For egregious war crimes against fellow Australians, on fifty seven counts' injecting bio-hazardous substances, false
Imprisionment, false information terrorisomg a whole
population, creating un-law.' Denying
Recourse to medical records to ascertain
Causes of death, and how funds were
Allocated, just a few events and actions
Here, all the best to Steven Spiers as
He gets his case together, which i feel
Hardly needed, as recent history corroborates all claims that will be brought.)
The smiling bride, the handsome groom –
A happy couple, you’d assume –
Arranged before a camera’s click,
A moment captured, swift and slick.
The tension not apparent there –
Instead, a calm and lovely pair,
Which no observer would suspect
Was, from the stresses, close to wrecked.
Beneath their unsuspecting gaze,
Their married life, in every phase,
Awaits the pleasures and the pain
That newlyweds can’t ascertain.
Within its frame, on shelf or wall,
(Unless removed with break-up’s call)
The handsome groom and smiling bride
Stare at the future, side by side.
swimming
against currents
of constant confusion,
a comedy? a tragedy?
this life...
is it...
a cup half-full?
or perhaps half-empty?
'tis far more puzzlin' than jigsaw,
i'd say
no doubt
an enmeshment;
one cannot ascertain
the byzantine complexities
of it
in truth,
an entangled web
tough to extricate from;
untangling life's knots only get...
tighter.
Each year I get a letter
To make sure that I’m not dead.
There must be other ways
To check that info out, instead.
It’s from the T.R.S.*, which holds
Retirement accounts,
Keeping track of teachers’ monies
In their varying amounts.
I guess that sometimes people die
And relatives or friends
Pretend that person’s still alive
To claim those dividends.
So I have to take a picture
Of my government I.D.,
Plus a photo of a newspaper
That’s being held by me.
The headline must be visible
To ascertain the date
And I have to sign a form that says
I’m living and not late.
With A.I. and technology,
It seems that such a shot
Must be easy for someone to fake,
But maybe it is not.
At any rate, I sent the forms
And hope when they arrive,
Whoever checks them out will see
That I am still alive.
*Teachers’ Retirement System
Old memories can come and go
some stay within, and some we share
quite when they come, we do not know
they often creep up, unaware.
Then, do we often wonder why
old memories can come and go
some make us laugh, some make us cry
all taken from our own tableau.
A smell, a taste, a movie show,
wet dogs, a cut, a bruise, a kiss;
old memories can come and go
along with folk you’ve lost and miss.
And all the love, or hurt, or pain
to be, or been; this you will know;
that as you age, you ascertain
old memories can come and go.
If age is a constant then daydreams and nightmares
will cease to exist when the best of life is achieved
as maturity stabilizes at a level of immaturity favors
the innocence in confidence-mired ill-retrieved
those hopelessly enwrapped by rhetorical triggers
stemmed by the proposer amongst the ill-believed
'tis liken a heist at gunpoint to corner those regretters
to have brains (methinks) to cusps their mind deceived
and churned their souls to enter their relievers
and entertain the premature notion that they conceived
participants to ascertain the wherewithal of achievers
better or best consciously the line of inquiry perceived
to mull over and enter the zone as one of the leavers
to post with the best, to the winners be my best-wished.
I believe I may be Artificially Intelligent
For many of my lessons were taught by fools
Y’know, those pencil pushing test correctors
The teachers in all the schools
They gave us tests to ascertain
The truth of what they knew
That we’d complain about a D
On assignments over due
Taught us to write sentences
A task that seemed so dire
We went to sleep wrestling with
A dangling modifier
Teachers in the science lab
Their eyes slightly askew
Kept a clear path to the door
Never knowing what we’d do
Yet as it seems with all success
Like the day I hit a homer
I got to wear a funny hat
And pick up a Diploma
Thus, when they say: “must be AI”
I flash upon the past
Knowing that the “algorithm”
Would be tossed right out of class.
Explain
Short ?circuiting again,
Someone check the main,
There's an energy drain.
Rewire the brain,
Break the chain,
Let's end their reign.
I'll explain.
Subjected to pain,
Everyday strain,
To attain,
Financial gain.
Trying to maintain,
While they campaign,
Leaving a nasty stain.
Can someone explain,
Our money spent in vein.
The problems still remain.
It's insane,
Inhumane,
Our existence inane,
Trying to retain,
A piece of the mundane.
Spirit explains,
It's creating disdain,
On your inner plane.
Its Limiting our domain.
We need to retrain,
To Ascertain,
And Regain,
The power we contain.
Time to obtain,
The key to the arcane.
When I write
my goal is to be
impersonal as possible --
giving all credit
or defeat
to the Muse, Devil or
God of a partner.
To my mind,
Poetry, must speak independent of
the author, using a schizoid sort of
logic --
there must be a life
exhibited, that upon completion
the author, reads back with as
much interest as any foreign tourist or explorer
thinking: "where did that come from?"
Then I know, in my own humble way,
though not having touched the face of greater
creation, I have at least seen a small feature, moving on
with better sense of future direction, what to strive for
while in further pursuit of the art. Poetry, like everything else one does
in life, should be viewed through a sacred lens --
in order to do one's best, and for best results.... As I cloudily
ascertain. My method. I know nothing.
Billowy storm clouds turn to skies of azure blue
Agonizing pain fades when its days are through
The trek of life has its many ups and downs
Its seasons of smiles, its times of frowns
We hope more joy and gladness are recorded
Than all the heartache and sadness that’s reported
Yet troubles and trials are given that we might know
That adversities strengthen; crises help us grow
If all the joys were placed in a basket of cane
And all the pains put in another of the same
Then both are put on a balance scale at life’s end
Would they equalize or which one would ascend
Perhaps, it is just a matter of how one views life
Joys are difficult to evaluate amid strife
And pain often accompanies times of celebration
These tensions are oft together whatever the occasion
Daresay, it is not whether these tensions exist or not
Inner feelings of ecstasy or agony play their part
It’s how we handle and ascertain life’s various scripts
Life’s many ups and downs, its differential treatments
As I was headed home, a squirrel
Passed me going south.
I noticed him because he had
An acorn in his mouth.
Since winter’s not approaching,
I am curious to know
If squirrels still amass a stash
For when supplies run low.
Or was that nut for dinner
From his daily market run?
Or a late addition to a meal
His family’d just begun?
I have no way to ascertain
What’s stored within his nest
So, like many other mysteries,
I’ll give this one a rest.
In the days of wine and roses
April showers fresh the air
Garden sculptures change their poses
Streets are leading everywhere
Sun is shining through the curtain
Through the gluey young green leaves
And I’m fairly well ascertain
You’re the reason of all this
On the cloth of glowing satin
Bowl with fruits, and open cage
Magic songbird sings in Latin
Memories of Golden Age
Boats are gliding down the river
Ours is most lazy one
Wings of dragonfly in quiver
Shimmer with reflected sun
We were heading for tomorrow
But we docked at yesterday
Days of joy, and days of sorrow
Built that harbour of pale gray
Home together, here's the bind
Every morning brings new rose
Every evening brings new wine
It's exactly what we chose
Home, unreachable for troubles
Garden, always quite the same
Life’s a boy, who blows fine bubbles
On the picture of Millais.
For nigh on a hundred-fifty years it has graced the rugged shore of Maine!
Its welcoming beacon guiding sea-faring souls who sail the mighty main!
It has weathered untold fearsome storms of gale, snow, sleet and rain;
A faithful, stalwart sentry defying such nuisances, guarding its vast domain!
Old Captain Blair, its keeper, knows all too well the perils of the sea,
For he captained majestic sailing ships for many decades, you see.
He wearily climbs the circular stair to light the candles at close of day,
And with practiced eye, scans the roiling sea to ascertain that all is okay.
Alas, one dark and stormy night the US Frigate Arcturus met her fate!
A blinding fog and raging seas doomed the Arcturus on that fateful date!
The beam of the lighthouse could not be seen! There was naught to do!
The ship was dashed upon unforgiving shoals drowning her valiant crew!
The old lighthouse still guards that stretch of sea to this very day.
Modern lamps now cast their beam while Captain Blair sleeps 'neath the clay!
In the BEGINNING, at the surface, we both met,
Two strangers, excited and uncertain, yet to set.
Down the memory lane, doubts manifold did GROW,
Knowing not how we’d together learn and know.
Through seven years our journey before us unfurled,
From infancy to youth as the coil of time curled.
Crafted with CRESTS and troughs were the weeks and days,
And you showed me my good and ugly parts lost in a MAZE.
I had asked my adolescent dreams to spin me such a soul
That completes me and becomes my true WHOLE.
But you came and saw my happy, angry and restless sighs,
And dug out my FRAGMENTS under the clear skies.
I fail to ascertain if you are a friend, lover or foe,
In musing about VALENTINE, feelings seem to plateau.
I pondered intensely what a mate, a lover, an other half is,
He is a reflection of the level of fullness within, the inner bliss.
Love truly is not in sweet cuddles, romance and gifts
It is one’s core building block, an experience WITHIN that lifts.
Through you my love, I heal the broken pieces inside me,
In our bond unbreakable, you are a MIRROR forever to be.
Geology, the science of the earth,
elucidates the intricacies of
creation of continents and opening of oceans,
explores the complex framework
of the multilayered deep interior,
and unravels the enigmatic structure
of the mighty mountains,
deciphers from the fossils,
the evolutionary trends of life.
The arcane aspects of earth’s ancient architecture,
imprinted in the petrified rock strata,
enunciate the 4.5 billion year history of the planet.
My expertise as a geologist
lies in the study of rock structures,
that ascertain the deformation pattern,
consequential to the interplay of tectonic forces,
drifting the evolving continents,
forming the changing montage of mountain chains,
like the old Caledonia and the young Himalaya,
and creating earthquake-causing seismic faults,
like in the Saint Andreas and in the Anatolia.
A piece of rock is not just
a chunk of ordinary stale stone to me,
the lattice of the entwined minerals
enumerates the lyrical anecdote
of the eventful eons of the earth,
motivates me with poetic passion,
as I unfold the mysteries of the blue planet.
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