Dear old man,
My quill quivers.
How do I glorify you,
With only ink, not gold?
Oh lady Calliope,
Lift my soul.
A pin drowned in an ocean of words.
Guide my conscience with notions,
Dearth of words I face,
To sculpt my father's grandeur.
A shrunken, grainy face is all that's left.
Struggles, unparalleled for eternity
Spine bows, for the weight he bears.
A warrior bending his knees to fate.
Wounds he has procured,
A soldier indisputably.
Laments the injustice once and twice,
Yet, prefers seclusion.
No more wars he seeks to wage,
On his own kinds.
The past shoots arrows at him,
Bleeding eyes and shattered bones.
How can one slip such agony?
And forgive his enemy.
Yet, still, Calliope,
Though you guide.
The shaking of my hand,
Hardly lets me carve his story.
Despite your hand over mine,
How do I shape an epic?
I ironically found paradise in sitting in a park
With a man who oft prefers sitting in his room so dark.
For us all of the artificial lights are just too stark.
I know you can groove
but I wanna see you
dance
i wanna see you dance
I wanna see you dance
Dance
Dance
Dance for me.....
---------------------------------------
It all depends
and those who
so evers
and whats going on
and who's deemed clever
taken in account to
the calender
your plans and mine
and to what
each prefers
it al depends
it all depends
Giving consideration
to your cumstance
I'm opened to agreeing
dancers need preparation
lyrics need beleiving
it all depends
how the music takes it's
groove
whether they wanna shuck
and jive
or the people wanna
party and groove
it all depends
it just all depends
shoo be doo whop bop
skit doo be dooy
ah uh ooh we
doo be do be
shoo be doo woop woop
ah doo we doo we
ah doo we do ah
ah shoo be doo we
It all depends
in such consideration
what are we doing
what are saying
what's the rules
to what obligations
it all depends
it just all depends
It doesn't like to be given a name
or a shape to fit within its walls.
It prefers to hide beneath the camouflage
of noise and sits unmoved by pity,
stands to lift a downward pointing thumb
then slinks back into the anonymity of itself
leaving the dead to dissolve into their own.
I told the truth
and still, someone bled.
Silence would have stitched us shut,
a delicate, rose-gold lie—
woven into the wallpaper
of a bedroom left sketched.
I thought I was choosing clarity,
but the mirror fogs each morning.
Future—blunted, gray—
looms like wet brick pavements.
No signs, only echoes of footsteps—
taunting like the choices I regret.
This morning,
I climbed the roof before the city stirred.
The sun split the clouds,
warmed my skin but skipped my heart—
Guilt prefers to feast on trembling cold.
Tomorrow arrives in haze.
The city dyed a flowing gold—
nowhere to place my next step.
The human body may be a marvel,
yet the aesthete prefers his were marble
or gold or some other precious metal
with a life approaching to eternal!
For flesh and blood fail miserably
as a hope suitable for longevity,
requiring daily sustenance
for hopeful future permanence.
Then, too. human flesh isn’t practical,
it offers life that’s neither long nor natural;
and who wants a life abbreviated
when there’s much to be appreciated?
While others rely on pharmaceuticals
for medications made of mostly chemicals?
None of which a body made of marble
needs unless fools ignore a warning label!
While others take up a livelihood
that benefits others care for their good,
bringing them a measure of fame and wealth
yet cannot guarantee their own sound health.
Accept therefore what aesthetes recommend
accept life just as it has always been.
For neither diligence nor luck nor miracle
has yet forestalled the inevitable.
Drop a plumb line from crown to root
This corresponds to the central vein
Staff of power, the rod of initiation
For pure childlike hearts free from stain
Divine magnetism prefers this route
It is the direct expressway to heaven
The path appears when we walk upon it
Bypassing the body chakras seven
Junco in winter
flies on grass tip, rides on field
to pick fallen seeds,
prefers in taking shelter
roosting on conifer tree.
In the debate between dubbing and subbing
I side with subs to savor the original
mellifluous French, Tamil, Korean, Italian...
Reading the subtitles assists the deaf
and hard of hearing although voiceovers
benefit the blind and vision impaired.
Historically dubbing was employed
by fascist governments to advance
the nationalist agenda. In our own time
the tendency to consider dubbers dumb
implies reading’s the indispensable skill.
My wife reads her mail while watching movies
so she prefers dubs. I admire her mastery
of two idioms simultaneously
but my limited bandwidth favors subs.
In hindsight I can note a master stroke
A revelation from somebody out there
My soul’s salvation could have been a joke
A sad man’s joke, that anyone can share
That’s why it looks so truthful, this old tale
As if our lives were planned on reasonable grounds
But anyway, you see that luck prevails
And luck’s a rare bird, it never makes a sound
It flies whatever way it wants to fly
Lands down wherever it prefers to land
Once I have seen its gaudy plumage in the sky
I waved, and found a feather in my hand
I was so lucky for a period of time
Had no idea that its going to last one day
We laughed and sang, and everything was fine
Then colours faded since you've gone away
No wisdom brings a healing consolation
Perhaprs it shouldn’t for a pillock that I am
But didn’t we receive that revelation
To gain some luck, until the story had to end.
To speak the truth in a world woven with lies is to set yourself on fire like a torch,
Just to prove you were never made of wax melted under absent gazes,
They praise polite silence, mute nods, and false smiles that hide the void,
But they tremble when your words come unfiltered, sharp, soaked in everything they fear,
And they act as if speaking facts is a sin that burns under the light of day.
You offered them honesty, and they returned it cracked, called you cruel for bleeding openly,
In a world that only applauds masks, where every truth shatters into unheard echoes,
Being honest is a heavy task, not just a simple policy, but an effort to remain whole,
And even in democracy, where voices should be free, honesty is viewed as a flaw.
So, if you think telling the truth is simple, oh, no, sir, it's an unwavering mission,
A dance on the sharp edge of society that prefers to hear only what is sweet and soft,
But perhaps, in this fire, courage will be found to burn all masks, to light the way,
To a world where truth is no longer a burden, but a release from the chains of lies.
(Inspired by Stevie Wonder’s “Part-time Lover”)
The cheating man believes he is so clever.
He makes up lame excuses to go and see
his mistress, yet he does not want to sever
his marriage, for no decency has he.
He doesn’t seem to realize his wife
can possibly be “onto” him. The fool
prefers to have two women in his life.
Ignoring marriage vows just makes him cruel.
Those cheating ways can blind this kind of man.
Some wives can feel the vibes this guy gives out.
Such wives can also come up with a plan.
He thinks he’s smart when he is but a lout.
She can find a lover too . . . or perhaps
get evidence and make his world collapse.
Like the father, the son
He is a lovable rough, the father of a famous son who keeps us guessing what the hell he is up to next, a father who is a buccaneer, sails the deep sea, and fears not the tempests on his way, can a son ask for more.
The father never was a nine-to-five sort of bloke who operated at the edge of the law, like a pirate would, fingers in many lucrative pies, that is what daring men do those, who believe in themselves and live to tell the tale.
The son might lack the old man’s charm, still, he has otherwise emulated him but prefers to stay ashore, an influencer of magnitude selling his ideas to those on top of the political heap and like his father faces tempest with bravado.
As for me, a shy poet, thrown ashore with irregular works and lacking the go-get appetite for life, his father is the type I wish I were.
The sun and the moon will always be connected
but almost never together,
because the moon likes to keep her distance.
The sun does her work for all to see
but the moon gets to do hers judgement free.
And everyone loves the sun when she paints the sky
but never when she stares at them for too long,
they get burned by her affection.
But the moon’s never done anything wrong,
not that anyone’s aware of.
She can glance as long as she likes,
she just may not get many returning gazes.
Only from those dreading to see the sun again.
And the sun doesn’t know,
but the moon grows jealous of her light
because even stars outshine her.
People who do look at the moon think she’s beautiful,
and the waves crawl up the shore just to be closer to her.
But she doesn’t think so.
She thinks they’re just too far away to tell.
All they see is the sun in small doses, but never her.
It’s fine, she prefers to be peripheral.
The sun loves her because she sees herself in the moon,
but she hates her for being so cold and distant.
They’re never together for longer than a moment.
If she stays far enough away, no one will find what she’s hiding.
It's Valentine’s
think hearts and
roses she said --
roses she prefers
so like herself
her own gracefulness
enticing petal scent --
the blossoms she adores --
think of rapturous nights
and Roman Candle dawns
such passion as hers never
seemed to need break --
entrancing patterns of fine drape
silk dappled with sunlight
beams of arousing romantic kneading
a second heedless amorous skin duplicating
transposing quixotic embroideries
of desire and forever --
like Salome she revealed all of her
beguiling fond nakedness
making instant jello of
my rational mind -- I will never
forget...vowed we would never forget!
Damn, where was that?
and who the hell was
I with?
Oh to be young and divinely foolish again!
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