Alberto Nisman didn't know the danger he would enter
when he looked into the bombing of a Jewish center
He said president Christina was hiding the truth
he had the goods, would soon show the proof.
He was supposed to appear in Congress, but hours before
Somehow hitmen got by his door
He knew too much, so bad guys moved fast
If you let on what you know, next moment might be last.
Veronica Guerin reported on the Dublin crime scene
They had to kill her before the big clean.
She stopped at a traffic light, two bikers drew nigh
She knew she'd be shot, she knew she would die
She asked them not to shoot her in the face
So they shot her in some other place.
Jack knew secrets, but the mob didn't want death yet
So they punished him whenever he seemed a threat
He walked among you, but you could not see
The overarching underworld reality.
So beware the secrets that you've found,
Even heroes may not leave the battleground.
For truth’s a boomerang—when it comes back around,
Your message may die with you, six feet underground.
A rock as hard as granite,
Yet a pebble in the flow of life.
All shapes and sizes come and tumble by.
Satisfaction and contentment when alone
To ponder and digest the information of the day.
The soul becomes restless.
Wanting to be free; to wander and explore,
Yet imperfections impede the progress fully.
Thus, searches for a match of worth with passersby.
A masquerade it must have been
To think of finding thy mate.
Mated to one with endless, jagged, and pointy flaws
Who hurt your worth… abate.
Stuck fast in the present;
Too long you’ve settled in.
Groomed by deceit and lies
Has weathered the shape.
Yet an explosion from a hoof of fate,
Dislodges in a cloud of sand and muck.
To be free once more
Down the stream of life.
When indecision drops on by,
No matter how I want to try
To move ahead, I find that I
Am absolutely stuck.
Though getting out is my desire,
Circumstances will conspire,
Trapping me within the mire,
To wallow in the muck.
Plans and changes don’t get made;
Forward motion is delayed,
All because I’m too afraid
And lack the needed pluck.
Better, then, to just remain
With things in place and thus refrain
From choices that will make it plain
Why critics choose to cluck.
One day in lonely alleyway
a stranger sauntered with a sway
Among the stash of smelly trash
laid a framed canvas smeared with ash.
Looking at it he had a hunch
that the thing might be worth a bunch
so, he took it to an art shop
next to the old, battered bus stop.
With gentle care, the artist brushed
as stranger looked intent and hushed.
The dislodged ash revealed a trace
which proved to be a father’s face.
When the restorer’s work was done,
the pair beheld with faces stunned
the father looking at his son
with a forgiveness heaven-spun.
The painting was a masterpiece
the kind that’s lent on short-term lease
or sold at auction for a price
set high the wealthy to entice.
The muck diminished not its worth,
priceless it was though smeared by earth.
A parable of human life
besmirched by sin, sullied by strife.
Judge not a soul by outward look,
as some are wont to do a book.
Human life is of matchless worth,
because of God who gave them birth.
They pity us.
Mmmm… I pity them.
Think we need their condescending views because they are so in love with themselves?
They pity us because we don’t own the stock. We chose not to carry on the bloodline and somehow it’s all ‘what we’ve not got’!!
They pity us because we’re still in love.
Still together after all these years and happy to spend our free time together as one.
Let them pity us, let them talk their muck.
If they can’t see how much we’re together in love let them scoff at us.
I pity them, for their attention needs. Their trapped, little traditional souls and their me, me, mees!
If they can’t see that this is what we chose why should I care about them?
They live their lives through their kids, they don’t live for themselves.
They never moved off the straight line to get lost in the curves. They can’t stand on their own feet and face up to all the their hurts.
They pity us, I pity them.
Let them live their lives always measuring up to someone else.
Never finding the inner peace to be happy within oneself. Their little labelled needs, their little labelled selves.
Spring is here and temperatures rise
Sludged path—tanks go to their demise
And with the realization of risk
An army marched so sure and brisk
Nature wins, not a soldier’s surprise
Tug a bit on earthly muck, shakes us all;
Hell's murkiness makes the eternal fall.
Pick up pure mud, feel its wonder and awe.
Our cosmos burns but organics are rare;
though carbon abounds, exists everywhere.
Light springs into life, if water is there!
Grab damp dark soil, same stuff in a flower.
Musing trite thoughts drains our mental power,
try to wake before your faint final hour.
Some sculpt Buddha's fingers touching the earth,
always connecting to soil has true worth.
From the moist muck comes all life and rebirth.
Our world will rock us asleep and awake;
ups and downs, storms and quakes, for goodness sake.
Accepting all flaws, what will we forsake?
Monorhyme in tercets 15 lines 114 words
Inspired by John Milton's Paradise Lost,
Astrophysics and Buddhist philosophy
This old man went to heaven in frail frame
With earthly waste bulged the belly became
Couldn’t long keep closed the outlet
Rushed to the astral toilet
Flushed water returned muck wherefrom it came.
October 19, 2021
Syllable count : 10/10/7/7/10 (HMS)
Contest : The Throne In Heaven
Sponsor : Jack Webster
Through the thick of the fog
I begged to the bog
stumped by a stymied log.
It was hollow of pride,
like a zookeeper’s dog,
reduced to bark-less hide.
From the splat of my thud
It wore polka-spot mud
and rolled just because
It knew what It was
to snap unjustified.
So what could I do
but prove what It knew
with another attack
on the cripple I threw?
If cracking my back
playing fetch in the muck
was the point of It all - I’m stuck.
12/11/2018
What say you when a pig bathe in a muddy muck?
When he rolls merrily like 'tis panacea to his strain?
Don't you gawk at the amazing shuck
Could be to you 'tis a flaunt to his inert brain.
But how honey he embraces the muck-
When the sizzling lust for food slaps!
'Tis where he tanks up the lack
'Tis a divan for his daily naps
He rolls in it with sheer fun and joy,
Swaps spit with inner pathogens
To him's as sweet as the delicacy of soy
And dirt seems excite no antigens
But fools we the lookers
Who hate the act but love the actor
We're the daytime chaplains an' night's hookers
Musing the worthier and fudging the obvious factor
Don't we rear 'em and keep them?
And butcher 'em for pork?
And for sale don't we adulate 'em like gem?
Then why dub 'em berk?
With us is the knowledge and power-
To keep and care for these pigs
We can give 'em genial scour
And see 'em as moral prigs
NB: Exclusively for pig lovers.
Try to understand the natural meaning of this poem
tiny muck color
just little bit for bedding
in autumn season
Higgs was a hockey player built like a truck
he was mean, obscene, and had plenty of pluck.
Other players called him Klutz
declaring they hated his guts
thus he advised them he didn't give a puck.
An anagram of my name...
Small are the treasures secretly found
Hidden in the muckiest of grounds
Forgotten for many hundreds of years
Stolen treasure, he hungrily leers
The crumbling man we shall condemn
The ancient tale of Muck Beadier Gem
Emma Buckeridge
7th place win
Old Bob’s on his tractor
He’s out spreading muck
I’m hoping and praying
That with any luck
The winds going to change
Which is all very well
Because somebody else
Will get stuck with the smell
The Muck of Life
Wallowing in muck
Brings delight into life’s plight.
If you say, “Oink. Oink!
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 16, 2010
Poetic form: Senryu
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