Ya Know ....
  
I'm Beginning To Think The Truth Is ...
A LOT of Folks Are ... STUPID ... !!!  
    
You Can Tell By The Way They're Moving ...  
And Who They Choose To ... Move With ...  
    
It's CLEAR Some NEED Improvements ...  
Because They Deal In Looseness .............................. !!!!!  
    
Like CLAIMING Their ... " Religion " ...  
DEFINES How They Be Living ... ?  
    
Here's What I Mean You DON'T EAT PIG ...
Because It's UNCLEAN Is Your Religions' Theme ...  
    
BUT One Night You're At Home ...  
And Your Hunger Says ...  
    
"Yo it's time for some food !"  
    
So Do You Start To Cook ... ???  
NO You Go To The Phonebook ...  
INSTEAD And Have A Look ...  
For Something You Can Order ...  
    
An Option CLEARLY shorter ... !!!  
Than Cooking For ... Yourself ...  
    
So You Then GET A FEVER ...    
To Order Up ... Some Pizza ... !!!  
    
Ya' Hunger Says ... " Oh well " ...  
    
You Order Up ... " A VEGGIE " ...  
I Guess Cos' That Is ... " Healthy " ... ?!?  
    
ONLY To FIND Later ... That Night ...  
That Something MEATY Was Inside ... !!!  
    
Because THAT Night You Spent The Time ...  
With The Toilet By Your Side ... !!!!!!!  
    
It Now Becomes CLEAR ...  
STUPIDITY Steered Your *** To A Place ...  
Where It Had To ................................ DISPLACE ...... !!!!!!!!!!  
    
WHATEVER You Ate From That .... " Takeaway " .... ?!?  
    
Next Day When You Check ...  
The Pizza Then Said .... !!!?!!!
    
"If you didn't want meat,  
why did you eat me, without double checking !  
Why now are you stressing ?  
You were stupid to believe that you'd really receive,  
what we say we'll provide. The sales what rules our vibe !  
If you truly were, all that concerned about swine being a part  
of food you ingest, that makes you **** !  
You'd of got off your ****, and cooked at home,  
so that you'd of known, what it was you had,  
and wouldn't of eaten, a piece of ham !"  
    
You'd of Marked Your Own Card ...    
And Then Wouldn't Try To BLAME ... ?!?  
To .... "Cover Up Your SHAME" ... !!!  
    
It Seems Your Brain Is ... LAME ... !!!  
Cos' STUPIDITY Holds It's REINS ... !!!  
    
Your ANGER Is A FARCE ... !!!!!  
You People Make Me Laugh ...    
    
Actually ... YOU DON'T ... !!!!!!!  
Cos' STUPIDITY ROAMS ...................................
RIGHT THROUGH Your Bones ...  
And Into Zones Where It SHOULD NOT GO ... !!!!!  
    
It Seems That ALL YOUR Bleating ....    
DEFINES Much Like Your ... Leanings ...  
    
Your Faith To Be A SHAM ...    
And Quite Stupid At That ... !!!  

Just Like Wearing ... " LIONS " ... ?!?  
As If They Are ... YOUR TRIDENT ... !?!  
When NOT ONE Lion Roams ?  
In The Place That You Call ... " Home " ... !!!
    
Isn't That Something You STOLE .... ?!?  
From AFRICAN ... Time Zones ... !?!  
    
Somebody's CLEARLY LYING ... !!!!!  
And DOESN'T Come From ZION ... !!!  
    
I Clearly Am STUPID ...
To See THAT As FOOLISH ... !!!  
And PROOF of POOR Schooling ...
That Is Mind POLLUTING ... !!!  
    
Who'd They Think They're ...
..... " Fooling " ...... ???  

A GREAT MANY People ...
Like Those Under Steeples ... !!!  
CONFESSING Their SINS ... !!!  
Because of BAD THINGS ...  
That They Have Been Doing ...  
    
It's Church They Are USING ....    
To ACT As Their CLEANSER ...  
These STUPID PRETENDERS ... !!!!!  
    
USING Religion ...
To Give Themselves Visions ...  
of AGAIN Being ... PURE ... ?!!!!!?  
    
That's STUPID ... Fa' SURE ... !!!!!!  
    
A Leopard DOES NOT Change His Spots ... !!!  
    
He's A LEOPARD ... FOREVER ... !!!!!  
YES Humans Can BETTER ...    
Themselves ... YES IT's True ...    

But NOT In A Morning ... !!!  
That's STUPIDITY ... Calling ... !!!!!  
    
Is It Stupid To Say These Things Nowadays ... ?!?  
NOT IN My View But MANY Would Choose ...  
    
To Say .....  
    
" It is true, cos expression moves, and causes issues,  
and if you're not careful, may turn and bite you !"    
    
Man ... FEAR of YOUR TRUTH ...  
Seems Like ... FEARING YOU ... ?!!!?  
    
Something I View ...  
As YES A ... STUPID MOVE ... !!!!!  
    
Stupidity REIGNS ...  
When FEAR Takes The Strain ... !!!!!  

That's Now What's IMPRINTED .....  
And Runs Through My Veins ... !!!!!!!  
    
I Try To Use THINKING ...  
To Avoid ... STUPID TRAINS ... !!!  
    
Cos' Thought OVERPOWERS STUPIDITY's Power ... !!!  
    
As Does DISCIPLINE ...
Which Is Where I Begin ...  
    
NO RELIGION ... Within ... !!!  
    
Just Faith In Reflection ...  
And Thought FILLED Selections ... !!!  
On Life And It's LESSONS ... !!!  
To Give Me ... "PROTECTION" ...  
Against The INFECTIONS ... !!!!!  
    
STUPIDITY Spreads In UNDISCIPLINED Heads ...  
It's CLEAR TO ME Now That FOOLS Run Most Towns ... !!!!!  
    
And My Thinking That THOUGHT ...  
In People ... Runs FLUID ... !!!!!!  
    
Gives Me LIVING PROOF ...  
That I'm Being ........  
    
..... " STUPID " .....

I am a humble painting
hung upon a common wall,
composed of grey tears;
striking, yellow laughter;
trampling fear; undisciplined love,
of other human beings.

Don’t be fooled regarding one’s tongue,
for it has the power of life and death.
Before doubting these words of wisdom,
now pay attention and catch your breath…

before any more idle words touch the ground.
We are accountable for everything we say;
Therefore, remember to think before speaking,
since our reckonings will come on Judgment Day.

Consciously refrain from speaking evil curses,
knowing that God’s presence surrounds each soul.
Undisciplined tongues unwittingly spew their venom
and cause unseen damage with poisonous control.

A perverse tongue easily breaks the human spirit
and keeps evil, generational curses flowing.
Plentiful sins roll off the tongue in the forms of:
Gossiping, Tattle-telling, Slander, Lying and Boasting.

Instead, give praise concerning the good things of God;
speak life into situations, since healing can be attained.
the reliability of The Word can be assured, for…
its promises insure that ours lives can be sustained.

  

Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Prov 18:21; 1 Cor 4:20; Deu 32:47; 2 Pet 2:3; 1 Sam 3:19; Psa 12:6
Lev 19:16; Mark 4:14; Prov 15:4, 21:23; Jam 3:1-18; 2 Cor 5:10

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

                                    In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.

III

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

                              You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
    You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
    You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
    You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
    You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The ****** flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

    Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

This page contains several double limericks, a rare triple limerick, and a new version of the double dactyl that I invented, called the "dabble dactyl."



The Platypus: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?

The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******.



The Better Man: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!



Hell to Pay: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

A messiah named Jesus, returning
from heaven, found his home planet burning
& with children unfed,
so he ventured: “Instead
of war, why not consider cheek-turning?”

Indignant right-wingers retorted:
“Sir, your pacifist views are distorted!
Just pull the plug quickly
on someone who’s sickly!
Our pursuit of war can’t be aborted!”



These poems form a double limerick:

No Bull
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a multi-pierced Bull,
who found playing hoops far too dull,
so he dated Madonna
but observed, “I don’t wanna
get married . . . the things she might pull!”

So this fast-thinking forward named Rodman
then said to his best man—“No problem!
When I marry Electra,
if the ring costs extra,
just yank a gold hoop off my ****, man!”



I once provided the second stanza to a famous limerick, turning it into a double limerick …

A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m ****** if I know how the helican!

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!
—second stanza by Michael R. Burch


The next two poems form a double limerick with separate titles:

Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!

Time Back In!
by Michael R. Burch

Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mother's eyes
when I head for the womb once again!



This is another double limerick with separate titles:

Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?

Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



Not all double limericks are light affairs:

Self Reflection: a Double Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for anyone struggling with self-image

She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm . . .
but she’s grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon a griefstricken campus will mourn.

Yet she’d never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others—
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.



Triple Limerick: Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch

What if a poet, Shakespeare,
were still living to tweet to us here?
He couldn't write sonnets,
just couplets, doggonit,
and we wouldn't have Hamlet or Lear!

Yes, a sonnet may end in a couplet,
which we moderns can write in a doublet,
in a flash, like a tweet.
Does that make it complete?
Should a poem be reduced to a stublet?

Bring back that Grand Era when men
had attention spans long as their pens,
or rather the quills
of the monsieurs and fils
who gave us the Dress, not its hem!



Officious Notice: I have invented a ***** nonsense form: the "dabble dactyl." A dabble dactyl starts out like a double dactyl, but forgets the rules and changes horses midstream. Anyone who prefers order to chaos should give the dabble dactyl a wide berth and also not sow any wild oats.  Otherwise, “A little dabble’ll do ya.” — Michael R. Burch



Double Dactyls
by Michael R. Burch

Sniggledy-Wriggledy
Jesus Christ’s enterprise
leaves me in awe of
the rich men he loathed!

But why should a Sadducee
settle for trifles?
His disciples now rip off
the Lord they betrothed.



Donald Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch

Higgledy-Piggledy
Ronald McDonald
cursed Donald Trump, his
least favorite clown:

"Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!"



Donald Dabble Dactyl #2
by Michael R. Burch

Wond’ringly, blund’ringly
Ronald McDonald
asked, “Who the hell
is this strange orange clown?”

“Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs,
claiming upside is down!”



Donald Dabble Dactyl #3
by Michael R. Burch

Piggledy-Wiggledy
45th president,
or erstwhile manse resident,
perched on a throne

of gold-plated porcelain
matching his orange “tan,”
bombing Iran
from his twittery phone?



This famous limerick inspired my Einstein “relative” limericks:

There was a young lady named Bright
who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day
in a relative way,
and came back the previous night.

I recently learned this poem was originally penned, in a slightly different version, by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller; his limerick appeared in Punch (Dec. 19, 1923). I find it intriguing that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick. I was inspired to pen multiple rejoinders:

The Cosmological Constant
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
said E equals MC squared.
Thus all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!


***-tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says mass increases with speed.
My (m)*** grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!


Relative Theory I
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein’s theory, incredibly silly,
says a relative grows, *****-nilly,
at speeds close to light.
Well, his relatives might,
but mine grow their (m)***** more stilly!


Relative Theory II
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein’s peculiar theory
excludes all my relatives, clearly,
since my relatives’ *****
increase their prone masses
while approaching light speed—not nearly!


Relative Theory III
by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, we’re led to believe,
proves masses increase with great speed.
But it seems my huge family
must be an anomaly;
since their (m)***** increase, gone to seed!



The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M.

The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind *******?"
But almost no one took note.


These are limericks of the singular variety …


Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch

It's better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe's
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.


This is another of my scientific limericks …

Parting is such sweet sorrow
by Michael R. Burch

The universe is flying apart.
Hush, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s heart!
Repeat, repeat.
Don’t skip a beat.
Perhaps some new Big Bang will spark?


Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!


ANIMAL LIMERICKS
A much-needed screed against licentious insects
by Michael R. Burch

after and apologies to Robert Schechter

Army ants? ARMY ants?
Yet so undisciplined to not wear pants?
How incredibly rude
to wage war in the ****!
We moralists call them SMARMY ants!


Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot!"


Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Dromedary and the Very Work-Wary Canary
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"


The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his *****, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!


The Trouble with Elephants: a Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch

An elephant never forgets
and thus they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you,
no matter how sincere your regrets!


The Limerick as Parody
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!


Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
right off with his iron ***** ginormous!


Here's a limerick about one of the universe's greatest ironies: the lack of rhyme words for "poetry" and "limerick." I almost solved the latter, but fell a bit short:

Shelved Elves
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to rhyme with “limerick”
and settled on “good old Saint Slimmer Nick”
about a dieting Claus,
but drawing no “ahs!”
I glumly rescinded the trimmer trick.


To show the flexibility of the limerick form, it has often been used for political purposes, and to expose, satirize and savage charlatans. Here are are two such limericks of mine:

Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"—
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



I have even written limericks about religion, mostly heretical limericks:

Pell-Mell for Hell Mel
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!


Why I Left the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

He's got Jesus's name on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of his shirt
and he upholds the Law,
for grace has a flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.



Ribbing Adam
by Michael R. Burch

“Dear Lord,” fretted Adam, depressed,
“did that **** really rupture my chest?”
“Yes she did,” piped his Maker,
“but of course you can’t take her,
or I’d fry you in hell, for ******!”



There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke one dark night
from a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true!
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch


There once was a poet from Nashville
which hockey fans rechristened Smashville,
but his odd limericks
pulled so many weird tricks
his pale peers now prefer Ogden Gnashville.
—Michael R. Burch


There once was a poet from Tennessee
who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey
for his heart had been broken
and cruelly ripped open
by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.
—Michael R. Burch


Here's one for the poets:

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.


Here's one for the Flintstones:

Early Warning System
by Michael R. Burch

A hairy thick troglodyte, Mary,
squinched dingles excessively airy.
To her family’s deep shame,
their condo became
the first cave to employ a canary!


Donald Trump Limericks aka Slimericks

Viral Donald
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
That pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.


Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"


Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.


White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”


15 Seconds
by Michael R. Burch

Our president’s *** life—atrocious!
His "briefings"—bizarre hocus-pocus!
Politics—a shell game!
My brief moment of fame
flashed by before Oprah could notice!


Trump’s Golden Rule
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump is the victim of leaks!
Golden showers are NOT things he seeks!
Though he dearly loves soaking
the women he’s groping,
get real, 'cause he pees ON the meek!


Cancun Cruz
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!


Anchors Aweigh!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,
whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.
Now the revenge of Fidel
has worked out quite well
as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!


Canadian Cruz
by Michael R. Burch

There was a Canadian, Cruz,
an anchor babe with a bold ruse:
he’d take Texas first
and then do his worst
to infect the whole world with his views.


Eerie Dearie
by Michael R. Burch

A trembling young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a ****!, disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.

Fortune named Enron "America's Most Innovative Company" for six consecutive years, but the company went bankrupt and vanished after its accounting practices were determined to be fraudulent.


The Vampire's Spa Day Dream
by Michael R. Burch

O, to swim in vats of blood!
I wish I could, I wish I could!
O, 'twould be
so heavenly
to swim in lovely vats of blood!

The poem above was inspired by a Josh Parkinson depiction of Elizabeth Bathory swimming up to her nostrils in the blood of her victims, with their skulls floating in the background.



***** LIMERICKS



A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves ***, but in forms reckoned shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she's no lady!)
—Michael R. Burch


There was a lewd ***** from Nantucket
who intended to *** in a bucket;
but being a man
she missed the **** can
and her rattled johns fled, crying: "**** it!"
—Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch


Here are three "linked" Nantucket limericks of mine, forming a triple limerick:

There was a coarse ***** of Nantucket
whose bush needed someone to pluck it
’cause it looked like a chimp’s
and her johns were limp gimps
who were too scared to **** it or **** it.

So that coarse, canny ***** of Nantucket,
once ****-shaved, decided to shuck it
—that thick, wiry pelt
that smelled like wet felt—
and made it a toupee for Luckett.

Now Luckett, once bald as an eagle,
like Samson, stands handsome and regal
with hair to his ***
that smells like his lass,
but still comes when she calls, like a beagle.
—a triple limerick by Michael R. Burch


Shotgun Bedding

A pedestrian pediatrician
set out on a dangerous mission;
though his child bride, ******,
was a sweet senorita,
her pa's shotgun cut off his emissions.
—Michael R. Burch



Untitled Limericks

There was a young lady from France
Who’d let cute boys poke in her pants:
They'd give her the finger
Where she'd let them linger
because that's the point of romance!
—Michael R. Burch


There once was a girl with small *****
who would only go out with young rubes,
but their ***** were too small
so she sentenced them all
to kissing her fallopian tubes.
—Michael R. Burch


A coquettish young lady of France
longed to have ***** men in her pants,
but in lieu of real joys
she settled for boys,
then berated her lack of romance.
—Michael R. Burch


A virginal lady of France
longed to have a ménage in her pants
but in lieu of real boys
she settled for toys
& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
gave me a kiss;
I lectured her, "Miss,
we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch


A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
French-kissed me and left my lips lame.
I lectured her, "Miss,
That's a premature kiss!
We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
Michael R. Burch


Four Limericks  plus one Lead-In Poem

Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...

But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



Mating Calls
by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2.
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!



Teeter Tots
by Michael R. Burch

For your spuds to become Tater Tots,
First, artfully cut out the knots,
Then dice them into tiny cubes,
Deep fry them, and serve them to rubes
(but not if they’re acting like snots).



Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.



Trump Limericks aka Slimericks



The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch

The world’s first antinatalist limerick?

Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



*******' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of *******:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch

A billion men saw your pink ******.
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your ******* were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.



A ***** Goes ****
by Michael R. Burch

She wore near-invisible *******
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!



MVP!
by Michael R. Burch

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, double limerick, triple limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, ribald, irreverent, funny, satire, satirical

Your touch gentle as a petal in the wind
Kisses soft as the morning sun rise
Slowly rising from the dust undisciplined
Bringing a comforting warmth to my thighs

Your smell familiar as a dream once dreamt
A sweet taste on lips kissing
Hands on my body gracefully you tempt
Long lasting moments of caressing

A love so kind, as a flowers tender touch
Leaves tumble outside tap tap tap as one
Tightly to you I clutch
Skin now hot like the risen sun

Burning the day in sweet harmony
Hips playing a perfect symphony

A scenic view of warmth and motion
A breeze swaying wild and free
Like a curling wave in the ocean
Holding on as an unripe fruit to a tree

A sunset slowly falling down
Releasing the day with a wink of light
Night settles on the ground
Your beauty is all I have in sight

Together we breathe in coexistence
Your touch more tender than anyone
Resting now with peace and silence
Calm night, for the day is done

The night is young
tis fair in the crickets silent song
alates that come after summer rain
rushing traffic splashing brown water
—my socks are soaked; wet toes,
and cold shiver's marathon in a running
nose

My head pounds like a child
beating a drum
Undisciplined, uncontrollable buzzing
like bees making a hive of my thoughts
choked words by the feelings above my throat

Clouded mind, to now be feeling grey
it's grave to me to dig up my past
Clearer skies, exposed skins, and parent
shoutings, about playing where ringworm
lie in grass

The scent is sour; heaven tears left
on the soil—bending a flower
the silence ends here, but it will
again rain another hour

Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one ****. What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around.

            A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino.

                               --------------------------------------

                         ­               *******

                            Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31,
                            trumpet player, takes pleasure in
                            performing ******* with clean
                            attractive women. Age, race, marital
                            status no object. All replies answered.

            Here is where it started, amusing myself in an undisciplined manner in the playpen. Being rude when interrupted. Height of bad taste hitting the wall, what's he talking about. Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close.

            What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that.

                               --------------------------------------

                   What do you do with a drunken sailor early
                               in the morning?
                   You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy
                               moorings.

            Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending.

            Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and *****, jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.

(...)
It is perhaps this association between birth and beginning each school year which led me to respect knowledge. The entire month of August tends to fly by, unnoticed, in anticipation of the day I see children forced back into ill-ventilated buildings to emulsify themselves in education, for knowledge. Knowledge, that Moloch of an idea! Hobbies, interests and Summertime activities were heaped on flaming tongues with words in order to illustrate their ultimate insignificance. We hoped to bring out the blessing of wisdom from its mouth. “What matters is the coming Winter, not the frivolous activities of undisciplined youths.” It is as if the leaves of every tree were humanity's hair, and August had pulled back every strand to blow the woodsy breath of Autumn smoke into life’s ear. "You won't be this way forever." I am yet seduced by Fall’s cryptic murmurings and led to believe in endless, Halcyon flight. With arms draped around us from behind, knowledge draws me into oblivion, with unlabeled memories and I throw my desires into Moloch’s mouth. Now that I am burning, my self is the voice of this demigod. My birth certificate is my body, holding a memory to be inscribed on some later form beside some other numbers. Life has only so many Decembers.
(...)

Don’t be fooled regarding one’s tongue,
for it has the power of life and death.
Before doubting these words of wisdom,
now pay attention and catch your breath…

before any more idle words touch the ground.
We are accountable for everything we say;
Therefore, remember to think before speaking,
since our reckonings will come on Judgment Day.

Consciously refrain from speaking evil curses,
knowing that God’s presence surrounds each soul.
Undisciplined tongues unwittingly spew their venom
and cause unseen damage with poisonous control.

A perverse tongue easily breaks the human spirit
and keeps evil, generational curses flowing.
Plentiful sins roll off the tongue in the forms of:
Gossiping, Tattle-telling, Slander, Lying and Boasting.

Instead, give praise concerning the good things of God;
speak life into situations, since healing can be attained.
the reliability of The Word can be assured, for…
its promises insure that ours lives can be sustained.


Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Prov 18:21; 1 Cor 4:20; Deu 32:47; 2 Pet 2:3; 1 Sam 3:19; Psa 12:6
Lev 19:16; Mark 4:14; Prov 15:4, 21:23; Jam 3:1-18; 2 Cor 5:10

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

There's one e-mail I always delete and it's yours
and it's not the boring repetitive ones or the ones that have nothing at all
to do with me, I can let those stack up in my mail box
I have a collection, thousands of them
But you and yours, make me ill.  How you brag and have
taken over what was my job last year and is now so clearly yours
and have you ever, ever even said a word to me, even though I was
the one to do the ***** work to get it all started?  No, I am just
so last year to you.  I don't exist.  I see your bragging testimonials
to your greatness followed by pleading ones for money--teddy grams?
Really. And the one time I did see you, you were not nice.  
So I delete your e-mail and really I'd like to delete the whole experience from
my mind.  All those late hours in that cold theater with undisciplined kids
Always thinking, I am doing this to have a job for the future.
This is why.  And then you just waltz in and you were so excited
I sent you my acknowledgement you were given the job and you were
so breathless oh can I tell everyone?  Like you just won the lottery and
now I want to send you an e-mail to tell you, do not contact me about this again
Leave me completely alone if you can't be nice.  
I don't like your play and I don't like you and this was all a bad experience in total.
I want to delete you, not just your mail.  I want to delete you from my mind and my experience
and all the rest of the people involved in this whole sorry affair.

The old tree on  Maple Lane stood unwavering on the cold December night

that the young girl ended her plight

it creaked sorrowfully

as the child that once swung from its ancient limb

was buried on that evening so grim.


The old tree on Maple Lane danced to the rhythm of the wind

that glided all about, completely undisciplined

it flowered wonderfully

as the joyous winter that brought it innocence

was replaced with a warm immanence

The old tree on Maple Lane
had seen so much beauty
and so much pain

The old tree on Maple Lane
was completely beautiful and wise
Until it was slain.

Circles and loops
Jumping through hoops
Avoiding the fires burning below
My scar covered body enforcing the legitimacy of my woe
Burns are worse then bruises
I'd rather have those
I've been here so long
Trying to escape
I no longer know which way to go
I stumble and tumble
I run and crumble
Trying to avoid the flames that have seared us all
Down to the meat
Down to the bone
I would much rather have lept eleven stories onto stone
When bliss is this
Bonfires instead of infernos
I would rather be dead
Not running through my head
Circles and loops
Jumping through hoops
What a daring act to feature
Acrobatics performed clumsily
So as to not be covered in scar tissue

<•>

blustery company/unexpected costs

rain-all-day, with a heavy creme topping of
blustery wind window rattling, par excellence,
making the houses's insides rumble so much,
the trees fringes bang-pleading to please be allowed in
so loud that you suspect some are already hiding within,
probably, more likely, those leprechaun Elusives,
up to their usual no goofy good

the poet's fellow summer travelers visit, Canadian geese,
clustering by the Adirondacks thrones four,  
who add another weathering to their grayed, somber,
thoughtful demeanor this day,
all in the Poet's Nook, which though forlorn,
surrounded sounded by sixteen! chubby flyers, admirers,
(their ranks expanded from fourteen of yesteryear),
asking where is the poet-boy, and the chairs explain that his
standing in the rain days are now past his prime,
inspiring modalities, so rest easy in the knowing geese lore that,

he,

through those famous civilizing lace curtains,
see-through visors, of  embroidered, embedded flowers,
the poet boy is watching your brood, not being rude,
just dry inside, contemplating their admirable
weather resistance, and writing of them with loyal affection,
his gaggle of friends, **** avians, favorite weekend guests,
not requiring feeding, cleaning up after, or their laundry done

delighted, they edge closer to him, where he, residing/semi-hiding,
in the sunroom where he writes and contemplates the
unexpected costs of human life
that he tries to pays forward so others may never have such a chore

coming ever closer, now nibbling next to the empty
tree swing, used by neighboring kids and in secret,
their parents,
and the wet freshly cut, delivered green grass,
a feast for them, beneath the oak tree

do they have unexpected costs as well, or do they know
all their predators and threats, that may yet diminish the happy sojourning, the tourney of flying south, and its trials/tribulations?

too long, too long I know, the poem,
but to the devil with you
inexperienced, impatient multi-taskers, this, a poem~moment
that would be dishonored by the breech,
needs lengthy fulfillment for the unexpected costs,  
the randomness of events that can't be guarded against,
demand never ending vigilance, and endless imagining

and the geese, saddened by his absence and his travailing
thought patterns, explain, that this is why we geese,
we gaggle travel, why our long necks swoon and swivel,
ever wary of the unexpected surprise dangers,
why we post guards forward and aft,
not to be taken unawares by foxes or men

the human's gaggle is their random, undisciplined,
by their solitary nature,
travailing thoughts
which they they foolish believe they can master,
but cannot, which then, is why, we geese,
we will always annual come to covenant, co-tenant,
visit the poet-boy in his nook, and rest him briefly, from the
terror of unexpected costs, be his inspiration,
for the poets nook, now, by custom,
our refuge, and his, as well, and better together...

My mind
down dusty corridors, i wander
everywhere lie the discarded thoughts
of a disorganized and undisciplined mind
still its called a thought...

reminiscent of a once busy museum
now deserted and seemingly long forgotten
Then turning a corner,i find myself
suddenly in the midst of a hive of
activity.

A new Curator has come with fresh ideas and input
now my thought has become serious thinking...
which I poured on a piece of blank paper
hmm... now read what an impressive thought
I think it is ...
written on a piece of white sheet
After some painful moments of writer's block..
from once a very disorganized mind..
Walla... a poem written by me at last

You see yourself as less,

apologizing for fancied flaws & imagined improprieties.

I see the kindness of your heart,

desiring good for all those around you.

You see yourself as dark,

full of negativity & sarcastic statements.

I see in unguarded moments

the softness of your soul,

and genuineness of your generous heart.

You see yourself as undisciplined,

as lacking routine & constancy.

I see the strength of conviction

that guides your heart,

the self-made statutes of kindness that control you .

You are ever willing to condemn yourself

by some artificial standard of  attainment

given to you by others,

who may not know your quintessence...

but I know you.


I love the life I see within you &

love to be connected to the wit & wisdom

& wondrous effervescence that are You.

Gold dances on a dark canvas old as time
the orbs sway from side to side
hypnotized as they trace the curve of an imaginary bowl
my heart beats out fond memories
that fill my mind with fervent desires.
The dark wraps its cool shawl around my neck,
With a brisk touch, it tumbles all my reveries into associations of a noose...

I cannot connect with the world as I see it anymore...

It is experienced as a strange reflection
of all that comes from within and before me.
To be lost in this cage of thought
is to ignore the perpetual inspiration
gifted by the miracle all around me.
It is to see all as a reminder of a thought... of a thought.
Every smell is a whisper remembered
Every touch echoes a pain ignored for too many moons.

The soul sits in the well of our minds.
We build the mind to fill our soul to the brim
so that we may feel it glisten and gleam in the warm sunlight.
We see the world through ripples of ecstasy
as our love spills over the mind.
It flows into the roots around us...
In that moment we are truly present.

The joyous pride of the mind is the gift to overflow its most precious burden out unto this world.

It is the disciplined mind which harnesses energy to overflow
while the undisciplined mind remains as poor foundation.
It will only drain what precious reserves it tries to hold on to.
left in darkness at the bottom of our minds, the soul sees only what small glimmers it can glean.

When every firefly in the dark is a reminder of a thought of a thought, we are lost in the confines of a well we cannot climb out of.
...
When every cool breeze passes without grasping,
we know the power of being present...
We feel love as we breathe it in
and peace as we let it go.

She perches
  a bird on a
spindly winter branch
her pious breast
  puffed up with
    self
     and
   righteousness
she builds her nest of
  pillows and
    lap blankets -
     afghans of granny
squares like a motley
  jumble of feathers
the shredded remains of
  a circus clown
rising from her army green
        Crocs (R) to her
poly-chiffon hanky
   a mantilla of lies to
      her
     self
  and she nestles down on
her egg of wine and host and
   judgment
weaving into the walls of her
   nest her prayers for the
     unfortunate for the
     unbelieving for the
     undisciplined for the
         flaw of being
less holy and less wholly
   the child of
Big G God
   she knows she is

I salute no flag, I follow no man
I am undisciplined; an expatriate; a mutineer.
I am not consumed. I believe in Infinity.
But so what?

It's a hell of a lot better than casting stones into the abyss of life, which only cries back in a tune of some ever-pervading samsara, whose only note was proof for Hamlets second conjecture; counting your days, numbering the stars, feeling pleasure only to one day die a purposeless death; guilty.

Jesus said everything in red ink,
the bible tells me so.

Freedom can only be given to those that are bound.
It is both a fact and failure of nature.
Our power binds us;
Our lack of power binds us.
We are enslaved on all sides:
By the infinite and the finite.
And yet we are set free
by this selfsame fact.

So down , down ,down he goes smooth and silent
down she goes lungs fresh and clean, no bottom in sight
just he and the night. The thinning light of day.

Down they go with ease. The challenge lies ahead
the music playing slow and sweet.

Minutes are like hours to the unknowing, undisciplined , unwilling.
Baptism lies in the slow pulsing of the heart and the knowing deep within that
pleasure and pain ebbs and dances as down, down, down where under the waves to deep blue nothingness and further still as far as will allows.

How long can you linger and keep your head as you strive to return to amniotic bliss, that
place that echoes with muted sound and muffled voices that held your focus.
not in this world but of it.
unborn aquanaut

So down you go to crushing penance
to blue and cold to the limit and to what end.
to return is unwritten because the ultimate gamble
now the die is cast
to will the last ounce of life from lungs now flat.

To rise to life or remain in stasis
or so it seems
depleted logic dictates that you may well stay
below, beneath the  waves
choose life
arise.

No more magic: magic dreams, magic realities. Does this seem backwards and ludicrous of me to state such a wish? Potentially.

Yet I do not wish such upon all domains: it's more a fallacy from wariness. Yet, even an idle wish cannot change the course of action already in motion.

Ergo, if anyone still vehemently disagrees with the notion of my half wish after the intricacies are spilled upon the table; do as you will. Yet tread with caution, as you've been given heed.

To embrace the multifaceted, multidimensional level of intricate details which form the building blocks of the nature of such a claim and infinity; reviewing and understanding a few core concepts is necessary.

Magic is essentially the higher understanding and manipulation of nature. A form of knowledge, if you will.

Knowledge consists of one of the many pathways or permutations used to control for power.

What of power? Well, within the hands of an undisciplined mind, it is a means of corruption.

This does not insinuate that the presence of power is a causal link for corruption. Not in full. Yet enough power paired with an undisciplined mind can result in corruption. One might find themselves signing over the soul at the drop of a dime.

Furthermore, even for those possessing an extremely disciplined and engrained sense of virtue; power can corrupt if given enough time and the proper circumstances.


Despite this understanding, if given the opportunity: I'd pick magic **** near every time.


“I can change” we'd say; after the thousandth retake of the same test of willpower, of failed temperance and appetites. This is cried out to the sky only upon recalling the aftermath of damage caused.

Perhaps we could change.
Yet we vow this each time before starting the process anew; our memories wiped.

Memory is grand, yet it is our virtue that holds the key, that which truly counts. This too can be learned, relearned, compromised, expanded upon. It is not a static state. It adapts, lives, breathes, thrives; and you better believe it's intelligent. (As all energy is intelligent.)

Throw the two together, along with a few more ingredients, and one is given the comprising elements governing most everything; to some degree or another.


“There is no good or evil; there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.”


Not quite. This is a ****** half truth of blind lunacy stemming from everyone who has and shall always be nobody else but you. This is the face of corruption fueled by power, resting inside us all.

Yet it does not encompass all layers. No.

It is every single one of those things, and none of them.
It is the compromised result of all infinite possibilities in between: of everything all at once, until it IS only One; encompassing each subsequent pause and division in between.

It is the unification, the separation, the battle and harmony between form and void; and of the constant, neverending, infinite, perpetual vacuum of everything and nothing in-between all fluctuating at different rates and degrees.

Any reality you could ever imagine, (be it surface level; or diving into one of the immesurable infinities, or somewhere in between) - it has either happened; is currently occuring; or will come to pass at some point.

Time does not exist in the same constraints we are accustomed to. It is cyclical, recursive, nonlinear, and in states of quantum superposition (or cognition) - all happening at once.

Over an unutterable infinity, or within the blink of a cosmic eye. Yet who is to say that these two notions are not the same?

Infinitely many is just the comprised collective innumerable counterpart of One.

Imagine DNA. When broken down at the subatomic molecular level; it is infinitely small. Yet it creates the human body: the same blueprint present everywhere.

Out of the microscopic level of infinitely small forms larger layers. DNA creates the neurons within the human brain. Jumping out a layer: this forms the whole of the brain. Then the human body. It magnifies to the entire collective of human bodies.

This in turn creates the cells for another strand of DNA within a larger One. More neurons. Brain. The body™ of that larger One. The collective bodies of the collective of Ones. Repeat this cycle ad infinitum.

It is always One; but how it appears depends on the level of infinity you're dealing with and envisioning at that given moment.

---------------------------------------------------

So go ahead and tell me, child.
Would it all have been worthwhile
To tread upon Eliot's allusiory notion
Having bitten off the matter with a smile
Negating warnings, blinded by devotion?
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
During our days to ****** and create
Amnesic to past transgressions of a dying fall
Divulging the insidious question upon our plate?
Daring to disturb the song of the universe
Repeating the same indecisions and revisions
In which we must ultimately reverse?

The cravings I have for you are undisciplined, thriving by the second.

Every word you speak, every breathe you take I need to inhale and hold my breathe, selfishly, trying to keep as much of you vibrating inside me. Your my personal overdose, my rehabilitation.
  
Every interaction we have echoes until time becomes misplaced. The contact of our skin, collision of our emotions, carnality of our voices blending in. I was lost and erratic, you were my salvation.

I was youthful then,
My expectations and understanding of the world,
not in the slightest developed.
To me.
The immensity of a common situation,
Perhaps,
One you take for granted,
Put my mind, body and soul in peril.
Weird how time develops a mind.
Youth searching for answers,
Does.
One day find the keys to his doors.
For many of mine were locked,
but light doth shine fuller and brighter each time the key turns.
In those days,
It is most unfortunate the limited expanse of my mind;
For if I had been more developed,
the severity of such a situation would have been extinguished with care.
And diligence.
One can not conceptualize HELL,
Unless one has lived it.
Situations exist where evil lies,
We must do our best not to disturb his slumber.
He sources the weak.
The undisciplined.
Those who cherish raw emotion and think only of pain.
Such was my experience...
and try i have,
to forget the days where I burned inside;
my brains melting outside my head,
spinning,
falling,
crashing into the depths.

So on the day I was born
I nearly died
(And wait for it because it's not a sad ending)
If you knew what my early life was like
You might not judge me about
My former, sometimes avid wish
That they hadn't been able to save me
And sure still sometimes when I feel
That it's just all too difficult to cope
Too hard to deal with
And I face my reality which from the outside looks not so bad at all
And I face my lack of skills judgment
And my grievous errors that haunt me
As many of us do
And then say well ok. So I'm a fck-up
(When and if we as people wake the fck up already!)
I do see it all playing out differently
No emotionally stunted uncherished
Girl with abandonment issues
(Mostly silent observer of many many things but alas, and painfully not the most obvious things, so frustrating!)
Wandering undisciplined unorthodox unnoticed kid
Who thought, uh, why am I even here?
But I'm very relieved to be able to say
I was wrong
Because everyone matters to
Someone
Still don't know why I didn't die then
Or in the dozen weird unintentional near misses since then
But I'm writing this to say
The difference is that now
I'm glad to be here

When I was younger
I loved the world
I saw no suffering
Pain is a distant myth
Bees fly high in their way
Birds singing their cheerful melody
Cats and dogs played chase till sun's end

That was a wonderful time

And what did you do to it?

"Stupid boy, that's not right"
Your words were foreign to me
I have not heard them
I tilt my head and ask you
"what?"

"Dumb boy, you have an attitude"
These words again
No definition in my mind
I ask you again
What do you intend with these words?

"Your mother has done wrong in raising you, undisciplined, disobedient, you'll get nowhere in life"
Am I one to be trained like a dog?
I begin to think
What have I done?
No answer comes to mind
But maybe what I do right is wrong?
Maybe that's what it is
It must be
No other reason explains it

What have I done right?
I can't tell
Not anymore
The lines between right and wrong start fading
It was right, right?
Or definitely wrong.
Or is that wrong?
I don't know

Now years later
I still don't tell
I can't
Not because I lack the effort to try
Just the motivation
I tried again
And my efforts are failing me
So why try now?

It all makes sense to me
Good and bad
I can't understand your reasoning
That's my downfall
Empathy is not something I am not capable of
But I don't think you are

I think I might of been able to tell
Long ago
But you beat that out of me

The perfect vision to see
I see no lines anymore
Colourblind to green and red

Fades out to gray

And soon

It'll fade out to white

And I won't know

If that's right

The whispers of the wicked plague the mother,
for her children tread ever so closely to the forbidden garden.
Warn them of the thorns, terra, they are young and know no better.
I ask, be kind.
It is with the gift of choice that enchant their eyes to the blooming rose.
It is with the gift of awareness that curses their undisciplined mind.
I implore, please; be kind.

There between discontent and enchantment
Sits the self, seeking awe and amazement,
In response to perceived monotony
From the loss of its own autonomy.

There between morning’s hopeful open eyes
Sits the self, no different from last sunrise,
Welcoming heavy eyelids of midnight
To close one more day that seemed not quite right.

There between poems and the literal
Sits the self, with insight ephemeral,
Waging war with the real and imagined
Encounters with thoughts so undisciplined.

There between what is and what can become
Sits the self, embodied delirium,
Each unique but with no definition,
An unresolved eternal condition.

Lust, the price of you is my sanity
You inspire such dark desire within me
I am enveloped by your luminous fire
So undisciplined and destructive
Have my hands always had this tremor?

Lust, I am chasing a pleasure so sinful and unrefined
Delving into this painful bind
You hold me captivated, injecting me with the addictive need for release
I ache for sheets covered with the sweet scent of unadulterated passion

Lust, see what you have done to me?