Long Thick skinned Poems
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He wears a heavy coat of rusty fur,
hunched and brooding in the coastal scrub.
They painted him a villain in the nursery tales,
a big, bad shadow waiting for the dark.
He has a hundred hollow eyes that never blink,
carved open by the jaws of summer fire.
A crooked spine, a fist of woody knots,
grumbling low curses to the southerly wind.
But who could blame his wicked, jagged grin?
He learned his roughness from the searing drought,
patrolling the ashes of a blackened world
while delicate soft gums slept in the canopy.
He is the grumpy elder of the heath,
bristling, thick-skinned, and unapologetic—
holding his seeds like stolen golden treasure
behind those silent, gaping wooden mouths.
@ I am…@
@@...an old Oak Tree…@@
@@...I have been alive and around for fifty years..@@
@@I have survived droughts, freezing temps and hurricanes.@@
@@.. I am still fertile and produce acorns that feed many..@@
@@Squirrels claim me as their home, building nests up high.@@
@.Woodpeckers keep pecking at my thick-skinned trunk.@
@@It Makes me more unique with character and pretty designs@@
@.Winters are difficult for me as I like to sleep and lose my strength.@
@...My looks become stark, barren and I get covered in snow...@
@Chipmunks, snakes and many birds love to come visit me@
@and Land on my branches feeding on my seeds while@
@@..Telling me how magnificent I am…@@
@ In Spring my many green hands are back again @
@….Waving hello in the wind…@
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12/24/19 (@ are acorns)
Contest: I am a Tree contest
Sponsor: Delilah Ventura
12/26/19 Submitted to contest:'STRAND SPECIAL 10,any form ,any theme' Poetry Contest
The Ukrainian flag flies again in Kherson, it is a joy to see
The Russian army are running scared from Ukraines military
Russia pulled out its army saying it was a tactical move
But against Ukraines valiant army, they have a lot to prove.
Their so called special military operation is now lying in tatters
Total victory for the brave Ukrainians is now all that matters
Russia have had many setbacks you hear about them everyday
Ukraine will not yield to the Russians and are driving them away.
The retreating Russian army have now pulled back to the Dnipro River
With a harsh winter approaching I hope they get frostbite and shiver
They've behaved like wild animals and they do not deserve to live
It will be a cold day down in the furnace of hell before anyone can forgive.
But Ukraine remains cautious as the Russians beat a hasty retreat
Vladimir Putin is so thick skinned and he will not accept defeat
They've probably laid booby trap explosives, to inflict fatal injury
They don't care who they kill, be it innocent civilians or military.
Vladimar Putin will be removed from power, it is just a matter of time
I hope he's handed over, and in the Hague charged with his heinous crime
But for now proud Ukrainians celebrate, as their flag again flies in Kherson
I pray that in time we'll hear about Ukraines victory, and how the war was won.
Written on 12th November 2022.
The Girl I'm Infatuated With
The girl I am infatuated with
Tells her friends that she ignores my advances.
This flirtatious game she finds dismissive
Still, I stay the course and remain focused.
When I approach or pass her by, she stops
And acts neutral as if I didn’t exist.
Though disheartening, I calmly nod,
Like I’m thick-skinned and do not feel the sting.
For reasons I cannot explain clearly,
Her negative response is challenging.
And so I pursue my heartfelt desire,
Despite the laughter and chiding from her friends.
Love is a paradox that has limits.
Fear rejection—then live to regret it.
she reaches behind the smokescreen
of her sunken eyed curtain veils
films of tears void of translucence
stoke reminiscent ashes that trace
another blinding thick-skinned defeat
hidden by camouflage and smears
touched up campaigns of bravery
her retinas a web of hallucinations
illusion delusion cataracts and dreams
stirred but not entirely shaken as
she reaches for another glass to empty
while numbness mixes with mirages
of victory over hits and misses
on battle lines of reconstruction
a palisade and shield from truth
her sentience slips into severance
from memories epiphanies and falls
from grace as she applauds the circus clown
and crazy court jester she became to be
in sadness badness insanity while
holding on to fragmented shards
screeching on the palette of many
a brush with fate curses and agony
she is a survivor of abuse and violence
exploitation and deliberate transgressions
and reaches deeply into her resolve
to allocate anger to where it belongs
instead of blaming her own kindness
she lifts the olive branch closer
to her tumbler spits out the hemlock
and trusts that tears will dry
once excoriations have dried up
until then she is not the drunkard
she is made out to be by sycophants
and hypocrites who spiked her
drink of life but merely coping
for the moment and longing for solutions
29th July 2021
Anybody, yes, anybody, can do poetry these days, though
getting it published is a tad more difficult.
For that you must be determined and thick-skinned,
irrespective of your talent,
and it’s plain sailing in any case,
if you’re both rich and vain.
You can write about anything, yes anything,
the less you worry about what, the better.
Let it come, doggerel will do
(McGonagall is now in Penguin,
which only goes to show,
recognition comes soon, if you’re lucky,
but otherwise – late).
You can write badly or well.
If you write well, you’re sailing,
but if not, you’re making
a valid socio-economic point.
Your work can be dull or interesting.
If it’s interesting, you’re sailing,
but if not, don’t worry –
some movement will pick you up.
If you rhyme, that’s fine,
you crafty would-be laureate. If not,
who cares? There are plenty who hold
that rhymes are rot.
Be profound or light,
obscure or lucid, daft or bright.
If you’re bright, you’re sailing. If not,
the collective unconscious will undertake,
and if the sales are right, so who’s complaining
on your way to the bank?
Anyone, at any time (I’m pausing
during the marking of my pupils’ atrocious mistakes),
so anyone, yes anyone, can write poetry these days.
But don’t ask me how I know.
With thanks to the Environmental Defense Fund,
Advice from ecosystemic pantheists
PENGUIN:
Dive into life;
Avoid undiving into dying, stagnating in reverse-time ruminations.
Appreciate regenerative daydreams;
Depreciate decomposing nightmares.
Take long intuitive wilderness walks
away from short deductive domesticated pathways.
Stand together;
Avoid falling apart.
Go extra cooperative miles
rather than staying stuck
in competing monocultural piles
of divestment away from
polycultural health.
Keep your cool;
Sweep your warm incarnation stretch
into excarnational meanings,
hot co-arising vocations.
GLACIER:
Carve your own path
opening to bipartisan polypaths.
Go eco-slow
by stopping ego-too-fast.
Channel your strengths
with ecosystemic decomposition
of dissonant weaknesses.
Smooth the way for others
by struggling with your own anthro-supremacist addictions.
Keep moving rationally forward
which is not irrationally backward.
Avoid meltdowns,
Embrace freeze up frames
of dipolar co-arising balance.
Be cool, trusting,
by becoming empathically warmer.
SEA TURTLE:
Swim with the current;
Fly with bilateral enlightenment.
Be a good navigator;
Become a self-as-other optimizing listener,
follower of Earth's nutrition.
Stay calm under pressure,
Grow resonance with wu wei midway
slower resilient revolutions.
Be well traveled, outbound,
to become less homebound,
paranoic inbred.
Think long term;
Feel short-term compassion.
Age gracefully;
re-ligiously childlike.
Spend time at the beach,
invest space in one surfing ocean
of nurturing dreams.
POLAR BEAR:
Live large;
anthro-die down toward (0) Earthcentric.
Be thick-skinned;
Become transparently inter-religious.
Sniff out opportunities;
taste internal crisis, risk.
Learn some good icebreakers;
Unlearn some mad meltdowns.
Be fearless;
Become peace co-empathic messiahs.
Keep it cool,
not so much climatic warming
of melting EarthTribe landscapes.
You told me something so horrible it keeps going
Through my mind.
When will it repose?
My brain feels like it's an electronic game
With my thoughts moving fast through a kind
Of fiber light wire that just won't close
I can't end the game.
Thoughts are now intertwind
And run wild through my head. Please,
Some one help me. I don't want to impose.
Look at what I became.
I thought I was thick skinned
With a purpose.
Now I don't even remember my name.
To late I learned I' m thin skinned.
I even have to watch the time for my next dose
Of medicine that is in a glass cabinet frame.
I am here to remind
People that there are those
Who love to play mind
Games.
Watch out for their kind
For words they transpose,
And transfer blame
On to some one they have confined
Hoping to bring shame
On a mind
They tried to rescind.
in Pando's shadow a young maiden sings
wander'd to and fro peat bog feet sloshing
auburn locks adorned in daisy crowned rings
quite unaware that something was watching
one with thick skinned carion heart at core
to scavenge Middlemist's red camellia
he too delivered from far away shores
a renaissance ratel in rebellion
Leila leisured in shade of quaking aspen trees
treacle honey joys spilled out across her dress
temptation so strong insatiable hunger needs
dark honey badger lept from a tufted hedge
in presence one so endeared, showed no fear
for all beasts, nature's greatest gift bequeath
proffered morsel from open hand as he neared
inquisitive eyes belied soft heart and sharp teeth
forest branches embraced the two in nosh
as trembling giant's rustling now subdued
ladybugs flit from branch to dew covered moss
fingers stroked rough fur nape to back as he chewed
two walked ancestral shores as newfound kin
sniff'g this way and that among tufted pearls
claws tap entranced her soft cooing voice hymn
face framed in rivulets long carefree curls
long past gone Leila's song through far away gates
honey badger' forest friend rests - Pando waits
In a cynical realm where truth is tainted in black, rises she,
amidst whirling vortexes veiling reveries where she walks.
Yet society thrums thick skinned lies, whilst morning moon sighs in-
silence, seeing sunrise through eyes that mirror golden beauty.
Her persona resembles firm perennial petals like,
maternal warriors waltzing through wistful winds, singing the,
song of survival in loneliness through every forlorn night.
She's bestowed with selfless angels thawing wicked webs of,
time, freezing the rainbows hidden behind cloudless,
cerulean wrapped in balmy breeze blowing along cashmere climes.
She is her own sorceress with an invisible ring and
silver spells, her unbreakable spirit shines like starry
amulets of faith, sparkling across cold midnight skies.
She still composes calm symphonies in elegance and,
patience, whilst ignorant tongues concoct storms amongst all,
evil that reeks within a community that's-
ready to place names, find fault in words within the chorus of life, best,
written for the unheard voices ostracized, by merciless tunes of,
the past, where freedom fighters were left alone in the dark.
But she sprouts, like a sunflower growing in the cracks of emptiness and,
like an untamable warrior, she serves hope and love, that beams so bright.
“She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and bright Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty”