There is torment who tells you nothing except that you are worthy of the devil's persecution,
Elocution might disarm it, but in the beginning it haunts you until you turn to some comfort,
Some illicit comfort that convinces you the pain was a dream and not a nightmare,
In the recesses of stillness and the rest that eludes us, there is a torment that knows us by name,
And hat4es us just the same,
But in the end,
A man who is the first and the last,
Knows a way out,
Find him, grab his garment and let go for absolutely nothing,
Least of all that itch that begs you to scratch it,
And start the game anew,
God love you,
Hold onto Jesus,
And be free.
Break open your alabaster box of worship,
Let precious praise rise, a fragrant ship.
Do not let the enemy steal your song,
Unlock your praise - it fits you strong.
Let praise be on your lips day and night,
The praise factor will disarm the fight.
Your songs lets go of yesterday’s sorrow,
And positions your heart for a brighter tomorrow.
Lift up those hands inscribed with victory,
Lift up your eyes to the Lord of ancestry.
Not through the scales of your situation’s mist,
But see Him rightly for who He is.
The Bread of Heaven, the Sovereign King,
In this season, greater fruitfulness will spring.
Be settled in His Word, press in and stay,
Let it be unto us according to His way.
The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
In the dead of night, when we are asleep,
dream images arise, ushering fear,
for perhaps in our subconscious down deep,
we yet cling to objects, which we hold dear.
The black magician is at work again,
motive any, he intends to cause harm,
yet God’s light in his heart is free from stain,
so it’s his ego we need to disarm.
We blow him a kiss of love and move on,
whence with our aura shining as pure gold,
the mists dissolve revealing light of dawn,
which both of us in wonderment behold.
Oh worthy hermit, etch these words in stone ~
Conflicts must be resolved by love alone
Heard the news all about strait of Hormuz
Israel derail flail impale Septic tanks muse
Evisceration of entire nation excuse do use
The emancipation of a pariah state the ruse
Eschews queues of pundit crews from pews
Abuse truths confuse proof of sleuths views
Clues bright clear hues who did light the fuse
Whichever side you choose everyone will lose
Fossil fuel rule the soaring price of a barrel
Notoriety of warring society as things unravel
Deploring apparel Dickensian dystopia carol
Impropriety imploring piety noone can travel
Trump myopia even after alarm of Vietnam
Cruise missiles trials denials all about harm
Disarm nuclear piles more lies from the farm
Can’t becalm not napalm just arm AI wiles
No qualm war once more hush defile isles
Crush the rush of plush paedophiles files
OLD MAN FOX
Old man FOX in his La-Z-Boy chair
feeding his fuse all day.
Conditioned by hatred and fear,
rotting his brain away.
A hate harvested fear mongered,
MAGA cult minion,
used, abused, and bamboozled,
and spoon fed his opinion.
He's hillbilly born, shamed and scorned,
a social ne'er-do-well.
A narcissistic cover charge
to a special place in hell.
He never learned the social graces.
Left to fend for himself.
He fought to rise, and tried to hide
his background on a shelf.
The more he tries the less he'll change,
irrelevant of class.
Packaged and polished bigotry
Twas taught to him en masse.
His southern charm, meant to disarm,
obsequious and fake.
A since of freedom as pale as his skin
bought by a man on the take.
They shoved Lady Justice to the ground.
He tried to help her up.
He warned them not to touch her.
And in his last breath,
he asked her if she was okay.
How should we remember Alex Jeffrey Pretti?
They said he brandished a gun,
but everyone could see it was a phone.
They said he was a violent terrorist.
officers attempted to disarm him.
Why won’t they release that video?
How should we remember Alex Jeffrey Pretti?
His extrajudicial execution?
The way they pinned him to the ground?
The way they pumped ten bullets
into his mortal form even after he lay lifeless?
How should we remember Alex Jeffrey Pretti?
An American intensive care nurse,
working for the Dept of Veterans Affairs,
living a life devoted to the care of others.
or a friendly neighbor always helping
those in need?
How should we remember him?
I will remember how he gave his life to help
Lady Justice to her feet.
The setting sun is his delight
For he is a creature of the night
He lusts for blood; all types are right
Then he'll take that infamous bite
The night is his, the day his foe
As dawn breaks, to his coffin he must go
There he'll sleep until the night returns
Once again for blood he'll yearn
To lure his victims, his charm must be paramount
Upon him is bestowed the title of Count
The Count is many centuries old
It seems his blood never runs cold
The women love him for his charm
He uses it to disarm
If they only knew what was at "stake"
When to their necks a move he makes
1-5-2026
I can’t disarm this horde of army
Won’t try arresting the police
Can’t judge the judges by a jury
Can’t get a cold on foreign breeze
Thus, I was meant to sail on fool’s ship
That’s how they probably see it
Blamed just for my citizenship
I am the fact they won’t admit
“Stay where you are”- they say to me
I’m smiling back - “stay as you are”
That’s not a tragic disagreement
But more a comedy so far
So cloud my weather, make it sunless
It’s still not dark enough for me
I'm playing cards to hide from sadness
While sipping ever-tepid tea
Too many things went out of use
The old world dies, seems that we get
The most efficient little truth
That can improve the worst to bad.
Perhaps Dr. Smith was misunderstood…
Sciatica got the goat of the stowaway.
Don’t be fooled, his intentions were not good.
He’d shield himself in cowardly betray.
Courageous Will and no nonsense robot -
Dr. Smith would cower behind and scream.
This family Robinson knows what’s what.
Most of them will save the man with a scheme.
Hot-headed Don, longs to disarm the doc.
Poor Dr. Smith! Poor Dr. Zachary Smith!
His back aches. Why give his body a shock?
To dig his own grave? Kid’s missing, been with
him (in trouble). Mums, “Oh, the pain! The pain!”*
Doc briefly consults his own stethoscope,
checks his heart - he’s not completely insane.
Save face or hang himself with his own rope?
Humour is not always fun
Sometimes it’s out of place
But when it strikes it could just put
A smile upon your face.
While walking barefoot on the sand
And contemplating woe,
The muse of humour happened by
And this I did compose:
I am a small and tiny toe
And of the colour pink
I complement my foot so well -
Just love to walk in sync.
I am a large and funny bone
I do my best to charm
And with my bendy sense of fun
My humour can disarm.
I am a nose, a nosy thing
I lead us here and there
Smelling smoke from far-off fires
Just watch my nostrils flare.
Three verses will suffice for now
My muse she has grown tired
I've run out of all body parts
That seem to be inspired.
Have I gained from making up
Some humour in this way?
I have not thought of woe at all,
That’s all that I can say.
dazzling frothy dolphin dives in dual dynamic with daughter
I marvel at their beauty, and their diving prowess
They astound, astonish, delight and disarm me
I feel one with them, a kindred dolphin
The price of perfection,
And the recent deduction,
To keep up the function,
And become a swan,
To show a sanction,
Have dedication,
To the craft of perfection,
And the show of intention,
Following the row,
And strengthen the bow,
To keep up the fact,
To disarm the pact,
And keep the show,
To what you already know,
To remember that the price,
Is in suffice,
To show what you do,
And be someone new,
To grow and unfold,
To keep it inside,
To keep a line,
And toss the dime,
To follow perfection,
To be someone new,
To cast away the old untold,
And we are cajoled,
Is the price of perfection.
too soon
this moon
day’s chores
some scores
most not
forgot
deplete
need sleep
morning
warning
disarm
alarm
same old
sixfold
more work
can’t shirk
no fun
undone
work sucks
need bucks
A clenching of our hands,
A clinging of our bands.
The sweet aroma of your strawberry-coated strands,
Allow my capability to disarm your fragility.
Pent-up anticipation will meet expectation,
You adorn your shield-maiden attire,
Encouragement to set your onyx rose on fire.
Peeling, petal by petal, stitch by stitch,
Disarming that body metal.
Steel-clad discarded,
Billowing towards her pear-shaped derriere.
Lifting you off your feet,
Give me the sweet treasures I wish to taste—
The nectar of vanilla.
Lay back as I extract
Bridled years of frustration.
Call me your salvation,
Made anew,
Basking in the afterglow of you.
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