in the quiet of a perfect evening,
i pray with a smile on my face for the first time in years
i have finally feeling light, merry, and bright, for i have shed each all remaining tears
the moon smiles at me through gentle flowing waters
magic in the form of a moderately chilly breeze uplifts me and my positive thoughts
the Christmas Spirit inspires a transformation
at the same time a Personal Reunion takes place
a sudden warmth consumes me in the form of Radiant Effervescence
the stars align as a sincerely friendly wave
the reassurance and its underlying guarantee makes me come out of my cave
i notice MySelf thinking about shopping for Christmas presents
i am imagining MySelf hanging stockings on nails in the wall with care
i find MySelf reminiscing about seasons past and the Comfort and Joy they brought
i see MySelf pouring out some eggnog for The Ones Who Made It All So
i free MySelf and Discover More New Vibes that i never thought i would Know
Impel discourse upon one and another,
the unseen veracity of ennui and weariness causes me to covertly smother. Appreciation and fascination moderately transpire,
humanity led solicitous to retire.
A bond have infrequently on any account been achieved,
unassertive alongside what intend to be believed.
Loneliness forge such enchantment
conflicted with despondency.
New Yorkers, in general, are very notorious
for walking way too fast, not moderately:
it's seen as an unpleasant remark;
tourists keep thinking to themselves,
" They're funny! " It's a stereotype they mock,
" Do New Yorkers ever rush to Central Park? "
An outsider asked a stern policeman,
" Why is everybody running? "
" Is the President coming? "
And the cop stared at him saying,
" You are an outsider, not so lean,
catch up to the marathon race:
they are rushing for the train:
they are going to their working place! "
And the shocked red-neck with a freckled,
peachy, round face grinningly replied,
" I never knew they raced like wild horses
to catch a train; we Southerners take our time,
and stress less, we play songs in our guitars
and drink lots of whiskey, we never walk a mile! "
How could the unamused officer take offence and contain his disdain...
when the naive dude offended every New Yorker?
His reply was a shock to the poor guy on naproxen,
" Run like them before I throw you in jail, or take the Southern Border! "
Note: No pun is intended, it's only to spike up some humor!
standing up in a class of fifty,
offering her answers, quite gently,
will the professor think she’s nifty,
or will he think of her differently,
she blushes, though she isn’t shifty,
discombobulation, incidentally,
answering, she mumbles – befuddled,
oh, no, her answers are muddled!
Walking home from class, gusts blow.
She feels her dress rise off her form,
Baring her rear, all red – she does glow,
Embarrassed as can be by the storm,
She hopes no one will see this show –
Oh, her cheeks do feel moderately warm,
Will anyone notice her mortification?
Her naked bottom brings quite a sensation.
when she reaches her destination, she finds,
not only was her bottom seen, but snapped,
by a sneaky camera, who always reminds –
those awkward moments, when unwrapped,
prompt the owner to turn shades of red in all kinds,
marking these days where there’s laughter to be kept,
so, at least, her embarrassment is a reflection,
often found in some comedian’s photo collection!
Here in our locus
as the sun rises first
not only heats
but evokes emotions...
There is the sun for everyone,
but there is also a particular sun
for every human being...
Burns strongly and heals...
For those who love him and are loved by him
It's a wonderful partnership...
For those who appreciate it moderately
it can be torture
all this heat...
night and wine
in the glass
near the evening
heart beats fast
head moves slowly
body dozes moderately
five windows
comes closer
each other
snowing building scattering
winds in the forest
blow
between these things
and me
winter sunset mixes
night and day
it is the sound of dropping water
it is from red handkerchief to white carpet
it is neither noisy nor calm
it is breaking a tree branches
it is a comforting peace
with the vision
wriggling seeds raise clean tops
without saying
not need words.
Slopes of light dry powder means a snowy week of fun -
Keeping very happy those who love to ski
In the moderately cold weather on a day when the sun
Is shining in the sky. Yes, on the slopes they’ll be -
Not inside their houses! With goggles, masks and helmets, they
Get going to their favorite spot geared up for snow-time play.
Jan. 20, 2023
For Julia Ward's Skiing Poetry Contest
i watch this kid write a simple poem today
just two days ago he was in a coma of a mysterious sort
here he is now laughing like nothing ever happened
his little heart is on green light now
concern has a wire hanger in the closet
i watch this little kid fly a kite on a windy, but moderately warm day today
just three days ago she had IVs like indecisive mazes unaware of movement or position
here she is now running carelessly with warm blood flowing freely
here little heart is on green light now
worry has a hook of immediacy in the mudroom
Cherish How Good You Have It.....
the steel thread is showing on 2 worn tires but the fire is still burning for one last run. just ain't no mo fun but i will make this last run, 96.5 that's good i can make this last run then re-group re-coup lay back have mo impact not cussin cause you think it sound cool when you know deep down this is your last run. pandemic taxed your energy reserve to where you never heard-never had such a stress test as this..but i will make this last run,you see my light feels my plight cause it's quite similar to yours, your plight and your light that is. shall i creep or leap or just moderately make this last run,all my pockets are filled with masks, ah red one ah green one a blue one and a yellow one for this one last run-and i will recover.
A liberal
Is moderately progressive
Believes in giving generously
Broadening the mind in a general way.
A liberal is not too strict and not too literal
Is tolerant and open-minded
Favors good reforms
Loves Liberty.
Fifteen years past
love swung down
from its candy-apple tree
and took hold of us both
by each ankle.
You wore high heels
like Cinderella,
they were uncomfortable
but were bedroom perfect.
The hotel was nothing fancy,
just glitzy enough.
Fifteen years on we are still alive,
old folks sickness notwithstanding,
all perfectly situated near
a local Hospital.
Fifteen years from here
we may be moderately wealthy.
I have seen the ‘moderately wealthy’
they often are not so ideal,
but
their financial cushions
are perfect.
Maybe we will be divorced or dead,
perhaps not even nearly wealthy;
our worn out cushions
wearing thin.
Every once in a while
perfection,
like a circle
comes back again to fluff-up
our hopes.
It’s good to be here
getting on each other’s nerves.
I mean if we were not here being so perfect
we might as well be at Walmart shopping for shoes
or something -
I dunno.
If i was a betiing man
I'd go all in and bet my
none exiting inheritance
That just as many people die
On perfect day's
As on the day's
Wishing they we're dead
The only difference, 2 fold being
The dead never get to speak or
tell about it when they get home
and a family member or loved
1 generally does ask
How was your day
Did you have a nice day my love
And surely no one wants to die
on a perfect day but rather when
life has you kneeling baying
for a mercy kill
To a place where everyone now is
equal and has to wait in turn as
no 1 gets to jump the que even those
once deemed rich and famous
and moderately successful
Better to be standing behind them
with nothing to declare but untold
debts and tales of persecution than
with a pocket full of ill gotten gain
and a C.V boasting a multitude of
awards and achievements
Apart from taking and never giving
back anything in return
When the hunted becomes a hunter
Surprising, it may seem
Unbelievable , it may look
It overwhelms the soul
Must I say more
When the victim becomes a victory
Anxiously, it may formulates
Unwired, it navigates
It conquers what meant to be done
Wiping the sweat from the face
When the story becomes a reality
Narrowly, it leads
Moderately, it progress
It matures as it grows
The writer writes until it cannot write no more
Mattress and roses
A great day in Cascais sunlit and moderately cold.
We are changing a mattress the new one was easy to handle
But the old was too heavy we need someone with
Arm muscles like Hercules and he was healthy.
I was thinking of getting a canary bird, let it fly around,
outside it would be killed by wild birds.
Resolved, the lair, angry disputes that were sealed with love.
Objectified as burrow were children didn’t enter.
Someone, homeless can sleep on it before it rains.
Eventually, the old mattress will end up in a landfilling-
Unlike Pegasus, they had magical horns,
now no unicorns are left
despite the lack of any government import bans.
It was a Christmas season In East London,
Tiny Tim and the fat goose had been killed off in distant wars,
the goose received the George Cross for gallantry
(posthumously),
and little crippled Tim was shot by us
for running away from a hail of bullets.
Mum and Dad had hidden in a cellar
while Unicorns died left and right;
they had given up on Christmas -
we just listened to it on the radio.
Back then it was a monochrome world,
and grey was as good as sunlight to us.
There were minstrel shows,
but people of any color were not allowed…
no one defined what ‘not allowed’ meant.
The Jews were blamed for the lack of Unicorns everywhere.
It was a time for reflection, and reconciliation,
a time to regroup the happy forces of Dickensian novels
and shove them in the faces of Unicorn deniers.
Later in that holy season, gay folks were invented,
we had to all stop being ‘gay’ or even moderately content,
but we kept our belief in unicorns’
in a typically English half-hearted way.
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