Gets tougher and tougher
They powdered your buffer
And buffered your puffer
When found that you suffer...
Mental Metro Central-
Residential Rental-
Open Dystopian-
Anti-Utopian-
Fallopian Syndrome
An Oathbound lil child
Chasing dreams wild
Unflappable in stress
Still has to deal with mess
And that mess is me
Still yearns for you to fly not flee
Imperfections meet perfections
My heart knows, you take actions
Blindness takes me over
But can't see you hover
All your hurt to me and my fortune to you
You made my love come true
My beloved enchanted
Never took you for granted
Alas! My heart is fragile
And you're a little more agile
I took it as a curse
In quiet measures it got worse
I was stuck in that black hole
Darkened with every role
But why would I let my mishandling make you suffer?
Between you and your dreams, a buffer
Your life quietly aligns
Amid me and my whines
But but but, it all got unraveled
When I made my pieces together travelled
And then comes a wave of rapture
Dew kissed my heart capture
My heart aches for all the soreness I gave thee
But now these scars sets free.
All the misfortune and evil eyes flee
And again our soul sparks glee.
The roll of paper white now thin,
Grows threadbare, tattered and quite lean,
A silent signal, soft and low,
The final sheets starting to show.
Each tear a whisper, a slight grace,
As emptiness soon fills its place,
No more a buffer, soft and kind,
To replenish one can just find.
Like paper thinning, life recedes,
Fulfilling all its earthly deeds,
The gentle turning, day by day,
Leads to a quiet, waning ray.
With the bones slim, a fragile shroud,
Above the whispers of the crowd,
Each subtle shift stamps a sign,
Along the path of one`s lifeline
The roll will soon be spent and gone,
Beneath the supple shining sun,
A quiet sigh, a letting go,
As softer currents start to flow.
You see them rise while still in the suburbs,
the rings of hills, the wilderness buffer;
smaller, more round than what waits further on,
some sport cabins atop with views quite long.
Down on the road some houses still pop up
for folks who hate the concrete, noise, and trucks,
and at crossroads, small stores with country themes,
selling jerky, t-shirts with wild scenes.
Then small motels folks claim on the weekend,
cars with kayaks, across the ponds to wend.
Just down from that, a smallish petting zoo,
with local critters strutting in plain view,
the kind you wish you could see in the woods,
but they all hide, and that’s for their own good.
Then a small lake, stubbed with second homes,
the kind that you hope someday you might own,
weathered docks and fishing boats on the lake,
could the trout here be big enough to take?
But now the peaks are stretching for the clouds,
buildings thin out, the road the forest crowds,
the foothills gone, these mountains your escape,
a wild land, the kind owned by the state.
This cat
It sat
While I
Wait by
Some how
This cow
White crap
Cold trap
Wild hiss
No kiss
Now I
Close eye
The pain
Skin stain
Blood red
Soon spread
Drenched soul
No hole
Fried mind
From grind
Suffer
Buffer
Snow Beast
Needs yeast
Sweating buckets in the hot seat, losing the ability to buffer the spaces in-between.
Yet sweating profusely can help you come back fully healed.
However what you are chasing is much further away, and what is chasing you feels much closer.
Like in any race the focus is always on the lead car.
Sending them best wishes and a lot more of hidden evil eyes.
Splash boom, dashed into a spin-out.
Spinning out does not necessarily mean to crash and burn.
Overshooting the corner forces you to reset/rest to gain back control.
Just coasting on the low fumes of synchronicities.
Stress must played in this chaotic times or could just be scrapped ahead in-time.
Just as the chaotic race of life, use that transmuting heat to purify.
Do you think the harder you push the pedal increases the chances to be showered more petals?
Theses small talks echo sounds so sweets, with the upgrades of my venturi tunnels.
I see Vishnu on a car plate and on the tv show, edging me to top gear manually to greater higher performance.
(“The Longest Journey”, 2020, original encaustic)
Each of us a composite
Layered layers
Around a core
Elusive, beyond name
Pure, yet deceptively plain.
Around this core of Holy Spirit Buddha Nature
The mortal coil of flesh and psychic ethers
Veils our nature in all its aches and pains,
Fears, anxieties and confusions
Simply Being Human.
Pure and tainted bound together
A marriage of opposites
Cursed and blessed by turn
But joined none the less
In an inexplicable union of empty-appearance.
Just as we clothe our naked bodies
Our empty nature lies hidden from view.
We see and appreciate
The layers that buffer and protect,
But ultimately miss what lies beneath.
(3/18/26)
We can’t set our internal clocks;
They manage their own ticking
And though it seems a paradox,
They can’t be changed by tricking.
For if you are an early bird,
Your body will awaken
At hours some will find absurd,
The dreamer’s world forsaken.
Yet you will revel in the dawn,
Its quiet like a buffer,
While later wake-up times will spawn
A mindset that will suffer.
For those who let the morning pass,
Reluctantly arising,
That extra sleep provides the gas
They need for energizing.
A rooster’s crow will surely jolt
Their deep and dreamy slumber
And mind and body will revolt
At daybreak’s early number.
Internal clocks are set at birth –
We have one or the other,
But my advice, for what it’s worth –
Don’t blame your dad or mother.
We are as we choose to be,
mostly bound to the mind tree
and with no silence buffer,
bound, we needlessly suffer.
What fragrance can we exude,
if we’re yet to ego glued,
oblivious to soul’s light,
shining in our heart so bright?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Born in era of
rotary phones and
Western Union telegrams,
my fingers now dance
on glass—no dial tone~
a frequent user of Facetime.
I carry the memory
and weight
of paper maps,
while satellites whisper
turn left, turn back.
My hands remember card catalogs,
my breath still holds
the scent of old book glue,
but my eyes keep adjusting
to the glare of forever screens.
My fingers recollect
the shudder of a manual typewriter
as it punched its teeth
into the blank white throat of tomorrow.
I recall when cloud meant rain,
when stream was a small river with fish.
Now my hands ache from phantom keyboards,
my dreams buffer between decades.
I am a bridge, a relic, a traveler,
carrying the 20th century
like loose change in my pocket,
spending it carefully
in this bright,
impatient 21st century.
Written: December 27, 2025
*************
How quietly your counsel shaped my days—
A lantern-mind that steadied all my doubt.
At your first word, my tangled maze displays,
My weak brain found logic—rise of burnout.
Now, I feel the void where you used to be,
A bare calm chills even the warm banshee—
Your wisdom drifting from my solitude,
To bless life—passion is known to obtrude.
No trusted compass now to mark my way;
You turn your tact to a different need—
So I must school my heart to bear the sway,
Of walking on without your gentle lead.
Yet still I praise what your eidolon splay—
It's sound thaws loss—it's buffer a heyday.
I'm thankful for our Heavenly Father on this Turkey Day~ I am thankful and therefore I pray—Poet
O Gracious God,
thank You for breath of life
for the beauty of creation
strength to see a new day without strife
with Your direction, and our appreciation
I am grateful beyond words
from my heart and soul
a journey once-over blurred
today we fill our bowl
with Your presence that guides us
the Rock of our salvation
mercy, hope and love so gracious
let Your wisdom crown upon
and Your peace rest on those who suffer
orphans and widows in their affliction
provide them with armor of peace and buffer
let it not be part of God’s plan to refine faith
and reveal His purpose and may not He send
man’s mistakes more traces of wraith
may our lives continually reflect on end
Thanksgiving
Amen
I Am Anaya
Thanksgiving Day
11/27/25
He bought a steel building
Someone told him to use
Ancient technology to create
A pro founded dwelling
He bought. the building
he decided a rammed earth center
wall would complete the design
Where the garage door is a cobbled
Wall would installate us that in most
Wintered seasons we are due the
Coldness that winter owed
He drilled holes
And installed rebar
And use cobb to create thick walls
Interioral to buffer the coldest season
The Ancients, the Ancients he
Taught and preached to benifet the
Extremes of the seasons
Both ancient and modern
Cause it ain't she-it and my darn
There is chill to ward-way
To winters cold to spay
Might we benifet for natures negagence
And the thermal mass to ease
and not make task
Oh the Ancients he spoke
to be taken serious and be a joke
that man and family should prosper
And benifet not to chore ah-rah-la-ah
The Ancients both modern and sound
Techs broad and ah bound
Cheapest to material these mortals sound
Oh the Ancients!
I learned what I fear today:
Intimacy. I can’t seem to face
my raw emotions bluntly; in fact
I despise them for being unpoetic
Why be vulgar and direct
when I can hide behind my
metaphors, my harbor; my fantasies, my
buffer—between reality and
my brain cells too proud to be seen
scattered, sprinkled all over—
well, nothing
Even this moment I struggle to simply
write: I’m messy. I’m hurt.
I’m lone and gloomy and primitive and violent.
I can’t speak of my love and hatred in
raw honesty, no—I must be filtered
so when I scramble myself undone on paper
I no longer belong to
me. I’ll be
safe, from me; an
outsider, from me.
Critics say a raw poem
whispers secrets like readers are old friends
But I have long forgotten,
how a girl usually lets her voice confess
Sometimes we're sacrificed to rooms void of light.
To the caw of the crow and the scent of the night.
Silk of the mind, breached by snakes -chains of cold.
Moment by moment they peck away at the soul.
Roses and razor blades strewn on the ground.
Gifts have been given to help figure it all out.
There are hordes of dark forces willing to devour you.
Only a few angels commissioned to buffer the blue.
Blessed light poking through blackening veins.
Cherish the warmth like drought does a cool rain.
Take your sledgehammer soul, shatter the shroud.
It may take a few blows, but it'll surely come down.
Gather up the roses; leave the razors behind.
Pay homage to angels-step gently into the light.
Harvest the sweet honey from the silenced hive
Embracing the grace of birdsong and shine on.
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