Jim starts the day with good intention
Jobs need doing that require his attention.
The garden needs a good sprucing up
His vegetation 'triffids' are running amok.
He mows the lawn, trims the hedges,
Creates those nice, neat lined edges.
Weeds the borders, deadheads the flowers,
Feeds the plants their nutritional powers.
The hard soil is dug, ready and prepped
To sow the seeds for home grown veg.
Must not forget to prune back the tree
A labour of love is what it can be.
Hours of work that seemed never ending
His body and limbs, stretching and bending.
Sun burnt skin, his head now aches
Back is killing him, so takes a break.
Joints and muscles moan and groan
Weeds now gone are finally dethroned.
Jim's bones applaud with clicks and cracks
His badge was the sting when a wasp attacked.
Admiring his garden that he has served
His body felt it carried every ache in the world.
The thing Jim will remember and quickly did learn
To wear factor fifty to avoid the sunburn.
29.08.24
Categories:
deadheads, garden, sunshine,
Form: Rhyme
lies drip from lips of leaders
absorbed into minds of captivated
deadheads with primal fears
Categories:
deadheads, political,
Form: Prose
Sparring with demons, and dragons and deadheads
It bobs and weaves like a drunken sailor.
Omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient
I'm quite attached to it - joined at the psyche.
Image of an incubus twirling as I do.
Patron Saint of agony, I curse it
And relegate it to a 2nd-class personage.
Out, damn spot, out - and take the blood with you.
When I am naked, it is clad (no projection),
No libido, no tumescence, no consummation.
How's that for a declension?
When it ascends, I float in the ether.
This hermaphrodite queen is superior
To all mono-sexual beings
And since I am bound and bounded
It supplies the rope, the pins and the Worchestshire Sauce
Third person singular with plural overtones.
No objection for this object of my affectation.
Alas, the narcissus cannot not spin like lilies,
But only vegetate with the legumes.
The coda, finale, epilog await
Looming like a sarcophagus awaiting its occupant
And alcohol cannot still the tooth
That nibbles at its soul.
Categories:
deadheads, inspiration,
Form: Free verse
Sparring with demons, and dragons and deadheads
It bobs and weaves like a drunken sailor.
Omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient
I'm quite attached to it - joined at the psyche.
Image of an incubus twirling as I do.
Patron Saint of agony, I curse it
And relegate it to a 2nd-class personage.
Out, damn spot, out - and take the blood with you.
Categories:
deadheads, best friend, betrayal,
Form: Blank verse
Admiral John Smith sat stark and semidark at the crossroads among the war torn.
With no urgency for liturgy, he wrapped his men tightly with tattered blankets around
likewise mortalities.
Nearby, in an irreverent attempt for a God-like Eucharist, homegrown quilted women lit
store-bought cigarettes and watched the smoke curling out over a foggy crisp soggy bog
near will o' the wisp.
Admiral Smith sat quietly. At his feet, fleas flit like stones skipping 'cross the barely dim
glow. Down below bitter cold creatures' skeletal souls scattered broken-field into a hissing
abyss. Alone he remembered how his battalions never broke formation charging into those
shattering shells of Hell.
Battles were fought steely with stern determination. He saw this great nation lay askew
where Clearwater used to be free. As the bald egalitarian deadheads stared dead ahead into
shadows of semidark, the Whitewater fights ran yellow into red and white stripes through the
deep blue that runs through many sleepless knights. We prayed Admiral Smith would get
sleep as he kept watch over the faithful.
Categories:
deadheads, war
Form: Narrative