The needle-clock that pokes holes in the mind,
Whereby a pan of half-remembered past
Is sieved, and thus from memory confined,
Faileth against some fragments sticking fast.
The gripsack-brain is packed with brittle tinder,
For memories once lit do warm the soul.
Whenas old age shall dwindle blaze to cinder,
Though 'twill be hard to recollect them whole,
Being too truncated by the racing sword
Of time, so that they might even feel untrue,
We nonetheless will remain meet to ford
The dreamy stream of earlier days anew.
Though many memories will leave our sight,
Yet in the rearguard some won't take their flight.
Malaise over cribbage,
Unmade in our image;
While they ravage the earth:
Pestilence First!
The cowards save pride,
Just along for the ride;
And the prophets, they shrug.
Must be '---' tall for a hug.
A mechanical theme.
Set to writhe and teem
Astride strained ambition -
An inherent condition!
And the sole consolation?
The starved man gnaws bacon,
As he snarls at the pork;
Pokes the end of his fork.
Steely disposition.
Love's prohibition.
Swole at the seam,
This American dream.
Me oh my I spy with my little eye
The climate crisis they still deny
The sleuth’s proofs they will defy
Ruthless with truths they just lie
An evangelist tryst as we all fry
Oligarchy malarkey is their ally
Shout read the book of Malachi
It either floods or is drought dry
Biblical not whimsical we all cry
Facts cloaks with pacts on the sly
Pokes broke folks as try to get by
Acts wry impunity from on high
Tracts of woke jokes.. on the fly
Elite phalanx craved the whole pie
As each raved I am a stand up guy
Banks our future on a computer tie
Skanks everyone thanks really why?
Everything tanks but saved by AI?
Fossil fuel fools with a limited supply
Flawed but adored as no rules apply
Share prices soared on the vices rely
Fires roared here & abroad we reply
Renewable’s doable & cheap to buy
Maraud with their fraud we all sigh
Abhorred just give our planet a MRI
Everything gnawed comply we all die
Sandwich board says the end is nigh
So if there's a Lord look up to the sky
Beside the beaten track
The woodpecker went tapping on,
To the bird that's like a piece of wood.
The soldier bird got very cross -- it wasn't her;
The spurwing plover had to stab with a spur:
The jackass laughed,
I take to stripping bark.
Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand;
They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand,
And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say
A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away.
The boobook owl -- he squats himself along a broken limb,
And pokes his beak up like a stick;
Can you tell which is boobook owl and which is broken bough.
his nest a bunch of sticks across a fork;
A cuckoo wouldn't use his nest, but what's the odds to him --
A bird that tries to imitate a piece of leaning limb!"
(Blackout of Camouflage by Andrew Barton Paterson)
So said the marionette, that gaslighters sow madness and chaos in your life, and when you become obstreperous, they blameshift it, so like the curling pokes of the apothecary's in plague-ridden Europe, that like the weapon goes elsewhere, so too does the wherewithal. Like gilded streams forsaken for brighter skies that unravel ever so slightly as the marionette sighs, and lamped up the glow of the sun, to prop up the firmament for one last gungho.
POTD is often filled with sadness
Not often is there joy and gladness
Not much laughter fills this world
Little humour gets unfurled
Little gratitude for what one has
Woe is me I'm lost and sad alas
Lets have some days of poetic jokes
Lots of fun filled jolly pokes
Great medicine comes from laughter
Lifts the spirit for hours long after
POTD sometimes filled with glee
Are there others or is this invitation only me
Perhaps at least one day a month a Sunday
to be reserved for a POTD humour fun day
Tall and sleek, a tower of might,
my eyes find the tall figure, pure delight.
I'm hot and thirsty in these sweltering days,
with salivating ways, I gaze at this faithful friend in countless ways.
Its lid twists tight, a secure seal to make,
a straw pokes out, for a refreshing take.
It is with me always, wherever I roam,
my trusty sidekick, never far from home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The frost still bites, but slyly now~
its teeth are blunt, its will unsure.
And here they come, the quiet ones,
with petals pressed like secret notes
against the thawing earth.
The crocus, first, all purple nerve,
pokes through the crust of winter’s reign.
A renegade in a world of white,
daring the sky to disagree.
Daffodils shine, a chorus of light,
their trumpets tilting toward April's reluctant sun~
Their sturdy stems, like soldier’s spines,
defy frost while winter still clings to earth,
The hyacinth, drunk on its scent,
heavy-headed but a bit frail~
its roots gripping deep where winter lingers,
pulling life from frozen earth.
And snowdrops? Oh, the quietest spies,
dropping rumors of retreat~
Winter wanes, their bells confess,
though ice still lurks in shadowed eaves.
March’s flowers do not shout.
They whisper, bleed, and bruise,
then rise again~
small fists unclenching
into bloom.
Oh happy day (oh happy day)
Oh happy day (oh happy day)
When Donny croaks (when Donny croaks)
He gasps and chokes (when Donny croaks)
The doctor pokes (when Donny croaks)
And sez "That's it, folks" (Oh happy day).
A wanderer’s life sets way for fable.
Each foot in mind amid a narrow fringe.
I am nowhere; treading where I’m able.
Left or right; an answer which twice depends.
Senseless; I cast myself upon the breeze.
An impulsive gambit one’s fears entice.
I’m he, who pokes the cat to steal the cheese.
He who blurs the line betwixt men and mice.
What character? What courage? Of what cause?
What interchange controls polarity?
Within resistance I find time to pause.
Standing in this void I find clarity-
What’s tried is true, in greed, soon you will find.
Blink not an eye; Snap! You’ve lost your mind!
Baggy green pledge..be mean one could allege
New depths seen to dredge vent spleen sledge
Obscene lexicon ledge to get that slight edge
What do you know here we go first blow
Folks well blokes pokes jokes at Stokes
Campaigner entertainer a cocky complainer
Yawn..forlorn well worn scorn of Kiwi born
Ropey guff about Bazball stuff being dopey
Out of whack flak attack now back on track
Aussie stacks of hacks on a have a go retainer
Haven’t forgotten when Jonny went Rotten
Lost his cool in that whole Lord’s Baz brawl
When Ben’s mens’ gall did enthrall and appall
So one trite slight after another in a row
In a cruel crow from our oldest coldest foe
They bestow their woe of “average Joe”
Get snooty about the beauty of our Rooty
Get fruity saying our defender’s a pretender
Won’t ever get one booty ton while on Oz duty
Just what you’d predict from a convict offender
You wait mate..till your guest & great contender for
Crest of Test best goes on a big spender bender
a summer rose in bloom
a hungry bunny nibbles
strips off her costume
a winter rose pokes through
admiring rabbit just looks,
a beautiful view
Without a word I slip out of bed
and a thousand conversations
run through my mind
as I walk barefoot across worn carpeting.
Two nights ago, I barely made it home
while driving through a deluge
and water on the roads.
I defied the warnings
and survived
as bolts of lightning laced the sky.
I was the storm.
I was the silence.
Now as the sun pokes through
a thin veil of clouds
the sense of nothingness I embrace.
I must admit a year ago I loved someone.
She said that she loved my humor
my new stories and poems
and there was so much to share.
Now she’s a memory lingering in my heart.
This is my life, I say when alone.
This is what I’ve made it
as I watch a shadow dance on the wall—
it can be anything.
My chest ached the other day
when I bore the weight of humanity
while working at a grocery store.
Customers and I talked and traded jokes
but as the day wore upon me
I longed to be in my time and place.
A housemate downstairs
shuffles through the kitchen
while I sit in my loft and play with words
longing to say what’s never been said.
Sadly, only the heart does not always do,
you need the strength of the money too.
Money makes the world go round,
only fools would say that it is not true.
But the actions of the heart with money
those are the only stories that achieve glory,
a tale the people will tell more excitedly to you.
***************************************
If I talk, it creates a mess !
It's the fault of the poetic heart, I guess.
Poetry in the material world
pokes the consciousness
and put the material minds in distress.
(13.07.2025)
I know my partner
well and nigh, do tell a lie
for he stop smoking ~
but the loo has a chimney
that puffs white smoke, pokes the Pope
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