Tho' not with a dagger in the library
nor candlestick in the conservatory
someone done the dirty deed
and yet of bodies none were found
perhaps the evidence had been concealed
interred deep down underground
so no one's doing time
it was eventually revealed
for the heinous crime
of thuggery and skullduggery
terrible as it may be
where the skeletons are buried
only the gravedigger knows
and after all allegedly it was purportedly
merely a murder of crows
One of the many secrets of life:
There is no true freedom.
Man is slave to his own ignorance
And to his own personal sense of reality.
This, in turn, leads to another secret:
The only true sin is ignorance.
All the sought-out and accepted teachings
Of priests and prophets,
Rabbis and theologians,
Imams and evangelicals
Are just rhetoric, empty words from hollow men
Purportedly meant to give
Comfort and order to Man's life,
But only succeed in burdening him
With a genuine and profound sense
Of undeserved guilt for sins he did not commit.
All the answers Man thinks
He learns from these teachings about life's secrets
Are merely vague, naïve assumptions
Based on unlistened to answers
To unanswered questions,
In his trite and pitiful attempt
To deal with the biggest secret of all…
The reality of death…
And coming, finally, to the inevitable conclusion
That there is no arguing with reality.
Author's note: There is no forestalling the inevitable moment, whenever it may come. The best that most of us can hope for is, that when it's our turn, we might possibly go saddened but not embittered.
A leaf, a root
Anchors of life in two different worlds
Each working towards sustenance of a deity
The genesis of their life
Their synergy, assurance of concord
Amid discord of simultaneous loss and gain
The root relentlessly searches underground for life to sustain its kindred
The beneficiary opens its watery eye to lose the priceless treasure,
Hard earned life droplets at the nature’s pressure
The scorching sun presses for ransom, for its purportedly precious
Rays, not carefree given but in exchange for dozens of scarce moisture
Baking the leafy green’s beauty into ounces of energy
The deity sacrifices one life, just to replenish with more of its kind
The fortified anchors below beckons for more,
Feeding on the efforts of their late kinsman,
Rousing their heads curiosity to just dig more,
Travel more and network more to prove the worth of the faded talisman
The kingdom rejoices at the birth of infant foliage,
A clear sign of effort and strength of the underground army
So, the daring and vigor of the vulnerable yet strong
Both make vitality of the deity
Some friends say I do not understand
The new age we are purportedly living in
The tell me even language has changed
Frankly, I don’t know where to begin.
It seems my statistics are way out-of-date
My experience counts for almost nothing,
Seems like respect for things I cherished--
Like freedom of speech—is slowly dwindling
Political factions are at each other’s throats
Over cockamamy theories of dubious source
The most idiotic fame-seekers are elected
While the news is skewed and bifurcated
And everybody knows more than I forgot
Could it be my time has come to sit back
And listen, without offering any opinion?
I suspect so, but I cannot help but chuckle
At where this new generation is going.
written April 8, 2022
[late, after a long day!]
I wonder what has happened to our Malvolio.
It looks like this man has gone completely loco.
He's dancing around in double-gartered stockings colored yellow.
This is in contrast to the character we all know.
Malvolio read a love letter purportedly written by me.
Everything said there is total mendacity.
Apparently, he will not cease with his pretenses.
Lock him up in the cellar until he comes to his senses.
Based on the play "Twelfth Night" by William Shakespeare
Could there be vast realms of unknown nebulae
Beyond the farthest reaches of space exploration,
Only distant patches of gray density in distant sky
Giving discussion to theories of unending cogitation?
This expanding universe appears to go on forever
In space and time beyond our beleaguered experience,
Encouraging us to think we are more than clever
Who postulate on the fringes of common sense.
Have we hosted strange visitors from that outer space
Unbeknownst except in myriad tales of lore
From those who witness in various and sundry place
Eerie phenomena and UFOs never seen before?
We might suppose, despite unconfirmed evidence,
That taken altogether something seems amiss
Some purportedly real but have no precedence,
And most of us do not know what to think of this!
For sure, the universe is vast and holds the key,
Perhaps, to the future of every living thing on earth
It behooves us to explore, to boldly go and see
What lies beyond our horizons, our place of birth.
HONORABLE MENTION
"It's a Big, Big, Big World" Poetry Contest
All Poetry, September 13, 2021
Artists throughout the ages
purportedly with strange, and often tragic, lives–
lore’s pages.
Some from past files–
Van Gogh, Picasso, Matisse, Beuys–
quaint styles.
We laud
them now in archives–
Odd
Artists throughout the ages–
Van Gogh, Picasso, Matisse, Beuys–
Odd
LOVE
Human nature before all the commentary
Awareness of self before conscious thought
The audacity of self-righteous humans
Proclaiming reviled truth…all in one little special spot
The fable begins by noticing their nakedness
Because THE WORD says so
But what say you about prior written history?
Before the greatest story is purportedly told?
The glorious beauty of his redemption
Married with the victory of his sacred name
His message of a life lived well becomes minimized
Ironically, by those loudly professing… and claiming his name
The Christ actions spoke so loudly
Embody virtue ~ the true meaning in all of his words
The scriptures recapitulated translations and translations
Sadly, his true message is rarely heard
LOVE
This is what you’re
For God’s sake
Shake off shadowy cocoon
Of your broken past and its
Punctilious cares,
As along the pathway of love
Nobody laughs at the afflicted heart.
The lamp that you lit
Every night has burnt a hole
In the ignorant shade.
No place of hiding contagious guilt.
You were not born a poet
And weren’t looked after to be one either.
The syntactic beauty of words
Live as the freshly plough field
And swift as gray wings of flooded river
Bare your soul to the worth of well-wishes
A bit early
Your palm lines fall short
And inconsistent endeavor
Purportedly averted you the education
Job, posting and mainstream prosperity
Yet your light-flooded eyes
Never trembled
Reminiscence of scintillating memories
Of three decades in exotic destinations
Where waking life of a dreamer
Stand in the spring’s wild beads
Made up your loss
And people often ask
Why you are so loving, dear!