Long Immaculate Poems
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POETIC BIO
Alliteration,the starting place, alongside
cinquains,apace in time,crystalline
lanterne and rhyme.Inspiration drew forth
footle,broken monoku for a while short
imagist was my style.Sequenced longer
poems metamorphose within this crysallis
changing into ekphrasis.Open,and free to be,
as you see,structured prose poetry.With
cadence and pause,others hear my voice,
aural phrasis now this poet’s choice.
as exampled below
What intimacy is its cause,perhaps
an immaculate conception of words;
too swift to comprehend,see or
recognise.The moment is there
and then is not.Gone with the wind
the seed of idea remains, to
germinate and gestate,fanned by a
mental fragrance of elation.Slowly
self-transcending a word into a phrase,
a sentence to a strophe;a rhyme
rides a waterfall of cadence,
into a chasm of verse. Terse or
long, the sonnet becomes a little song,
struggles to arrive.Thrust forth upon
my page;a bastard-born of pain
[ M y h a p i n e s s i s y o u r s m i l e ]
…
The universe has burdened yet blessed me with life; throughout the seasons of my being, I’ve been met with discouragement, depression, and insecurity, yet shone through that was happiness and a sense of hope. I’ve struggled, being barricaded amidst my problems, yet I’ve lived, letting life’s events pass with time.
Not many people can say they’re aware of this; the image I display of myself is quite different from my true being. I’ve been called flawless, because others simply haven’t witnessed my imperfections. To those who have, many are repulsed, leaving me or shaming me for the broken person I am; but I’m happy, and my true friends realize that.
She is not just my true friend; she is my best friend. She’s not only my sibling, she’s the cause of hope through my eternal suffering.
I will always put her happiness over mine; with the possibility of a dark occurrence, I would make sure she’s viewing the light only. I would fall millions of times for her to walk a single step, perpetually drowning to ensure that she can swim.
The thought has lingered in my head-- that I’m horrible, but I feel as if it’s confirmed. She’s so perfect, and we share no similarities. She’s immaculate; her every step laced with grace, yet I’m an awkward klutz who seems to trip on every path. I wish I knew why she loves me; what makes her think I’m worthy. I think she’s amazing, but I’m nothing like her-- so I perpetually wonder why she’s kind to me, why she thinks I deserve an ounce of happiness-
I would give her every chemical of serotonin I possess. I adore her; and as I bid farewell, I see not my sibling leaving me, but a part of me, too.
I spoke those words impulsively,
I didn't think them through,
And now I disagree with me,
Knowing you do too.
We analysed at the same time,
simultaneously conclude,
Scrutinising my own mind,
disagreeing just like you.
What a stupid thing to say,
Is what you say to me,
Confusing if I say the same,
Even though I now agree.
I live aware but can't prevent
the impulsive words I speak,
I live with this embarrassment,
An everyday repeat defeat.
They say there's always one,
that one is always me,
And I guess what is said is done,
that is just the way it be.
Sorry if I am unpleasant
I speak truthfully,
unnecessarily and blunt,
beat them down beautifully.
To be honest I can't lie,
when I do I'm transparent,
so I live an honest life,
facing what the others haven't.
How can I hide my ADHD
when it's so apparent,
wear my heart on my sleeve,
resilience my talent.
It's all I know so ordinary,
I said before it is defeat,
not though more importantly,
worn down on repeat.
Some people who manipulate
steer clear of reality,
Denial first then stipulate,
weirdos reek of vanity.
They are needing this protection
against things I have overcome,
I'm the odd one out, the exception,
strength confronting things they run.
So yes I'm stupid blunt and nasty,
awkwardly impulsive often,
the spoken truth can be ghastly,
but fake's repulsive and chosen.
Project your self image as immaculate,
full of wisdom and intelligence,
skilled hindsight speaking accurate,
foolish symptoms and pretence.
I face the world that I live in,
impulsiveness is not my choice,
some fake the world they live in,
decisiveness in a lying voice.
At least I'm not scared to be me,
openly showing my personality,
never faking my identity,
pitying those act unnaturally
December 13 Faith in God Bible Meditations Based on 1Thessalonians 1-5
Key Verse – 1Thessalonians 1:6 And ye became followers of us, and of the Lord, having received the word in much affliction, with joy of the Holy Ghost.
FAITH IN GOD WHO HELPS US TO FOLLOW HIM WITH JOY
God helps us to follow Him with joy along His precious blood
Truly effective to purify transgressions’ flood
Likewise efficacious for our faith to gain heaven’s nod
Absolutely, the only means to purge sins, beyond discipline-rod.
God helps us to follow Him with joy along His power
Truly omnipotent midst salvation-assurance upon regeneration-tower
Likewise miraculous for our faith to bloom into Gospel seed-sower
Absolutely, the genuine spirituality-grower.
God helps us to follow Him with joy along His supreme leadership
Truly authoritative by His ministry-partnership
Likewise credible for our faith to practice effective stewardship
Absolutely, the sovereign might in productive discipleship.
God helps us to follow Him with joy along His wondrous working
Truly majestic in His marvellous transformation and remaking
Likewise great for our faith to increase midst pride’s breaking
Absolutely, the proven strength against filthy provoking.
God helps us to follow Him with joy along His holiness
Truly immaculate for our justification-completeness
Likewise radiant for our faith to shine in His righteous brightness
Absolutely, the magnificent seal of pardon’s completeness.
God helps us to follow Him with joy along His grace
Truly abundant to cover iniquities with His pardon’s embrace
Likewise unconditional for our faith to testify about His mercy’s rays
Absolutely, the marvelous gift worthy of our grateful praise!
God helps us to follow Him with joy along His sacrifice
Truly worthy along His compassion’s price
Likewise magnificent for our faith to serve Him by His divine advice
Absolutely, the perfect offering, Scripturally wise.
December 13, 2025
When I was 9 years of age
There was a lady down the lane
Yes on the street where I live she lived in a cottage house
No bigger than a single car garage
She was a little in stature and not married no.
Pretty elderly her lawn was immaculate
Cut it with an electric lawn mower
And she picked dandelion weeds
She was on her knees pulling picking and squeezing
Yes she pink dandelion greens
This lady down the lane
Walked into her little house
Put the weeds into a pot
Boil them until they were cooked and hot
This lady down the lane
Later that day she gave me some
Freshly cut pull boiled cook dandelions
An average person may think it's strange
Eating from the front yard dandelion weeds
~
From the Lady Down the Lane
3/27/20
The Lady Down the Lane Poetry contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
The largest part of this abandoned warehouse
for creative dilemma is still in the ash medium
from you reach.
Though you’ve part of this morning haze that won’t go unrecognized.
Now that we’ve finally managed to right away ahead of our views across the bridge, it seems that elsewhere you’ve made every effort to prove yourself with your wrongly right-minded people, an iota of one-dimensional news data will be at all our throats.
We taste our sweat.
I must leave you now.
Suddenly, I feel better.
That’s why you’re still a business man & that’s been at least 20 years.
You remember how they were treated with such suspicion of the rage surged up inside
& we can’t surmise what happened.
You know something about this result that surpassed my expectations.
This is a surplus land, a flash & one of those immaculate English smiles on the beetle-browed face.
That cultural shock we’ve had, we’ve covered from the rest of us
we’re determined never to surrender, we’ve plenty of those surges as well. This is just behind the beefy man. This is not a Russian-American exchange project.
It’s far too far from your surly waitress who’s bathing today at your place. I see it under surveillance
but the sewers burst again for the second time this season.
But you’re still the man who’s as slim as a teenager in old clothes
I can’t be very well leaving all the terms out. This is all there
with a lot of lines on the forehead. I maintain your coiffure for good. Remember you’re still a conscientious objector in a uniform, a colony of citadel, breathing, you get comeuppance at the end of the play. This isn’t too happy, if I may add. Kind of tired, you know?
His life came to a ruinous end
Plummeted into insanity
The red-bearded painter
With his self-hatred, despair and desperation for understanding
He drank yellow paint thinking it would make him happy
Locked up in a mental asylum that would shatter any person’s self-belief
Deceived Vincent cut his earlobe in an unforeseen calamity
But he channelled the awful torment into beauty
Immaculate and sublime
To find ecstasy in the ordinary
And in transforming the banal into a magical masterpiece
The Starry Night, Sunflowers, Self-Portrait, The Potato Eaters, Wheatfield with Crows, Irises, The Bedroom in Arles
Each a genius’s masterstroke into Eternity
A jumble of love, sorrow and rage
Painting the canvas in bold strokes as his heart and mind burst into flames
The King of colour, a whisper into the future unheard in his times
He died in a rut with voices all over his mind.
So, he picked up the gun
And the bullet went straight into his golden heart
Wonder how many colours lost their lives on that day?
A cupola shin, prickly dick creed, hoary
testes tossed, master baiting ova all eel trades
crossed the fecund Rubicon and ejaculated
olly olly oxen yawping, in utero seminal raids
with phallic coup d’etat that buck came vasocongested spades
lit torch, where hello kitty Ernst lee screeched
amidst Grafenberg tit parades
bumping uglies during four nuke key eight ting game
where pinkish puckered two lips viz biological
Russian roulette played – birth control relegated as desuetude
hotly contested fee conned, caved heat seminal blitzkrieg overlaid
bilging swamped,
whence olds eye goat ruff fused exiting nightshade
shy ham mull in, and gave way to blast ta cyst
vis a visa viz biological fertilization qua two plump milkmaids
from inchoate seeds juiced beginning
to compress bladder re: lemonades
per diem mother via umbilical cord fueling gestation,
where sonogram shows faint genetic threnody skein
perchance manifold jades
nope – no fallacy when peppy thrust with sucks esse full feint
after thwarting objection against skin flute charmed thence invades
which begot conception from chromosomal traits stitched
via jean S, and her faction of trumpeting handmaids
whose fecund ditty began to feel swell as biological reproduction
showed no uterine back grades
as Tabula rasa In utero endured fusillades per what mother tubby ingested
sustenance promulgated noticeable womb dar full expansion fusillades
of nutriments ordaining future health of progeny
riddling endless questions within the gallimaufry
discombobulated mental, physical fatigue enfilades
and spiritual state of momma me ya in tha family way, whereby baby blueprint an outcome as nano sized atomic bombshells scoured decades
to determine the ontological makeup from when the fluid dynamics
spelling impregnation since time immemorial and into the future cascades
artfully concatenating eminent grise immaculate kindred laminated with waxy substance i.e. vernix, though smooth
doth serve analogous to microscopic switch-blades.
Form:
We mint our saints in neon now,
Their cheekbones cut from screens and static,
Golden calves with fiber-optic veins,
Hoofed in convenience and applause.
They learn to glow before they live,
Learn to bleed without a wound.
Once, holiness arrived on fire—
A thorned voice cracking the ceiling of the skull.
Now it trickles through notifications,
Thin as milk diluted with promotion.
Even martyrs have brand managers.
Even wounds wear makeup.
I kneel before the altar of updates,
My thumbs in constant prayer,
Scrolling for a sign that still has teeth.
Every miracle is sponsored.
Every resurrection comes with terms,
Small print stitched into the shroud.
The dead are louder than the living.
We canonize in real time—
A tragedy, a candle, a trending hymn,
Then on to the next immaculate disaster.
Grief has learned to multitask.
Ash is archived.
Our saints no longer starve in deserts—
They starve in crowded rooms,
Feed on echoes, likes, the clean white crack
Of being witnessed without being known.
Their halos flicker in algorithmic weather,
Shorted by irrelevance.
I want the old ferocity back—
The kind that sears a name into bone,
That does not vanish after thirty days
Like an unrenewed subscription to sorrow.
I want a holiness that indicts me,
Not the soft-focus mercy of forgetting.
We write our sacred lives in disappearing ink,
Hagiographies that refresh and vanish—
Lives reduced to captions under flame.
We are all relics in plastic cases,
Handled without touch,
Venerated without trembling.
And God—if you are still here—
You must be exhausted by our mirrors,
By this choir of self-lit saints
Singing through glass.
Even you, I think, would crave
One unrecorded miracle.
Disharmony tinted blond, mars the house
My thoughts as cluttered as the mess
The sun slips in as I lie on my couch
It splatters a gem on my chest:
luminosity blessed; lightly touched
Yet my fears, they often succeed my hopes
A desire, bloodshot cast, disarms:
Feel the Winter sky! In the falling snow!
Unwind nature’s tapestries like gay yarn,
When Spring gates with its soothing charm
As the blue-green sea rolls toward the shore
And Summer’s white lust cloaks my skin
Skin I wish to shed as I did before,
When Fall, florid leaves scattering
Reveals frigid carved black brown fingering
This stirling white light casts its shading;
immaculate eve is seeking;
It tempts the stars, elfulgence cascading
Swivel time passing! So fleeting!
Rise! Gander a blithesome spirit leaving!