Without question or words, I am alone tonight with you, writing.
A menial task, at least.
If mine eyes were like the Sparrows', they would march out off and grab you. Today, I fuel these mean, tyrannical things.
If mine eyes have but bought the answer, the answer to Mine own pure heart, I would have sought out refuge in places zero, finding it; zero repeating it.
There are no words for which I can say that echo my thoughts as I read and write about my feelings on this cold, October morning. No words mentioned?
A hollow glass of timer shoots low upon my belly, it is made out of coal, and it believes it knows me.
It is brass and silver; It is my old, long-lost violin, the 'Scarecrow'.
Perhaps there's more to life here than meets the everlasting paths of divine entities. Yiuth being one of them, faith being one of the few.
I cannot reason with my thoughts if I am alone with those other inquiries, only fathom them. May they never sleep at night. May they never fathom...
Have you ever seen the satanic snake?
A fierce cheetah hunting with no mistake
A bloodthirsty wolf in the black sheep's clothes
How would it be if you find all in close?
Richard the third, the most villainous Duke
Known as a treacherous and selfish kook
Holds the status of the Duke of Gloucester
A saboteur, schemes as an imposter
Possess an ugly build with a hunchback
Hides his flaws as a professional flack
Feels menial for his deformity
Handles things with extreme enormity
A power monger and it's very clear
Cares not even to kill his near and dear
Strategically waits for chance and grabs
With his honeyed words, he always backstabs
By hook or by crook, wants to seize the throne
Cheats Lady Anne with his convincing tone
Spreads rumours to showcase the heirs unfit
Executes those who thwart with his outwit
When the battle at Bosworth in full swing
Stanley takes a U-turn and quits the ring
Unhorsed Richard cries out losing the source
'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse"
A ruthless tyrant with no repentance
For him, there isn't any moral sentence
The Bard's 'wicked uncle' gets the title role
Invites the crowds' interest on the whole
The transformation of the poet into an artist unfolds like a hymn to the defiant spirit,
an age-old story with familiar themes of the literary outcast,
where alcohol and poverty dance frenetically in the shadow of tumultuous love,
but at the heart of this storm lies a silent flame, an unwavering devotion,
to the written word, a warm and constant light amidst his existential chaos,
through long years of obscurity, the poet labored in shadowed and silent rooms,
building his art without the promise of recognition or shining applause,
and fame, that dreaded yet desired specter, arrived as a delayed destiny,
only in the late chapters of his tumultuous life, a testament to resilience,
in his younger years, he was a distant vagabond, living off menial jobs and wits,
surviving on two five-cent chocolate bars for days on end,
to afford the luxury of writing, letting the words flow freely,
like a river that knows no path but forward, regardless of obstacles in its way.
Unshaped by parental care,
He rose, a phoenix, beyond compare.
Life's struggles molded him with might,
Resolute, he faced each endless night.
Education's flame burned bright and true,
His passion, a beacon, shining through.
Menial jobs couldn't dim his stride,
Determination drove him, side by side.
Sugar Boy, a graduate, proud, with degree in hand,
His struggles faded, like shifting sand.
Employment beckoned, a new dawn broke,
His future bright, no longer bespoke.
Love arrived, "My Dear" from Adeboye's line,
A skilled gem, naturally divine.
Together they stood, a unified force,
"The Sugar" boy, with a loving course.
With harmony, their bond took flight,
Blessed with children, shining light.
"My Dear" explored the world's vast stage,
The UK, and beyond, their footsteps engage.
Now the world lies at their feet,
A testament to love's sweet treat.
Their journey, a tale of trials and might,
A shining story, in morning light.
I once knew a man who was tall and skinny.
I was 35 at the time with a small family.
If he had a family of his own. I knew not any.
His means was menial and his needs were many.
For this man, we did the best we could.
He knew what we believed in and where we stood.
He was homeless and hungry in our neighborhood.
We showed him God's love and gave him food.
He was gentle, kind, and never rude.
We first met in the winter of 1984 in San Francisco, and Reuben was his name.
We took him to a Golden State Warriors basketball game.
He also sat at our dinner table on Christ m as Day.
We felt privileged to meet him and help him through his pain.
Moreover, because of Reuben
My life was never the same.
I have found the fullness of brokenness in one person,
He is Jesus, the Christ, born to dwell with human beings;
For no sin of his, like a lamb, I found his cause worsen,
Scourged; thorn-crowned; spit upon; underwent such menial things...!
Didn't, as though a wonder, kings visit him, at his birth?
Why so soon, yet, the scenes changed, and dominions sought his end?
If truth, except for parrots, is not allowed on this Earth,
Incarnation is nothing but a note by Yahweh sent...!
Neither Romans nor the Jews could ever his name erase,
Unabandoned truth stood firm; this was, hence, he rose again;
The body was broken and blood was shed; in him was grace,
This was why, beyond all norms, the victory he could gain...!
Thank you, Jesus, for teaching me to be truly broken,
My flesh and blood is yours as my reverential token...!!!
Charles Bukowski
I read a fine essay written by a friend of mine, Bukowski
I thought he was a great poet and writer, whether the high
table of the educated literate think, or not because from
where he wrote, the side streets of life, unfamiliar to them.
Many famous writers/poets drink; I think this is because they
have finished writing for the day, they feel empty inside
alcohol salivate the sense of tristesse, meeting friends for
drinks as whisky and conversation flows
Ernest Hemingway was a heavy drinker, which is overlooked
by his admirers, he had been to Paris, the middle-class son
of a doctor; his drinking had charm, the fishing and shooting
When I read Bukowski’s novel the “post office” I remember
opening the book, a rainy afternoon, absorbed by his art
I lost track of time; I followed his journey doing menial tasks
The boredom of having to make a living when all he wanted
to do was to write against the odds; he did write and gave
us, the beauty of his soul.
Resistance
When the German occupation of Norway ended
in April 1945, those who had willingly worked for
the occupation power was arrested.
Most of them were middle-class people and they
were sent to farms to do menial work.
(One has to add the farmers too was willing to sell
Their products to the enemy.)
Only a handful of Nazis were shot among them
Was Quisling and a few others.
There was no mass- shooting of the enemy and
the traitors, on the whole, it was rather a mild affair.
For the workers the new peace meant redundancy
as all construction works the occupants had undertaken
came to an abrupt halt.
I write this because there is in the national psyche
of the Norwegian to be a bit right-wing and haters
of foreigners especially those of Arabic heritage
Furthermore, Norway has never faced up to the past of a war
where only a few resisted.
The people with a fascistic mindset are in power today
It is sad but what can a sailor do?
The only exception is the merchant seamen
every ten of them died during the conflict, and when
they came home were told how lucky they had been
avoiding the war.
I walked to school most mornings when there is no sparing of a bus token.
Every morning with no daily routine broken.
I witness Mister Charlie in his immaculate green uniform, wheeling his three-wheel barrel with the burden of a shovel and push-broom down the main street.
In all weather, the icy cold to the blistering heat.
There is a proud and contented look upon his face.
If he had some unfilled longings there was no trace.
No look of discernment crowns his head, of his fitted place.
No Bothersome thoughts of his menial labor as a disgrace.
After the years he spent fighting in the war, To him, it is an honorable
job to be working for the city.
Even when the crowd is thick and the street is busy.
To many, he was a floating fixture taken for granted.
To others, he was acknowledged and appreciated.
To me he was a stimulus for moral thinking, living in the state of mind of the beauty of simplicity that life affords him.
The memory of my childhood in 1959. Copyright 2016 Looking At The Light At The Bottom of The Lake.
Sure life is a disappointment, but is it menial?
Salvageable? Palpable? Tolerable?
My brain waves are pondering this.
I am not a philosopher or anything,
yet here I am, thinking again.
Stop thinking! Society tells me.
Follow the status quo.
I am making up my mind.
Let me have a minute.
Life is menial for sure.
I am menial.
You are menial.
Oops.
Sorry.
Did not mean you, Mom!
Jack-y
Jack-y
Ohhhh Ms Jacky
how you court your life’s only lover
Huff and puff and contort, the smoke of your
Newfound Newport
(Long not short)
Lazily lacking worldly desires
If I had your sense of humour
Maybe I'd too sling new places
With every shot of tobacco, being
Flung into faraway lands, filled gilded glands
That aren’t quite backed
enough of a bite
sfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfsfs…….pfhooooooooooooooo
Toboggan the whole noggin when its
Packed to the brim, the nicotine
Porcelain eyes for your vaporent dreams
Oh Ms. Jacky, you technicolor dreamer
Wielding blue eyed sheen, portentously protruding Ra’s gleam
So alas, it seems
You spark up another laugh or two
Smoke rising up my face, the habitual ritual
in its proper place
Mercurial Smile, behind eyes unknown
A hidden grace
Solitarily confined in a Surreptitious
Space, far out man
My menial mind is amazed at how your’s a haze
You aren’t here anymore
But
Who really is
We are all Ms. Jacky deep within
We are the workers, call us
an hour before an absent fill shift
The pyramid sprouts atop of
The heavy depths of broad ordinary,
Breadth mopped and swept
Silent cogs push motion
Everywhere, rarely heralded
Carpet of field mice scrambling
Part of the pattern, crucial
Expectations remain ingrained
Pith of the fruit, flavour generic
Bolster of bricks protects
Lighthouse of blinding brains
Scratching hand to steerhouse
Tightening bolts, scrubbing deck
Nugget behind their high shine
We are the labourers, casual pay
covers days not at work, sticking
To meagre styles, life defined
By the hemming, wage stemmed
- Can't afford to ask questions
Surge of activity, pothole filled
Inhibited by flurry, imagination aside
Menial smooths the cement
Minimum makes no plans
beyond next week, when, - if
I have a job. We will do any dirty
Demeaning chore, and thank you for
Your grace in giving it to us
6th August 2020
It Sucks - Contest
Kai Michael Neumann - Sponsor
A contracted seafarer...concerning no servile rank,
kept e'er involved watch...away from menial daily tasks top deck,
while steadfast wary of...the diligent taskmaster's whip.
A dawn swift gust...brushes the ship from a rocky pillar,
duly rallies from rest...aids calamitous bellows from crow's nest,
witnessed by crew...rose an angel disguised with devil horns.
Seawater laps feverishly...against ship's wooden hull,
as panic over breed minds...once sturdy legs go feebly about,
cascading thoughts grips privately...every man for himself.
Another abrupt action...frees a churning sea expounds,
and an opening hole...devouring anything within its midst,
as desperation consumes...a ship has long met its doom.
A lone selfless soul of limited else...moved past the lost,
and hastily clutched a burdened javelin...and hoist it upwards,
with his petitioned combined strength...released the deadly blow.
Her dying scream...was drowned out by restored happy voices,
and a wealth of well-wishes and praises...honoring accolades,
as lone eyes of a humble sort...gaze a siphoning pass.
I wandered on a journey, in search of treasure,
priceless far beyond any kind of menial measure.
After weeks of hard trekking, 258 miles due West,
on 6/25 I lost my 20/20 vision. I needed a rest.
I was sick of the infernal heat on this tiring quest.
The warm breath of summer became quite a pest.
A coral snake bit me but I didn't cry and ballyhoo.
I ate him for dinner and wrote about him in Haiku.
I was singing my swan song; an ache in my breast,
so I gave up the search for finding that stupid chest.
Because of my selfish need for greed and pleasure,
I learned a life lesson. I've become a lady of leisure.
Views For Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Funom Makama
Posted on July 15, 2020
Poem Name: Warm Breath of Summer
Views: 258
Poetry Form: Haiku
Date of Publication: 6/25/2020
I seem never far flung from thoughts supreme and a my/their/your/importance to things at/of a conscious cramped mind. If thinking is Activity,
Thoughts, action streams that flow from equal amounts of
"Spirits" aplenty-a necessary catalyst and music, yes
Music the ****** of word birth, unknown, exacting, pure,
coital corporeal, clean corded from an ancient womb world,
then I am a premiere primary post partum poet,
pious and plentiful, panoramic and primal----
least of which I follow the noneany standards of
prose polished rule constraints of useless
ninny-nanny nonsense frivolity of any/all nil/nothing of
menial meanderings of less viable word wit-tent.
Everything id intended by therefore their "crowd" creators,
lest us/we behold that soulless saturated
stingy sick mass raptures of wordly whiny wimp
wis-dumbectomies, courtesy of ignorant intenders
that soils its rhymes via elementary elusive exaggerations
for the masses of asses with
vocabularies of molasses
when they read-listen-write-wrong rewrite
a pontious plight in that life Ass-ignment ignorant driven
illicit class of uncreative writings of Life. Tragedy 101
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