Best Cycled Poems
Mother' has no nature,
T’s mind’s illusion,
Brings to that conclusion,
T’was God' who made the worlds,
And saves from perils,
Also the vast expanse,
T’was not by chance,
By great explosion'
Was God’s exposing,
His inner self, to some degree,
That all could see,
What nature' Love be,
The Tower' of power,
The great bang'
Scientist claim,
Brought our world to fame,
Power of God’s great quality,
Brought forth this great quantity,
Love is the nature of it all,
Because of God’s call,
It doth not fall,
By love’s intention,
God’s invention,
Of spinning intention,
Black holes'
Are only God’s goals,
They only remold,
When forms grow old,
And finish their intention,
Of love’s invention,
Recycling the universe,
Getting ready, for re-disperse,
Re-forming new forms,
No cause to be alarm,
Great consciousness' the- God-of bliss,
Keeps up--with-all-of -this,
Some call, great cosmic mind,
Doth keep aligned,
The worlds are fine,
The great cosmic mind’s,
Nature love, is fine,
Keeping all aligned,
And purely refined,
Mother is in line,
Till end of time,
Love's gold' Life cycled,
Doth never grow old,
Re-cycle, Re-mold'
Love' God's Gold!!
9-18-09 [email protected]
If I were the president,
in our fatherland, no citizen will be a bastard
and mutual respect, our networking web.
If I were the president
the people will be my senate
and their satisfaction my template.
If I were the president
all sectors will be cycled with excellence
all human needs will be met with kindness.
If I were the president
cremation of human disasters fully executed
our mentality will be built in love.
If I were the president
good ideas, I’ll romance
into reality, I’ll convert.
If I were the president
life will be a comfort zone
with every compatriot a beneficiary.
If I were the president,
the simple flow of Life would be applied;
basic made basic, luxury made luxury.
If I were the president
health, mobility, literacy and justice
would be rights, not privileges.
This third world I see
would be transformed to the first, I dream of,
so God……… Make me the president that we need.
I listened for the rain,
it emerged slowly now and again
from a crepuscular caliginus sky,
the tenebrous mist that trickled down lightly in the by and by
as if they were drops of salted tears
shed by an unseen entity's fears;
it was the dream that seemed far away
to hover throughout the day
with scattered light cool breezes
beating and flushing the tree leaves into the eaves,
spitting, spewing, snaking, swirling for all to see
stretching just above the distant canopies;
for once the weather predictions were spot on,
it remained overhead for three days within the briar
each day more intense than the prior,
no reprieves as it fell west to east
and cycled back again from the ocean to land to feast
on shorelines, forests and homes as if a wild, relentless beast;
the drops were big and cold
chilled by some northeast winter's scold
quiet then loud drumming on every roof,
streams and puddles formed aloof
into places where footsteps once abound,
the earthy musk odors rising from the ground,
now the lush grass rolled over
patted down the pelted clover
bowing in submission to the stormy drover;
I heard its' tumultuous cry
rocking, pitching while on the fly
without a whisper or a word before it died,
I heard it,
the rain sighed.
...inspired by a Dylan Thomas short story.
A breezy day, and two boys biking down the lane,
past meadows green with envy, soft as spring.
Picnic-packed and ready for the day's adventure.
They passed hikers. "Hey, lend us yer bikes!" they cried.
The lads whizzed by, not giving them a second thought.
"I bet them's fire cows," Jimmy said, (he had a wild
imagination.) "Nah, them's Holsteins, don't be daft!"
said John. The air was full of magic, and the sky
alive with seagulls. The ocean glinted to their right,
sparkling like the twinkle in a young girl's eyes.
They hurried to their destination, breathless with
anticipation, hurtling to a Neverland they'd mostly
seen in pictures, a rocky outcrop, pounded by
the waves, a fearsome confrontation with the sea.
A playground where imaginations wander.
“I bet there's dragons in them caves,” said Jimmy,
"and trolls and such, with fangs and fiery breath!"
“You're crazy!” countered John, (he read the Bible),
“'sides there's Jesus, He will shelter you from death
for now, make sure you're well and in good health."
Skittering on slabs as slick as ice fields,
tottering like lambs who've found their legs;
they played until the frigid water beckoned,
then splashed and frolicked, ducking from the heat.
Opening their back packs now, they settled down to eat.
It was then, the first time they'd discussed it,
Wally, Jimmy's brother, gone to God;
dead from cancer barely two weeks previous,
disconnected, laid beneath the sod.
Their tones were sullen, conversation somber.
“Is Wally with the Angels?” Jimmy questioned,
“Yes he is,” said John, “and safe at rest.”
They cycled home in silence, friends together,
and settled in their beds, forever blessed,
the moon endowed their dreams, a welcome guest.
The faintness of flight overwhelms me
boxed in caged, corseted, in a cattle car of the air
pristine bells and whistles cajole the herd
as the breath is cycled and recycled through the
bellows of plasticine and metal
germs jumping from orifice to orifice
knees crushing bosoms braced for the portent
the potential
the promise
of the fall.
Faintness elicits only minor response
from the tenders who un-tenderly steer the crowd
small moans garner memories of the mallet falls..
but fail to unseat the kindness
so needed..sought
watery eyes wave
and the floor seems the only safety
and still the settlers stay settled in their complacency..
neither rising to gift an aged woman with their perch
or commenting as she hits the floor
ah the joys of twenty first century flight
in the belly of Virgin America.
Jack sits in the wheelchair in the grass
a rebel nerd, he thinks of the time
when he cycled up Teton Pass
by a stream through walls of pine
Obsessed, this viewpoint vampire
his memory full of hill and vale
A landscape loon, an odd desire
But now his body is his jail
The harried nurse to her surprise
Distracted from a patient's cries
sees a vision in Jack's fogged eyes
lakes and forests and crimson skies
[chorus]
In each scene, views so grand
At six thousand feet, he biked along
Never quite reached the Promised Land
But the last verse is not the song
Kate sits in the same old age home
A relic from a bygone show
Her friends long dead, she's now alone
Her melody no longer on the radio
She was warm and could be all heart
Now a meteor in afterburn
She knows that bodies fall apart
Resigned or not, the wheel must turn.
[outro]
Jack and Kate were luckier than some
They were free, knew right from wrong
They lived a long life, and had their fun
The last verse is not the song.
In the dim and distant past, i cycled around
Slow and fast, past sleepy houses, on small city blocks.' In the morning fresh when its not yet hot ' sometimes a daring
Cat shot in front, aloof and sleek, no play for me then on bots..I recall the rich sent of
Fresh cut lawn, before the day would swallow, this placid morn' i recall milk bottles sitting on front door stoops, as pidgeons scattering, as the hawk broke loose, out a of a blue yonder, with whistling
Wings, echoing the sound of my bike wheels, as i turn for home i hear the church
Bell ring.'
Sitting on the shelf like a broken teacup
I go on despite these difficult moments
I run into myself with Irish green eyes and permanent tear stained cheeks
I've endured the immensity of agony
I’ve turned down all those so-called hot lovers sulking in this harsh yellow land
I wrestle with the ongoing struggles of this evil world
No…nobody can go backwards
You see, you and I were never meant to be
So...don't tell me your hurt is my fault
I’ve assessed these holes in my life-have you assessed yours?
It was a lifetime ago…forever gone in all that I was
In a curious way I’ve known the debris of myself ...
I’m more damaged than I care to admit
Here I am…pathetically sitting in the rubble of where my heart lives
A thin-skinned loner- a re-cycled me of who I used to be
I can't waver yet again, to take another chance at love
I've known too much time away from it all
So evident in the moment of my blinding conscience
Pondering the un-gentleness of things
That should have been beautiful...but were not
And so, I pick up the pieces of my broken soul
From a broken love that was never meant to be
I'm in for a new change of lifestyle - a new change of heart
A release of all those emotions that were tearing me down
The old life I knew, I threw away with the teacup
I got a new life, a new cup, and I'm forgetting you and the past
"Dearly beloved, "We are gathered here today to witness,
The wickedness of these times."
"Blessed", fortunately, its ending soon."
To radio stations phone-it.
"Wait!, No!, Next month.
"Taking the kiddies fishing."
"Perhaps we should postpone it."
"Reminds me, of an ole story.
"My, dear neighbor, now long past away."
"Bought a two-thousand watt light bulb."
"Used it to clean the lint from his toe nail."
"Then handed it over to me."
"Which item?", he asks.
"The lint or the bulb?"
"That's for you to decide."
"For extra credit, predict when the bulb burns out."
How the truth sometimes hurts.
For he loves us, and we love Him.
Faithfully digesting a breakfast sermon
Hard garlic salami, and dried prunes.
Oh , dear Paul.
Why was Moses punished?
He loves us.
In spite of our gas masks.
Even blesses our vents.
Just look at me.
I,m sure we meet before.
I,m wearing the inspector Klusoe badge.
Hiding near the back row.
Wearing an "Eddie Haskell", smile.
No mask , though, I,m tough.
I sure would like to tattle, on that darn kid.
Carefully rolling his perfect round gum wad.
Leaving it at the front door.
Tattle on that old fogy.
Hiding a re-cycled stogy.
Near the front bush.
About anybody unannounced,
Can bounce-in, these days!
Hard-core corporate sinners.
Hard working, making this world better?
With what thanks?
To greet the other side in hell?
If we don,t get to them.
Perhaps us as well.
Without Grace.
Sure would like to tattle,
On those arriving at the last minute.
Budgeting time, to edit a grocery list.
Tattle?, to Who?
Tattle on ladies, so easily upset.
If the closing clock, past noon strikes.
They must sell powerfully minted cookies.
Serving such a needed feast.
Considering whats for breakfast.
Dear Jesus, can you explain?
Why you cursed the fig branch?
So Our sports fans can understand?
Boy would I ever like to tattle,
On that little, freckled faced girl.
Sneaking in her kitten.
Us listening, to penetrating competitive "Meows."
"We are the cats meow."
"Not hippo-critters."
So please join Us.
123 altogether sing.
"We love Him."
"We love them."
They love Us."
"Love"," one-another."
Sounds absolutely crazy, doesn't it?
I enter my primeval room lit with candles
from an ethnic sanctuary, and revisit
the mural of ancestral stories
where horses and men flock to graze
the oracles of generational chants
along a temple of ceremonies fed by rituals
now slowly molding in my mind…
the old folk confessions and communion
of decades cycled and recycled
by a rare history: parables marching back
to fables of peace -gongs and Asian warlike drums
claimed by time, claimed by my elder's rice wine,
that marrow against marrow
my flesh entwines among brave natives --
brothers of protection...mothers who nourish homes
as this ancestry cascades unto next heirs
of heirs of children like myself
bequeathing ruins and triumphs from
wise old souls, from our men’s legends…
and as the candle drifts,
my origin's history floods
these veins: I climb into life’s inner roots
and there my great forefather dwells
inside my blood... feisty, gentle, life-giving:
that somehow, I carry his heritage today,
I am his blood.
John Hamilton's Ancestral Roots
Submitted 6/10/2017
COPLA 75 INVOCATION : This Bad Guy World
If it weren’t for the experiment
Why would our past lives not be known :
Is karma writ
Who among us asked to be re-sent
Barring Bad Guys re-cycled re-born :
Bodies aren’t knit
Don’t guys out there stir the gene pot
To screw up our World with bad juice :
Fun games by far
Make Good Guys stew in bad juice pot
Just to see them turn to Bad Guy Muse :
Deurmekaar
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
age, body, fantasy, future, how i feel, humor, me,
Plastic Life ©
A life with plastic fill
Brings one to recycle
Recycled ‘life’ predicts
A future made Robotic
With recycled plastic parts!
Not to be replaced when worn
With another recycle or two
But recycled there-in as once more!
Strange new thoughts that come to my mind
Surface while taking once more a springtime stroll
I make note of Mother Nature's ‘little’ miracle births
And send prayers and wishes for more 'plastic' surgeons!
The truth this Senior body’s bones are ‘spent’, is well felt
Calling ‘out’ for recycling with a good oil change in between
Oh, to be made of plastic and be ‘cycled’ with bits and pieces
Forever more in a day, week, month, year time when needed!
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Written by : Elizabeth Barrett Browing
And still you scorn the confines life would cast
About your fixed and marked identity.
A father, lover, friend tried endlessly,
And all the cycled censors failed at last.
Now resurrected in your revived past,
At signal of the butterfly and bee,
Witness your love wedded in mystery!
Beyond the book, the dream once believed, you clasp.
Not what we read or see or trace in line,
Becomes the ultimate of greater worth;
It is the dream we hold as our own right
Unseen by men, but envied for the sign
It shines upon the face of these on earth
Who cling to love and faith beyond the light."
Emily Dickinson
Just thought that I would share..
I have always loved the first one..
Note these are by Elizabeth Browning and Emily Dickinson Not by me...
With Crystal Ball I might have found
Some way to weave my way through time
Instead I played without the rules
Did it my way throughout the schools
Meandered free from guides or maps
Ate my meals from plates on laps
Camped and rambled, cycled too
My only aim - my love for you
Single till I sang your song
Wed while we were still so young
Cats and flats and tube train rides
Cinema trips and theatre asides
Walking miles down country lanes
Hobbling from the blisters pains
Now and then there'd be a tiff
Life's never perfect, oh what if
Pardon me while I reminisce
My poetic licence still exists
So work was just my hobby made
Into jobs for which I was paid
Until later I joined the retail trade
Years went by, I sold the shop
We bought a house with the cash I got
Acquired a dog who chased our cats
And still we ate from plates on laps
Houses changed, our lives did too
For a while you were lost to view
Back as one we multiplied
Two girls from us were derived
Another move nearer to school
A third child born who is no fool
Sadly you were soon unwell
At first the doctors couldn’t tell
Mighty was the blow that day
When they said no cure to allay
The failing heart within your breast
A transplant might be for the best
Some days after our son was two
While I was there, visiting you
The doctors said you had one last chance
And we took the news with a mutual glance
Harder still those several weeks
Intensive care, drug induced sleeps
Tubes, machines, alarms and more
Until you slipped through the final door
Goodbyes were hard for all who came
Many said it was a shame
But on with life we had to go
Three children had to deal with woe
Does time heal, or simply pass
Those old sayings might make you laugh
4000 days have been and gone
Will I join you before long?
©Rhumour
April 14th 2008
Swimming revolutions,
Walking in the right lane,
Cultural institutions,
Every second's the same.
Our destinies intertwine,
Though our paths differ,
While we are not caught on a fishing line,
We are all cycled through the same filter.
The steady monotony,
Of wake, swim, eat, sleep,
Echoes quite similarly,
To our habitat of mindless routine and day dreams.
We all dream of adventure yet squander our independence,
To you, tank or sea water have no difference,
You are all served the same universal dish,
Yet you always seem content in your glass container,
While we brood in our confinement constantly searching for a departure,
That is why at aquariums,
I find the people as fascinating as the fish.