God isn't neat
He hasn't got it all sewn up
Tidy
Complete
He doesn't have a perfect plan
Preprepared
A place for everything
Colour coordinated
Sussed out, exclusively available
To the spiritual elite.
He doesn't have a bag of surprises
Distributed on a whim
Leukaemia for you
Long life for her
Alzheimer's or dementia or a road traffic accident for him.
He doesn't mete out chance events
Based on our choices
The sound of our voices
The town of our birth
Our place on the earth
The state of our hearts
Our love of the Arts
Our reliance on science
Our sin.
He never has promised that life will be fair
Or tragedies rare
Simply he tells us
Because of his son
All that he is
All he has done
In the light and the dark
In joy and in pain
Perceived or
Ignored
Trusted or
Doubted
He will be there
Ephemeral eternity — covers osmosis pinnacles
In a loving natural roots, nostalgia never fails
Welcomed. . .we wander — and cry
It slinks slackly not dwelling in the gloom. . .
Gestalt therapy in sepia tones offers an odd view,
Instant mete hourglass, scythe, magic mind wing
Proper, shining ruined glass before filters and pixels,
Cracks reveal truth, and hazy images evoke memory;
Digitally altered shots provide unadorned faces,
Silver stones — crumble under soggy streams
Love consists of endless childhood dreams,
We whirl, win, wildly in a whirlwind
Instants creep slowly — yielding assets to discard
Time lingers while instances ripple vastly.
It unfolds and emits a sticky—spirited symphony
Transitional winds blew as we breathed and linked
Instants ticked slowly but rose quickly.
Glide into golden heat of the calm night hour
Ashes rise on a summer's sigh in the breezy sky
Soaring over the willows, peacefully fly.
The consequences known, foretold for years,
a crushing blow would break the country’s back,
eclipsing the most pessimistic fears,
a devastating night of blackest black…
The zealots would be working ‘round the clock
to mete out punishment to those opposed,
while sheeple, noses pressed to glass, just gawked
’neath red bills lest their faces be exposed.
Impossible as it might seem to most,
the world did spin much like the day before,
though once the quakes were dampened on the coasts,
it tilted to the right a little more.
Go hug your neighbor, whether loss or win;
In four short years, we do it all again!
though tis spoken when we meet,
begrudging, we mete
out cold, absent any meat
----------
A Ukiah, 7/5/7 with rhyme
marred this mead of honeyed brew
yet flaxen still thy rotten spike
and spoil it so inedible
but haste unto her charge, she will
and grail be this austere cup
to carry off ignobleness
and watch it drain through gullet of
a wrongsome hound, the cad, it must
and mete thy charm, ye witches grail
“So many things we know as true...
are redefined in future's view.”
-by Poet
What's happened to our measurement of time?
When I was young, a Summer was sublime.
From end of Spring to the first day of Fall-
that space of time seemed epic, never small.
Our clocks and calendars compute time well-
the way they've always done, to surely tell
the days and months we spend mete out the same;
but now, perhaps has altered its old game.
Oh, time has changed- for young and old now say
it's passing quicker in a puzzled way.
One week, a month, a year- advances fast;
presents an altered value from the past.
Perhaps time is a mystery unknown;
not bounded by our measurements alone.
Let this world mete out to thee unjust blame.
To me, thy fairest eyes shall ever shine,
Let tongues parrot what so eyes at fault frame,
Thy praise alone shall reach keen ears of mine.
Let humble thou of thyself speak modest,
Me, knowing thee well, shall always exhort
Thee to hoist whatever be the fairest,
Modesty never plays a partial sport.
It’s rare still if one in love’s worldly-wise,
My views when weighed by love, are purified
By fire of truth can never once be lies,
An if my faith in love’s fairly applied,
I know, as well as thou, ye love me more
For who I’m than all that I said afore.
_____________________________________
Sonnet |11.05.2024| love, romance
Gently probing her vulnerabilities
seeking only the slightest advantage
He parries her feints most delicately
awaiting an opening to do some damage...
When she, shockingly, reveals a secret so deep
then casts aside his sword to weep
and declare: A man who jousts with a lady fair
is mete to unseat in her heart's affairs
They were butchered in Bucha
Victims of unprovoked aggression
Wrapped in body bags of wickedness
Like chicken preserved in the cold room
What a world of brutality
What an act of bestiality
What a display of man’s inhumanity
It is man’s basest depravity
Let the world rise against this insanity
And bring the blood thirsty scoundrels
To the path of accountability
The world is watching
The God of the defenseless is taking stock
To mete out punishment
To perpetrators of crimes of war
It's meet that we met
that we met over meat
at the Met
where they mete out the meat
~ s'Howie Met
An Orwellian Conception
As long as they see what you assume they see, and they agree,
then that’ll be the reality we’ll assume you want to live in.
If this makes sense, then be at peace among friends.
You can sleep innocently; no one will mete out punishment.
The past can’t be erased, but we can mitigate the consequences.
There’ll be no misunderstanding unless you fail to define yourself;
without definition, we’d disagree, and that would be unfortunate.
Cooperate so others will live. Deep sleep is wonderful.
We (your brothers and sisters) are watching everywhere you tread
(there is no umbrella of protection for a protagonist).
Our duty and purpose is to ensure survival of our genes,
so follow the rules and be rewarded with peaceful sleep.
“I am a sojourner pilgrimaging in a foreign land.
When my name is drawn, I will step aside and let others go on.”
Put on your soft mittens as you mete out punches
The stench of despair has sent the flies flying
As wretched voices die in the agony of the trenches,
Smoke, fire, death, silence, blood slowly crying.
Don't let those tears disappear without telling
Of how they came to be. From aching gland burning,
From swollen heart entrapped dreaming of belling
Of events that cause in all for justice a yearning
Don't let the fires chew up the browning pages
Where once sordid tales told the willing student
Of what would come this way, or that way, the wages
Of right, wrong; the way of the vile, of the prudent
Telling of wretched voices dying in the trenches,
Of smoke, fire, and of blood slowly crying.
Don't let memory die as they split us into tranches
To silence half, then lead both halves into trenches.
(c) nyonglema
Morning Prayer
By Miracle man
3-8-2021
Lord, assist me today,
by showing me life through a different lens.
That the world situation won’t be so troubling
that my day starts wrapped in anxiety, fear, or anger.
For it is not always what a thing is
but how I believe it to be.
Help me to be more attentive to what I say, and how I say it.
For it is often not what my opinion is,
but in my method of delivering that opinion.
Reinforce in me, that valuing others,
shouldn’t be on an outward appearance,
because value originates in the heart.
One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned in life has been,
that my soul’s thirst could never be satisfied with possessions,
and that being generous was far better than grabbing.
Amen
Luke 6:38 KJV
“Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again.”
Thoughts honed to a razor’s edge
The dictionary and thesaurus be my whetstones
Set atop my stalwart quadrupedal aide
Pulverized hemlocks be my stationary cohort
A hewn cedar be cylindrical partner in rhyme
A sooty viscous slurry be my workmate
The milky sap of the arborist companion be my reviser
Time; unlimited; to be committed to sonnetifcation
Mete by minute or by days…to precompose
To choreograph the mind’s breadth of complexity
To see the inferences…laid out; covertly or overtly
Upon reaching a draft of my pre-thoughts; spelt out
To reave the uncomplicatedness from each line
Leaving nothing unprinted upon the page.
Blue sighs,
purple heart beating pain
Scarlet letters
written on rice paper grain
Black clouds
portend colonial violent reign
Silver pocket lining —
Ivory Coast watch has a gold chain
Indigo weep journey,
stern waves of Coral Reef grief from green gain
Obsidian gale passage,
white knuckle fear mete with alabaster disdain
Steel blue sky,
pale joy in the skin cargo lane
Bronze native hope
shipped to brass harbor strange
Black enfolding clouds,
infrared serene thoughts ponder forgiveness arcane
Sunshine free promises
darkly veil a fetter capital idea, so auctioneer insane
Eclipse horizon,
opaque firmament change
Pink eyes can’t see the snowstorm coming,
leaving frozen asset remains
Blue wail sky
dew drop more violet moan rain
Crimson siren tide
left a white knuckle asphalt stain
Black brow clouds
are thunderbolt cry parting: “Die latter-day Cain!”
Ruddy cloven tongues
are white lightning uttering: “Abel shall live again!”
Rainbow balm sky
after the purple bruise reign
Grey matter turbulent tide
is now a peaceful cerulean haven
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