the worst of me writes poems
if I can find the words to say
the worst of me writes stories
of the heartaches I have faced
the worst of me gets angry
and sometimes I don't know why
but the worst of me recovers
because the worst of me gets high
the worst of me is careless;
no, careless isn't the word-
but the worst of me is stubborn
because the worst of me has learned
that the best of me is fragile
like the flower in your palm
that withered in your icy hand
when you promised to keep it warm.
I admire the clouds that pass by...
Myriad of rocks below,
the gray landscape touched...
Above all the space, white flakes
all the height...
The Water, the colors around
move on the shores...
Blue, green and white sway
in foam in the sun...
Everything recovers after
apparent loss... everything
matters in nature...
Even we, matter
because every day we happen
while everything happens,
in rare beauty...!
Tombs begin to bloom like raw, bloodless wounds.
Tomes are written with truths of her dead moon’s
tones. A keening lunacy keeps the dirges alive, while
bones rise out of repose. A degloved hand on the dial
hones into a night rainbow's radio, she runs on solar,
hopes for the rhythm to wrench free from her toller—
copes with the captivity of being bodiless hands. Twilight
comes to chance escape—open palms toward birthright.
Coves burst into flame; a hungry fire wants holier water.
Coven circles, recovers the skinless limbs of their daughter.
Woven like song, sirens' balm to restore coats of missing arms,
women are spells read correctly, using words as our alarms,
woken to language, resurrecting ancient pairs of sacred charms.
Contemplating Civilization
Roger White
Civilization is the skin that covers the body of mankind.
It warms man when he is sanguine; enlightens man when he is melancholic.
When torn by conflict, Civilization bleeds.
As mankind recovers from disaster, Civilization heals.
Its complexion bears the scars of rivalry and mortal struggle.
Dissension does not wrinkle it, discord does not stain it.
Rather, Civilization grows translucent, revealing the layers of its timeless beauty.
And hidden within the layers of Civilization lies the immutable question:
Did mankind create Civilization or did Civilization create mankind?
Twenty-four hours ago,
the wind ran across the lake searching for a place to land.
Some shingles followed, torn from their topless roots.
This morning there is some abuse,
feathers fly on their own,
the mallards are whispering in the huddled reeds,
however, daylight stubbles upright
into a high-rising sky.
The television is predicting clear sight soon.
The radio coughs, and stutters, its talk
flutters from a loose tongue.
Behind closed doors
we gather wool from clouded minds.
Ropes of rain tangle the already tangled,
yet the air is not short of fresh breath,
it recovers
in the untrammeled stems of the living.
Tawny is the hair upon the slim vixen's back,
it is as sleek as ever; she goes to the water,
to sip the last few drops of a homeless storm
long past.
Where’s my loyal confidant,
If love recovers again?
This emptiness of heart,
Fulfills to be a single friend;
The jargon on my noggin,
What’s her color, favorite?
Pop in, lightly salted;
I am satisfied with –
A war rages on, on two fronts,
three or more.
The world is a wave
crashing upon swords,
or so I am told.
Yet the tea in my teacup
does not tremble
to the thud and scream of shells,
my easy chair is not stained
with the flesh of the slain.
In the garden songbirds
do not shake with fear.
Headlines bellow.
People are marching
to God knows where,
a passionate ignorance
betraying their cause.
Those wars never draw near,
this talk of blood and death
seems but a talking point,
a furfure over spilled milk.
A rap singer dies of an overdose,
a beloved cat falls ill but recovers.
Fools are still fools.
The price of bacon is outrageous,
another Bachelorette's heart is broken,
yet her made-up face and life carry on.
Slippers still warm my feet
just the same as they always do.
So, what's new with you?
As I looked down the line
Conspicuous stars faded away
The suns gradually disappear
And black swallows further
Every Glimmer Of Radiance
My sword is drawn
Struggle against resentment
Safeguarding the cosmos
And every single one of its inhabitants
Apathetically exposed to the left
Simple downtime now
Prior to the depravity of man
recovers and reappears.
Written: May 22, 2023
Author of “The Satanic Verses” was stabbed
this morning in NYC.
In New York, doing a reading, that city which
now allows criminality.
Yes, I know a Fatwa, was put on his life.
But he’s fearless, not out to please and can
deal with strife.
I do hope he successfully recovers.
I like writers who do not put truth under pretty,
people pleasing covers!
A few of his quotes are listed below..
They are universal for all free counties.
1. What is freedom of expression!
Without the right to offend, it ceases to
exist.
2. Language is courage: The ability to
conceive a thought, to speak it, and
by doing so, to make it true.
3. A mature society, understands that at
the heart of democracy, is argument!
8/12/2022
-1-
UPDATE….RUSHDIE WAS STABBED IN THE NECK
AND FACE SEVERAL TIMES……
HE MAY LOSE AN EYE.
5pm PST 8/12/2022.
UPDATE…RUSHDIE WAS PUT ON A VENTILATOR
THIS EVENING.
‘8PM PST 8/12/2022
Losing everything I have is repugnant to me,
I’m thinking of a natural disaster, flood, or fire
How traumatic losing everything would be,
I can think of nothing so debilitating or dire.
I empathize with those who lose their home,
Especially quickly by a flash flood or a tornado,
It would surely leave one with a PTSD syndrome
Where everything dear is not even a shadow.
Still I do not think of myself as being materialistic
Things can always be replaced, but life not so,
Better to talk damages than to be a grim statistic
For a structure can be built up from ground zero.
One never recovers, however, from loss of life
Taken swiftly in the most horrible of circumstance,
Friend, family member, beloved husband or wife
In a situation one might think of as pure chance.
Written July 20, 2022
Compelling to absorb pressure
Like water to a sandy soil
To make things to be of pleasure
For his family with his toil
He doesn't become weary
As water unto clay
That never give way teary
Even when it isn't a lovely day
Bills have to be payable
To keep bearing covers
As loamy do bear fruits of bubbles
Verily the feeding in folds recovers
Happy father's day to all fathers
And the ones to come
Afterwards out of been brothers
Live to be the best chum
I
In a land of crime, pets too are killed
A goose was struck by an upset Ouma
I saw it in a fenced yard, life bleeding ...
It came close to home, with Kuiken
II
Kuiken is Afrikaans for baby chicken
But my name for my pet is Kaalnek
Her variety, subspecies, unfeathered neck
She learned to sleep in trees, after month1
III
The next day, her freedom ended (by me)
Not cat food, victim of domesticated cats!
In her cage (hok) she recovers from a wound
That made me cringe: skin on head, out!
IV
No cat, dog, or combination got Kaalnek
She is with her half-brother now, 'locked'
Though more lives than cats, I dont exaggerate
But my hero and I will not tempt fate
A loud squawk heralds a cry for help
Indicates something’s not quite right up there
A white seagull spirals down head first
Wings tucked to the side for safety
The impact signals something else
With a thud that meets the burning sand
The flight plan? Suicide? Friendly fire?
In silence the ocean waves over the expired
Giving blessings as best it can off shore
Clouds bulk up in cumulus nimbus numbers
In slumber the sun keeps social distancing
In gray the bay teaches crabs to dance
To stay back. Don’t walk on land.
Don’t talk to strangers.
Hawks, buzzards, circle the situation
Never far from home are troubles up above
Heaven recovers nature in an hour glass of sand
Mounds of sands are another term for dunes
Smoothed over by the hand of God
Still intact, winds lift a phantom wing
Animated feathers salute. Wave good-bye
From what we can surmise
From the bird demised
Strolling down through the meadow today
Spring flowers are budding, growing tall,
Smaller forest creatures will be out to play.
At the far end the woodland recovers from fall,
I can hear a slight wind blow through the trees
Spring flowers are budding, growing tall.
Nothing is more refreshing than a spring breeze
Filling my congested lungs with the freshest air,
I can hear a slight wind blow through the trees.
Near the edge of the forest a fox leaves it lair,
And I watch it creep slowly toward its prey
Filling my congested lungs with the freshest air.
It makes me sad, but it’s just nature’s way,
Knowing little rabbit will become a fox’s meal
And I watch it creep slowly toward its prey.
I watch the unfolding drama, breathless still,
Strolling down through the meadow today
Knowing little rabbit will become a fox’s meal,
Smaller forest creatures will be out to play.
written March 4, 2022
The easily cured by the broadest of smiles
Of a cancer gone gross miles,
To life gingerly bouncing back
And beginning to not a lack!
The speedily healed by jocular doctors,
Worsening worries from one who hectors:
The time the keys to his coffin start jangling,
He between Heaven and Hell dangling!
The Hit-With-A-Spiteful-Elbow
Who soon recovers with a placebo:
The suspended-from-ground mistletoe,
Or several winks after stepping on her toe.
Yes, to whom it is excellent news,
That you’ve just paid for her juice.
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