Turned to high voltage and keyed up,
up hard right to strike fresh levels.
Levels that can leave some unhinged,
Unhinged ‘til the tables are turned.
Turned into this savage with love,
love that was inhaled so deeply.
Deeply mixing sparks with nitro,
nitro that left her whole world turned.
“We are not victims of our situation. We are the architects of it.”
Simon Sinek
R – Recovery requires real readiness.
E – Eyes (and ears) expecting to address
C – Choices which can change a wrong course.
O – One day at a time, opening new doors.
V – Voyage with future value for family / friends
E – Eureka? no - eventual means to ends.
R – Rehab - head, heart and habits re-keyed.
Y – Yellow caution light speaks: “Watch! and proceed.”
The screen lit and it spoke to me just when I needed to know
Because my thinking had simply become too slow
It offered me help when other sources weren’t there
But should I have trusted it and without any care
I keyed in my question and asked it for help and advice
Its speedy reply seemed so very clear and precise
I decided to use it and pass it off as my own
So the seeds of my destruction were undoubtedly sown
For those of you tempted to follow a similar track
You must realise there is no one watching your back
Your digital companion remembers nothing at all
Your fate will be sealed and your life will gradually stall
So how should we work with all of these generative tools
We know a lot and we’re certainly nobody’s fools
Don’t take things verbatim and assume everything is right
For these are just tools and they’re certainly not very bright
This poem can be sung to the tune of Sisters of Mercy by Leonard Cohen.
Look at Dicks new car
My eyes were green with envy
So I keyed his door
From time to time I feel low,
Low in self-esteem, low-keyed,
lowest man on the totem pole,
I have acrophobia, I often
descent to a lower level…
The higher I aspire
The lower I fall.
Life mostly lowball me
as such, my spirit keeps a low morale.
Maybe I come across as
a low bred and lowbrow person.
Conspired by my stars and the moon
My sea always rests at a low tide.
Shell-shocked by my low-minded destiny,
My fate and I must have
a high level showdown soon;
In the meantime,
I'll keep a low profile.
Be that as it may,
My soul is not doomed to wander
in the netherworld forever,
I am the patron of high hopes,
high cholesterol, high blood pressure,
and high sugar level.
I am also a high-strung person,
But, thankfully not of any highfalutin jargon.
Shy of highways, I frequent
the by lanes and side streets.
After the high-handed takeover by Time,
I live a high-pressured life.
Methinks, now is the high time
to lay down the highlights of my life.
From the descent and ascent of life,
this I have learned:
Not to gaze so high as ambition,
And to look no lower than despair.
A visit to the Poetry Soup site was quite a delight,
It lifted my spirit and brought me a smile.
My laptop awaited, its keyboard ready to roll,
As my mind began to spin words in a whimsical stroll.
I sat down with a cup of steaming ginger tea,
And keyed some thoughts, setting my creativity free.
From gibberish to verses, a lyrical voyage unfurled,
In the quiet of my room, a poetic moment stirred.
Keyed up on an old couch in the front yard,
lying beside you and your golden smile;
We followed the stars and gave in awhile,
rational thought irrevocably jarred;
All the party favors left now are charred;
Trying to let go that’s when you beguile,
internally I beg turn down the dial;
You are a magnet and I’m drawn too hard;
Started to get good with cuddles I think,
being near you is like attending Mass;
Until I’m stirred by the sound of the train,
awoke with a start and fluttered a blink;
Sacred salt lies upon an empty glass
like a fleeting dream that will always stain.
Sovereign or martyr thus gravitas none dolorous,
dirge has keyed the grave motif to your succubus,
organs glistening as the innards burst vile viscera,
to bite on carbon release hammers sledge Invictus.
Not impressive but knot is a slip on your own noose,
gathering to watch a struggle as the buckets kicked,
amusing when the rope snaps and the monster runs,
turns executioner hacks away your scurvy populace.
Digress thus invitation to a horrid melancholy siege,
maelstrom of pianist crescendo a litany reverie,
masquerade these fair maidens as whomever,
still a mask and the rest of your face is plain to see.
Dreams are made not to be accompanied by meanderings of creatures of the lesser deities for the reaper is the end to everything this your prayers will not save you from the scythe’s guillotine.
Enjoy your expendability,
know that I do,
with that I take my leave,
soaking to bathe and wash off your crimson grief.
SHE WAKESUP RELENTLESSLY FIXING ALL THE MUDDLE
BEFORE LEAVING FOR THE DAY
THENLATER,WADDLING LIKE A TODDLER HER WAY BACK
TIRELESSLY FULFILLING ALL KEYED IN COMMANDS,
THE MESS WAITING IN THE SINK.
THE BABY UNKEPT.
BEFORE RETIRING TO HER COZY ZONE
AND WAKING UP AGAIN, AGAIN LIKE IN A TIME LOOP
EVENTUALLY MOULDING HERSELF INTO A ROBOTIC INSTRUMENT.
ROBOTS DONT FALL SICK OR NEED A BREAK,
THEY DONT HAVE MOODS OR EMOTIONS.
YES THEY CALL HER IRON LADY FOR A DEFINITE REASON.
HER VEINS ARE COPPER WIRES AND HER BLOOD IS MERCURY
HER SKIN IS ALUMINIUM AND HER EYEBALLS THAT DEFY SLUMBERNESS,
ARE OF PLATINUM, HER HEART OF GOLD AND ORGANS OF ZINC.
The moon raced ahead of us,
like a thirsty dog.
Mama wet her knickers earlier that day,
she yelled at everyone,
for she didn't see it coming.
Later, we teenagers latch-keyed in,
the empty house begged us to come together,
passion leached through porous walls,
brazen desires made Hummel figures,
hide their faces.
The porch light danced,
in the center of a moth fandango,
our ears were listening to the road,
our shadows acting out,
turning to flesh
before we could stop them.
We were both inside the moon now.
Coyote calls trembled our young knees,
as we pledged to be forever this drunk
on each other.
When parents showed up
I was laying on the bed
cocooned in an afterglow,
and ‘my girl’ had slipped away,
yet we were both tied,
to the center of a magical moon.
Mama bustled around the house
like a Nile queen
singing her ***** little songs
that only hoot owls heeded.
Dad sipped a late cold one,
and remembered, with a grunt,
that tomorrow was still only Wednesday.
By then the moon had got so big
that I thought it might turn us all
into a fictional story,
one told between ageing astronauts.
I wish they made tiny earmuffs.
They never stop
Dawn to dusk
Chirping, cheeping, cawing,
Chattering in the hedges.
I root for the cat.
Not often
But on occasion
Y’know….just
Get that one.
Hey I chirp now and then
Get a bit over eager
At the feeder
Peck at an over eager squirrel.
It is called a “BIRD” feeder bozo.
It’s getting’ colder
They’re all keyed up
Going south.
I may just stay here
Nest near the dryer vent
Hope they toss out a slice of bread
Whole wheat is ok
Maybe a fistful of seed.
I hope they leave soon
I may read a book
Quietly
Gone digital
begun/beginning
Networking with me-self
Can't find a full-stop
to stop
What yer looking at fish-face???
Yer know
since yesterday
I can't find me thumbs
falling feet first
in-ter sub-monkey skills
I need more,
more white widgets
and black toggles-
got the wobbles, a bit keyed-up
Mind knitting its own computer
flashes of clever clogs,
clumps of soft-drive
in me ear-holes
got no cookies cooking
just a blinking memory
Dot-dash-board doodling,
screening plasma for bugs
and sneezy-bits.
Me lights are ticking
think I'm thinking
Blimey, will you look at that!
I got a virtual nose to pick
feeling sick of it
even though
me lid is plastic
Beep...
She sits on a stool
in the middle of a yesterday room
eyes squeezed shut
as her phantoms circle ‘round
circle ‘round 'n 'round
their hollowed voices chant an endless
why? why did you…? whydidyou??
mantra|mantra_ing
from all that hard mined deep time
from days long-ago-past yet-not
those never-really-past days of ago.
their discordant chords siphoned
from yesterdays' poor performance
those depths of times behind her, yet-not,
those never-really-locked loosely keyed doors
from all that of the 'whatever' she
stuffed behind closed doors.
Her eyes with dead-ended sight fused shut
for she cannot force them open
for she cannot bear
to see the tragic
sweet lives randomly
pieced apart
strewn crazily
at her feet…
all that of all the what
of those shoulda-beens
all that
what-coulda-shoulda-mighta-been
but wasn't.
*Image of Earth-Moon Orbit by Pixabay.
Companions of the Night
A life partner advances and sashay
orients a midnight blue chamber room.
Recast as sparkles, prompts unsealed cachet
dawns blessing past twilight upon the groom.
Marital rapture, quietude splendor,
and tantalizing tides affect its mood.
Affections high, stimulate surrender,
low-keyed attractions, reliant subdued.
A bluish globe and whitish counterpart
skirt the heavens and their nearby harems.
Though *two unloved passersby, they depart
like unacknowledged heroic sirens.
Duality, from beginning to end,
luminescence shreds darkness constants friend.
*Venus and Mercury have no moons.
2022 November 17
*1st Place*
Beauty Of Night Contest
~~Sotto Poet: Judging 2022 November 17
RZ & HMS.
Writer's block again
This is the avenue it unfolds on
This is how it presents sorting
Through old poems
Anything to bare fruit one thousand
Times dodging misbehaving
Verbs and rhymes
Every other story has a name
To claim Writer's block makes great
Effort with its stock
My mind is keyed into dawn of day
And great horizons and rainbows
With timely colorful clocks
Piecing Through afternoon
Daydreams
I cannot place the blame any
Where frustrated I'm stuck
On the block.
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