Few but the blind,
Can see the alternatives,
And the few who can see like the blind,
Often find themselves in a bind,
When offering alternatives to the many who are not blind,
But keep their blinkers on,
Making it difficult to see they are not using their scone,
To prevent them walking into an alley that is blind,
Where only few but the blind can see their way clear,
To breathe in some fresh air
To avoid waking up blind to alternatives
That are open, only to those who use their initiatives.
I spiral downward, down I go
Without ever hitting the bottom
I live in freefall, I’ll die there too
Tangible things, I grasp for them
The view is bleak, it’s just a fog
Above and below me. side to side
Is that my hand before my face
Or the hand of another helping soul?
Sometimes I land upon solid ground
But aware that I’m still moving
This false place holder, this fake safety zone
Is also spiralling down in the void
Whilst others seem able to fool their minds
And say that everything is okay
My brain won’t have it and punishes me
For trying those same blinkers on
I still smile at things, it isn’t all gloom
I still have times of joy in my world
But ever aware, I am wasting my life
I see my time spiralling down ahead of me
I spiral downward, down, down I go
I never got the hang of this life
But I know how to float, at least for a while
Hang on till there’s no reason anymore
were it not for delusion
blinkers covering our eyes
how would we feel each flicker
borne by ego’s web of lies
Reading up on the crusades,
Gives me hope Christians will take off their blinkers,
And help Muslims come to terms,
With a new light,
And a new right.
Most Christians would be horrified,
At how many Muslims died,
During the Crusades,
Because Christians thought they were right,
To destroy Muslims all through the night,
And a few Jews on the side,
For a place in heaven.
Thankfully all but few now see a different light,
And a different right,
Which we should look to impart,
To any Muslim who wants to stand apart,
And crusade for peace,
Instead of war in every place,
And earn more of God's grace.
I can't find the words,
And even if I could, would there be enough words,
To describe,
To my scribe.
What I feel when I look at the news on my computer,
Before I become a commuter,
And find picture after picture
Pasted by reporters who need a lecture,
On how the reader can make sense,
When there seems to be no sense,
In pasting a picture that is totally unrelated
To the words in the story that is featured.
In my lecture I would be saying to these modern reporters,
And the editors,
To whom they are reporting,
Too many pictures you are importing,
At the expense of good reporting.
My heart goes out to those tasked with deciding,
Who gets an award for best reporting.
The only advice I can give them is to put their blinkers on,
As, with the pictures all gone,
They may find the list of reporters who can report, quite short,
And those whom to pictures, often resort,
Will find it less rewarding,
And we may see more words appearing,
With the odd picture we can see, as belonging.
The Door Wolf.
And, what of the waxing Moons
Its flood, of relentless tides, that time
of scar faced pit dogs, long sharp toothed,
their belly grumbling handlers, eager
to chalk a death line, on cold ale stained flag stones hard.
While in bleakness yard, belly tumbling hags squeeze, last drops out of well gripped ****, for the blind pups bellies,
babies must wait, in so many ways they are a benefit, against the door Wolf.
And what of pale, deep eyed children
Barefoot in waste lands of snow
Thin as cotton threads, as are their ragged clothes !
Their belly grumbling quenched, by easy swallowed earth worms, to placate the parasitic worms hidden within.
Ahh, all in ! to the avoid the door wolf.
And what of the well heeled lace lover,
hovering in trinkets of silver, and cups spilling with distain, against the scroungers pain ?
With, Parisiene perfume, to muffle the drum
Hum drum stench, from a piss trench
soaked and brandyied to sleep.
Her blinkers finaly, blinked blank.
Those waxed, and wained Moons !
Now cobwebbed in long past night skies.
Judge me not, just wear my biting shoes
And then see, wear no blinkers of views
Of which little I care,
Nor care such shoes to wear,
And there’s no room I think
To paint peacock’s eggs pink,
Or else wait and hope I lose my muse.
______________________________________
Limerick | 06.09.2022 | Humour
Poet’s note: Every writer, prose or poetry, every performer, painter or player passes through this phase—to feel like shooing off the critics like a speck of dust on the dress he wears. It is good to feel sure of what one writes. But every lump of gold has to pass through the test of fire to purify.
Like two paynim peas in a pod,
their scurvy color
lipslick scheme is sour green
Got beady black eyes
scam shady —
A graft gaze that squints bifurcated focus
from hocus-pocus pupils;
whose tainted teal look-see, aperture con-fidence teach
a vulture view!
Crafty condor blinkers reflect
cunning thoughts
with a subtil snake-oil sheen
The scales of their subliminal deception
weighs silver speak fugazi
forge fraught
Cheating and conniving is the gold hush standard
of the blarney barker bling-bling
And cheator ear worms
dig every electromagnetic crypt-ic message
that the swindle Svengali sing-sing
Cabbage cheater chants
grow robber root rancor on the
dire dark,
underbelly dusk horizon
Them pickpocket pants,
pig feet parlance,
taste liquidity legume leper-con unlucky
on welsh rabbit tongues
01-12-22
I will take a little walk
or a long walk,
God guides my fate
my footsteps – His
Christ, the light upon
my path, though
darkness on earth
yet reigneth.
He shows
me my way, the power
of His Divine Presence
shielding me –
the volume of His
Love will keep me
resolute, though the
liar is ever-present,
in the air, in the breeze
in my ear –
Though the Liar whispereth
I will hearken to but one voice –
that of my beloved Father,
my lord, His Son
our Benevolent Brother –
As a thoroughbred,
may my path be linear,
truth my blinkers and bit –
as a hawk of righteousness
may I dive toward evil
only to grasp, swoop-up
and deliver back into Higher
effulgence to be transformed, thus
purified, reunited with
Heaven – made Whole,
Holy and Perfect.
As it is in the sacred
Here-after, may it be in the
evolving here-present – where there
be separation, may we now
all unite in one loving, sublime
theme and purpose: Heaven and Earth
realized One!
TUNNEL VISION
All those years lost living in fear, with blinkers on tear after tear
Will this nightmare never end? Please just send me one good friend
A guardian angel for me alone, to stop my heart from turning to stone
I’m building bridges and getting over, I no longer run for cover
I am on a lifelong mission to be rid of tunnel vision
Somebody please just throw me a line I feel I’m running out of time
Now and then I see some light, far away then out of sight
Everything just causes fright, every day and every night
Every night and every day, I just want to run away
I’m building bridges and getting there, I’m no longer in despair
Very soon I will discover, there’s no need to run for cover
Now I’m standing in the light, there’s never been a better sight
It’s nice and warm here in the sun, my new life has just begun
I just want to have some fun, no longer feeling the urge to run.
They still label us as gipsies and tinkers
but it is them with the blinkers
everyone is a migrant
and our culture is vibrant
let us not forget about Treblinka
23rd February 2021
Potpourri of collections
Hug of affections
Season of winters
Track of sprinters
Road of cars
Street of bars
Pad of flies
Pod of eyes
Tin of sardines
Western of jeans
View of lens
Peck of hens
Pulpit of preachers
Lesson of teachers
Smack of bottoms
Perfume of blossoms
Fist of thugs
Bed of bugs
Table of logs
Circle of cogs
Score of musicians
Face of beauticians
Kiss of loves
Peace of doves
Whistling of birds
Conversation of words
Blind of blinkers
Twitch of winkers
Curve of bends
Finale of ends
~~~
Inspired by “An Exaltation of Larks” by James Lipton
Human problems can be solved, with everyone getting involved
Total change has to be done, or we all, will end up gone
Get rid of this evil money or it won’t end up sunny
It’s not much of a life, with us ending up in strive
We need some logical thinkers, and not those who were blinkers
because humans seem to be blind, with all this money on our mind
Things that make me happy
bring a smile or tears of joy
they have no monetary value
sweet gifts for every girl and boy
So take off all those blinkers
Let the light shine in
Put away your screen today
And you’ll see what I mean
To see a spider spin a web
a bee sip nectar for his queen
a fledging taking his first flight
mother moon on the clearest night
To hear a blackbird sing his song
for he will sing it all day long
the sea her tides they come and go
relax and watch her ebb and flow
The morning sky the sun arising
with hues that take your breath away
And as she sets ~ a picture painted
Each night each day a different way
The joy I get to see the moon
her crescent exquisite
her fullness divine
she fills up my heart
she clears out my mind
What joy to see a sky full of stars
With Jupiter ~ Venus ~ Saturn and Mars
So open your eyes
as you gaze to the sky
You may even see
ISS passing by
Open your mind ~ let your soul soar
In this wonderful world there is oh so much more…
Written 9th July 2020
Contest Strand Completely New (7)
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
Looking forward has blinkers fitted, to obscure the past.
Looking back has the future switched off, a tired play by retired cast.
Dreams ignore reality, littering your future with nonsense plots
Drawing threads from past, hope and fantasy, intertwined in lots.
What you hoped for can never be attained, if goals are set too high
But if you hope and strive for nothing, you will never jump up and try.
Headlong rush into change with no plans, disrupts and disturbs
Better an ordered smooth transition menu for change with curves.
Being resilient requires a concrete foundation of self-assurance
To overcome fragility, built on shaky, quavering self confidence.
To reap what you sow requires the ground to be prepared
Otherwise weeds, self-sown, will leave no shoot sown spared.
If you bumble and tumble along, no-plan vulnerable to winds that blow
Your life will lack purpose, with hopes on shelf, left escrow.
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