CHEMIN FAISANT
With every season I strove to stay on the lit path.
I tried the best I could, expectantly; at least I thought so.
Synclines and anticlines, chemin faisant, the Prize forefront.
I knew He went before, to light up the Way.
With smiles, groans modulating the smiles, I did follow.
The secrets of the Saints I wished I knew, for reassurance.
Some gains, loss at their heels; yet pressing on, quite determined.
I knew that by His grace I’d keep to His Way.
Swerving from pesky promptings,
I chose ma Verite´ et mon Chemin, la Vie pour moi.
The lit path, His very Way;
Net forward trudge along the perfect highway.
Le Prix; chemin faisant, el premio es el Sen~or.
He’s Love; He doesn’t fail; ecce *****who shows me the Way.
His arms outstretched for me; welcoming me with holy embrace.
Lucid invitation, nudge to embrace Grace.
Car nul ne vient la? que par Lui; gaping gate on Easter morn.
Slowed by the plod, yet heart pounding, and empowered by His Grace;
Gleefully, I made it there by following His Way.
The Perfection Way.
with bliss at forefront
we take no affront
at barbs, jibes and taunts
of ego that flaunts
light in each node etched
our hand is outstretched
impulsed by heart thawed
as servant of God
betwixt bliss beat’s chime
we lose sense of time
dwelling in the pause
in sync with God’s laws
Who couldn’t love Catherine O’Hara?
In every performance, she rocked.
The news of her death, unexpected,
Left her fans and her co-workers shocked.
“Home Alone” might have granted her stardom,
But her movies with Christopher Guest
Brought her comedy chops to the forefront
And, to me, those were some of her best.
Yet my favorite of all of the people
She inhabited while at her peak
Was, I’m sure you can tell by my rhyming,
Moira Rose, matriarch of “Schitt’s Creek.”
In this role, she was over-dramatic,
Clueless as to how she was perceived,
But despite how eccentric she played it,
She was someone we always believed.
Just to watch her you couldn’t help smile;
She brought joy that no one could resist.
Now the world’s mourning Catherine O’Hara,
Who will surely be very much missed.
Once I realized how much we are the same,
Feelings and impressions suddenly came
To the forefront of my own deeper awareness,
And then I recollected our bond's sacredness.
I see the traits of me nobody ever appreciated.
I see similarities to me in you, but understated.
I see what I would be like if not for my old pain.
I am remembering who I'm meant to be, again.
You see within me a certain kind of woman,
But I am slowly reprogramming till I know I can
Be that person both of us have been missing.
I am just finally realizing, processing, healing.
You're my ideal man, but I see a little boy too.
I feel your wounds that you somehow outgrew.
I show you my inner child and true character,
So you know you're never alone in any matter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ubergeeks huddle at cracked screens~
forefront of the gale stamps rooftops into drums.
sky bleeds indigo then bruises black
a puck of hail cracks the bus shelter glass.
wind doesn't howl~it translates.
pine tongues lash at power lines.
rain stitches the river to the road.
one lone bird rides the updraft on a dare.
then~lightening forks the clouds~
roots seeking soil.
Come, dear forefront smile,
Snicker as I inherit the wind,
Watch my faith doodle for a while,
On your shifting sands of blatant sin.
Come, dear sidewinders of writ,
Let me with no choice, lies embrace,
Let beneficiaries taste false grit,
Our close hearts fooled by a social face.
Tantalize me with procrastination,
And hit me dead centre with living lies,
Let me watch power distance of no action,
And hypocrisy rise and truth murdered, dies.
Yet, the perfidy is predictable prophecy,
A reaping at mellow joy gets the purge,
All for that one discarded sagacity.
All for that fall into apathetic urge
An afterthought!
"Now is it not shameful to ask where power is?
When your feet are standing on it? "
I have always felt that we are all connected
not just us humans, but animals, rocks, trees, flowers,
I have a keen sense of being a butterfly and an owl in other lifetimes
Dead is not dead to me, in my mind, it is merely a transition
Death might actually feel more like life than our life does
the woods give me a sense of the fey, which I believe in wholeheartedly
My spirit guides are wolf, deer, turtle, racoon, fox, and snake
They each bring unique personality traits to my forefront
I am a meditator, I have seen glimpses of energy that darts and zips
Clairaudient and clairsentient, I hear and smell spirit
Envy, a character trait which I despise,
develops when pride appears on the forefront.
It happens to one who comes to realize
his apparent influence has become blunt.
Envy's cousin, distrust, considers in sooth,
enemy's lies, distortions which blur the truth.
Its main rebuttal is to blame or to bluff
and to measure one's best self as not enough.
Sincerity, a quality I adore,
is the paradigm of the unpretentious.
It is best when accompanied by candor;
I respect a person who's conscientious.
But what of men who are genuinely wrong?
They embrace thoughts, words and deeds ever so strong.
Ponder one, the seriously, sincere Saul
who at last met peace as the apostle, Paul.
When Noah’s flood came
During and after the falling rain
It was God’s justice
But how will God administer justice
After He made covenant and said:
“I will never again flood the Earth to end all flesh.”?
So, if we don’t get another flood
What fulfills the law of God?
(We get the gushing from His side) of Jesus’ blood
This is the flood God has now set forth
To bring about every Christian birth
To wash us clean so we can be seen
As righteous but only because of Christ
It’s always been God’s sovereign plan
To bring to the forefront: The Son of Man
All judgments and every sacrifice
Are completed by Jesus Christ
And God has said this will suffice
“In Him I am well pleased”
And there is no other
He is second to none
Nor penultimate
But The Last Adam has won
God’s One and Only Son
“Follow Me” He says to all who hear
Whether with a heart or with an ear
But don’t just hear, but be a doer as well
And He will keep you out of a place called Hell
(So what's the solution? Daily ablutions)
She was born on this day in ‘66
A Belle that rings above all other chicks
She’s dated some gems and dated some pricks
And beyond it all she keeps her wits
So on this day she can breathe a sigh
She can lay back and watch it all go by
She can about her life to her heart decry
Sing a song my heart, shed a tear my eye
And as of late (and maybe all her life)
Jesus is at the forefront, Jesus is the guy
He makes her feel so spry
As another year is added, another year’s gone by
Weary Is My Mind
I promise, I swear, I will never, I will always
That blaring sentiment of a pattering ghost that I detest
Among the empty hollowing of her mouth and eyelids
There lies darkness deep and unending that I fell into once,
never again.
Baffled and naked, afraid and convinced I was nearing my hearse
She runs screaming, yelping in madness as her body falls dead
Once I thought I knew, but as fate would incline
The truth would be only a weapon and shield–vulnerable. . .
never again.
The prating sound squawks as death marks before her squalid breathy voice
Her pupils' contract like a viper’s hint at prey, pouncing, and then devouring
The blood is left spattering and spurting among my grey, hollow walls
Only her wedded can clean out the muck as I have given up,
never again.
Coiling around me with her slippery scales, the precipice of my demise
The sword and the shield once though best, were only cardboard copies
My soul is shattered, and my will is blank, giving into her sweet, nectary venom
The forefront of my being is gone. . . crushed under a blanket of rue
For Weary Is My Mind
Over the mantle,
a hand, a candle,
breaking bread—ample.
A white head bowed down,
old and worn with frown,
pensive and in prayers.
A bowl sits with pears,
two other side-chairs.
Partially hidden
by Lady Midden—
Bible, guilt-ridden.
Centre and forefront,
black cover and blunt,
is a treasure hunt.
She slips off the band,
Reads and understands.
Little does my mind rest
Wailing and scraping at the walls of my brain
The feeling of being lost forefront
Guiding lights leading me astray
To find the end an impossible outcome
Yet lying down to die not even a choice
Trying to break the patterns I’ve set
Failing to change who I am
Maybe I don’t need to change
Just find a way to accept myself
Though my mind may never rest again
I refuse to let the static kill me anymore
Melted in the background of the forefront of my mind
Thinking about all of the thoughts I've left far behind
Now everything within my head seems so very intertwined
The asterisk by the questions of answers I'll never find
Interference is what confuses my once solid mental state
Fear is the illusion that my enemies illustrate
Unbalanced in tortured abuses that echo and reverberate
Evidence seems inconclusive but not open for debate
Inhumane acts to humanity just a subject to be tested
Mind raped in profanity every part they have molested
Actions of complete insanity why was I even selected
The power of my anatomy has been tortured and arrested
V2K, silent sound, no touch torture, gang stalked target
How to fight those who always walk on Blood Red Carpet
bmdavey@10/6/24
We say mum, but in poetry, we say a strong, independent woman who loves unconditionally from birth and puts her children in the forefront of everything she does.
We say dad, but in poetry, we say a protector of children, a mentor, a hero. He is a tall man who can solve any problem he is presented with. A guide to lead from the darkness into the light.
We say abuse, but in poetry, we say a traumatic consequence from action causing a catastrophic reaction resulting in trauma and harm.
We say abandonment, but in poetry, we say the raw anguish of being left alone in desolation., isolated from care and devotion.
We say survivor, but in poetry, we say a person who escapes a toxic whirlwind of emotion and actions. Standing tall and rejecting negativity to produce positivity.
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