Choosing curtains on Sunday
is not my luxury
My curtains carry
marbled discoloration
as if they too survived
a separate war
Choosing curtains,
couches and bathroom tiles
is another life
It was my Grandmother’s
It is my mother’s
I do not plan cruises
or buy original art
(unless it is mine,
assembled originally
from The Dollar Tree)
I made a haunted house tonight
from the scrapings of my attic
full of what will be displayed
for comfort’s sake
again and again
My life is a plastic bat
glued to a plastic leaf
glued to a piece of wood
I left the ghosts
safely in the attic
next to a box of trains
of my great uncle’s
who had Alzheimer’s
in the end
No one assembles them now
All the skeletons
are still waving at me
Poetry, a Piece of Life
-----------------------------------
Words move around in the mind
That assembles them well to bind
To assimilate with emotions behind
From heart and head gives information grand
To create a sense,add rhythm in its blend.
All these making sentences tend
To be placed line by line to mend
stanzas expressing meaning at the end.
Thus a poetry is conceived of and
Meant to be enjoyed and a present.
Poetry is an invaluable piece of life
That makes life alive and happy to strive .
Glass currents shimmer past the moonlit veil
Lost figures glimmer through a drifting trail
Silent lanterns hover over the deep
Aged memories cover what shadows keep
Neon whispers rattle in restless air
Walled patterns tattle secrets without care
Midnight pulse trembles under a cracked sky
Restless vision assembles truths we deny
It suddenly occurred to me,
in a moment
of rare clarity,
that there are women
who buy cuckoo-clock
puzzles,
and then,
there are women
who assemble them.
I am proudly,
the second type,
even if that makes me
belong inside
the clock.
I feel terrible
for whomever
assembles these
inglorious bastards,
aka lasered wooden
pieces (from H-E-
double toothpicks).
That spells Hell
for the slower
readers following along
at home.
I have already
scrounged around,
twice,
on my hands and knees
looking for pieces
that popped off.
Meanwhile,
I ask myself:
“how did I get here?
Is this life?”
If so, I am happy
and the clock
makes sense,
even if life doesn’t
cuckoo,
or announce the hour
on time.
It is five o'clock somewhere
And the porch is still there
There are cocktails, and the a swing that still sways
With the wind and the whispers
We will all meet here
With our memories of those yesterdays
At the end of West Road
We watch fireworks explode
From the porch on the Fourth of July
Now our children are grown
We thank God for His gift of new life
We share pictures and days tell
Of memories we won't sell
On the porch until the middle of night
From two months to ninety
The stories get mighty
On the porch that assembles the time
Through our lives and our eyes
We had a guide in the porch light
That shines on and through each passing year
On Sunny Hillside Farm this day
Family takes their place
For another photo on the porch wresting time
The doorbell rings less
As dust assembles
On once polished seats
The old coffee pot
Misses a few beats
As cups gather hopefully
Voices linger
Held by the silence
Seeking a response
The phone chimes
A face time visitor
Fulfilling a duty
Soon they will share
Unvalidated memories
Speak of love
Their words will be lost
In the silence
The turning wheel of time
stirs up the dust of disarray,
that settles in the crumbling cauldron
of disordered life of illusion.
In the maiming moments
of disdained dejection,
truth tumbles in the mélange
of disorientation chaos.
Under the fantasy firmament
psyche in desertic isolation,
embedded in mindscape imagery,
suffering desiccated and lonely,
searches for a novel niche
in self-constructed reverie
to get a spellbound shelter
of captivating hope in frustration.
Dormant notion then invents dream,
steers mind into domain of delusion.
A thing made is destined to break,
but not by the will of the creator,
for whom the sense of time collapses,
making the frame of timeless trance,
where the dreamer assembles relentless
the shifting scenes of desire dreams.
The montage etched by the trail of mirage,
migrating in dunes of desolation,
makes collage of dream in deluded mind
against backdrop of nocturnal oasis.
The dreamer doesn’t see the dawn,
for the soul sleeps entranced deep within,
can’t escape self-built illusory maze,
until divine consciousness makes wake-up call.
like Icarus choking on his wing’s wax
Phoenix too laden with ashes to rise
Sisyphus stoned by rock bottom
an Angel suffocating on its halo
the witch seeks to be a Fairy Queen
assembles the mirror of Self and
seeks solace in prayer and meditation
one cannot give what has not been received
Janus will have to gather a third face for the present
looking backward and forward does not suffice
to overcome the deluded nature of an illusion
the only permanent matter is impermanence
either one honestly grasps nascent reality
or corporeality strangles immanent awakening
the Buddha can transcend without fig tree or rice bowl
not every robe has to shine in bright orange
and yet a rainbow needs sunshine as well as dark clouds
tantra means woven together and providence
patchwork for the mosaic and tapestry of life
no more threadbare rags nor shards of broken magic
in wonder and marvel lie imagination and miracles
wisdom is knowing what can and cannot be changed
humility and serenity require arduous work
to achieve some degree of spiritual connection
The morning comes slowly,
first with a faint glow growing
in the sky above the fence,
then lifting to prod the feet
of clouds as if to wake them
and raise their rain heavy weight
up off the horizon.
My body fills the contours
of an old chair, positioned to catch
the first rays coming through
the window to see off the long night.
There are times when I feel
that the darkness will never end,
a thick black pall falling
across all thought,
but it goes and I begin
to take in the day. Some trick
of memory assembles me again,
puts me in a familiar place where
I know where the cups
and the coffee beans are kept
and somewhere
in my mind a gallery opens
with wall after wall
of familiar faces
and pictures of the past,
time stamped and strung out
way back to where all becomes
an impenetrable blur, nothing more
than a dreamless sleep out of which
I emerged as me
from the mystery of ‘before’.
She never seemed shattered; to me, she was a breathtaking mosaic of the battles she’s won. – Matt Baker
One single teardrop trembles
On the edge of my lashes
Darkest despair assembles
Rising from smoking ashes
Emotions driven by light
On the edge of my lashes
Quiet faith, souls will ignite
Despite the heart whose broken
Emotions driven by light
Once prayers go unspoken
Souls despair of praise rising
Despite the heart whose broken
Pain that is so surprising
Mourning love that’s forgotten
Souls despair of praise rising
When heartbroken, life’s rotten
One single teardrop trembles
Mourning love that’s forgotten
Darkest despair assembles
You pretend I am a dream
Worthless as a crooked seam
Love you are in my heart
A patient delved from the start
So easy to pretend I am fake
Your heart assembles when I wake
But truly I feel and envy you
You swallow my heart like you do
I am you you are me
Stop lying my soul and set us free
What power you have
Only you must know
Love conquers all
A heartfelt blow
It is your fault I dare say
Emptiness will be my drain
I free you my heart
Will all my love
A godsent blessing
So high above
Entangled we are as one
Until are life is fully done.
Bibelot
When — ever I peep into my heart
Who frightens me with Ego Skirt
Humbly, humbly whispers in me
Catch the Bibelot, seeing in me
Awakens me to vitalize mine passions
Slowly, slowly assembles the new relations
Humbly, humbly whispers in me
Catch the Bibelot, seeing in me
Sense then rings the facts bell
Gain my vine which I sell
Humbly, humbly whispers in me
Catch the Bibelot, seeing in me
Shed your blood for humanity strong
Sacrify thine self for lasting long
Humbly, humbly whispers in me
Catch the Bibelot, seeing in me
Fleas, ticks, and parasites are the bane of pets and pet owners. They require medications. It is a well know veterinary fact that to administer medications to a dog is simple: “wrap it in bacon and toss it to the dog”. Cats, however, are much more medication savvy and resist the idea that descendants of Cleopatra’s litters need any. Thus, the dilemma, send the cat back to Pharaoh or battle the ferocious Fang and Claw Master. He assembles the towels, the eye droppers, the welding gloves, sends out a prayer request, and proceeds. To date he believes he has been successful as the cat is still stalking the neighborhood. He understands the cat as he will take no medication “willingly” and is a complete “joy” when visiting his doctor's offices. He also understands the dog as he too loves bacon.
John G. Lawless
©4/29/2023
"Daydreams, let the music play on as dreams come true." Quote by poet
Beautiful young girl
Listens to a violin playing
As she embraces her loving instrument,
Dreams of playing in an orchestra
The soothing, warm, rich, clear, and relaxing sounds of the violin
While in concerts discipline.
The slow, dips, and peaks pitch sounds reverberate,
As the bow dances around the strings and filtrates
Playing SONG ESCALA - CHI MAI as it escapes
An image of a couple unites,
In her mine Listening to the violin play
Waltzing with the soothing sound as it assembles
As a floating feather touches down,
On the veranda
She is in her finest long flowing gown,
He is in black tails, white ties and gloves,
Under the splendor of the brightness full moon and stars.
Listening to a violin playing
As she embraces her loving instrument
And dreams of the day she will be the one playing
And waltz Under the splendor of the full brightness of the moon and stars.
4/20/2023
Rewrite 12/26/2014
Enamel finger-smeared thick with butter
Yellow onions, yellow butter, floured and browned
Just add cream
From roux to dream
Now spice to glue that hold my world together
The team assembles for its tasty mission
Cheddar, gouda, mozz and more
Thick sheets of ham
Tubers sliced translucent
Layered, latticed, clothed in white bliss
Sealed deep into my black Dutch Oven
Four hundred twenty-five degrees, twice boiling
Every five minutes, I keep checking
Time warps
seconds are hours
Only half done, removing the covering
Top comes off, melting marbarella muck
Gilded golden gruyere
Splattering over spuds
Swirling cheese seas
Miasmic fragrant fromage tauntingly teased air
Beep! Beep! Beep! It's done!
Don't waste a moment
Too hot to taste
Bubbling lava lake
Slowly crusting cheesy skin emerging from the oven
Finally, the soup solidified, gooey cultured cream
Ready for the fork and spoon
Potatoes caked
Ham baked
Reality as gastro-goodness manifested dream
Onto my plate, my fork, my palette, my bliss
Sub Categories
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