I have so little time
It seems
I wake up half way through
My dreams
Awake I fear not
Demon screams
But those concocted
By pre-teens
Or worse
The subtle facial memes
Of ever changing
Toddler schemes
Then with stealth
I spring the trap
A story told
Before a nap
I gave you a daughter
To have and to hold
I gave you her gently
More precious than gold
I stitched her together
And formed her with care
Created her lovely
Then born to me bare
Was bare as a baby
I held her to me
Then she upturned her gaze
Looked sweetly at me
You gave me no child
But something unfinished
Deformed and ugly
So twisted and blemished
Creature of sorrow
I’d spare you the image
All blackened and shadowed
Reflecting your visage
You moulded it thus
Concocted its nature
Then expected me
To cherish and nurture?
Despicable steward!
You hurt my daughter
Distorted her image
And raised her for slaughter.
Despising my glory
Dismissing her worth
Her face my reflection,
The salt of the earth
Revise your destruction
Bring her to water
Where her soul pants for me
Drink up, my daughter.
Returned to me, my child
Now forever mine
Born again in my blood
Sweet fountains of wine.
'I think, therefore I am!'
I write to bang and clang,
to play with words, cast spells.
Wrangle and entangle readers,
with thoughts dredged from memories,
resonating, reverberating within selves,
aligned on shelves, waiting to join in.
An audience of thinkers shaken not stirred,
by the clang and jar of poetic,
rhythms, rhymes, images and ideas.
Rendered with razzmatazz and syncopation,
in the written words rendered,
improvised, and concocted in a group session.
On a stage, on a page,
of prismatic selves,
jamming and jarring,
banging and clanging,
jangling with Mr Joe,
in worn out shoes.
Afraid,
that no one is listening, or
that no one,
really, truly, bluesy cares?
Emerging from my teens
I had a head full
of ghosts to escape from -
inhabitants of an inner world
I kept to myself. Future life
was over there,
at the end of a train line,
a long road, the last port
of call on a ship's long voyage.
I could never get far enough
away - they always
found me hiding in some
masquerade, a clever cover
concocted to conceal -
at times I even fooled myself.
Mirrors were a bane,
they told the truth
and so I learned to look away.
A lifetime on
they are still with me but now
I know each by name.
There are days
when they draw close
and become weepy
as if seeking love,
though still afraid to leave
the refuge of my shadow.
Morning Musings
Miracle Man
1/2/2025
Morning thoughts drift,
seeking guidance or direction.
Unsure of destination,
they fend off deflection.
Hoping 2025 will be as tasteful,
as some newly concocted confection.
Also, thoughts that might tempt,
are quickly met with rejection.
Could careless Carla cook a cake
her daughter Dora would adore
then feed to friends at Friday's feast,
which celebrates school's student-stars?
Her daughter Dora would adore
if cooking Carla could come through
and bake without the batter burned
then feed to friends at Friday's feast
a cake concocted carefully
to make more merry midday's meal,
which celebrates school's student-stars.
So care, took Carla, crafting cake ...
dessert her daughter Dora dropped!
Infinite and enticing is the world at large :
Full of curious, motley marvels that enrich,
Appease and alleviate with divine charge,
The eager, stirred soul at the varied pitch ;
Live spirit ever cherishes the ideal kind;
Pleasures of one are most often the pain
Of others, who choose never to dwell
Or step into any nook of an alien domain ;
The reaches of the heaven and the hell
Are but the concocted portals of the mind
Absolute liberty exacting callous decadence
To seek the needs and impulses unruly,
In vying with others, caused the providence
To intervene with the commandments holy;
From Paleocene to the space- epoch proud,
Between the stones and the missiles wicked
Strode all weaponry grinning with vicious hate
From across the deserts and lands sacred,
Came forth Revealers and Pathfinders great,
To proclaim, recoup and restore equity aloud
One might win, and with great gains too,
In all conflicts with Nature and mankind;
Yet with stretching arms and power true
How far will the real success go ,and find
Him as a victor in his conflict with himself..?
If only you knew the feel of a zephyr,
With its current swooping around hillsides
Ruffling the spruce trees everywhere,
Or descend downwards towards verdant vales
Where flowers bloom all through the year.
If only you knew what the oceans utter
As wonderful waves smash into each other,
Or roll nonchalantly towards the bays,
Destroying sand castles or wiping up
The poor love letters which were written there.
If only you knew the various sounds of Earth,
The laughter of little children playing in our parks,
The parade of grown-ups commemorating feasts,
The sounds of aeroplanes fighting for supremacy,
Whilst on the ground tanks rumble on firing at will.
If only you knew the evil concocted by selfish persons,
Where kindness seems to be at a premium.
Yet I discern others who are compassionate
And help others less fortunate than themselves.
How grateful receivers of good works will be.
If only you knew how many angels fly above
Around the silver stars that orbit in perfect harmony.
Angels that care for this poor land which
We have ruined successfully through our unwanted trash.
While food is thrown away when others die in famine and pain.
Placed 1
I grew up blind
The kind that fades away with the gaping eye of knowledge
word on the tip of every patriotic tongue was independence
Little did my shut brain know, sham was a better word for it
The physicality was removed, that is certain
But ideas and creeds are still sung, venerating them
It’s as if our souls were trained for the job-faultlessly
Yet freedom is cried out from the fantasy of the beholder
How could it be that they quantify us unchained?
When the model of sophistication and elegance embellished
Fall in the wondrous sculpture molded of anything but our culture
Language is deemed "uncouth,” evermore forgotten as ancestral splendor
Colonialism ended to let on a superior beneficial exploitation
What better shrewdness than one concocted in plain sight?
We’ve seen their pockets outgrow them with our gold, our dignity
While we’re outran by their wars, and still, we grow old-blind
Alerting me to the awareness of the Almighty
Is this soul-soothing taste merely the essence of caffeine?
The coffeeness, as the divineness, has concocted tightly.
Leads my unconscious conscience from the seen to the unseen.
Though taste buds are within me, a scent from far I savour
Towards the unknown, like smokes of frankincense, moods arise.
An ambrosial blend of human-divine is its flavour.
It brings the soft sweetness of self-surrender as a prize.
Every food and drink mingles with the psyche and physique.
Atma-Brahma fusion is the soul of all our actions.
No deed is great or small, as each deed leads me to the peak.
Of heaven-experience, though they're filled with abstractions
Be in concord within, hence I say, as you sip each drop.
Its flavour should last long, like the resonance of a harp.
The night is deliciously hot
every child is decked out
in a Halloween costume
the full moon beams
as witches prepare
their concocted spells
spending hours adding
eye of toad
nail of a dog
hair of a cat to their potion
planning to make
their Halloween night
one to remember
so be careful who and what
witch you run into
or else you might be Bewitched
About climate change and its effects there has been a lot of chatter.
One concern is that the sea-level is rising and I think I know the matter.
My research reveals that there is a dearth of sea sponges, (that is my notion).
We need to increase the growth of sponges to soak up the water in the ocean!
(Concocted with considerable tongue in cheek!)
The kerfuffle began
when the K&K's concocted
a plan to be special
beyond breakfast.
To be silent, written,
but never heard
was simply absurd.
Penned in by N's
K's lovely voice
was kybosched
knifed,
knuckle-dusted
knocked, kneed
when kneeling prone.
Denied any
free expression speech
from the grassy knoll.
Why must this be so?
K's are sick and tired of being
bullied by N's!
To forever have to remain silent whenever followed
by an 'N' at the start of the word.
It's not right for knight, knot, knowledge and knob
to know they must have a hidden silent
bed-fellow at the bedhead,
The boss neutered to mere
nothingness and meaningless no-less.
It's not right to be demanded in Scrabble and rambling
scribbles, dabble and scrawls,
but muted silent in the babble of spoken recalls
of verse spoken aloud or recited in the reader's head.
Let there be a voice for Special K's.
That's what we say!
I shudder at the thought of each day giving way to night
for I know they will arrive garbed in thin veils of white
Through windows ghosts fly, though they're closed tight
Moaning my name until I think I might die from fright
I have done nothing to them, so why can't I escape
when I feel their foul breath on the flesh of my nape?
They ride on the wind, exposing their ghoulish shape
I'll stare at those scowling faces with my mouth agape
I've screamed and I've hit but they laugh at my fear
With evil eyes they taunt me as they glower and leer
The wind's begun to howl, and still, they hover near
I tremble in bed when their intent becomes quite clear
I hear them whispering vile words in a concocted spell
But the words they're chanting, I cannot hear very well
These ghosts haunt me each night from where they dwell,
Out of the darkness they swarm from the fires of Hell
Tonight, I'll be brave when they come from the fiery deep
I will stand before them, my tears I will dare not weep
and chase the wraiths from my home, each ghostly creep
I hope they will fade away so that I might peacefully sleep
My aunt Shay was creative, inventive and fun.
She made dolls for us out of scraps of our clothes.
It was terrific to see what she concocted and constructed.
She could make things out of ribbons, yarn, bits of nothing.
She was clever and playful, and the dolls reflected it.
She had the personality and the childlike qualities of a pixie.
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