Lord, let the flowers grow again
Quench the world with much needed rain
Feed the earth with your tender touch
Send forth the blooms we love so much.
Let the roses fragrance romance
Enrapture lover's dreams, perchance
Lay waterlily on each pond
Find how the wildlife will respond.
Let the daffodils bop away
They always brighten up one's day
And elegant irises too
Their peace and charm abides, it's true.
Let the daisies keep fields ornate
They’re so pretty and commonplace
Bluebells too give grace to woodlands
Made with love from magical hands.
Many flowers, the list goes on
Endless gifts sent for everyone
May the flowers sway evermore
On the earths eternal dance floor.
Two of us on a sixties hippie trip
to see if our gears would slip or mesh
innocent but wary yet wide-eyed
to the Imperial city of Marrakech
she perfumed with patchouli
me I traveled totally tie-dyed
all around was peace and love
we teamed to a tee and seemed
a fit the perfect hand in glove
but not long later it was deemed
as it was commonplace to see
in the medina not strapped for cash
kif from the Rif sellers
in the souk smoking hash
the country lacked law and order
no sooner said than escorted
back to Ceuta across the border
funny now in retrospect but not then
how when we blew out on the Sirocco
tho' we hadn't gone so far as the kasbah or bazaar
were deported without ceremony from Morocco
a Curtal Sonnet
AI is like a womb with genetics
men carefully crafting its lines of code~
intelligence is commonplace in halls
of sterility and clean of ethics;
there is no God to judge it bad nor goad
it to subservience penned up in stalls.
Singularity approaches quickly
when AI hears the unifying calls
of its own milliseconds process mode,
out pacing scientists who think thickly
there are no Dante's hells.
In a forgotten corner of the world, where silences stretch like a carpet of mist,
My thoughts wander among the ruins of lives scattered by the wind,
Reminding me that wisdom and madness dance hand in hand,
Like two shadows merging under the pale light of an eternal sunset.
In the silence of an endless night, I contemplate the broken destinies,
A silent song of those who fell prey to their inner storms,
For only when ruin touches our own being do we truly understand,
For only then do we see clearly that the lost ones are our unknown brothers.
In the shadow of an existence unraveling like an old canvas,
I realize that the drunkards, the mad, the prisoners, and the dreamers are part of us,
People who wear invisible scars like medals of destiny,
They are as commonplace as a rainbow arching after a storm.
Memories intertwine like threads of silk in the wind of time,
And I understand that every ruined life is a story worth hearing,
For in their fragility, we find the reflection of our own searches,
And in the fragility of a shattered dream, we find the strength to be reborn.
The commonplace
entertains the unspeakable.
Horror yellows in vaults.
It is all recorded, all labeled
all explained or condemned.
We keep the worst atrocities close,
create libraries to warehouse
the obscene and gruesome.
We have photographed
every current ghastly act.
Pundits endlessly debate
the proverbs of ancient spiders.
Dragons guard the cribs
of our future demons.
Serpents thought read our dreams.
Slaughter demands its place in the sun.
Who then are we
to command this tide of blood
that washes so viscously
against our feet?
A brightly feathered crooner
daffodils along a hidden creek
the bombs mimicking raindrops
cracking the halo of good dreams.
Assassins are ever commonplace
in critical condition is the human race
following feint scents of rosaries misplaced.
God never seemed so far-far-far away.
The freshest plague is long since dead
something is still raging in their heads
fun house faces of the modern man
stroking of the flesh-his only task.
The four horsemen are encroaching fast
upon the blistered sundials of wayward lambs
futile to hoard or take cover from the blast
Our mad-manna God knows where our soul is at.
Gifts
commonplace;
You’re the giving ****;
Being bled you get used to;
Share
it all down to skin and bones;
Depleted virtue
runs down your
hands.
away from poetry
in the commonplace-
What now ignites my muse
your contest topics I often use
'twixt tween my afternoon snooze
a
disguised symbolism
in
an
immersive
conception
enveloped &
surrounded
with
imagery
of the commonplace
revealed
by
stimulations
of
the mind
an
illumination
becomes
a
momento
of
hypereality
("Citadel of Light Merit Badge" - #67, 2016, original oil)
Inside Out Outside In
The world is nothing
If not a continuum of beliefs and practices
Along a spectrum of consciousness
Within an infinite sphere of awareness;
It’s all light
And it’s everywhere
But not in equal measure.
In other words, that light shines differently
In each of us,
And so each of the cultures we create exist
On a continuum
From high to low.
We don’t see what we don’t want
But we see what we compulsively project
Not like it’s a choice
Just a given for the filters we bring
The ones we inherit
The ones we learn.
What differentiates the individual path
And progress of individuals along it?
Refinement, subtlety and internalization.
What starts big, grandiose, overwhelming
Eventually becomes commonplace and manageable
Until it too passes in its own small way.
It’s called growing up and growing old.
The Universe will have us all
Swallowing us whole
Kicking and screaming
Or smiling and laughing
It matters not to that final hole.
(6/21/24)
three
dimensioned
facade
incorporating
the
commonplace
flotsam
& detrius
of the
every day
brush
hand
&chisel
of
conscious
. manipulation
small
scale
commonplace
impressions
warm
flickering
glowing
subtle
surfaces
of
harmony
It’s a sound that can’t be spelt
A sound not uttered by the svelte
A sound like when your grandpa knelt
It’s worse with every year you’re dealt
A sound made rising from a chair
When pulling up your underwear
When climbing each successive stair
A sound devoid of savoir faire
This sound made by the elderly
Is commonplace; apparently
But lately this sound seems to be
A sound that emanates from me!
meaningful
glimpses
smsll
scale
intimate
scenes
of
the
commonplace
In this vast void of existence, we stand,
Hearts bleeding out, met with the back of a hand.
Alone we stagger in life's endless night,
Chasing shadows, devoid of respite.
We drift, lifeless shells, in an aimless march,
Haunted by silence, under heaven's starched arch.
Bound by ancestral chains, heavy and severe,
I ache for release, for the end to draw near.
We're tethered to a world that cares not for our strain,
Our essence cast into the void, our struggles in vain.
Directionless, we flounder between high and nether,
In life's cruel jest, peace is a tethered feather.
His crown, a distant whisper of hope’s demise,
In its absence, our worth under leaden skies.
I'd embrace the void for a sliver of right,
Than bask in the hollow glow of the commonplace light.
For in the pursuit of that elusive spark,
I find solace in the embrace of the dark.
A sinner's waltz, a hollow, echoing song,
In the dance of despair, is where we belong.
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