The Cobwebs of Dreams
It was a sunny day, perhaps to clear
I thought
Mother sat in the kitchen sunlight, making her white hair into a halo
I asked how old she was, 92 she said, I knew
trapped in a dream, she didn't live that long
By the slow river, I saw furniture drifting
My brother said that people who lived downstream
went upstream to buy furniture, to save on transport
cost, they dumped furniture into the river, where
relatives downstream picked it up
sometimes, they lost a table or a commode, but that
was a risk one had to take
I knew this was a dream
Walking on a soft road in the forest, but something
wrong, a strange red light from the trees. I was
trapped inside a painting by a mad Russian artist
Luckily, I had a flick knife
Then it was morning, I'm not sure, the line between reality and the subconscious merge perhaps, yesterday is today.
We're now into the year of twenty twenty three
And still there's no solution to see eye to eye
Will we learn since descending from the trees
Or are we everending to simply walk on by
Lifes global insecurities amidst epidemic rife
Whilst conglomeration greed suffocates souls
Lacerating lives like a dark alley flick knife
It'll never be for the poor, only richers goals
We're now into the year of twenty twenty three
It's been a year since two neighbours became
Will they learn since descending from the trees
Its the same old story, no one takes the blame
Lifes global insecurities amidst epidemic rife
Blatant corruption aplenty, food banks strive
As we read, the constant fueling, more strife
Knowing days, the next, accumulating lives
We're now into the year of twenty twenty three
Its all very well the few that can bunker down
Then, when everything else loses its voice
Were we mapped out, to our radiation drown.
The cobwebs of dreams
It was a clear day…Too clear I thought. Mother sat in the kitchen,
sunlight made her white hair into a halo. I asked how old she was,
ninety-two she said; knew I was trapped in a dream she didn`t
live that long.
By the slow river I saw furniture drifted, my brother said it was
people who lived downstream but bought furniture upstream
and to save on the transport dumped the stuff in the river and
relatives picked it up further down.
Sometimes a table or a chair got lost a risk they were willing to take.
I knew this too was a dream.
Walked along a soft road in a forest, but something was wrong
there was a strange red light emitting from trees; I was trapped
inside a painting by a mad Russian artist; luckily I had a flick knife.
I think it is morning, perhaps not, sometimes the line between
and the subconscious emerges, maybe yesterday is today.
This is a parody on Gee Officer Krupke from West Side Story .
Dear Doctor Grumpee
Nobody knows
Why I'm hooked on this site
Writing poetry and prose .
I write sonnet and haiku
Short tanka and monoku
Golly gee , to me it's poetry flu .
Gee Doctor Grumpee , I'm spewing' out words
I know it sounds crazy and really absurd
I ain't no Shakespeare
Don't misunderstand
This weird word-flow ain't planned .
It ain't planned ; It ain't planned
It ain't planned ; It ain't planned
No.. It ain't planned .
NURSE ICEMAN ; " His symptoms are so gory ".
SISTER AKSHUN ;" Lemme tell it to the ward " .
NURSE ICEMAN ; " No! Tell it to the Surgeon " .
Dear Surgeon Flick-Knife
My words simply flowed
Epigram , quatrain
Tetractys and ode
Elegy ballade
Nonet and rhyme
Suffering scalpels ! , now I'm feeling fine .
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