Bothering a tired old woman is not smart
We can easily conjure up a belch or fart
At a certain age, we can bring a truly foul smell
By the time we finish with you, you are in hell
The June Princess
On her birth of June
She listened to her favorite lovely tune
Julie the girl deserves a man
Who is Earl for her to get a wheel.
She was a mother figure
But doesn't have a son or a daughter.
She knew how to scold.
But her last advice has never told.
Now her seventeen candle light
Needs a power to blow through night.
All the night of her 16 year or sleep.
Was the loudest voice she could only keep.
Stronger like a tigress.
Smarter like an Einstein.
Gifted with lily dresses.
Wine that she never get whine.
Conjure up her dreams
Only the star hides in a gleam.
Finally the day of school year end.
And she celebrates on her biggest party with her friend.
Scattered reminiscences from my childhood,
What do I see on the snow-globe?
A magical crystal orb placed on my desk,
Reminding me of an elfish smiling face.
My dearest friend gifted me this precious piece,
On my sixteenth birthday to celebrate,
And told me never to forget her,
She was suffering from an incurable disease,
I promised we would never part.
Her memory is imprinted on all my experiences in youth,
Especially the days we were sledding and skating in the snow,
This little orb is the perfect reminder of those exuberant days,
When shaken, I see two playful girls, snow falling incessantly,
Frolicking on the ice, without a care.
She is gone, she left us, the globe remained,
To bring memories of those unforgettable moments,
It is unbelievable how an object apparently insignificant,
Is able to conjure up hundreds of memories,
It will remain at the same spot till I am gone.
Love and friendship, adoration and affection,
All combined - bonded in a precious snow globe witness.
From ES to ES
Here’s the thing
I don’t really know
What life would be if I declared the truth
I heard you say you were unlovable
Yet I declined to speak
A Delorean moment
An everlasting “if only…”
A coward’s regret
All of that and more
The life I could have had
A haunting presence as I pace my cell
It seems supreme but who can tell?
Here’s the thing
I haven’t got a clue
What makes you tick and gets you feeling good
I idolize your ever little nuance
Pretend I mean as much to you
A hypothetical perfect match
A theoretically blessed union
An ineffably joyous pairing
As only I could conjure up
The wife I could have had
A loving presence as I stumble through the day
Appears so dear but who can say?
Here’s the thing
I’m in the dark
As to the thing that could have made me yours
And now I’m sure you’ve heard the news
I hope at least it took you by surprise
An unspeakable crime
A horrifying action
A man you thought you know
Who used to make you laugh
The life we could have had
A sobering presence but I hope you’re living well
I bet you are but who can tell?
We're surrounded, or so it seems to me,
by some strange and stupid sayings,
as examples, here's but three...
Altho' outdated, 'How do you do?' is one,
and, if so asked, 'How do I do what?'
my response would be.
Another such, 'It's stunning!'
'Incapacitating' perhaps?
I think not, something there needs shunning.
Also, 'It's brilliant!', is another,
and, my thoughts about it,
'Sparkling, shiny at twilight time?'
I seriously doubt it.
But why are so many Brits compelled
to repeat these inanities, and who thinks them up?
More importantly, I'd like to apply for that job,
as I could conjure up even worse insanities.
You ain't got nowhere to be
Since it's your day off
Except here with me
My day off too
I'm kinda liking being here
I really. really enjoy
Being here with you
Don't conjure up no clever
Conversations
Evasives acts ain't what your
Displaying
Keep it true tween me and you
Gotta love I wanna share with you
Quiet times when we're together
Disco dancing and reggae
They see us together
Rock and roll me alnight long
Happy people
Baby that's what we are
If I got a sneak around to be with you
Damn it- that's what I am gonna do
Ain't no fussing gonna keep us apart
I swear it's true it comes
Straight from my heart
Do you feel like loving me
I wanna have you loving me
I don't wanna look elsewhere
I want you here loving me
It aint that complicated
Ah compromise on what
We debated
Get ah trill outta loving you
Smiles and cheers to your
Best friend
So glad I am with you
How does one fill silence, if not with awkward lines
I conjure up an emotion or sing a song
How does one fill silence, if not with awkward lines..
Should I drop a meme , a gif or stickers
How does one fill silence, if not with awkward lines …
Do I send a picture or a trending video or reel
How does one fill silence, if not with awkward lines…
Tell you a story or ring in a favourite memory
How does one fill the silence if not with awkward lines??
Silence is scary like some unknown is calling
Silence can be enlightening but not when I am craving
Wanting to know your thoughts and wonders
So forgive me …Oh and just let me be seen ..
if I do end up filling silence with awkward lines!!
The Hudson River stretches wide
From Jersey to the far west side.
The east, though, is where I reside
So I don’t see it much.
It’s quite majestic, driving past
And on the highway, going fast,
I try to conjure up the past
When locals spoke in Dutch.
‘Cross town, another river flows,
Much narrower and, I suppose,
Some Germans came because that shows
In restaurants and such.
Between the rivers, New York grew
And other cultures added to
The melting pot, which no one knew
Would suffer Ice’s clutch.
Wild Dreamer
Son Of Life...
Tree Of Choice.
Every Dream Can
Have A Voice.
Sovereign Instincts
Call For Breath,
Passions' Pleasure:
Instant Death.
You'll Be Fine!
Cross The Line...
You Want What?
That One's Mine.
Share The Banquet
Spread About...
Sweeter, Hotter
Swollen Doubt.
Orange Blossoms
Conjure Up the
Warmest Radiance!
Cup To Cup.
***
Where All Decisions
Will Be Made.
Take A Bite!
Be Afraid.
-Gray Squirrel
05-29-2025
~ Life Is a Kaleidoscope ~
5/25/2026
Life is a game, so, which role do you choose to play?
In lifes’s cacophony of human hearts on display?
What is your role in this drama of millions of metrical, truth-sayers?
I ask myself this, whenver a poem, in moonlight mist, I conjure up to post.
Not expecting a comment from anyone, or to be lauded,
at a literati roast!
I’d much prefer to write poet songs, home alone about
the glory, or angst of relationships.
These are the songs, that dreams are made of, in the moonglowing-sapphiric experience.
Forever dreaming of soft, magical, deep verbiage and longing to hear love’s tender, calls.
The ecstasy, the dreaming, of kissing his expectant
lips, beneath rainbow-misted,of lit gentle, waterfalls.
Do we shape the poem,verily,or..does the magic of a
poem shape us?
Are we here to impress, or dare we try to really connect with another’s spititus?
Each star has a pattern all its own;
so far away, this cannot be shown.
Stars are envisioned like our Sun;
brilliant and fiery till they are done.
And so we imagine each as a sphere
circling the outer space atmosphere.
With patterns unknown, we use our minds
to conjure up what musing unwinds.
Perhaps, as lovey snowflake designs,
each star is etched with celestial signs;
or like Ursinia- flower's name-
shaped like stars with gold petals aflame.
Stars twinkle on with planned Cosmic goals
letting their magic sky fill our souls-
begging wishes come true in their glow;
searching for patterns we'll never know.
December rain once in a while falls
In a heart so warm longing to throw snowballs
Job asks "Have you considered the wonder of the snow?"
Each snow flake is as different as the people you know
Stories of folklore and rapture's pretense
Conjure up scenery inside our heads
Tears of joy cascade down a dreamer's face, and
Sparkle by the light of the fireplace
Through the window outside look to the sky
Gaze at the wonder of God's Christmas night
The sky is adorned with stars, and for what it is worth
The smell of frankincense and myrrh wafts in the Earth
The wind waltzes dreams 'round in the air
The moon shines, a beacon on the flight of a prayer
All y'all find solace back home from a wayworn trip
Find no wrapping, ribbons or a bow on a gift
The Gift of all gifts as only God could give
The Wizard of Oz has embraced you within his curtains
Safe inside, YES! Truth comes in flavours with versions
Scoop yourself a high mounded float of fanciful demeanour
Perouse the fifty shades of "God, That Sounds Much Better"
Now spin, hold your finger to your head and again spin
Only hold your nose while you conjure up what will be sin
Each turn twists so fine to obstruct what was once a Singularity
You didn't know? Really? Truth for real became a plural Entity
Poetry is a messy business. It reveals itself in phases,
Flowing, growing, dancing upon the starkly untouched pages.
Happily, the stream of thought won’t stop for days upon days
Then, BAM! It burns out in raging, steely blade, cold stages.
Where’s the muse? Her inspiration tepid and haunting,
Never there when you truly need her the most,
Only when she feels like playing up to you again.
Otherwise, she’s dodging side-eyed, hiding like a ghost.
Well, I’m done with the muse, no longer feel I need her.
Finding inspiration in everyday experiences, people, places
And things; thoughts I conjure up all by myself at 3 AM.
While the rest of world sleeps in dreams and guarded spaces.
She’s no longer welcome. I’m keeping her at arm’s length.
She let me down one too many times and dropped me in the brink.
From now on, all you get is the swells from the depths of me
I don’t care what the muse may say, no longer care what she thinks.
Chula Fleming © August 15, 2024
As well sounding as that word may seem
It may with a different sharper inflection
Conjure up a whole brand new meme
Craftily constructed in its production
To totally eclipse the Republican dream.
Slate Trump as "You phoney" in Walz's prediction
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