snide smirks sardonic
~ Insensitivity's Tonic
Panting
~ something dogs-doo
Making repetitive decisions.
Stumbling once more
into this drug-addicted trap,
lost thoughts begin bleeding out
on paper.
While those forgotten run overtime
beneath the subconscious,
in attempts to illuminate
what my eyes cannot hide.
This never-ending shift
in the revolving door of emotions and morality
leaves me without breath,
somehow still breathing.
Cut open is my flesh,
as rogue thoughts crash like waves upon the shore.
Restless is my mind,
while eyes lock in a steady haze.
The dryness in the air
causes blinking eyes to wonder
how most lose their sight.
Not many stop to ponder.
To live faceless
in a blinding world.
Hearing the pain
in another's song—
we must be related.
Having poured out all of oneself,
questions remain.
Was it ever love?
Or always lust?
Voicing these realities
becomes like a temperature
too hot to touch.
Unable to unsee
what has become fragile,
while I became careless.
CHANCE ART
without id or ego
happenings without a scheme
imagination reigns supreme
Blessed to be part of God's open-theatre
But a weather whiplash created a havoc
My innocent joy evaporated
My lean body quivered by the violent winds
Pitter! Patter! It started pouring down
The winds added fuel to the storm
Sturdy trees prostrated on the ground
Accepting their defeat in the duel
It flooded all over submerging me
Luckily, the flow took a quick diversion
By dawn, the level dropped down to my neck
And I could see the limpid firmament
Noticed a ray like a sharp needle
Came out penetrating the stretched blue denim
Over the moon! I was spellbound by sunlight!
Place: 3 rd
When she walks and talks,
My eye sockets get rocked and it is harder to talk...
When she sways and plays,
People lean in close to listen to what she says,
When I lean in for a kiss,
I fixate on her because it has been her that I missed.
“There’s a world where you’re my wife
And we live in this house on Kent Street
And enjoy a quiet life”
- Anna K Jacobs: Letting You Go
And we go to church on Sundays
Every week begins anew
And the priest says Sunday’s better
Cause his gospel sings the truth
I feel his words inside me calling
Begging to believe without proof
But there’s a feeling now that’s stronger
And it tells me it’s no use
I wish I could believe
I bet I could and still be me
I wish I could have faith
But I can't believe
What I can’t see face to face
I wish I could hear God
I could preach his word to all
He would speak and I’d nod
I’d give my sermons
And the churchgoers would applaud
Every bit of hate I’d block
Cause I’d know I had the thing
Most everyone dreamed of
THE WELL DRESSED MAN my first ever poem written in 2005
One night I came to Tea Rooms
I came along bare feet
The owner looked at me and said
Shoes!!!!! or ye canna have a seat
I looked at him and said,
My face, my arms, my legs
my bare and hairy chest
Why there's even women here
who show a bit of breast
But he was determined
that I should be well dressed
Bare feet are not acceptable
and he was not impressed
So out I went and fossicked
in my yellow kombi van
Until I found a pair of thongs
I'm now a well dressed man
The thongs they covered up my soles
enough to gain me entry
To take my place and sit among
the shod Maleny gentry
And as I ponder 'bout these feet
that are so much maligned
I've never put them on the table
anywhere I've dined
But rules are rules as we all know
regardless of the logic
But my lovely little bare feet
are seen as bloody toxic
No matter that there's sweaty jocks
or shoes that carry grit
The way we dress is how we're seen
as sartorially unfit
Footnote: Not another poem until July 2025
If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.
An aardvark, you? Then I’m one, too.
Your vision’s blurred? My tongue is furred.
If you’re a shrew, then I’m a gnu.
You’d rob a bank? I’ve got the gun:
you’re learning français? Moi aussi!
You’re wide receiver? Sounds like fun!
Together we can take the knee!
You’re introvert, or extrovert?
I’m flexible, I can adapt:
If you’re the broom, I’ll be your dirt.
You’re snow? Then I’m a mountain, capped!
The tarot cards know what awaits you:
“Le soleil” depicts two twins:
the perfect lover imitates you:
this is where it all begins!
Entry?
We used to post, “No Mexicans, Blacks or Dogs allowed”
No entry allowed.
There’s some semblance of ease and acceptance now, but don’t remind of us of what we turn a blind eye to.
No entry allowed.
It’s curious to see the extent of empathy; to oneself, to family, to friends, to the beliefs that hold up our mental constructs.
We run away from the threats to our convenience & comfort.
No entry allowed.
We can justify our disdain, given the stress and pressure of life. Yet, no matter how numb we are, love and empathy will always permeate into our beings, exhuming the hate that kills our joy of life.
So,
No entry to you, hate.
No entry to you, fear.
No entry to you, doubt.
No entry to you, panic.
No entry to the anger that quells humanity.
Get one's self entry into happiness.
That's deliberate, Straight forward,
User friendliness and Simplistic.
Happiness isn't glimpses for love in
The wrong places nor people and things.
Whilst all the moment in time existed inside
the writer.
Simple living, small pleasures of daily life easy
As ABC.
I've always had the sneaking suspicion I'd never grow old.
I'm decaying prematurely,
slowly rotting in my core with every mind-numbing day.
"Why must every good thing get ruined?"
Home is no longer where happy is.
So why have you staked your claim on my psyche?
Cold blue tile is the foundation from which two children build their world.
I can discern from it nothing but terrifying probabilities.
Everything has an end.
Here we are timeless.
Poems selected (some from this account, some from another, some never posted):
1. Blue Marker Castles
2. Decaying Prematurely
3. Saturday, December 22nd
4. Words I'll Never Say
5. ComeHoming - Matthew 15:4
6. On Cybercoercion
7. Airport Cherubs
8. Winter's Warning
9. Who am I without achievement?
10. Nothing really changes in an airport
Philosophy ...
a preparation
for death
Groundwork
of ascension
— footnote of goodbye
(Dreamsleep: September, 2024)
I woke in a pool of befuddlement
was I still alive?
or was this death?
my heart was rapidly revolving
as if I had run the Boston marathon.
I felt discombobulated
since that loud gasp
when my soul reentered my body
hitting my chest full on
re-entry is difficult for us astral travelers.
In a nearby village, a man unfurled his manifesto of machinations.
Shotgun blasts echoed the summit until he turned,
cheeks flashing in the biting cold.
A bouquet of flower petals,
explosive roses frozen in time,
sculpture at the snap of one’s fingers.
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