Come on! Is that the best blast you've got?
Your thunder tantrums don't scare me - Your flash and flare they're half hot!
I love this dunder, blunder, thunder, and underhand rumble-in-the-jungle!
Touché! Olé! We're duellin' again with fork-pronged lightn' sparkling lances.
Clang! Bang! Ker-pow! Ker-plunk! Ker-thump! - Your thunder's late by years!
I flash, bash, smash, crash, gnash — while your Ker-boom goes boom blah, blah, Ahah!
Your quick flashback, claptrap wisecracks come back five seconds late.
Bolt after bolt, your jolts, revolts, cheap-shots and pot-shots hit my ear flaps.
All roar, no score, no gore, no nosebleeds — just air stabs in ionized air.
By then your temper, torage, outrage, out in the garage is binned — You lost!
You ain't learned nothin' from last night's plate-a-smashin' dry run.
Oh No! Don't let the rain come down!
We're both having far far too much fun!
You can't resist, can you — spoiling the perfect row —
By making up, way, way, way ..... too soon!
I dream of reliving my heart’s past fall.
To marry again and bear the long haul.
I long to long.
To sing that song.
One day I will lock in the courage.
One day photos will find the fridge.
For now I must simply yield to stall.
Readying my boat before the waterfall.
I dry-run this until my skin peels off.
I pray I will be ready for takeoff.
Ten Kinds of Quiet
David J Walker
Some are messages
Floating in a sunburst breeze
Catching in limbs of
Sycamore trees
Meant for me
But only those
That I could read
While swiftly flying by
Meanings modified
In a rising sun
The day has begun
Traffic lights
Coffee shops
A dry run of
Conversations
Taking place later
Rather than sooner
Sometime today
There are ten kinds of quiet
Or so I have read
Nothing said
In the rest of the mornings
contemplations
Ridden Hard, Put Up Wet
Worn down landscape
Ridden hard and put up wet over eons of time.
Buttes interspersed with ravines and wadis,
Vast irregular symmetry.
Clumps of purple blue green sage
To have been seen by the riders of olden times.
Clusters scattered randomly.
A patchwork without design
Covering endlessly to the horizon
Intermingled with beef and horse.
The buttes come in irregular waves of shapes and sizes.
Conical breasts sprung up in ridges,
Or sometimes alone at the sky line.
Isolated flat tops
Or long Capetown table mountains;
African ant hill shapes,
Crenulated with skirts of vertical old rivulet stripes.
The overstory of bare hard scrabble thin land
Draped to the side of the ravines
Exposing the layers of understory limestone below.
Sentinel wood line posts, strong with wire, guard the narrow highway
That rolls with the landscape.
Occasional cotton wood ribbons
Crosses the roadway over the sign ‘Dry Run Creek’ which still remains dry until the rain comes.
All this
Served under the banner of blue sky
Shredded with a mare’s tail wisp of clouds
7/13/2020
Can’t Undo A Done
Written: by Miracle Man
11-10-2019
Our choices are never do-overs,
Once past, they’re etched in stone.
While we may get second chances,
We pay for bad judgment shown.
Reckless decisions are made each day,
Which may result in scant or plenty.
But each choice had a diverging side,
And “hindsight is twenty-twenty”.
If we’ve taken advice from a friend,
And their choice became our load.
Though abstract ideas may interface,
It’s unclear,“until the rubber meets the road.”
But one thing we’re assured of,
Life affords us no dry run.
So get it right the first time,
Because you can’t undo a done.
slipping in the shower
coming unglued, the ceiling
strips...collapses
6/1/2018
life's no dry run
turn back,turn about start over;
all loving is for free
viewed from bended knee
looking we only see
listening is to be;
caring and sharing
exploring,if daring
looking we only see,
listening is to be;
life's everlasting lotions
challenge transient notions
looking we only see
listening is to be;
exude our unique self
release that inner wealth
looking we only see
listening is to be;
participating with the other
giving assurance of a mother
looking you'll only see
listening is to be;
life's no dry run
turn back,turn about ,start over.
Before we implode or reach cluster one
What do you want from me, as you humans dry run
We are Poles apart in what you and I do
Marooned you will be, if you don't turn to be true
I am only but a sphere, but your wearing the inside out
Our futures lost for words as we enter life's drought
There is time for dialogue to take it back
Will it be a great day for freedom, or will we enter our black
Around the table of powers we have to keep talking
We had high hopes when we stooped, we may cease to stop walking
It beggars belief that we are heading into strife
Maybe one day we'll acknowledge, that were coming back to life
On the outskirts
of a line comprised
of two landscapes;
The distinction
is lost on how you've
managed to captivate me.
Afar, my pupils study
you several times over;
succeeded by dry run
thoughts yearning
to be verbalized.
Words escape me
walking on tiptoes,
holding on the possibility
that if heard, they
stumble not to the fore
of inexistence. Due to
clocks power, a measure
of petite conversations formulate
in between. My aroused pupils
correlate with yours...(SIGH) Your
soul accompanied by the brown sand you're comprised of
is indeed...
Exquisite.
Pace, G INK-U-SCRIPT
Target identified,
a job to do.
Take it out
by next Friday.
Watch it's moves,
get prepared.
Pick the method,
dry run through.
Check equipment;
all working.
Don't stand out,
merge with the crowd.
A true professional;
a face, a dollar,
nothing personal.
It leaves the hotel,
the time has come.
Words are shot;
a suicide tonight.
Knowledge is lethal,
speech can kill.
Mine was counter number nine I heard
No one there what a relief
I sat to be told you next
Where? At ten; nine is off now.
Saw a real American woman
Finger scans each applicant
From behind a big glass screen;
It scared me to confront her.
From all the courage I could muster
Coaxed myself to take the turn
Choked throat, dry mouth came up front
Holding on to my file bag;
So they redo scans again I thought
Look for space to place papers
"Put them on the crucible ledge"
She said in a mild simple tone;
I could not meet her eyes and shivered
Put hands as fast as I could
Let left fingers fall in line
Pressed hard at each grip to scan;
"Too dry run the tips over your cheek,
Like this" and gave her first smile;
Ran both hands over my cheeks
With left over, moved for right;
"Perfect will do" she smiled back at me
Just ID checks, saw my relief
Beyond 'lip service' she had come
To sequester my heart beats:
Turmoil
Transplanted from native soil.
No warning.
No dry run.
Thrown into turmoil.
Few skills.
No plumage.
Lost sense of direction.
Confused.
Still waving arms.
The presiding deity makes a dry run
for a meaningless pride of frightened
amphibians, under the mud, on the clouds
who have no faces, no limbs.
The citadel laments over a spiritual arc.
You might get out of the battlefield
with a blue eye and trembling gestures.
The black guilt with a love letter arrives.
The voices sting. He was arranging his
white flowing beard, ready to make a compromise.
The ravaged landscape now waits for the
green rains, matching the stoned remedies.
SATISH VERMA
Every time your nervous
hands run
over my
body I am
left
breathless giggling
wishing
my lips could
wildly
run on
you in retaliation
Before we implode or reach cluster one
What do you want from me, as you humans dry run
We are Poles apart in what you and I do
Marooned you will be, if you don't turn to be true
I am only but a sphere, but your wearing the inside out
Our futures lost for words as we enter life's drought
There is time for dialogue to take it back
Will it be a great day for freedom, or will we enter our black
Around the table of powers we have to keep talking
We had high hopes when we stooped, we may cease to stop walking
It beggars belief that we are heading into strife
Maybe one day we'll acknowledge, that were coming back to life
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