#1
i know of silver effort special
fishermen who
wish for only evil wizard gold
to go dying out with
bitter bronzing drops let loose
from cold and aging
distant sister suns
#2
honorary scrub jays rave on
glad as march hare batters up
for swinging cut up snakes around like
weightless bags of army men in
throes of hammers stoned a-
gain and wheat-filled
grounded rapture
MORE BETTER BLUES COMING
I
Contrary to the thinking of some,
The blues is not wallowing in depression;
Rather, it's the tribulations of overcoming it
With divine wisdom, guidance, and determination:-
Thus, there's got to be coming
A much more better blues
Than what is streaming
In our society today:-
Once considered an admirable country,
Our society today is slowly becoming
That ghostly Humpty Dumpty model
Of the so-called Free World:-
II
Jazzing with the keloid spirit
Of my hope-fueling Ancestors,
I'm so determined to survive
The present muddy waters:-
Indeed, today there are many strong spirits,
Striking–like hammers–oppressive depression;
Many fuel-spirited minds…bodies…and souls…
Sowing reaping seeds of more better blues:-
More better blues for a more better people,
Overcoming the sinister Oppressive Syndrome;
Modified beings ensuring that liberty and equanimity
Will therefore now and forever be, in life as well as in death:-
Poems can be made into songs.
My favorite songs i wrote longs to be
played by my beautiful five fingers.
The notes I play on my guitar lingers.
The notes that the pianist plays dance through the air released by soft felt hammers.
I am not such a detail person
in a surface sense --
if it works better than it has
worked before, better than
anyone has made it work
before – then I am satisfied.
For the moment. Polish,
burr free…does that matter
to the person that thirsts, the
person in need of shelter and a
comforting touch? Poetry, art,
they’re also tools prolific as
hammers and saws – likewise
build structures for ascent and
decent – let our steps be pure
as humanly possible – God
knows our hearts already. Cares
less about the color of our souls
and only that they have yet not been
sold.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The keys remember her fingers~
soft thief stealing ivory light,
the hammers whispering
through felt and dust.
It waits, a black whale
beached in the entryway,
its ribs humming Debussy’s
Clair de Lune.
Play me, it murmurs,
and I will give you back
the weight of your mother’s hands,
the way they lingered
like slow rain
on a Sunday afternoon.
I do not know how to play the piano~
no one comes and the pedals rust.
And somewhere,
inside the walls,
a spider spins
a web of silent chords.
I understand that this poem is a memoir poem although PS doesn't have it as a cateogry to select.
Scents of sea, historical townships and seafood
Thrilled like vacations not just a dinner destination.
Each trip to Chesapeake Bay staid that fine mood.
As we rode, my family's blend got on its finest silly
Making jokes, singing, bro and I loved Dad’s riddles.
Eyes all turned somber passing the barn site where
Destiny once heard JW Booth say, ‘useless, useless ...’
Crackers, hammers, picks, butter sat on brown paper with
Randomly scattered crabs piled high excited my family.
Although not novices, Dad would inspect our dissects,
Brag to Moma about how strong his shellfish genes
Swam, huh?
I sing the woes of schoolyard crows.
You are no more bird than balladeer,
Crooning sonnets you compose
From gossip of the vanished year.
The gate I crossed, and now am lost
A guest where once I bore a name;
Iron bars are now with lacquer glossed,
But I am still the same.
It grows late to be without a nest
Do we return then? Do we dare?
My guilt hammers at my breast;
You and I, we are unwelcome there.
So sing with me, you sable host,
Of lessons from the years long flown—
For I, like you, am but a ghost
That haunts the yards where I was grown.
There is a glass piano in my throat that wants to play a high C
but I swallow gravel instead and keep the gears grinding.
I tell it, shut up, we have a reputation for silence.
we have a world that likes us unbreakable.
There is a glass piano in my throat
and I douse the keys in black coffee and the sour grit of old jokes
so the neighbors and the landlord and the woman at the toll booth
only hear the rattle of a cold engine and never the music down there.
I am too smart for the song or rather too shy.
I say, stay still, do you want to break the lease?
You want to make them think I'm made of something that can shatter?
You want to ruin the look in my eye that says I've seen it all?
I only let the hammers strike at four in the morning,
when the streetlights flicker and the ego is too tired to sentry.
I whisper, I hear you, don't break just yet.
then I wrap it in wool and lead, but the chords still hum in the marrow,
I haven't quite muted the strings.
~~~ "Christmas is the time to rejoice,
reconnect to inner-self and reflect" ~~~
~~~ Quote by Poet ~~~
Creativity creates connection
Honesty hammers humility
Responsibility renders respect
Intuitivity institutes impartialness
Strength sustains supportiveness
Tenacity tenders truthfulness
Mindfulness mends morale
Awareness aspires accountability
Straightfordwardness shows sincerity
Christmas is the time to rejoice, reconnect to our
inner-self and reflect on what we can do to be
better, like thanking the Lord, spreading joy to
family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, and
showing appreciation and kindness at all times.
Count your blessings, sing Christmas songs, share
love and joy through cards and texts, give love
through hugs, kisses and presents, make your
presence felt, and celebrate and be merry.
Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and
and a prosperous New Year … cheers!
There's gravel grinding in my gut; a godless gearbox of grief growling in my belly's black cathedral.
My heart hammers like hell's hooves, hauling the hearse of every hope I ever had.
I eat dirt for dinner and call it divine, choking on crumbs of my own creation.
My lungs lurch like dying engines, exhaling elegies of exhaust and extinction.
Every breath burns a furnace of forgiveness that refuses to cool.
The devil drums on my ribs like thunder made of teeth and tin.
My tongue tastes of tombstones and tar and a sermon spat through shattered glass.
Even silence stabs sharp sanctified hollering hymns of pain through the marrow of midnight.
I am the meat of my own misery devoured by despair divine.
And stll the gravel grins inside me, grinding and glorying in my ruin.
The censorship
Who would have guessed that X should
practice censorship, but it does
A person called Tommy Robertson has
been giving free rein to spew out his
hatred of migrants, mainly from Muslim countries
countries
In Tommy's mind, every migrant is a rapist
He hammers nonstop about the crime
they commit
One understands that the mass migration of
Poor people from Muslim countries are
a problem, caused by politicians, that
have not reduced the inflow, it is not the
migrants per se
Tommy Robertson is a vulgar agitator
who has been giving free rain on X to
to spew his hatred, to the point of defending
Israel's atrocities in Gaza and the West Bank
In Tommy's mind, a good Arab is a dead one
I have tried to be critical of him
But what I write is being censored
None of my criticisms of Tommy Robertson
Once they are published, they disappear
before the ink is dry
One has also noticed that George Galloway
are not saying anything critical, wanting
to keep his audience on X,
The plumber is fixing a leak;
The pipe’s needing more than a tweak.
So for things to improve
He will have to remove
Some wood panels - I’m starting to freak.
Our house, built in ‘80, is old
And it’s paneled, which is, truth be told,
Now considered passé
But was cool in its day,
Though with changing it, I’ve not been sold.
So I’m listening from the next room
As he hammers and drills; I presume
That he knows what to do
For we haven’t a clue
If more leaks, in the future, will loom.
But voila! He just finished and yes,
I’m relieved of a lot of my stress,
For he came well-equipped
To replace what had dripped
And he didn’t leave much of a mess.
On the wall, all the panels survived
And the handyman, once he’s arrived,
Will nail down what is loose
And, as you can deduce,
Of my kitchen, I won’t be deprived.
Who knows how
Net turns ten
Now own to won
Off arm to mar
The sunshine of four
That rise to grow
Their sheep fur
Just like ours
As long as bride's gown
Unlike a fairy tale bird
Whose ribs are light
Off bid to plead the sky
To help pin its way up
Without its mother's tips
Not to get nip by the wind
Unto the back of the earth
But sheep does go through pains
Often off nap time to rest a while
That span through a hell of lifetime
Cum surviving fitness' coat off cot
In the rain where cold hits softly
In the sun where heat hammers
Year-in year-out, as era unfolds
New pit of hope to upshot stained lint
Before ash fill the hopeful wind
And its ash covers the sky
To shy away graceful breath
Heavenly arc shaped its being
That mirrors mercy; merrily wrapped
Off war but shaped games battling light
To shine a drab dragon fuming to see
The beast of night before dawn nods
The argument of silence, absonant,
hammers into the pliant mind it’s hard
nails of craving.—a spirit thusly marred
will yield to any prickle, every scant
pressure to give in.—once the foreign implant
is firmly riveted, a brain so jarred
can no longer trust its levies to guard
its thoughts against the inner, speechless “can’t”.
Quietudes disturb the peace of silent
folk, pounding its forceful will upon their backs.
When, going unfulfilled, a lurching tic
tickles the unstilled ego, its violent
lashes thrash harsh whips in frequent attacks
on the tender flesh of a crooked back.
An echo is felt, touched, recalled,
it drums against our hearts,
strikes softly upon the ringing
shell of being.
An echo hammers upon an open door,
it is unconcerned with any closeted desires,
it is not ours to interpret.
Echo's image comes to us
wrapped within a blossoming,
an ever-opening vowel of vocalic enticement.
Lily-padding slippers tread lightly
yet step loudly upon the mind.
I welcome all dark flowers,
their language is throb and vibration.
I am awakened by the sensual stem,
pulled up into an erotic drumming,
resounding echo's don, the flesh of myself.
Echo is the face of memory,
it is the naming of names,
Echo returns our call
whether spoken or not.
For a moment we tremble like a leaf
that the wind impartially fondles.
© 33 mins ago
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