Implying worldly men and women though animalia is a tipper of cunning heroes or perhaps the lie is before this, simple birdhouse moil in the clouds and send free birds like cloak and dagger eagle prowl, and absolve the saints of tired eyes, and let's look into the snowglobe marble in the summer for a festive wintery surprise.
Endings like happily ever after must empty the vessel before the cauldron is filled, moil the foiled plot double the witches brew, constable the open air, and ensure the grasses are hewn, the total is specially K and especially after the first wave which thwarts this the souix marble, and underlings parlay.
Back and forth I climb the mountain
Up and down I go just like a fountain
I sweat in toil
I grind and moil
Back and forth I ascend the mountain
Winter February finalises,
his tenure o'er, so oft unkind,
let Winter withdraw with firm good-bye.
Hence I eager look to milder clime.
Comes March, thus inclined to breezy moil,
tulips and head held high daffodils
Springs blossom bud borne on once bare boughs
whence sleeping floras grateful hues rouse,
precedes, mostly mellow, April’s charm,
softened through sporadic showers calm,
thence to May: unfolds green fragrant warmth,
blossoms in full array, Springs dances done,
the unspoken vow that Summer comes.
Renewal, regrowth, light airs of love,
reflect on resurrection of the Lord.
Rebirth found in flowers, birds, the lamb,
as day extends as nights hold, duly falls,
Oh, Spring, how you ease me to Summer's call.
To Spring 23rd February 2021
©Michael C Crowder @scorsby
She always struck me as the sadder man
who smiled against the sudder
When all along her spirits moil
were not enough to to udder
That all she seemed to tell herself
was ball along half manned
When all she seemed to love herself
was from an inside stand
That only she could think that way
for work to claim her hand
When only she could be dismayed
for us to understand
That only cure for love's disease
would make a young heart play
When all along her love for man
was from a heart of clay
I Almost drowned,
which is to say,
I fell upwards into a darkness
that contained no earth or sky.
Ten years old and a strong swimmer,
but that lake only buoyed up
its own natatory denizens,
it allowed some to swim,
some to glide, dip or delve,
but it consumes skinny 10-year-old kids;
that being the cloud spawn of an alien shore,
must be dragged down and chewed,
like the pale moons reflection.
The muddy waters are one creature,
a sucking swirl, a single stomach,
it throttles, it snags with cuffing weeds,
clogs with the intestines
of convulsive ghosts.
I am drowning,
then they pierce that lusus naturae
with a long pole thrust from a skiff;
yank me out of its crushing press
like bait from a basilisks reeking maw.
Years later I still awake
from that heaving ‘lac sombre’,
an infection of the imagination
I’ve been harboring parasitically
inside the moil of engulfing dreams.
Perhaps incongruously,
it takes some time before I will enter rooms
with too high a ceiling.
is you cute?
or is you mute?
they like when you mute
drowning in a salty pool and all your sugar dilute
a grin they never wanna see on your face
a sad clown they wanna paint on your face
fueling your energy with anger hoping you lose the race
when you crystal clear they try and try to darken your place
afraid that you might be a star tomorrow
they buy jealous for you whist when they broke love is what you borrow
a paper they treat you like
when it's rainy is when they leave your life
leaving you tearing
believing you fearing
a rainbow appears after a storm
the beauty that keeps you warm
though the crown gets heavy
head up never hesitate to carry
seeds germinate deep in the soil
where darkness and pressure rules remain moil
break open and liberate your leaves
while they thinking of how to steal your gold like thieves
be your own gardener
water yourself to be sweetener
with the late hours
do not hate showers
collate flowers
and collect powers
words golden spoken
words embolden as token
you're art
don't let them speak for your heart
Toil
Don’t moil,
Try to foil
Each odd and obstacle
Stand in front of you to coil.
Loss runs so far and fast like a crook
we stay as one and sure let no wrong
the win was just at the tip of our hook
we grab it in joy and hit the gong
pads and a fine boat wait on the brook
also, we can swim to make the fun long
toil and moil, here is the end of the cook
now is the time for all to sing the song
the cure lies at the end with full permit
we work, we got it and now we emit
we look down to see all from the summit
in time and in full, we have paid the fee
as we take each bite from the pin and the bee
to take us to the city all can see.
He manages me with fiery eyes
Though my working is excellent
I toil and moil under severe working conditions
But pays me a little with delays
Early at the dawn to the sunset
I work through a gazillion of your works
Including washing your dirty underpant
My boss,you're enigmatic,I wish to know your feelings
It's no secret again that am leaving
Leaving,even without a notice on your table
Because I've no wages in my pocket,so am crying
Am backing to the ghetto,and one day I'll be able
Nobody knows tommorow my boss
Only God but He has it concealed
Nobody knows tommorow,I might be your boss!
But I won't be vengeful to you at my field.
At first we seemed to slope
Low and low, I thought we could drop
Then snaking through the hills, we
rose
And I imagined the valleys could close
Yes! This was the land of awe
I peered through the windows and
saw
The hills resembled a big cat’s raised
paw
Indeed they made the terrains afar a
desire
For mine eyes couldn’t stop but
admire
Yes! This was the land of awe
The plantains darted everywhere in
joy
Dancing beneath seemed the
cassava’s ploy
Were they seeing the glint in my
eyes?
Their response was such a dice!
Yes! This was the land of awe
Then palm trees in rows as folds in a
foil
I could smell the richness of the soil
And left to dreamily savor its oil
Pondering on the folk’s toil and moil
Yes! This was the land of awe
As the city drew nigh
Mine being lit with a sigh
At the thought of meeting with the
women and men
That walked majestically along the
streets and down the lane
For indeed, this was the land of awe!
(A Trip to Bujumbura, Burundi)
Thoughtfully I gaze
Far beyond the sun’s glaze
I wonder what behind there lay
Or even how it knew the way
That tirelessly each passing day
Moves the sun, brazenly!
The rays hit the earth in beams
And warm even the waters of the
streams
Then the ants come out in teams
In search of their daily meal
It dawns to me; a Savior has the seal
To cater for all those who have no
deal!
The worms glide in the soil
I wonder if they toil and moil
To fill their tiny bodies with oil
Or with food and gruel
Then I remember; the Savior isn’t
cruel
But blazes with care like burnt fuel!
I see the oaks sway with joy
Their trunks so enormous like a fat
boy
I wonder the number of years they
have to grow
Why so much they endure the heat
and snow
Then I learn; that the Savior makes
them hard
For the purposes that none other can
gird!
It is a nagging subject,
this quest within the mind
to reach beyond the self to
that great universal churning
of the truth-- unfolding rays of light
we may not quite depend upon, yet
praise. It does not go away.
One may be thankful. Truth
has a way of coming back.
Another self, autonomous, may then
step up, select a gleam, do with it
as the will dictates, and toss it in.
Caution! The cauldron seethes;
belief is on the dock, tender, foetal,
vulnerable to scrutiny--not yet
worthy of the eyes of time.
It may still moil an instant
(or millenium) emerging as
an honored tool, or ignominious,
lost, unworthy, slipping
quietly away as it is found.
There you have it, an elusive servant
but our single hope of nurture
for an ever infant cry that resonates
throughout the ages:
Tell me why.
~
When would you change?
Change for better,
And stop saying after.
It will not make better,
Your life is in bitter.
Your father is at the farm toil and moil,
Working so hard to break the soil.
Every job you dodge away,
Everything you term it as a play.
When would he enjoy overtime?
All your life is playing game.
Nothing will make you cope,
All you life is hope.
You are insatiable,
Without any responsible.
All the good things you like,
But life is full of fake.
Living in allusion,
Without any mission.
When would you change?
Change for better,
And stop saying after.
It will not make better,
You life is in bitter.
You never read letter,
Hope you shatter,
Peace you scatter,
Depend on your brother.
Blaming your mother,
For not giving you money,
To make the journey.
When would you change?
Change for better,
And stop saying after.
It will not make better,
Your life is in bitter.
You have to start now,
Never let your parent down.
Time is gone,
What have you done?
What have you get?
But only regret.
By P.Bah
Waiting ,waaaaaiting !!!
2 or 3 decades
or generations i'm ?
what ? , where,? here
i'm an egg in suspension
life in apprehension
waiting , waitng ,
at last
an explosive surge
a thousand sperm speed past
one to stop at last
which one fer us
to make a fuss
is not my choice
as i have no voice
or mind
only a future path
for
u t me o r us
cells to multiply
at last
dna to guide the way
some to go
and some to stay
all with messages replete
a new being to create
corny !!!! w i p
several ancient dna's
blended in a sack
to make a jill or jack
a face a race
a perfect creation
a design , imperfect
with unlimited
asperations
and limitations
a messenger
of future generations
bright and new
tall or short
blond or black
in every hue
of a human brew
waiting in gestation
for the culmination ,
expelation and approbation
a boy! a girl
entering the moil
a future to unfurl unfoil
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