Celeste the star dealer, shan't see thy stones while hidden amongst them, that which can't quite compare, and so the par Ra blooddrop stone withers and moans and groans for old irons that beat beets into gnashed up fire-up pyres, and lends that teardrop once in time, the par for the course, the greensward vine.
The secret to having fun
At any age,
Is mostly found in those who have,
spent time under the sun,
Enough to fire up their imagination,
So, their creative juices can start flowing again.
Fun can be reimagined at any age,
Fun can be reinvented at any age,
So, what are you waiting for . . . !
Fire up the green, and watch the world release.
Slowly smoke ascends as serenity sits on my shoulders.
Delicate like petals,
Painless.
Soft as the pause between my heartbeats.
Thoughts rest as a newborn sleeps,
Each inhale a patient hug from comfort.
Every exhale we let go.
Rooms buzz, colors stretch then fade.
All around me illuminates as I descend into lush quiet.
I am heavy and I am light.
I am both, cloaked in a verdant aura.
My mind unlocks.
My soul is still.
Liberation from the storm.
Late November, the last days of spring
are beginning to preheat the air, the vast
outback furnace is set to fire up
for summer and ignite the northerlies.
But for now, the evenings are cool
as I take breath, float thoughts off
towards a dozen vague destinations
that glow on memory's horizon.
Old age sets you off on such journeys
as if to find something lost long ago
that seems to have left a lifelong cavity
at the very centre of yourself.
Meanwhile, the world calls me
to hear what it has to say in the sounds
of a November evening.
It is not interested in my memories.
It cares little that I'm old
and that my body is sometimes hell.
I am perfect for it to echo its sounds
just like an empty seashell.
Sweet tea and tongues spill the cream.
Loose lips chew ice cubes and a story,
twisting it slightly to fire up a regime.
Unsettling words come out in a stream
becoming more and more accusatory.
Sweet tea and tongues spill the cream.
Getting jollies while cooking a scheme
they sell something as simple as glory.
Twisting it slightly to fire up a regime.
Reprehensible behavior to redeem?
Nope. It never fits into that category.
Sweet tea and tongues spill the cream.
Add sugar leave out a clear cut theme,
providing clarity is never mandatory.
Twisting it slightly to fire up a regime.
Bored so they want to blow off steam.
All of the dialog? I've taken inventory.
Sweet tea and tongues spill the cream,
twisting it slightly to fire up a regime.
Today, they’ll fire up the grill
For burgers, hot dogs, ribs
And hungry guests will gather ‘round
To point and claim first dibs.
I will not be among them,
Though I’ll not be too forlorn;
My husband mashed potatoes
And made chicken and some corn.
At night there will be fireworks
But we will not attend.
We’ll watch a Netflix series
Where we’re almost at the end.
We might hear firecrackers boom
When we are close to sleep.
I’ll think of Independence Day
And hope we’ll somehow keep
The promises the founding fathers
Set in ink back then,
But fear those words will not be honored,
In our lives, again.
three quintains
Husband made an announcement yesterday at five.
"I'm NOT going to Disney next week on Spring Break.
Back problems do not mix with that long twelve-hour drive,
walking theme parks for four days - another mistake."
My tail is draggin'; I can't fire up this dragon.
Oldest son is delighted, because his girlfriend
is invited to take my place, etcetera.
Younger son will miss me, and I cannot defend
my choice; for six months this has been HIS great hurrah.
Four tails are waggin'; they have fired up their dragon.
Our daughter and hubby are likewise thrilled indeed
that I'm staying home - for that relieves them of care.
Five rabbits, two dogs and a bearded dragon need
more attention than simply a "wing and a pray'r".
I'm not braggin'; but for that, I'll fire up this dragon.
bison-decisive way
to kill
mosquitoes
§
fire up
those patties
§
not
before eating
the reborn
fish feast
of
Yellowstones’s Spring
§
believing
naturally that
bison’s
dung-scent
discourages
the buzz
§
curbs
madness of
interloper’s
adventuring
§
withstanding
the stench
not
wasted
Under a smother of dark clouds
a city skyline sinks,
there will be no starshine
the lights of a million windows
must drain and replace another blanked out evening.
The eyes of stray cats fire up,
it is time now for noise to hunt silence down,
for the garish to consume the subdued.
Shoes, new and old, scuff grime
into renovated store fronts, where shadows
cling to the detached hissing
of neon signs.
It will be dawn when the shoes bleed,
when the stars return to briefly gutter.
There are rodent tracks that arrow
between gray blocks of masonry
where nocturnal crimes crumble
into obscurity.
The metro subway is empty yet full of ghosts,
but just for a moment,
only a moment.
Sun seeking sunflowers' stalks stand stylishly sleek
Bite birds, butterflies on beat before blazing blooms
Farm fields fire-up framing fascinating flourish
Gushing green grass giggle with girlish gaiety
Still soil sings soulful song to silent seeping saps
Reaper respectfully rallies with rapt rapture.
Waking up before the sun kisses
Chirping of birds becomes brushed aside
Putting glasses to see better
With unpolished shoes I ride over
With an old beg of mine
Keeping some old books inside
The rusted passage let me in
I walk through a road edged with topiary
as if golden hedges welcome me
The old corridor embraces my stomping footsteps
Holding a chalk to create and defend
I march into battle ground cum temple of knowledge
Keeping all agonies behind the doorway
A warrior devotes to serve the future
An oath to fire up extinguishing lamps
And to nourish the saplings till they grow
Time rushes with greying hairs and vivid memories
But the grown up trees reminds me to keep going
I, the egg, split me open
And show the blood on my yolk
Men's brains would be better scrambled
Than left to hatch
Into wars over who cracks who
And who gets to pour their batter
Into another's mold
Fire up the oven
All men should burn in hell
God included
For God is a man
A man who is as prideful
As the star He makes fall
Yet God suffers no consequences
And curses all anger against Him
He fights fire with fire
That He never feels the burn of
God wouldn't make hell
If He risked writhing in it
And yet wakes man up to choose
To fall into subservience
Or wish he'd never been born
January 22 Praises to God Bible Meditations Based on Exodus 13-15
Key Verse – Exodus 13:1-2 And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, Sanctify unto me all the firstborn, whatsoever openeth the womb among the children of Israel, both of man and of beast: it is mine.
PRAISE BE TO GOD WHO SANCTIFIES US
Praise be to God for sanctifying us for:
Strength against selfishness
Service toward the Saviour
Separation from sin
Sacrifice with sufferings
Stability upon Scriptures
Steadfastness for standards
Satisfaction in His security
Exodus 14:14 Praise be to the Lord for fighting for us with:
Fervour to fire-up our faith
Firmness to fix our faithfulness
Foundation to furnish our fruitfulness
Focus to frame-up our fulfillment
Exodus 15:1 Praise be to the Saviour for triumphing gloriously in:
Overseeing salvation plan toward our redemption-seal
Ordering our steps as His ransomed saints
Overthrowing Satan of his ruining schemes. Amen!
January 22, 2024
"Simply Put, Touched"
Simply put,
nothing is ever
truly simple
from the get-go
the process
is complex
Love
or
not
in between
the middle road
of black and white
the colours
like codes
turned on, fire up
the frequency
needs to be
finely tuned
the lessons
heard hard
on the inside
learned
without
the constant
external braying
of trolls
their silver bullets
and bloodied pitchforks
solace
is discovered
inside the reflection
of pools
their drowned
broken treasures
discovered
along
unknown paths
their rippling surfaces
like bodies of shining satin
touched
under gaze
of guarding
emerald forests
shining canopies
held
touched
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Gotta get away, we live in a realm
Still I gotta break up and out of this hell
But, man, that frequency's so low
Damn, that frequency's so low"
touched.
v. to touch.
adj.
feeling gratitude or sympathy; moved.
adj / informal
slightly mad; crazy.
In the sylvan sewers of Fritchy's tombie
the Pottawattamie beavers play
deep beneath the verdant pastures
where dead skunks and possum lay
Circling skyward glowing wierdly
jackal-birds sharpen their nails
those brainless fowl still don't get it
Pottawattamie leave no trail
The point, my friends, is whoever writes
such utter trash compounds our misery
Would that he fire up his rotisserie
and fry the buzzards in sympathy
Anon I hear supplicants, lost their compass again
Pity that out-of-water, they won't get deap-sea bends
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