I’m from hopelessness,
Where self-mutilation looks classy.
I’m from defenselessness,
Where bruises turn red instead.
I’m from the Land of Oz,
Where the long winding road seems endless.
My glittery shoes seem broken though.
I’m stuck in a world I don’t deserve.
My sorrow evident, my suffering clear.
Life’s not so bad when your living in fear.
I’m from frustration and envy,
I just don’t know why.
A comfortable lifestyle is easy to come by.
Stuffed bear by my side, he swallows my tears.
I’m from the moments I spend, hiding away.
I sympathize with Rosaline,
How was she to know?
Snubbing Romeo would be so disastrous.
Or Snow White, so close to death;
Yanked back by an uninvited kiss.

King of the park is my little paper lion
he struts his stuff like he owns the world
prowls and growls
rubbing and snubbing
while he eats from is little pink bowl
But he is KING!!
king in his own back yard
his eyes amber and black
as he stealthily creeps
beautifully lean
prowling unseen
dangerously mean
ever so fluffy
and oh so virile
so powerful too
leaving his mark
rubbing the bark
so very King!
'So watch me human,
watch me be magnificent
as i pounce on this butterfly'
"yes.. you are a magnificient derp nugget"
Oh but he does have a nasty streak
attack and retreat
spitting and clawing
meowing and mawing
as his grey fur stands on end
and bristles
like a bottle brush
and the lazy lion thing
is lazily lounging
after a busy night on the town
spreading his affection
in every direction
he is now king of the chair
king of the cushion
he is declared triumphantly
throughout the land
fanfare please
"THE SOFA KING .. all hail the SOFA KING!"(annoying feline)
oh dear.. my little paper lion..
believing he is king
king of the jungle
'But i am king!
aren't i human?
okay well,
just of the park maybe
but i am a little bit king- ish.... aren't i?'
silly little pouty McWhiskerface
what a pity
fluffy little kitty
just make your self pretty
pouting and sulking
"Now that is no way for a king to behave
now let me fluff your cushion
*while you drink your milk and eat your Dreamies"

The Last Priest smiled his blessing
indiscriminately, bridging, seeding,
building a new priesthood
beyond borders, across tribes,
ignoring gender, discounting class,
blind to race, snubbing rank,
denying privilege and preferring
a new holy nationality for refugees
for stateless souls like mine
- like ours

computers gone bananas
it's driving me insane
the pages scrolling up and down
then down and up again

replying to the poems
is taking me an age
I click onto the comment box
go to another page....:o(

so if I'm seeming tardy
please do not take offence
it isn't that I'm snubbing you
comps down is my defence

TO ALL FALLEN BROTHERS

To all courageous lives ended with sword, cannon or bullets of lead.

To all Brothers… No longer our enemies instead…

For Power and Ambition even Friends will part.

To silent fallen Heroes always true to a loyal heart.

To Courage always ready to fight for what thought right.

To Brave Men convinced Honour is being Victorious,

Now certain bones on battlefields are never Glorious.

To Sons taught to hate by greedy, ambitious men.

To many a young Mate we shall never see again.

To gallant Officers who believed what was told,

Always willing to give, but hardly getting old...

Eloquence never asking: “Parlez vous…?”

Or merely educated: “How do you do?”

On battlefields God was indeed hard to find,

And we wondered; is He on your side or mine?

Perhaps never wanting to be near,

Seeing what we are really doing down here...

Again infinite bones in rotting uniforms everywhere,

Whilst no one hardly remembers or troubles to care...

What we believed in, how we spoke or who we were.



People even snubbing whether whatever left of you,

Is in the rags of a Redcoat, in dark green or French blue,

But needless to tell… still much of a man,

For yet your bones in a muddy field give what they can.

Whether an arm, a leg or a scull… all just grounded up,

To raise a much better crop… for Life will never stop.

Just dirt to dirt... Man again fertilizing Mother Earth.

All the same, said never to be found lying around…

Bloodied buttons and buckles secretly hidden in hay,

Are polished and sold by those in need on a rainy day.

Again virility of spring...

Is in autumn quite a nourishing thing,

For Life still goes around and around in ring…

Even dressed in proud red, white and blue… more than two…

Maps and Rulers changed in less than a hundred years,

Ludicrous is our Hate and our Fears.

Do let us in memory of Confucius agree,

For seasoned veterans of war and intellect are we thought to be,


Saluting in attention with infinitely more comprehension,

We Honour You Forever still certain Humanity might never understand,

Honor, Glory and Victory are in Brothers holding out a Loving hand.



Col. RCEF Sir William Francis Willoughby Lindesay   England

KG GCB KP KT



Col. RCEF Sir Robert Eowan Lochlan McGregor          Scotland

KG GCB KP KT



1st. Royal Life Guards  1807 - 1810

13Th. “Jolly Ruffians “Rifle Company On Foot 1810  Portugal, Spain

13Th. Mounted “Wildman“ Rifle Company 1811-1814 Spain

1st. Royal Life Guards

Royal Cavaliers-Elite Force   Secret Intelligence Service 1814



                          Willowbee Manor, Lindesay Hall, Yorkshire 1814





                                      CONFUCIUS 551 - 479 BC

                                                Golden Rule
                                     Basic Rights for Humanity

      Do not do to others what you do not wish to be done to yourself.



Copyright©2013 by Kari M. Knutsen

I see your enchanting beauty
Closing my eyes
Hear your melodious tunes
Plugging my ears
Praise your love and compassion
Shutting my mouth
Smell your divine fragrance
Snubbing my nose
Sense your magnanimity
Untouched
Reach and merge in you
Unaided
All I need is your blessing
To qualify myself
Oh my Lord! I Owe You.

Sleep beguiling,
calling, reaching,
Wondrous imaginings therein reside;
Cobwebs stretching, fingers petting
If only I could have that precious sleep denied.

Where would it take me,
race me, free me?
Glorious if there within I could abide;
caverns hidden, breakers ridden
If only I could have that precious sleep denied.

What would I find there,
be there, do there?
Magnificent adventures certainly implied;
queens dethroned, spells intoned
If only I could but have that precious sleep denied.

Instead I stay here,
stuck here, caught here,
Neither tasting nor seeing those miraculously supplied;
sockets rubbing, bed sheets snubbing
Longing for that precious sleep denied…

The Last Priest
smiled his blessings
indiscriminately
bridging
seeding
building
a new priesthood

beyond borders
across tribes
ignoring gender
discounting class
blind to race
snubbing rank
denying privilege

and preferring
a new holy nationality
for refugees
for stateless souls
like mine
- like ours

Deep seated pain that pulls at the strings of the heart
Harrows the mind with grotesque music
Which mimics the voices of a thousand groaning ghosts
Reducing the afflicted one to a silent madness
Lost in thoughts riddled with the images of a life of twisted torture
And eyes staring fixedly into nothing, as it seems, as tears flow freely
To mourn a life that will not pass
Now craving death, could it be the answer?

Back and forth within herself the questions resonate
How will this end? Will an end of this be ever known to me?
And instead of answers she only hears the echoing gong
Of an unsoundly noise so utterly disheartening that
The emptiness of it gnaws into her spirit
Snubbing out whatever light is left to show for any memory of happiness
So that even the fleeting curl of a smile is but a hopeless longing for her face
A paling canvass etched with the likeness of misery

Those folks
They cry about forgotten love
As though it's a thing of yesterday
We all snicker at their naiveté
For it is known their love cares little
So cry on, little poet, cry your little heart out
But you achieve nothing

Those folks
They weep as though they're wounded
Yelling wolf about some depression
What's got you down? Some advice
Maybe stop taking yourself so seriously
Poems about how hard it is from noblemen
You've never seen the Tysa overflow

Those folks
Crying over your mother like a child
So what if she is dead?
Shouting to the rest of us like some imbecile
Crazed upon the perch of suicide
When it is just a woman who birthed you
Why, mine didn't even love me

Those folks
Singing odes to addiction
Be it hiding behind drugs or alcohol
Snubbing your face with powder
Locking yourselves in your room
Suspended bodies of privilege
Crying about hardship

Those folks
Who have never been attacked by their own mind
Assaulted by their trusted
Tricked by those they loved
Who've never seen a man take his life
Or heard someone get shot
And think they've been through it all

Those folks
Who have never heard the true songs
The real notes of reality pass them by
Hide from the world all you want
But those prophets were once right
And if you had listened you might know
But you just assumed you're as smart

You folks
With your upper-class *****
Your cliques of conceit and deceit
Those godforsaken silver windows
You've never seen it rain like it does
You've never seen the fire in the forest
So quiet down, you good-for-nothing *******.

For feeding a false tree
of life, beheading
a god was becoming a passion.

Snubbing the checks
and bruises, you
love to be alone in a mad crowd.

As if to be ready
for disintegration, you walk
in pain. Astounded
earth starts shaking.

In unwholeness, the
lamps become dark. The bones
were visible without light.

You want to run
with a comet, away from sun
in coldness of frozen smiles.

Don't drag my shadow.
I am fixed like a legacy.

inappropriate laughter from caches

of silence--

contextually disembodied.

weird people weirded out,

the pressing matter of face-economy.

stuck to its numbing anesthetic, the

unnaturalness of skin snubbing skin.

while on friendly terms.

Coincides with first day of fall
and Autumnal equinox for said year,
where colorful splash kindled like tinder.

After I riff flecked about thee August
Autumn Equinox 2023,
this seasonal polymath teached you
fall Equinox will be Saturday,
September 23, 2023, at 2:50 AM,
in Northern Hemisphere
Eastern Daylight Time,
which spoiler alert thy
learned wordsmith (courtesy Google),
when (Our Sun) Welles

(exemplary Citizen Kane)
crosses celestial equator
i.e. (imaginary line in sheltering sky
wherein pantheon of mankind Bowles
above Earth's Equator
from north to south),
a barley detectable
quiet rye hit
(*** on feel the noise)
moment occurs.

Eyesore fissured **** – wide,
stripping crust of planet vied
where survival of fittest futilely tried
to the max, viz (courtesy
badass beastie boys of **** sapiens)
exploited, offended, and violated
beholden hidebound sacred
contractually fragile important obligations
arranged marriage wedded  
civilization and its discontents to Mother Earth,
(more like shotgun wedding)

alarming, blaring, and clanging
sounding Doomsday Clock,
where ambivalence unheeded
trebling cleft noteworthy
wound, where hide rubbed raw
each betrothed nsync, didst guide
generic hominids shrugging indifference
resembling Atlas sized fountain head
scathing tragic misguided
exploitative testament writ large,

where precious resources exploited
**** sapiens railroading, snubbing,
and thumbing nose
despite flora and fauna espied
comprising onced vibrant edenic biosphere
(figuratively) asper dead
serious portentous desperate
global abuse decried
as feeble effort ignoring
inevitable demise doth decide

dismissively prophesying mocking
(burdensome), whence creator cried
resplendent raiment
adorned playfully chide,
sans whirled, wide webbed biota
adorn terra firmae analogous,
quadrants expectant wedded bride
named Gaia, when (dark and Stormy Dan
yells) Armageddon legatee - time ran
out for **** sapiens meaning...

salvation to late for human
fate i.e. as does wrecking,
(falling on deaf ears) plea
as Mother Nature dost allied;
this observer awestruck,
knitted brows, cuz field day, sans
grim reaper will
glory in field day
whar crisscrossed lovely bones
numb skulls pay fealty.

Festive gatherings of
apple cider and pumpkin pie,
a distinct golden jacketed
matted palette well nigh
paints arboreal swath, sans
quiet riot of brilliant
color, that doth belie
rampant terrestrial, unreal,
and venal degradation aye
temporarily turning a (third)
blind eye apathetically, blithely,
and conveniently shunting aside

empyrean découpage citadel
betokens (bespeaks) autumnal arrival
two oh fifty ante meridian
chariot of fire emblazons telltale signature,
one humble human doth
bid summer and his squandered life adieu
courtesy handy dandy blue's clue
flora and fauna begin
to prepare for hibernation.

Onset of harvest time witnesses
courtesy sweat of one's brow
he/she doth reap (and feeling invigorated)
what they did sow.

Common type of implements utilized
when gathering in of crops
include small sickle, big sickle,
darat, gandasa and small axe et cetera.

The hand sickle is used to harvest crops
like wheat, maize, barley, pulses and grass etc.

Big sickle (Darat) used
to harvest fodder from trees
silent whoosh of sickle
signals harvest hew
and/or raking leaves,
which I eschew.

Already crisp cool mornings
sun kissed mine cheek
refreshing air wafts thru longish hair
trademark characteristic property
aging pencil neck geek
attends brief bathroom charge coffee
exotic brew jolted kidneys leak
***** not kidding water closet doth reek.

Especially third season upon us mortals
Montgomery county, Pennsylvania
said geographic real estate sloughs
(i.e. sheds) summer dog days
necessitating shuddered windows
disallowing natural aeration
to circulate thru unit B44
cozy one bedroom apartment.

I will stave off clicking on the heat,
as long as possible,
yet invariably come first frost
yours truly will renege
and surrender creature comfort,
albeit climate controlled temptation
similar when global warming
quite evident predicated upon
Farmers' Almanac prophetic prediction.

Though ecology minded
quick acclimation to unseasonable
hot or cold temperatures
finds me adjusting thermostat dial
mainly to thwart palmar hyperhidrosis
regarding turning on air conditioning
during sweltering triple digit
(Fahrenheit) thermometer readings,
versus absent sweaty hands
courtesy old man winter arctic blast.

Ah... remembrance of wood burning
stove late papa lit,
to dispense chill pervading childhood home
324 Level Road christened "Glen Elm"
within national (local registry)
when Leiper family initially occupied estate
at that time (think early twentieth century)
merely intended as summer getaway.

This time of year finds me
to reminisce and wax poetic
nostalgia more pronounced,
particularly as aspiring wordsmith
orbitz the sun seemingly
with greater rapidity
twelve months cycling at light speed
ruminating, punctuating equilibrium,
and narrating mortality

accentuated when flora and fauna
exhibit metaphorical raiment
presaging Mother Nature's fall fashion show
linkedin with approaching senescence
prompting generic garden variety **** sapien
to rue his transience upon oblate spheroid.

Gentrification impossible mission
thus thy lovely bones will subsequently
become repurposed into  ashes
sprinkled hither and yon to and fro
across elysium fields
of happy hunting grounds.

Hillbilly Girl

She took the cake
Fat bottomed
Momma slip dressed no shoes
Whiskey’d breathe
(enough to make a cow dizzy)
To her the simple life
Had been a religious pilgrimage
One heavy hillbilly who loved a good bargain
Her Guru Man
(between her thighs he’d lie)
Placing bets with tobacco juices
The piney scent of chainsaw remnant
His perfume
A heady mixture to inhale
For this tiny girl
Her rear had plumped practically overnight
For his poison
Her bottom lip had found
A permanent place to shove itself
(and still her spirit had not taken a hit)
To the hilt she took to the woods
Birthing babies in the holller
(consecutively named after him)
1
2
3
They dropped and rolled into their own
Her bottom got fatter
Her ******* remained high
(one never snubbing the other)
And though her book
Threatened to become a dusty one
It was leather bound
A valuable artifact in her eyes
(no other God would thumb through its pages)
But to the end her Guru Man
Would see it as very well
And so the stones she gathered from living.
Would build her a palace in this backwoods place
Fat bottomed lil Momma
She took the cake

(thank you All Poetry, COSMOFUNNEL,
Facebook, Hello Poetry
Poetry Soup,... et cetera global friends.)

A network of cherished kinships allied
forged, and linkedin analogous
to union of groom and bride
thru electronic bonds engender intrigue,
nonetheless unconditionally accept,
no matter I chide
self, and reference mine existence
as if...this mortal already died,

now more appreciative than ever,
cuz younger days witnessed
peers that did elide
me accompanied with relentless
teasing, snubbing, roasting
akin tubby kindled over a fireside,
thus...solitude shadowed me as sole guide
peopled with books

to escape and hide
from so called "real"
webbed world, yet inside
this former grievous
lad through alienation,
emasculation, and isolation no joyride
valuing myself less than a pawn on
chessboard of life

envying extrovert as kingside
station depriving, insulating, and
ostracizing yours truly belied
to Matthew Scott Harris
marginally functioning, and denied
him camaraderie, dating, enjoying
female friendships due
to lack of confidence and pride

and at the cusp of
pubescence...a slow descending ride
into the hungry (anorexic)
maws of suicide,
which ideations hammer psyche,
now aghast how I tried
(without success) to disappear sundering
mine complex edifice
into the wide

abyss of nothingness, hence to treasure
those electronic connections,
perhaps...totally no more'n four score
(and seven years ago)
all told of unbeknown village people
comprising worthy chums,
sans human league roar
ring (okay pardon the hyperbole),

but letting this foo fighter explore
a greater range of interpersonal
(no matter virtual), but each
unnamed cyber buddy worth more
than simple rhyming galore
words express, some
or all those who sprung
from Earth, wind and fire,

viz cosmic toreador
this poet would their
physical presence adore,
who realizes genuine experienced love
second best option

Loneliness I abhor,
nevertheless wistfulness
to communicate
thru the Internet...
finds me writing bonjour,
to random readers
familiar with literary nuances
of yours truly
within whose integrated
central processing unit core
reasonable rhymes coalesce
as trademark décor
lapsing words to explore

his existential crisis
enduring eighteen years
subtracted from fourscore
orbitz athwart planet earth
in the balance as informed
Former Vice President
of the United States Albert Gore
his 1992 tree tease
at that time *******
revelations Greta Thunberg
makes sure **** sapiens do not ignore.

You keep wishing for all these common things
And acting like it’s rare
You wonder where all the nice guys are
When you’re only receptive to the loudmouth punks
Lamenting the lack of opportunity
While snubbing your nose at the ones
Available to you
Because you’re better than that
You’re better than that guy
You’re better than that job
You’re better than those friends
And that neighborhood
I’m beginning to suspect
You are so much better
Than your capacity for being any good