Sycamore tree, swing thee far?
On a crescent line?
Yes, sir. As I strive for par:
I think of the vine.
Due, friend, to its supple reach?
Twist and turn a-right.
Spark within me, I beseech.
Flicker, fly, and fight.
Well, young man, mythology.
Legends of the old?
Ancient is the redwood? Sea.
Lava makes the gold.
Sword, point heavenward and stand.
Enforce hell's command.
Fear severe, have you been planned?
Fire, forms frequent fanned?
Doubt, without? Tough taut to tout?
Down the waterspout.
Lily pad, repair or rout?
Flagrantly to flout.
Yet organized the strong ones step.
Each in rhythmic racks.
Soldier, load thy gun with pep.
Notes hang up with tacks.
City bells, alarums.
What message will you ring?
Plume volcanic, ply thy plums.
Blister as ye bring.
Crumbs. Chaos, thy star dances.
Dissonant its flow.
Fate and Fortune, white chances.
Black the broken bow.
But Freud could not vouch
For one lying on his couch
It’s God, our mind’s He unlocks
To wrestle with this paradox
This ambivalence
For the world fixes stints
For lungs that need air
For a heart needs repair
This is what we’re left with
No life, just a death kiss
At atheistic insistence
And with ambivalent resistance
There’s prejudicial conjecture
There’s personal conjecture
But no absolute or objective truth
You don’t need to be a sleuth
With subjectivity solicited
Two intellectual sins committed
Arbitrariness and inconsistency
Condition critical insistency
Circumspectly we point this out
Without a doubt, we don’t flout
Compare two worldviews
(as atheist’s hit the snooze)
We share the Gospel with the hostel
With no subterfuge or solipsism
No false religion’s systems or schisms
The 2nd Coming will be the loudest day
The trumpet sounds, the saintly strain
Will w/Jesus comeback with no foray
The final stop for the Gospel train
I am not the only settler
who cannot repay his wealth.
I’ve been looking for confusion,
to flout, again.
Take me forward
to the timeless
left.
I love you, through opposites,
Lord Huron.
‘Take Me Back to the Night
We Met,"
Take me forward
to the time
we left.
Which of these is backwards?
Which of these is forwards?
Fiction/nonfiction
Am I exiting?
Am I entering?
Am I timing this reading?
Am I wondering this reason?
Am I finally… in/out
and all about?
Is there reasonable
clout in heaven?
James Barrie, please
whisper to me:
‘This is Neverland!’
Then let me,
believe you.
Find a signed copy after,
and label it:
“Nonfiction!”
“Alice?
Are we home?
-unknown”
If you own a dog, at some point you
Will be carrying a bag of poo,
At least if you’re considerate
And follow laws regarding s#%*.
There are some, though, who flout the rules
And think that bagging crap’s for fools.
A joke said, aliens did land
And, struggling to understand,
Determined that the smarter race
Were not the humans, for their place
Was picking up whatever lot
Their masters left with every squat.
In any case, when doggies do
Their business, making number two,
Their owners might hold back a gag
But will be left to hold the bag,
Unless, of course, that they refuse
And leave the mess for others’ shoes.
He took the coward’s way out
Over and over they flout.
Only those who tried to end
Can comprehend the blend.
For truly committing to no return
Is rooted in constant yearn.
Trying to cross the other side
Requires the loss of pride.
The irony of being a suicide
Is the longing to survive.
The burning desire to be loved.
Hope simply caught in rope.
Perhaps you think I’m sitting here, amazed.
Egregious as the test you set me is,
the truth is, I am utterly unfazed.
Desultory, to me, this kind of quiz.
Of course I like a challenge. Don’t we all?
God’s chosen one? The lawyer. He gets his.
Concupiscence I’ll use (I have the gall):
attendant difficulties, I ignore.
Tough polysyllables? The merest squall
before the sunshine. What I most adore,
objectively, is playing with your mind:
you throw me junk, I somehow make it soar.
So do your worst. I thrive on rotten rind.
Opprobrium I effortlessly flout,
neglect embrace: contumely, leave behind.
The rancour’s like the Russians, put to rout,
or North Koreans, tied up, tamed and tazed.
You’ll try, but you will never catch me out.
Just like George Jones when
He Stopped Loving Her,
death, the only thing that could occur
To enact what only this loss could secure
(Killing the love he had for her)
I've counted and underlined in red
each time an “I love you” was said
Until the pages, written in blue ink
Resembled nothing more I think
Than a passionate patriotic prose
Red white and blue superimposed
Over words of love and promises not kept
Sprinkled liberally with the tears I've wept
For you were not nearly as noble as
That great country singer gentleman
For whom only his untimely death can
Erase his love and promises.
All it took for you, Great Lout,
Was a younger face and lips that pout
They always say that sin will out
One who for others don't care about
And the keeping of your word you flout
So although now I know the truth
I act more like George than I care to do
How I wish that I could forget you too
For all these letters I won't send to you
Are filled with my love in red white and blue.
Life with Pain
I live with pain every day of my life,
Silently praying and smiling throughout,
And cry myself to sleep every night.
How quaint I may appear, but without spite
And `rise to labour day in and day out;
I live in pain every day of my life.
I hurt tearfully without reprieve in sight
And struggle the dressing and undressing bout
And cry myself to sleep every night.
Trite games people engage in with delight
And disavow all consequential rout;
I live in pain every day of my life.
I resign to fate and accept the blight
And cannot undo that which has been brought
And cry myself to sleep every night.
Healthy people expose spirits contrite
When they see my predicament and flout;
I live with pain every day of my life
And cry myself to sleep every night.
Some letters seem superfluous, you’ll cede:
but with no tulips, spring would not be spring.
We’re used to think in terms of things we need.
Desiring counts for more; it bids us sing.
I find my mind more keenly focuses
on simple schemes: the white-on-green of flocks,
or under trees, those shy, but lovely, crocuses
whose joy it is to greet the equinox.
Who’d miss a ‘b’? But bees provide our fruit.
They fertilise our shrubs, to help us thrive.
‘C’ is not useful. Yet no surly brute
would brook the brine. We need both tide and hive.
Some things, we find, we smoothly do without,
but spring’s the thing we’d never wish to flout.
You spend all the day sneaking about
but you'll pay for each rule you now flout
You can bet that sweet tail,
you're the next cat to jail
and you'll sing like a bird to get out!
Each morn we ready ourself for a bout
Flouting laws of God without feeling shame
Conscience that once whispered, begins to shout
But we heed it not, unable to tame
Ego urge that offers excuses lame
So we dwell in darkness without a clue
That deluded is ego’s claim to fame
Diffused komorebi light will not do
Partial awakenings shroud mind in doubt
Heart knows for sure when soul becomes the flame
Divine love, light and bliss begins to spout
Held flicker-free in our mind-body frame
Distanced from thrust of lust that tends to maim
Whence we garner wisdom known to but few
Knowing for our follies we are to blame
Diffused komorebi light will not do
Recognising God’s laws we ought not flout
We see God’s light in all souls as the same
Then gentling our touch, as we go about
We breeze through life as though it is a game
Yet holding firm focus and our soul’s aim
Making our heart pure like fresh morning dew
Eternal light of Self, we thus reclaim
Diffused komorebi light will not do
Transmuted as living light, we exclaim
If thoughts be but still, we’ll get a clear view
Of heaven within heart, scriptures acclaim
Diffused komorebi light will not do
When truth becomes a dying star
and lies shine brightly as the sun
That means we have lost the way
as webs of deceit are spun
Some remain in oblivion
and continue to cling to the lie
Others embrace the truth
Using its armor to fortify
The light of truth continues to dim
As the truth many flout
But what will we do
When the light of truth goes out?
Diesel spray for Christmas
Butt-face bar of soap for birthday, it's no small joke
On isthmus
They laughed out loud
Though on emotions 'bout to choke
You're ploughed
Watch out!
Charma evokes.
Flout~
Diesel spray for Christmas
Though on emotions 'bout to choke
Flout~~
Pierre Maruse lived in a house that wasn't like any other.
One window down lived the queen and her crown,
Right next to her world-famous brother.
Oh, brother of mine, I'd give you a dime!
For Booette's kisses to you.
Please don't pout or flout about,
I could not afford all the love I see,
So, give her a kiss for me!
On the third floor down was a clutch of clowns.
The three elves: Wish, Promise, and Hold.
Their faces were square,
And they were always fair.
They would smile rather than scold.
The fourth floor down was below the ground,
And somewhat damp and cold.
There lived a slew of grumps.
In window one, Bad Breath, king of the evil smell would appear.
Window two had China Doll,
Whose eyes were squinched enough for two.
Window three was the home of Min Chee,
Of the pointy beard and rumpled nose.
And last of all, mumbling across the hall,
Was Cross Talk the irritable.
Outside, in a crack of the stoop,
Waved the sunshine flower,
Who bloomed once, every hour!
Pierre Maruse had a very odd house.
Mark’s bold forecasts were greeted with doubt
One of his hearers braving “Get out!”
Not just saying it: An exploded shout!
He’d seen, Mark with a bottle of stout,
A celebrant’s gulp and a drunk’s pout…
“Drunkard, no plant does well in harsh drought,
Just as no laborer with a gout.”
But - God! - What force had made him come out!
Hunger for the fame gods talk about
As things all men could do without,
Warning that taking it far rules flout
And whoever does “Consummate lout…
Ben Mark who would other’s views tout,
Letting his lips take on a pig’s snout.
He had the forecast heard from a scout
And now must beat others in a bout…
Some folk is ready for own forecast,
The farmers present for its broadcast
About Ben Mark he could still clout
For wanting to farms hurt and yield rout:
“This week, Mark shall be an outcast
On Earth as forecaster miscast.”
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