when threat of war looms
a strange fear sets in
but to empty mind
where should we begin
what’s our to do list
agendas surface
slow down oh hermit
ego’s thought flow pace
objects of desire
tasks yet unresolved
debts of love we owe
are to God devolved
when dark seems the night
who we are recall
we are living light
death’s a wake up call
Everything is boring these days.
Hugs and smiles are boring.
I’ve evolved.
It’s me, it’s always been me.
But now, there’s been a transformation.
I feel like saying that, and yelling that, and texting that.
And…I’m crazy.
And…I’ve devolved.
I went away and came back.
It was silly. It was like a dream.
I was dramatic back then.
I smile again.
I hug my mom, and it’s real.
It was like a dream.
But maybe some changes stuck, after all.
INNOVATIONS
many faceted
in
a
melange
of
decorative
spectacle
a vanguard
of
the bizarre
the absurd
in
complete
freedom
interventions
collaborations
coordinated
in
complete
aesthetic
freedom
reflecting
mirrors
devolved
&
surrounded
exploiting
possinilities
in
ironic
detachment
From Wales or Suffolk, claims knowledge of literature,
looking at sheep is far from just being some easy cure;
ever heard of Dylan Thomas, of course - one of the best,
but you're nowhere near of passing such an erudite test.
Such ingratiating manner, just playing to the gallery,
why don't you just share your homilies with old Valerie;
I have no jealousy, rather, scornful of inaccurate claims,
it's amazing that you should aspire with gratuitous pains.
However, I still forgive you for your horizontal position,
perhaps in future you could give us something to rely on;
I'm glad I'm not from a 'devolved' unfortunate nation,
next you'll be telling us that autism is advantageous.
You're bright, don't like to be assisted, oh well let's laugh lol,
perhaps you can find in your heart to forgive a bitter troll.
NB. A worzel is a country bumpkin.
Trees turn their features inward.
Cool winds
wander in like stray cats.
A fiery death is in the air.
the party colors
are flame and ash.
Leafy campfires
burn the residue of mammoth bones
long since devolved
into the soot of charred mice.
Autumn is the charnel season,
its love is cruel, its farewells
a promise of relentless demise.
Dead poets scrimshaw its beauty
on last year’s death masks,
mice-tusks root up the sun
to warm the naked spaces.
Rose gold love cups in a versatile nostrum
Cosmic waves pearl wind vault is strange,
Ephemeral vapors are rising by the podium
Cinnabar meteors devolved from damage.
Cosmic waves pearl wind vault is strange
Delirium tremens yield self-raggedness,
Cinnabar meteors devolved from damage
Smack dab in mid of commodious cosmos.
Delirium tremens yield self-raggedness
A moon-themed warmth glimmering quartz
Smack dab in mid of commodious cosmos,
Her own heart bestows her weather reports.
A moon-themed warmth glimmering quartz
Orphic blue sky echoes in the rose quartz lake,
Her own heart bestows her weather reports
Venus' loving glow shinily in the aeonian sake.
Orphic blue sky echoes in the rose quartz lake
Ephemeral vapors are rising by the podium
Venus' loving glow shinily in the aeonian sake,
Rose gold love cups in a versatile nostrum.
Written: May 07, 2022
Out-built, humped, and beached, breached by moonlight,
nothing comes out of an old barn unfound.
Engine oil, the fungal fur of time warped wood.
Weather-eaten iron coated by rusted smears.
mouse hairs that rise upon old horse leather.
The green metallic wine on tin cans
a devolved acropolis of tractor parts put aside
for a thousand nights to seek and hide.
Gaskets strewn where tangles bloom.
Nothing lingers long without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat, the turpentine film of the
once varnished, the once cherished.
Treasures bolted to a deathless sleep, well rubbed
tackle and tools harnessed now to a tumbled-down dust,
a sun-frayed flap of light slipping in and out
as if time could be fixed and torn shadows mended.
Out-built, humped, and beached, breached by moonlight,
nothing comes out of an old barn unfound.
Engine oil, the fungal fur of time warped wood.
Weather-eaten iron coated by rusted smears.
mouse hairs that rise upon old horse leather.
The green metallic wine on tin cans
a devolved acropolis of tractor parts put aside
for a thousand nights to seek and hide.
Gaskets strewn where tangles bloom.
Nothing lingers long without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat, the turpentine film of the
once varnished, the once cherished.
Treasures bolted to a deathless sleep, well rubbed
tackle and tools harnessed now to a tumbled-down dust,
a sun-frayed flap of light slipping in and out
as if time could be fixed and torn shadows mended.
Looking at the need
They devolved the
means to which they
Would create
Examining detail and
Formulating plans to
Create that which needed
To be.
Which needed change and
Structure
Which needed fabrication
and making
In full respect of each other's
abilities and short comings
they labored to plan
With full detail
Calculating every minute
From man power
and machine hours
Beyond the boundary of
Not knowing
To scale within the realms
Of the mechanics and
Sciences trusted and truthed
All there were in the agreement
Of creation
The work in progress
Encouraged by the nessicity
Of need
Regrettably, you're forswearing considerateness.
Because of your deeds, my heart has been disparaged.
However, the faithful has devolved into the dreadful.
There was nothing but words scribbled on a journal.
It's a sincere pity you're sweepingly slighting kindness.
Placing the underachievers on a dazzling betrayal.
Escape the fierce curse of those who benefited.
If you tamely yield to the glare, he will rebel.
Some people keenly appreciate and admire your skill.
Because of your frailty, some individuals devour you.
AWAKENING SLUMBERS
reflect
stark constraints
highlight
the
stillness
a contemplation
a synthesis
evolving
silhouetted
vaguely
transcending
experience
of reality
a repetitive rhythm
to emphasis
the options
in a poetic
dimension
scintillating
giving
stark relief
saturated
& allusive
oblique in
transition
to influence
the ascendant
impetuous
interplay
devolved by the
organic
slight& aslant
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
People's life was ruined and degrading almost instantly, said the CDC.
Things quickly shifted into an icky situation, devolved ugly by NPA.
Things went from awful to worse astonishingly, with SSA.
To be fair, things were a lot worse, obviously, because of COVID.
Originally, situations were commonly grisly, WHO
Despite being performed with keen care, it still ugly, said CIA.
It becomes ugly at times, but mostly entirely at YMCA.
Things seemed to turn messy quietly but in an idyllic way after AHLM.
03/16/2021
Blue Jay
I cupped the fallen fledgling in my palm,
And unwittingly, caused the neck
To retract the mere measure as had
Raised the hand.
Lowering the foundling, the head rose.
Really? I continued. Down, up;
Extend, retract, eyes fixed
Always at the horizon.
Was it the avian gyroscope
Tacking as if to turbulence,
Or since motion can betray
Location - best feign frozen?
(Once they mused about millennia hence
But scarcely would’ve thought that whence
The confluence of Saurian and Simian roar
Could ever have writ so poorly a score
As has devolved to: cheep; rap nonsense)
I shall call you Icarus for impetuousness
Has got you to ground; like your hapless
Namesake, he from tempting high C,
You, before finding your key.
Copyright Paul Thomson 2018
What is the square root of time,
what is a moment devolved from itself
What is the relative quotient of dreams,
tomorrow unspoken—lost inbetween
(Dreamsleep: December, 2020)
Some are broken teeth in a hollow tree,
some are humped and beached,
breached by moonlight.
Nothing comes out of an old barn
without smelling of oil,
the oil is for the fur that grows
on weather-beaten iron,
for the mouse hairs that rise
on horse leather;
for tin cans when chill winds slurp
their green metallic wine.
For the tractor and its parts,
a devolved acropolis
of gaskets and camshafts.
Nothing goes in
without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers
into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat linger
to tinker,
as if time could be fixed -
and shadows mended.
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