His heart sinks to his boots
at the mountian of work that suits -
much are rejectable at first glance -
but some needs a second glance.
The majority is best described as 'fortnight tea'.
Getting to grips with diffent registers,
varied poetic voices and levels of growth,
make for a couldron of flavours
catering for differnent tastes -
editors are expected to wear many hats.
This is before rhyme can be checked -
mistakes are argued away as poetic licence -
and getting to grips with dialect
and varied stressed syllables ...
This is just scratching the surface.
AI can be helpful - up to a point:
It does not 'get' idiom and many metaphor
which the more seasoned poet employs.
Poetry is a living, breathing medium -
it can't be difined by an algorithm.
So you have to accept someone else’s concerns
If you still care to go abroad
Are you corrupt, do you get the returns
Do you hide them as an experienced fraud
What they call a survey is an interrogation
There is no presumption of innocence
You are pledged guilty because your nation
Is all badly spoken which shortens the chance
To get anywhere you would want to fly
Because you, and not somebody else, just you
Must stop the war, so they'll decide
If you’re worthy to taste their national stew
Isn’t it quieter to take a bus ride
At home, with no worries about bank statements
About who are your parents, dead or alive
The driver won’t bother about their status
None of that humiliation is guaranteed
But isn’t it too clever that people get stressed
For intention to travel abroad, when they need
Just a fortnight break for a much deserved rest?
Gravitational Hands:
(The unaffected minute)
The clock face project, the dials:
Suspended in a silent, frozen fluid state.
Detached from the norms of its time.
As the seconds turn to minutes,
Unrecognizing the hours in a hurry.
Away from those forgotten days, just
Last week, saying slow down before
Fortnight answers with a brief timeout.
This month had no time to reset.
There’s nothing we can do now.
The new year is here.
A crescent moon, being cradled, waits.
Angles suddenly appear in a weightless
Form within triple timing turns gravity
Into what becomes a mystified standstill.
Calm before we realize how?
Decades can evade without notice.
The sudden moments of bygones
The century has shown throughout
Millennium, how far we've come
From aeon to eon, but the difference
In the distance, when they appear in time.
Beckoning us to accept the hidden forces
Behind gravitational hands, in reality.
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Mum sets the last stone in cherry
Yet a fortnight for Christmas still
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Painted marl makes children merry
When December dew nips our sill
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Mum sets the last stone in cherry
In nineteen fourteen there was the reality of a war, it was not wanted ( we were taught ) yet after 'two weeks.?' It would be
Over.! And what is more peace, would be
Forever..This was worth dying for.! Then
In the nineteen fortys in Germany those
holiday camps were built.' There were such great promises for any interested they
Were value to the hilt.' You were to be taken by rail, to where the air was clear plenty of exersize to tone your body there
Would be carnivals also to give you cheer
Twenty twenty and we needed a plan.' As
Heroes in unity, our health systems we were told could barely stand to a virulent
Attacker that would all before it sweep.'
And
In order to get the curve down flat there was a ' crucial vital two weeks?' There was
Bonhom'ie and denying youself..To the point of reporting anyone to assured of their integral health integrity, tested for thousands of years..Ridicule and ostracize
Was the advice.? Is how it played out i fear
I don't know about the reader.? But there almost seems a continous thread.? There
Is more than once the promise of great good times.. And they were only a fortnight
Ahead.)
For the pen refuses to write;
Even struggling doesn’t seem right.
And for all one cares, I see no light—
Yet these legs walk, fortnight after fortnight.
However strong one’s mind seems,
At unending, nerve-wrecking scenes it dims.
For all supports appear blurry, even strong beams,
Striking uneasiness and swaying wherever the path leans.
But breath goes on—uncaring and unfeeling,
Offering no remorse, no solution, not a thing.
Every rotation carries its own unsorted fling,
Yet breath goes on for this wretched being.
Hear the true story of my great-great-great Grandpa,
the forgettingest man I ever saw.
When he tried to pass first grade again
he forgot to bring to school his brain.
When it was time to race in the big track meet,
wouldn't you know it - he forgot his feet.
When he married Mary, his sugar tart,
believe it or not, he forgot his heart.
So, she smacked him with a frying pan,
and down the road he ran.
You'd think he might die with a lump on his head,
but in a fortnight, it was Mary who was dead.
He forgot to bring his alibi,
so, they strung him up so high,
and he forgot to die.
Quyeer times emit blazing signs..And some ex-boy friends?
Is this karma divine? mi5 say its Putin..' a prime topic for
Them...And its taken a fortnight with henceforth..No why
Where or whens..From them.' Yet it seems rather sloppy to
Be (a Russian affair?) And arson too primitive.' I think thats
Quite fair.? Just an ass-umption.' To try to open the door.'
Of secrecy thats been holding karmas secret deposits oh
Dear..I guessed such was er?? Coming..Hmm?? I wrote a
Poem before.!! Now its been shat-tered all over the world
And whats more.' Theres an outcome to happen.' Once the
Lube is applied.' As it was maybe in the beginning.?? Or
Will this turn upon lies? Maybe death? Well of the
Truth.' Will be the out-come? Lets await the putrid offerings
Of ( some media bums.?)
Soothsayer owl was wiser than most
Kept quiet about it, was not one to boast
I heard from others how sage he was
He dressed with crystals, and a bit of fuzz
Kind of like a hippie in his fancy attire
Have to admit, I did kind of admire
The way he had with people and me
He stayed a fortnight, as wise as he could be
The women sing songs to the moon,
Praising its beauty.
They dance and sing when it’s in its full glow,
Their souls ascending and descending,
Transformed into priestesses.
The men venture into the forest at twilight every fortnight.
There, an unveiling and a revealing take place.
The spirits commune with them in the tranquil ambience,
Warning them about any impending danger,
Sharing mysteries that are soon to enter their territory.
The men become gifted watchmen.
Something astonishing happens with the sun.
At midday, it beams its rays on a vast meadow,
Where the plants are exuberantly green.
These are called the Blessed Bloom,
An elixir of vitality and rejuvenation.
The atmosphere is clean and fresh.
There is no conflict between humans and machines,
No exploitation of nature,
No encroaching on her space.
The leash has not taken the lead.
I asked to know where I am,
And I met a stranger who looked familiar.
He said I’m in an unsoiled place,
An unaltered place,
An alternate universe.
April 8, 2025.
Oh farage do give it a rest..' at last things are more quiet
Yet you have to beat your chest.' How much did you cost?
Who has paid your price.? You turned your back and are
Part of the pack..While Tommy is stuck; in the jaws; of their
Vice..I ask you hold that thought for a moment..If its a
Thing you can do? Or lock yourself in a small toilet for just
A fortnight or two..Maybe by the time you come out? there
Will be peace 'at least in ukraine' and Britain will be spared
Your iniquity? That way all sides get much gain.'
Think that you might agree with me ,there is no way easier to pen a poem,
Than writing it right here, on your poetry home.
There are no characters to remember, no details that you have to keep together, with a mental hook!
In a short poem, like a haiku, there are only three lines!
It doesn’t take a notebook,stop wasting valuable time!
Writing poetry to me is as easy as visiting a nunnery!
Go get to work with, joy and write down all your funnery!
Plus, you don’t have to store your poetry anywhere at all!
You can just put it right on this site any fortnight, any season at all!
So what I’m saying is, that writing poetry here~~is no big bear!
Poetry Soup stores it online, so there is not even a piece of paper to tear!
3/11/2025
A blood-dipped letter lies before me,
Wrapped in moth-ridden silk,
Written by your ghastly fingers.
The cold of another bleak fortnight settles in,
While crimson-eyed ravens rest upon creaking window sills.
Stoking the fire, umbers rise and dissipate before me,
Painting prophetic warnings in the air,
As the distorted ticking of clocks chimes tensely,
Repeating the same hour—two a.m.
A crisp chill shoots up my spine,
I wrap myself tighter in your charcoal shawl,
Reaching for the last of the firewood you chopped.
Placing it in the hearth, I now know it's time.
Removing the silk, I cast it into the flames,
Peeling back three wax skull seals.
I open the fateful envelope,
The curse you unknowingly wrote into existence.
Placed upon me, it rests in my weeping hands—
One cataclysmic night was all it took,
For our destruction,
Your soul claimed by the nether,
And mine bound within a perpetual loop of despair forevermore.
Parasites
there is a tiny mite
that lives on our face
but does not bite
it is a species of arachnid
that’s so small it’s outta’ sight
it bores in to our pores
and only comes out at night
it dines on our sebaceous oil and ear wax
and on dead skin, for dessert, it does delight
they are with us from birth to death
so, no use putting up a fight
each time you look in your mirror, just remember
you are looking at their campsite
they have a very short life
they live no more than a fortnight
if you happen to see some specks
they might be those nasty Demodex!
First encounters in the past two decades.
18.1.2009, A helped me to move in my quarter.
A decade of caring friendship and neighbors.
He taught and loved me unconditionally.
Fifteen years and six days later,
24.1.2024, B agreed to give up,
His seat on our first meeting.
Six months and six days of a simple, fun and supportive friendship.
It ended without saying any proper farewell.
Three hundred and fifty six days later,
16.1 2025, I joined the Poetry world,
Introduced by "Mr. Author", who has also strangely,
No longer interacting with me.
A fortnight later,
30.1.2025, pianist J, subtlety enhanced
My knowledge of music,
These encounters' experiences,
Shall stay forever with me.
For the last leg of my life.
Goodbye A,
Bye-bye BB.
Keep on writing and posting my poems.
Good luck to Pianist J.
Friend(s) comes and goes as always.
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