Karma is real
Across eons
Stay woke
Thro' troubles
Thought simple
Vistas pure
Maladies heal
Spirits soar
Leave the dark
Endure the present
Dwell on trutjh
Grow compassion
Advance to Dharma
Pure in spirit
A soul at peace
Tranquil from within
In cavernous Swiss bank vaults
Slavery, is a word filed under anecdotes as valued as gold caught
By some inbred morons I’m told
To be resuscitated, wasn’t evil then
Elated? There was power to be
Used, unabated they put leaders; into
State shoes, ‘no matter if they chafed em’ paid for like goods
To lead, astray whole nations
Unto tangled brambles of fanciful
Climate alarmist notions, sickness was their remedy
In fact; they even introduced the maladies!
With them it’s all just theatre and hype; they have a
Consistency like tripe. Just a body of
Flatulence…..Craving much
Opulence, descendants of nazis
With all that old nonsense if you
Just tease, the narrative of disasters, you’ll find they
Are fully plastered; zonked out on toxins
Remote of awareness, default locked
Of cognition' lacking, no empathy;
Just histrionics; is all I see is big
Plans they sure thunk-em, yet
‘Twas. ‘All the bunkum that sunk em.’
©Joe Maverick 4-12-2025
My maladies have stepped out from the shadows.
They stand a few feet away, staring, silent, patient.
I used to believe that what I ignored did not exist —
that if I did not give them my attention, they would dissolve.
But they have banded together,
a quiet council of reminders,
showing me that absence of sight does not mean absence of being.
They are still here.
Their presence is not a threat,
but a call to responsibility.
To turn away would invite ruin,
to face them is to live with truth.
I see them now,
not as my whole self,
but as companions I must acknowledge,
because left unattended,
they can destroy.
And so I will not pretend blindness.
I will meet their stare with awareness,
because even in silence,
they exist.
The queen of the daylight lurks likes memories.
Then is gone her silky array of words in Bangla
Disappearing fast as the blue king of the night in Hindi,
She regains her place, moves back and forward,
sits in the throne of the dappled memories in English
wheels to stalls: maladies and wellness of the world.
Words are loaded with possibilities random,
many windows holding images and conceits
touching the rainbow in the limitless blue.
The queen has many rooms to her .
Lived with shades she keeps words as her guardian sylph
protecting from the valour of Words.
Pictures of delayed morning, each day that passes
in the thesaurus of words, memories of the night unfold.
Poetry usually brings me joy,
though honestly, I delight in any triviality.
A thousand small things brighten my day.
Like when you smile at me in the morning,
or when you ask me for a hug.
Happiness overflows in me,
especially at Christmas time,
and the first swim of the year,
when you plunge into the sea.
The aroma of coffee in the morning,
or lying down to admire a starry night.
Reading a novel for the first time,
in winter, warmed by a ray of sun.
Ah, such simplicity,
yet I always smile
at any little thing.
I choose to smile, to live without sorrow,
to cleanse myself of maladies and impurities,
to give my mind a deep purification.
For to be happy, you don't need nobility;
you just need to shed any weakness,
and learn to enjoy, even if awkwardly.
it is never a great day
to have pink eye or shingles or hives
Every time I get these maladies
it is an unhappy reminder that
today will not be a great day
The gulf between us
is such a yawn.
It's boredom
drawn out
in endless re-runs.
Opposites are meant to
attract like magnets,
north and south.
Right!
But our chasm is abysmal.
It's a melody of maladies
and sick jokes bespoken
by a stand-up
with yawning incompetence
standing on a cliff,
shouting into the distance
while peering into the gulf
of what might have been.
No one's listening.
Right!
When this life is over, whatever be my fate,
I have a few God questions I'd like answered at heaven's gate.
Why do some live long lives while others leave so quickly?
Why let children suffer with maladies, so sickly?
Does a soul choose its birth family?
Will mankind ever live together peacefully?
Is there truly a hell where bad people go to fry?
What happens to animals when they die?
I'll hold my thoughts for eternity if God would only answer, mercifully.
Freedom was our brethren for the longest century,
Our dreams were tears of lotuses in the lake.
Our God was king of all humanity,
And still a fool of ourselves we made.
One voice surrounded by a million others,
And in those millions were millions unheard.
Ears were shut and mouths opened,
And still our tongues didn't utter a word.
Men and women cured maladies
Sacrificed existence to ingrain their names in the stars,
How we blamed those stars for the tiniest of adversities,
Ran away on two feet, far afar.
In time, when our ashes will be dust,
A new dawn will awake.
Henchmen will continue the unbounded legacy,
And they too will, fools of themselves, make.
Around the corner
from where I live alone,
in an unfurnished studio apartment,
there’s a shabby restaurant where
I often sit nursing a cup of coffee.
I asked Life one day, “Why me?”
Sitting across from her and
looking directly into her eyes,
“Why did you come to be with me?
I never wanted this. Now I’m distraught,
You have given me nothing but
heart-ache and pain,
broken dreams and empty promises.”
“I was a contented spirit,
Roaming the realms of the heavens
immortal and eternal;
But now, thanks to you, I am
besieged with mortal maladies and
haunted by your old nemesis, death!”
~Contest: Chapter 1 Poetry Narrative
~Sponsor: Matt Caliri.
LORD, it won't matter what the sickness for Thou art my doctor
I should like to think that some spark of a watcher
slips away at night to observe our crazy dreams.
Some part of the self attached only to the whirring brain
by umbilical coils of recognition
of what we are when the brain rambles
and stutters along all by itself.
I should like to be outside
watching that drunken twirling sailor
totter and flop through
its flabbergasting counter-realities,
un-meshed moving parts that demand to be
decoded into loosely knit prophesy
or the dyslexic fortune-telling
of all kinds of flash-fiction.
Perhaps better though to leave the brain alone
allow it space to exhaust its madcap maladies,
while the stars call us out to be
what a brain can never be or see.
To be then, an awareness of that greater part of self
watching the brains mechanical spinning-top
dream itself into realms of evermore loopy unlikeliness,
while we explore a self-lit luminous universe
beyond the ken of the brain-locked sleep
of mice and men.
Death and Taxes
Death enters our lives and fear draws its breath
each day that we wake until it leaves us in death
Outpacing mortality would surely set man free
to leave our worries behind in total transcendency
Fear motivates anxiety, causing concern and dissension
physical and mental burdens of overwhelming contention
We are encircled by fear like Earth upon its axis
Trepidation intimidates us like death and taxes
There are only two ways in which to overcome fear
To become immortal or die, it’s simply that clear
Don’t allow darkness to capture our heart and mind
Facing crippling fears head on will keep them confined
Fear anchors itself in the roots of fears that we feel
Once we stop feeding them, our maladies will heal
8/23/2021
The road seems endless
Nighttime quickens fear
Unfamiliar, a stranger
In this bus
The air, humid and thick
With danger, angry
Glances swim upstream
Avoiding fallen hate
At first, some were friendly
As hours and days passed
They disappeared, maybe
Changing direction, or
Means of transport, as
Streetcars rattled down the
Middle of the road, always
Heading back to sadness
Women keep their heads
Cloaked tightly, not drawing
Attention, counting on safety
In numbers, various maladies
Afflicted many, silently praying
God is leading them to help
At various moments, fights break
Out, angry words, punches, flotsam
Sometimes wildly swinging knives
Clanging off the sides, a middle
Peace ensues, imaginary walls
Erected, unspoken truce shifts
Uncomfortably
The end, unknown...
she took a breath thinking of her child self
the lights compelled her to begin
she danced as well as any prima donna
appreciative applause for her troupe well-earned
her daddy was finally getting to watch
his baby girl show off her intense prowess
for angels do not have maladies like blindness right?
She danced in his honor, loving the nod she received from heaven.
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