.
if mine duke's one
digit's thick
stroll'd
yourn short long
'pick'er up linez'
notwithstand'n
mine think be
"tonight
you are in mine
abode
cabin
hut
shanty
purlieu lady"
tap
“You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” ? Wayne Gretzky”
Where courage sleeps, and doubt begins to bloom,
There stands a chance, unseen, unheard, unknown.
A fleeting moment, poised to meet its doom,
Unless brave hands reach out and claim its own.
For in the realm of dreams, where shadows play,
And whispered fears may hold ambition fast,
A single shot, though missed, can light the way,
A lesson learned, a challenge bravely cast.
So let not trepidation hold you back,
Nor fear of failure dim ambition's fire.
For even when the target's mark is black,
The act of aiming sets the soul afire.
as it ticks to walk
a way goes, often in for another
rounds of bells, daring
caring as carriage
to bespoken
left wing goes
wanderers does
innocent with blames
love letters
pickup lines
campbell's soup lies, without a droopy
nothing likes hert
miss interpret that
intrepid repose cats
lakey at edminton
empty pens in his mouth
ONE OLD HAT AND FRYING PAN
Our life is like a book of endless short stories..
filled with a myriad of highs and lows.
Stories we will write today stretching as far back as our memory goes.
One of the wonders and beauty we possess…as every day we age
is how easily a memory can be triggered…opening our book to a certain page.
Sometimes it a thing, a word, a photo…a melody…
and before we know it our book is opened to that page in our memory.
Today before my morning walk…two memories awoke…
both of them unplanned.
Stirred by Deborah’s dad’s old fishing hat
and her mom’s cast iron frying pan.
I stopped and smiled at the memories evoked
and since there were more memories I wanted to see…
I asked these two memories if they’d like to take a walk with me.
So as the three of us walked this morning
with the stars shining and the wind whistling through the trees…
I perused through a few short stories in the book of my memories.
What a beautiful walk we had this morning…
and to think it all began…
with memories awakened by an old fishing hat
and a cast iron frying pan.
My voice protects human potential,
I won’t walk down your road to failure;
These words aren’t labeled confidential,
they are perfume on me clean and pure.
Walk away if you think I’ll downgrade,
I am not some low model robot;
Not gonna take the straw bed you made,
I won’t suffer your distressing cot.
My voice protects human potential,
I won’t walk down your road to failure;
Thriving’s the result of essential,
it ends the need to simply endure.
The joie de vivre that’s been delayed ,
soaked firewood that has been left to rot;
White hot ideas are doomed to fade
when we buy in to a tragic plot.
My voice protects human potential,
I won’t walk down your road to failure;
Excitement should be exponential,
not hidden fine print on a brochure.
Can’t truly live when you are afraid,
mild mannered is one thing I am not;
Weave hard work and drive into a braid,
that detailed design is a sure shot.
The Pool Shark
Double or nothing
I go for the gold.
I meet with the devil
and sell him my soul.
Content with the knowledge
I will win it all.
I let him guide me
to the pool hall table.
Dressed in my white suit
with Panama hat.
I stand with my cue
and watch my sucker rack.
As I line up my shot
I hear bets exchanged.
Their values are spoken
with a varying range.
With a gleam in my eye
I strike the cue ball
And watch as my shot
caused the three ball to fall.
I pump my fist in glee
for I called the side pocket
In the ball shot like a
red fiery rocket.
My skills went down hill
and I lost all my cash.
The rest of my game
had gone into the trash.
As I slunk out the door
Old Scratch was waiting for me.
Your soul is mine now
he said with great glee.
As we walked off to hades
that burn with fierce fire.
I sadly learned to deal with the devil
I should never have believed that crafty old liar.
As I hear the familiar first line of an 80’s song
I realize that is how I am feeling
Pierced, gravely injured
not in body, but in spirit
I can’t make myself attend an exercise class
when I need it so very badly
but my spirit is injured
and I just don’t have it in me right now
to meet new people,
and extend an effort to engage,
putting on a smile that I don’t feel
I refuse to wallow,
so I will go on a walk
or do an exercise video
and push and stretch my body
I will put my pen to paper
and stretch my mind and
restore my soul with prayer
I can take steps to heal my heart
but since someone else
put the hole there,
I think they are going to
need to help repair it
slapping on tariffs
pick up game between neighbours~
a puck in the face
***
Knew of this fellow named Wilber
His body parts were a little off kilter
Whenever he laughed
Flames shot out his ass
Carried around his own fire extinguisher
I will lay my body down alongside yours in the green rustling grass
I will line the freckles on your cheeks with watercolor paints and drip the sky in your shades and tones
I will run in a line towars nothing but you
I will kiss you as the dew evaporates from every single blade
And I will hum the tune of your heart into the universe
And that is love and we are love
And that is everything
In my mind, preoccupation
Occurs from time to time.
One example is me trying
To make my words rhyme.
Beside my creativity
Exists a certain place...
So, I introduce to you
My video head space.
Often, fragments of cinema
Appear inside my head.
These can be triggered at random
Or thought of instead.
Television was a mentor
When I was much younger.
Its visuals and soundscapes
Would satisfy my hunger.
Countless hours would be spent
With eyes glued to the screen...
Mesmerized and memorising
Details of a scene.
Shots, action, and dialogue...
Played in repetition.
Looking back, I laugh because
I made it my mission.
Nowadays in times of boredom,
Speech or certain actions
Of a movie sometimes surface
In parts or small fractions.
I do not re-enact them
The way I used to do...
But still, my video head space
Provides me with brain stew.
I’m a fan of that background sound,
the world’s underlying rhythm;
Life’s glass has a melodic rim
amplified with every shot downed;
To the sharps in the air I’m bound,
it’s who I am I’m cool with that;
The wallflower among chitchat,
still I crave the quiet sometimes;
In the moments that static climbs;
solitude can calm a hood rat.
Who Fired That Shot
Miracle Man
8/11/2024
The sound of gunfire,
gives cause for alarm at night,
unless from my gun.
Something about the new
Stage behind the red swagger
Green TVs, living that luxury
Almost getting lost with the sullen
Eagles lifted to heaven level
Gray in the garden bed
I’m painted yellow and
Glowing like a scarecrow
Angel among the dead heads
Smoked up across America
Smoked up in back yards, kitchens
Bedrooms, smoked to heaven
And hell and found a way back
To sleep before work starts
I’m molded in the sealing
Of your bathroom tile watching
Scum blossom. Lost in the open
Neck draining on park pavement
Only good men chase bad kids
Everyone knows he was loaded
Days after, we found bullet holes
Through the walls, bullets lodged
In the door of our car. I almost
Thought I’d find a hole through
My heart. Three days past the
Rude waking and I’d find a bullet
Still burning some hell through me
The hunter is inside
between the lens and its mirror
where Zen masters prowl
with high powered lights.
The prey is sensed
before it takes shape,
otherwise you catch nothing.
You are in the zone,
mind locked on a digital trigger.
Sometimes
the whole world stampedes
across your path,
more often,
a small curlicue of significance
will trip a sensory wire,
crosshairs will meet,
then for an instant you disappear,
as you take the shot.
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