A canvas of woe
The pen, a useless shard, lies still and cold.
In this abyss of sorrow, my heart grows old.
Bent and broken branches, unable to climb,
Withering drops of sunshine melt away in song
Beneath the moon's patterned, muted light,
An endless battle arranges an orchestrated plight...
Goodnight, my sweet love, for doom's destined despair
Has left a poet's song without reprieve nor care
Gwen does not feel the least guilty about an affair with Glen.
He is married, but they have not been in love for years.
His wife, Florence, is a cold fish, demanding and unlovable.
Their three children are the only reasons they still live in the same house.
He is getting a divorce as soon as possible.
She tells none of this to her parents, knowing they will not approve.
They are old fogies, how could they ever understand true love?
Glen is in his heyday – he has a loving wife at home
And an adoring fawning co-worker who will please him in every way.
He has experienced every sexual fantasy in the last three months.
He tells her he will leave his wife, which is one of his super whoppers.
His wife and he have never had a better love life.
He brings what he learns from the office home to Florence.
Florence wonders what has gotten into her husband, Glen.
He is more sensual than he has been in seven years of marriage.
She arranges for a babysitter and packs a picnic lunch for the two of them.
She is wearing lacy lingerie but nothing else underneath her trench coat.
She cannot wait to surprise him so they can have a quickie in his office.
Our
Hostess
Committee,
comprised mostly
of women, makes sure
the kitchen is stocked with
supplies, arranges and serves
meals for major church events and
bereaved families. Last, we clean up.
We serve cheerfully, for we feel honored.
Spring is cold in its cool pastel colors.
Today, Winter’s a fool to tread so late
past its season. Its gait freezes flowers.
Spring’s upset with the winterly arrogate.
Depression will not take hold - the sun’s out.
Reminders that March has a lion’s bite.
Pinks, whites and yellows - Spring without a doubt
is tipping his hat, new leaf growth’s forthright.
March does not pack away its clothes, not yet.
One day a gal wears shorts, and her sleeves, short.
She has her fur-lined coat close by, you bet,
and will wait for mid-Spring soak to retort.
Brr and brr-ing her sandals back, slap North Face.
Primed gal arranges dandelion light.
Better than a quilt, the zephyr’s embrace.
Parasol of oaks and maples delight.
His wife dies.
You have seen it all before,
you can tell what will happen next.
He will recline in the home
that she has woven around him.
He will let the ivy
of their long years together
coil around his somnambulant thoughts.
The house grows imperceptivity
into a mausoleum.
Some warmth remains,
within her carpet slippers
and housecoats.
He keeps them close.
The cat will always be
the shadow of her hand.
He is a watcher,
not at the funeral or the cemetery,
but from the other side of a bed.
He arranges ornaments,
puts them back the way they were.
Takes out fading photographs
of them both on vacation,
good times, also
times when heartbreaking rocks
had to be climbed.
He places all those sepia moments
into a shoe box
she has provided,
knowing he would need it.
There's nothing to write about.
There is NOTHING HERE.
Nothing is on this page? Nothing
Is here it's everywhere! All around
This town. Taking spaces. Quietly
Lingering in places unseen. Nothing
Eludes me. Nothing pursues me.
Ha nothing here nor there!
Nothing IS everything we seem to
Think nothing never MATTERS it
Does it takes plenty spaces it even
Increases nothing explains it and
Arranges it. Is that the strangest?
When you don't have anything to
Write about write about nothing
Write about it regardless. Write about
Beside the POINT. Write about things
About words. Is that THE ABSURD?!
Nothing means there is something
There nothing HERE. ALL around
This town! At the tip of the ledge
On the edge! It IS here watching me
I watch BACK!
VBR Black Panther! Jet Black
Answerer!
With you, I can overcome every darkness,
You’re my connection to the sun,
The moonlight that guides me through my night’s sojourn,
The hand that arranges my day.
This is not a parade of words,
This is not a mere quantum of expressions,
It’s a flight of my affection,
It’s a river of my love.
Your mellifluous voice echoes in my room,
It buoys me across the sea,
It cocoons me from the day’s assailants,
It disperses the gloom that pervades my chamber.
Come and let’s walk through the seasons of life together,
Come to the room I have made for you,
In my heart dwells a portrait of you,
You’re all I need.
January 14, 2023.
Poetry is an art
Of the heart,
It must comfort,
Via a wise part.
A poem must guide,
Wit, it must provide,
It must help decide,
To make scope wide.
A poem must supply
Thoughts that multiply,
Like the stars in the Sky,
To make thinking so high.
A poet is God's messenger,
A mind and words' manager,
Thoughts and wisdom's merger
He arranges to ward off danger.
A poet is God's representative,
Solace, his poems kindly give,
To help the World, poets live,
In God, they strongly believe!
Love someone with deep expectation
Try to corner that soul's heart wisely
In case the other one gets irritation
Do not pursue by being damn silly
As you get rejection, not invitation
You must quit that person now duly
Many souls are waiting to be loved
By destiny, this relation is disallowed
Agony arises by losing our beloved
Still, we must preserve the joy of all
We cannot easily make others yield
At the maximum, we can lovingly call
Requesting one to come to our fold
But, for our love, that one may not fall
We must preserve sense feeling bold.
Bondage was good for us.
"Master-me,
you are me taking me.” She was right,
I would lose myself in her.
She’s related to George Washington,
A man of his time.
A black girl for all times.
George is silent.
Mind brings her to me now
as she arranges
the form and flavors of desire,
her flesh a sensual braille for shaping hands,
limbs a binding chimera,
flesh capturing flowing silks -
a choreography of her muted history.
Inarticulate passions lock us together,
we are deep sea divers
pushing against an erotic gravity.
Somewhere in another story,
an aged Washington shoves his shriveled member
into another young black woman.
Should we honor both?
Dark is the page we now turn.
Truth or not, love or maybe.
Once we were most pleased
to burn down the president's mansion
again and again.
it's a beautiful day
and i'm passing through this cursed place:
they are celebrating free lunch at crack land today!
on the dirty and horrible street,
zombies walk around wearing rags.
gathered in small groups,
they burn crack rocks nonstop.
small arguments on street corners,
two bums exchange punches
and nobody cares about the guy knocked out,
moaning and bleeding along the gutter.
a charity institution decided to help,
made food for this horde of desperate.
watching the chaotic line for lunch,
I saw a girl who was once beautiful
and beside her a gigolo smiles toothlessly.
when she notices my insistent gaze
she tries to fix her hair
and she arranges her disheveled clothes.
finally, she throws a can of beer at my car.
I soon realized that this was not an attack:
she just defended the dignity she still had
as if she said: I'm not exactly that!
and your eyes have no right to judge me!
I accelerated and got out of there.
Love is a bit of comedy, so be rough with love.
He arranges her one way and then another,
in itchy dissatisfaction. She surrenders to the role
like a silent bystander, a plaything in the hands
of impatience - what does he want?
“Like this,” he says in a schoolteacher’s voice.
The imbalance of power, the almost impersonal
manipulations, the momentum toward surrender,
and then the shocking, primal desire - to meld -
like a gunshot in a canyon long thought empty.
The true mother
To, please, be true to challenges,
Never omitting to bother
About what The War arranges…
To keep challenging the problem
Of her challenged son
Ever wearing the emblem
Of Ever Victorious Sun…
To continue battling with the sickness
Of her embattled daughter
Forthwith addressing the silliness
Of its delayed slaughter…
A real mother remains real,
When this utterly stupid seems:
The mummy by example for the ideals
Amidst vicious attacks and screams:
Never giving up on her child,
Already beginning to act wild:
The sadly physically deprived,
The have-not-academically –arrived…
Mothers True
To keep being True.
Male bowerbird has a unique courting power.
Builds a bower from dried leaves and grasses.
Arranges beautiful objects in front of his bower.
Female bowerbirds tour several dwellings, swinging their asses.
When the female decides on a mate, she moves in.
Showing off her newfound pretty objects of blue.
Yes, all of the decorations put out by her new “him”
Had to be of that particular color and hue.
Rainbow adorns the sound mountain ranges
Sky, like moods of minds, so often changes
Ambiance, with flowers, scent exchanges
Rainbow adorns the sound mountain ranges
Freeing the breeze, winds blow around granges
Time in hearts of vales flowers arranges
Rainbow adorns the sound mountain ranges
Sky, like moods of minds, so often changes
06 July 2021
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