Make me feel good
Make me a God
God in me
God is You
You are darkness
You are light
Light up the world
Light shines on rain
Rain creates floods
Rain creates
Creates food
Creates hope
Hope for water
Hope for mercy
Mercy on enemies
Mercy on our soul
Soul on ice
Soul poisoned
Poisoned blood
Poisoned mind
Mind controlled
Mind on freedom
Freedom doesn’t exist
Freedom is a daily struggle
Struggle for equality
Struggle for peace
Peace is colorful
Peace is wonderful
Wonderful gifts
Wonderful world
World of passion
World of crime
Crime of passion
Crime is wrong
Wrong directions
Wrong plan
Plan for safety
Plan for the future
Future blessings
Future prayers
Prayers for culture
Prayers for our children
Children in paradise
Children of the innocent
Innocent planet
Innocent life
Life needs purpose
Life needs support
Support
Purpose
Left everything behind
Not for dreams; but for reality.
Even earth doesn't stay at a place
What are we to have a constant living.
Sometimes it's better to change habitat
Not for company; but for our State of mind.
In spite of survival birds too migrate
What's there to question, it's nature.
Feeling of being leftout
Not for new lifestyle; but for healthy relation
Though seasons change like our mood
What is left nothing but grief.
The radio towers died at noon, the screens went blank and cold,
And static ceased to whisper of the empires bought and sold.
Down in the deep concrete redoubts, where millions gasped for air,
The ordinary citizens were stripped of their despair.
But in its place came something vast, a terrible, clean weight—
The absolute, unyielding hush that settled at the gate.
For thirty days no leader spoke, no siren pierced the dark,
The automated generators left a silent spark.
Men stared into their calloused hands, unable to recall
The frantic noise that used to drive their backs against the wall.
The silence was a physical thing, a pressure in the ear,
That forced the crowded bunker-rooms to face their oldest fear.
Yet by the third long, wordless week, the madness turned to rest,
As heartbeat matched to heartbeat in the quiet of the chest.
They learned to read the shifts of light, the breathing of the crowd,
And found a stranger, softer tongue where nothing was allowed.
Before the silver wood reached down to claim the planet's lease,
The bunker citizens survived the suffocating peace.
The bridge
to the future
a song
Living in the past
can only last
~ So long
and it comes as no crime ~ AI frees up man giving him some spare time
not for leisure or help keep fit ~ but more screen time to do endless sh!t
By
David Kavanagh
Empathy, Sorrow, Guilt, Shatter
In the physical world, nothing really matters
Dead will be dead, the sufferers may not survive
Because, none could savour the "Grand Privilege Platter"
Pleasure, Love, Compassion, Discern
I want to unlearn all these concerns
Because shards of me die as the days slip
But what could one do,
If they aren't privileged enough to earn
An awful crowd intrudes my solitude,
When memories rush while I brood,
But ere long pass on in sudden rush
And before I know they flood bank to bank.
I think of using bridge to go across,
But I find it far from easy---
The flood that overflows pushes me back,
And I never before knew that
A crowd of one can be so overwhelming.
… … … … …
Yet, as the waters settle,
And as I get used to the quiet,
Memories do seem like
The ash on an unguent stick
To be cleared now and then,
Or seem like essence eased out of a bottle,
The stick cannot light up my lamp,
Nor bottled fragrance stays forever,
And so do memories.
And I take solace in the fact
That memory’s like a crazy woman
Who hoards her tattered rags
And throws away her good raiment.
________________________
Musings | 04.09.2014/revised Sept 2026| memories, solitude, Free verse
I felt murderous rage and suicidal impulses
and understood:
I’ll never be better!
I’ll just be able to pretend better.
My life will always be the second option.
I’ll never be satisfied
or happy
or at peace.
But I can find it,
make it.
I can look at the destination,
Not at the road.
And I can mold it,
Shape it.
And I felt comfort.
And for once,
I did not want to die,
just yet.
I wanted to die
with a purpose.
I always felt like I have no talent,
But what if this is my talent?
To know how to die.
I will do that—tomorrow.
I will change this—tomorrow.
I will fix that—tomorrow.
I will call them—tomorrow.
What a weight tomorrow carries—
the weight of uncertainty,
of all the things we leave undone,
of all the hope we ask it to hold.
It will be better—tomorrow.
It will be easier—tomorrow.
I will have the energy—tomorrow.
Motivation will come—tomorrow.
What a promise tomorrow remains,
despite all the painful nows,
all the broken todays,
all the forgotten yesterdays.
What will it be—tomorrow?
What will it bring—tomorrow?
What will change—tomorrow?
What will I become—tomorrow?
But what if tomorrow never comes
the way I keep asking it to?
What if I spend my whole life
waiting for the strength to live it?
Maybe the question was never
“What will tomorrow bring?”
Maybe it was always—
“What is the cost of waiting for it?”
We spent the summer of '99 waiting for the sky to break.
The old seer had promised us a king—
not of crowns or gold, but of sheer terror,
dropping from the heavy heat of July.
People pulled what they needed from the ink.
Some swore it was the third beast waking up,
a fundamentalist storm ready to swallow the map,
while others just saw the familiar rot of politics
finally bursting into a global fire.
Either way, the dread sold a lot of paperbacks.
The prophecy became a ghost in the movie theaters,
a blockbuster specter we could safely watch
while pretending the end of the world was just entertainment.
The world didn't end, but the earth keeps shaking.
With every new war on the evening news,
every disaster that leaves a city in the dark,
somebody always dusts off the quatrains again.
We tell ourselves it's just a myth,
until the horizon bruises,
and we catch ourselves looking up.
Averting their eyes, the channel they turn
as yet another forest burns
Temperatures climb every year
sure cure for heat – down another beer
Glaciers melting fast, oceans rising
no problem – oldsters busy downsizing
The weather’s now gone insane
forming in the Pacific, three hurricanes*
Sounds awful, but patriots stay in their lane
they just keep toking up on Mary Jane
_____________________________________________________
*as reported in the "Wall Street Journal," 9/5/2026
Once upon his signet ring
a maxim true and wise,
Which, Gave him counsel,
for every change or chance:
'Even this shall pass away!'
II.
Trains through the sand
Brought gems
Fleets
Brought pearls
But Treasures wealth?
the King would say;
'Even this shall pass away.'
III.
In his court, the sport,
When the palms
Burned with clapping
He, Cried, O loving friends of mine!
'Even this shall pass away.'
IV.
Lady fairest his queen.Pillowed
Whispering to his soul,
Mortal flesh must come to clay:
'Even this shall pass away.'
V.
Fighting on Soldiers bleeding
Groaning Pain is hard to bear,
But with patience day by day,
'Even this shall pass away.'
VI.
Towering Twenty cubits in the air,
Rose statue carved in stone.
Gazing Asked
what is fame?
Fame is but a slow decay:
'Even this shall pass away.'
VII.
at the Gates of Gold,
Spake he
Life is done, but what is Death?
Fell a sunbeam on his ring,
Showing by a heavenly ray --
Even this shall pass away'
(Blackout of The King's Ring by Theodore Tilton)
one must never say never
a powerful word
that leaves no room for could be
for what we believe our earth's nature forgets
and sends whirling tornadoes and hurricanes
impossible to escape
she cancels our firm never
making us take notice of how vulnerable we are
when fate includes those forces
often beyond our control
The Chaos of an uncertain future can describe any future
Because tomorrow is not promised
I have seen lives lost suddenly that have affected me because
They were loved ones and my life was rearranged by loss
Then came the biggest loss of my son
And it caused me to rethink who I am
Because I am no longer the mother of two living sons
And it is infuriating to me to live without my youngest son
I am not angry at him, but the situation
And the certainty that I will never be again who I was before he died
Time sits upon both of my shoulders with
white hands ticking promises right, opposite
red numerals counting down the left. Tock.
In this aging valley, this crevice dug by ambiguous stretches,
seconds trickle like months as years can flush like minutes.
An indecisive pendulum never makes a full rotation.
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