** jokes, theatre, life, even poems
and if you’ve never had the sad combo of sick and homeless,
famished and cold,
tired with sores
oh, war will be courteous enough to bring you all these, on a platter
and more..
*there is no border when we all roam in hunger and in fear
like the orphans in crowded-camps
high-rankers sit far away.. ominously "well-off"
chew on hard-cheese
gulp down red wine
but the throat still feels parched, and that bayonet is too short
its fear will kick in.. on a day least anticipated
would you be shocked if it is a child who will drive that wedge-stick home?*
st – 14 march 2014
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Brown, to orange,
Shades of autumn
As sun weakens
The year wanes
Eerie mists swirl
Around dying hedges
Clouds skirting
A harvest moon
Dew edges to frost
Mornings chilled
Damp smell of earth
Moist on still air
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
160
Just lost, when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with Eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as One returned, I feel
Odd secrets of the line to tell!
Some Sailor, skirting foreign shores—
Some pale Reporter, from the awful doors
Before the Seal!
Next time, to stay!
Next time, the things to see
By Ear unheard,
Unscrutinized by Eye—
Next time, to tarry,
While the Ages steal—
Slow ***** the Centuries,
And the Cycles wheel!
2.1k
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, the sun is beautiful--isn't it?:)
come back no more
retrieve those times free those ends skirting down the space
literal meanings of known
overflow in motions of waves I would never say
then them be tunes symphonious to the ear
splendid in fear of eternal reveal
she in disguise no more
comes to a life
snatched in daze taken by hand
fight or flight said the drag to the glass
hesitancy in the eyes of guilt and rebel Mars
my heart flutters for the leave into the dark
a step between the light and the dark
no seconds no thirds on duty bark
turn the black and show the white hue
for a selfish moment for a stare for a blue
in the tremble memoirs are written upon floors for the remember
yet found in not an adequate resemble
lose me once then carve the doors awake
my feet lie on logs of take and not fakes
make up my soul
make up my mind
its not late for another chance another mistake
she in the adds
she in the lines
she for an escape maybe untouched by those
neither by these
cut my slate bring me to the reals forever sealed
for my eyes surreal
not for once not for dear
the sun brushes feather for the sight to near
an end of oceans to look up mercy on the seas
one jump to **** her gear
--------ravenfeels
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 5:20 PM UTC
She would rather be a Sunday love,
the one that makes you think of picnics
and church-bells,
and gives you hope
after Saturday's disastrous spell.
She imagines herself an entity of love,
in which she is
the dragonfly skirting the pond,
or a gentle, cooling breeze,
creating art upon your skin
to linger briefly in your mind.
Like her, I myself would much prefer
the subtle grace of Sunday;
but sadly, I am Saturday,
and I have a ways to go.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
I know how it was in that time
sixty years ago when roads seen
from above were little more than
two thin tracks through grass.
My mind has heard the noiseless roads
cutting unfenced fields, passing cherry groves,
skirting steepest hills and flat lakes,
making settled burgs where roads cross.
I know how it was in that time
when many-handed harvests,
sweet smells and back breaking work
were wrenched away without referendum.
Wrenched away by Ford's cast iron.
Wrenched away without option of staying
to enjoy the scale of day-long trips
on foot, in wagon or buggy.
Our innocent grandfathers too,
wrenched away, not unwillingly, from plowfields,
to be told by newspaper and newfangled radio
of the one-day Atlantic crossing.
I know how it was in that time.
I've seen it from three or five hundred feet;
the quick shadow and lake-mirrored
image of fabric covered wood and wire.
I've gently flown, pocketa, pocketa,
in that time; in a ship as much a product
of those shifting decades as of its tinkerer/
designer, builder, pilot, Pietenpol.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Make a wish, and then its gone
A curl of smoke now a spent dry wick
Happiness held for a moment
Then the sickly spittled cake
For the birthday boy, mum loads him up
And jealous friends crowd round
Skirting round the edges,
Dad takes a snap at mum’s request
Happiness held for a moment
Further out, against the wall
Elderly relatives watch it all
In prickly jumpers, sovereign chains
Fisherman’s friends and pocket change
Slow and still, they watch it all
I unpack the plastic crap my parents bought
Parents doing all they ought to get me hooked
That plastic smell like sniffing glue
The cheap thrill of something new
Happiness held for a moment
Party bags at the door and then its over
Thanks are forced from mouths
By parents eyeing the morning
Outside the orange October light fades
On streets the lamps are lighting
The hush of school tomorrow hangs there
Among conkers and chimney smoke
Back inside my home the smell of boys
Hangs in the air; a fug trapped
In deep pile and double glazing
The telly’s on now and **** are burning in the ashtray
Now they’re asleep, and its over
I sit surrounded in my room at the back of the house
The orange light is coming in through thin curtains
I can’t move for presents, I feel I am imploding
Like a crinkled balloon, expelled of everything
Feeling everything and nothing
Happiness held for a moment
August 2021
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 12:52 AM UTC
Softly...
even here
the winds of change...
breeze through.
Destiny...
and history...
are turning...
Cogs in place.
*Hell...it actually feels like
... 1968!*
The Hippies
have all grow old
and are now
the voting majority.
Think about it...
They're rolling a doobie...
and affecting real change...
one organic, patchouli soaked
volunteered,
re-purposing project
after another.
The "big picture"
is simply a poster...
cut into small bite sized
puzzle pieces...
we are all skirting the edge...
still unconnected.
It is the age of...
focusing, clearly...
on purpose
and integrity.
The storm is clearing...
and insight,
has an electrical charge...
zapping us all
into action
into submission
into our future...
The message
thunders clearly...
and resonates succinctly
and justly...
Calling for us all
to...Do...
"What you CAN DO...
purposefully for-going...
whatever it is,
that you CAN"T DO"
"I AM"
becomes...
We are...
Maternal society yearns...deeply
waiting for it's turn
not asking permission...
Just doing the next right thing...
and taking the steps
necessary...
To be seen...
far past equal...
On the edges
of unnoticed
Dropping labels
and be recognized
for what I bring to
the table...
not whom.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC