An unreflective bodhisattva
nods to the unwashed dishes.
Once again I seek a daily liberation
from a chore long boondoggled.
Next a phlegmy mantra
gummed through spongy lips.
I sleep, I wake. I sleep, I wake.
The mug is perfunctorily rinsed,
I am aware of not being aware.
Sweetness comes in pink packets.
The sacraments are torn open
two at a time with habitual practice.
The ceremony proceeds.
The percolator bubbles a last breath.
Maya burps its body-dreams,
I pour black oozing bliss
into my cup
where it settles like mud
beneath
a lotus bloom of aroma.
Categories:
phlegmy, poetry,
Form: Free verse
An unreflective Bodhisattva
nods to the unwashed dishes.
Once again I seek my morning
liberation by ways of a dark libation
Next a phlegmy mantra
gummed through spongy lips.
“I sleep, I wake. I sleep, I wake”
The mug is perfunctorily rinsed,
the stains of past desires
ring the rim like hungry ghosts.
I am aware of not being aware.
Ipso facto: I am aware,
but only in the cracks
between random thoughts.
Sweetness comes in pink packets.
The sacraments are torn open
two at a time with habitual practice.
A Zen-like work,
by rote and thought-free.
The percolator bubbles a last breath.
Like the Tathagata, I am truly gone.
An arm pours black oozing bliss
Into my mug.
A beatific smile
escapes from grungy features.
Categories:
phlegmy, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Colonel Flighty is a cad
Thinks himself a funny wag
Thinks he's mighty, ain't that sad
"Look at me! A strutting stag!"
Jiggly belly, jowls that sag
Throat all phlegmy, such a drag
Trousers smelly, makes you gag
Leaky colostomy bag.
Toss him quickly drown a crag
If he lives we'll be so mad
End his sickly feeble brag
Hear his fading shout, "Egad!"
Categories:
phlegmy, body, character, corruption, funny,
Form: Rhyme
A wind rolled away down a lonely street
Like silent thunder wrenching, reaping dread,
While an ancient man drew the covers up
To thaw old bones reclined on slatted bed.
Phlegmy eyes coughed into wakefulness and
Slid slowly in their sockets to his chest
And Oh! to hear that moan of sheer defeat
When the flagon echoed his emptiness.
His stingy warmth - printed, numbered; scattered
Like yesterday's news and flew with dire mirth
To dance a cloven jubilee of death,
As old boots, so weary, kissed their mother earth.
The wind rolled away down an empty street -
A whispering dirge borne on leaf-soaked cloud
And an ancient man resting, still as night,
Lies waiting, waiting, waiting for his shroud.
Categories:
phlegmy, angst, death, nostalgia, sad,
Form: Rhyme