Let’s walk our talk and stand erect,
mindful of thoughts we think,
stirring love that aura be specked,
with hues of God’s bliss ink.
Awareness self-aware,
free from ego spawned snare,
lays in the void, heart bare.
We must not balk ~
Let’s walk our talk
Liar, Liar,
Truth on Fire
Hush little electorate,
Don't say a word
No one's gonna balk at a single turd
The Donkey fell down
and broke his Crown
and the Elephant came tumbling after
And Itsy Bitsy Liar
Climbed up the spout again.
What are the concepts onto which we hold,
the crutches we need in order to walk,
though mind stagnates from youth till we grow old
and as false beliefs continue to stalk,
a time comes when beholding light we balk?
As formless awareness, one with vast space,
there remains of wayward ego no trace,
whence thus bereft of both desire and fear,
poised in the vibrant void, we imbibe grace,
and then we feel God’s love and light draw near.
Today I found, right on the ground,
A giant pile of dirt - a mound -
Right where I walk, but did I balk?
No, since I still could walk around.
I was surprised, but I surmised
That gardeners had been apprised
Of lack of soil with which to toil
So it was left, as they'd advised.
This afternoon was opportune
To pass that spot and there was strewn
A tiny trace of what took place
This early morning, 12th of June.
The mound I'd passed had vanished fast,
Perhaps onto the gardens cast,
Its mystery now history
And certainly far from the last.
Please go ahead and talk talk
Anyway these people will stalk stalk
I don't want to walk walk
around or somewhere else, even though if I just need to rotate at my moms house
But don't scratch my face with the chalk chalk
Wait, will I notice?
Can I ecounter you? Because I always balk balk
It's okay you don't love or like me, just let my heart caulk caulk
But your sayings are making squawk squawk
Why do all now gawk gawk?
You can always knock knock
I will happily move like rock rock
Diaries left open and letters framed,
chronological ink waving from a horizon, gone.
Clothes hung to recreate a wedding, a dance, a touch –
enclosed in glass cases to trap the scent inside.
There’s a recording of his voice that skips
back through time. Her handprint in clay, cracked.
That first glass of wine, now cobwebbed, stained red,
next to teenage car keys rusted.
A prescription acts as evidence I tried.
Sawdust forms a path between pets
and my Walkman makes youth balk;
to them my VHS collection is alien.
Postcards curled from saltwater offer perfect snapshots
years before we scrolled for one.
A mortarboard on display alongside a bus pass, front door key and bank card.
A blade of Sefton Park grass pinned down like the wings of a butterfly.
Receipts of apologies. Candleholders waxed in missteps.
Maybe, one day, there’ll be a travelling exhibit where I finally get to meet you.
And the curator will add you, title card and all, to this museum of me.
As a city gal, I’m constantly
Aware of what surrounds me,
From everything familiar
To a sight that might astound me.
Yet always I am on alert,
Attuned to what I feel,
For danger may be lurking
In my mind or else for real.
It isn’t paranoia,
Just the way that things can be,
So I trust in my antenna
When a message comes to me.
Which is why I made a U-turn
Early morning, on my walk –
A suspicious guy, an empty path,
Appropriate to balk.
Most likely, he was harmless,
But without a second glance,
I just followed my antenna
In this urban-safety dance.
when more money spend
to me another bill send
on income depend
about game will talk
either was a hit or walk
or had been a balk
had been well rehearsed
for being best and not worst
in standing was first
when we heard God call
many sins caused us to fall
each one will appall
when my sins will hurt
God does serve meals with dessert
gives me a growth spirt
when we start to grieve
from the sins we do receive
will always relieve
I envy the poets
The ones who can disentangle the threads of their thoughts
And smoothen them out on paper
Each word, each letter, each curve of their quill laden with meaning, passion and emotion
These innocuous traces of ink
Do not mask the fervour in the minds of the poets
I balk at their audacity
And admire their ability
I wonder, do their words ever choke them, as mine do?
Has their voice ever been swallowed by fear?
Do their ink-stained hands ever shake and their eyes well up with ardour as they put pen to paper?
Meanwhile, I yearn for the identity of 'This Sublime Poet'
I ask myself: Am I a poet yet? Or simply a writer? Or am I just someone who uses words to emote?
Do my poems have an essence? A hidden interpretation derived by reading in between the lines? Or am I just one among countless others who hide behind the artificialities of language?
Do I possess any substance or do I lack it?
Am I the seed? Or the husk?
Or am I the fruit? Albeit the one that falls to the ground, wasted?
Written: February 28, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mayhem prevails as calm dries and stirs rise.
A ruckus erupts as words and deeds blend.
Oh, the wrath, related storm, and squall size.
Building burning blaze, to draw in hearts trend.
Dance and bustle, spark the soulful lost fire.
Wrath symphony loudly incites the crowd.
Rumpus drew seeing their whimsies were dire.
Slashes and ripples, ruffled wings, brisk loud.
Cloud voices, balk colder, fire with purpose.
Cyclone whirl, heat, and mayhem hurl the mind.
Through life, wards meet in a stirring service
Spoons, fluff, defiance, and keenness behind
A spark of hope with all this lapse and strife.
Grief may spark split, but it can propel life.
Ego no doubt played its role
but shrouded light of our soul,
so we now lay fears to rest,
that we may rise in light jest.
Earth life is designed to test,
that soul may rise to the crest
but God’s path of love and light,
holds firm delight, day and night.
With the flag of love unfurled,
thus in but not of the world,
we feel bliss mists in us spear,
till ego does disappear.
Ego that dies, never was
other than cause of our flaws
and with it gone, soul’s light shines,
as presence with God aligns.
We yet need to walk the talk,
taking care never to balk,
that awareness self-aware,
lays before God, it’s soul bare.
Knowledge, science hateful be
To those who never doubt they’re right –
Those who have eyes but will not see.
They shy from logic, discussion flee…
In vitriol and rants delight,
They choose, they choose stupidity.
Proof be damned! What’s “A” plus “B”?
No time for such, those without sight,
Those who have eyes but will not see.
Prefer do I a mind set free,
They balk…for ignorance they fight,
They choose, they choose stupidity.
Read books, newspapers, history…
Join not that intellectual blight,
Those who have eyes but will not see –
They choose, they choose stupidity.
These days my wife and I are in Australia for a holiday
We walk down to Coogee beach every other day
A signage screams, ‘racism not welcome’
‘Who’re they addressing’ we hum
Opposite is McDonalds eat out
From within we hear an Aussie shout
‘I don’t like your accent, yellow skinned girl’
In silent rage the hair on my arms begins to curl
Now, Aussies are mostly quite friendly and affable
Yet what we narrate too is fact and not fable
One rotten apple gives all a bad name
But the braggart, he had no shame
Why did McDonalds serve this man
Such idiots get away because they can
It is high time we get together to walk the talk
Punishment should be swift and we should not balk
Embrace it for it is yours
Stand up, be proud and carry it
Walk in it and complete your chores
The world is waiting so go ahead and
scratch the itch
Through the rain and in the sunshine
Continue your mighty walk
Travail through all darkness with guidance
from the divine
Steady your pace and make sure not to
balk
O' rhapsody! Soulfully move and groove upright
No bending or cowering to the shadow
Stand in it and carry the light
Take the lead; no need to follow
Never dim it
to cover their shadow
Proudly carry it
while playing the banjo
Now, go on
Carry the light.
Shine,
Shine on
Endure the long night.
Shine,
Shine on
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they face whirlwind snowfall, freezing ice,
while others brazenly squirm,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
of this genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
velvet moon worlds sidereal captured,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
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