I see out there, besides the pond,
a quartet of Canada geese,
picking through the manicured lawn,
hunting for some insects to eat.
Two adults and two little ones,
necks outstretched and probing the ground,
something about the silhouettes
just seems to tear the eons down…
I know that birds are therapods,
but when that long neck ducks I see
the outline of a Brontosaur,
albeit one that stands two feet…
And when it’s walking straight at me,
the head and neck up towards the sky,
it looks just like a sauropod,
at least until it starts to fly.
A weird thought, given on most days
they paddle around in the drink,
but change the place and back in time
the whole animal seems to sink.
Perhaps that’s why they’re ill-tempered,
hissing at you like a sinner,
since once they used to rule this earth,
but now they’re just Christmas dinner…
Not the great compass winds, but the lesser,
the local winds, the mapmakers.
Odysseus once bagged them, but they escaped.
Anemoi, like the wind that de-horns goats,
or the Moorish, Melteme,
the ill-tempered one. Simoom, the poisoner
who fills throats with its tainted garments,
or Rashabbar the black wind
whose nocturnal wings blind all men.
Named, visible winds that chisel our faces,
as if we were cliffs at the edge of the world.
The Squamish, the Elephanta, the Williwaw,
time-swirling thieves. They steal the young,
the babes in their cribs and when we look for them,
a swish of a hem or a hurricane are the same.
The children return, a sculpted dervish
spiralling within them.
Tebbard, the fever wind, wanders through our bones,
a sultry doctor adding fuel to the heat
until a storm breaks, then as driftwood we are salvaged.
The Fever-bringer itself dies,
dry now as mottled kelp on carrion shores.
Winds that gnaw themselves into Chinooks and Mistral,
winds that shape and follow us
to the rim of the sky, where those celestial dragons,
North, East, South and West winds
dream fitfully of once being human.
A man and a woman
Dragged Earth into the Titan’s council.
The woman claimed it was hers; Gaia.
The man, Oceanus, said it was his giant clam;
Mother and son duking it out.
The elders, ill-tempered Titans themselves, listened.
Gaia insisted the planet was female.
Oceanus protested and said it was male.
The elders, wise women and men, laughed.
The woman pointed to lava, mist, and valleys
And said, “See? All features of my body!”
The man touched mountain peaks, dark forests, and deep seas
And said, “See? It resembles me more.”
The Titans, half-jokingly, suggested:
Why not cut Earth in half;
Woman gets lava, mist, and valleys
And man, mountain peaks, forests, and seas?
Neither woman nor man wanted that.
They wanted Earth to belong
To only one of them or nothing at all.
One of the blessed-twice souls,
The oldest council member,
Took Earth by the Himalayas
And tossed it far into space
With man and woman
Chained to it and to each other.
Blessing them, she-AND-he said,
“Together you shall survive,
If you can.”
There’s this talented parrot named Jaster
Who imitates his ill-tempered master ~
The master goes ballistic
Over Jaster’s stylistics ~
Jaster echoes him better and faster
Narcissists roam restlessly
in a strange and weird world;
they think they can control their mind
and own them without a bit of mercy!
Anyone with keen observation is not vowed
it's the ability to spot them in the crowd;
a conversation is enough to notice their traits
and their greedy intentions to plan schemes!
Never fall for a narcissist, avoid useless tears;
no, they wouldn't care less how one feels...
breaking down and punching the wall with fists...
it's absurd to be a victim of their madness!
In a strange and weird world,
the rude, the selfish and the bad
always gets the best of everything;
what they promise is so convincing!
Narcissists don't deserve empathy,
keep a mile away, save your sanity;
they seem kind, only to their advantage...
they are ill-tempered and go into rage!
Creating
nothing
it doesn’t
seek
to destroy
Apathetic
ill tempered
and by
seasons
— employed
(Dreamsleep: January, 2024)
In Halloween week once the days have turned dark
He lurks where the lamplight cannot leave it’s mark
And late night dog walkers whose dogs do not bark
All steer a wide path as he harvests the park
By day he is nought but a grass covered mound
But a light in the night would show flat level ground
His nocturnal quarter a shady enclave
And there he will wait for the dim…. or the brave
This giant whose mouth is a ravenous cavern
To vacuum up strollers too long in the tavern
Each rushing home to an ill-tempered wife
He fillets their bones with no cleaver or knife
His yawn reveals hundreds of stalactite teeth
His tongue is as rough as a storm ravaged reef
And with hunger sated he shall not be found
As he rests for a year as a grass covered mound
15 October 2022
Contest: 12 - 16 lines, Scary Halloween
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
to be everyone we see we wish to be
spoilt infidelity was the fragrance
of our tragic continuum century
of longing longing thee
favored face dressed in
tailored knit smiles on Tuesday’s sin
oh father are we seen
as the misery kin
ants rise on Lilies
in the teary meadow land
we shall remain oh rightfully damned
Blistering coils of copper tension make haste
tangy veins peel back their mantle
to self inject a poison of good-natured taste
shudder of the mind
with fine paper cut wrinkles
we make fingernail grind to season the sense
breaking spoons for chains and stakes
head loss of screws
We should shatter the bones within him
And break the ill-tempered man
As we once found
Ourselves
Broken
Anemoi, the wind that de-horns goats.
Moorish Melteme, the ill-tempered one.
Simoom, the lung poisoner.
Rashabbar the black swirling.
The Squamish, the Elephanta, the Williwaw,
thieves that steal babes in their cribs.
Tebbard, the fever wind, it wanders through our bones;
the sultry doctor who adds heat to chills
until, like driftwood, we are salvaged.
Chinooks and the Mistral they follow travelers
to the edge of a world,
where the great four Celestial Dragons,
North, East, South and West,
roar like thunder in our sleep
until we dream fitfully of being human.
Light and airy summer breezes
Make short shrift of springtime sneezes,
Warm and thoughtful gentle squeezes
Undo ill-tempered moody freezes,
A welcomed smile much tension eases
If we would always do what pleases.
Written May 27, 2022
My works need not be successful
Just when consciousness-centered
Success can be spiritual
Mundane and ill-tempered
If the living Holy Spirit of the
Absolute in me abide
My thoughts, words and actions
Will, indeed, be love-linked
Linked will be my neighbor with me
Each creature of the universe I see
As part of the consciousness fulcrum
And cosmos would flow in free rhythm...
12 March 2022
Consciousness Fulcrum Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
A strange query oft does haunt
And prick the soft cosy mind :
Why do ill tempered outbursts find
Gestures, tirades or an irate taunt,
Much against the intended good ,lofty
Decision to withhold all ill will
And be nonchalant, calm and still -
Be it being dishonest, selfless and crafty ;
The wrathful heavens and the elemental holder
In turbid turmoil smash and wipe
All alike with a swish, swirl and swipe;
No regrets, the world is set in a new order
Anger gilds a proper cause or action
And makes it shine like a jewel,
Inspiring love and feeling of being well ;
While out of proportion , it tends to malfunction.
Welcome
to the wonder and the magic of the reason
that Christmas time brings to the season,
the decoration on the tree, the marvels, and miracles
the lights, the glow of simplicity of carols lyrical,
the ornaments, the garlands and the wreaths,
steals away the pushed aside discounted beliefs
that God is and blesses us
with the amazement of a child's trust;
at this time of year
there is joy among the tears
a reckoning of sorts
despite the bad news in ill reports;
it is a time unmatched
when even ill-tempered rivalries are patched
finding deep within our hearts we are all the same
seeking peace and love, honesty and truth regained;
so put aside those foolish discrepancies
together we can conquer everything and finally see
rising to greet the very person we were always meant to be.
Let us deport-- with skill--
Let us discourse--with care--
Powder exists in Charcoal--
Before it exists in Fire.
~ Emily Dickinson
Good words anoint, ill words kill
~ Florio
It's said that sticks and stones break bones
but words can serve as weapons too,
so wield with caution what you write
let civil discourse have its due.
A finely crafted turn of phrase
will prove more winsome than a harsh
phillipic or a raging rant
that drags one's soul down like a marsh.
Are not our writings most effective
when our readers wish to read
our inner thoughts, instead of feeling
whipped by some ill-tempered screed?
When I hear thunder's crash, I flee
from lightning's sharp, injurious ray -
I hear your thunder, not your words
As though you speak a mile away.
I'm not promoting caged emotions;
ire and outrage have their place,
but when the missile shrieks, there's few
still left the message to embrace.
Written 21 Dec 2021
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