I said, "Since I got my brand-new dentures today,
can we maybe try some new adventures today?"
She said, "I think I have to wait a bit ~
That new smile! I just can't get used to it.
So, let's do the same old adventures tonight, okay ~
after we pray?"
There are four seasons every year on earth.
They are Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter.
The season now is like boiling water.
This season is mostly good for the plants.
Well, experts say that plants need much sunlight.
All living things need sunlight to live too.
It’s so hot, but need to get used to it.
Oh, the sun! The sun! The bright shining sun!
Some brightness is enough to light up sky.
Not too few and not too much that hurts eyes.
We know you’re here by looking up the sky.
You are gone above when he starts to cry.
You make nature and humans have new life.
You may be there until the end of life.
How can you connect with someone who's just not there?
Like you can sense their presence but all it is is air
The life of a ghost isn't easy
No one notices when you begin to feel sick and queasy
You unwillingly lie with a smile
It takes a while
But you begin to feel the numb
Of the loneliness that you can't overcome
You start to accept that this is life
You are a ghost and here is your knife
It's blurry but you remember the girl with a smile
A true one that you haven't seen in a while
The life of a ghost is hard
You're a shell of the past, just a shard
You feel alone
Even when the voices follow you home
It's the curse
You've been getting worse
The waters rise
So you tell more lies
You try to get more out, try to say
That the words get stuck day after day
In the waters of pain
They drown words; I don't know what they gain
They feed on the soul
Who knows their goal
Where does it end?
How can you mend?
The truth is the life of a ghost is sad
But instead I'll say it's not that bad
You get used to it. Well, most
Hello to our new ghost
I thank my friends for everything
I cheers to life, to demonstrations
To flights, to chess game plays
To city neon lights at the seaport
To ceviche and mangoes in my youth
To everyday life writing poetry
To sunset viewing and appreciation
To support, to love, and be loved
I'm afraid to delete your phone number
When I really get used to it calling you
But for now I just fly down memory lane.
From the drab green-brown worm of caterpillars and pupae,
Emerges the phosphorescent butterfly so pleasing to the eye!
But, why oh why, are butterflies so superbly colorful,
That we admire the fleeting flutters and flashes as wonderful?
Is it to say: "Be warned I'm toxic don't you dare eat me!"
Is it to attract a mate or mimic leaves, or flowers, Tweedledum dee?
For the worm which once crawled on leaves with heavy down-trod tread,
Knew what splendor with patience lay within to burst out ahead.
Like the ugly duckling shun by clutch contentious, and mum,
That transforms to a magnificent white swan glistening in the sun!
Alice said: "When you have to turn into a chrysalis and butterfly on queue,
I should think you’ll feel it a little 'strange', I would, won’t you?”.
“Not a bit,” said the Caterpillar, with a leer and sneer for all to hear.
"You'll get used to it in time,” as it sucked its hookah into gear.
It’s the way of life.
Never once has it been fair.
Now tell me why’s that?
We may sit and ponder,
Always begging for answers
But no one is there.
The pain we have to feel
Can be so unbearable
That we just can’t take it.
Sometimes it’s so painful,
That we end up going numb.
But don’t pretend to get used to it.
You know that it still lingers,
Hiding under the surface
Waiting for your joy to appear.
And joy means happiness.
And happiness brings the pain.
They truly go hand and hand with one another.
Now don’t get me wrong.
You will be happy.
Truly unimaginably happy,
For so long.
But unfortunately, It never lasts.
No matter how hard we try.
The pain that follows,
Is never that far behind.
Eat your veggies you'll grow up big and strong
That's what parents used to tell little boys
I'm wondering what they told dainty little girls
Must have used some other devious ploy
Like eat your veggies you sweet young thing
Boys will come knocking at your door
This underhanded method of cajoling offsprings
Was quite normal in the days of yore
The kiddies of today are much more aware
The Internet's where they get their facts
If you try to bombard them with the stuff we got
They'll look at you as if you're cracked
Time marches on in a time honoured fashion
Yesterday's technology is old hat
You no sooner buy the latest up to date gadget
When a newer version comes out topping that
When will this joy ride ever come to an end
Probably never so best get used to it
Keep eating your veggies it's still a good plan
Eating healthy will help you stay fit
Changing Weather
(Get Used To It)
Miracle Man
January 2024
Today begins with the sky smooth gray,
and a morning mist appears here to stay.
A precursor for days that soon will come,
those house bound days engulfed in glum.
If the sun comes later it will be surprising,
My outdoor plans will likely need revising.
The visual I have is of a north wind biting,
maybe I’ll do more weather induced writing,
With one last gamble,
I declare victory over myself,
I listened to every command and sincerely said oh well,
My word choice is very unfancy,
But by declaration the devils get antsy,
They say don't blow my nose in a car,
That memory sticks to it,
Be remembered afar if you get used to it,
They say don't transmit outside of shelter,
A home was made for transit without death sir,
That's why it's traditionally wood,
Pagans said trees grant life and in death present should,
It was hope that dead trees may help imaginations breathe,
A life granted is not truly quite sain,
Until they can embrace all that is thy name
Strange things happen! Get used to it.
Often statistical odd.
But explained by mathematics
without any need for a god.
Strange things happen, get used to it.
Often statistically odd.
But explained by mathematics
without any need for a god.
It's a bloody mess,
murder most kind,
the kind that does not kill.
Desires clawed within rib cages
or delved into tender marrows.
You get used to it, want it,
it keeps you alive
the way some poisonous medicine will.
Some love poetry
becomes the aromatic attar
of a perfect rose,
while others end in greasy stains
over wilting ego’s,
from a thousand miles away
both are worth it.
Dead Sure About life
David J Walker
I am dead sure that
The only thing
to write about on the
Otherside
is life
What is there to talk about
That would compare to
perfection
What is there to anticipate in an eternity
that hasn’t already happened
With infinite tomorrows
How good can I feel with
unjuxtaposed sorrows
In a room with stained glass windows
That never open
My halo
Although adjustable
Never seems to fit the way it should
Mother says not to complain
I will get used to it
Father says he finally threw his away
And Nobody noticed
What is there to write about except life
And how often we failed at it
Squabbling and shouting is our normal,
not in other’s prissy persnickety vocabularies.
Hoarders, we climb over rats to get to our clothes
Others envy us this luxury
No one bathes; the bathtub houses stacks of magazines.
You can throw a half-eaten sandwich behind the couch
the flowered one or the one with the stripes?
Who cares? No one.
There is a smell; possibly a body, lurking about.
We get used to it, my brothers and sisters and I.
Slurping our tomato soup with our elbows on the table.
Mom and Dad are nowhere, having left years ago.
We live like animals, spraying on perfume when we go out.
There is no reason for company, who needs it anyway?
There are eight of us if we need to play Monopoly.
I gather up the pieces from under the table.
The welfare people are here. I stand in front of the door.
Cautioning my seven siblings to be quiet, and they are.
No school for us; we like our hoarder world.
Shhhh!
It was a bloody mess,
murder,
the kind that does not kill
but stabs on and on.
You get used to it, want it,
it keeps you alive
the way some poisonous medicine will.
We slammed together, bruised,
pile-driving through explosive flames;
we were yoked to bridges
ones that lowered and arched.
Desires clawed ribcages,
delved into our secret marrow.
Some love poetry
becomes the aromatic attar
of a perfect rose,
while other’s ends in greasy stains
over wilting ego’s,
both are worth it.
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