(Repost of a former poem, “If I Could Change The Past,” written 2016)
September eleven, two-thousand-one-
dark age of homeland terror had begun.
If only I could change this horrid past-
alleviate deep pain from grief at last.
Three thousand souls were lost forever, then:
three hundred forty-three were brave firemen,
so many whom I'd come to know before,
when they'd stop by our fire equipment store.
Our County is just sixty miles away
from New York City, South of us, and they
would often live up North in New York State,
commute each shift- but many met their fate.
One family resided on our street.
That morning, he left home- for death to meet.
So many others we will never see
who purchased goods from us so faithfully.
For those who died, whose bodies were not found,
we gifted presentation helmets bound
to loved ones for the funerals they held.
Such awful, somber days, unparalleled.
If I could change the past and turn back time,
erase that day of tragedy and crime,
my heart, with all the others, would rejoice
that these poor souls could live a life of choice.
The Main Reason why we are here, is to improve the world.
To try our endeavour best to mitigate and alleviate Malice, strife and stress in this dark world.
Not so much to attain some worthless Degree, or to achieve some useless achievement.
Not to gain more money than we could even ever spend. Not to compete for so called greatness.
But moreso to assist where and when we can and to help enlighten others.
Try to do at least One Good Deed Everyday.
Sophie is wallowing in the despair of her furlough
it suits her; she enjoys pain, anguish and disappointment.
Her sister Henrietta tries to instill hope, but her attempts are thwarted.
Some people choose the land of depression over everything else.
Sophie is a professional at this; she has made a career out of it.
No one has had more car wrecks, accidents or mishaps at work.
It would be impossible to find someone more desperate to glean gloom.
Henrietta is a Pollyanna, a quintessential optimist., wasting her time.
The other sisters giggle about this behind her back, not realizing….
She is doing the work of the angels; what we should all be doing.
The universe is here to inspire, uplift and alleviate stress.
Can you imagine how terrific this world would be if we all inspired hope?
Aging Faster
Scares fading
Old age visible
Still sharp minded
But somehow aging faster
Unhealthy foods
Self indulge
Over weight a bit
Couch truly inviting
Slower to ascend
Aches and Pains are my two best friends
Coffee 24/7
Time flying, can’t fathom
Where does all the time go?
Take it easy
Stillness in harmony
Take in the moment
Breathe in crisp morning air
Alleviate troubled burdens
One day at a time
Thankful for each day
Growing old gracefully
One day, I will be lifted into the clouds
And leave all of my poetry behind
I’m just an old soul
On September the 18th, all turn 50 years old
We are here, we are there, we are everywhere
joy, laughter, hope, enthusiasm, excitement
sent to alleviate grief, sadness and depression
attempting to lighten and brighten people
when it works, we know we are dealing with brilliance
people with high I.Q.’s know how to change a mood
Yet, if I lend it to you
Fairly, I need lend it to everyone,
Or have my motivations called into question
Acknowledging with conscientious grace
Always offering a kind smiling face
No brow beatings when someone nears
Cheerful greetings alleviate fears
Let those through the doors before yourself
Retrieve the book, the higher shelf
Pipe the answer they fail to see
Feed the fires of waning glee
The wind blows; so bends the tree
Fulfill the needs that fall to thee
A goodly mission,
But what pay is my part?
A kinder disposition,
A compassionate heart.
The Voyage
Milking cows at nine years old, how could they
sending a boy to do farm work, saying it was
to alleviate poverty
Good memories were to lean a sleepy head
against a cow's stomach, sleep until the beast
slightly stirred, not once did they kick
the bucket under the udder of an angry cow
Often, cows are gentle creatures.
packed away to sea at fifteen, how dare they
on the ships of Tommy Robertson, where
Kindness was weakness; the strong survive
Or was it an Elon Musk utterance?
A dark port in the Black Sea, a dark landscape
still filled with the fog of war, a mighty land
recuperating after a deadly war
Poor Russia, how it has been hated through
time by Europe, who wanted her cut to pieces
to get to her riches; how they all failed
Russia is stronger than ever before. How dare
They try to diminish her.
The boy has travelled far, so far that he is now
old, a survivor who listens to the howling wind
The wiping wind on the windowsill knows he
was lucky while waiting for the final chapter
That means the collapse of the world order
Typical Is Still
Not Guiltless Enough
To Lie For---
To Excuse
Alleviation Of Guilt:
*Saint Conformity.*
There Must Be Some
Other Way
(Or Other) To
Alleviate Guilt...
(Unless You Love
Guilt
That Way...)
?Huh?
Now You Made Me
Lose My Choo-Chhoo Train
Of Thought....
Oh Yeah, We're Here For The
Entertainment, And We Are
Totally Part Of The Show...
((All The Actual Parts.))
Say THAT Twice.
At Least.
But We Aren’t The Author,
Or Whatever We Think
Passes As One...
(Unless You
LOVE GUILT
SOOO MUCH.)
It's Entertainment For Creation
And Continues To Flow...
Pro-Creating Each Re-Birth
With The Same Probability
Re-Excitement Every Moment!
That Smallest Moment: NOW!
Despite All The Madness
Manifested Around It.
Typical.
-Gray Squirrel
12-18-2025
Alphabetic yellows but you would melt my hairs should haze
The dim contour leasing the pounding in my breast
Would a war by all fragile ward fragility to lick your smoke at the corners
Of your mouth to which then French and frenzy make an ocean wider
Green, green is the blackest grass of long twisting cobras told unknown
Gallant as a child holding on to frays of reeds and a bite of snow
Nothing contained in the deaf phlegm of white light
The skill of work in the hot bloods of the thickness imagined
Weaving in the wives room and again to the lantern
To rub the brass and alleviate the dead petals in conquest by the fresh
The very tongue rials twisted as wires chill the season
Unlikely arrivals of the two by shy flaunt
Then veering is the roads aghast by ghastly refuse
Some do become lovers neath the sun ware the moon
But do others weigh the scale of surmise
I would never be able to understand a cutters concept
Just for that adrenaline rush it's the pain they accept
But I think I got the hint with my dealings with you
That same rush of pain through the things that we do
We drive each other crazy mentally and emotionally
You're a harmful drug but instead I want you close to me
I'm addicted to pain because I keep coming back
Much like that drug addict looking for crack
The emotional turmoil of you changing your mind
Or your spontaneous movements from time to time
That pain I gain when I see that you're feeling down
Trying to help alleviate it is why i stick around
It must be an addiction for me not to give out
Having human addictions is what this is about
Relationships and drugs can be looked at the same way
Depending on how much contact with them from day to day
No one likes needles but enjoy the after affect
I love making up but I don't like when you're upset
Now I understand the statement "Pick your poison"
I think that's what happen the day you were chosen
Time was when apes stood up on twos,
Gained height to hail human-like hues.
Today, back to all four,
Backward to times of yore,
Calling it Quodrobics--
(Fancy calisthenics?),
Bored, man’s looking for an excuse--
Any a fancy trick
From blue to get a kick
To liven his dull life lived loose!
__________________________
Happenings |15.09.2025 | humour
Note: Quadrobics (calisthenics using all four limbs), a new-fangled revolution in fitness aiming to bring to fore the animal lying latent in human beings. A fresh new concept in exercise in which people copy animal like lifestyle-- walking, jumping on all the four limbs, even climbing trees bare-footed with no modern equipment. Wonder, what not a bored man would do to alleviate his tedium, monotony, and ennui of life!
These walls are made of sedimentary stone,
it's a desolate house with glaring glass windows;
they emanate the reflection of distorted images,
gulls twirl around it, their shrills have a dark tone.
How quickly I have aged by noticing these deep lines
across this face that was as smooth as a child's skin;
doesn't time ravage everything, leaving a bitter grin?
Whoever envisions only joy is startled by surprises.
Do we restrain ourselves or live in utter madness
to reject the dreadful thought of each abstinence?
Does pleasure alleviate fears in hopeless moments?
Wouldn't it be a refuge from denial to seek resistance?
This rapid existence has a deadline for glory or demise,
being alive is virtuous thankfulness to implement reason
and choose the easiest temptation or the hardest choice;
the decision rests on either: become a saint or a demon.
Those we love don't go away,
they walk beside us everyday.
Their murmurs soft, a tree leaf whisper
defrosts my heart that did grow crisper
with grief that stained inside and out
when I embraced and lived with doubt
that voices lost to yesteryear
would still be here in atmosphere,
but breezy hands they brush my shoulder
and shake the lilacs, zephyrs bolder
as wind-tossed-scent awakens my recall
of purple June bouquets that did enthrall.
Ah, souvenirs and picture frames
can flare or tame my mourning flames.
Our days once filled with cheer and dare,
alas, souls fly as sheer as air,
or sit to contemplate as still as moss,
they come to help alleviate my loss.
I see them in rejiggered shapes of clouds
or gold of sunshine warmth spilled over crowds;
I catch a glimpse in happy eyes
and sense they’re there in spirits' guise.
A moment here and then they’re gone,
beyond white angel-air-chiffon.
I’ve come to know and feel inside
that never-ending, they’ll reside
within my heart and everywhere…
to sense them near, fulfills my prayer.
Written: March 22, 2025, for contest sponsored by Craig Cornish
***********************
In the heart of my kitchen spices exude their aromatic allure
a harmonic blend of flavors coddiwomples mute grief. . .
cimmerian saudade in emeritus pickles, a nostalgic taste
longing for a whiff of jasmine s p e c k s. . .
the acridity of blue cheese, the poignancy of bygone days. . .
lavender aromas snip from vessels of proclivity
hidden under an ominous cloud of r e m o r s e
on par with brimstone-soaked steam,
harmony strives to alleviate concealed pain
pleading palms to purge passed-over prose
as seclusion seeps still as a slow-spreading sickness…
Scathed by sadness solitude simmers silently,
In this mixture, marvelous magic manifests for mending
spicy ambrosial nuances partake in a gracious w a l t z
pain intermingling with delight
a buffet embellished with dishes of acrid herbs,
the core character intertwines with previous fails
textures and fragrances intertwine
to create a tapestry rich in pain and d e l i g h t,
harmonizing sadness and joy in life's tangled web.
Screams of heart,
Pricks of needle.
Shivers of the Cadaver,
Breaking of thunder!
How can't I wonder?
Lying crushed on the land of tormentors.
Little did they realize,
How hard they made me cry.
The moment I asked,
Is there a place to run?
Or a place to hide?
A pair of sight,
Staring deep, dark into my eyes.
An unspoken question reclined:
"Why are you still alive?
Why didn't you die?"
Lightning struck up high,
Leaving my undescribed condition behind.
Quivering digits seized the pen tight.
Praying and begging, I asked:
Is there a place to run?
Or a place to hide?
A question came to my mind,
How shall I write when-
Feet remained immobilized,
Lips left paralyzed,
Tears dropping, symbolized,
The horrified ache of angina
Whispered a final byeee!
May now you tranquil,
May now you alleviate,
Since I reached that place
Where none can penetrate.
It's known as Paradise,
Completely different from my mind's eyes.
Is it the place to run?
Or a place to hide?
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