My daddy used to fry up doughnuts in a fryer when we were kids
Not every night, but once a month on Sundays
We kids got to cut the middles out of the donuts our mom started.
Dough was everywhere; we got to shake sugar on them in a sack.
I can still taste those homemade donuts, hot from that sack.
My hands loved the gritty sugar; I licked it off my fingers.
I thought everybody’s daddy fried doughnuts once a month.
I think I was twenty when I knew better.
My parents never ate in a restaurant or frequented a bakery.
I did not know about sprinkled, jelly, or glazed doughnuts.
Until I grew up and then I was horrified by the cost of them.
The first time I ate a doughnut with pudding I fell in love.
Iridescent wings of rainbow hues
Flitter amongst the lily pads
Will she light or is this a drive by?
Dragonfly sighs upon finding the delicate pinks
Their yellow middles calling to her shy side
She decides to stay for a few minutes
The frogs go silent; no more croaking
There is a delicate fragrance in the air
Is it cherry blossoms or the lily pads themselves?
Dragonfly cannot leave yet.
She feels rested in this tranquil place.
Foremost apex bird leading the flock flight
United to run the race and fight the fight
Apache, Comanche, Samurai, knight
Choosing to keep victory in mind and sight
Tearing through the darkness till we behold light
March by day, sojourn by night
And because we solely rest upon God’s might
Only being head and not tail feels right
Bracing the weather, weathering the storm
We give and take as we take form
Change is our preserve as we preserve righteous norm
Moment’s heat in a cold world somehow feels warm
As happenings and deeds feed how our deeds perform
In life’s seesaw arena we sow to see what will blossom
From middles and ends, we claim the whole portion by portion
We mark and eke out our ideals and a nation
Advancing, withstanding and wearing off resistance
With passion, conviction and insistence
Feeding on virtue and denying sin any dalliance
Overcoming evil with good and rebellion with reverence
Fruitfulness ousts empty occupation and nonchalance
And so we emerge from the dull trenches with a radiance
With a baffling lustre, poise and stance
Affording a gaze where we couldn’t beg a glance
K. Muitherero
We all celebrate happy endings,
But we seldom get to know the messy transformations
The messy middles
where the roads are windy and no end is in sight,
Yet we must continue...
Where life seems like quick sand
yet every moment is ages long
Where we want to find ourselves
Yet we find ourselves running away from self
Where we are bruised
Where hope and hopelessness stand diluted
Where love, trust and faith are continuously
threatened by betrayal, fear and loss
Where the eyes are wet
But we struggle to find what the wetness is about
Is it because how far we have progressed or coz we don't know how much more there is to go
Where the inner noise continuously shadows the silence of the wilderness
The messy middles that we must pass through coz
we are already far out of light in search of a newer light, where we are marching through dark
carefully observing and hopefully embracing
skittles got ambushed by slap happy griddles
bending and bowing, flexible in their middles
happy tea dunkers hung upside down from the piddles
consternated, I played six of my craziest fiddles
teacher was astounded; her name is McLiddles
orchestra complete, we thanked the musical griddles.
male woodland elf with your handsome smile
frolicking between oaks and maples
shimmering green and silver leaves with pride
hugging willow trees around their middles
leaving the purple violets wanting more
as fey as gnomes, faeries, and brownies
i sense you slipping in and out of the forest in silence
delighting in the mushrooms and the mosses
intriguing the innocence of the woods
playing your mesmerizing melodic flute
On an October afternoon
a breeze sweeps the land
a chill descends
under a cover of clouds.
Clouds linger in the sky
well into the day
a sense of doom
a passage of the season.
The season weighs upon me
a whisper of my many lives
memories of time
as I tell my stories.
My stories each possess
beginnings, middles, ends
all passages borne
on an October afternoon.
I like to start each day feeling safe and happy…
usually this leads to a grin
and the hope that my family and friends are also safe and happy
as their day is about to begin.
And I like to think them at least once every evening…
before another day slips away…
hoping they’re still safe and happy…
hoping they all had a good day.
I believe life is a series of beginnings and endings…
looming in the shadows like silhouettes…
every birth has its death,
every first note its last…
every sunrise has its sunset.
But as we experience beginnings and endings
I know this also is true…
most of our life is spent in the middle…
living between the two.
There is no doubt beginnings are important…
as are also those times we must bid adieu…
but I also believe it’s in those middles…
where all of our dreams come true.
So, for me, there is no better time than the beginning or the end of each day
to sit back
to reflect….
close my eyes…
and think of those times in between…
in the middle…
where happiness lies.
This is Football,
Rise Lay Fall,
Just have ball,
The game is more about the fitness,
Which is not one easy business,
Along with coordination, strength and stiffness,
You need willpower, patience and swiftness,
Drilling the ball with complete calmness,
Hoofing the ball shows you are fearless,
Chip shooting the ball over the opponent player head,
Dirty shoes clits , clothes drenched in sweat & Blood shed
This game can be played in sun, rain wearing tread,
Thrilling ,amazing is the bracing goal from the head,
The forward are like the hunters with a spearhead,
Middles are souls of the game who are dispread,
If the goalie misses the ball the team is dead,
Teams give’s best shot for chances thin as thread,
This game is very popular, enriching, fanatical and widespread.
What makes a poet?
I might be curious how the world function, but in that case
it is better to be a scientist or a cook, don’t underestimate,
when alone in the kitchen while the broth brew he does think
why some ingredients harmonise, or some do not.
Most of the time poets are sons and daughter of the upper- middles classes
with big gardens to dream about butterflies and beautiful flowers.
Of course, they have a connection to get published
and regarded as famous.
Poets of the minor league meet at poets gathering read their mediocrity
to an applauding audience, but they would instead write a novel.
A good poet does not bother with harmonious lines,
he wrestles with his inner self the good, the bad in his mind.
He will not be read of course, but he will still go on writing
I'll write of things lamentable like poor shipwrecked loves,
Tempest-tossed by bestial winds behind unfeeling storms;
Ripped apart by the furious middles of swift-gusting winds,
Voyaging to dream-born shores away from boring homes.
I'll tell of the Fate-shattered dreams of earth's surest bet.
Painting how those naive shoots untimely waterloos met,
Leaving tender footprints new on antiquity's fierce sands;
Blossoming stars offed by hard luck's experienced hands.
My verse will endeavor to weave history's accurate tales.
Parodying villainy within quiet complacency's stronghold,
Shaming eccentricities in black nooks by raw truth untold;
Inking sagest anecdotes that any finessed raconteur hails.
Of first-hand swills or soured affectations I will not write.
For the self-loving bard’s quill falters from black to white,
As he relives a narcissist's replica of alleged first-felt lots,
And his best tropes mimic mere ego-embellished reports.
I leave it to unaffected pens immune to self-patting twists,
To write of this modest scribe's little turns and weird gists.
The beginning of another Summer means the end of another Spring
and I wonder as with all transitions what this new beginning will bring…
And it makes me think about beginnings and endings
will this new beginning bring us joy…or strife
and it makes me wonder how beginnings and endings
fit into a life.
Life is a series of beginnings and endings
they loom in the shadows like silhouettes
Every birth has a death, every start has its finish,
every sunrise…its sunset
And though it’s true we experience beginning and endings
wherever we go and in whatever we choose to do
most of our life is spent in the middle
living between the two.
Certainly every beginning is important
as are the times we bid adieu
but isn’t it in the middles of our life
where most of our dreams come true?
So the next time you think about a beginning…
or an ending
take a moment
close your eyes…
and remember all that happened in between…
in the middle…
where our happiness lies…
Five Beginnings
“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next.”
Loveless, we sat down together to our evening meal.
It wasn’t until I collect by bag at the airport that I realised I didn’t love him anymore.
The fridge started to gurgle.
He let me stroke his hair, unlike my daughter who enjoyed my attention and touch.
with one of these Five Middles
He knew it as well as I did that we hadn’t laughed in a long, long time.
I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I just can’t wake to another day of the mundane.
“You really are the spitting image of him” I said, whilst straightening his tie and top button.
Bang.
Five years ago, I never would have predicted that this would have been my life.
could lead up to which of these Fives Endings?
I mean, the obituary in the newspaper didn’t even get the date that she died correct.
All was well now.
In hindsight, I just should not have said that I would.
He faltered, like a new born calf taking its first slippy steps.
“This is what it’s all been leading up to.”
Donning the fields
Where I've never been
Where I've never streaked
Like a reckless charge skating on dandelions,
Unbridled thrill and the promise
That happiness may not get louder than this
The sun and wind
My guests for the day
Taking it in
From the luxury suites
In the celestial rafters
Gracious for the burnt offerings, clemency and salvation
That my love provides
These visions preserve a flavor of sanity
Rare in the hallowed ground
Beneath my everyday feet
First blip, then trip
As the journey embarks
Lifted to frissons
That reside among the barley shafts
That play among silky hairs of the wind's coiffure
There
Joy never sleeps
Astonishment acts as espresso
To joy's susceptible veins
Filled with fascination and jitters
Suitable for adrenaline's best days
Horizons cease to exist
Depth perception erodes
When you are now as close as you are far away
Meaning starts and ends have no middles
The reason why you bothered at all.
(2/7/11)
March middles and meanders
while munching on mild marigolds and
meekly mumbling melancholy meanings
about the miserable maladies of
migraines from mostly grasses and pollens.
Meanwhile, mealy mouthed moguls
make monotone messages about
monopolies while meandering
around the metropolis, moving
morosely like mundane mensches.
Maybe a masseuse with a
mustard mustache could
manipulate and mop up the
madness that has multiplied
over this mixed up millennium.
Mostly, though, we must march and
move to mitigate the mad man monarchy
or make a mad dash to Monrovia!
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