In fact, it is certain impossible that a whole race are liars!
In the clinic of cold conclusions,
steel speaks, sterile and certain,
microscopes measure mysteries
until wonder wears a white coat.
Yet in the shrine of silent supplication,
knees negotiate with the night,
candles carve courage from darkness,
and breath becomes belief.
Between data and divinity
dances a delicate doubt
numbers naming nature,
while spirit sings the unsayable.
The atom splits with surgical precision,
a prophet of proof and particles,
but thunder still trembles like Sinai,
echoing ancient awe in modern ears.
Satellites circle the skeptical sky,
charting the choreography of stars,
yet shepherds still search the heavens,
reading revelation in radiant constellations.
In glass towers of technology,
time ticks to the tune of theories,
algorithms argue against altar calls,
and circuits compete with psalms.
Still, in villages veiled with memory,
drums declare the divine in dust,
ancestors answer in rustling winds,
and tradition threads truth through time.
a mouse is no good at being a wicket keeper
in a test match playing a game of cricket
or at a costume party as a dark grim reaper
or having an ice cream so tall he can’t lick it
so what then you ask can a mouse do with ease
the obvious answer has to do with some cheese
but it’s quite little known he can juggle with peas
is that we are all
hopefully grinding
rocks of meaning
here.
This isn’t
pretty, and it is
barely poetry.
I can barely manage
today.
Can I salvage
substance,
garnets,
and shiny stones?
Good hunting
How can America
Be healthy again
With so much
Processed food and
Chemicals in our drinking water
Topped with terra cotta- tiled roof
the house stood on a hill with pine trees,
partly covering it from view,
with its turrets opening like watchful eyes.
Rumor runs, at night from there,
people hear strange wailings.
Scoffing it as the weird fancy of crazy minds,
eager to prove the irrationality of it,
one night I ascended the hill,
leading to that cozy mansion.
As I paced faster and came closer,
the house looked so imposing
with a wide yard and a porch
surrounded by ornamental railings
with a winding driveway
lain with marble squares
and leading to the entrance
Close to the house but safely distant,
I noticed a narrow pit hidden among shrubs
Nothing was unusual about it.
I walked round and round.
Couldn’t see anything to rouse suspicion.
When I was about to leave,
as a proud victor after a thorough search,
I saw a skeletal figure emerging
from the pit and rising into air wailing.
In horror, as I looked on,
like a bird, on the pine branch, it did perch
and soon shape shifted into a man.
Fancy or Fact, never looking back
I took to my heels as fast as I could.
Your boss told you what to believe.
He is tanking badly in the polls.
Still, your boss told you what to believe.
It contradicts all the evidence.
But you’ve let him paint all your images.
You’ve let him create all your facts.
Don’t Read This Poem.
Your boss’s surrogates tell you what to believe.
They are his lip service, his yes men.
Their words belie all the videos and images.
Their brains are hollow vessels hungry for truth.
You’ve let them manipulate your world.
Don’t Read This Poem.
Your boss and his spin doctors control you.
These ministers of propaganda need you to believe.
ICE killed American citizens in cold blood.
They spun this as killings of domestic terrorists.
It is best that you bury your head in the sand.
It is best that you never read this poem.
Toilet in the open. No secrets.
Plexiglass. Concrete. Stainless steel.
Pleas turn to echos, blend in.
Captors - no trusting smile.
Bosses more ruthless.
Colleagues don't yield.
Cries at night.
Helpless.
Sleep.
We dwell within a single Thread—
Yet countless others spin—
Invisible, their silver looms
Entangle ours within.
The Dawn may break in other skies,
Unseen by any Star—
Yet whispers of those foreign Suns
Arrive—wherever we are.
A Sparrow’s wing in one small World
May tremble Worlds away—
For Every Breath—a corridor
Where echoes learn to stay.
If God designed Infinity—
He tucked us—quiet—there,
A Universe—within His sleeve—
And never unaware.
One Couple Of Days all the summer long,
freezing in our coats sang a silent song,
numbered the stars by the light of the sun,
a miserable week — we had such fun.
On broken legs we were dancing a jig,
we swore off the drink while having a swig,
my tale is a farce and absolute fact,
I'm a stable genius, completely cracked!
On average it takes 8 minutes 20 seconds for light to travel between the sun and the earth.
At that very moment they look up into the sky
8 minutes and 20 seconds ago the journey had begun
The ray plays out its tale for all of them
Eyes stung by beads of sweat
The farmer squints into a cloudless sky
He smiles as once more he gazes on rows of sprouting new life
Oakley may dim her vision but she stirs
Beneath her towel sand has moulded to her sun-drenched form
Her fashionable hue is almost complete
He stumbles but struggles once more to his feet
How long has this desert ordeal endured?
The end beckons as searing heat prepares the feast
Shivering through winter in thin clothes and with an empty belly
Shafts of sunlight are rays of hope
A false dawn or a new beginning?
The newborn baby cries for attention
Her rosy skin has yellowed
But soon the status quo will be restored
Five lives touched at the same time
But not in the same way
8 minutes and 20 seconds ago it started again
many of people
worships their so real god ~
money just sad fact
Immigration.??? It comes over in waves.' There are those who are
Pro...Their enthusiasam gets quite wild.' Its all about the
Work that needs 'their skills' these days.' and then there are others that
See great ill.' Who counter claim.' On the need for so many'
And that, there are generational British with skills! that that do not
Have any.' Houses jobs also, they are cash restrained.' Meanwhile
The Hs 2 project is still not ready.! ( it is really a shame.!) Oxymoronica?
As taxes rise.! Five star meals served and no mp is denied! quaffing Champagne the very best.' Snifters of whisky oh
What will be next.? Yes it all well organised and nothings a crime..' no nightmares to deal with ( everything is working just fine! )
Matter Of Fact
Sound Is Only
Movement
In A Fluid.
No Fluid, No Sound.
Hearing Requires
Something Moving
Elsewhere
In That Fluid.
Wet.
Gas.
Vast Expanse.
Emptiness and
Totally Solid (But Motionless)
Share Soundlessness
Like: Twins.
So?
* I Can't Possibly *
* Hear Myself Think. *
***
That Must Be: Magic
Or
An Absolute: Lie.
-Gray Squirrel
05-15-2025
Once understanding truth, is when fiction becomes paramount.
If not for fiction, truth would never expand, rather stay static.
Without fiction, invention would not become possible, just a cosmetic.
Without fiction, creativity would become impractical, in turn ceasing much doubt
Without fiction, where's contradiction? Relying on fact alone creates a closed mind,
Unwilling to learn or listen to opinion or interpretation, with a mind stuck behind.
Letting go of what is already known imbeds a sense of venture, a willingness to interpret.
If not for this sense of venture, opinion becomes subvert.
Learn from past followings of mass consensus,
Think for yourself, form your own opinions, free from collectivization.
Only once you have your original thought, begin intertwining with truth, make it pragmatic.
In order to grow, you first must relinquish that which is known.
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