rootin'-tootin' misinformed opinions
a game of risk at an overflowing cafe
in t-shirts, shorts and straws all over the floor
napkins neglected and looking like bankruptcy on stilts
i feel like a torn out page of my own sulwicket
or rather the shade outside, with its erroneous
shaped patches on the cobblestones
and non-fiction that isn't getting us anywhere
tennis court blues and the man waving from
another court, who believes he knows us,
but actually doesn't, but i return the wave
at break point
and a student has written a creative piece
set in the wild west with a character called
David Bowie, who comes in two-thirds of the
way through the yarn
about to duel in the town's empty and only crossroads.
"ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!' PEW PEW PEW
get kettle on
Written and posted by
a real poet, no ai clone --
wary of erroneous people,
fake voices on my digital
phone – fear I may be one of
the few yet writing poetry alone
without the help of
some ai, futuristic drone
letting fall synthetic hits
and misses – parrot
droppings all the same,
really, ai poetry quite morally
lame.
Kissing feels tender, a disguise for the horde,
Horde murmurs compliment, their voices very showy,
Showy rings of consent, heavy inside,
Inside the stillness, factual hotness must skin.
Skin the cuddle, keep space in prospect,
Prospect of love trimmed down to courteous,
Courteous shrugs remain, but craving is departed,
Departed remains the hug where affection once excelled.
Excelled like a blaze, now dimmed to a kiss,
Kiss without arms leaves something erroneous,
Erroneous seems the heart that shrinks to appear,
Appear stout outside, but feeble when adjacent.
Poem by N. Mugisho
I yearn....thoughts toss in my mind snapshots of the past return
I want absolution, such I crave
An equilibrium before I’m in my grave
How can I best hold a true course?
I feel dammed by past misadventures
Wrong reactions made
That caused a barrier, that emotions cannot simply invade
The erroneous thoughts a lame tongue
There is much I would do and much I would make undone
And so I pick up the threads of prayer
Aware of many losses, how might I dare?
Alone Christ’s blood that judges me not
His truest love it can be my lot.
Beyond all mischief, despite all faults though great & untold,
He has endless vaults; his compassion is forever.
I’ll kneel awhile or on my mattress truly seek his side
To let his blood renew my all
Help me Jesus, please don’t let me fall.
©Joe Maverick 29th December 2025
A sentimental card
Some candy and a rose
A dear hug from a child
A puppy's lick
Expressions of love come
In many shapes and sizes
Though some may seem
Erroneous for strange intimately
The heart knows them all
Cliffs aren’t dangerous
until you make them sharp
with shadows and wild waves…
The woods is peaceful
until it hoots and howls
chills up the spine…
The house is big and beautiful
until the weeping willows are old
and its secrets are slowly divulged…
The breeze-like sound of the sea
holds lively hearts
until they be stilled…
The knife is productive
as it carves a pumpkin’s features
until flames fuel perdition…
Superstition is innocuous
until the innocent
are burned at the stake…
Stick figures -
embers of the erroneous
history of shadows…
None of the guys
ever asked me out
they teased me
or just froze me out
I wasn’t stuck up
I was shy
I’d just come from China
that is why
I didn’t know the styles and trends
or even where I should begin
there wasn’t much that I could say
I never talked much anyway..
so I sat there
and read
I was an incredibly
epic fail
To all the guys
who called me names
that tagged my locker
and tried to shame me
I wasn’t snooty
I was shy
I’d just come from China
that’s the why
I didn’t know the styles and trends
that let a new girl fit in
I’d never even used the Internet
I was as lost-in sauce as a girl gets..
so I sat there
and read
Which eventually
got me into Yale.
.
.
Songs for this:
Conversation by X-Cetra
Simply Couldn't Care by Tracey Thorn
Human Behaviour by Björk
.
.
*A poem from 9th grade (2019)
** We’d moved back stateside from China so I could have a ‘normal’ high school.
*** I just added the last two lines
Radically erroneous monotheists
have mistakenly substituted
our co-infested
co-operative
co-invested
co-empathic pantheistic HolySpirit's
naturally healthy
resonant EarthTribal bodhisattva powers
of polyculturing communion love and peace
for messianically monoculturing luster
and loneliness
unnaturally unhealthy
irreligiously irritating dissonance
degeneratively devilish
and idolatrous
and disrapturously ecocidal
false-god demonic
anthro-supremacist power
Struggling to survive
against Othered
fundamentally erroneous monotheists.
Intuitively labelling objects,
attention fixated on illusions,
we see only what lower mind reflects,
coming to erroneous conclusions,
thus nurturing deepening delusions.
Tied to mind”s tree, we can never be free
but if we dwell in the vast void carefree,
our soul presence is then divine aligned,
ego recedes and head and heart agree;
soul’s eye opens, on bed of truth reclined.
The ballast of our Thursday afternoon
in the countryside lays distilled in your face.
Yawning like a cow in pasture eating sweet grass
your words flatten the moment.
Having no capacity of knowing
what you might see in an endless sky
you have seemingly died from boredom.
Your small dreams have squandered the butterfly’s wings
pathetically flapping ‘us’ into a Prantic trance,
We lay like sleeping rabbits under an erroneous sun
that does not rise above the numbness
of your wintering heart.
Gridlocked like a dog’s nose to the ground
on the scent of somewhere on a wall of many stains,
you hunt the missing birds sitting
on rainbows just out of reach,
then bait your hook to lure in the cold silver fish
reflected in diluted ponds of your resentment.
I wait…for a word never to be spoken while
you set your watch tightly
winding clock hands that spin in circles within your eyes
on a face of numbers that never leaves
its constant bemusement of wilted flowers.
Written: November 20, 2023, For Joseph May Contest
________________________________________________
How pointless to fight for global friendship.
We scatter sand, catch the wind, and waste life.
We could gain a faint peak or bright red ship.
We slide further as shades withdraw the strife.
Despite our confusion, we hound our quest.
The sound venture perseveres to renew.
Nonetheless, the grave gateway is behest.
We grunt a hive to our shock to pursue.
Yet whose charitable tide is smoothing?
Is akin to the vast, unknown ocean.
Deep into our souls, your love is soothing.
That would be requesting your direction.
You are being heard, your palm is raised wide.
Who would be keen on an erroneous guide?
Tis the year of his great shame
It's not his fault, all he did bears no blame
He faced the fickle fate, tried to stand its weight
Ultimately, he still failed, and this poem tells his tale
Paragon of light, the hammer's champ, were just some of his names
Everywhere he came, peace and harmony stayed
Selfless and kind, mentor to the young and famed
His favorite pupil was the king's own heir
He saw his own self in the young boy's flair
Treating him just like everyone else
He imbued the boy with the light's guidance
Together, they fought well, tried to stop the evil's sway
He never knew the prince's soul bore a dark curse
Faced with evil - hatred and revenge seeped into his pupil's braincase
Genocide and slaughter ended up as the prince's favorite ways
He tried to stop his pupil's wrong and erroneous traits
Yet all he attempted was of no avail
Darkness replaced light in the prince's heart
And so their final clash no one could thwart
Evil's triumph, light's fall, our hero's bitter tears outpoured
Dancing to the tune of iniquity,
Deviously artless in their silent retreat,
Elusively lashing out unjustly,
Pelting out timorous creeds;
A casualty in their vapid beliefs,
Brought upon by diligent lunacy,
Primed in erroneous ideologies.
I’m still that little girl hiding in a box trying to rest
with my dirty stuffed doggy toy, tattered blanket
and ragged clothing dejected in these streets.
I’m still that little girl they judged and harmed
imposing their falsehoods and prejudice so I
stay forever imposed in the finality of a box.
I’m still that little girl who is agonizingly shy, sad
and so very lost while their main goal is to confine
me to a box so my gentle heart is never seen.
I’m still that little girl persecuted to the point
of no return. Every time I’m barely out of
my box their sinfulness shoves me back inside.
I’m still that little girl forced into a box of
wrongful ideations so I cease to be anything
but their erroneous misconceptions of who I am.
I’m still holding on resolutely to my sincerest hope
that my faith will rise me up out of this painful box
to show the evil ones that I am truly a Child of God.
The Untruth Of A Lone And Erroneous Prophecy
What has a prophetic death done to this poor soul
the merest thought of sleeping under freshen sod
stir the urgent flames, hefting in more Irish coal
is it true Fate will soon strike me with angry rod?
Shall the sky its higher heavens thus so soon part
or maybe earth will hear, spit open a new grave
My dearest angel, fear not, still thy fearful heart
Faith and Truth will issue edits to my heart save!
Hold certainty, my life is to ever flow on
And honey-cast dawn wake to me love ever-more
Yes, you shall sing in your sweeter romantic tone
As we in our bliss dine on paradise's gold shores.
There is no dark that can easily take my life.
Fate cries out, you will be my ever-faithful wife.
Robert J. Lindley, dark sonnet
Jul 1 27th, 1977
Note. True story, a woman predicted my early demise when I was just 23 years old.
Hmm. I am 69 years old now, somebody missed by a few years.
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