Best Acuity Poems
PLAYING THE GAME Of POKER
At the table,
the dealer begins the game,
passing out set number of cards,
players ready to exhibit mental acuity.
A full house of masterminds,
getting familiar with the cards,
playing different variations of the game.
everyone with a target.
We fold, check, call or raise,
strategizing on how to topple the other,
straight, stud, draw or community,
mostly, same rule applies.
The game of poker,
quite similar to life.
simple,yet complex!
requires a lot of maths and psychology.
It's a bet, full of trials and errors.
Some rely on their tenacity and courage,
their adroitness and tactics,
for maximum result.
Some compromise it all,
yet, no aroma of fresh fruits.
some run out of chips, even before they get a chance to play.
We all are players,
playing the mean game of poker,
round the clock,
with dexterous manoeuvre.
The difference is,
some have mastered the soft skills,
and have become connoisseurs of the game.
while some are still baking in the oven.
In this game of life,
sometimes we win,
sometimes we lose.
we all bet,we all play.
mr. President
say these words
after me:
maintain distance
wear mask
wash hands
now, please repeat aloud in that order
or any order
Mind marooned
in complex convolution,
obscurity singular
in each living entity.
The psyche silhouettes
unique elements,
to alien attributes
they won’t adhere.
The reserved recess
hides the riddles,
sub-conscious search
completely clueless.
Probing entreaty,
the preserve persuasive
of outside world,
can’t contrive
the forsaken mind.
A pining prisoner
of own making,
a crumpled cocoon in
introvert isolation,
I see subsided
all the faces fading
faceless in oblivion,
me wedged secluded
in egoistic web
of self-adoration.
My morphed mind
turns Nemesis,
makes a mirror
of mirage for me.
Gazing gripped,
lurching to the oasis,
it’s only me
I always see,
reflected radiant
from cobalt cauldron
of the luring lake,
confined content.
In self-veneration,
a pretentious perspicacity
of fake facsimile,
I notice Narcissus
in me lonely lurk.
A secret switching
over to obsession,
specter senseless
lies latent,
languishes listless
beneath brazen layers
of arctic acuity
in the dark,
frozen…
Reflections on the Loss of Vision
by Michael R. Burch
The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels
that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls,
remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,
that it seems if I tried
and just closed my eyes,
I could once again be nine or ten.
The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall,
hunch there, I know, in the concealing snow, yet now I can't see them at all.
For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,
some things that I saw
when I was a boy,
are lost to me now in my advancing years.
The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese now preparing to leave
are there as they were, and yet they are not; and though it seems childish to grieve,
who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?
Well, in a small way,
through the passage of days,
I have learned some of his loss.
For, as a young boy I endeavored to see things most adults could not—
the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite spots.
But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,
and it seems such a waste
of those far-sighted days,
to end up near blind in this wood.
Keywords/Tags: reflections, loss, vision, visionary, child, childhood, eyesight, perspective, perceptiveness, acuity, age, aging, cataracts, blindness, time, days, years, decades, near-sighted, far-sighted
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The likes uv many have
entered
welcome
well c'mon
let's unravel he
let's not
let's eavesdrop
'twuz the fine late spring
mid day 'twuz it
yesss 'twuz
Thar her'z stood
'pon rusty angle iron steps
In'flight
The second story'd ware house
Whilst hern journey's
Up
Her dome swiftly
((snaps))
Over mine own
Mine dome
Her eyne shifted
Right
Whilst hern stared into
The mulberry trees
i mine self in bramble
Thorn after thorn
Bore each prick
Enjoying
hern bare
Ooops
I mean rare
"'twuz "bare"
would i've waisted the
tap"
*he would{haz}')
A spark ignited when our paths first crossed,
Your knowledge kindled, my ignorance tossed.
From a timid flicker to a steady glow,
Our bond, like embers, began to grow.
Your wisdom blazed, a guiding light so bright,
Illuminating truths are once hidden from sight.
In learning's heart, our spirits intertwined,
A sacred fire of mentor and mind.
But time, relentless, feeds on mortal flame,
And even the wisest cannot remain.
Your light now fades, yet lingers in the air,
A warmth remembered, beyond compare.
The pyre of knowledge you so proudly built,
Now, it smoulders low, leaving me with guilt.
For lessons missed and questions left unasked,
As twilight falls on your final task.
In ashen whispers, your teachings persist,
Through smoky memories, too precious to resist.
Though you are gone, your spark lives on in me,
A flame of wisdom, burning ceaselessly.
Your absence chills, yet warms me all the same,
For in my heart, you're an eternal flame.
I tend this ember, with reverence and care,
Honouring the light we used to share