Ballooner, blink in the hot air.
Wink, O noonday sun.
On the brink, is life unfair?
Drink and be as one!
Supreme being, I imbibe!
Above god and man!
Dervish, deus, diatribe!
Lengthen, every span!
Grim-faced, O my spectres?
Well, that's the way it goes.
Singulars and hectares!
Core cone, thy carrion crows!
Trammell the enameling?
O nightingale, sing sweet.
O sky above, thy paneling!
O lion, at thy feet!
Yellow priestess, ritual.
Of this what knoweth ye?
Barrel out the brazen bull!
Fling out, fancy-free!
Rhyme and riddle, rill on roll.
Drums, thy wargods beat.
Goddess of the asherah pole!
Chosen to complete!
Tyrant of tomorrow?
An image wrought in spark.
Brindle, bindle, broken bow!
Gold, fluoresce in dark!
Hone thy skill, O warrior!
Dare not to drop thy tools!
Skyscraper, art free and sure?
Toss away thy rules...
A billion can buy a bushel of impenetrable silence.
Hectares of prime farmland or flashy private jets.
It can buy a turd in stilettos and a pyrite-hearted mistress.
A billion can buy you a secondhand spaceship.
Or an endless good run of Wall Street luck. It can buy a pair of bloated lip-plastic nips and butts.
With a billion you can casually jump burning ships.
Change the scented steps of a double helix.
Buy a fresh orphaned kidney if you so wish.
A billion can buy you onto underage islands.
Where the silver heads pleasure and innocents' dies.
A billion can buy a cure, but it never has the will.
There's more profit in a shady shot or a toxic pill.
They say money can't buy happiness, but I'd rather die on a champagne yacht.
With half a dozen painted chicks on my arm.
Then all alone under a soggy city bridge
A billion can quarry a slab of pink granite stone.
But not a stitch of silk will anyone own
when death unchains the flesh from the soul.
Oh poetry, you offered me a canvas.
You made it to have no bounds,
Unmeasurable, far beyond hectares.
As the deaf can hear, how my voice sounds.
Yet my buckets of paint are sealed.
If I paint how I feel,
Oh credibility, are you a victim I'll kill?
Displaying my lack of skill.
Kai, oh Kai, embrace your artistry.
Paint your own mystery.
Before time makes you history,
Fear not, fear not.
Where the heart belongs, you'll see victory.
Lately, I've cut away hectares of tumors.
That engulfed confidence, happiness, self-worth, and well-being.
With surgery, a bit of the good stuff was sacrificed:
A few shallow laughs, some adventure, and mostly harmless mischief.
The mirror is filled with scars of the heart, excoriations of spirit.
Along with other, yet-to-be-discovered damage.
Though somewhat deformed, I like my new look.
I feel tiredly refreshed.
The scalpels are dull and quiet for now.
There's work to be done.
Some of the newly homeless tumors are mentoring new ones.
I'm no fool and fully aware that I'm also a tumor to others.
We are old MacDonald’s great-grandchildren
who help him in his fields during weekends,
We gather chopped hays and feed his chicken,
then watch him works with his farmers and friends.
We love working in the fields together,
We ride ponies and horses…we’re cowgirls!
We greet his hardworking farmworkers who’re there
while they cut rice straws with their sharp sickles.
Our grandfather owns large hectares of land,
Ranging from the foot of the blue mountain
to the spot where we, three sisters stand;
Tour around freely! Ride in his land train!
Beyond grandpa’s rice fields are big orchards,
And behind are gardens with vegetables
where we’ll immensely enjoy afterwards;
Healthy foods will be on our long tables!
Our grandpa is so happy to have us,
He says, “ With triplets grandkids, life’s so nice!”
So, when we go back to school he gives cash,
buys new dress, pair of boots and hair bowties.
Wellington vineyards bathed by sun's golden ray,
Where luscious grapes in symphony sway,
A nectar's birth, an art divine,
Behold Doolhof and their noble wines.
Crimson hue, an artist's delight,
Telling stories about secrets of the night,
With each sip, a tale unfurls,
Of 80 hectares and passionate swirls.
On lips it dances, a velvety kiss,
Igniting senses with flavours of bliss,
A symphony of notes, harmonies true,
Whispering secrets, enchanting anew.
So raise your glass, let your worries fade,
Embrace the magic this elixir has made,
For in each sip, a moment sublime,
Wine, Gielie se muse, transcending time.
Hopping, jumping, running…
threatened species fearfully seeking shelter
in native woodland and scrub
Evacuating the hectares of the clearing
Whilst a petrified baby koala clings to his mother tight
between massive cut logs, which yesterday were thriving trees.
Two centuries of deforestation and now nearly fifty percent of the bush lifeless
For beef cattle production, to export.
Where the destruction affects the animals leaving them homeless,
Where the circle of life is broken due to the wickedness and greed of mankind,
The children gasp for air.
Turn round around
Get me astounding
Wait for me
Do not disagree
Let us glue
Traces of you
Superb memories abounding
Which keeps funding
With kindest emotion
My hearty devotion
Playing thy guitar
But we are
Not to share
What duties ensnare
And the honor
Of great Connor
Shining so bright
How cognizance ignite
Like the TRUTH
Mixed with Vermouth
Land massive STARS
Yielding flavored hectares
Humans march upon
Earth's free cons
Awarding less duties
To foreign beauties
Pleasing young hearts
Praised enchanting arts
Teasing loyal minds
Eyes open blind
Lurking safe trip
How loyalties gyp
In fearful journey
Trading scornful honey
Dark souls morn
After trust warns
To savage peace
In lovely teases
With pretense borrowed
I rarely kowtow
With watery words
Keeping young birds
From eagles gazes
Forsaken reasonable promises
Wildfires had destroyed
hectares of forest around
the world in the past.
time is not a spell - porous plague:
bounty bewitchment squinching crest,
la-de-da odds fostering surge,
drooling dirge heaving lanky lurch
time ain't perforated portion
ascribed by nocturnal nature:
hankering hectares feigning fields,
swaying swigs, fused figs, sumptuous spree
time outsmarts a tool - meagre mist:
gaunt fashion, gullible mimick,
fleshened forensics, torn tactics
inflected blitzkrieg, damp disc'pline
taunted time is an oxygen
breathe through it or wane without it.
'20:06:10:15:57
Note: of taunted time.
*I believe I've awoken the little red panda
donning five yellow stars on a crimson bandana
spreading hectares of jaded Jinping propaganda*
*She lives in a land of dragons and Maoist oppression
I think I'm becoming her latest star-spangled obsession
Sad, she'll probably never breathe sweetened air of the free
or feel warmth from the torch of Staten Island's fairest lady*
*As she tap-taps away on her communist keys.
Careful not to say anything blue about her chairman Xi.
She knows with a slip of the mind -one twitch of the teeth.
She'll be chum to the yellow sharks of the South China Sea...
I hope someday she has the means and courage to flee.
Sing a song for old Hong Kong over sweet cups of green peace*
* If you ever make your way over, don't tote any echo locators.
Unless it's a pod of democracy dolphins-they tend to be voters, not haters.
They'll batter yellow sharks if you drift from the star-spangled breakers.
God bless your journey -I pray that you stay safe and finally make it.
What's on the moon's darkest, parched side.
That spooky cool patch, for millennia ignored for millennia
Perhaps manphibians sitting aside a moon fire.
Worshipping the sun and its quivers of fine gold.
Maybe there's nothing but clusters of cool stones.
Like the ones Neil gifted to us so many earths ago.
I fancy this is where Syd Barrett came home to rest.
Crazy diamond briefly sparkling in pop culture's nest-
Maybe it's just time to leave this hermit moon alone.
Tap our virgin prints into the red powder of Mars.
Millions of miles just to rocket-boost our egos.
Blessed by the shimmering grace of a Goldilocks star-
Wasn't man fashioned to explore- to overtake.
To forge great weapons and fill hectares with blood.
Spill carnage from his heart, leave disease in his wake.
Till this masterpiece called Earth melts into nuclear mud.
We're born humble.
Our bones and hearts
are filled with stardust.
We are children of the heavens, they say...
Life is about eating soil (hectares of it).
Soil beneath our nails and in the teeth.
Seeds growing into the bloom of being.
Nourished by tears with some laughter in between.
Being humble is a pebble in the violent stream of living.
At the end, when our bones are bent
and the stardust spills... the heart relents.
We'll be heavenly humble once again.
On goes a beep , the emotions start to leak ,
suddenly they just sneek
I am not a sensitivity geek
I cant define the moment , just feel the kick ...
Everytime a little bit more daunting ...
The feelings are so rich
Hectares of overwhelming hitch
Reactive Glitch
Desire of the stitch
of two realities
Where within a flick I can divert
to the island of reassembling breeze .
To seize the incoming sneeze
of overthinking fear trees .....
Even Love goes on a leap
Yet afraid to let go of it too deep ...
All afraid to feel the feelings ,
As they overlap ...
Yet so Aware , In these dealings ....
sometimes feels like a trap
All matters is the way the feelings lie
In many ways we can always fly
Rich.
Poor.
Rich enough to buy hectares.
Poor without a plot.
Possesses many mansions.
Can't even afford a block.
Six feet for everyone.
Vanity.
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