John Donne* (1572 – March 31, 1631 Jacobean poet, satirist, lawyer and preacher/cleric in the Church of England considered the founding figure of the so-called metaphysical poetry movement dwells in this 6/8/6/8 lined quatrain of stanzas on love the other topic on which his well deserved 'master' poet' reputation famously rests.His analytical mind draws out universal truths recognised by we favoured with true love experientially our lives
*English cleric one John Donne
oneday his poetics had just begun
A master of verse so erotic
so divine & metaphysique
Hodlers Horizontals
Hodler's five ladies in blue*
'a view into infinity' so true
A linked handed cinquain
their beauty in memory remain
The "ladies in blue" by Swiss Symbolist painter Ferdinand Hodler most famously refers to his monumental final masterpiece, 'View to Infinity'
Ferdinand Hodler had no self doubt
his topical art had much clout
He also loved the silhouette
narrative allegoryhus safe bet
With glossy lips and many quips, she
Busted onto our screens,
Midst applause she chortled
And careened.' trod the boards, and praised the Lord, made
A hoard with dollywood, it all looked
good,
Then she went obscene, was a vax-keen
Queen, pumping that song, it was oh so wrong..Yet let God alone judge, He alone sees
Through all the fudge.)
CHARACTERISTIC ECLECTICISM
strongest
stirred
appeal
famously
asserted
seen by TEMPERAMENT
completely
faithful
screen
appear
different
of CENTRAL APPEARANCE
entire
ouevre
preserved
unmixed
perfection
Geologists say ‘by your leave’,
we’re famously polite:
we wear our heart upon our sleeve,
rejoice at rhyolite.
We’re very patient people, but
I tolerated stuff before
that I’m not taking any more:
up with this I will not put.
Don’t bring to me your xenolith,
preposterous, fantastic:
I’m done with make-believe and myth:
my ire is pyroclastic.
Don’t tell me pressure makes a gem,
discomfort forges what’s sublime:
the aimless drip of frameless time
creates a speleothem.
Some things improve with age, it’s true,
while others just feel dated:
to sleight of hand, to me and you,
I’m simply indurated.
I’m wise to every move you make –
I’m distanced from your wiles,
meanders, stratagems and smiles -
a placid oxbow lake.
Why do I write?
I write, I think, to learn more about myself
And to feel more connected to the world.
I write to try to make up for some old past mistakes
And try to heal old wounds.
I write because I have stories to tell and information I want and need to share.
Most of all, I write because I am, at heart, an entertainer,
And I want to entertain with my pen the way I used to do on stage,
And, in my own small way, help to make the world a kinder, happier place.
If I can accomplish some or all of these things,
Then maybe one day I'll become as well-known
As that other most famously prolific writer "Anonymous".
I live in a country where people worship the holy cow
But there is a street food in Mumbai famously called the vada pao
It is humble food of the poor but with a big mac it can compete for sure
Many people stop by to taste it when they come for business or leisure
A ball of spicy potato dipped in gram flour and deep fried
Then put in a loaf of bread sliced open with chutney to try
A must have if you ever come to this city
If you ever miss it, it will be a real pity
BONE BEACH
This was the island where it famously ended
Upon a peaceful tribe, violence descended
A proud history lost and poorly defended
Raiders seeking alleged mythical treasures
Pillaging gold and jewels by cruel measures
The beach a battleground, now just bones
In a warm tropical breeze, palms still sway
Yet there is so little now that is left to say
As identity and history are now blown away
There are so few memories now remaining
And no voices are left for any explaining
The beach a poor record, now just bones
Perhaps a few who had sailed to the East
The remnants of the many now deceased
One day may return for the annual feast
Having left their rich culture far behind
Shocked at the scene they would now find
The beach a desolate place, now just bones
Today I’m thankful for Vince Lombardi
whose wisdom about the game of life I shall now attempt to rhyme…
He famously said:
We never lost a game…
We just ran out of time.
A turkey unwilling to die,
was clever and famously sly:
he cried to the axe,
'No time to be lax,
I'm needed to fill up the pie.'
The butcher was tender of heart,
and dropping the axe with a start,
he said, 'I can't do
this murder of you.'
The turkey replied with a fart...
Glancing at him from the window's glass,
It felt as though the railway had taken away his joy.
Sometimes his hard stares or into nothingness.
Being nouveau to the town; from my madam I heard his tale,
He was a miser with her, his woven bag of pearls.
Her Milkyway skin had an equivalence to jade,
Lips rosy from his unending kisses,
Even though she was his, and a peasant thereof,
Her garment smelled of class and nothing less.
His childhood had been a blasphemy, an abusive pa,
And a public town helper for a ma.
Famously known as a child bathed in blows and scum,
In his childhood he was pitied by no one.
More the reason he lost her to a forever moving train,
With the prince as its driver.
I must have hit an item to the floor,
As he turned to face me directly - grunting like the old man he is,
Wearily he headed back to the lovers' bench,
Where he once sat with his love;
Gazing and laughing at the passengers who had been left behind.
Try not to roll your eyes
when she is giving helpful hints
of how she does everything.
Make sure her son (your hubby)
calls her every Sunday
and offer to help her with her gardening chores
even though you detest everything
to do with gardening
Take her a cooked casserole
every week, and sit and watch
her favorite TV show with her.
It’s the little things that count more
And let her boast about her roast
and how he(her son) loves her cooking the most.
After all, one day, you too
will be a Mother-in- Law.
An aside: This is purely fictional and written
to a prompt - to write a How to poem.
I actually loved my Mother-in-Law and we got along
famously. I was heart broken when she passed away.
Beloved of Ba’alat,
Consort of Ba’al,
Mistress of the Sinai mines
Whose turquoise eyes
Unlocked the hieroglyphs
Lining the promenade
Leading to the Temple of Hathor,
Inventing first an alphabet,
Then a song to sing in Canaan,
Prompting gossip and rumors
From Memphis to Kush,
Echoing famously now
In Serabit el-Khadim.
It was E. B. White
who famously lamented
Waking each morning
feeling prevented
from improving
his worldview experience
Or waking each morning
feeling joy
for improvements made
during views of Earth
sacred smack in Her
other wise dead head
inexperience
Or something
probably not so involved
but with the same
missing the potential
for
Waking each morning
committed to enjoy improving
my co-invested worldview
sacred health-humored
wealth of experience.
But not in a preachy
judgment way,
more of a cosmic beauty
sacred green holonic
kinda open wholeEarth systemic
sort of win/win play
More trauma-informed
by advocates
for green cooperative
deep learning non-violent communication
ecofeminist EarthTribe Day
and Transition Town Time
for restoring resilient EarthJustice.
Within every soul, there is an sense of doubt
A shred of imperfection, some may say
A flaw in the circumstantial creation of man
A demon that brings out the best and worst in human kind
Twas a weapon used by army greats
Used by Hitler, Churchill and the dreaded Amin
Used to conquer, to Vanquish, to rule over the weak
Used for the suppression, oppression and silencing of the unique
Tis a spirit that keeps one far, far away
Makes one want to flee, to run, to hide
Makes grown men cry and scars young souls for life
Famously known as the grim reaper of hopes and dreams
But like all weaknesses, it comes with advantages
Like a compass, it leads away from danger
Keeps us away from the grasp of death
Like a sign, a signal before the storm
We view it as either an upper hand or a drawback
A means of success or a cause of failure
But make no mistake
It will forever be mankind's nature
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