As Jesus once wrote in the dirt
With wisdom a silent covert
He challenged the crowd
Not speaking aloud
As Mercy soaked a land that thirsts
Did He write of the Law or a plea
Or note what the stoners would see?
With grace He forgave
And lives that He’d save
Revealed what true justice should be
The ignorant sin and the bold
By Jesus were greatly retold
To turn from the wrong
Repent and belong
To a Love that is greater than gold
Did Jesus write the Law of Moses
As the Book of Numbers discloses
Echoes of the stoning
For Stephen no postponing
On the grave lain stone roses
In this free-floating pericope
The question has to be
Where is the john
The adulteress had known?
A name overtly written to see?
Maybe one by one
That's why they flee from The Son
Slumping off guiltily
Their demeanor is easy to see
Their sin the smoking gun
No books He did write
With water He didn't baptize
We are His hands and feet
We are His voice when we preach
To the masses that ostracize
The Tricky Thing
About The
Attribution Of Guilt...
Is That Subsequently
Everything Unlucky
(That Then Occurs...)
Is Considered
Compensatory Punishment
You Deserve!
And A Lot Of
Things Seem
Unlucky, You
Know...
Some Are
Deservedly
Inevitable.
(Guiltily Is An Adverb, Too)
-Gray Squirrel
10-04-2025
Death comes in many ways;
Hands tied, shot in the head
with family you bore
victims of the cruel
brutality of war.
Death comes in many ways;
doctor with a syringe
maybe the most humane
to save a loved one from
more years of constant pain.
Death comes in many ways;
guiltily by own hand
a teenage mind derailed
another victim of
a system that has failed
Death comes in many ways;
The easiest must be
quietly in our sleep
after solemn prayer
asking our soul to keep.
A fire in the kitchen?
I smell of smoke in the hall.
Somebody is very guiltily
Washing down the wall.
What’s left of the toaster’s
Just a burnt plastic shell.
Some time last night
We almost had a mini hell.
Thank the Lord for CCTV.
A bit of a disturbing sight
He’d come in a bit tipsy
Just after midnight.
Put the toaster on the hob
Switched the wrong device on
Seemed blithely unaware that
The smoke alarm had gone.
He’d sat drinking tea
Supremely unaware
Of the flames and smoke
Swirling around his chair.
A pajamaed figure appears
Smoke alarm must have alerted
Situation quickly sorted
Potential emergency averted.
White faced and anxious
Sitting with his dad and me
As we all sit and watch
The Closed Circuit Tv.
He’d been doing so well
Getting back on track
But, three steps forward
And two steps back.
Give credit where it’s due,
Criticise where it’s earned,
Put it down to experience,
Just another lesson learned.
Mending broken soldiers
We all voluntarily chose
Win or lose its a gamble
Last night it was close.
‘Black’ was called the kettle
But it didn’t it nettle
Nor its relaxed mind unsettle…
‘Black’ foully flung at the kettle,
Almost as a test of its mettle
And an order to order soapy Dettol
But also a bold try give the fatal:
Some grisly violence occasion the pot
Guiltily The Blacker on every spot…
But Amiable kettle considered this not,
Feud- Loving spectators denying blows hot!
The day the internet stopped working, I opened the door and let my face embrace the breeze of cold air,
I looked around to find dainty plants for which I never cared.
After a long time, I stepped out of my house and strolled through the park for a while,
Funnily, I felt as if I had walked a mile!
I stopped and was astonished at the sight that beheld my eyes,
'Oh dear!' people are conversing with each other and being nice!
I sat on a huge rock at the corner of the park,
Soon I realized it was getting dark.
After ages, I looked up at the sky contrary to my daily routine of looking down at my mobile screen,
'So that's what they call sunset!' I happily scream.
For a moment I felt my life was a lie,
I guiltily looked at the Earth, for which I never batted an eye.
A familiar sound shook me out of my thoughts,
I was notified that the internet connection was back and I was pulled back into the same knot.
camel and roses
Fresh bread still moist, spread a thick layer of butter
On the slice, few foods in life can taste better
Until the medical profession gives us a stark warning
It is no good for the heart and blood vessels
Guiltily I make another slice I will stop tomorrow.
Camels are with humps of water are cumbersome
Once I rode on one, its funny walk made seas sick.
Resolving the problem of too much milk is not my concern
Over drinking can lead to obesity or lose stomach
Specially for adults imbibing “white Cadillac” (vodka and milk)
Exponentially much stronger than beer.
Watermelons
Dull, thick, green rind with a creamy yellow behind,
From where on the ground, it sat waiting to ripen.
Round the gourd, the melon matured, bursting the gird;
With juicy, sweet liquid, and fresh succulent meat
(Ninety per cent water and six percent sugars)
Ready for consumption during the hot summer weather.
Carefully pick the vegetable from the bin;
Choosing the size, weight, and colour of the pepo.
And feel for firmness, then cradle, knock, and listen;
(Duller the thud the better) indicating ripeness,
Or employ other quirks to determine freshness.
Then wash, slice, and serve the delectable berry,
With bright red flesh, seed or seedless variety.
Etiquette is discarded when eating the melon,
As my teeth sink into Citrullus Lanatus
(Like a hot knife cutting into frozen butter)
As juices spurt out and run down the sides of my mouth,
While I guiltily look, as I piggishly eat
And slurp away, smiling, and spitting out the seeds;
This August 3rd on National Watermelon Day.
I am walking…
my footfalls…yellow and green
cause I am very green now
…and perhaps a little yellow
over the bridge that heard the first return …I wander
musket powder dusted rails remain in staunch salute
flickering time travelers catch in my mind’s eye
blood stained earth echoes
over there ….on the left by the rock and flag
My footfalls lay quietly down in dusty rainless soil
hard packed by sunlight and those whose paths…. are pilgrimage here
Depressions of heat waves flow in the dust, spin up…fall down
coat my bare toes
….and when it rains …if it rains…even for a moment…
it just creates dust waves
the drops do not sink in to nourish
crops have run dry… like my tears
no berries or busting fruit from my vines
my face is lined
Still I guiltily love the crest of sunlight each morning across my white walls shelves and selves
I know I need pray for rain…
I have hips pains, knee pains …but no rains
Still there is joy to be had and I have it!
a straw hat…a friend’s laugh…my glass of sparkling evening wine…
and blind trust
hope is chirping
like spring peepers
“All in good time …grasshopper...all in good time”
Hollow Justice
Justice called the role
not seeking innocence
but truth
beauty stood before the bench
accused of wilting flowers,
faded hues, dimming rainbows
purity stood guiltily
head bowed, besmirched,
despoiled by innuendo
pride stood angrily
fist clenched, defiant,
without shame
honor cowered in the shadows
disgraced by perception’s
cowardly fabrications
duty stood alone
neglected, shunned,
by those she served
truth stood silent
in the knowledge
none are innocent
John G. Lawless
8/21/2015
I admit I approximated akin adultery
Abusively allowing my abominable,abstinent eyes
To absorb abstract,alluring beauty around me
Gazed galvanic glances guiltily
Thus glamorized God's grave gluttony.
I admit I approximated akin adultery
Abusively allowing my abominable abstinent eyes
To absorb abstract,alluring beauty around me
Gazed galvanic glances guiltily
Thus glamorized God's grave gluttony.
I confess I convincingly committed contemptible crimes
Beguiling bewitching beauty beyond my bona fide bounty
Gazed galvanic glances guiltily
Thus glamorized God's grave gluttony.
I admit I approximated akin adultery
Abusively allowing my abominable,abstinent eyes
To absorb abstract,alluring beauty around me
Gazed galvanic glances guiltily
Thus glamorized God's grave gluttony.
Abdelwaheb Dhaou.
"I've felt such span of years and worlds
but face the rest uncertainly
Wandring wastes of unfinished futures, I know,
And am what I must be"
Who are the singers?
Were is the song?
Who knows what things must come,
Among the million things that may?
A prophet, staring guiltily at the end of days
His skin stained grey by darkest shadows
By their presence, they are unbound
Among the stars where the world goes round:
Must the seer see their fate?
See the world rent by lust and hate?
And know that hope's the curelest of all
Fearing, as she does, herself after the fall?
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