The not so great debate in America today
Is that even though liberal people fear for their lives
They dare not violate the progressive ethos
Of victim, ie. criminal, first,
And so argue round and round
That everything is okay and only getting better.
The irony of course is this obfuscation
And soft-core tyranny is actually illiberal.
But words today no longer matter
Labels being fungible
On the slippery slope of good intentions.
Well then, Hell it is, illiberal or not,
“Blue, blue, electric blue
Is the color of my room
Where I will live”
In rot with you.
(8/12/25)
Terminology:
Crystal booths in a nocturnal snow.
significant downpours of shedding stars.
This said, feel free to scatter, scrabble or mash.
Words are fungible,
many still believe that poetics
do indeed belong to the fungi family,
though some have been classified
as many-limbed Triffids
of the squishy kind.
Now throw moondust at the reader's eyes:
Obscurity is essential, however, first create a window
that opens to reflect the thrower.
Rain down upon the moondust until mud takes shape.
There are no words for this process,
so, make some up.
Flourish:
Without a final flourish the poet is left with a turgid puddle
avoid turgidity at all costs, especially puddles.
Sprays of celebratory tinsel
or globs of gore are always effective.
Reaching for the stars with a palsied hand
will jerk tears out of a slab of concrete
eventually.
Swiftly leave the space you are now occupying,
other's will be impatiently waiting to craft their next masterpiece.
Written; September 29, 2023
Etheree Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
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This
morning
bursts by dawn
sunshine fingers
Crouch to clasp the clay
the whole verve wakes afresh
the dawn billow swells and bakes
It was parched in the sun and stream
soaked from the storm that walloped at night
branches belt sunbeams bring bleak buds and blooms
Wake wonderment whirled awkwardly wasteful
Let the autumn swarm scheme to this trance
swap me when the sun steals the dawn
fungible fate frost snowfall
splash ebony twilight
rosy, scarlet, green
with cosmic fire
sullen night
aloft
trill
Seems companies are betting big
on real estate in the metaverse…
I cannot possibly surmise
an investment in a scheme that’s worse.
Perhaps you’d like an NFT?
Afraid it’s all fungible to me…
Or maybe cryptocurrency?
Once again, it seems all Greek to me.
Give me some land to plant my feet;
vegetables in a garden sweet.
Some borrow to reduce the shock;
I’ll stick to cash and not go in hock.
I know I’m an old-fashioned guy,
and probably more so when I die…
So I’ll invest in my grandkids,
hope when I pass that they say, “He did!”
I do not have
apparent estates,
fungible assets,
Farm, cattle
boats ...
I don't live in
sumptuous mansion,
luxury flat,
I live in socks
waters, four
distressed walls ...
I shelter daughters and grandchildren
on the living room table
tight ... alive
tight and not
I have a bungalow ...
But if we discuss of
invisible holdings, I have
a lot: thousands
of songs I love
and short ... dozens
of books read and reread,
hundreds of poems
I did and I do ...
Words, verses
and rhymes are portion
of my vast
repertoire of a
soul rich in soulful
effluvia and replete of
noble feelings ...!
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