Cat speaks to me
Bloodless meows
And tranquil purrs —
We share a bond of trust
Though no common language
No prose, no poetry;
No organs or bells yet
Clearly sensed a collective chant —
Spirit knows our true cappella
Dialect skins, and beneath the Peelings —
Worship
His
Immutable
Persona
Worship
His
Invisible
Presence
Willingly
He
Inculcated
Pain
Why?
He
Inquired
Powerfully
What
He
Instituted
Properly
Was
His
Immutable
Procedure
Worship
Him
In
Prayer
Worship
Him
In
Politeness
Want
His
Inevitable
Protection
Why
Have
Improper
Peelings
Why
Have
Insidious
Pontifications
Worship
His
Imperative
Pronouncements
Willingly
Have
Instant
Praise
While
He
Instructs
Pervasively
Embrace uncertainty
Living in timeplace where you are
Degree of the certainty
Isn’t that far
Now you perceive world around you
Out of Plato’s cave
Don’t let these bound you
Stop being slave
But neither become master
However you may object
This isn’t a huge disaster
People have right to reject
Integrable systems suggest
Health is about digest
Electrical engineering
Resistance to change protest
What is this circuit that makes
Life of the people so bound
Sense and point awakes
Each day is another round
Each person has own feelings
They can’t feel the emptiness
These are orange peelings
Orange gifts us happiness
Peelings of oranges lying on the floor,
Forging a scent of a time that had passed long ago,
Obliterated shards of memory started to ignite,
Diving to the forest of crimson pale light,
Crushing into nothingness and falling into oblivion in the depths of night,
Your twisted knife lies in my heart,
Two unforgiven frivolous fragments of freedom fall apart,
Your pleading words as tattoos blending with my skin,
Staying forever if not at my will,
Your scream an echo to the dark corridors of my mind,
Dying in a mellifluous melody to my soul affined,
Sudden rain pouring in the shimmering whirlpools of ache,
The flow of grief decays the scent away,
Blurring the line that crashed my fate,
Peelings of oranges lying on the floor,
Drifting to pieces of nothing and everything before
Pines, my native line and birth
From you I came without a dearth
Pines, I shall call you with mirth
To you I return with my vision to unearth
Returning with unearthly wealth
Simple works I offer, not burn
Honor is yours, over my urn.
Toils are not made to harden one's feelings
Or break a heart of stone that churn
Rather to soften outer peelings.
Watermelons as
Roses bloom, while these peelings;
Leaves make room for drops
Within flesh of such redness,
Dyed with the purest juices.
Some folks say I am quite good with words,
But, I hesitate to believe what they say
Should I have hired on with Merriam-Webster?
Or better still, taken a job with Roget?
People who do not particularly like me
Have said that I am quite arrogant,
But the truth is, I would rather think,
That I am exceptionally self-confident!
I try my best to do the right thing,
As I see it, in every situation
But making choices can be very difficult
When they cause me more aggravation.
I get awfully annoyed when folks are late
Why can’t they start out a little earlier?
The longer they tarry, the more PO’d I get,
And, they wonder why I am so much surlier!
Some folks say creative people are sensitive
Even tip-toeing around not to hurt feelings
But everyone is different, as I see it,
Some like the apple, some like the peelings.
Written April 6, 2021
LIFE
Peelings,
wrappings,
covers of things,
you see come from many a place of residence
from trees,
from stalks,
from vines,
from boughs
from trestle taut to hold,
from earth,
from garden plot
but no matter what,
at the end of the day
as they display
and add colour to meal or choice of life
and a taste to beholden from where they came,
and in the end of journey of outer skins,
the peelings,
the wrappings,
and covers of things,
like life started out small,
a seed,
an idea,
a choice,
and grew into being a new beginning,
a start in life,
nurtured first,
growth in spurts,
flowered,
fruited, matured,
then plucked forth
to become that could please,
or thoughtlessly caste aside
and thrown into environmental bin collected,
to landfill on hill and total waste of thought,
or careful placed into a compost bin of renewing scraps of substance,
and coverings,
and peelings,
and outer skins,
regenerated now in different form
in a different guise of regeneration to help
to help grow another crop,
and become new skins and peelings of worth.
Francis Cooper – Mac © 04-Jul-20
Summer on the Farm
As Related By Britches
By:Tom Wright
8/7/2006
Britches gets up early
To greet the breaking of dawn,
A stretch, a scratch,
And if sleepy, a yawn;
Old Elsie the cow
Anxiously awaits his pull,
He hopes when they’re done
His buckets near full;
Later he’ll throw
The chickens some scratch,
By then his mom will yell ”Pancakes”
And he’ll go eat a batch.
Tater peelings and buttermilk
Will make up scraps for the hog,
And while he’s at it
He’ll sail a biscuit to the dog.
Then with four buckles on
It’s off he goes to the silo,
For his fair entry’s ration
Of molasses and Milo.
The gate still needs fixin
On the property that they lease,
And his mother’s making pillows
So she’ll need down from the geese.
He’ll re-pen that Billy
And put the piglets with sow,
Fork hay in the mangers
And head out to plow.
He’ll spend untold hours
Following a mule named Blue,
Which causes me to ponder
Who was smarter of the two?
Britches next year graduates
Bringing news quite alarming,
That whatever life’s role
It would not include farming.
Picking apart meanings written
Seeking ways to fit in
A mosaic of song and show
It makes your skin glow
An angel in every breath
At every corner denying death
You held my eyes
But I'm haunted by past lies
Yell at me to leave it all behind
As if my heart's scars can be mended by rewind
You want to soothe and erase the past
The lights blind so fast
Meanings slowly taper
When written on sheets of paper
What arises will surely fall
I'm afraid to heed the call
Your heart is a tapestry of feelings
And past heartbreaks are like onion peelings
Revealing a deeper layer beneath
Love is truly all we have to bequeath
Our crow's love song
An effort to belong and be strong
A mosaic of song and show
Together we could truly grow
Maturity has no age lock
But our time together is on the clock
You held my eyes
And saw past my disguise
The crow feasting on my heart cries
That you're the harbinger of my demise
I'm out of pretty words to sing
Show me a crow's love song means something
Baboon was tasked by community
that he gives to orphans birthday gift
consisting of clusters of ripe bananas
Earnestly he received the gift package
halfway to orphanage of the little ones
he sat down among trees and ate all of it
Neatly he packed back peelings in basket
and moved smartly with shameful steps
with the saliva continuing to flow and flow
As he gave the package, peelings dropped
hosts asked; “what trash do you bring here”?
But the baboon answered loudly with pride;
“Ask king of the forests no such question
those who live not in forests, are cowards
sweetness of bananas is a thing I can’t share”
I moved deep into the forests not my home
There lived liberal minded monkeys
They sat me on a heap of banana peelings
And lectured me about flora and fauna life
Young liberal monkeys edged me all over
Others, democrats played pianos
Many boycotted the meeting duty to pride
Conservatives they called themselves
I noted squirrels protesting in trees
As journalists they were denied attendance
Believed they would spread rumors
About the strange guest hosted that day
Liberals, democrats, conservatives were one
For social equilibrium as main focal point
Harmony is natural, not mutual, not negotiated
A fool I was to talk about human conflicts
The elder and leader lectured to me;
“Greenness you see is our flag of life
Bananas cannot breach our unity however sweet
Forest is our home, identity, pride, and heritage
Humans can conflict, and destroy anything
Because their home, identity, pride, heritage
Are expressed in hearts, walls, even nothing
The things that hold life are things worth dying for
In this forest home we freely express opinions
But they are not followed up with bitter hearts.”
power
dreaming
leads to
warlords
scheming
leads to
tempers
steaming
leads to
weapons
teeming
leads to
children
screaming
leads to
shattered
feelings
leads to
revenge
peelings
leads to
slowly
healing
and then
we hope
peaceful
dealings
Harassing me for days now
Landing on my eyelid
Nosing up my nostril
Tickling my ankles
and every other exposed body part
Little bastard...
Fly-Swatter? Jack be nimble, Jack...
Folded bath towel? (Lamp destroyed)
Raid? Sprayed til I sneezed and choked
and had to quickly retreat outside
(I may have poisoned myself)
Little bastard...
Last night it buzzed me awake
I injured various body parts
(Bloody nose, ruptured eardrum)
Little bastard...
I want to murder it
I want to assassinate it
but I want to capture it first
pull off it’s puny little wings
and watch it scramble on the floor
all the while crawling behind
laughing, shouting and jeering
'How you like THEM apple peelings?'
before I jump to the ceiling (Boink)
before I stomp and then grind
in a mad and homicidal rage
Little bastard...
Epilogue:
Whew! I’m feeling pretty okay now
The medication helps immeasurably
I know now why they’re called Asylums
They are refuge from a brutal environment
a world dominated and controlled by---Bssst!!
Little BASTARD...
Apple pie, fresh from the oven
cools on a rack, whiffs of cinnamon-nutmeg
aroma rise through the pastry vent
then drifts out through
the kitchen window opened an inch or so
mingling with a hint of moulder on the breeze.
The apple peelings still lay on newspapers
on the counter, deep crimsons mottled with yellow, green
mirror fall leaves of brilliant hues.
Is this a coincidence? Perhaps - but perhaps not -
possibly nature intends apples such colours
as a reminder autumn is close at hand.
The pastry, free-formed into an irregular shape,
rustic, like nature. Trees, some now partially stripped
of leaves, expose gnarled limbs twisting and turning
madly off in all directions. Showing its imperfections
yet is beautiful in its own way
silhouetted against an October deep azure sky.
Reminiscences of baking apple pie
snapshots in an album in the mind's eye
retrieving them, recollecting that day will sustain
when December's snowflakes flutter about,
when January's winds wail and
when February's blizzards drift high against the doors
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