“feeling not thinking, soul with love linking ~
we attained God consciousness unblinking”
I've been told that I wear my heart on my sleeve
that I try too hard to love others
that I open my heart up to pain because I try
and try again to help others and to love those
that some people consider unloveable
But my question for those that criticize me is
"Why don't you?"
How can you see all the pain around you and do
nothing? or turn your back to what you see each day?
How can you not reach out?
Homelessness, addiction, cancer, food insecurity,
inflation rising so fast that many people can not keep up,
healthcare costs so high that sometimes the choice
is care or food? How can I turn my back when
I have plenty, yet blanch at a $50 co-pay?
Love one another is a command that I hear often,
yet I don't see many people trying to do it
I do love others, and I try every day to show God's love
to those that feel unloved and when I find someone else trying,
I can feel our souls link and my heart sighs
Book by book,
I see the hook,
How about we have a look,
Don't make me choke,
I am with a bottle of Coke,
I hear a creek,
I am not a Greek,
The shrubs are on a bleak,
Glistened by the sleek,
I soften my cheek,
Keep me in check,
For the high-tech,
I smell a stench,
Without a blench,
I learned in French,
I did not sench,
Into a trench,
I'm blanch,
I went on blank,
I did not want to stay submerged,
I on a search,
For a lurch,
That I could not wait for my lunch,
I sat on a hunch,
I go for a punch,
Wait, it is the launch,
I would not move an inch,
That starts with an itch,
I did not put a salt on my stitch,
To worsen the condition of a hitch,
I run away with a glitch,
I am out of reach,
For more research,
Of what I found and searched.
A cacophonic silence,
A mere blanch of a catastrophic faliure,
A maroon in a sickening mirage,
'tis a shade one more,
As a ray one less,
Fairing smiles adiue,
Requiem of a chastised face,
Lay a bed,
O'er wond'rous, to waste.
Where'n freshen lie fast in his daze,
Merry may go his hour,
Time shroud.
However vivid,
a weary slumber ,
Is but man's sorry tire,
Weeping sore,
Once dreaded in languishment,
Once cowered behind the stars.
Not an eye unopened,
Nor a God that sleeps.
The fruit
Apples, grapes, pears
Held in a bowl so rare
Heat water, it is now impallid.
Salad
impallid -verb- to blanch(blanch par boil but also to dip in hot water for a brief period to make the skin turn loose).
Once there was
a tiny tree,
who wished itself
a lofty, wide-spread
oak;
longing to have
on him song-birds light...
to share a tune
to strum some beams
on full-moon night –
but the cat was
about, with a silent
foot...and the birds
knew Whiskers
like they wrote Grimms'
book – so the tiny tree
never got a second look –
but an angel up high
shrank deceptively small
and with a purposeful
stall, settled on the dwarf's
most prominent, yet near
ground branch
introducing herself
as a lost parrot
named Blanch –
and they sang
and hugged all the long day
only stopping at times just
to briefly pray (gratefully pray)
– and the cat,
quite lonely, for also a stray
made a fiddle of its whiskers
drummed with its tail
tapping a rhythm beat
on an old discarded pail –
Back to back we stand staring into the future.
The moon loves us for it is dead-eyed and alone.
Long or brief all days dwindle, while nights row us back
over that vast seas we arrived from.
Faces blur, after-mages blanch,
we both recall the same lovers -
for are we not all ‘I’?
‘You’ and ‘your’ a mere pretense of duality.
Lovers filled our own footprints,
yours came to you weeping, mine left sobbing,
our tears are formed in the same deep wells
of hope and regret.
You are seeking an horizon perhaps;
for a while you see a shadow-man
slipping underneath a sunset.
Don't follow, don't go that way,
tomorrow, if it dawns for you,
will be the gift only you can give
to I.
Wednesday's the middle of the sandwich
equidistant from weekends -- unhitched
Plenty of room for all those toppings
ketchup, mayo and rain showers -- she's sopping
How unjust, other days' inequitable ways
they'd blanch at my nickname of 'Hump Day'...
Alas, ignominy grinds on; the day's not yet over
~ Tomorrow's Thursday, that four-leaf clover
Please remember this is England.
It’s not the many, it’s the few.
It’s not democracy anymore because you’ve given Carte blanch for us to screw you.
It’s not Greensleeves you hear over the meadow grass. We don’t create anything good - that time has passed.
We want all your money and we intend to take it all. We’re happy to see you suffer, to see you fall.
This is now England under Tory rule.
If you think we give a damn about your children’s future or your parents health then you’re bloody fools.
My hat has a gardenia that refuses to behave.
She throws a fit that would make a Neanderthal cave.
I asked what she needed, what helps, what does she crave?
She said she always wanted a close straight razor shave.
But wouldn’t that hurt you as you are made of straw?
She gave me a look that made my heart blanch and turn raw.
A gardenia and yet, she is as abusive as a rabid jackdaw.
I wish my hat had instead a dead rooster’s lifeless claw.
I am eye-deep in a story,
a timeless place that only happens now.
The view from the train window
is as still as a mountain – I may be reading too fast.
The speed of my eyes takes time to emerge
from the pulp and print.
The tale grips until my feet fill other shoes.
A tense spy novel tugs at identity.
There’s a kid kicking,
thumping the back of my seat,
blood pressure goes into hyperdrive,
knuckles blanch
as if to grip the brake of a speeding train.
The page reveals - words beguile.
I am flying on a private jet to Sweden
while wrestling with a dilemma,
torn as I am between a hitman’s conscience
and a pragmatic professionalism.
Book in hands I must soon
parachute gently down to a platform.
The train is slowing,
people wrangle children and bags,
but not the seat-kicking kid,
he is a very bad agent
that should have listened to his mom.
Now he’s kicking the target,
a victim that’s splayed-out
on a Swedish train station.
I creep up behind him
Cyanide dart, or Karate chop?
A page turning moment for sure.
2 cups of crushed pork rinds ( hot and spicy) or crushed fritos
1 tablespoon of Garlic powder
2 tablespoons of cayeene
1 tablespoon of onion power
1 tablespoon of salt
2 tablespoons of cornstarch
2 cups of flour
In a plastic bag, shake until evenly mixed.
Set aside.
1/4 cup of buttermilk
3/4 cup of milk
3 eggs
Mix with a whisk, set aside.
5 chicken breast filleted
Moistened with 2 tablespoons of buttermilk
Dip into flour and coat, dip into eggwash, and back into flour, fry in hot olive oil or cornoil.
10 bacon strips
5 lettuce leaves
10 slices of tomatoes
Mayo
5 submarine rolls
1 cup of crush spicy pork rinds
1/2 diced salami
1 teaspoon of minced garlic
5 tablespoons of cream cheese
5 tablespoons of chopped chives
1 cup of softened goat cheese
Hollow some plum
tomatoes and fill with cream mixture.
Mix 1/4 cup of olive oil and 1/4 of lemon juice
Drizzle the tops.
Juillene some potatoes blanch for 15 minutes in salt water. Cool the and fry crisp in oil.
Agreeable Dawn for a
In though a blade
No other goal .... "Go just bounce around"
Every clump made me haggle with fate
Twinkle in my lips at the end of walk
My magnifiers fall on the bumblebee on Hawkweed
Which throw me to notion of stubborn ethnic group
In COVID war alike poison of weed unnoticed by bee
Like a halfwit mad ,took the pretty from plant
Felt a pricky near my collar
Just gave a Pat and back to force
Clock had done it's work many times
Just a blink to me
Felt something hitchy
Heard the
Every lively throb broke a hailstrome in my skull
Felt hacksaw in my abdomen
Index of my heart gone blanch
Weaping from my throat surrounded the virus
No more blaze just pain
My magnifiers turned to the quarantine bed
Striked a mirth in my lips
Bled raised on my neck
Blaze in eyes ,no more
Just a halter of bumble bee
My defense mechanism showed over perfection
Inoculation of fright flight dominator
CAN MAKE ME ALRIGHT
I who am…insipid, vapid bland, inadequate life
My life halfhearted I am uninspired
I am Spiritless in a place of safety refuge
I am for certain, I need,
a deed to land in life and death
How chosen are we
When the blood flows out
Still and solid I am No longer talking
Dead to live be I living
My new home is in the skies
Where I’m alive no longer dead you’re not but I am
No need for heat my God keeps me (safe and warm)
His ever presents how can I be sure ?
When all the time you changed my mind
I asked for more and more
How can I be sure safe, quiet, cozy comfortable in sanctuary?
Secluded withdrawn isolated and safe haven
refuge my sanctuary safe keeping covering me
Preserve yet my cushion life inoculate unworldly securities
Yet still I’m pathetic etiolated blanch reclusive unprivileged
So am I decrease in importance lost significance I’m blench keep safe
11/26/19
Pale shelter Poetry Contest Free verse poetry form only.
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Hey all you temporary oscillators
born to the impetuous posture
you gun jumping rattle shakers
wavering your body English
in a gesture of kinetic ardor
for the passage of time as leverage
against the recognition that what gratifies
and profits and returns a bit of leeway
against the fiats of civic disapproval
is but a starting point a utility
that can no longer avail the authorities
and their hold over luck and venture
yes your countenance is sanctioned
by the blaspheming throne of numbers
and faces no injunction or coercive measure
for the infinite stubby sadisms
that fill the cosmic belly
with degradation and humiliation
a digestive system congenitally supplemented
with self adulation stretched thin
to the point of fragmenting
that jangling tatty chandelier you call a mind
into a hill of lizards
you can't see the horizon from
shiver and blanch to the bulletin that
the lingering scraps of your empire
have been licensed for repossession
There once was a singer with a white glove
Who concealed kinky expressions of love
At his 'Neverland Ranch'
The weird stuff made folks blanch
For the love in his glove came with a shove
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