The ledger reads:
a plethora of umbrellas—
though it hasn’t rained in weeks.
Six bowls of ripe fruit rotting simultaneously,
four calendars all agreeing to be ignored.
Noise catalogued:
dogs barking at metaphors,
telephones dreaming of purpose,
the surplus of answers
none of us asked for.
On the opposite shelf:
a paucity of receipts for kindness,
one cracked mirror,
a prayer half-mouthed then abandoned.
They say memory is selective—
but it always chooses the same omissions.
In audit we trust:
to weigh the overgrown
against the almost-forgotten.
And if balance exists,
it does so behind glass,
marked “for display only.”
Blooms that I see today fade the next day.
Green leaves turn yellow. They dwindle and fall.
Fruits that are ripe fruitlessly find decay.
Nature stands alert to an unknown call.
The flora and fauna feel paranoid.
Curiously, creatures here cogitate.
By expirations, nature is annoyed.
Every being confronts the games of fate.
I search for the sense of my existence.
What's the purpose of my life here on earth?
Against aches, I've my innate resistance.
Will there be, after this life, a rebirth?
Where, when all is said and done, will I go?
Like dried leaves, with the wind, will my soul flow?
I was drenched in black water,
Yet, it looked as though I were dried out.
I stood before a lighthouse,
Yet, remained unseen.
Gazing into the sea’s blackness,
The highest tides forever circled me.
My eyes could find no anchor,
As my dark hands sailed towards the farthest shore.
My home, too, was cloaked in shadow;
Something unseen, yet present, walked with me there.
The map and the wanderer within me never agreed.
Colours were but drifting sailors in my life’s vast sea.
Different souls sail different paths,
Tides come and go.
Memoirs float like driftwood.
Something vast yet fragile appears near the stones.
My grave is smaller than the stones,
Its epitaph; empty and black.
I performed on countless beaches,
Yet, nothing remains visible on this blackest shore.
Evilly absurd,
Bombing lives doesn’t win peace;
Just wishful power:-
War and peace are antonyms.
You can’t make them synonyms:-
War can not bring peace,
Just collateral damage,
And high death rates:-
Peace comes with labors of love,
Nourished by God’s healing grace:-
War only knows hate,
Bombing homes, schools, and churches,
Filled with peaceful lives:-
When will this world ever be
A world rooted in love’s peace?!
It is the world of Shiva and Shaitan
It is the world of Krishna and Kant
Devi on Nandi holding Demon and Son
Devotees, Deities, Ash, Claps and Fun
Fragile girl carrying child in her arm's
Not mother but a sister’s virgin palms
To Die for him but not a bruise to touch
Just Bottom pinching nothing too much
Anguish in her arms to shut the door
Hammer or Paedo, they break the core
Unreal city under brown fog of cold dawn
Slogans, Sighs where savage zombie born
Cow with a nose grip lost her way
Is she mute or has nothing to say?
Another one eating her own skin
Is there Anyone left? kith or a kin
Her body is torn open with the blood
No milk, No Calf. Here screams flood.
frail pedicels fail
when buds burst into blossoms ~
tempest-toss of times
The other night
Visiting in a dream a foreign land
We waited in expectation
The arrival of a group of alien dignitaries
Somehow involved in guiding the culture.
When they approached across the sound
In a dark and rough hand-hewn canoe
I ran out to take pictures
Only to find a half dozen or so headless chickens
Standing patiently in their effortlessly gliding craft.
Superior alien advisors in the form
Of small dark brown headless chickens,
Baffling for sure,
And frustrating when I couldn’t get any pictures…
A sure sign of dreaming or just a block by aliens.
Yet the humor of the moment didn’t escape me
As I turned to tell another baffled guy
To look up Mike The Headless Chicken
A real thing that survived almost two years
With only a brainstem.
Which provides some clue I guess
To the symbol of superior beings without heads
And thus complicating brains
Dark and primitive in their dugout
And yet still, within the absurdity of it all, superior.
(11/20/24)
Alma is back on BBC
with tales of eccentricity
even the critics said it’s good
they’re calling Bolton, "Brollywood"
claiming it's worth the licence fee
It's warmth is positivity
facing life and absurdity
in ways no-one else, would or could
Alma is back
BAFTA award winning TV
based on the writers family
Willan, she's our Walters and Wood
champions the misunderstood
if you catch it, then you will see
Alma is back.
Jasper uses the words absurd and whimsy as if they are synonyms
They are not the same to me, I say to him.
Silliness, craziness and idiocy is not whimsy.
Whimsy is imagination, playing, having fun, laughing, loving.
Jasper begins to whisper about me.
I have dog ears, and I do not like what he says.
So, I whimsically bite him.
HELLO SO CALLED FREE WORLD.!! Canada is a
Crown country...So is Australia..For the time being!
Melbourne was put under house arrest for twelve
Months..! For no crime whatsoever..Think on this!
Where is the fair governance?? Is there a valid one?
In Britain the originator of colonial law, Caroline
Farrow is under survaillance for speaking her thought
Jordan Peterson is being shoehorned into a programme
Of so called ( re education ) these people don't know
One another I presume.? What are we witnessing in
The case of the large sized lady shown in sports illustrated
What are we suposed to gather ? Its a sports publication
Are they a beauty magazine? Well I suppose in academic
Summation yes.' As you need a slim and resiliant body
To compete athletically..Yes?? So sports oriented peiople
Would intuitivally think a more leaner body more attractive
To compete, that then affects perception overall, whether
I or whoever sees the wider senario of beauty is not relative
In this context.! Which brings us too, why this cover page
In a sports oriented publication? Or was it just an entrappment ploy.? In both cases what is going on.?
You claim I am equal to you, and you to me
Are you blind as a bat? Can't you see?
You're a man from your head to your toe
I'm a girl, now a woman, from the very get-go
A man's muscles ripple under your clothes
Even you suspect what every sane person knows
It will never be fair, just because you think you're female
that we non-trans women athletes are left to fail
Lo, Meursault, the hero, of the novel, 'the outsider',
Is spun by absurdity, like the web of a spider.
Neither religion nor society does affect him,
Nor does anything like Faith and Hope make him sing a hymn.
Takes truths compatible like peanut, jelly, or butter,
Or simply interchangeable like a knife or cutter...
He admits his widowed mother in a home for the aged,
When she seeks his filial fondness he's fiercely enraged.
His mother's demise, like an orphan, does not affect him,
Not mourning for her, with his girlfriend, he enjoys a swim.
He's not sad, about murdering someone, for no reason,
His darling finds another; he doesn't feel her act treason.
He spends his time in prison working, eating, and sleeping,
He lives like a wooden log; no system; no timekeeping.
He takes his capital punishment too, just like a feast,
One could see his existence ending like that of a beast...!
08 May 2023
Couplet Poetry Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
I thought I’d write an exquisite ode
like marvelously well crafted code:
a soaring flight to fancied flows,
but that’s not how this clunker goes.
You can’t out-sleep a five-year-old,
or if you can, you’ll soon regret;
you’ll wake in terror, blood run cold,
with tortured thoughts of the limits of ‘yet’,
leap from the bed in last night’s clothes.
The moment that you hear the switch,
the muscle fibers start to switch.
The race is on, man, get a grip!
It’s time for the morning bathroom trip.
The pants are tangled, diaper’s locked,
and all the while, she’s yelling, ‘poo!’
as time is racing off the clock,
and nausea overcomes you
at mental images of last night’s chips.
Panic subsides, now to the chair,
where yogurt meets fresh braided hair.
Soon everywhere, it can be seen
except, of course, the space between
those pearly whites, loud screaming, “More!”
Then off to her room; time to change.
The bus at seven: hit the door!
Ah, sweet relief.. Wait, what? How strange…
the car clock says its only five fifteen.
I
it was midnight in a perfect world
as a child my mind swirled
with ideas as domestic troubles stirred
from an early age, innocence unfurled
how can a man learn to live happy in this world
as to which we were so randomly hurled?
The idea that our founding fathers intended anyone over 18 to possess enough firepower to destroy the entire continental army of 1776 is absurd, arrogate and dangerous.
#repealthe2ndamendment
*Arrogate: to take or claim an illegal right.
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