Though each mind is a jungle of thoughts,
It’s a sanctuary where ideas are sought.
Fertile tender brains go haywire,
With negative creativity the media conspires.
Navigating today’s youth is a terrain to conquer,
Rampant malicious acts uncover the dysfunctionality that prospers.
Thinking Ahead Humor
Miracle Man
November 30th 2023
I’m out of school and now I inquire,
I wonder what life will require?
Will I meet someone that I admire?
If like minded what will transpire?
Can they help me, will they inspire?
I’ll get a job though that seems dire.
One not requiring me to perspire.
To a higher plateau I Will aspire?
I don’t desire to set the world afire.
My one goal is that I don’t expire,
before I have a chance to retire.
I hope my plans don’t go haywire,
But plans I make often backfire.
A man once told me that there is one day each year
that if you sweat, you’ll die, And not knowing what day that was, he took no chances!
The lady knows guns.
She's trained to run.
Will act under fire.
and not go haywire.
When push comes to shove
Get tough and saddle up.
She's in the right mind.
High-ready, open fire.
The lady knows guns.
Double stack, night sights.
.
.... D.............. . .G
..* O..................O*
.*. G..................D...*
*.Furry ball of Trust..
Evidence of Gods love
Faith.(....)and(....)trust
Bonds.....that.....bind
..This joyful universe
......Sweetest pooch!
All of innocence and love.
Here's a package that is evidence...
That mighty God loves all humans...
We can call this combo as Dogooders
The divine apparatus .....God ,Dog & Us
..Our bestest friend........on wobbly earth
...when everything .... seems to go haywire
.....even the trust ....on God begins to waver
.......look for that....tiny ball with button eyes
.........Trust ......even the staunchest of naysayers
........Be it ... believer or aetheist - Love means -"In Dog We....Trust''
What could be funnier than standing in a corner,
Staring at the wall, while your spouse watches crazy.
This wife of a husband, I was like a foreigner,
To stare at a wall, like a dunce, half-baked and lazy.
But this husband was about to get a shock.
He couldn’t imagine the turnaround of thought.
This is what happens when a husband doesn’t knock.
His mind would go haywire when a situation he caught.
You see in the bedroom, I am a gypsy.
Looping ‘round, I pace about our California king.
I may have one glass of merlot, but I’m not tipsy.
In my mouth, my husband sees electric toothbrush sing.
This husband of mine, loses his mind.
Doubled over, he paces the hall, tears in his eyes.
Tremulous, quivering, rewinds
the scene over and over - what did he spy.
“I was looking at a spider web,” I explained.
“But I didn’t expect to see you brushing after.”
Oh how he was entertained!
This man of mine couldn’t contain his laughter
9/7/2021
“H'' Contest, New or Old Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsor:Constance La France
Hour by hour in the light of day
and all night long
My bruised mind with
strings of thoughts run riot before my eyes
Shadowy phantoms fill my brain
then break loose and
my imagination go haywire
out of control
erratic
confused,
disoriented
until my traumatic brain
weary and faint with pain
grows calm
and rewinds the dreams of my youth again
where the memories of good times contain.
Yet my grieving heart is powerless to quell
the rigors of life in this world that I dwell
pursued by hate for having loved too well,
I don’t know what this journey will foretell.
~A Brian Strand contest
NORDIC ECSTASY
You asked me a question, a nostalgic one
Where I was in the seventies
I was in the land of the midnight sun
With the descendants of the Vikings.
Looking at Norwegian rocks, their structure
Along the corrugated coast of the North Sea
I found myself on the lap of pristine nature
As beautiful on earth as it could ever be.
The ice-age glaciers have all melted away
Carving deep valleys for the fjord networks
To enter the lofty land the sea gets waterway
Where on azure clarity the sky disembarks.
Summer sun touches the arctic horizon
Goes up unset at the midnight hour
The sunshine on the night hangs on
Making the body clock go haywire.
The grey sky flushed with the aurora flare
Gleaming winter nights danced on the snow
I could still feel the Nordic ecstasy of the air
Though it touched me such a long time ago.
February 22, 2018.
My Spring will be sunny - all plans ahead,
and Summer quite sprightly... plans won't sink like lead,
No rain here, or thunder - why, tickle my toes,
why people want rainy, the Lord only knows.
Autumn will be fog-bound... I'm joking my friend.
I live in a country where fog won't itself lend.
It will be joyous and sunny like spring in the South,
and my plans won't go haywire like a kick in the mouth.
Winters I love here, and my plans will go well.
What my plans are for the moment? Can't tell,
but they will be sunny like all my plans are,
and if you're good, Mr. Viv, we'll meet up in a bar.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
1/16/2018
Contest - Weather Forecast 2018
Sponsor - Viv Wigley
2nd place win
Full moon calls us
Over the horizon
Rousing hunger and thirst
Evening sky in an enormous emotion
Vehement is your invitation
Enquiring into every flower and leaf
Ripe moments in red tulip
Intimacies of sweet wonder
Night in delighting asunder
Yoga in flowers
Orange like hours
Undoing the story in the braid
Reddening of cascade
Equations go haywire
Yells of laughter in the lyre
Eyes at the hairy ring around your finger
Sweats of beauty linger …
________________________________________
July 14, 2016
The pedestrian kettle steams on to the Capitol pyre
With a weight watcher tonic; more lean legislators to sire
The Grand Old Party a taste of the aromatic brew doth require
Medicinal tonic blended to alleviate bloating gout of every Democratic squire
Preferring their watered-down, generic brand, constipated digestive tracts go haywire
The savy financiers sit on the sidelines in their cozy markets ignoring the taste test flier
The partisan grit clogs the filter producing a quagmire
The vitriolic ingredients boil over causing a rancid fire
The billowing smoke rises and streams to the patrician choir
The generic master brewer in his white house stews in the demagogic mire
Commercial winds sweep in fanning the flames causing the heat to reach dome's spire
The regurgitated grounds spewed forth to every intoxicated shire
Democratic gainsayers scare the elderly that the side effects are so dire
The rest of the squeamish plebians in their depleted hovels continue to sip their Common Roast with ire
Most all there is to say
was said with a final breath.
Nerves tense and go haywire
I choke the tears
at the root
to be of comfort
but there is nothing I can say.
The patriarch is still, at rest.
The matriarch cries trembling cries to the gods
Still
still
in his quiet little coffin.
Gray vest, hair like ashy remnants.
The coffin is subtle,
sturdy
crafted finely
kindly, warm, supportive
ready to weather longer than most.
The silent mahogany box
says more than any of us could.
If only the wood
had hands to write.
If the Bible ring true, this man lay in paradise.
He said more than any of us could, solely with his life.
There is nothing
left
to say.