Am I slow?
I've asked for quite a while
Everything I do
Always seems peculiar
A minor fault in the way I'm perceived
I felt left out
My words
My thoughts
My expressions
They were different from others
I thought hard and well
Though not quite like the rest
Processing seemed hard for me
A slow dismantling of how I was taught to think
Like i needed time
I felt I was ok
The environment didn't think so
I got quiet and awkward
Loud and talkative
Not quite like the others
Like I was always the opposite
Stares from all angles
Emotions I couldn't understand at that age
In my way of life
My writing
My advice
It was twisted
No one seemed to understand
Only the villains in pages
I lived in reverse
I wanted friends
But we didn't have the same ideals
I was approached
I seemed different they said
Not like them quite enough but funny to be around
Like a comic relief
I want to change
Or maybe find the right people
entry for Constance La France's contest:
Write a Beautiful Terza Rima
But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation,
a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him
who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light; 1 Peter 2:9
The very hairs of our heads are numbered
and Jesus has called us to be faithful.
Forgiven, with fear I am no longer encumbered.
Is it so peculiar to render the choice
to praise our Prince of Peace for deliverance
from darkness? His Spirit strengthens my voice.
I'm grateful, yet with restraint, to have the chance
to share my faith with those who spurn God’s good grace,
not deterred by their questioning glance.
Beforehand, without onslaught upon their space
I ask the Lord to lead in my approach.
Sometimes I sense, “Wait, don’t speak face to face.”
“Lighten up! This is not the time to encroach,
Show, don’t tell,” counsels my Coach.
Some days are good
some days are bad
some may be OK
while the rest could be
the very best you ever had
tho' there are those
who go
with what they know
always stay the same
consistency may be the key
but I prefer to up my game
some hands you win
some hands you lose
sometimes you break even
then there's when you have to pay your dues
but when the peculiar becomes the familiar
on the slow road to nowhere
the trick is knowing when to call
rearrange the chips
see where they all fall
it's time to make a change
Night is pending.
Not even the most anxious
can avoid time.
Day after day I dread the
the death of nothing
that the night spawns.
The TV becomes my
best friend~
a window of light
in the abyss.
Old TV shows
are brighter than
the new.
Tonight I choose
The Andy Griffith Show.
I put my earphones in,
and turn the volume down
(on the off chance
sleep embraces me)
and I embrace my fate.
I watch.
It's strange.
I feel a peculiar force
tugging at the corners
of my mouth.
The opposite of gravity.
A sensation that pulls
upward.
I had forgotten the feeling.
I laugh inside,
but for a different reason
than my body is currently
reacting to.
It seems even the most
sleep-deprived,
fear stricken
low in life
sickos
can't keep themselves
from smiling at
the infamous
Don Knotts
O, strange, unusual, odd one.
You never seem to fit in; you always find yourself in front of the gun.
Always at the end of scurrilous attacks
They aim and shoot vitriol with their shameful acts.
But fitting in was never a part of the plan.
Apart, you were set apart to do a great work that most will never understand.
Yes. The black sheep of the family by far
When you walk, when you talk, their burning desire is to pull the veil on your star.
But shine, you will.
So, peace be still.
And be ashamed of your calling? This you should never be.
You were chosen to stand and tell a beautiful story.
A peculiar middle name, all my life I've been burdened with
Twas “Byard”, that's even worse than “Archibald” or “Biff”
What were Ma and Pa thinking
This name is still stinking
My name of Jack saved the day and made a big diff!
There is but one thing in my life that matters,
one ounce of sand, the rest is finger extensions,
caught in the side breeze — that is all you need,
one thing to keep — oar the aspen river rose.
"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers…"
Every time I hear a kid recite this twisted rhyme,
I'm 'minded how 'gainst Mother Nature it's a crime.
What that peck of peppers was no one can tell,
Perhaps banana, jalapeño, cherry, bell.
But whate'er they were, it's plain, at least to me,
That such a peck as that came off no bush nor tree.
For years this simple nursery flaw
Has scraped, and scoured, and rubbed me raw,
And in my very craw the thing's been sticking.
So to bring the problem up to date,
And to try and set the record straight,
I've checked with Vlasik, Clausen, Kraft,
And all agree the notion's daft
That peppers can be pickled prior to picking.
Author's note: Of course, there could have been a typo in the original manuscript, and Peter actually "packed a peck of pickled peppers", or maybe Peter, himself, was partially "pickled" when he picked 'em.
Entered in Tom Woody's Nursery Rhyme Wackiness Poetry Contest on July 16, 2024.
Morning stand-up in front of you
As beliefs contrary to reality
Somehow almost manic of sociopath
Daily scrum of people chaotic
Poverty of fair speech
Wax and wane, almost wine
Grandiose and bouts agitation
No freedom and praeCOX
Peculiar country
Dyskinesia Republic
Peculiar things
It has been raining so much that the lemon tree
is taller than a building of flats where we live.
A neighbour who was hit by one of its fruits
is still uncommunicative.
A flat battery in a jaguar is a sight to behold
when sitting in a bough of a tree.
The aroma of lemon juice wafts through the building
the restaurant in the basement sells fried fish
Quite fitting since it is Friday,
I like eating pork chops while driving a porch.
Life and fine opulence are firmly in coaction.
All matter sprang into being at divergent times.
On the planet, the deed is built over dynamic vision.
A competition of overlooked, significant paradigms.
The introverted person says virtually nothing.
Dwelling in ecstasy, ringed by the bliss flow.
Explicit subjects mix through the wondering.
Nothing but oneself, glorious light, bestow.
Are such laws of the universe the same over time?
Or do they alter in the same way as a person's mind?
Surviving only till the environment restores the sublime.
Have you all been looking for some way to unwind?
As an ending product, calm and quietness stay vital.
Nothing works until you have trust in God, a symbol.
Written: June 25, 2021
Contemporary Sonnet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charlotte Puddifoot
Janissaries of Peculiar Fictions
David J Walker
Janissaries of Peculiar Fictions
David J Walker
Janissary mercenary
Defender of the faith
What fate awaits the imaginings
Of the faithful
From the thrown colored in
Peculiar fictions unknown
Whether worlds without end
Life everlasting with
Saints and angels singing
on the heads of pens
Or streets paved with gold
bought and sold with
Favors of 70 virgins
in waiting
Janissary mercenaries
Defender of the faith
The hungry sleep
at your feet
Unnoticed
The walls open their eyes as
the mantids begin to weave
a loving celestial vibe, incensing
the onset of this boundless drive
Not questioning if one will retain
sentience, escaping for a time
confinement within her hive
machine-like serpentine's
propel mega metallic craft
exerting complex, magically carved
oaken ores
opening dimensional gateways
ascending straight-through
intensified vibrational planes
utilising the great wave
unlocking these secret doors
Fantastic crystal-blue eyed
gnomes with iridescent feather
shaped cheekbones perform
a dance, whilst oscillating
their elongated gold spoons
Traces of a nameless ancient face on
innumerable orange-pinkish moons
within vast space, divinely harmonised
eternally ringing out in high tune
The clock struck twelve at noon,
And the family sat down to eat.
They were a picture of perfection,
A husband, wife, and a little child
They loved each other more than life,
And their joy was a sight to behold.
They laughed and talked as they ate,
Life was but a full moon
The boy asked for water,
His mother offered to help.
But he refused to be helped
And wished to do it himself
His father warned him not to spill the water,
But the boy was clumsy and the glass tipped over.
A few drops fell onto the floor
The boy looked down in shock and fear
But before he could say anything,
His father struck him hard across the back
The boy cried out in pain,
And his mother gasped in horror
An innocent wish
Became a grave mistake
The meal was left unfinished,
And the family was plunged into silence.
It rained all day
With hovering black clouds roaming around
(Paghunda Zahid)
In a peculiar mood
Waiting for angry gray clouds
To snap me up
And casually float me
Over the trees and the marsh
to Never-Neverland
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