We all like to be useful
especially when God's the architect
to be used by the divine master
brings pleasure to your intellect
Openness to the voice of God is a must
to be sure you're in His perfect will
walking in step in closeness to your saviour
learning from Him all you need to be still
Be patient in prayer; wait upon Him
for His leading, as God's the royal king
full of majesty, authority and power
lifts your heart upwards, following
Take in all of God's divine character
portray the Lord in every aspect of life
so people would see Him in all of you
read His word as it cuts you like a knife
Being His instrument isn't always easy
it can bring suffering and pain at times
but your comfort is, the Lord knows
like a craft poet rakes you to smooth rhymes
Upon my conscious, above
My conscious,
September lingers over
Like a leaf refusing to fall–
From the tree.
January calls for
New beginnings,
February grants a kiss;
May bells release the children,
And august brings us back,
Again.
But September–
Refuses to fall from the tree.
The wind cannot rustle these leaves,
And when it blows,
The silence grows stronger;
Blows,
Blows,
And September grieves
But–
Refuses to fall from the tree.
Change is prominent,
Good, ineluctable,
And yet.
Grasp me and drag me
Through the rakes,
Piled high,
With every other individual
Who's conscious stagnates
Beneath september,
Still green on the branch.
I want to drag it down with me!
Wind blows,
September rustles–
History, unlike myself,
Cannot change.
But I can, and will,
Fall from the tree.
¦¦¦ night-flood rakes ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ shore;
Along ¦¦¦ rugged cliffs ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ caves
Mourns the ¦¦¦¦¦¦ Ocean, ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ to deplore
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ restless waves—
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ corrosive tides, ¦¦¦ hollow rock
Falls ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ rushing from its turfy height,
Shakes the ¦¦¦¦¦ beach ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ shock,
Loud thundering on the ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ sullen Night;
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ desolate ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ deep,
Gleams the ¦¦¦ Moon, ¦¦¦ floating mist ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ untroubled rest,
"Nature's ¦¦¦¦ nurse," deserts ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ the eyes, that only wake ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
(Blackout of Sonnet LXVI: The Night-Flood Rakes by Charlotte Turner Smith)
Boreas, the North Wind
I am in Iceland, 90 miles from the Arctic Circle,
walking through a gorge in a valley between
European and North American plates. Fierce
Boreas funnels its headstrong wind right at me
tears my knit hat off my head, rakes my hair.
I’m in Rekjavik, at the city’s highest point
walking half-way between Hallgrimskirja Church
and Leif Eriksons’ statue when Boreas sends a gust
ripping glasses from my face. I chase them across
the square, miraculously retrieve them intact.
The is a land of extremes, powerful geysers,
roiling rivers, cascading waterfalls, high mountains,
floating icebergs, volcanoes, poised to erupt, lava
flows, one thermal Blue Lagoon, acres in size
defies frigid air, soothes sore muscles.
This is a land ruled by the North Wind Boreas, erratic,
hungry, sleeping rarely, it is terrifying, exhilarating,
raw as life itself.
Wang dang dang guh ditty, wang: wanga ooh!
wang:dang;ah ditty
wang danga ditty
wanga dang ah eh-ooh!
Womanizers and rakes!
wanga danga dity do woop ohh!
dang dang do!
-----------------------------------
-----------------------------------
I stand to speak the Do-den-ah's
ah- ooh we
skit danttin do-woop-do-wah
skit dat-ditin we
ah she gally I do!
ah she gally ooh!
skit dattin dolly ooh!
ooh we ah
ooh we ah
ah we ooh!
---------------------------------
-----laid back------------------
woogie boogie
clap yeah yeah
ah that's the stuff!
ooh we ah ooh ah
Baby baby I can't get enuff!
Love your grind
makes me do the morning grin
kissey kissey
do your thang
Thats the kinda love
I'm in!
-------------------------------
A "sleazy" big band sound is
often characterized by
slow-to-mid-tempo swing
, heavy, muted brass,
and a dark, gritty atmosphere
---------------------------------
Emirati Glitterati…sold their soul
All for an arty farty party so dull
Each troll got a very simple goal
Going for gold their Faustian role
Befriend astro knoll on pretend atoll
Look at me vanity but never a lull
Narcissist fantasy look like a doll
Maybe botox detox don't annul
Tax free captivity in goldfish bowl
Not like before well war takes its toll
Rakes get the shakes out of control
Save me plea on every single scroll
Fakes & flakes on the make must cull
Hard not to laugh at whole rigmarole
Tragic they chose their Arabic hellhole
Goodbye to Dubai magic back to Hull
Mull over becoming a prole on the dole
If there was a poll would say Tres Drole
Or on insular influencer peninsula "LOL"
Morning
finds my window
still open to birdsong,
lets the sunlight in through your void,
softly.
Hallway
holds old echoes
of your vanished footsteps,
I count while I remember you,
walking.
Sorrow
breathes in the void,
exhales your hushed absence.
I learn to hold blankness in heart,
always.
My mind
rakes memory
where you reverberate.
The echo hums inside my chest,
alive.
Time’s stride
doesn’t trample you,
it teaches me new pace
to walk braced with reminiscence,
forlorn.
The Maple tree has gone,
the storm broke it,
then it was chopped to pieces.
For decades it stood
as a gold-leafed palace that graced
our commonplace cull-de-sac,
now it has been carried away
upon overladen truck-beds.
Late in this graying October
a few curling leaves linger
around its bosky stump.
A burnished copper, a tawny russet,
and a powdering of old gold
have leached out
from its deep-set roots.
A slow pyre of Fall colors
has emerged there
where no fire flickers.
yet it forms a last memorial
autumnal wreath.
Gradually, teacups of illumination
seep from a darkening horizon,
a sinking light now rakes only mist,
yet occasionally at sunset,
a maple palace for a moment shimmers,
a gold glittering
to greet our colorless eyes.
Arcane dearly loved institution really does make my blood boil
Clearly gravy train devotion yet still we don’t won't embroil
Confirm detest term “the firm” just makes me squirm and recoil
Handshakes from rakes on the take.. insane destitution we toil
Incest selection we suggest a contest like may be an election?
They josh oh golly gosh this tosh the Constitution didn't foil
Nation's fascination with wally Charles the Turd's coronation
Herd with this absurd have a word off their trolley veneration
No defection as the loyals' protection ensure all the spoils
Girth of their worth pilfered from serf & turf since birth oils
Even Randy Andy or scrappy snappy Harry can’t seem to soil
Kibosh posh arseholes nepotistic trolls on the Monarchy dole
End this whole sick rigmarole..Republic for each prole the goal
No parry views & news.. carry on as "Happy as Larry" crappy Royals
Red, yellow, green, brown, maple, so many colors, yet we seek their beauty put them between two pieces of waxed paper, to make a collection as a keepsake.. they fall gently in the blowing wind, we admire, seek their peak times of when their changing colors are brightest, we walk in their rakes up piles, kids have fun throwing them around.
What if we could be just as welcoming with each other’s differences in humans? You can learn a lot from fall, autumn, as the saying goes, “thus season too shall pass”.
Summer, fall, winter, spring, each has its own unique qualities we like, warm, cold, hot, some complain others are content. It’s a never ending cycle, it will happen no matter what we say, the seasons have their own reasons to come and go, we just have to take them as they come no sense in fretting, it’s a waste of time.
Just enjoy each season for what it offers, because as leaves each have their own color, size, shape, so do we, it’s what is in the inside that matters most…
Triptych 8-20-25 Sponsor: John Anderson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sun and storm song
eerie storm warning
light swallowed by ebony
banshee ballads rise
in mantras of humid breaths
atonal whirlwinds unleashed
downbeats of thunder
lightning rakes holes in the sky
tempest dirge rumbles
curtains of raindrops descend
plainchants of torrential rain
sun and storm collide
colors rise from light and mist
drenched in neon tears
sunbows arch in harmonies
orchestration of rainbows
winter rakes garden
frozen leaves wither and fall
they return in spring
to sapling of yearning heart
life blooms with luster of love
lush lilac lilies
paint Monet on flushed meadow…
dew breathes scent of spring
To be a burden means to not use the tools strewn about.
The rusty trowel and bucket filled with half-thoughts.
Be a burden.
Your words are just wailing and buzzing at us.
I can be a burden.
I can dig little holes all around the sand.
I can bury little toy soldiers.
But under the sand means nothing.
It just gets footprints, and litter, and walking over and over.
So what we bury will creep back.
We can be burdens.
Throw away our shovels, rakes, and nails.
Let them be as scrambled as we were.
As they pick up the resources scattered about.
There’s no such thing as support.
Nothing real.
Digging new holes everywhere.
But I can never bury any thought or idea.
Just scraps of my eternity.
I can be a real burden sometimes.
In this exacting and grueling way.
We can be real burdens some days.
I drove my car to the beach one summer day.
Wondering what the waves wanted this time.
Picking and raking,
Cleaning the political
Garden of Evil,
Know that while gardeners die,
Rooting out trash must go on:-
burried and cured in sod's wallowing gallow
ground as tender flower of wonder
reading worlds into the hands
mired in swallows and clawed
she began trunks of brooches
for her second son
to flee the falling failing rakes
bested in deserts earthen ovens
rebuilding the gingers shant, easily
carnate fury, easters menage
blurry tests to bleak to smear
exposed to a heartless ember of septs
reticent snakes frail and drunk
back to the chest my second sons hum.......
county claire, connaught, easter risings
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