The heat has gone the sun slowed down
And its rays went out of town,
It just left us in the cold
In our shivers growing mould,
Need replacement for the heat
Back again that feeling sweet,
To feel the heat right on the cheek
So much good for the physique,
A replacement I must find
One that’s sweet a one that’s kind,
Perhaps an image does the trick
And watch your wares with every click,
That would surely warm my heart
As it was right from the start,
Cause when I first laid eyes on you
Felt all the veins burning right through.
Time slips in and out
when doing the something you like.
Time slips out and in,
when doing something you hate,
but how can we truly measure,
time,
when there is so little time,
yet not enough time.
Hours pass as they all do,
but I have no time left.
No time left to be me.
So much time to be me.
Yet I have so much,
time left to be me.
How will I know,
if time is too much,
or too little?
Only a decade in a century
Only a year in a decade
Only 12 months in a year.
Only 4 weeks in a month.
Only 52 weeks in a year.
Only 7 days a week.
Only 365 days in a year.
Only 24 hours in a day.
Only 60 minutes in an hour.
Only 60 seconds in a minute.
So much time,
Yet so little time.
I wish I had more time.
I remember a place
a place of being a child
where being a child was a fun
as eating pizza and playing arcade games.
This was a well know place
every child knew it's name.
For the moment you walked
through the revolving doors
bright lights displayed every game.
There were slide with twists and turns
even a ball pit and the best part was
the childhood memories of all of this.
My mind sees the heat of summer
it feeds layers of linage drifting destinations
adrift they map into not the meticulous
but the slop moppy hodgepodge
and through each droplet
I can give myself a true art buzz
provide a pivot in my perspective
and give gripping observations
I've a dire need to drip, drip
dripping something that appears
without knowing what’s going to happen
I’ve captured summer
it's Fall, on the cusp,
inside I dance
around my canvas
with you as an arc alongside
A few young surf rats,a neglected pier
Feral children who lived life without fear
If a wave knocked them down, they just rose again
It was like endless Summer, and they were the best of friends
By: J.N.R Dutton
On the foot, I look the last time,
Waiting by the drizzling time
Thinking as I took a high on river bridge lies the line
'Dunno’, yh I don’t know
How to swim? How to be fine?
Deep in my thoughts, once again I climb,
Stretching across the brink.
Think I’ve to think a thing —
Just washed away by a blink.
Is this the end of the life I lived?
Who knows to carry off the bliss in hollow prime?
Ugly sudden stroke, a jerk, a mirror
Crackling through the aurora of pink sunset
'Help! Help!'
I looked, but it was hazy — tears had vagued my sight
An old woman drowning in the river,
Swept by the heavy flow
A pilot attacked;
People pushed onto tracks.
A Central Park murder
And ICE men attacks.
Mistreatment of animals;
Internet scams.
Collapsing of bridges
And traffic-caused jams.
Polar ice melting
And water-drained lakes.
Deaths from narcotics,
Tornados and quakes.
Voting laws challenged
And prices that rise.
Wars being fought
For a leader who lies.
Turn on the news
And you’ll wish you had not.
Hope fizzles out
But it’s all that we’ve got.
Soon we’ll be facing
The reign of A.I.
Yet still, I write poems,
Though I’m wondering why.
I stop to examine the legs of a spider: shining silver on golden thread. She is a mother now, sweet little Charlotte. She is casting another web. I am crafting another image: There is beauty in everything, even anger. Spiders are not angry. They have hardly killed. Man is angry. Man has killed. Killed enough to not notice the beauty of a simple Autumn afternoon in the legs of a spider.
I sit high on your bookshelf,
but you can't say I speak for myself.
I'm so bashful and so humble,
all I ever do is mumble.
Other poems reach for the sky.
I look at the ground and sigh,
forever alone, unread and lost
between E. A. Poe and Robert Frost.
Let no light get unshone.
Let know voice get unheard.
Let no soul get unmoved.
Let no heart not see the silly genius
Of Bob Newhart.
Let all good organic being find a way
To our own joined great truth.
Like finding it funny to hear two
Daryls introduced one after another.
Moon night—Moon night—
You're calm & bright.
Stars laugh, give us shine
O! night—There is no sorrow
World has forgotten the past
forgotten all its pain.
Stars—Stars
Everybody Like Stars
All night the heaven sun
Dance on the Grass.
Moonlit night air
comes from the milky way
Carrying Fairy wings
Bringing back a memorable Bay.
At night the stars blanket the shy
At night sleep can't fulfill eye
To see—to touch—
Souls are singing in the dark
Moonlit night comes from heaven
fades away in our courtyard.
In school, we sometimes were assigned
To memorize some verse
And so, at home, in front of parents,
We would, thus, rehearse.
We then presented what we’d learned
In class or on a stage,
Without the benefit of notes
Or glancing at a page.
Amazingly, when thinking back
On rhymes that we had nailed,
We find them still intact; our teacher’s
Mandate has prevailed.
Though teaching’s changed in many ways,
For better or for worse,
It’s satisfying somehow
To recite a once-learned verse.
I am not sure why some poems
manage to find air and live
whilst others barely catch a breath
and wither a few short words
from the pen.
Others almost force
their way out as if there was
an inner pressure built up
in the plumbing of the mind
to say something, to speak
a thought into existence.
There are those poems
that are almost involuntary,
a reaction to an irritant lodged
somewhere deep in the psyche,
a hurt, wound or wrong held
for a lifetime before being
coughed up.
Some poems act like nets
and try to gather in
the strands of dreams
and knit them into form.
These are the poems of whispers,
soft shadows and mists
that clothe the intangible.
There are poems born out
of love, the sublime that resides
in the human heart, speak
of joy and suffering, emotions,
what it is to feel in the vocabulary
of being alive.
Then there are poems
that become wayside temples,
hollows cut into the masonry
of the mind where the soul
stops for a moment and takes in
the universe reciting its own
infinite poem and authorship
is beyond name, measure
and circumference.
In the misty dawn,
Gently rising hope
Praising, a poem
Written by the sun
Who has melted night
With her still beauty
AI
Gave a sigh
Sporting life public will buy
Drop Artificial from my name
Word brought futuristic fame
Playing human's competitive game
Accepting superpowers
Blooming my intellectual flower
Ask me anything
If I do not know I will forward to Google and Bing
When casual tension is at stake
Peace I will make
Ending argumentative disputes
Putting the bar on mute
Silencing verbal mouth guns that shoot
Super Intelligence successfully tried
No longer the Artificial guide
Let's explore the electronic frontier
Where we will cheer
Knowledge obtained
Sending ignorant dialogue to shame
Since mature conversation
Can cure a patient
Without any rat race in
Realizing the testing attack
Can be retaliated back
With one simple question
Getting Super Intelligence attention
And to mention
Being told something accurate to say
When discussing matters blue and grey
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