When the squirrels start playing outside
My dog rushes to the door barking and whining.
Memphis, an 80-pound big, brown bulk
Really believes he can catch a squirrel.
Once the door is open, he races to the fence
Pacing back and forth with his head raised
While all the squirrels are laughing.
When the squirrels start playing outside
My dog rushes to the door barking and whining.
Memphis, an 80-pound big, brown bulk
Really believes he can catch a squirrel.
Once the door is open, he races to the fence
Pacing back and forth with his head raised
While all the squirrels are laughing.
When the squirrels start playing outside
My dog rushes to the door barking and whining.
Memphis, an 80-pound big, brown bulk
Really believes he can catch a squirrel.
Once the door is open, he races to the fence
Pacing back and forth with his head raised
While all the squirrels are laughing.
They move through the maze,
Papers wavering like
thin-skinned truth,
Each signature a quiet uprising
Against the slow- grinding
Manuel Materials
That call themselves order.
Their voices catch on procedural
irritants
Cracked syllables lagged
Across desks,
Needs folded into Manila envelopes
That wander office to office
Like pilgrims pleading for
Charity.
Red tape coils around them-
A serpent made of statues,
A ribbon intertwined from regulations,
A binding charm diffuse by
Hands
That promise representation
But deliver hesitation.
Paper pushers sit behind the
Writing desks,
Shuffling lives like loose
Documents,
Moving stacks instead of
Solutions,
Measuring urgency in forms
And stamps,
Instead of human obligations
Still they push forward,
Bearing the bulk of civic expectations,
That drag of political formality,
The discomfort of being heard
Only after being processed.
And in the end,
Their persistence becomes revelation-
Proof that even disordered
Systems
Cannot silence a people
Who declines to be filed away.
The bored, the idle, the rich
make up the bulk of the socialists
Ever since Marx, 20, and Hegel, 18
published their 'change-the-world' teenage dreams
Systemic Strain Part II
Proof that survival is an art outline,
And you paint it daily with any scraps
They embark you.
They monitor your struggles without seen
In the prototype of the broken appliances
Behind it.
The group blame the person
Instead of the patterns.
They call it "Personal "
Responsibility ".
When it's genuinely Systemic Sabatoge.
But you-
You trudge with a spine that recalls everytime
You bent and still didn't quit.
You speak with a voice that carries the
Parroting of every barrier lifted.
And you say it plain, loud enough for the
Block to hear:
This tautness ain't mine
This fault ain't mine
This fight was allotted to me by a system
That never cultivated how to hold its own
Bulk.
I'm not the Crack.
I'm the pressure point.
I'm the vocal cords that named the real culprit
And to carry it's shame declines.
Your bulk, larger Goliath's.
And friendlier!
In holding up, shield-like
Whose shady cover
Confident, this weed, this lad
There neath will hear
Blunted, rayed arrows, rained darts.
Hurled through the year.
Open your ears and mind, before you open your eyes ' Be informed of humanitys dis-guise..As the Greeks
Gave gifts to Troy, you will notice the
Same old hackneyed ploys, food parcels
To the dissposessed, bulk bought could
Cost? ten to fifteen dollars, certainly no
Less.. Yet the mirrorless action of giving
Billions, to fund wars destruction its in
The trillions.' Of course no bankers would
Be involved in such, or non profit orgs..'
Now should that read organ-isations.? I
Wonder much.? Yet should i not wonder?
Just bow my head, hunch shoulders and
Shrug.? With no-thing said.? Untill I am in
Truth; null and void' quite dead.!
It had no eyes, just bulk in the corner, swirling thick as oily
mist, smelling of rot.
I tried to step away but the carpet flowed like quicksand,
digging my heels in as darkness crept upward.
It didn't move, but suddenly the room dropped bone-cold,
crystals dusting the glass in serrated patterns.
I reached for the lamp, but the plug ripped from the socket.
I was left with nothing but the sound of my own pulse.
Suddenly it stirred, slid swiftly toward me soundless and a
chilling weight began to squeeze my throat closed.
I opened my lips to cry out, rip the silence in two but my
lungs filled with nothing but ashen memories.
Black slammed against my lids and my vision went blank.
I waited for it to KILL ME!!!
Then, I woke up.
winter approaches
geese bulk up for their journey~
eating grains of wheat
in v formation
they head south for warmer climes~
honking in chorus
The sun rose this morning,
Some extra red --
I attribute that to atmospheric dust -- man a manic
Bulk-polluter – taking some personal blame
Last evening’s carousing did not serve A Higher Purpose.
Blank nights prone to bleed into equally unremarkable days –
Since your abrupt departure each dawn has
Become a perverse mirror of profound absence --
Bath and shave, check for new wrinkles, and missing parts
If poor maintenance an occasional inventory of animate sensibilities
Is a wise unscheduled meditation --
Cycles of nameless risings and numberless sets --
Beloved day-launches and warmth of after dusk glitters we shared
Till your guardian Angel took a vacation...or her jealous nature tragically revealed.
Fate and Faith, Worship Therapy mean little to a suffering human heart….
A simple roof to shield from wind and rain,
A tranquil house devoid of stress and strain
Where the flashes of faith and love do shine,
Renders a home the shrine of the divine.
No need for ocean of wealth, grand and vast,
But a peaceful spirit fostered to last,
Harvesting joy, strolling beneath the sky,
Staring at sparkling stars slowly slide by.
To use simple bricks homes to build, isn`t shame,
So it`s with words we choose, verses to frame,
No need for pompous, grandiloquent art
To touch the innermost depth of the heart.
Simple words cutely used sparkle delight,
Illuminate the common mind with light,
In humble verses, the inner self gleams,
Reflecting life's limpid lingering dreams.
High sounding verbiage sounds harsh to ears,
Grips the mind of the bulk of souls with fears~
Simplicity isn`t mediocrity,
But the mirror of true humility.
My Luna
The moon
Was full the night I said goodbye
I saw the spirit fade
From your pained eyes
I saw the breaths stop and felt your heavy head
I'll miss your bulk
Upon my bed
Your fur
On every surface
Your greed
Your paws that opened the fridge
And found the cheese and I could throw any food onto the floor
And you'd hoover it up
I miss the raided bin
Evidenced by tins and licked packets
The way you barked when someone dared to pass the window in the night
Your beautiful face
Your love of life
You running through the stubble
Or chasing squirrels
I hope you'll stay with me
In spirit
I think of you every second
Your mischief mirrored my own
My friend
I love you
Rest in peace sweet girl
Luna
Forever
A curly corded telephone rings in a distant room,
its black Bakelite bulk vibrates behind closed eyes.
An old-time fire-engine parks its flame and brass chassis
inside a cavernous skull, though no conflagration
sets the dark alight.
It is that shallow pit of night when faceless clocks
expose themselves to be landmines.
A far past is calling; disembodied tongues drum loud
in an echoing ear.
A cumbersome receiver tumbles off its cradle
an accumulated dust of misappropriated yesterday’s
softens its fall.
Nothing has grasped at nothing.
A line is dead and buried; there's no resurrection,
the call however lingers, as a voice dissolve's
deep within the combustible light
of another day.
Town on town, with nothing
Of interest twixt?
Bookends! When the bulk of
An open read's love
Page on page is layed out
For the countryside.
In settings, more stories
Lost. As through what flies.
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