Is poor worse than poverty?
I don’t know
because I live in a house
with a heater
that I can plug in
when I’m cold,
and it follows me
wherever I go.
What is poor?
I don’t know poverty
or homelessness
because I never waited in line
for a free room
to sleep in
because life
broke my heart.
I stopped trying
to try
and cried in my car
in front
of one of the
Dollar Trees.
I have a sneaking suspicion
that one of them is better
and sadder:
the riddle is…
which one?
I don’t split the Oreo
when I don’t have one.
When the mind
Is being disturbed
By the issues of life
All night becomes long
You can't sleep
Many manipulating
Always Calculating
Contemplating on how to overcome
Steadily looking at time, waiting for dawn.
When things get plight
You hopefully living life
While the heart aches
From lost and betrayals
You start panicking
If you can't plug in
Whatever comes for free
Have a hidden fee
Either regret or insult
That's the result, when you lose the bond.
When life becomes bleak
Steady struggling
To survive
Until you revive
From the low
To thy peak
You become weak
When errors are noticed
But all efforts are been ignored.
Query:
I am dumbfounded, God’s love exists beyond human translation;
straight up, I know He knows better than me- what I need.
Why else would someone offer to die as payment for my sin?
Can I (in my hunger) plumb the depths of His salvation?
Only when I unearth my mind to the Holy Spirit’s feed.
As grace becomes mercy, I partake of service therein.
Reply:
Trusting Him is the “thumb’s up” to guilt and frustration.
Understanding belief in Jesus’ sacrifice means I ‘ve agreed …
Peace, redeemed by forgiveness stands ready to plug in.
I'm searching for an electric kettle.
But all I can find to plug in
In my overnight cottage lodgings
Is a bedside lamp.
And while its 40 watts emits a ration of heat.
It would never in a month of dreary Sundays.
Boil water to make a Cappucciono
Think I'll just settle for a Stella instead.
Awake me muse, for I need to commit,
To something, anything that will keep me fit
Before me sits, an unbuilt kit,
waiting for me to assemble it
With steady hands ready to work,
Unboxing, pulling out pieces,
for all they are worth
Parts and pieces dispersed here and there,
instructions interpreted as somewhat fair
Leave it to me, I’ll get it done,
better late than never, I told someone.
Time has come, to glue this to that,
prime, sand, then paint all that
To finish the task at one’s feet,
the process calls for it to repeat
Don’t call me a bad guy,
if I justify why you should electrify
You can paint or wallpaper any wall,
it doesn’t much matter to me at all
With all those lights still so dark,
plug in with “AC” to get a spark
Once we throw the thumb-wheel switch,
we behold all that glows,
hopefully, without a hitch.
I can proudly say to you this day,
this dolls house is ready and on its way
Ready for you to decorate
with folks gathering to participate
Thanking you in advance
for this build of mine
and approving of my timeline
At some point, you might say,
at his best, he was a gifted Miniaturist
Oh, let us write of finer things
of stupid songs our leaders sing
perchance a word of climate’s rage
of private planes for traveling sage
or better yet the planets health
while stripping it of all its wealth
but nay, t’would seem a bit uncouth
we’re they to tell the friggin’ truth
for both the sun and moon abide
in lover’s quarrel o’er the tide
the bees are humming in their hives
while we plug in the cars we drive
If God had said “all men are equal”
I doubt that He’d enjoy this sequel
As both teams claim unyielding faith
they turn their backs on the homeless wraith
Unless, of course, there’s an I-phone near
And an edited clip that they can share
Why not stay home, stifle that shout
And in November…VOTE THEM OUT
Imagine if there was a brain station for souls
Plug in a rhyme magic would pop out no controls
With patience sooner or later
Writing thousand word essays
And the literary world would begin to explode
To see America in this place makes me weep,
when the only hope we have to spread our message.
Maybe to take up our arms and march through the street,
in an attempt to save ourselves from the wreckage.
They regulate all our thoughts and actions freely,
as they sell us diet colas and empty hope.
They can sell us our leaders just as easily,
when we traded our religion for their plug-in trope.
Who are those faceless men hiding in the shadow,
pushing the buttons to destroy all resistance?
Bring them forward to face us in the light and show,
why a corrupt Government deserves existence.
Step forward all true American loyalists,
take back the land of the free, the home of the brave.
Perhaps this might be the only chance we will get,
will it be liberty or a walk to the grave?
Repeated reincarnations reveal,
that on ensouling a new body-mind,
the truth of agape love, we cease to feel
and as we flounder about on earth blind,
we are caught in ego’s relentless bind.
Recognising this fact, how should we act,
since we are no longer by wisdom backed?
The optimal path is thought cessation,
requiring simply we cease to react,
nonchalant to outcomes and sensation.
All answers are within, so let’s begin
by becoming a witness to ourself,
in the flow of life, choosing to plug-in
but having no agenda in our shelf,
watching how fate pans out all by itself.
We’re not suggesting a phlegmatic stance
nor ceasing striving, leaving all to chance,
yet being still, in timeless time we learn
of how nodes within us joyfully prance,
as in fire of bliss, we willingly burn.
I'll take care of it, you just do what you do
I'll make sure everything's ready and working for you
You just prepare to sing and to play
And I'll get it all set so that you may
Simply show up, plug in, and then go
And mesmerize me, you do that you know?
My gifts are the songs you deliver with style
I just listen to you, eyes closed all the while
Experiencing joy, the kind only you bring
That quickens my pulserate whenever you sing
Ancient scribes scratch their quills
to a perfectly illiterate God;
so the words sometimes get ugly.
I plug-in my neuronal soul
try to say something not yet uttered,
not a scrambled re-hash,
from a dyslexic troubadour
or blind hurdy-gurdy man.
Let those ten hundred monkeys loose,
for in time they may find a meaning;
the trunks of wise elephants just may paint
the perfectly mathematical
score of a Bach fugue..
A virgin/whore dwells in the keyboard
her creamy petticoat is spotted
with blood and jism,
yet sometimes she will write sublime poetry
a thing both ugly and beautiful
for a wordless God.
Neurotechnology,
a gift or a bane
With thoughts simply neurons,
case structure our brains
Is humanity destined
to merely plug in
Will all beauty and truth
be a programmer’s whim
And what of our history
that starts to rewrite
Will all paradox suffer,
conversation contrite
From Plato to Sartre,
one thing is the same
The essence of man
—will a mystery remain
(St. David’s Pennsylvania: March, 2021)
Nobody plays a good game of checkers anymore,
Squared off like fierce, ruthless fiends
Hunched over, hypnotized by crowned kings
And heavy losses spent of jubilee
You can't plug in a checkerboard
Or marvel at the clink, clink, clink
Of counting blips against green bumpers,
Though a black can disappear like magic
Beneath a sweeping scarred and reddened hand.
Nobody plays a good game of checkers anymore.
SECOND PLACE WINNER
Submitted to "Gems That Slipped Through the Cracks"
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
There's a spider on my ceiling
He's been sitting there all night
From the moment that I spotted him
He gave me quite a fright.
Even at the long off distance
He appears to be quite big
I've never really liked them
ever since I was a kid.
When I have to walk beneath him
I run quickly along the wall
I dare not walk beneath him
knowing my luck he would fall.
I yell up to my partner
"Get down here its bloody back!"
It cant be the same spider?
Because I sucked him up the Vac.
I rush into the kitchen
If the kids see him they'll freak
I drag out our old cleaner
And attachments with long reach
I drag them in the living room
plug in and then switch on.
Then I look up at the ceiling
And the bloody thing has gone!
written and composed by Mark Longson (c) 2018
If
Promising
Damning
Cleansing
Demeaning
100 possibilities
Some have past
Some remain
If
Some waste away over it
Some constantly pursue it
It's just a game of chance
Life is the lottery
And if is the raffle
If you're ready to play the game
Plug in, baby, it's a wild ride
If
If only I were better
If only I had done this
If only I had done that
If only it were 10 years ago
If only it were a nice day
If only they were still alive
If, if, if, if, if
If
It has no power
Unless you give it
Think not in if
Think in what is
Think in what will be
And you will be free
If only you let go
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