We learnt not to cry
keep hearts guarded under sleeves
eyes learn not to spill
for solace comes at a cost
when feelings are best unsaid.
Body knows the truth
eyes brim before we know why
throat clenches; words choke
we blink hard and turn away
buying time to face ourselves.
Tears can blur the truth
joy and grief can look alike
eyes speak without words
strangers may misread their cause
even we may not know why.
Tears swell against walls
the guarded well spills over
there's no calling back
buried cracks burst wide open
bringing the whole dam wall down.
The years taught restraint
stand firm and hold back the flood
with courage and will
hiding where the cracks may lie
release is revelation.
The crimson canopy bleeds out its light,
to clear the stage for an eternal night.
We misread beauty in the dying leaf,
a gilded cover for a timeless grief.
For every joy is a borrowed loan,
and autumn reaps, to turn earth to stone.
The twilight deepens, cold and unappeased,
as life surrenders to a slow disease.
No sanctuary stands against the frost,
which counts the tally of the loved and lost.
The heavy fog absorbs the last faint ray,
and suffocates the memory of day.
The branches reach like skeletal despair,
to pull the pitch-black sky into the air.
Whatever shined was merely an illusion,
a brief distraction from the dark’s intrusion.
The final ember drops into the deep;
the void reclaims the promises we keep.
So let the shadows drink the remaining red,
for all things good belong among the dead.
On Saturday afternoons long ago, when cartoons faded from the TV’s glow
A teenager earned a modest pittance, to finish the week with his remittance
From coins for cans and chores to do, the basement became the work place too
A weekly ritual dust and sweep, and memories were polished for us to keep
Years rolled on yet still there lies, a wooden shelf with the writing of “pizza flies”
A phrase half-lost, a family thread, echoing something once misread
From allowance paid to words unclear, the past returns as I sit here
In chores, in jokes, we had a good time, it’s these small moments of which I write
A soul that's hungry and never well-fed,
is always searching for something much greater,
a great love whose meaning is ne'er misread,
or destiny whose time arrives much later.
In God and thee I find a hopeful fate,
a future that restores a quiet grace,
and moments in time's endless, flowing state;
where I embrace your beauty's radiant face.
But if the heavens and the stars above,
and all the world were drowned in seas of gloom,
my lines still live forever in thee, my love,
beyond end of days, beyond even doom!
If love transcends all seasons and all times,
then your spring lives on in all of my rhymes.
July.
cold tightening
around fabric.
cotton clenched,
twisted like creekwater
seized by frost.
white cloth waits
for its undoing.
dye seeps
slowly—
like mist on the ranges,
like breath
through the fold.
indigo first,
deep as a billabong shadow.
then iron-rust,
red ochre,
the colour of dust
after the heat.
then wattle-yellow,
sudden sun
in the gathered valleys.
each knot holds a silence.
each seam marks a boundary.
colour works through it.
outside,
paddocks are stiff in the morning.
frost sketches brittle lines
across fencewire and spider web.
inside,
the cloth will not hold still.
it runs.
it fractures.
it remembers heat.
hands stain
like earth after rain,
like bark at dusk,
like something living
pressed briefly
into human shape.
unwind—
and the fabric is no longer fabric,
but aftermath:
rings like seasons misread,
threads like thaw beginning,
a map of stain and release,
winter stored in cloth.
July loosens.
not the land—
not yet—
but here,
in this small storm
of colour,
winter breaks
into circles of fire.
Now!
kiss me
when the sun
sleeps under cover
of evening hills. Where
soft sheets shroud our sight,
yet letting our feelings softly in.
Within our blanket bivouac, we are
buffered from the bustling world. Trusting
only touch to slip through the covering cloth,
silencing lying eyes. Eyes surrender gladly, leaving
fingers to trace forgotten pathways. Our skin remembers
what hasty eyes brushed aside in passing. Forgotten now are
smiles, frowns, and doubts once misread by sight. Kiss me now -
while the sun sleeps beneath our veiled skies. Kiss me through cloth-
to feel what eyes forget, forgo, let go, without the joyous sense of touch.
(murder mystery or not? In Senryus)
She wore red lipstick,
so their first kiss would be like
classic cinema.
She got it on his
clothes, in case he was, you know,
married or something
“If I were rich I’d
collect beautiful things like
you.” (he'd said.. awkward?)
Her silence was the
most articulate thing that
he’d misread, so far.
He said “you’re so real,”
she thought, “Ok, I’m seen, he gets
that I am alive.”
She’d archived his chats
like something that might be proof
of a crime someday
.
.
A song for this:
work by no na
Did I hear what you said
or have I misread?
Is your heart filled with dread,
worried about troubles ahead,
lying sleepless in your bed?
Don't worry your little head.
Instead,
find hope through love you spread.
I call this poem,
K...
Nothing that I have projected has made you come around, by this time all that I've invested, it is in you my heart is bound.
I remember that very moment, it was our first rendezvous, I was so very nervous to have finally encountered you.
I ask myself was it all just pretend, for him to make love to me, then never acknowledge me again.
I couldn't understand what it was that I had or hadn't done, Did I do something wrong causing him to run.
I've tried to forget you like you have clearly done to me, I tried really hard to think it all as just make believe.
I am invisible to him and it was easy so it seems, not once has he even tried to look at me.
You misread the intentions, you didn't even want to try, now I'm left with this void inside and no explanation why.
Really, how could you do this? You've filled my head with gloom. For it is not only me in there, my every thought you have consumed.
The land lies sick.
Its fever rages, but diagnosis wrong-
misread by hands that lie.
Cure the disease
at its poisoned root.
Let the tainted flow be purified,
then watch it rise.
No balm can soothe
till graft's stain is purged.
Purge the venom first -
free her from corruption's grip.
Am I that deserving of your sharp tongue
At the end of every spring that sprung
Everyday troubles that effect you
End up turning everyone red then blue
The cruel words that leave your mouth
Makes everyone’s mood turn south
The constant struggle that you face
Becomes everyone’s fight to embrace
The games playing inside your head
Are only the games can be misread
When your moods sinks lower
I will be with you alongside bipolar
Me and that will work together
We will try and ground you with a tether
Always there to listen and pray
To help you through another day
Standing side by side
With hope and pride
Until this episode is over
And your mind has closure
AI's and the future
On YouTube, Elon Musk was pontificating about
The future of AI, yes, I agree with some parts of his lecture
One thing is clear: AI in the form of robots can be helpful
But we must resist the idea that AI takes power
humanity most always comes first, and not an artificial construct
We, humans, are real; we have a mind, we have compassion
and love in our hearts
Art in all its forms springs from the human, be it in novels
painting or poetry, an AI can only pretend it knows
I read once on X, E. M. had a negative view of compassion
I must have misread. Why else would he offer to help
The victims of Epstein, other than compassion.
Another point that has been overlooked is about
human dignity if we sense that we will destroy those
Robots, with no intelligence, cannot beat human anger
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was an ostrich named Stu,
Whose face made the emus say "Ew!"
But he'd wink and would coo,
Darling, I choose you~
Till a kick proved he'd misread the queue.
There's nothing I can write
won't be misunderstood
won't be misread
won't be misconstrued
nothing I can scribe
won't be misinterpreted
and nothing I can pen
won't be pooh-poohed.
'Write what you know,'
Mark Twain proposed,
or so
his saying goes
and,
as of the reader I know nothing
nor what the reader knows,
if
I'm not mistaken,
from now on
with such wisdom,
call it 'insight',
when I think of, 'Nothing,'
for the foresaid reader,
'Nothing,' I shall write.
Oh Range Sheep drift in orange haze
Oh Range Sheep stumble through the maze
Oh Range Sheep clap while reason bleeds
Oh Range Sheep batter fractured creeds
Oh Range Man hisses a serpent’s dance
Oh Range Sheep swallow illusion’s trance
Oh Range Sheep crown the fire-haired ghost
Oh Range Sheep howl at wisdom’s roast
Oh Range Sheep repost the storm’s command
Oh Range Sheep march where logic is banned
Oh Range Sheep misread fear as spite
Oh Range Sheep mistake the dark for light
Oh Range Sheep stomp where echoes pray
Oh Range Sheep scrape the truth away
Oh Range Sheep roar as reason dissolves
Oh Range Sheep cheer as the lie revolves
Oh Range Sheep tend to stay in their lanes
Oh Range Sheep chant while the world wanes
Oh Range Sheep cling to the plague of flame
Oh Range Sheep flee the mirror’s blame
Oh Range Sheep vote for shadows’ feast
Oh Range Sheep watch reasoning cease
Oh Range Man pontificates
Oh Range Sheep stagnates
Oh Range Man grins with sin
Oh Range Sheep never win
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