Poetry is what happens when your mind stops working, and for a moment, all you do is feel. ~The 2nd-century Greek philosopher, Atticus.
giving lip service to trending topics
might ensure a broad reach
with ample accolades
but does the multitude
actually read the words bleeding on your page
written to the heartbeat of fear?
history does not prepare us for the reality
where we are now adrift in uncharted waters
our voices drowned out
by a tsunami of opinions
even in the legend of Noah’s ark
the basic human need of a partner
is understood
I don’t have a need for the populace
but an innate need of you
just to sit with me
as we ignore the broader reach of Lilith’s shadow
washing over mankind
much the dew clinging to grass
dawn’s breath on the clover
diamond’s without gruff
sparking the wind chimes
in the autumn’s glades
as the sun begins to climb
a familiar face to see
a hello
a new day to live
as you take the first day walk
smooth and bitter
in autumn
Collaboration with Atticus Abbey
coined by night with closing of eyes
shadows fall with a hush of silence
and weightless gravity incognito
of the dark fading to indigo
bleeding into the sheets
of the quiet abyss
dissolving into nocturnal dreams
the dreams of yesterday, today and tomorrow.
chewing eternity in the mouth.
felt always bitter and sweet
oh so sweet.
Collaboration with Atticus Abey
As time slips away falling a pocketful of sand
in gravity between my fingers of thumb and
memory lost in temporary like a clockwork
ticking measured in hours among the stones
leaving only dust and schizophrenia with ghosts
in my Lenovo as time slips away falling
listening to the Rorschach echo,
“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick”
It is the echo of city, be like that, be like this. As I drift slowly on the narrow streets.
The ghosts and schitzophrenia keeping me company. The morning seems far away. It is dark here in the city of ghosts.
Collaboration with Atticus Abbey
Always feather the curfew
Of bitten lip
Homework Assignments illustration book report
For Rupi
Reading, Writing, hearing, learning
Atticus poetry pending
Messaged
For Constance's Contest. 25/7/25
"Said the young man, I dont believe in magic - Replied the old man, when you first see her you will" Atticus.
Our time has come for us to slow the pace.
Just relax, enjoy each other's embrace.
Letting this rendition enter your soul.
And allow your thought waves to take control.
There is time to settle back, close your eyes.
Repose with restful calm, as it implies.
Immerse yourself in all my devotion.
To feel the power of our love potion.
Every offer of relief, not subdued.
Make time for respite, in our interlude.
Cid once said that I was his Final Fantasy
Cid lied...or did he?
I am thinking of all the sweet cucumber melon frits I have eaten.
And as a strenuous Soul once said to the Earth Goddess, "I am impeccable.", I roared back, "Impudity."
For I once was a seagull, high in dementia. Now I'm a porecilan pear just barely stinging TO dementia; my collar bone has no quarries. I am alone in this vast world unraveling, unwavering itself as a steady snail's pace at me, unto me. Unto ME.
For why in the world am I in such worry, Fizzle-Mc-Drizzle? Why am I seeing myself grope and sweep and sweat the night away into musty odors fit like a king of Barnaely?
Have I no compassion? The voice I hear as my echoing consciousness from Spirit World seems to think so.
For what world have I come from, strange inaudible Titan Atlas and Atticus still murmuring over the book, "To kill a Mockingbird?" Am I THAT preconscious?
Have I no compassion? The voice I hear inside my echoing head seems to think so from Spirit World.
Oh! Spitit Word...! Oh, of WGAT?
*The poet waits quietly to paint the unsaid*
6 million or more flowers to honor the dead
It's such a little thing-- remembrance, with flowers
a labor of love that would take many hours
Hardly even a start to make reparation
for the Shoah's lost lives, mass graves, and cremation
Wish this project were allowed, and I could take part
at the very least I pray --garlands from my heart
*by "Atticus"?
(This is a poem I wrote just now, in order to illustrate a point with this piece of art I did recently on FineArtAmerica, now giving it the same name as this poem, Hours of Flowers. So... I found an old photo of a guard tower and empty concentration camp field behind barbed wire -- in the public domain -- and eventually revamped it using Pixlr... I placed and re-sized each blossom, and added prayer-warrior faces and hands to the scene. I think it's also inspired by reading "Behind the Canvas" by Alexander Vance... imagining that if only my canvas could spring to life and make a positive impact on humanity...???)
I look for you in the stars,
and in the streets,
and all the people I greet.
I look for you in books of poetry.
Such a place to find,
yet unaware that I'm
lost, like a button.
Arrive home from work to flip through pages
of a book I knew as a child, yet still
not remember the reason, so special
then.
It was though, so special..
Watched 'To kill a Mockingbird',
recalled fond memories of Scout and Jem.
A proud Atticus Finch..,
and Tom Robinson.
But today's me isn't the same,
as the me I remember.
More akin to a cartoon, a paper cut out,
a meme.,
compared to the wide eyed child of then.
~~~~~ To Kill a Mockingbird - Novel by Harper Lee, 1960 ~~~~~~
In the tangle of if and but, we reside,
Decisions unmade, regrets as our guide.
Stuck in a quagmire, unable to soar,
A frost-covered window blocking the door.
A message I received late at night, to which I replied:
With Santiago's spirit, we'll get through.
We shall rise, like bruised Hemingway's hero,
Through if and but, we shall find,
Decisions ahead, leaving regrets behind.
With Atticus Finch's courage, we shall navigate,
Through this difficult path and curvy strait,
Breaking free from the quagmire's hold,
A door to new horizons as mysteries unfold.
Before Matilda, before Harry Potter and Hermione Granger,
When I was a child, there was Pippi Longstocking, full of danger.
Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden were my mystery go-to books.
You could not rouse me from their adventures with grappling hooks.
I discovered Jo March in Little Women Christmas Day 1964.
Robin Hood and Little John I was soon also rooting for.
Atticus Finch in to Kill a Mockingbird was lovely to read.
I devoured books the way a horse eats with a bag feed.
Today children have so many heroes and super heroes.
But back in the day, we did not have nearly as many.
After I discovered science fiction and Guy Montag,
I guess I started opening my horizons; then I had plenty.
"We were
strange in love,
her and I.
Too wild to last,
too rare to die."
- Atticus
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She left me brokenhearted
When we parted
She loves no more
She left me lone and crying
Heart is dying
I feel so sore
She left my soul in pieces
Now time ceases
I barely live
She left me sad and broken
Words unspoken
Won't she forgive?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He left me brokenhearted
He departed
Can't live with me
He left me in deep anguish
Now I languish
We couldn't agree
He left me shattered and hurt
I didn't assert
My love for him
He left me bare, my soul cries
Tearful my eyes
As chances dim
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We left each other too soon
Our passions croon
It's not too late
We give it another chance
Now our hearts dance
True love's our fate
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
30th January 2023
We live our lives so free and easy
not thinking for a moment all we hear
stop for a moment think what you've heard
even in past 24 hours so much so near
Our minds taking into our thoughts
so much dirt and damaging stuff
we need a cleansing filter there
to make a stop, say that's enough!
Why do we drink this poison easily?
can't it be seen in the glass?
surely it's clear, your eyes to see
we really listen to too much gas
Why don't we turn it off at source?
take no chances again anymore
the effects makes us feel sick
just get up out the exit door
Poisoning our mind from a glass
never should it touch our lips
knowledge increased to cut it off
be clean be spotless on your trips
("We drink the poison our minds pour for us and wonder why we feel so sick.")
- Atticus (Philosopher)
Smoke Screen of Suspense
Was such a smoke screen of suspense;
Seemed to start getting more intense;
Labored a while;
Had been style;
Riot they did incense with their incense.
Perfect can be created with much practice,
Unless you happen to be sitting on a cactus;
Screeching loud,
But still proud;
In to Kill a Mockingbird you will find Atticus.
Truly Holy God has been and thou art;
Lives with us and forever He won't part;
Was pure jubilee
For you and me;
Which we always knew from very start.
Jim Horn
There’s no one as funny as Atticus
To go fishing he wrote out a syllabus
He outlined his day
Made a magnificent play
Yet caught with his squid more octopus
© Sep 27 2010 Charles Henderson
Placed 7th in Carolyn Devenshire's "Sea Tale Limerick" contest
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