My heart is racked with so much pain
For one who garnered admiration and disdain
A man whose love for country did outpour
A man who loved his Savior more
His values went against the grain
He stood for all that’s moral and sane
His calling? To proclaim the truth
To ignorant and misguided youth
He taught God’s love and never hate
But his political incorrectness sealed his fate
A fiend of hate from the party of love
Was ready to kill when push came to shove
He was far too evil to agree to disagree
So he shot Kirk dead before his family.
From the party of love came nothing but cheers
Validation, threats, mockery, and jeers
Because tolerant is a wonderful thing to be
Lest it is a truth for which you disagree
But what can you expect these days in the West
Where only degenerates truly know best?
Where the only approved speech is shibboleth
And penalty for speaking the truth is death
Farbeit that Kirk will die for naught
There is still a holy war to be fought
No matter the cost, I will be brave
For the only place for the righteous is the grave.
Hello, calling Sergeant Stedenko,
Stedenko, we all just want to know!
Sarge, we just breezed the "Ghanja Boys" toke,
And then we seized the "Ghanja Boys" smoke!
Hell Sarge, we all found weed by the pound!
And, not one goddamn seed could be found!
It was sticky, stinky, funky, funk!
It was stinkin' funky from their trunk!
So, then we just gagged 'em and racked 'em,
After that, we tagged 'em and stacked 'em!
We need your okay just to proceed,
Meanwhile, we'll watch as those boys just bleed!
Or, we could opt or adopt your church,
And give those boys a cavity search!
If they pass anymore gas or grass,
Guess we'll just have to firebrand their ass!
What the Hell? So what do you say, Sarge?
Cuz...we know that "today" you're in charge!
But, we'd really get a big "charge" if...
We could just take a really big whiff!
a slow loris has a deadly trick
she takes her time, she’s sneaky and slick
venom is held in her elbow daily
Let’s pretend she is angry with my cousin Bailey.
The slow loris mixes venom with her saliva in the yard
then bites Bailey with her sharp teeth, good and hard
could he die? Oh, yes, that is the slow loris’ goal
She has already racked up a decent death toll.
The leather tethers kept loosening.
I had to pull at them until
they dug into your body
binding you to a rocking cross.
It was all for nothing
you died snapping at unseen knives,
arching up, bending time into
frozen waves.
You once said you were Irish/Scots,
Appalachian.
You called yourself: Applachan.
Sinewy girl --- wiry poppy stems
in you, and engine oil
to soften tenacious roots.
The fever racked you up.
It shook your bones loose.
It blossomed,
pouring you out
in thimbles of awareness.
In those intervals,
blue hills filled your eyes
with summer rain.
I would talk to you of Ireland.
We went there on that last night.
We made a hasty camp
in the dream felled woods,
the deep raw stumps
were already greening.
Then I watched,
and kept watching
as feeble death broke its teeth
on your blood.
Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these ‘it might have been’—John Greenleaf Whittier
without deep regret
apologetic parrot ~
squawks m
i n d racked a
n
g
u i s h
It never left, the stale odour of grief that tortures me
That wrapped its fingers around my throat, never letting free
It pressed until my last breath was spent, my life slipping by
Trying to release the pressure, not knowing the reason why
I delve deep in my pockets, searching vainly for the key.
Box of opportunities that presents itself to me
My mind is now free falling, from the secrets held within.
Of what my future holds for me and things that could have been
It's tempting me like a siren, luring me to my fate.
All the unanswered questions that my thoughts would generate
Teasing me with its contents, all the dreams I once held dear
Without the key, I am lost, my body is racked with fear,
Because knowledge is my suitor, my mind will never rest.
Until I know the secrets that I know must be addressed
I am now wondering about where I will go from here.
I'm in perpetual limbo, sleepwalking through each year
If I open up the box, what mysteries will I find?
So let me locate the key, so I will not left behind.
At the Mount of Olives, in a garden called Gethsemane
Jesus asked His friends, “Please, will you all stay here and pray with me?”
It was after supper and He knew His time would quickly come
So, He prayed for strength to do the things that He knew should be done.
He looked at His friends and found that they had all fallen asleep
So, they did not see His sorrow and His pain ran very deep.
“Can you not keep watch,” He said, “And stay awake a little while?
Pray to God with all your heart that you’ll not undergo the trial.”
He cried to His Father, time and time and time again did speak.
“Willing is the Spirit but the flesh is oh so very weak.
Father, take this cup from me before I freely drink my fill.
But, Father, not as I want, I come to do Your holy will.”
Ministered by angels, who came round to offer strength to Him,
From His brow the blood did flow, and pain racked Him in every limb.
Finally, the soldiers came and all His friends just ran away.
And then, by His own disciple, with a kiss He was betrayed…
A Skilled Care Unit
Faces racked with pain,
no medicine can cure.
Sad and alone, no one
comes to visit.
Bedridden, confined to
wheelchairs, nowhere to go.
Pacing the halls, doors locked,
prisoners at the end of life.
Memories of laughter, family
outings, salt, sea air, cookouts.
All slowly fading now, freedom
lost to old age and infirmities.
Life condensed to a single room
with death the only escape.
Eerie grinding sounds rise from my knees.
Heavy housework’s no longer a breeze.
Though I’ve seen better days,
I must give myself praise.
Parts of me aren’t yet racked by disease.
My itty bitty brother Billy
Was sometimes funny sometimes silly
Tried to stand on his head
But got racked up instead
So now he has to ice his willy
Columbus sailed
The ocean blues
And racked up
Plenty IOU’S
There are killings,
suffocation in gullet
hell holes, decapitations
by mandibles stalking in shadows,
death pits at the bottom
of slippery throated flowers
and racked on a web,
a struggling moth
slowly turning into soup.
My garden is a slaughter
field littered with the leftovers
from deadly feasts.
And the victims….what
of their inaudible cries,
the screams broadcast
on wavelengths beyond
my ear. Do they plead
for mercy, feel pain
register in whatever
rudimentary brain animates
their brief lives.
Help me ! Please help me !
does the moth cry,
feeling the spiders fangs
penetrate and pump poison
into its trussed body.
Or do I give such
small life undue significance
affording it compassion
when it should be exempt.
But where's the line ?
Size ?
Its propensity for domestication,
its rank on an arbitrary scale ?
The perfumed beauty
of a single flower diverts
the senses and disconnects
attention to the suffering
of small things.
We are blissfully unaware.
Does anyone hear them,
does anyone care,
or does life's little screams
fall into an uncaring nothingness
and if so, then what of our own.
The said hieroglyphics drove into the night,
Racked up its mystery, then parted and swiped,
Bellowed at suspicion and candid eye sight,
To foster fomented a reasoned parallax, piped.
Left to right, oppositely for contrite poise,
Firm doors open keen, quick ready pens,
Horizontal alignment - or vertical repose noise,
A quiet supposition leaks to radiate slight dens.
Nowhere are the changers and the dyes,
Tainting for pleasure with respect full in heart,
The sound of footsteps - here, there, with eyes,
Demarcating foundations from glittery art.
The ben is there - detected and rye, sucking,
Shuffling previous dust beside dirt untouched,
The crazy ones create the world for bucking:
Reason defines the fibre, with mesh touched.
Oh Saintly friend
I feel your pain
The world you left us, now
Racked and strained
As patron
Of our Eden land
Destruction here
At human hand
So Francis,
From your lofty view
Come teach us, Spirit
Help us renew
This blue jeweled orb
That we call home
I fear we cannot
Do this alone
So perfectly
Your tender touch
Shaped lives, helped people
Created much
You gave away
Things you acquired
Opposite of where
Our hearts are mired
If there is hope
For nature's calm
We need the touch
Of Heaven's palm
So hear our prayers
As we pray yours
To open wide
Those pearly doors
Cascading colour
Once again
May selfish humans
From selves refrain
Didn't get around to writing a poem today
racked my brain, but can't think of a single word play
allowed too much other stuff to get in my way
with all that's on my heart, where's my communique?
now here I am, without a single rhyme to say! :O
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