The past carried so much normalcy that it was deemed boring.
I remember the smile that I left with you and the stars that shone only in your eyes.
The present now carries a lift that you thought made things easier.
But you continue to run.
You have run the biggest race of your life, driven by a mind you never chose to have in the first place.
I met a child in the past, and I can remember him by his smile.
The man standing before me is still smiling, but he often wonders what the point of it all is.
Sometimes it feels like I am dealing with two different people.
The man keeps trying to convince me that he isn't that different from the mind I knew.
Oh and I believe him. Not just because he wants me to, but because I know the man he became is one that was born out of the desperation to survive whatever this whole cycle is.
The present gave him steps, noises, and countless clicks that satisfied only an urge.
As he tries to silence the noises and then continues to tell me about his world, which is now new to me,
He will click click click until everything becomes okay again.....
It was decided that I’m bad
Thank you, Mr. Universe
So I’m socially dead
Therefore, not much coerced
Little less involved in business
Of the common cause I share
With the Mrs. Universe
She can spot me everywhere
I can’t comment, I can’t post
Cause I’ve been a bit too active
Maybe felt a bit too lost
Could’ve been over-perceptive
Maybe deemed as self-indulgent
So they bothered to reply
Laid on me the hardest judgement
Though it didn’t worth a try
Aren’t we equal to ourselves
What we say no one will save
The tide washes up the shells
Each one bears its own wave..
A LIFE AND DEATH PERSPECTIVE
Living and dying,
Should not be deemed as surreal;
They are both so real:-
The crucifixion was real;
Likewise, was the ascension:-
Living and dying;
Physical realities,
Canvassing the soul:-
The soul sowing the spirit:
Is not Christ still here with us?
Never fret dying,
And being retired from life;
Spiritual pension waits:-
With washed feet of love’s labors,
Live and die in God’s glory:-
Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius are not divine as one slumped over heathen often stressed, nor are they wicked as they have been deemed, under that same heathen who often cracks seeds which are eggs which are buried in the summery earth, the beast of the earth has failed here first, and so we see now that we have left his lie to die, and he injured, morally, spiritually and physically must soon lie, and so his original serpent-eating lie from which the loop so familiar is real, that serpent feeding on itself, was part of his zeal.
I often wonder moon
if you sing tunes ~
have you ever sung one for me?
Knowing the lyrics in your grab,
I surely believe that you have.
Your visage glimmers promise
whispers of life's fulfillments.
From your big screen, mystical notes
float sparkled excites down to me.
Mostly, like moonshine,
your moonglow
inebriates my full heart and lulls me
to an imaginative design.
Your brilliance persuades smiles to widen
or turn frightened that your yeses might
be hope caresses falsely styled.
Often, your quasar orb tilts
towards
feels so soft they surpass optimistic
and my logic runs off.
Your gleam was long ago deemed
a radiant obtuse muse, lighting
the globe’s hold of dreams.
Your otherness role is man’s gift.
You know all why’s comprising our lives;
we just need to know how to lift our eyes
towards God’s sky.
Inspiration:
Inspired by the “Footprints in the Sand” tradition—the enduring idea that when only one set of footprints remains, it is because the Divine is carrying us through our darkest hour.
—The Weight of Mercy—
I turned my years back down the seaward strand,
where joy had once impressed its double trace;
But when the dark unloosed me from its hand,
one print alone lay solemn in its place.
I deemed that single furrow spoke of doom,
and read Heaven’s silence as a sealed decree;
Yet grief, self-crowned, within my inward gloom,
arraigned the unseen for what mine eyes could see.
Then came one night when one brief sentence fell
through all the citadels I built so strong,
and where my failing breath could scarcely dwell,
I felt a strength that bore my soul along;
till, looking back, the furrows seemed to shine:
My feet were mine—the strength that bore me, Thine.
I’ve been walking in a thousand parks
Sat on a thousand benches or more
Dreamed away hearing blackbirds and larks
Each time I rested like never before
Always forced myself to go out
Being timed up by reasons I deemed
Quite exclusive, although now I doubt
If they were as important, as seemed
In the alleys with flowers and squirrels
I had casual thoughts to unfold
What I meant to divulge disappears
Much too fast to be honestly told
If I could, I would tell you about
Why I needed a thousand parks
Maybe more, I didn’t bother to count
All the moments I listened to larks
Could’ve been something else than tranquility
Of idyllic blue skies, rows of trees
Even though parks were my home facility
I’ve no way to convince you of this.
I deemed the dark an exile from my sphere;
It only veiled the roads not meant for me.
The constellations kept their counsel clear,
Nor rendered doom till pulse matched destiny.
No heaven altered when the morning came;
I entered mine by keeping faith with flame.
As drops of water from the face of sea
Vanish to rise, be pregnant clouds to drain
Down, getting born again raindrops to be,
Many if merge, one with ocean in vain,
Some fall in vales, on hills or on plane lea,
A few as fade in dust or desert sands,
And some as rivers flow farther and free
To ocean, their journey’s cycle as ends.
Some drops, were they to fall on bird’s dropping,
Fertilize it to cause a fresh life’s birth
As a seed sprouts to grow as green sapling
One day to be a tree that gathers girth,
So Death, thou art no more than a mere change,
A device in destiny’s hand deemed strange.
_____________________________
Musings | 11.02.2011 revised July 2026 | change, death, life, rain, Sonnet
Note: continued in Part- II.
The two most dominant baseball pitchers of their eras
On the mound, neither was cute or clever
Each reared back and fired
No matter if they were dead-tired
Sandy Koufax and Nolan Ryan
Most batters gave up even tryin’
The great Yogi Berra once said
I understand how Koufax won 25 games last year”
But how he lost five games just isn’t clear”
Koufax deemed Ryan’s lack of pinpoint control his secret weapon
He labeled Ryan a wild bombardier
Who won games because his wayward 100 mph pitches instilled fear
With dimming moonlight ebbing slowly,
treading the path to lands deemed holy,
here walks a tired man, an aged pilgrim,
with his frail shadow following him.
He maunders on in search of that bed
where he can lay down his weary head,
and draw earthy sheets over tired eyes,
life's unbalanced sums thus totalise.
Return to nature with final act
what he took: no more, no less…exact.
Her and I have never coexisted in the same timeline.
So why do I miss her warmth,
Her scent,
Her embrace,
Her smile?
I miss her more than words could explain.
I miss her very being,
As if we were inseparable—
Yet I've never even met her.
Not even once.
Being the first can be a lonely role.
So perhaps I yearn for her presence because, if she were here,
She would relieve me of this crown forced upon my head.
I yearn to be called her little sister,
Even if it meant she had to carry the crown
And bear the role of being The First.
I am selfish. I know.
But my yearning for an older sister's love
Is greater than my selflessness.
I would gladly settle for the middle—
The forgotten—
If it meant I no longer had to bear the crown of The First.
For once,
I want to be the comforted
And not the comforter.
But in this lifetime,
She and I will never coexist in the same timeline.
For the universe deemed she was too good for this world,
And I...
I became the rightful heir
To the crown of The First.
in 1950 the rage was to be a housewife
cleaning and cooking were deemed the best life
you would have to wear a sundress and keep your hair pretty
you did not have to be intelligent or the least witty
in 1950 women were expected to dress up for a man
they did not have jobs usually, and they knew how to can
They had gardens, and hung laundry daily on a clothesline
This was expected, and we girls pretended it was more than fine
ONE HELL OF A THING TODAY: MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN
No more white-hooded lynchings of us.
Today, it’s the ice-cold severing of our rights:-
The red POTUS is making America great again:
Mocking JUNETEENTH; praising 4Th OF JULY.
For him, peace has been deemed as damaging oppression;
And must be put to rest with power-mongering war.
All Zeus-like forms of governing legislation have been iced out.
And new Satanic-like legislative amendments have returned hell on earth.
And the years of slavery that made America great for ancestral power mongers,
Has now been replaced by oppressive, power-mongering political injustice.
Just look at today’s White House Garden of Evil:
Therein, hangs a devilish, hellavah, red snake:-
ANOTHER JULY 4TH FLASHBACK:2026
A 250 years historical celebration:
The emancipation of one group;
The near extinction of one group;
The centuries of slavery for another:-
Such a historical celebration
Of all we blessed three can only
Collectively be deemed a day of joy
In and through celebrating Amazing Grace:-
Thus let us all in celebrate the reality
That though we’re not where we should be
And though we have yet a way to go to get there
Praise God almighty we’re not where we once where:-
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