Kindness is a treasure map, a guide to find
Those who struggle to stand, burdened by their minds
Those who suffer afflictions, tormented by idle hands
Whose hearts ache with loneliness and long for a friend.
Kindness leads us to those who need a helping hand.
To the elderly, the sick, and those who cannot stand
It opens doors to those who seek a punter life.
And helps to ease the pain of those in strife.
With kindness as our guide, we bear a difference.
In the lives of those who struggle with persistence
We can bestow hope to those who feel despair.
And show them that someone out there truly cares.
So let us follow the treasure map of kindness.
And avail those in need with love and selflessness.
In doing so, we too will find a treasure.
A sense of purpose and joy that cannot be measured.
Written: June 10, 2023
The skyline merges with the sky.
As I observe kilns and ovens high,
Their smoke rising up to the clouds,
In a heated chamber, pollution enshrouds
The furnace roars with fiery heat.
And I wonder if our planet will ever beat
The effects of industry and its ways
As we continue to burn and blaze.
But as I look closer, I view debris,
Efforts made to clean and free
The air, the water, and the land
As we strive to piddle a keener stand.
From renewable energy to eco-design,
We must collaborate together and align.
To create a sustainable future for all,
Where progress and nature can stand tall.
So let us not withdraw from the fight.
For a world that is clean and bright,
For every action we engage in today,
Will shape the world in a punter way.
Written: June 6, 2023
Gone with the wordless wind.
Confined by the source of the mind.
A world that found punter ways.
Is an abyss full of yesterdays.
A permanent resident of the rock.
Where variety becomes a roadblock.
An aesthetic view is a mark of quality.
Or am I the only one who has curiosity?
Written: May 14, 2023
Hey, Death! Have you lost all your radiance?
Where is your iconic, conspicuous venom?
Sadly, you have no gripping tales to tell.
Cast a spell to discover the origins of fate.
Who has felt the agony of death?
You are chastised for cursing Him.
Let losers cry, and the cowardice will fade.
These blows knock you down.
Don't be stingy; apply your best effort.
I'll be a punter than I was the day before.
Your most lethal consequence is extinction.
Written: October 29, 2022
Inspired by George Herbert's poem: A Dialogue-Anthem
Red Rum was pounding the turf down at Aintree,
Going as fast as any horse can be,
Ginger was there looking on at the side,
And the whole of Liverpool, filled up with pride.
For the third time now, this great horse had won,
The greatest steeplechase under the sun,
At Aintree a Horse is more likely to die,
For the third time Red Rum, the odds did defy.
Around the world the bookies all suffered,
The betting fraternity knew they weren’t buffered,
To lay off a bet when the Horse is a hero,
Is not easy, so most, were left with a zero.
The ordinary punter, who fancied a flutter,
Even, the tramp, who lived life in the gutter,
Joined with the housewife who bet the housekeeping,
On the horse with the heart which always kept beating
Because they all knew Red Rum would win through.
I’ve made some money,
But she’s made more.
Knock knock!
Another punter at the door.
I slip on my shoes,
Put my lipstick on.
This man is eager,
Again, comes a ‘ding dong’.
He picks me,
I should be happy,
But I have to have sex,
With this vile chappy.
His eyes light up,
As I give him head.
The things you do,
To butter your bread.
Is it worth it,
To make a few quid?
I’m only doing this,
To feed my kid.
I want to punch him,
He’s demanding “more”
I get the urge to pick him up,
And drop kick him to the floor.
I fake on a smile,
And do what he pleases.
He is disgusting,
He smells like four cheeses.
The service is over,
He chucks me a tip,
Whilst looking at me,
Like I belong in a skip.
He leaves the building,
Looking elated.
I’m just a working girl,
Who now feels degraded.
(Victorian artist William Holman Hunt was
both attracted and repelled by his models)
Can we agree that, terrified of sex,
Hunt couldn’t help but hunt it, seek it out?
There doesn’t seem to be a shred of doubt.
He felt his women exercised some hex,
conspiracy throughout the lower decks,
full frontal on his Puritan redoubt!
He hated what he couldn’t live without
(the only punter in the multiplex).
And Annie, Fanny, Edith – on they came,
alluring, curing, reassuring, fey,
and Hunt (who fastened fast on blame and shame)
was racked by guilt and had to run away.
Another mantis, but the same old prey,
(mixed metaphor) Hunt headed for the flame.
Trump Blunder and Spell Under
While we wonder about Trump's each blunder
Spell he has every one of his supporters under;
Can you imagine them being members of a cast
Who loved hearing lies that would last and last.
What else by Trump are we willing to put past
Not ever prudent and always does procraste;
While everything he eagerly has put off doing
More problems he created are further reviewing.
What if we thought about and then did suppose
Extremely limited amount of anything he knows
Whatever it was had ended up being ill-fated,
While the rest fermented from being antiquated.
James Thesarious Surely Hilarious Horn
Retired Vibrant Veteran and Lifelong Poet
You can call me Shirley when you want
Even if football you had failed to punt;
Did you miss this puny point of mine?
Punter landed on and ruptured his spine.
Present, but not independent,
Of societal flows, expectations,
Not understanding sisterhood,
Out with reachability and love.
Together with a voice each,
But screeching sometimes,
In a soft note or look away,
Fondling community law.
Hard for me, but it’s ok,
As we all exist existentially,
Relationship are assumed,
Between you and punter.
Our fine speech narrates,
Our posture, our identity,
With the joy of free will,
Carting societal standards.
Not our families or friends,
Nor TV, teachers or crooks,
But our lives are formed,
Only by our own voices.
I have a couple of internet Friends in Australia
We like to joke around some, so I wrote them this,
To the tune of "Talk To The Animals" (Dr. Dolittle)
If I could talk to the Aussies
just imagine it
Babbling to a Bloke, in Blokaneses
Imagine Bantering with Bludgers
Chatting to a Cobber
What a neat achievement that would be
If I could talk to the Aussies
Learn all their dialects
Maybe get an Aussie slang degree
I'd study Cone Toad and Dag
Galah, Dill and Bag
And of course Ab-bor-rid-gin-e
I would parle in Punter and Piker
And would curse in fluent Kangaroo
If i'm asked , "Can you speak 'Banana Bender' "
I'ld say "Both Genders, can't you"
If I could talk to the Aussies, learn their languages
Think of all the things we'd disagree
If I could walk with the Aussies
Talk to an Aussies
Slang and Bang and hang with an Aussies
And they could Slang
and Bang
and Hang
with Me !
Hunter
Ears are prone on the ground
To catch vermin's motion sound.
Up empty skies, eyes are cast-
In the dark sea they're steadfast .
On the veld, the long nose,
Trails to catch a whiff while close.
*
Writers are a Natural Hunter
Of Gist and not the blind punter.
Fishing Gist in the deeper wild
With Guts is his or her brainchild.
Sometimes, the hunt of the day
Bestows Hunter no bag to flay!
Cash makes the world go round, spin
Don't I look like money, that's my twin
Gettin' money, like it's going out of style
I keep throwing it up, like it's bile
Got cash all over me, like it's a rash
You better chase that paper, stack that cash
Start it up like the kick-off, I'm the punter
I'm looking for the bucks, like a dear hunter
Lunatic with the paper, money-crazy
I sit back and count it, they call me lazy
Countin' all this money gave me paper cuts
Pockets' on full, fatter than donkey butts
I got eight figures, like I was ice skatin'
That's figure eight's, you know what I'm relatin'
I got bands, not the ones on your wrist
Yellow canary jewels, same color as piss
No manners, go to the bathroom when you pissed
Mad at me 'cause me and your girlfriend kissed?
She's curious, wanna know how money taste
Your chick's gone, like the T.V. show, 'Without-A-Trace'
Just like the problems, money comes with females
I'm bringing in all this paper from street sales
Your body men desire
It fills them full of fire
They want so much
To feel the touch
The gifts you have for hire.
You walk the streets so dark
Your future bleak and stark
You work for bugs
To buy the drugs
That really hit the mark.
Your pimp is a drug dealer
A professional money stealer
You feel the pain
Hooked on cocaine
He is your true fate-sealer.
You passing nobody to mourn
Thirty years since you were born
You only know your punter
Who really was your hunter
But it’s you the people scorn!