The way they come to me
the way that they’re heard
And written in haste
whether rich or absurd
Each vowel from the anthem
of consonant rhymes
Pronouncing arrhythmic
with hopes to define
Religiously deigning
the blood from my pen
New veins on the parchment
—alive from within
(Dreamsleep: August, 2023)
A surrender by the face of its brightness,
Worried legs avoiding the closest:
On once-proud shoulders, a pronounced lightness
And self-biting lips pursed not in pretext.
A restraining of body movements
By one willing to make improvements
Cheap tasks stretching beyond momentary completion
Deigning to outlast a fever-pitch oration.
One’s eyes no more can challenge lingered gazes,
Either pair easily picking suspicious praises;
A head never failing to fly low,
One’s heart shedding much of its accustomed glory.
It’s a dreadfully itching right eyelid
That won’t make light of what one did:
With storming considerations of an open confession
But also its ruins of a rosy profession!
This is, by and by, guilt:
A mood in which, we’d half-wilt,
Thriving when one’s conscience isn’t rusty
Or normal human feeling frosty…
Or the pages of one’s Bible dusty:
One’s morals still standing bolt upright
And one strives to do all things right.
It’s not all easy being favoured as a great gifted poet
All this deigning and stooping just to let people know it
They do deign but I just do so to see them pass
Tomorrow perhaps worse they want to kiss my ****
But that’s not the worse of it and irritating much more
Is my fresh ironed toga keeps ruddy snagging the door
It is not all easy being favoured as a great gifted poet
All this deigning and stooping just to let people know it
But that is not the worse of it and irritating much more
Is my fresh ironed toga keeps on snagging the door
(PS I wanted to tick humour but it was spelled humor!)
In a hallowed grandstand,
I do quietly sit,
high above the noise
and ruckus of the pit.
Staring out upon
a curving, long race-track,
as thoroughbreds set off
running races back-to-back.
Around me are sitting
a mannered, genteel crowd,
dressed up to the nines,
only deigning to be loud
when jockeys round the curve,
pulling hard for home,
and the losing bets first scream,
then so loudly moan.
I don't think they really care
all that much for the horse,
it's the gambling that brought them,
and brings them back for more.
It kind of reminds me
of NASCAR when I think
of all those horses turning left,
it's kinda the same thing!
But I don't dare mention that,
if I did these people all
would rush me with intentions bad,
claiming they're shocked and appalled,
I guess it's really not my crowd,
and next Saturday I shall go
down the road for a real good time
at the weekly, circuit rodeo.
Ride 'dem broncs! Y'aahhh!
Discovered: Two Ibis at the edge of the lake
in compatible company of four Canadian Geese
who've absented the gaggle of twenty or more,
daily in command of our grassy slope where they
come to feed, settle on the benevolent breast
of the lawn, or else, the parking lot's warm asphalt,
arrogantly in possession against arriving cars
whose occupants carefully maneuver around them,
respecting those as residential as they, birds
bedded down, wedded in marriage to salt water
and fresh. There's a light filled sky of deep
purity, its mystery unveiled, clarity after grayed
days of misty rain, fog that sandbags the soul
(that which we're told is immortal) --
Then, at next watch, they've vanished. Their
presence as temporal as our lives, leaving only
a memory of how they stood in juxtaposition
against the silence and immobility of windless
water. The generosity of sea birds deigning kin-
ship to migrants who stood their ground.
It’s not all easy being favoured as a great gifted poet
All this deigning and stooping just to let people know it
They do deign but I just do so to see them pass
Tomorrow perhaps worse they want to kiss my ass
But that’s not the worse of it and irritating much more
Is my fresh ironed toga keeps ruddy snagging the door
PP .
The Great Poet is most embarrassed using the word for a donkey for a fleshy nice shaped bottom for the sake of a silly rhyme !
Standing before this refulgent pool of reflection
Rhythm obviates the need for a new direction;
Ocular atrocities; I view my deeds in serious light
Cursed mortal, deigning his will in frantic flight.
Quotidian lies have splendid colors in retrospect
See them pass my way; artifices of hell I suspect,
The mettle to steel myself from these horrid sights
My request inside, my importunate yet buried plight,
Turgid notes I play, to insist granting another day;
I for one can hear a Seraphic call when I pray,
But forgiveness that is not ordinary my only asking;
Allow me then to palaver you with the daily tasking.
Beg? No I shall never do such a wasteful thing;
For my disdain shall undo a most beautiful sting.
Standing before this fuliginous pool of speculation
I see him stand beside me, and ask for my invocation.
It’s not all easy being favoured the great gifted poet
All a deigning and stooping just to let people know it
But that’s not the worse of it and irritating much more
Is my fresh ironed white toga repeatedly snags the door
It’s not all easy being favoured as a great gifted poet
All this deigning and stooping just to let people know it
But that’s not the worse of it and irritating much more
Is my fresh ironed toga keeps on snagging the door
Spring is cold and wet- buds reluctant to open - trees seem veiled in
smoky see through color- an occasional tulip shivers alone-daffodils
have long since left - some without deigning to flower- garden work
is not warming enough to enjoy- The rains fall mostly on weekends
increasing the frustration.
One dresses optimistically each morning, adding layers on each venture
outside. Clouds darken the late morning sky as the ever present birds
argue over the always half empty feeders. The lettuce and beets love
the English weather.
The transplanted Liverpudlian (53 years ago) is back inside the warm
house. So is the cat, curled and contentedly purring. As he looks out
it seems to be clearing again. He looks for shadows. The eldest daughter's
truck leaves the driveway. He types on reaching frustratedly for
inspiration
It's as hard to find as shadows on the road outside his window.
Maybe another cup of sweet black tea, or p'rhaps a tot of rum.
Summer's prob'ly on a Wednesday this year, or so it seems.