Making time to go back in Time,
Will get back what was thought lost for all Time.
Time after time,
When I have listened to my inner voice,
My guardian Angel,
Who works over time,
And I have gone back in Time,
To retrieve items
when others said I was wasting my Time,
That the item was lost for all Time.
Only two days ago,
My Guardian Angel alerted me in Time,
To retrieve my wallet before I lost it for all Time,
So back in time I did go,
To the bus stop Seat,
To find my wallet on that very seat,
Something others thought an impossible feat.
I do hope you have taken the time,
To go over very line,
I have written down for all Time
So you next Time,
You think an item lost for all Time,
You will remember in Time,
My poem on making the Time,
To go back in time,
To avoid standing in line,
To report your crime,,
Of failing to go back in time.
Humanity has always had its haves and have-nots.
Before it was more about status and power
Wealth and position.
Today it is who has the desire to self-determine
Build their own home, raise their own family,
And who wants someone else to do it for them.
So we have two piles of society;
Those who are productive and who make,
And those who are parasitic and just take.
Both piles are growing, because both
Have their rewards,
But it’s still the makers who provide for the takers.
And what keeps that balance in place
Is the fear of what destruction the takers
Will make if they get cut off
From the hand that feeds them.
It’s a precarious balance of hope and fear,
But ultimately unsustainable.
There is no solution until the takers become
Self-sufficient and determined makers themselves.
But that will take a reckoning
Which society is not yet willing to make.
(9/24/26)
One's choice spotlights the steps,
One's steps lights the path. Keep movin'
Cause stillness don't save you, Nobody's
Out here gets a prototype.
Most days you move cause standing still
Still hurts intensely.
Life hands out shadows, corners you can't
Recognize, faces that changes cover up.
But choices?
They're lodestars small ones.
The kind that sparkles when you shak'em
But still exhibits something real.
Take one step- The ground shows it's face.
Take another- The byways stops
Misrepresenting. It ain't about being brave
It ain't about being perfect. It's about
Confessing.
" I'm done wasting time for clarity to come find
Me".
Every move an individual makes glows a
Itty-bitty more of the way.
Even wrong turns educate you where not to go
Make an exit.
So you choose
You learn
You grow
And the next steps glows just enough for you
To keep walking.
The pattern maker measures his guest
neck, shoulders chest, and breast,
arms, back, wrist, waist, hips,
pivots for darts on a block bodice
drafts designer dupe requested
a choice rose-beige mini is invested
on paper made of parchment
a muslin fabric fit first garment
The dressmaker sews the formal
zig zags seam ends, snips as normal
finishing floral, attaching appliques,
the courtier knock off is complete
I get out the chips and merlot
It’s time for the fashion show
when you make it big
in the music business
booking tour dates all over the USA
and maybe Europe
you live on a bus
clickety clack clickety clack
you try to sleep all day
because you are singing so late into the evening
when you make it big
in the music business
you wear tight fancy uncomfortable clothes
your sequins shine and you shake your tail feathers.
You live on a bus.
clickety clack clickety clack
whereas I get to stay home all day
and wear pajamas
ONE HELL OF A THING TODAY: MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN
No more white-hooded lynchings of us.
Today, it’s the ice-cold severing of our rights:-
The red POTUS is making America great again:
Mocking JUNETEENTH; praising 4Th OF JULY.
For him, peace has been deemed as damaging oppression;
And must be put to rest with power-mongering war.
All Zeus-like forms of governing legislation have been iced out.
And new Satanic-like legislative amendments have returned hell on earth.
And the years of slavery that made America great for ancestral power mongers,
Has now been replaced by oppressive, power-mongering political injustice.
Just look at today’s White House Garden of Evil:
Therein, hangs a devilish, hellavah, red snake:-
Twas at a party the other day
It was a gala now some might say
I was having fun being a clown
Making smiles from many a frown
I saw her then from across the room
Just a waitress most would assume
Though I cracked jokes my heart weighed down
When making smiles from many a frown
I saw her though just doing her job
But something in me made my heart throb
Who is this lady that has my heart wound
Now making smiles from many a frown
My heart had been cold for many a year
While giving others so much cheer
I got her name my heart did abound
Now making smiles from many a frown
When the party ended I sought her out
My heart it seemed had ended its drought
A date we had in a little town
Now making smiles from many a frown
Now I don't know where this will lead
But her kindness and beauty has my heart freed
I'd love to take her out on the town
She's making smiles from many a frown
Sometimes,
Being there to make up the numbers,
To keep the club alive,
Until others have the time,
A task though hard to define,
Can be a good way to spend one's time,
As a club that thrives,
Can change many lives,
Reward enough,
For those with time on their hands,
To witness what might not have been.
My eight-year-old son spent the day in his kingdom
with his stone creature
luring boys and superheroes into doing their bidding
His requests were simple
the stone creature sat silent and surreptitiously stealthy
I looked in on him a few times
He was deep in the throes of his realm
loving his action figures
building a world of his making
I was inspired by his imaginative prowess
picked up a canvas and began to draw
working toward my own fantastical realm
a little rice
a little water
time to boil
and start
the meal
I doze off
dog at my side
smoke fills
the house
smoke alarm
screams
the dog quivers
time
to open windows
turn on fans
erase signs
of my mistake
on a bright
summer day
sit outside
holding the dog
until the air clears
one blast
of siren
if in town
two
if out of town
I hope
no one notices
the smoke alarm
o how people [in a small town] can talk
in a moment things could change, make every minute count
A convention was held in a foreign land. Playwrights, writers and authors (young and old) were recognized for their respective works. Everybody was overwhelmed for meeting new friends, beginners and veterans in the field of prose and poetry, scriptwriting, narrating, storytelling and publication of different sorts.
When the female guest speaker ended her speech, a male writer-author was silent in many casual conversations because the topic is about success. Nevertheless, everybody else is happy during the chitchats because by majority success was defined by fame and how much money you make.
The silent writer-author sold only two books in the market, but was never ashamed of the results of his work.
A young female author asked the silent writer-author, "What is royalty?"
The silent one replied, "It is when you are included in the statistics of big earnings without earning a single cent in reality!"
The project was disputed and called mean by ah numberious groups.
It sought both accusations and ownership with minimum investments. It saw the bitterness of invested earniship as opportunity
Key in the it's being exploiting the neauce of exsita ce saw that miniumkum and maxasicion as equal. Monertary sce ince saw otherwise.. He wishes you as his women , might our nights of togetherness baffle him.Clout shall make him mine might I understand from ah- point of leadership might the investments of the troubled before me, be explained by the want of us being together. A conon shall be fashioned to comemerate our togetherness might the world abroad see us as something else.
That white-Bouis is cool but he wishes against the US of coniistuionality.
If I are your pussy the outcum would have been different!
I should be sleeping,
Softly drifting into peaceful dreaming,
But I’m awake with a jagged leaning
To trade in my rest and fight what I'm feeling.
The shadows are creeping,
Across the floor where the light is seeping,
The silent watch that the walls are keeping
Is a heavy price for the soul I'm reaping.
I’m plagued by flickers of fictitious whispers,
The static hiss of a thousand blisters,
A hollow chorus sings in the ghostly distance
Twisting the air into brittle splinters.
The silence is breaking,
To the rhythm of an empty aching,
Between the giving and the taking,
I’m just the ghost of my own making.
The supermarket carries beer,
(I love my IPA’s)
But every time we buy some here,
We hear the same old phrase;
“You need to show us some ID,”
Which doesn’t make much sense
Since, speaking for my spouse and me,
There isn’t much suspense
In guessing that we’re of an age
That’s legal multiplied
By 3 or almost 4, the stage
Where we can’t be denied.
Yet still, our licenses come out,
As Pa. law demands,
Although there isn’t any doubt
Each cashier understands
That our ID’s are far from fake;
It only takes one glance
To know it would be some mistake
To look at us askance.
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