I curtsy to say may he allow me one last dance
At the end of my play, at the end of my last day.
A celebration of life, mine, in due time.
When soon but no one knows absolutely when
Do they? Perhaps, he does.
Covering the Earth as the shadow of Life
Lurking everywhere in between rebirth.
Always on alert for something to become dirt.
Soil is his soul. Shadows, his coal.
He needs no black robe nor a scythe,
He has no bloody body nor real eyes.
He shovels lots of it, everywhere, all the time.
He expects no bows when the curtain calls
All prayers go unanswered, perhaps just simply ignored.
When the time comes, he does his job.
He transcends them upstairs, or casts them down below
Complacently, he doesn’t really care about high or low
Me or you or anything at all, as long as he just does his job.
It must be important,
Life seems to depend on it.
A creative process
disguised as a French Bulldog
has pooped in my mind-pot,
where I was complacently
growing small obscure weeds.
Muse me, or abuse me you poetry bug,
if you are a stinkbug, I will take it,
fake it until…
The Frenchie faux English Bulldog
licks a poetic banana smoothie
I have been working on like a dog.
The soft and gooey muse
shudders, goes insane
from a rare form of Gallic syphilis.
The dog poop,
is not processing well.
Fragments float in a soupy miasma:
said poop, a small annoying dog and
a smoothie.
But hey,
I think I can do something with that mix.
Poets know
that all kinds of ingredients
may be added to a mind-pot,
all we need do
is stir.
"Chai Tea, Vanilla: Writing it All"
We are a cauldron
steeped, stewing bitter,
unlike sweet chai tea
boiling
and bubbling,
our reality,
is hard
to swallow.
how do we live
with ourselves,
knowing,
we live
complacently?
we observe,
we write,
we watch it all,
the killing of
innocence,
the black
and white
of it all;
the death
of a dream.
before the end,
the war
begins
it all.
the future of
our children:
we watch it all.
we watch it all.
we take notes,
we journal,
the poetry
of it all.
do we make
changes?
do we?
do we,
do
anything, at all?
writing it all.
We are a cauldron
steeped, stewing bitter,
unlike sweet chai tea.
we are so
Vanilla,
do we do
anything?
writing it all?
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
John 1 (NIV).
"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
Lux Vitae.
Constantly check your mind and bring changes
Never allow the same rule to stay there forever
Bring new ideas and alter your plans to better
A broad invitation to new thoughts ever helps
Find out new ways to do the same old job
Make improvements as far as possible
Definitely new remedies are lying hidden
Only when we pursue we can locate them
Read on the subject making an analysis
Opportunities to excel are indeed plenty
Only when we plunge into the sea of work
We can come out with precious pearls
Day by day our skill must be improved
We must not complacently remain idle
Our aim must be to contribute more
For this we must find new techniques
Dormant state of mind is equal to poison
That will make us inept by nailing mind
We have to be like a fresh water flowing
Removing impurities and bringing peace.
Something happens in our lives causing us to question what we know.
We open our eyes and seek the truth learning more as we go.
The more we uncover the hungrier we get for more understanding,
but the world is so full of distractions and deception.
We have a burning desire to take action and do more.
We protest injustice, corruption, politics and war.
We are labeled as hippies, angry kids, anarchists,
conspiracy theorists and terrorists.
Family and friends often reject us.
Such is the life of the activist.
We are beat by police and mocked by the news,
yet we remain steadfast to spreading the truth,
and for many, much like me,
it becomes a very lonely, solitary journey.
Being an active activist isn't for they who live their lives complacently.
Wake me if I've become stationary,
satiated with the ordinary.
Nudge me if I am complacently numb,
ungrateful and obliviously glum.
Unfold my eyes if they're mindlessly closed.
Wake me from heedless sleep if I have dozed.
5-21-2021
We are all queens or kings
Some are both; but only a few.
We know the king is the last to give up.
But the queen is more versatile.
She has all the moves, except the knight’s.
The bishops and the rooks have one track minds.
Bishops always going diagonal, rooks parallel.
No matter what they do, the queen is on the move.
The pawns are sneaky; there are more of them.
They catch you unawares from the side sometimes.
Knights scoff at them, from their lofty intricate places.
But should we really laugh at anyone? The king asks.
He, after all, is the one who can barely maneuver around the board.
Being complacently placed in a four square limit. He has to be staid.
No matter where you are placed on the board, be versatile like the queen.
She truly does have all of the best move. No offense Knight.
I lose myself by the placid pond
brimming with yellow and iridescent fowl!
Are they held together by filial bond
in that enchanting man-made bowl?
Amorous duo in a trance profound
drift complacently in love's slow ebb
One of them turning its neck full around
to watch the mate following the love web
I see them proud and puffy with their clutch
leading ducklings to the grass-licked edge
Six little puffballs, so furry and tender to touch—
ambling towards two eager kids on the bench.
The curly-haired girl tossing cold pretzel,
the blue-eyed boy throwing chips in pieces-
tantalizing the innocent birds for a morsel
of vile food unfit for their species.
Pronto! the petite mother came running
With a word of warning and advice
“Just wait another 5 minutes darling
While daddy gets corn and lettuce.”
Filled my eyes with respect as I stare
at the young woman, slight as a stick.
Silent applause for the mom who couldn’t bear
Offering coated poison to another one's kid.
Written on 05/09/2016
Diseased incubator of mutated humanity
A festering cesspool of rotten ideals,
And ancient plots of religious restraint
Or the liberation from.
Acidic with greed and selfishness.
Base and seductive, the nature of societal allure
Indulgence, self-satisfaction and gross misconduct
Or just inaction is even worse.
At least those atrocious individuals have a spine.
They have picked a side.
Bought into all we are suppose to.
Grow up believing and hoping to become a productive member of.
The death machine they are rivets on a gear.
They may not be hero's or martyrs but they know their place.
You on the other hand remain complacently paralyzed in fear.
Can not recognize bondage for what it is , what it makes you.
A spineless disgrace. A causeless activist with no identity.
A blank slate, a featureless face.
Inclinations Of Fan
Ceiling fan mesmerized the day’s hypnotic flashings
Sunlight fractured through rotating blades
Someone must have traduced it with black magic
Or a switch turned on when we weren't looking
False currants of air, created up there
Pretending to be wind inside the room
Are merely fabrications of the ceiling fan
Humming complacently about a motor at its core
Variable speeds at war with nature
Pretending to be wind is such a sin
Slow, medium, fast… won’t last forever
Ceiling fan will stop one day for many reasons
Electric cost is at the top
An condition unit will replace it for a time
When the grid goes out by bombs or hackers
Paper fans will do just fine
Style
Compass points in more than one direction
Lays low its feelings before the landscapes gravity
Magnetism searched below the skin of Earth
Substances you can’t touch or feel or see between the seams
Reveal no secrets or mysteries down in the weight of things
But up above the surface, are aromas for the senses
Fragrances of good and evil roam around the world
Nose points in that > direction
Beyond that is the future
Around the corner are other corners
Future always waits complacently
Corners do not hesitate or move themselves
There are more of them than you can count
A compass is useless in the dark as a companion
But will help you navigate the bend of days
The future is unknowable and unknown
If you must go, go all the way
Take a device that indicates and points directions
One that can sing and dance and play
If you get lost at least you’ll go in style
A compass with a smile will know the way
Created on 1/02/15 for PD’s “First Poem of 2015” Poetry Contest
If your child was murdered by the owner of your local grocery store
and the owner beat the rap,
would you continue purchasing products from that store anymore?
The Bush's murdered thousands on 9/11
and every time you fuel your car you continue to support them.
I'm only one man. I can't do anything
except to never ever use or fuel my car again,
and I haven't done so since 9/11.
If only all of my country did like me.
America would return to how it use to be,
but most aren't concerned about saving lives or liberties.
They'd rather live complacently comfortably.
Hope is dangerous in times like these;
I see the actions of others and I just
Can't believe.
I put myself in their shoes, knowing
that they would never wear mine.
And I try to see through their eyes- but it's hard and I feel blind.
Oblivious to the injustices..There's too many wrongs we just let go.
turn our heads.. as if we don't know.
pathetic.
and we fearlessly take them seriously- as if they can be trusted.
pardoned of their past & the countless times they have been busted-
from the corrupt cops to the genocides- they enforce a law
which they don't abide.
they tell us who to be. what we do... and don't see.
they tell us we're free and we ignorantly agree.
but not me. not anymore. I'm done listening to leaders
who lead us into war.
This world could be beautiful- if compassion never died..
instead we're confined in walls of fear
in which we complacently hide.
It's not just war- it's SO much more..
but
in terms of the severity- there's nothing else I'd rather see
than for all this nonsense
to stop.
In quietly floating the stream,
not one to abandon the team,
you relinquish your row
just to go with the flow,
complacently drowning your dream.
I wade the waterside enticing death.
The sea extols the brash to th’ outermost
Abyss. A ‘know it all’, I challenged this
Watery host.
I capsized in the tumultuous seas;
I’m in the heart of the abyssal deep.
The billowing waters; they crest and fall,
Enmesh and sweep.
Disjointed and astray from sight, I strive
Complacently for that redemptive shoal.
This mortuary that’s surrounding me
Entombs my soul.
I look toward the surface as I scan
The depth of darkness for some tethered hope.
I clutch my hands into the obvious
End of my rope.
The moorings are beyond my grasp. I gasp
And struggle for air as I hold my breath.
The hint is clear enough; I closed my eyes
And swallowed Death.
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