As with my first and last nom
This stanza has no 2nd vow'l.
A bit of a mind whirl to omit it
You could go crazy and howl...
It's difficult to think of words
On spot without it.
But you and I can accomplish this.
Don't doubt it!
Voilà! Does this qualify for a task that hooks?
It's not as straight forward as it first looks!
I want to fold myself into nothing.
Like a tiny origami crane that flies too close to the sunset and it burns up.
Ashes falling to the sea.
I'd love to be forgotten like so many shipwrecks beneath the water.
Omit me from any story I have touched, and let me be done.
Let the last time my name is vocalized be at my funeral.
Silence in the pews that sit so empty. Haunted by the ghosts of past- wounds constantly ripped open once more.
Let me be abandoned like so many times before, surely evolution will work out the pain of a heart breaking.
To feel nothing.
To be nothing.
It is how I have always existed.
------------The Sonic Signature--------------------------
Baritones Sweet Tooth Get's him in trouble
with his Mezzo Soprano Lady Friend
------------------------------------------------------------
He flirts with the Alto not knowing she is freind to the Soprano
who is angry due to his cheating.
------------------------------------------------------------
24 strawberries
melted white chocolate
melted dark chocolate
pistachios crumbs
golden oreo crumbs
whipped cream fused with
coconut rum
don't omit the mascarpone
roll sugar cookie dough into 7 inch long by
2 inch wide oval end shaped cookies
bake until golden and cool.
wash and clean
dress strawberries
dip in either chocolate the tops
coat with either nut or cookie crumbs
skewer 6 alternating between white and dark chocolate
set atop oval shaped cookie
decorate with whipped cream
sprinkle coca attop
serve with coffoe
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
You're awaiting the next minute
Precariously
The Now is sliding down your moment
like a tear
Sliding off your cheek
Passing of time saddens you
Until there is hope
And you sink into it like a fish
Deeper and deeper and deeper ...
Right Now is a an Ocean for your
Presence to encompass it.
With infinity floating within it.
It's easy to omit it when
You crave for the next
Tick tock of a clock.
There is always something to grasp
For.
There is always another word to be said.
Another step to be taken.
Moments are like gems
we look out for
Exciting until they actually happen.
You can not stop the time but
You find your way to soak
Into the Now within you.
Deeper and deeper until
- Although nothing has stopped really -
You
Finally did.
To make a limerick oatcake
Five spoonful of wheat flour it`ll take,
The first, second and fifth spoons of 7-10 syllables must chime
With a rhyme that flows smoothly through all times.
The third and the fourth spoons of 5-7 syllables are bound,
To hold to the same sweet final sound
To each other with the same air,
Though quite shorter they surely are.
Then one adds a cup of powdered milk grand,
One cup of rolled oat of a noble brand,
Half a cup of sugar one must weave,
With a pinch of salt as joke that readers shall believe.
Let `s not omit drops of vanilla, a spoonful of baking powder,
And half a cup of butter before bringing to a knead proper
By adding a cup of liquid milk, a little at a time,
Leaving the knead for a while to shine.
The knead is checked for correctness,
Rolled in little balls, flattened with sharpness,
Then placed on a preheated buttered pan
And set in the oven, eight minutes each side, to turn grand.
A partner in man's affairs
As lively involved in
Hangs out for each sail's appeal
To invigorate it
No happier is the wind
To be so recognized.
At least by the winning yacht!
Others did such omit!
Barefaced and Itchy
Outrageously plain —
Arrives on request.
Give up the ghost.
Fortissimo crisp,
Boring as it is,
Unrelenting noise
Ringing nonstop.
Can’t adapt well
While deaf;
Sight diminishing,
I’m decaying —
Losing weight
And patience.
My thoughts melting,
Combining with something else —
Alien, for sure.
Its beauty inexplicable,
So I omit justification
For her purpose.
I could go without glory,
It seems selfish.
I feign well enough
To ignore her:
Vindictive narcissist,
Productive behavior.
I’m alive only because
The ringing is louder
Than melancholy.
Look on the black side —
Pretty sure I’m immortal,
A god, because I say so.
I lost control of this
A bit ago,
But I’m keeping it anyway.
Goodnight.
xo
Cinderella had fun at the ball
with her Prince charming, handsome and tall.
It got late and she would
run home fast as she could-
but one slipper fell off in a fall.
The Prince found it and let people know
he must find Cinderella, although
her glass shoe needs to fit-
those that don't, he'll omit.
The contenders did soon come and go.
Not one woman could match the small size.
Surely most of them did agonize!
But her mean stepsisters
chose to be enlisters
made a plan for large feet to disguise!
They then cut off some toes and the heel
disregarding the pain they would feel
planned to fool the Prince who
placed one shoe and withdrew!
As blood flowed, he collapsed with a squeal!
Cinderella forgave them for this-
took them under her wing with some bliss.
Found them men to soon wed.
At the wedding, instead-
pigeons plucked their eyes out with a hiss!
I forgot to add tomatoes to
the beef.
And I was told to put a 1/2
Of white grape juice in the
Broth with an additional
3 T of crown royal
and to omit the horseradish.
We added one teaspoon of
Anchovies oil to the mayo
and crumbled in some sun
dried tomatoes.
That should be the show!
Sweet banana peppers to
do the thang!
I forgot to add tomatoes to
the beef.
And I was told to put a 1/2
Of white grape juice in the
Broth with an additional
3 T of crown royal
and to omit the horseradish.
We added one teaspoon of
Anchovies oil to the mayo
and crumbled in some sun
dried tomatoes.
That should be the show!
Sweet banana peppers to
do the thang!
I forgot to add tomatoes to
the beef.
And I was told to put a 1/2
Of white grape juice in the
Broth with an additional
3 T of crown royal
and to omit the horseradish.
We added one teaspoon of
Anchovies oil to the mayo
and crumbled in some sun
dried tomatoes.
That should be the show!
Sweet banana peppers to
do the thang!
Because of your age
You leave me in a rage
Why temper me ?
When we walk on a lea
You wont bow to the Queen
Is it because your a teen
You wont walk the promenade
Is it because our love is frayed ?
Where is your joy
we are not built on clay
Seize the day
Once more omit the grey
Finally you have reprieved
I shall not be grieved
Ghostly, my echoes are moans floating in the air
like muffled murmurs carried on the wind
or rippling waves across a calm sea.
If I'd been singing lyrics to a sad melody,
I'd hear the haunting words until they'd fade away.
Where they end up, I'll never know.
How far do echoes go traveling from here to there?
Maybe they scatter through distant hills,
whispering as if they're telling my secrets.
Gossips, repeating in the timbre of my voice...
always in a rush to run away from me,
like children playing hide and seek
who cannot hush to keep me from finding them.
Even now I still hear my words in refrain.
Echoes are mirrored images of my voice
but in reverberating sounds instead of visions.
Reflective and repetitive,
with the ability to mimic my words,
only speaking what's been spoken.
I wish they had the ability
to filter words I'd rather they omit.
Things that in anger, I scream and shout.
I doubt the reality of that.
Only echoes in the Twilight Zone
would be so bizarre to be able
to manipulate my voice with one of their own.
Strange, how much louder they sound in the dark.
It should have said St John’s - with that apostrophe!
So many omit the little mark.
How could they, when its presence or absence
gives us one meaning or the other?
A tenant within these apartments
who is a mysterious lady,
placed the absent apostrophe on that poster,
kept this nighttime act a secret, and crept away.
St John was a saint we remember,
on the twenty-fourth of June:
it’s St John’s Day.
And this little mark marks that.
Without this modest mark, this little apostrophe,
we have a plural, not a possessive.
So how many Johns were there?
Or are these apartments named
after just the one John, as we’re told -
the one that has that little apostrophe?
Often do I wonder who
the mysterious tenant is, the one
who posts missing apostrophes.
(3 Sep 2024)
I don't know what I should call it,
and I'm not sure what it's about.
So, a title, I will omit,
and this poem can go without.
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