When faced with monsters
The inner universe in me
Opens up its portals
And plays for me
Ethereal sounds
Engulfing me in waves
So huge, so rogue
That my soul gets immersed
In a world where there exists
Only me and my God
Engaged in endless games of love!
When I am faced with monsters,
The skies refuse to turn dark,
Rather, they sparkle with silvery hues
And echo of songs
Sung by celestial beings
All caring solely for the wellbeing
Of Earth and its many children
Who, like me, cannot care about
The gruesome sight of monsters
And when those monsters pounce
My guardian angel mutters spells
And annihilate the very minute particles
Of monsters, who are never meant to be seen
In the arena of Existence again
For monsters
Have not their place in a realm which
Is meant to be replica of the garden
Where God Himself resides!
*the full title is: Is It Art? (Something Higher than the Apparent) - Ode to Rudyard Kipling.
A Trickster mutters at it all:
"These pretty shapes from muck and clay,
And the sounds they bellow out,
Is any of it anymore than the shout,
Of a wounded bird?"
"And the politic, and the reason,
And the science, and all religion,
Is it ever anymore than the shout,
Of some triumphant lizard?"
"And when they mass and they mob
In armies like leviathan
Is it really anymore, than
A peacock in display?"
"And as they hunt and they harvest
In the field, is there any reason higher
Than, the ant hill crawling 'cross
The forest floor?"
"And why is it I will weep, as the mother
Coo's a babe back to sleep?"
. . . *i had to place the full title in the body of the poem because the title uses 3 different special characters not allowed in the title field.
Hard not to love Dylan Thomas’s tall tales
Each gloomy day may just tip those scales
Sends you off the rails when all else fails
Dilly dally schoolboys get cat of nine tails
Go doolally rally in the valley hard as nails
Don't cuss no faff or fuss for us Taff males
Knew along with a fair few Cymru crew's hue
Shared view that no where else has in spades
Cascades of so many gloriously grey shades
Dylan boozy villain mutters hip hop hooray
Gusts bluster beneath his sails on his travails
Trooping way this colour can't be kept at bay
Muster bulbous tinted voluptuous glinted bales
Proudly ride loudly in the night on his coattails
Very fond of merry vagabond's beyond the pales
Hail the true Withnail's escapades made in Wales
Don't harangue pang for meringue gang at play
Not a gimmick pray clouds don't go away hold sway
Rollick then frolic & fossick.. a limerick for any day
Outdoor foray adore bucolic score kaleidoscopic GREY
She’s up at dawn binoculars raised
Surveying lawns like crimes unfazed
A rogue petunia out of line
She files a claim by 8:09
A car she doesn’t recognize
Becomes a case she must analyze
Stolen she mutters pacing slow
She’s texting the board before they know
If someone grills past quiet time
She drafts a message crisp and primed
Attachments timestamps photos too
Her self-proclaimed duty through and through
She’s judge and jury of the street
A self-appointed rules elite
No porch too cluttered hedge too tall
No harmless fun too small to stall
The neighbors begrudgingly grit their teeth
When she reports a wreath beneath
The approved specs for seasonal décor
They’ve learned to keep an eye on their door
Not a board member but eager to enforce
She guards the HOA’s covenant with a nosy force
A watchdog? Maybe A pest? Perhaps
Forever wasting her days setting petty traps
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One paw
on frozen bark,
he stares
at his empty cache~
acorn thefts long spent.
Freakin' wintertime he mutters,
fluffing fur
against the wind,
while snow
laughs
back in silence.
A kingdom of buried treasure,
and not a dang thing to chew.
What’s a squirrel to do?
A hoarse whisper, at 2.49 a.m.
"It's over-it's over- it's-"
There, he is,
in his dark bedroom,
eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.
Fists clenched with sheets, and nails sunk to the skin.
He mutters it, to the locked bedroom door,
as if it's someone who's listening
to his confession, sorrow.
2.50 it is.
A tear, dull and frozen,
falls from his left eye,
just to land on his shaking upper lip.
"It's over- it's over- it's-"
his hair, wet with sweat,
voice rasp with dread,
with a broken throat and a heart,
he mutters the same,
again and again,
in same pain,
same tone,
to the same silent wall.
His over bitten lip,
now glistening in red.
Iron and salt,
mixed in pain.
He feels it.
He cries, finally....
There, 2.55, sleep is crawling,
not a fitful one, shaking, he falls asleep.
3.00 a.m. it is.
DANG!-the alarm..
He wakes up, again.
Just to begin another day of hiding the suffering,
and suffering from hiding.
In another part of the city,
Where I never ever go,
The streets were far from pretty
And much worse that you might know.
The poverty was glaring,
The folks down at their heels
And, although I wasn’t staring,
They were burdened by ordeals.
Some were sprawled out in the gutters;
Others shuffled slowly by.
Though I couldn’t hear their mutters,
I could see the reasons why.
From my neighborhood, two miles
Is the distance, I would say,
Which holds separate all their trials
And keeps fear of that at bay.
Wee Willy Winky creeps about the town
Into children’s bedrooms he’ll be peeking.
Sometimes if he finds an open window,
into that child’s room he will go sneaking.
He fancies himself a Sandman.
But nothing like the Sandman is he.
No peace does he bring the sleepless kid
as he creeps about in hours that are wee.
He sprinkles no sand into sleepy eyes,
but he slides like a ninja beneath a child's bed,
then mutters low sounds that he thinks are soothing,
but he frightens most children instead!
“Go to sleep; go to sleep,” he sometimes whispers.
Children who hear this are filled with fear.
Too terrified are they to leave their bed.
They think that the boogeyman must be near.
Wee Willy Winky, you do nobody good
as you creep all around in your nightgown.
Some of those you visit get PTSD.
You ought to be jailed and banished from town.
Ala-Ka-Zammm
There Once Was A
Palm Reader Who
Took Her Hands To
The Mooon!
Per-lang-guh-lang
Dang-ding Digie-Dong
A-Dang-Doong.
One Light Side
One Dark Side
Now Both Palms
At Once, In Her
Divine Magic Hands!
She Held Chance
Made It Dance!
To Whatever
Weeping Willow
Wanton Whispering
Whip-poor-whill's…
Wood Will.
Solid Will.
But Here, Oh Earthly
Mutters…
Curving Palms…
Carving Whims…
With
Her
Whimsy
Well
Distracted…
With-In A Luna Kalla-Ka-Zooom!
-Gray Squirrel
08-17-2025
See that clown going around town,
with his big floppy shoes,
an orange wig,
a red nose so bright,
a haunting laugh.
He pulls a rabbit from a hat,
making everyone laugh.
A balloon dog walks like a puppet
into the arms of a little boy—
squealing with delight and fright,
he runs off with his new friend under his arm.
The clown looks around.
Mascara runs down his face.
A big splash—a heavy tear—
falls to the ground,
opening a tidal wave,
a puddle growing around his feet.
The smile becomes a frown.
The love of his life,
his Earth Angel, is now an angel—
watching from above.
He wipes his tears and mutters,
“This angel is for you.”
And lets go of the string.
An angel with a halo
rises—up, up, and up—
engulfed in big, fat white clouds.
A distant memory
brings a tiny smile.
See that clown going around town,
with his big floppy shoes,
an orange wig,
a red nose so bright,
a haunting laugh…
The clown of an angel,
living in heaven.
"You left footprints on my heart that can never be erased." - Unknown
****************************************************************
Loss of a Pearl
In the dim SHADOW of moonlight
She MUTTERS her wrath in sorrow
As she looks for her rare JEWEL
Called up to the GATE of heaven
In the very prime of his youth:
Who can restore such a jewel!
Who can console such a mother!
"a breezy yet comfortable autumn day...ah, so lovely!" - quote by poet.
his eyes flutter shut a fistful of minutes,
a much welcome respite into himself.
he sits in the shadow of a jacaranda tree.
as he listens to the mutters of dry foliage,
a lone nightingale - nature's crown jewel -
cheerfully tweets sonorous melodies for him;
it's as if he's entered heaven's gate.
My souls mutters in the muteness;
"Is my melancholy more melancholic than yours?"
I gaze across a bridge,
wondering which stream flows to you,
as nobody understands how
in the definition of lament,
I am a piano without a pianist
and you a harp without strings.
My heart is a weeping willow
within a godforsaken garden.
As the last blossom decays,
the image of you is fading,
resembling fallen leaves on soggy ground.
I don't belong in this numbness,
nor know how to explain why
my voice is lost in the vastness
of valleys without endless echoes.
I've forgotten what I wanted to say,
attempting to escape this maze of sorrow -
yet your words reverberate without resistance.
Pondering if your spirit will guide
me from this uncertain terrain,
I'm distracted by the silent hum of grief.
It hurts like an eerie lullaby,
unable to soothe the stillness of your ghost.
As silhouettes disappear in the dimming light,
I protect a fragile flame in your remembrance,
before withered leaves fade into ash.
WINTER, SPRING, SUMMER, AUTUMN
- Suddenly, I awoke,
To the touch and feel of his able hands,
I rose to see a light burning ever,
Neither hot to smolder
nor cold to bother.
Suddenly I approached,
To the ray of light akin to his fable lies,
I felt the despair across the flowing waters,
A sign that mutters
O`what! starts a winter.
- Shedding along the path I tread,
I left behind every pain I dread,
Blowing against me; leaves of cherry blossoms,
Singing with me; birds who breath rebirth,
Seeking to find peace with every step,
In nature's arms I regress.
- I stood afront a lonely road,
Chasing after a dreamy boat,
I caught a smile that would not dim,
Spinning and shining on everyone and thing,
Like a sun whose rays illuminate,
I hoped to be a vacuum in which it radiates.
Life is fun with one so dear,
How beautiful could she get?,
Her dutchess sway and elegant glare,
Keeps my heart in evermore cheer.
- In the blink of an eye,
Everything gone,
In the cold of the night,
Wishes went undone.
Handing me his laptop
my older brother Ray says:
“Hey, look at this!”
The screen goes black
so he mutters:
“What'd y'do now?
Here, give it back.”
He fiddles with something.
My back hears his cold hint from the door -
“Just look at the picture,
DON'T touch the screen.”
But…
I’ve walked away without a word,
thereby leaving his put-down
where it belongs
in his lap.
Took me a long time to learn
I don’t have to listen
to arrogance or condescension.
I’ve learned to put down put-downs
with ease.
Why wait for the name-calling like
"Ignoramus!" Just ignore Ray.
I quietly close the door.
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