No matter what I do,
No matter what I don’t,
Return one day I’ve to
This water hole-- hangout haunt.
To this polluted river
Fouled by me to wash me clean,
Me, the same old beaver
To build my lodge anew and green.
To plough my own karmic field
To sow seeds, raise my food,
If or not they would yield,
Yet, I must try still if just to feel good.
And find I must my own fault
To start all over again,
Wash my wounds-- there’s no alt
But to play the same old refrain.
Guru there’s nor a god-man
Nor a ready-made lotion
To rub on my wounds if in vain,
Imbibing same bitter potion
And search for remedy,
Create my own antidote
To cure my self-wrought malady,
Life is to struggle, swim sans boat.
No matter what I do,
No matter what I don’t,
Return one day I’ve to
To this water-hole-- hangout haunt.
_______________________
Musings | 07.05.2026 | life, philosophy, river, quatrain
Eight long decades I’ve taken
To know this life’s touchstone like truth:
Man loves to live anywhere
But at life’s battle-hardened booth.
Yea, we scarce want to be
Where life for reason has brought us,
And wishing to migrate
There, there to fish for no cause.
Old age, as is inevitable,
As it brings me to brood,
And mind being unstable,
Ambles back to my childhood,
Which, without the least of doubt,
One of the pleasant most,
Though not always sugarcane sweet
That be chewed till void of its boast.
I recall still when I was there—
A child in flesh and blood and mood,
Not an apparition of thought,
My thoughts centred oft on adulthood.
Today I wonder, not just childhood,
Life’s every stage is such a swell time,
Which, when one gets older feels good,
But mind meanders, reason nor rhyme.
Not at life’s battle-hardened booth…
It’s taken me eight long decades
To know this life’s touchstone like truth:
Leaving all jewels, man chases jades.
__________________________
Musings | 06.05.2026 | age, birth/brood, childhood, old, quatrain
wonderful cozy
very amazing brooding
a delightful sight
cute female bird on her eggs
in beautiful cosy nest
Over solemn matters men brood.
Whoever does not clearly crude;
One is anxious to win a feud:
The face of Jude facing The Rude
And I say: it’s the right mood;
The countenance of The Shrewd,
For when it is shrewd follows food.
Over the life-changing I brood
As I wish to hear The Good;
Not like leaves shake where I’ve stood
Or, soonest, start mouthing The Rude
And sorrow drowning in The Brewed.
They claim my words are rather rude
My ink is refined human sense
My presence will bolster the brood
They claim my words are rather rude
Faults thrive in reed and grasslands dense
Through every gloomy, dampen mood
They claim my words are rather rude
My ink is refined human sense
Written: October 03, 2022
Lagging the sunrise, he sizes the day
Sleep was a stranger, came deep in the night
Try though he may, he can not make a plan
His instincts tell him not all will be well
Coping, there between moping and hoping
Pouring coffee, ignoring the cough he
developed, enveloped in sweat last night
Off to the shower, he's dreading the hour,
the 405 drive, and then to arrive,
with nothing to say, in meetings all day
To make matters worse, the trip in reverse
Stare at the ceiling, devoid of feeling
Resistance, futile; existence, brutal
Six months estranged now - it's time for a change
----------
Lannet: 14 lines of 10 syllables like a sonnet, but internal rhymes only
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/lannet-poetic-forms
Brood, the mood, infused by thoughts rude
And yet we trauma bond
Time’s now to change our attitude
And love’s the magic wand
Delighting in joy’s sneeze
Presence obtains release
From our thinking disease
Thoughts intrude
Brood, the mood
06-August-2022
Quietus
Unguarded, from out that pit
For heart's place, capacious
Burn on up, Desiring's brood.
Winged vipers, rapacious.
There's luxury's diamond-backed
Skinned regeneration.
And lust, more horrid looking.
With reddish streaks thereon.
Here lies the last of the brood
Though always sloshed, never rude
Fame and fortune eluded him
So, he filled himself up to the brim
Always there when we would call
He died from drinking alcohol.
written February 26, 2022
To stand to the line, no other choice I find'
That sand is where, the truth must now dare.
The earth having been ever the same
Since dawn of time, too fleet lifes wane'
I never drew this line untrue'
Articles of conflict; yet along it grew!
It was devised by perjured souls,
Who rail at eterity and Freedom whole
I say be glad your not their kin'
Their truth is lies, much steeped in sin!
The blackest circle of hell reserved I say
For such as who, devise these ways
To waylay truth, to twist pervert
I say resist these lies divert
Imagine to be born of them.?
Unfeeling almost anderiod; alien men
What woman could with such Congress?
All thought all input recoils, in complete digress.!
A heavy heart
Makes for a new start
Life is finite
Time to be contrite
Apologies for recommending life
Insurance brings less strife
Farewell my friends, good
Others will save and invest for your brood
A lesbian with a twisted plan
The deadliest of all scams
Working out a way to reproduce and spry
She donated eggs like the cuckoldry
Later gathering info on unexpected couples
And monitor the progress of her post natals
Until the time finally comes
For her to gather her young
With the unexpected couples slaughter
She ran away with her three daughters
Different city
Different identity
The children unaware of the crimes
Grew very close like twine
And they all lived happily ever after
Same mother but different father
Time's Weavings, As I Brood Upon Them
Shut inside windows open W I D E
I age 1,000 years
To your one.
The Past turns in tight circles upon the Present,
Inscribing itself in memories
Lending textures to the future,
Pains and pleasures,
Loves and losses,
Bitter, sweet,
All fall together to become tomorrow,
To break apart and cycle on again.
Outdoors, beyond a window full of November's clouds
A child runs gaily past,
While up the street, with ancient, measured tread,
A crone approaches;
Youth and age will meet and cycle 'round again.
I turn grey thoughts within my mind,
Composing poems as Significant Others
Drift in and out of the rooms of my life,
Now babe, Now child, Now youth, Now adult
Now gone.
Friends and lovers weave the warp together,
Light and shadow chase one another through the rooms,
Whispering secrets of change.
Do not be greedy for material possessions
in spiritual people paradox of lust.
Be concern with spiritual poverty
for physical poverty will pass.
Fear not the one who can kill your body,
but fear the one who can kill your soul.
You are not to be like the business man,
who builds Ponzi scheme and steals monies from people.
You are not to make the Cave of Bandits from our Father’s House.
You are not to rob your parishioners
in the middle of Eucharist, telling them to provide you with their
credit and debit card numbers,
because you want to have luxurious live style.
You need to embrace the holy poverty
and concentrate on the spiritual things.
Do not be like the “Stupidtz” and fathers “O’Lands”.
Which one of you follows the Lord?
Do you love him in your mansions?
“Foxes have dens and birds have nests,
but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”
I brood at the enterprise of man in the human cosmos
Cosmos drifting into anarchy
As the angel flirt over the dark
As in the beginning.
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