Mutant metronome’s
stygian riddle
inscrutable fixation
spuming
clustered clairvoyance
honing snoopy
quest querulous
quicquidlibet
tamper connived
sinewy stratagem
plimsoll plot
“sneaker” of
wily webfooted
nefarious nudge
at
tenebrific toll
maple smoke
screen screed
clandestine
cobwebs cohere
mohair marinated
muddle
subdued thespian
herringbone hoodwink
skewed camouflage
perused pearl
inveigling
skulduggery rife
underscored cadence
persuasive
percussive rattle
ubiquitous underbelly
prop to
dodgy dialogue
muted ritardando
silhouette streak
dangling magnet
mired in
gauche guesswork
subterfuge sciophobia
inkpot
amorphous machination
fiction wizards
emblazon
indices incipient
embryo empiricism
mouldering
cabinet coterie
spookish svengali
minatorial
repercussions
incurvate
sniffer dog
detective
poirrot’s prognosis
clouseau contingency
that
rivetting mystery
Bubbling babbling burbling banter brimming at the bar
First sup.. hush…memory lane trip rush..nicely tickled
Plush lace ebbed…lush beer swirls race webbed
Whirls..down dimpled dappled jar....nicely pickled
Pagans perch….sip druid fluid drip…Iris’s secular church
Trumpet tradition.. beacons blush in embers of the past
Cluttered classy cast of polished pewter..ballsy brass
Whimsy wafting across tobacco tinted tainted times
Parched patrons quaffing while cavorting with crannies
Carousing with nooks sporting timber flannelled panels
As sons then become dad..on the same pews with their lad
Lawyer betwixt a tyro…local employer..bumpkin on the giro
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before
Gracious Landladies…loquacious landlords near and far..
Who let us roam in our home from home we raise our jar
To every special space.. familiar face in that third place..ta
damsels in distress
often hoodwink chivalry
manhood bends the knee.
10 / 29 / 2025.
A paradise of perpetual peace...
there's no struggle, there's no sleaze,
there's no murky sky to spread malice.
glaciers and rivers of honey embellish.
crystal chandeliers, all sparkling upon
effulgent stars shining aeon after aeon
the beacon of light, when we are gone
beyond the clouds, a Shangri-La dawn.
Enchanting heavens, glories of mirage
Are they Hotels where luxuries collage?
The real heaven is not virtue or sin
not swan songs on a serenade violin
It's only pure love buried deep within
spinning daily lives inspite of it's din.
caring for each other with words kind
hatred and violence, don't make us blind
heaven or hell, it's all only in the mind
a mosaic, of light and shade combined.
So how far is the heaven do you think?
The kingdom of God? Is it a hoodwink?
a blood-letting sun
sets as slow as an amber tear
in a shot glass
dotty is lost in oz
ruby slippers
run on a treadmill
of long summer evenings
avocados turn brown
drowned by a late light
a vein is open
watching eyes water
over a crimson gash
a gush
bleeds out
into a hoodwink
then sinks inside
a darkening cowl
an infant
wails
in a witch's
scrawny arms
none see
the birthing knife
Sabrina was a woman who knew her own soul
People learned fast not to try and hoodwink her
She did not fall down, kick or scream when confronted
Knowing when to walk away, she left drama behind
Her self-assurance annoyed those who did not have confidence
This trait followed her from preteen-hood into adulthood
She knew her heart, understood her path
Allowed no one to distract her from her life’s work
Many were intimidated by Sabrina
Not her close circle of women friends
They were also confident in their own ways
A formidable group who exuded feminine power
To dwell in past of fate,
where sorrow and pain predominantly coexist as fortune of bitterness.
To leap on is to beg death for his sting
To leap back is to kill those precious
To leap right is to anguish with pain
To leap left is to cast arrows of misfortune
Where has this war led us into?
Crafting wickedness with joy
Infanticide with smile
Toxic environment for peace
Let our doomsday begin
Curse to us all.
ST KELVIN
LOLY BAZTAD
The anorexia is not conspicuous,
being half-submerged - just
breaking through.
She’s a powdered mirage,
her skin a hyaline sheer
drawn over a necklace
of clavicle bones.
She knows her chest
is returning to childhood,
she wants to shelter there,
to be her own child.
Her small breasts
are burgundy nipples,
buds made more prominent,
anchored as they are
to shipwrecked ribs.
Designer bling distracts.
Cameras whir, she poses,
hand paused on a hip denuded;
not resting there,
but stealthily carrying
a pinch of flesh toward a spotlight.
We collude with her,
applaud the way
she decorates a condition.
We know her emaciated beauty
is a mutual hoodwink.
We know that the closer to death
sexuality becomes,
the more rapacious our appetite;
the more we will wail,
as she slips
through our hungry eyes.
Give yourself
A round of applause.
You did pull one over on me
And laughed at my expense.
Well-done, grasshopper.
Well-played, but you revealed
The tricks of your trade in the process.
The jig is up, Mr. Swindler;
Now I get to laugh at you
Reuse them again to snow me.
You regurgitate the same old methods
To hoodwink and entrap me.
Haven't you no shame?
You're as transparent as cellophane;
so predictable I enjoy mocking you.
You bit me once and broke my skin,
But now I see you've got no teeth!
Born yesterday, my eyes
Are wide open today!
There's no magic in your sleight of hand.
I've got your number, and you're out of tricks.
You've tried your level best
To inscribe "fool" on my forehead,
But have you checked yours
In the mirror lately?
*work of fiction*
Date posted: 07/28/2021
One early winter morning I was walking down the street,
When a young woman hurriedly strolled past me. With
My head down reminiscing , I glanced up to the same woman
That had just passed; is now coming towards me again.
I'm not shocked nor does it trouble me. I dismissed it
As two sisters trying to hoodwink me. Standing on the
Bus stop, I asked one of the young women, "Where is
Your sister?" With a strange stare she answered, " I
Don't know what youre talking about mister!" Still
Playing games I thought. No pain, no gain, as I
Entered the bus. After a few stops, the young girl
Got off. Impatiently the old woman sitting next to
Me said, "sir I'm convinced you are not aware
That the girl you spoke of was her identical twin sister.
She perished in a house fire ten years previous
In the City of Poughkeepsie!"
Hoodwink is a complex word
It doesn't roll off the tongue
Could it be some sort of bird
Who winked instead of sung
Could that bird have hooded eyes
So it could hardly see
That would make it hoodwink itself
Instead of you or me
Think man, think,
You’re on the brink,
Try figure now
No matter how.
Think man think,
Forget the drink,
A clever rhyme
There’s not much time.
Think man think,
You can’t hoodwink
Poetry soup
A clever group.
Think man think
Can’t catch a wink
Should get this done
You’ve not begun.
Think man think
Exposed your chink?
It’s time for bed
Tomorrow instead!
Speak The Truth
Written: by Miracle Man
11-7-2019
When socialist tongues,
continue to go unchecked.
The message delivered,
should become circumspect.
Attempting to influence voters,
by act or untrue word.
But reality seldom becomes,
what promises have inferred.
Too many are now seekers,
of something that’s free.
Lord, give us clear thoughts,
remains my daily plea.
We’re pushing a divided country,
closer to the brink.
Allow each persons eyes,
to see beyond any hoodwink.
Lord, I know that only you,
can heal this great land,*
Extinguish the fires of hatred,
that sin has fanned.
*2 CHRONICLES 7:14 KJV
“If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.”
Comparisons are unerring things at worst;
Every common ore yielded for shinier gold,
And tepid junkets given up in apt forfeiture
For tolerably pricier carats unsullied stored.
Far less treasured lots perpetually stand
In shrouded paths to more pleasing deal,
And more often than not emit lures bland
To fade jollities owners of finer gems feel.
Prudent choosers are harder to hoodwink;
They're grateful to know how to swiftly tell
Vast variance between wee penny's worth
And huger wads quiet past old minas' kink.
They're merrier types closer to Midas lips;
Smarter-thinking pickers noted with strips
Of fair Fortune's higher turns beyond taste,
Loftier than Fancy's dreams and her haste.
With comparative logic one never can err,
Since brighter minds cheap choices abhor.
The anorexia is not conspicuous,
being half-submerged, just
breaking through.
She’s a powdered mirage.
Her skin a hyaline shear
drawn over a necklace
of clavicle bones.
She knows her chest
is returning to childhood,
she wants to shelter there,
to be her own child.
Small breasts bob under
burgundy nipples,
buds made more prominent,
anchored as they are
to shipwrecked ribs.
Designer bling distracts.
Cameras whir, she poses,
one hand on a denuded hip,
not resting there,
but stealthily carrying
an ounce of flesh,
toward a spotlight.
We collude with her,
applaud the way
she decorates a condition.
We all know her emaciated beauty
is a mutual hoodwink.
We know that the closer to death
sexuality becomes,
the more rapacious our appetite,
the more we will wail,
as she slips
through our hungry hands.
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